Wonder at the Edge of the World

CHAPTER 2

One thing you should know about me is that even though my name is Hallelujah, I like to be called Lu. I can hold my breath longer than anyone I know, a full two minutes. And you should know that even though I'm a girl, I'm smart, or as Father used to say, "Lu, you've got a good knot in your skull."

I'm going to be a scientist. As far as I know, that'll make me among the first lady scientists in the whole world, and certainly the first lady scientist in Kansas—maybe the only scientist at all in this sunbaked, thorny-plant, tree-lonely, dirty-water, skinny-animal, dusty-air, grasshopper-happy, God-forsaken place. Have you ever been to Kansas? I wouldn't come if I were you. For one, it's dangerous. For two, there's nothing to do here.

When I'm a scientist, I will sign on with an oceanic expedition and travel to the far reaches of the earth, just like Father did. I'll call myself an oceanist, a person who studies everything in the ocean, from the currents to the largest whales. On my expedition I'll discover new species of birds, fish, and plants. I'll sketch their likenesses and write careful entries in a journal about their behaviors and dwellings. I'll take samples of these specimens and preserve them. That way, people everywhere will be able to enjoy them and imagine what life is like somewhere else, which is a thing everyone is wont to do at least once in a while. I know I do all the time.

One nice thing about Kansas is that it's so boring that nothing is likely to interrupt you when you are imagining about living somewhere else. Lots of times, I just sit and imagine for hours and hours. I imagine what life would be like if our family had stayed in New Bedford, Massachusetts, the most beautiful and interesting city in America. It is the city where Father was born and Mother was born and Priss was born and I was born. Since staying there wasn't possible, sometimes I imagine what life would be like if we had stolen a boat and sailed away from America rather than come here to Tolerone, Kansas, where nothing remarkable or scientific ever happens, except for a cyclone once in a while. I've never seen one yet, even though the folks here talk about them as if they happen all the time. If I did see one, I'd probably run right into it and hope it would fly me away from here. Until then, I guess I'll just have to make do with my imagination.

I imagine what life might be like among the island peoples or the African tribes or in the Orient or the Mediterranean. Sometimes any place in the world seems like it would be better than Kansas. Probably even Antarctica is better, though only whales, seals, and penguins live there. I'm sure it's a very interesting and scientific place, even if no one really knows much about it. One day I'll see that frozen continent. When I'm a scientist, I'll study the hunting behaviors of killer whales and document the migratory routes of sperm whales. I'll feel the spray of their spouts and fluke splashes on my cheek if I have to follow them all the way to Antarctica.

Do you know anyone who has seen Antarctica? I bet not. Well, it was my father who first discovered it, before the British, the French, and everybody else in the seafaring world out looking for it, as though it were lost. My father explained to me that Antarctica is buttressed by an iceberg fortress and barbed with frigid gales and nearly impossible to penetrate.

But my father did it. He was like that. Persistent and brave and strong. And I am, too.

I have to be because I have a secret. I know the whereabouts of a treasured item. My father trusted me to take care of it, and I intend to be persistent and brave and strong enough to do him proud.

CHAPTER 3

Most girls would fly into a frenzy if a cricket crawled on their leg. But not me. I hold very still so I don't scare it away. Because of the dry weather, the grasshoppers and crickets are thick in Kansas. I let the cricket crawl all the way down into my boot, where I suppose it's looking for a dark place to hide. Then I pick it off my calf, bring it to my eyes, and study it. I hold it gently by the abdomen between my fingers, and its legs kick.

Did you know that the noise crickets make is called stridulation? Everyone thinks crickets rub their legs together to make that chirping sound, but that isn't true. A cricket uses one wing and rubs the top of it alongside the bottom of the other wing. The wings have ragged edges, kind of like a comb. The friction is what causes the sound. If you could catch one and watch it, you'd see for yourself that I'm telling the truth.

