Auraria: A Novel (5 page)

“What do you mean? The spring where we met isn’t more than a stone’s throw away. On the other side of those poplars.” The princess was spreading sheets of blue fabric out on the rocks, but Holtzclaw did not know why—they would not dry in the mist and moonlight. As she finished this work, a light rain began to fall. The waters of the stream were broken into uncountable expanding circles, dispelling the sheen that had floated across the water.

“That can’t be true. I’ve been walking all day.”

“I’m the native,” she said. “And you’re the visitor.”

Holtzclaw wished he were the kind of person who could offer a rude gesture, but a hard-etched decorum restrained him. He cleared his throat, which was meant to cover the sound of swallowing bile. “So you were out for a swim with your friends and I just chanced upon you? It isn’t the right weather.”

“They are happy for a bath in any weather,” said Trahlyta.

“Very fast and very skittish, too. An odd lot, Princess. Are all the inhabitants of Auraria like them?”

“Oh no. Some are just the opposite.”

His questions were taking them in circles, and Holtzclaw no longer wanted to be lost.

“I was trying to get to Auraria, but I’ve somehow missed the right path,” he said, using his negotiator’s voice. “Would you be so kind as to point me in the right direction? Or, if the town is very far away, can you tell me of some other place where I could spend the night? I would be happy with a little yeoman farmer’s barn, so long as it is clean and dry.”

The princess giggled. “Auraria is just over the ridge. You are so close, James.” She indicated a break in the foliage, where a path led downhill. This was more preposterous than her earlier claim, that he’d come just a hundred feet in an afternoon of walking. He peered down the tree-lined tunnel, but nothing recommended it above any of the other footpaths that led away from the clearing.

“Well, go on,” she said. “You’ll catch a chill out here in the rain.”

Holtzclaw sighed. If he had to spend the night in a hollow log, so be it. The logs on this path would be just as damp as on any other.

In half a hundred yards, before even his sour thoughts ran themselves out, the rain ended, and the local storm dispersed. The chestnuts corrected their stooping posture and reached upward; the sky became lighter. Around him, the darkness was fading—not to morning, but back into evening, still tinged with fireflies and luminescent mosses.

Holtzclaw broke from the forest and onto a dirt street. Buildings and homes were scattered before him, and the Lost Creek split the town in two. He’d arrived in Auraria.

Chapter Three

Embarrassment sullied Holtzclaw’s relief at reaching his destination. The small triumph of buying the widow’s land was a poor recompense for an afternoon lost to hysteria, wandering in the woods and stumbling upon some local bathers. The pace of the project was off now; he would have to move double time tomorrow.

Progressing from Milledgeville to Atlanta to Gainesville to Dahlonega to Auraria, Holtzclaw had witnessed the gradual fading of civilization. Milledgeville, the glittering old capital, had given way to upstart, industrial Atlanta, which had in turn given way to functional Gainesville, a busy agricultural center and home to several vegetable canneries. Dahlonega, though smaller, was at least a county seat, with a courthouse, a clock tower, and a railroad depot. Auraria could be called a town only because of tradition.

At its heart, Auraria was a grassy square, bordered on three sides by dirt roads and weathered storefronts and on the fourth by the Lost Creek. A few streets emerged from the square, like shaggy threads hanging from a spool, tying together a disordered collection of simple houses.

The first structure that Holtzclaw passed was typical of the location: a two-story building slowly collapsing under its own weight. The upper porch tilted forward, and columns splayed out like branches. Holtzclaw thought that it wouldn’t take much effort to demolish the place once he’d purchased it. A good rain might do the trick.

Half the houses in Auraria had weeds growing over them. Most of the storefronts were empty. Above them were deserted offices, their window frames filled with broken glass.

The only signs of life in Auraria were flickering yellow lights clustered on a neighboring street. Three buildings, standing opposite each other, all had the look of guesthouses: wide porches, worn stairs, and bald patches in their gardens where feet had passed in idle pacing. One house emitted loud fiddle music; in another, a solo piano played. The third was silent. None had any signs or nameplates that Holtzclaw could see, so he did not know which was McTavish’s, where he hoped his possessions had been delivered. He needed to shine his shoes before continuing on; he felt awkward negotiating in dirty shoes.

