Auraria: A Novel (40 page)

“Lizzie, say something. It’s for us, don’t you see? What we’ve made so far. And I just cannot, in good conscience, or with any respect …”

“Holtzclaw, you are dithering. Cease to dither. It ruins the effect.” Ms. Rathbun took his hands and held them in her own. The gesture caught Holtzclaw’s mind by the hem, and all the flapping and swirling went out of it. He leaned forward, and his lips encountered Ms. Rathbun’s. A snap of static electricity punctuated the moment—the worried friction of Holtzclaw’s wool suit had built up a charge.

Ms. Rathbun leaned back, but she kept hold of Holtzclaw’s hands. “All is well. Don’t worry yourself. It will only give you wrinkles. For my part, I refrain from worry entirely.”

Holtzclaw tried to give a wry smile, but he was sure it came out as a besotted grin instead.

“Now, Holtzclaw, will you tell me about this gala? You know that I am fond of parties—the more spectacular, the better.”

“Lizzie, it will be a triumph! We will have all the best, all the best. Spare no expense. And all will be invited. The native, the tourist, the ghost. Come one, come all.”

“Are you expecting a good crowd to come in from Milledgeville? Have you sent invitations to your seasonal guests?”

“I have to send invitations to the guests that are already here?”

“Oh yes, they demand it. Who will be the entertainment?”

“I am exchanging letters with the impresario for Dasha Pavlovski.”

“Dasha Pavlovski!”

“I had half decided to give up on him and get some local entertainment instead. You can see Dasha anywhere.”

“Oh no, you must strive for Dasha. He only appears at the best venues. They did not even get him at Saratoga. What will you do for refreshments?”

“We’ll have bottle after bottle of wines,” said Holtzclaw. “I have booked a train car full of them. Some rare and ancient clarets. Since it is a special occasion, there will be moonshine too.”

“No one will be interested in such a rural drink,” said Ms. Rathbun.

“I mean, the shimmering bowls that knock a grown man flat with his dreams. A unique experience, to be sure.”

“I know.”

“Then what would you serve instead?”

“Mint juleps,” said Ms. Rathbun.

“In all my time here in the valley,” said Holtzclaw, “I have never been offered a mint julep.”

“Well, we shouldn’t want to continue the disappointment. And it is a costume ball, yes? What will you wear?”

“A costume ball! What a splendid suggestion. How about a paired costume for the two of us?”

“Not the front and rear ends of a horse,” said Ms. Rathbun.

“How about lord and lady? Shepherd and shepherdess? Knight and damsel? Pharaoh and …”

“I think I shall be Queen of the Mountains,” said Ms. Rathbun. “Do you think anyone else will pretend to that title? I have a splendid dress in mind.”

“And I would be the King of the Mountains?”

“Why yes, if you would like to think so. I would not object at all.”

Ms. Rathbun tilted her head. Candlelight caught her profile, and her beautiful face was framed in fire. Then she stood up, with her hands clasped before her. Holtzclaw stood involuntarily, a social reflex. It was the end of their meeting, and Holtzclaw bade her goodnight with two kisses, in the air, to each side of her ears, and she returned them in the same ethereal way.

And then he was outside of her chamber, and she was within, and nothing had progressed, nothing had been solved. Her able command of the Asheville Attitude had compelled him to leave unsatisfied. The splendid doors were shut fast behind him.

#

As Holtzclaw waltzed down the gangplank, one of the hotel’s steam launches raced past, turning the calm lake into a foaming sea. Its paddle wheel threw a high tail of water into the air behind it. Holtzclaw heard happy laughter—a man’s and a woman’s, intertwined. When the boat passed, Holtzclaw was courageous enough to whisper a few naughty words of annoyance toward the fading vessel, but they were lost in the engine noise and the spray.

Then the steam launch exploded.