I have dozens of this type of cricket, so I toss it back in the grass. I wonder if there are any crickets in Antarctica. Or any insects at all. Someday I intend to find out. Here in Kansas, no one ever talks about places like Antarctica. Most people just converse about the drought, the fires, and slavery.

The only person in the entire territory of Kansas who is slightly interesting is my pal, Eustace. He's busy a lot of the time, helping his ma and taking care of his animals and whatnot. He can't have an afternoon recess for thinking, exploring, and talking any old time like I can. So I'm alone a lot.

Mostly, I don't mind. But sometimes I do. Sometimes being alone feels like being underwater. Everything looks hazy. Everything sounds muffled. And it feels like my throat is closing, like I can't breathe. That's when I miss my father the most. He knew lots of interesting topics to talk about.

Up in the sky, the moon glows dimly. Have you ever seen the moon in the middle of the day? As I look at it now, it seems like I could jump up and touch it. The moon seems closer than Antarctica. The moon, by the way, is what Antarctica looks like, according to my father.

I imagine I'm on a ship sailing right to the moon. I can feel the air turn cold. I can see my breath. I can hear myself telling the crew we must press on. Though the sun is so strong I can feel my cheeks and nose burning red, I shiver as though I'm really on that ship. I put my bonnet on and a shadow falls over my face as I think about my father, frost-bitten and half starved, climbing up into the slippery rigging of the ship Vivienne, many years ago.

The Vivienne, a small vessel that had been at sea along with another American vessel, the Saint Mary, had meandered through a dangerous field of jagged icebergs in an ocean bay about to freeze and doom my father and the ship's sailors to a glassy tomb. Most of the crew wanted to turn around toward warmer winds and familiar routes. The Saint Mary, led by Captain Cornelius Greeney, had already suffered terrible destruction and had to turn back. Captain Greeney had wanted Father's ship to assist the Saint Mary back to New Bedford, but Father refused. He was confident that his ship could make it to the frozen continent and claim the discovery for America.

The Vivienne pressed on. And after a few more days at the top of the rigging, Father squinted and saw in the distance the shadowy shape of solid land, the continent of Antarctica. On his map, my father wrote WONDER'S LAND to mark his discovery and achievement.

Have you ever looked at a map of the world? If you do, you'll see that the words WONDER'S LAND are right on there, on the continent of Antarctica, which is at the very edge of the world. Whenever I look at a map and see the name "Wonder" down there, pride fills up my chest like a big gust of wind.

One person whose chest did not fill up with pride upon Father's discovery was Captain Greeney. He was very angry with my father.

The same day as Father's important finding, in New Bedford, Massachusetts, after three days of labor and chills, my mother pushed my sister out into the arms of a midwife, who wiped her off, kissed her forehead, and said "Praise Be!" which became her name, but everyone calls her Priss.

My father stayed at sea for two more years, visiting strange islands and living among the cannibal kings of Fiji and the bare-chested princesses of Tahiti. He collected all kinds of specimens and treasures. When Captain Greeney said to hand them over to the government, Father said "Absolutely not," which made some people mad and got him in a lot of trouble. But he didn't care. He hid the artifacts and returned to sea before anyone, Captain Greeney included, could do anything about it.

Some people might call what Father did stealing. But I don't. He risked his life to get the treasures. He said he was the only one in the world qualified to care for and research them. If you saw the collection, you wouldn't call it stealing, either, probably.

When he returned home to my mother, Priss was almost two years old.

Father stayed only three months, enough time to raise Captain Greeney's ire some more and to plant me in Mother before he raced to sea again. When I was born, the midwife wiped me off, kissed my forehead, and said "Hallelujah!" which is what my name is. But I go by Lu, like I already said.

When Father came home in 1845, he planted in Mother the first of our three little brothers, none of whom survived longer than a few months. With each one, Mother grew more and more watchful. I remember waking up to see her leaning over each of my little brothers in their turn at life, and I remember her putting an ear to their chests to see if they were breathing. But all her attention didn't matter in the end. They died anyway.

