The Law of Dreams (18 page)

He had lost sight of the navvy — the guardsmen had surrounded him
and were flailing their pick handles. The onlookers surging into the road were attacking
the Scotchmen.

People at upper windows along the street were throwing bricks and lumps of
coal at the marchers and the stuff was clattering in the road.

Peering through the flurry of the fight, he caught a glimpse of the navvy
crawling down the middle of the road, the red drummer walking alongside and beating him
with a pick handle, working at him the way a turf cutter with a spade would patiently
work a piece of ground, or a carpenter the jamb of a door, or the boards of a
coffin.

Starting after them, Fergus nearly stepped on a woman shivering on the
pavement, blood pouring from her head. Stooping to pick up a spade, he saw the navvy on
his hands and knees, wavering while the drummer nudged with his toe, testing to see if
he might topple.

Fergus approached them from behind, gripping the spade in both hands. As
the drummer raised the pick handle to deliver a finishing blow, Fergus swung the spade
and caught him behind the knees with the edge of the pan. With a scream the red man
flopped down onto the paving where he writhed and groaned under the bulk of the torn
drum still strapped to his chest.

Fergus helped the navvy to his feet. The stones were greasy with
blood.

“Give me that whipper,” the navvy
insisted, reaching out his hand.

Fergus picked up the wooden handle, and the navvy snatched it from him and
began to beat the drummer.

You heard the whip and crackle of each blow, but felt neither pity nor
anger, only a kind of slow, dense bewilderment as the navvy flailed away, bright blood
splashing his face and clothes.

Suddenly he dropped the pick handle, grabbed Fergus by the arm, and began
leading him through the mix of the fighting. No one tried to stop them. The people
watching the riot shied from their bloody clothes, and it was easy to cut straight
through. Coming out the other side, the way was clear and the navvy let go of his arm
and broke into a lopsided run.

Not knowing what else to do, Fergus started after him.

Nothing had its fingers on you, running.

A horse might run until its heart burst.

CUTTING INTO
an alley, they ran past old-clothes barrows
and food stalls and through a web of stinking passages. The navvy was quick, despite his
wounds, and Fergus had to struggle to keep up, tasting on his tongue the metallic tang
of scorched breath.

A murky passageway brought them out into a courtyard where a cow was tied
and children played in muck near a well. A dog with raised hackles lurched from a
doorway and flew at them snapping. They threw themselves onto a wall, scrambled over,
and dropped into an adjacent court, where a bonfire crackled between raw, unfinished
brick houses and two men were roasting a horse's leg in the flames. They ran down
more alleys smelling of tar, filth, and food, and finally out into a hard, wide road
lined with iron lampposts, stone buildings, and gleaming sets of white steps.

The navvy's neck and shoulders were waxed with blood, his shirt was
black with it, and he was beginning to falter.

Finally he stopped running, bent over, breathing hard, spitting while
Liverpool people in magnificent clothes snapped past them, ignoring them.

“If they catch us, man, they'll murder us both,” the
navvy gasped. “We'll go for Shea's. Shea will fix us up.”

He straightened up. Seizing Fergus's hand, he
shook it vigorously. “Arthur McBride is my name.”

Fergus gave his own.

“Never been across before?” Arthur asked.

“I haven't.”

“Raw and green, raw and green — Shea will like you. Come
along, then.”

“Where are we going?”

“Shea's Dragon, where else?”

Whatever that was.

Linking arms, Fergus and the navvy began walking down the road.

As if they belonged there. As if the city were theirs.

“
WHY DID YOU STAB
the drum, Arthur?”

“Oh, for the honor. I hate to see those fellows swagger.”

He could feel the terror in his body soften as they walked arm in arm. It
had been there since the night of the farm.

The rub of their two voices warming him.

“Aren't they navvies? Aren't you?”

