The Law of Dreams (41 page)

They shook their heads.

“Did you ever think that the species of time that is commonly called
the old days
were, in fact, the new days? These here we're living are
the old days. Today is certainly the oldest day the world has seen. Tomorrow will be
even older. At this instant, are we not living the farthest removed any human has ever
been from the act of Creation?”

“It'll be different in America, you think?” Molly
asked.

“It will, and it won't.” The schoolmaster smiled.
“I'm sorry but that's the best answer I can think of, and I may be
wrong. I usually am. Did you ever feed at a soup kitchen?”

“In Liverpool — at the Fenwick,” Fergus told him.

“Did you get a wide-awake with your supper?”

“Don't know what that is.”

“Was there a gentleman shouting, ‘Do you want to go to Hell
tonight?'”

“No.”

“The soup kitchen that took us in was right there on the Parade in
Cork, a very decent house it was, with a chapel attached. Lodging, very clean and warm.
Food for the children, milk and honey. The preacher was a North of Ireland man, a very
fierce fellow. He preached twice a day, extravagantly vehement. He could describe the
last feeble, fainting moments of human life and the process of decay up to the last
loathsome stage of decomposition. He was rather good at making you see Hell.

“After we were there a week, he offered us passage to America and a
piece of land in Indiana where I might have a school. Only we must renounce the pope
and the saints to be baptized again. And the children were little
papist sinners and must be baptized too. He said he wasn't in the business of
sending papists to the New World.” Coole slapped the Bible softly on his knee.
“I did as he asked. I sold my children's souls for passage to
America.”

The sun was bright on deck, the light splashing off the sails. Coole went
silent, brooding. Molly looked at Fergus. They had two pounds and twelve shillings,
wrapped in a handkerchief at the bottom of the sea chest.

“What fee will you charge for lessons?” she asked Coole
again.

Coole looked up. “Sixpence a lesson.”

“That's steep.”

“Sixpence for the two of you.”

“Can you really teach me to read?” Molly asked.

“I can teach. Can you learn, is the question.”

“
LETTERS GIVES
you the handle, man,” Molly
said. “Excepting old McCarty, I never met one fellow on the line who could
read.”

They were lying on their berth, the blackthorn stick between them. She was
shuffling a pack of playing cards she had borrowed from the black cook in exchange for a
few thumbs of tobacco. They were dogged, dirty old cards, smudged and soft, but the
faces were colorful.

“Speaking of which, did I ever tell you, Fergus, when first I seen a
train?”

He watched her split the deck and shuffle again, the cards flying from
hand to hand, realizing how deft she was.

“It was when I was tramping out of Bristol with Muldoon. We'd
just come across. Muck knew how to live by stealing food. Apples, honey — I knew
how to steal milk from cattle, but he taught me to steal the milk from sheep. We were
scrounging wheat when the train appeared. Have you ever done so? I mean gathering from a
standing crop, not gleaning.”

He shook his head.

“It's risky. Any farmer would shoot you dead for stealing a
crop standing in the field. Any magistrate would transport you. We didn't care. We
were hungry. We were threshing heads of wheat with our fingers, rubbing out the corns,
making a paste.

“Muldoon saw steam on the sky. I heard her coming, then saw the
engine, hauling four green wagons, pretty as paint.

“I watched her slope down into a cutting — only I didn't
know what a cutting was then. She just ran down into the ground until all I could see
was her funnel, then not even that — only the smoke, floating over the field. It
give me such a feeling.

“Why, everything moves!
I thought.
Everyone flees! Not
just you. It's no one that is fixed.”

He remembered the glee, the sense of lightness and release he had
experienced, seeing his first train storming over the country. But that was before
he'd met her.

“You said we were stone partners, Molly.”

She briskly cut the deck and shuffled. “Never played cards?”
The pack clicked and riffled as she flipped it from hand to hand.

“No.”

“Man, they must have been simple in your part of the world.
Didn't you go to fairs?”

“To sell the pig. Never had money to spare, never tried the booths.
There was a tinker fellow I saw once at the fair at Gort, walking barefoot on red coals.
Very bold he was.”