You don't have to be a scientist to figure out how the deaths of those boys made Mother feel. Father finally slowed down his world travels and scientific study and stayed home to be with Mother. Captain Greeney was on him like a dog on a pig bone.

Do you know what a court-martial is? I wish I didn't know. I'll just tell you that a court-martial is not good. And in Father's case, it didn't seem fair, either, as he was only doing what he thought was best and protecting his good name and preventing his artifacts from getting into the wrong hands. But it was impossible to convince the court that Captain Greeney, a man dressed in a decorated navy uniform working on behalf of the government, was "the wrong hands."

After the court-martial, we had to sneak away from New Bedford practically in the dead of night.

Now we don't talk about those days much. Though Father was a smart and brave man, he left a lot of loose ends for us to tie up. Mother's too fragile to handle it all, which is why I try to do the things the head of the household would do, as if he were still here.

I lie back and twine my fingers together under my head like a pillow. I stare up at the thin white clouds. Things go hazy. They go muffled. My throat gets thick and I feel like I'm underwater. I close my eyes and drown in the loneliness.

CHAPTER 4

The wind blows. It sounds like whistling through a cracked window.

Then I hear far-away yelling. "Fob!" On these plains, it's sometimes hard to tell if I'm really hearing what I think I am or if it's just the wind being tricky. I flick an ant off my dress, an old hand-me-down of Priss's. Not that I mind wearing hand-me-downs. I don't like fussy clothes and prefer a dress that I can get dirty without anyone yelling at me about it. Priss will do it once in a while when she tries to act bigger than me. Even though she's older, I can look her right in the eye, my feet are bigger, and I'm still growing. I'm what a lot of ladies call big-boned.

"Fob!" I hear it again. Then: "Get back here!"

It's Eustace yelling for his dog. I sit up. The haze seems to have cleared. Before long, the lankiest, longest-eared specimen of a yellow dog known to man lopes through the grass toward me.

I put out my hand. "Whoa, Fob," I say. He springs at me with his tongue lolling out of his watery maw. He slobbers and licks. Fob walks like the back half of his body wants to be in the front. I'd never tell Eustace this, but when this dog dies, I'd like to cut him open and see whether he's got some nature of crooked spine causing such a strange manner of mobility. Eustace, my best and only friend in this place, walks up. He's picking his way with a long stick.

"Nice to see you, Lu," says Eustace.

"You, too, Eustace!" I say. I stand. I'm happy to see him, but I don't want to go whole hog with excitement. I don't want Eustace to know how lonely I was. "How did you get away today?"

He kicks some grass. A galaxy of grasshoppers and crickets fly in all directions. Fob goes wild chasing them. "Ma wanted me to come over and ask you if you need help this Saturday," he says. "She can spare me, she says to tell you." Eustace snatches a grasshopper off his pant leg and pops it in his mouth. He eats anything.

"Blech," I say. I stick my tongue out.

"They're good," he says. "If you were starving, you'd try it."

"I doubt that."

"Ma says they're as good as eating meat," he says.

Eustace's ma, Ruby, is the house slave of the Millers, who live on the north end of Tolerone. Mrs. Miller and Mother used to be friends before Mother took to her rocking chair. They used to spend long hours paging through their Bibles, looking for passages that approved or disapproved of slavery. They listened to each other and didn't argue the way all the other folks around here do.

Do you know what abolitionists are? Well, they're knotty people who fight for the freedom of slaves, which is good. But some of those abolitionists are making life dangerous around here. They are always riling up the slave owners.

My mother was an abolitionist before Father died, and a quiet, mourning pall fell over her. She was a nice one and didn't condone violence. She certainly didn't start fires everywhere. She preferred to talk with people calmly and try to get them to change their minds and their evil ways. Sometimes her abolition talk bored me. But I'd give about anything to hear her talk again now. I'd also give about anything for people to stop fighting all the time. If they don't quit it pretty soon, the whole country will be at war.