“They are Scotch, and don't like seeing Irishmen working on
the railway contracts. There was a bad fall yesterday, in a cutting on the
London-and-Northwestern construction. A few tons came down and buried six of their
fellows. They are claiming it's ignorant Irish getters responsible, saying the
contractor must let 'em go, which is all wrong, for we are as skilled as they.
There was a randy in a tommy shop night before last, and we heard they attacked one of
our camps out by Alybury yesterday, the dogs — burned the shanties and frightened
off the women. So we were waiting for them. When I heard the drum, that fucking boomer,
why, I reckoned I must go for the thrust, and give our men heart.”

It was good to have a connection, a companion, and a voice attaching you
to the world.

“Have you done any navvying yourself, Fergus?” Arthur was
wiping blood from his neck with a handkerchief.

“I haven't.”

“It's why you come across, is it? Looking for work?”

“I don't know. Perhaps.”

He had not been looking for anything, except to get away.

“Too late for harvest work. Too soon for plowing. Were you looking
to be a factory hand? Plenty of Irishmen in Manchester. Have any people on this
side?”

People? Arms and legs, rising in flames.

You don't forget anything. That is not how it works.

The dead cross the water, too. They swim.

“A navvy can tramp from Aberdeen to Land's End, railway camp
to camp, and always have a feed and a bed. Do you wish to come along with me? What do
you say?”

“All right.” Better than being alone.

“Boots you'll need, though.”

He looked down at his bare feet.

“Never mind — Shea will fix you up. I was green as you,
Fergus, when first I crossed the water.”

SHEA'S DRAGON
was set in a terrace of tall, narrow
brick houses in Bold Street, far from the docks. Navvies puffing short clay pipes basked
in sunshine on the marble steps. They all seemed to have cudgels or brass-knobbed sticks
near at hand.

Arthur was limping badly. An old man stood up to greet them.
“You're the brave, Arthur!”

Above white whiskers, the old man's face was seamed and rough, red
as berries.

Arthur smiled. “Iron Mike. Have you heard?”

“One of the girls ran back here quick as the devil. Shea thinks they
might come to the Dragon looking for a vengeance.”

Iron Mike glanced at Fergus then started untying Arthur's bloody
neckerchief. Removing his own, he draped it across Arthur's shoulders.

“There you are, Arthur. Steady now. Are you badly hurt?”

Arthur was swaying. “I am feeling a little peculiar, I
think.”

“She'll want to see you.” The old
man nodded at Fergus. “Let's get Arthur inside.”

Halfway up the flight of steps, with Fergus and Iron Mike supporting him
on either side, Arthur stopped. “Don't know as I shall make it, Iron
Mike.”

His face looked gray.

“Come, Arthur. Yes you will. Hold on to your friends.”

“This fellow Fergus is just over . . . saved my hide. He wishes to
go navvying.”

“Tunnel work down London way, as I hear. They say Mr. Murdoch has
got a nice contract in North Wales, a piece of the Chester-and-Holyhead. Come along,
Arthur. One step at a time.”

They finally stood before the beautiful door. Iron Mike reached for the
knocker and rapped it. “You watch yourself now, Arthur. You're a brassy boy
no longer, and must respect the house.”

“Are you her crusher now, Iron Mike?” Arthur said lightly.

“Porter, I am. They ain't the need for crushing, the Dragon is
not that sort of establishment these days.” Iron Mike looked at Arthur for a
moment. “Grand to see you all of one piece, Arthur.”

“And grand to see you, you old muncher,” Arthur called after
Iron Mike as he went down the stairs.

“Very nice, Shea is become,” Arthur said softly, facing the
door. “When first I crossed the water, the Dragon was a set of nasty cribs in
Launcelot's Hey behind of a beer shop, the Bucket of Blood. She needed a crusher
in those days.

“Oh my dear, Fergus, I am feeling a little weathered —”
Arthur was wavering again. Seizing the knocker, Fergus banged on the door. Arthur leaned
forward so his forehead was touching the wood. “If I die, the fellows must wrap me
in the green flag.”

“No good talking that way.”

“Isn't it? And why not? What will happen?” Arthur
smiled. “Is it the goblins? Will the
sioga
cross to Liverpool and eat
me?”

“It's no good.” To talk of your own death was to roil a
certain magic, disturbing the way of the world. It was dangerous and ought to be
avoided.