“Pharaoh shall pay for lessons. My old ma and me kept alive on cards
and fairs, dealing Pharaoh for the cabin johns. I can make the cards pay —
you'll see.

“I remember one day at the fair in Louth, a horse dealer from
Belfast wished to have me. My old ma said he couldn't. We had already won all his
money, and she always said she'd get a bonny prize for me. But that afternoon she
had a bad run and lost all our stake, and the Belfast fellow dug up one gold sovereign
from somewhere, which was as much money as we'd ever seen, and she let him take me
behind the tents. My first jump it was. My first man. Awful old beseecher he was. Miles
worse than Muldoon.”

Suddenly she spilled the pack of cards, over her legs and stomach, over
the berth.

“Are you my man, Fergus?”

“I don't know if I am.”

“Say you are. Just say it.”

“I'm your man.”

She began gathering the spilled cards. “My thoughts? I have such
wicked old thoughts, Fergus, if I told them, you'd want to ditch me.”

He wanted to reach out for her but the black stick was still between them
and he'd promised himself he would not remove it, she would have to get it out of
the way.

She finished gathering her cards and resumed her shuffling and the stick
stayed exactly where it was.

THE SCHOLARS
met in the lee of the foredeck, warm in the
bright sun. Coole's children, Carlo and Deirdre, were bent over their slates,
scribbling with stubs of chalk.

The schoolmaster held out a box of carved wooden letters to Molly.
“Now take one, any one. Help yourself.”

She selected a figure Fergus recognized as the letter
A
.

“Now yourself.” Coole offered Fergus the box. Feeling ignorant
and clumsy, he chose a
D
from the jumble.

“What is it?” Coole asked him.

“D!”
the little boy, Carlo, shouted before Fergus
could answer. The boy had hardly glanced up from his slate.

“
D
for . . . ?”

“
D
for dead,” said the little girl, sounding
bored.

“Well, yes,” said Coole. “Spell it out,
Deirdre.”

“D-E-A-D, dead.”

“And, miss, what letter is that you're holding?” Coole
asked Molly.

She smiled, shaking her head. “Why don't you tell
me?”

“
A
it is,” Deirdre called.

“
A
for agony,” said her brother.

“Come, Carlo, if you say it, you must spell it out,” said
Coole. “Step up here and choose the letters.”

The boy stood up and began picking letters from the box.
“A-G-O-N-N-Y.”

“I think not. Deirdre?”

She stood up. Inspecting the jumble of letters in her brother's
hand, she picked out one and threw it back in the box.

“A-G-O-N-Y,” she spelled.

“Excellent. Now,” Coole told Molly, “you may choose
another letter.”

Molly picked one out.

Carlo glanced at it. “
P
for . . . ” He faltered.

“Come along,” his father coaxed, “we've plenty of
superior words that like a
P
. Try it now — any word that starts with a
puh! Puh! Puh!” He made the pushing sound with his lips. “Come on, you
misers.”

“
P
for potato,” Fergus said.

“Excellent! Spell it out.”

He shook his head. “I cannot.”

“Deirdre?”

The little girl quickly chose the letters from the box.
“P-O-T-A-T-O.”

“Excellent. Now you, sir.” Coole nodded at Fergus.
“Choose another letter. Let's see if you can pick the ones to compose your
name.”

THE FIRST
game of Pharaoh was played in the galley. A
hogshead with a blanket smoothed on top served for a table. Passengers and sailors
crowded into the little shed, watching Molly shuffle then cut the pack. Fergus stood
behind her.

“Are you going to give us a fair shake, miss?” the bos'n
asked.

“A little pleasure, sir, that's all.”

“I warn you it had better be. We don't like sharpers in the
middle of the ocean.”

Molly smiled demurely. She raised her voice a little, speaking to the
crowd. “If I can have your attention, please, gentlemen?”

She waited until they were quiet.