The silent house disturbed him, and he was too weary to endure a ribald fiddle house. Holtzclaw chose the piano music, even though it was lifeless playing. He saw the reason for this when he entered the guesthouse. There was no one at the piano; it played itself.

Five small tables, two occupied, sat beneath dozens of daguerreotypes in the dining room. A high counter, attended by six empty stools, served as a bar. Many years of boots had worn the floors smooth. Someone had etched and re-etched tally marks into the wooden beams. It was neat and well-tended, a pleasant little place.

A red-haired woman in a white apron emerged from a back room. Her curls framed a round face, and her eyes appraised Holtzclaw, her dining room, and her guests. She was thin and short. With her red hair, she reminded Holtzclaw of a matchstick. He thought her a little plain and common—again, like a matchstick. But what passed for common in Milledgeville might be great beauty up here in the mountains.

Between her freckled hands, she carried two copper mugs and two bowls of soup, which she laid on one of the occupied tables in front of two identical men. She executed this crisp delivery and then turned to address Holtzclaw.

“A handsome new face!” she said. “Muttonchops too. From the city? That’s always good for few minutes’ entertainment. Welcome to the Old Rock Falls! Not that there’s a New Rock Falls. This one has been old from the start. Have a seat; what can I get you?”

The other table was occupied by a very fat man and a very thin one. They sat beside their hats; Holtzclaw, in his confusion, had neglected to remove his own. Doing so now added to his embarrassment.

“I’m terribly sorry. I believe I’m engaged at McTavish’s house. My trunk was sent ahead. The guesthouses were unsigned, and I didn’t see anyone to ask.”

“Running off so soon?” said the red-haired woman. “Did someone tell you about the sweet potatoes here?”

“No, not about the sweet potatoes, but about certain other phenomena,” said Holtzclaw, remembering the warnings of X.T., the carriage driver.

“It’s only the sweet potatoes that are dangerous,” said the woman. “Ours here are so full of sugar that if you cook them too long, they’ll burst into flames. I explode one every now and then, just to test the harvest. I’ll explode one for you, if you buy it. But if you’re not the kind of person who can take a sweet potato, then, I’m afraid there’s little I can do for you for supper. Mrs. McTavish’s place is the quiet one across the way.”

“Many thanks, and I hope we may be properly introduced under better circumstances.” Holtzclaw bowed in preparation to take his leave.

“Now I wouldn’t run off so soon!” said the woman. “Mrs. McTavish doesn’t have any spirits. Only water or buttermilk. Not even sweet milk.” She stuck out her tongue in a pantomime of revulsion. Holtzclaw couldn’t help but smile, even though he knew it wasn’t polite.

“I think I can become acclimated to sweet potatoes, if they’re well prepared,” he said, placing his hat on one of the empty tables.

“Not that one!” said the red-haired woman. “It’s occupied.” The woman looked flustered. “Now I must apologize to you, mister …”

“Holtzclaw. James Holtzclaw.”

“Abigail Thompson, charmed.” She lowered her voice and leaned in close to him. “I don’t know if you are familiar with small towns. They have traditions. Folk ways. I won’t call them ruts, out of respect for current company.” Abigail glanced over her shoulder, but not at her customers; she looked at the piano.

“I’m sorry,” said Holtzclaw. “I don’t mean to upset anyone.” He let Abigail lead him to another empty table.

“Now, what is it that I can get you for supper?” she said. “Fair warning: everything has sweet potatoes in it.”

“Whatever’s hot is fine by me. Among your alternatives to water and buttermilk, you wouldn’t have any claret, would you?”

Abigail walked behind the bar counter. A key turned in a lock; then she lifted up a dusty, age-darkened bottle. The label was yellowed and foxed; an illegible name was handwritten in an ornate script. The style of cork at the top didn’t correspond with that of the Bordeaux vintners—at least not of this century. At the bottom, sediment in suspension was swirled upward by Abigail’s handling, then drifted down again like a lazy ghost.