The door swung open so suddenly that Arthur nearly toppled over, but
Fergus caught him by the arm and held him up. A plump, pink, yellow-haired girl stared
at them with slightly bulging eyes. She was holding a scrub brush. “Look at you,
Arthur.”

“You always said I was a pretty fellow,
Mary.”

“You ain't now. We heard what happened. They might have killed
you. Perhaps they did, by your looks. Come in.”

They stepped inside and Mary bolted the door behind them. The floor was
damp from scrubbing. A baby in a crate waved its fists.

Mary was eyeing Fergus suspiciously. “Who's this
creature?”

“A friend, never fear,” Arthur told her. “Name of
Fergus.”

“Never seen such a dirty monster.”

“Is the mistress disposed?”

“Still in bed she is.”

“Has she heard?”

“I reckon so.”

“What did she say?”

“Her? Nothing.”

In the front hall, water splashed and gurgled in a white fountain. Did
they water their horses here? How did they get horses up the steps?

There were green things growing in brass tubs. Looking up, he saw sky.
Daylight was pouring in through glass panels in the roof.

“She wants to see me, I expect,” said Arthur.

“Well, you can show me your money first, and I'll go ask
her.”

“Oh Mary, sure, in my condition —”

“It's her rule and you know it, Arthur. One pound, hard money,
or find your way downstairs. Go talk to one of them pot girls, I hear they're
cozy.”

Sighing, Arthur handed over a gold coin. “Not a hero's
welcome,” he complained.

“No one in the Dragon never said you was a hero, Arthur
McBride.”

“Oh Mary, you're killing my heart. Come along.” Arthur
clutched Fergus's arm. “We'll go to see the Dragon herself.”

“You can't bring him, Arthur!”

“Mary —”

“You wait. Let me go and ask. If she's disposed
—”

“For the love of God, Mary, I've had the life beat out of
me.”

The baby wailed. Mary walked over to it and picked it up. “Go on
then, Arthur, God love you.”

* * *

THEY MOVED
down a corridor, Arthur leaning on him. The
floor shone, and pictures of women, ships, and horses were hung on pale walls. Stopping
in front of a door, the navvy let go of Fergus's arm, pulled himself erect, and
knocked softly.

“Who is it?” a woman called.

Arthur opened the door. The room was struck with sunlight, smelling of
wool, candle wax, flowers. There was a great carved bed with someone in it sitting up
and holding a newspaper spread open.

“Are you glad to see me, Shea?”

Lowering the paper, Shea studied them.

Her dark hair was pulled back, sleek. She was older than the navvy;
perhaps twenty-five. She had gray eyes in a face so plain it was handsome.

She reached for a cigar that was smoldering in a glass dish on a little
marbletopped table beside the bed. “You look deranged, Arthur,” she
said.

“I've been over the other side —”

“Hell, Arthur? Have you been in Hell?”

“Close enough to Hell. Skibbereen would drive anyone mad.”

“Come closer, let me look at you.”

Holding himself stiffly, Arthur advanced across the room. Fergus saw
bright, fresh blood sponging through the back of his shirt.

“You're looking older,” she said.

“Too old for the Dragon?”

“I knew it was you the moment I heard. Why must you do such things,
Arthur? So ill considered, so foolish.”

Arthur sat down on the edge of her bed. “You mean,
so bold, and
done so handsome
.”

“No — I mean foolish.”

“Come, Shea — don't drag me now.”

“They'll come for us one day, burn us out — they know
we're an Irish house. There's more hate parading in those streets every day.
There's going to be the devil to pay for your fun.”

“Did it for you, Shea.”

“Oh blast you. For me? I don't care a damn for your navvy
rags.”

The navvy grimaced.

“Are you hurt badly?” she said, suddenly concerned.

“I am feeling . . . a little . . . shady —”

“Oh Arthur, you fool! What have they done to you? Let me
see.”

Dropping her newspaper on the floor, she threw back her covers and swung
long white legs from the bed. The gown she wore was unlike any garment Fergus had ever
seen, green and shimmering, with dragons and flames embroidered on the sleeves.