A high-pitched whine preceded the main blast, and then a tremendous force burst in every direction. A percussive wave rocked the Maiden of the Lake. Holtzclaw ran back aboard and lowered the ship’s dinghy. Within a minute, he was on the oars, pulling with full strength toward the disaster.

Twisted shards of metal and splinters of wood bobbed on the waves; among them, a man and a woman climbed over each other, trying to stay afloat. Holtzclaw held out an oar and pulled the two grasping survivors to the dinghy. He retrieved the man first and then the woman. To land her and her sodden skirts, Holtzclaw had to grab her beneath the armpits. Were it not an emergency, it would have been indecorous.

“Was there anyone else? Any others with you?” said Holtzclaw to the dazed pair.

“No, just the two of us,” said the man.

“Out for an evening stroll, just a stroll,” said the woman.

“We’ll get you back to the hotel,” said Holtzclaw. “You’re very lucky. It’s a wonder the flesh wasn’t scalded from your bones. Why were you going flat out?”

“We had to go fast,” said the man, “to keep up with such a lovely moon.”

“Such a lovely evening,” said the woman, “and such a lovely light.”

Holtzclaw rowed toward the lights of the hotel, where a crowd had gathered at the lakeshore. No other launch had come up to meet him—they didn’t expect survivors. When the crowd saw the two rescued guests, dazed and damp but largely unharmed, they gave a smattering of halfhearted applause and dispersed. But the Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society members were ashen and aghast, as though they’d seen two corpses. They saw the reputations of one of their finest matches in ruins.

“So the two of you were out, alone, in that boat?” said Almeda, the Reader of Mysteries of the Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society.

“There was the moon,” said the man. “Isn’t that enough of a chaperone?”

“Not at all,” said Vera, the Tender of the Entwined Rose and Briar.

“Not at all,” said Luella, the Poetess of the Stirring Heart.

“We rescind our approval,” said Almeda. The three yellow-hatted women made gestures with their hands like a bird flying away. “The birds of happiness will coo no more for you.”

The Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society fluttered away. The rescued couple, leaning on each other, hobbled back to the hotel. Holtzclaw stood alone, rubbing his aching shoulders. One by one, the electric lights ringing the lawn were ignited. Each one, as it burst into brilliance, erased a constellation from the evening sky.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Holtzclaw walked arm in arm with a beautiful woman in a dress of midnight blue, spangled with silver stars. They took a turn around the upper decks of the Maiden of the Lake. A soft rain began to fall, and the laughing pair ducked inside. They were at the top of the grand staircase overlooking the humming atrium. Men in fur and women in silk opened their purses to spill rivers of gold. Cascades of gold dust fell from cracks in the glass-domed ceiling. The air was hazy with metal. Holtzclaw turned toward his lovely companion, and she turned to him. Her rabbit face broke into a smile; her nose wiggled joyfully. She placed a four-fingered hand on his cheek; her slender, narrow fingers were cold on his skin.

The walls shook with the sound of an explosion. The boat rocked, tossed by a sudden wave. In an instant, the world reversed. Gilding and furniture splintered to pieces. Glassware vanished into a hail of icy fragments. Nothing that Holtzclaw had bought and paid for was left intact.

Holtzclaw’s companion tumbled forward; he caught her in his arms. Her silver hair was sticky with shimmering black fluid. Water roared. The current was pulling them down.

He could not shake this dream, even after he drank a glass of claret and a full pitcher of mineral water. It persisted at the corner of his mind. He thought of a bath, but he was not sure which waters were prescribed for nightmares. So Holtzclaw drew on an overcoat and set out for a midnight constitutional.

He found himself on top of the dam, which was farther than he had intended to walk. To the north, the lake stretched for miles; to the south, there was a steep drop to the Sky Pilot’s cabin and the craggy emptiness of the dry Terrible Cascade. Water bubbled through the spillway and down the flume, crossing the line between these contrasting environments. From a single spot, he could contemplate the quiet stillness of the lake; then, needing only to turn his head, he could revel in the sense of smallness that only deep chasms and great distances can provide.