“I'll tell you how I play this game, which is low stakes and
four players at a go, so everyone has their chance.” She was speaking so softly
they had to strain to listen. “Tobacco is good for stakes, one thumb valued a
ha'penny. I shall be banker, and turn up cards one by one. Do you get it? A punter
can set any number of stakes — agreeable to the limit, which is sixpence shall we
say — upon one or more cards, from ace to king. Stakes are set either previous to
dealing, or after any number of coups are made.”

She took a deep breath and smiled.

“Or you may mask bets, or change cards when ever you choose, or
decline punting — except a deal is unsettled when not above eight cards are dealt.
Bank wins when a card equal in points to the stakes card turns up in my right hand
— bank loses when it turns up in my left. Punter loses half the stake if his card
comes up twice in the same coup. Last card neither wins nor loses. Who shall be
first?”

Four men sat down. She played the cards out quietly. He couldn't
grasp enough of the game to follow the action, but some of the punters beat her on the
coups and some of them lost. After four deals the punters had to give up their stools to
the next in line.

During the next hour's play Molly lost almost two pounds, most of
their stake. He felt the loss, the shock of it, down to his toes, in his throat and in
his belly. She was small, she was light, she did not know these sailor men. They
weren't her dumb cow-boys, leering and losing at the penny fair. They were
traveling men accustomed to sharps, ruses, and near dealing, and they were happy to beat
her at her game.

After the last coup turned up against her, and the bos'n swept up
his winnings, she sighed, “That's enough for me. No more deal. I'm
over.”

“No, miss,” Nimrod begged. “Play us some more. I
ain't had a turn yet.”

“I'm nearly bust. Can't get my magic in this sea
air.”

“Here is the captain. Make way for the captain.”

The sailors and emigrants were standing back to let Mr. Blow through. He
stopped in front of the table.

“A ship ain't a gaming house, miss.”

Mr. Blow was even younger than he seemed on deck. An overgrown boy, ugly,
gawky, and rawboned. A thatch of yellow hair sprouted under a shiny beaver hat so big it
seemed about to swallow his head.

“A little amusement,” Molly said softly.

“Yes, very amusing. And you're helping yourself to these poor
men, I'm sure.”

“Come along, Mr. Blow,” said the bos'n.
“There's no harm. We ain't a Sunday ship after all.”

“If you let an Irish jade like this cheat you, you'll be
sorry.”

“But she's played square.”

“I'm only after a little sport,” Nimrod whined,
“only want a bite. It's nothing wrong.”

“Let the girl be,” called one of the sailors.

“Let her play!”

“Nothing's wrong,” Nimrod told the master.

“The girl has lost most of her stake, Mr. Blow,” the
bos'n explained. “Hardly what you would call a jade.”

“Expensive fun. You'll be sorry.”

“She's none of your noisy, belligerent wenches that I know
very well. No one's being clipped, sir,” the bos'n insisted.
“We're having a bit of fun.”

Molly cut the deck and looked up at Mr. Blow. “Would you care to try
a hand, mister?”

“You're a sharp little bird, miss.”

“Sure you don't mean
sharp
, mister,” she
replied evenly.

“Go on, sir, take a hand,” the bos'n urged. “No
one's been clipped. She's only a poor emigrant lass. No harm.”

“Go on, sir, take a hand!” Nimrod cried.

“You're not frightened of me, are you, Mr. Blow?” Molly
smiled.

“Try a hand yourself, Mr. Blow,” said the bos'n.
“There's nothing wrong with her cards.”

The sailors began to cheer and whistle as Mr. Blow dug into the pocket of
his black coat and came out with a few coppers. He placed the coins on the blanket,
pulled out the stool, and sat down. Molly smiled and cut the cards again, shuffled
through them, and began the deal.

She won the first deal, lost the second to Mr. Blow, won the third hand,
and lost the fourth. They ended dead even.

“That's enough for me,” said Mr. Blow after the last
coup played in his favor. “Very steady, very cool, miss.” He stood up,
taking up his money from the table. “You are a snap. I feel lucky to get away so
cheap.”

“You see, sir?” cried the bos'n. “It's a
fair game, ain't it?”