Unwritten Books 3 - The Young City (14 page)

Then the glow came to a stop. Peter approached. It clung to the last gas lamp like St. Elmo’s fire.

“Okay.” Peter clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. “Where have you taken me?”

“Peter?”

All at once, the gas lamps flared back to life. He looked away, blinded. When he looked back, the street was lit by its normal flickering glow. He stood beside a patch of grass, beside the hoarding around the construction site. Tom Proctor stood at the gate, waving his lantern. “Peter? Is that you?”

Peter stumbled across the packed earth to the construction yard’s gate.

“Peter! What are you doing out so late?” demanded Tom. “My God, you’re half frozen. Come in, this instant. I have a fire.”

At the mention of fire Peter perked up, and darted toward Tom’s cabin like a moth toward flame.

Rosemary rolled over in her sleep. Her arm flopped out and dangled off the edge of the bed. It took her a moment to realize what was wrong with that. She felt around the covers. “Peter?”

No response.

She fumbled for her glasses and sat up. She peered into the dim, moonlit room. “Peter?” She was alone.

She slumped back into bed and closed her eyes, but she couldn’t stop her mind whirling back over their argument. She pictured Peter standing before her, grinning inanely. “You know, Rosemary, when life hands you a lemon, you make lemonade.”

“What if life hands you sand?”

“You make glass.”

“What about broken glass?”

The picture shattered. She saw Peter glaring at her, hurt. “I know you hate it here, but what choice do we have?”

She didn’t know, but her points stood. They might belong together, but they didn’t belong here.

She lay back and stared at the dark ceiling. No sleep here. She rolled onto her side and stared at the wall. Her mind whirled over the moon shadows on the patterned wallpaper. She rolled onto her stomach and tried to breathe through her pillow. It smelled of him.

She sat up again, hugging her knees to her chest. After a moment, she threw off the covers and slipped out of bed.

In the darkness, she stumbled into the water bucket. It clattered, but didn’t splash. The bottom was no more than damp.

“Oh yeah,” she muttered. Peter usually filled it. “Silly me.”

She pulled a shawl from the clothes screen and wrapped it around herself. Slipping out of the bedroom,
she tiptoed past Faith’s door, silent on her bare feet.

As she descended the steps to the kitchen, new sounds invaded her thoughts. She slowed, listening.

She wasn’t wrong. She heard the hiss of something flat and heavy being dragged. It stopped with a thud and a choked-off curse.

Rosemary overbalanced and grabbed the railing. She righted herself, but couldn’t stop from putting her foot solidly on the next step. It creaked. The voice below hushed.

Silence stretched as two sets of ears listened to each other. Then, in the kitchen below, footsteps turned and hustled away. A door clicked shut.

Rosemary crept down the remaining steps and stumbled into the now-empty kitchen. Peering around in the moonlight, she turned and walked right into a wooden box. She doubled over on top of it. Then she pushed away, glaring at the box and rubbing her belly.

The box was a crate made of planks. Words were stencilled on each side, impossible to read in the moonlight. She tried to lift the lid, but the top was nailed down.

The door to the basement sailed open. Rosemary leapt back. She gasped in relief when she recognized the shadow. “Edmund! You startled me!”

“What are you doing here?” he growled.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she replied. “Thought I’d come down for a glass of water. You?”

He hesitated and swallowed, then came forward into the moonlight. “Couldn’t sleep either. I thought I would work.”

They leaned on the box across from each other. Rosemary tapped the planks. “This your work?”

He nodded. “Brought it up from the basement.”

She gave it a tentative push. It was lighter than it looked, but bulky. “It must have given you a lot of trouble getting it up the stairs.”

He shrugged. “The exercise will help me sleep.”

“I suppose.” She looked at him. “What’s in it?”

“Merchandise.”

“What kind?

“Watches,” said Edmund. “From a bankrupt warehouser. I thought I’d sell some.”

“Need help with it?”

“I’ll manage.”

She yawned. Grabbing a mug, she dipped it into the water bucket and took a long drink. Looking up, she saw that Edmund hadn’t moved.

“You’re just going to stand there?” she asked.

He blinked at her. “No.”

She stared at him. She set the mug aside. “Good night.”

She gave the crate one last glance as she headed up for bed.

Peter wilted into the heat of the wood stove. Tom Proctor sat down across from him and unscrewed a metal flask. He took a swig, and then offered it to Peter.

Peter stared at it. “No thanks.”

“Go on. It’s not what you think.”

He took the flask, sniffed it, then took a sip. He stared. “Apple cider?”

Tom chuckled. “You thought I was imbibing whiskey? I wouldn’t last long at this job if I couldn’t keep a clear head.”

Peter took another sip, then handed back the flask. “Thanks.”

“I have some stew as well,” said Tom. “You need something warm in you after being caught outside this night. What were you doing out so late?”

Peter curled into himself. “Walking.”

“Where to?”

“Nowhere.”

Tom laughed. “Ah! I’ve walked to nowhere many a time. Sent there by my wife as often as not.”