“Oh, this isn’t claret,” said Abigail, perusing the label. She replaced the bottle and took out another, which Holtzclaw recognized even at a distance as common and modern. It promised a familiar, if unremarkable, drink. Moments before, the rare and ancient bottle had inflamed Holtzclaw’s imagination; now, he could think of nothing better than the comfort of a known vintage.

“It came in the delivery last week,” said Abigail.

“You have a regular delivery of claret here?”

“We’re fond of all sorts of anti-fogmatics.”

“I wouldn’t think that your clientele would be the claret kind.”

“Do you think we drink just white lightning and corn liquor in the mountains?” A bit of crimson touched the tops of her cheekbones.

“That came out wrong, Ms. Thompson,” said Holtzclaw. “I’m out of my natural element.”

“You don’t say.” She brought out a heaping plate of food from the kitchen. There was a bowl of stew, thickened with sweet potatoes, and a plate of biscuits.

“It looks delicious,” said Holtzclaw. “Truly it does.”

“I hope you enjoy it, Mr. Holtzclaw. Truly I do.” She spun on her heels, and in the swirl of her apron and the flame of her hair, she was gone—back to the kitchen or behind the bar or where ever Auraria kept its finer things. He fancied he could see steam from where she had just been standing, and his nose was hot.

It was the food, of course. The food which, while delicious, was a little rustic for his sensibilities. He could taste the sweet potatoes in everything, and a sweet potato is not as elegant a vegetable as the courgette or aubergine.

Halfway through his meal, he remembered he was not alone. Taking with him his glass of claret, Holtzclaw approached the table at which sat the thin man and the fat man; the twins presented a more formidable barrier to a stranger. “May I join you, gentlemen?”

“My associate and I were about to discuss this year’s turkeys,” said the fat man. The thin man nodded in confirmation.

“Are you farmers, then?” said Holtzclaw.

“We are aggregators,” said the fat man. “I take it you’re not in the poultry game?” When Holtzclaw confessed that he was not, the fat man began a lengthy and candid explanation of his business. The turkeys, raised in small clutches on family farms, were driven down from the hills into a pen on a rented town lot. Here, the turkeys were kept until all the year’s stock could arrive and be bought by the aggregators.

It was a story that ceased to be fascinating just a few minutes into its telling, and Holtzclaw regretted his decision to talk with these two, who owned no property and had little influence in town. The twins leaned in toward each other for some whispered words and then arose to depart. The clattering of the front door caused the fat man to interrupt his speech, and Holtzclaw was able to interject a question. “When was the last time anybody made a good strike?”

Abigail flashed back into the room, a whirlwind of motion. With what seems like a hundred hands, she collected the plates, polished the table, swept the floor, and put their chairs back into the tiny grooves that they’d worn for themselves. It was the first whirlwind Holtzclaw had ever seen that had cleaned and righted—a flurry of order, not disorder. It was not a duty for the elegance and charm of a lady, but Holtzclaw was touched with admiration for an unpleasant task perfectly performed. The fat man and the thin man watched her too.

When the motion settled, Abigail floated in to the conversation. “Are you asking after gold, Mr. Holtzclaw? Already?”

“I didn’t realize the subject was taboo.”

“Only that it’s not nearly as exciting as strangers would suppose. If you must know, six months ago, Ode Peppers found that nugget the size of a squirrel turd.”

This gave everyone pause.

The silence was broken by the thin man, speaking up for the first time. “Did you know,” that a turkey’s foot makes an excellent raking tool and a thousand turkeys’ feet so much the better? That after a herd of turkeys is driven over a promising area—say, the wet bank of a creek—that the sand is churned up, loosened, made ready for the wise man who comes back later with a pan or, better still, a rocker box to wash that sand away and find a little gold left behind?”

It was too complicated to raise turkeys just to make gold mining easier. But Holtzclaw did not share his doubts with his companions. “Well, that’s quite clever,” he said.