But this was as much comfort as the dam could give him. The earth was damp under his feet. Somewhere below were winces of strain. To keep their artificial lake locked inside its borders for more than another few seasons, he and Shadburn would have to build another dam right on top of the old one. And that would take a mountain of money.

“A pleasant night?” The princess peered from over the top of the flume, resting her arms on its wooden side. She was standing in the water flowing to the powerhouse, unperturbed by the strong current.

“Unpleasant dreams,” he said. “Indigestion, I think.” He leaned against the dry side of the flume. The wooden supports sagged under his weight, and he backed away.

“Many times,” said the princess, “bad dreams are blamed on indigestion when really they’re the work of revengeful fish ghosts.”

“Why, I have saved the lives of many fish,” said Holtzclaw. “Shadburn and I have given them a beautiful, safe place in which to cavort and breed.”

“It isn’t their lives or their deaths that they are revenging,” said the princess. “Life and death are common and natural to them. Do you know how many fish are in this lake? Two million and eight! Now it is two million and six, because two small fry have been swallowed by a hungry predator. Now it is two million and thirty-two, because catfish eggs are awakening.”

“Then why do the fish want revenge?”

“Their ghosts are not free to float to the sea. That is where everything must flow. The dead, the minerals—they follow rivers to the ocean, where they are worked into particles and dissolve. Every grain of gold will one day be held in suspension in seawater—or should be—and the sea snails will be the richest creatures of them all.”

“So, the fish ghosts torment me with nightmares so that I will set them free?” said Holtzclaw.

“No,” said the princess. “They torment you because they have nothing better to do.”

“At least they aren’t attacking the dam. It has enough enemies, natural and unnatural.”

“Oh, they are doing that. They have no love for the dam. The wild wonder fish carry it away one mouthful at a time.”

Holtzclaw wanted to stamp his feet in indignation, but he stopped himself. His petulance might weaken the dam.

“We have a common goal,” continued the princess. “To see the land scoured clean of gold. We disagree on methods, but my way is better.”

“What is your way, Princess?”

“To open the mountain and let the waters out.”

“And then what will happen to the Queen of the Mountains? The Maiden of the Lake?”

“We will come through just fine,” she said.

Her pronouncements were rarely soothing to his peace of mind.

#

Holtzclaw took a high, circuitous route back to the hotel. He was still working through the lingering effects of indigestion and fish ghosts. The road was reminiscent of the Lost Creek Valley in the days before the lake. Desire paths, worn by ranging tourists searching for shortcuts, weaved between old trees. The sound of running water filled the air. Creeks dropped through stones, rills passed over the road, springs gushed from openings in the mountain. The moon shone between the branches and showered Holtzclaw’s way with silver light. From below, in a hollow carved by a branch of the river, came the sound of joyful laughter.

He was near one of the places where he’d seen the moon maidens at play. The site hadn’t been drowned by the lake. Holtzclaw found the rough staircase that led from the path down to the short stone wall at the water’s edge. A cold breeze blew back against him, the breath of the valley across the face of the water. The laughter continued from upstream. Holtzclaw hunkered down, carefully following the inner edge of the wall, toward the rocks in the bend.

When he came close enough to make out the figures that gamboled over the rocks, he realized that he had made a terrible mistake. Instead of moon maidens, he saw young people from the hotel: heirs and heiresses, prodigals, dandies, scions, and society artistes. Their cries and giggles turned into the barnyard braying of animals.

Holtzclaw turned to creep away along the path he’d taken, but he slipped on wet leaves, flailed, and tumbled into mud. His graceless fall caused a commotion. The tourists rushed to investigate.

“It’s that mopey fellow!” said one of the young men. “Always hanging around, talking like a book. What’s his name? Handclaw, right? Or Wholecloth?”

“Out for a peek, are we?” said another.

“Wanted to catch some youngsters at their game?” called one of the women.