Peter looked up. “You’re married?”

“I was, rest her soul.” Tom sighed. “Yes, she sent me on plenty of errands to nowhere, but they were still good times. Sometimes I just needed my space.”

“Or she needed her time,” Peter muttered.

“Bad argument?” asked Tom.

“Yes.”

“She’ll forgive you.”

“You sure?”

“Do you love her?”

“Yes!”

“Does she love you?”

Peter hesitated. He curled into himself again. “I ... I don’t know. I think so.”

Tom patted Peter’s shoulder. “If the answer wasn’t a definite ‘no,’ it’s probably ‘yes.’”

Peter looked up, hopeful. “You know this?”

Tom nodded. “Forget what they say about men being the head of the household, son. What you have in a marriage is two people under God, and you’re both ornery. But that’s the way God made you, and you have to be patient with that. You have to understand.”

“I’m beginning to.” He drooped. “You really think she’ll forgive me?”

“Ask her yourself.” He got up and dished out a plate of stew. The cabin held a cot, a trunk, and a shelf of books. The room was small enough to be lit by a single kerosene lantern.

Peter stared at the surroundings. “Do you really live here?”

“Until the work here is done,” said Tom.

“What will you do then?”

“Look for more work, I suppose.” Tom sat back on the cot. “I’ve been with the university for years, helped to build King’s College, taking whatever work they had to offer. Even in the worst of times there are buildings

that need to be built, and rivers that need to be buried. There may still be work for somebody as old as me.”

“What will you do when you retire?” asked Peter.

“Retire?” Tom’s laugh was like a gunshot. Then he grew more serious. “I have a little money saved up. Not much, but it will cover me for a year. I have a son in Kingston, with a good wife and a young son of his own. I hate to be a burden, but perhaps when I hang up my cap, I shall live with them. And maybe sooner than later. After this creek is buried, my job here is at an end.”

As Peter stared, Tom’s eyes glazed over. He stared out into the construction site, and back in time. “You wouldn’t know it, but this creek, Taddle Creek, used to be a treasure to the university. I picked berries here. As part of their initiation rites, the students would duck freshmen in the pond we just drained. That joke wasn’t nearly so cruel twenty years ago. Less than a month from now, this creek will vanish forever.”

“Why bury it in the first place?”

“It was in our way,” said Tom. “And then there was the cholera and the typhoid ... though, I remember, the river held no cholera before the city stretched this far.”

He stared out onto the grounds again. “I’ve seen this city change so much. I was born the day the Town of York became the City of Toronto; ten years before, mind, but the very day. There were ten thousand souls in the city that day; now I hear there are almost nine times that number. We could walk across the city and not be
footsore, then; no need for streetcars to carry us.” He took a swig from his flask. “All these people, pushing to the university, beyond the university. Where will it end?”

Peter accepted the flask and took a swig. “Where indeed. But if you feel this way, why are you helping to bury Taddle Creek?”

Tom shrugged. “A man has to make a living. Besides, I’ve lived a lot of my life near this stream. It seems fitting that I should be there at the end. At least someone will tell its tale.” He tensed. “Quiet!”

Peter blinked. “What —?”

“Somebody is sneaking through the site.” Tom clasped a thick stick that stood propped by the door. He motioned for Peter to follow.

The ground was crusted with frost. The cold rain had stopped and the sky was starting to clear. A waning moon cast the site in shadow. Peter and Tom crept between the piles of timber.

“How did they get in?” muttered Peter.

“Not by the gate,” said Tom. “I’ve had my eye on it the whole time.”

“How —”

“They’re in the river bed.” His voice rose to a shout. “You there!”

The lip of the embankment surrounding the creek was before them, the slight rise a shadow in moonlight.

“I know you’re in there!” Tom shouted. “Nobody has stolen anything from here on my watch and tonight

will be no different. Come out now and I’ll send you away with a bug in your ear and no more! Don’t make me come in after you!”

There was silence. Tom’s voice echoed back at them.

“I’m warning —.” But before he could finish, four shadows leapt into the moonlight like soldiers from a trench. They barrelled into Peter and Tom, knocking them over. Peter grabbed an ankle and twisted. His attacker yelled and sprawled. Peter grabbed the flailing legs, and a boot slipped off into his hands. A kick landed solidly on his shoulder. His quarry scrambled up and ran limping after its friends.

Peter got up to follow, but stopped at the sight of Tom bent double. “Are you okay?”

Tom nodded. Peter helped him up. “I got somebody’s boot, at least,” said Peter.

Tom peered at it. “A common workboot. That tells us little.”

“What did they want?” asked Peter.

“Who knows? Tools, lumber, anything they could sell. They did not take anything, however, that’s important.”

“Maybe.” Peter looked at the embankment surrounding the river. “Maybe it was the river they wanted.”

“Hmm?” Tom looked at him.

“Just thinking out loud,” said Peter quickly. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

Tom waved him away. “Yes, yes. Don’t go on so.”

But Peter stayed close as Tom headed back to his cabin. When he was sure everything was all right, he said goodbye and headed home.