Mrs. Miller is awfully old. About a hundred, probably. She's from Missouri, and slavery has been in her family for years. She talks a lot about white responsibility and guiding black folks as God guides his followers. Her talk is real boring, too. Sometimes I've seen Ruby, Eustace's ma, roll her eyes at Mrs. Miller or groan real loudly when she goes on that way. Mrs. Miller can barely walk and hardly see, so Ruby would always come along to our house to take care of her when she and my mother got together. And Eustace would come with Ruby. That's how he and I became friends.

The Millers inherited Ruby and Eustace, their only two slaves, from a relative who died after getting snake-bit. Eustace was just a baby and doesn't remember, and he doesn't really work for the Millers yet because he's too young. Most of the slaves around here don't go to work until they're fourteen, unless they're girls. Then they can do housework or baby-rocking when they're eleven or twelve, but white girls have to do that, too.

Around here, no matter whether the girl is white, Negro, or Indian, as soon as she's old enough to churn the butter, someone's trying to get her married and make her a mother. The white ladies, especially Mrs. Miller, are the worst culprits. They're always ready to plan weddings and knit baby blankets. If I think about getting married and having babies, I shiver all over.

"You cold?" Eustace asks.

"No," I say. "I'm just thinking about something."

"You've always got interesting things going on in your head. That's for sure."

I smile a little bit. Sometimes Eustace says things that remind me of the way my father used to talk to me. And that makes me happy.

"Hot today," I say. I think about Eustace eating that grasshopper, and suddenly I feel thirsty.

"Surely is." He pulls a hankie from his overalls and wipes his face. Eustace's cheeks have a ruddy tone to them, like he's always blushing.

"I'll ask Priss if she needs work done," I say. "I'm sure she does."

"I saw your sows have gnawed at the fence posts you got on the south end of the sty. I can fix that so they don't run away, which they'll do if you give them the chance." He shakes his head. "That is the sorriest fence I ever saw. Pigs are real smart. They're going to walk right on out of there one of these days."

Eustace is forever talking about how smart animals are. "I guess they're entitled to their freedom like everyone else." I pick my teeth with a thorn I found in the grass. "If I were going to be an abolitionist, I'd be an animal abolitionist," I say in a way between serious and jest. Eustace knows I'm talking about the collection of animals he keeps in his mother's backyard. He has trapped every species of critter imaginable—raccoon, possum, fox, bobcat, and turkey, to name a few—and keeps them in cages.

"You're not funny," Eustace says. He reaches down and gives Fob a scratch behind the ears. Then he looks out over the plains. His face is stony, like there's something the matter with him. I nearly ask what, but then I remember that Eustace comes and goes, talks and doesn't talk to me in his own time. No use rushing him.

I sit back down in the grass and pat for Fob to sit next to me, which he does. Fob lifts a leg and scratches himself. I giggle a little. I'm hoping that our sitting will encourage Eustace to sit, too, and stay awhile. I don't want him heading back home too quickly. But I know it's not really up to him. Sometimes his ma needs his help getting her work done.

Eustace is on the side of the abolitionists because he's a slave and wants to be a freeman. But for the past couple of years, the abolitionists have been coming here and starting fights that scare everybody. The town is full of threats and agitation. I wish they'd figure out a way to free the slaves without force. Violence doesn't seem like a very scientific solution to the problem.

Eustace says it's the slave owners' own fault the abolitionists have had to get tough with them. He says the slave owners have been stealing, beating, and even killing black people for centuries. It's time for that to stop, even if it takes fires, violence, and war.

I understand what he's saying. But war talk scares me.

Eustace stands there, fidgeting around and staring off.

"Anyway," Eustace says as he finally sits down next to me, "sows and peoples aren't the same.