Auraria: A Novel (6 page)

“Not half as clever as how we really use them,” said the thin man. At this, the fat man walloped the thin man with his hat.

“Are you still looking for that cave, gentlemen?” said Abigail.

“Maybe we are, and maybe we aren’t,” said the fat man.

“Spanish caves! Soldiers’ caves! Miners’ caves! Misers’ caves! If every story about treasure caves were true, you’d all have gold nuggets the size of squirrel turds,” said Abigail.

“Course they’re not all true,” said the thin man. “Just a few of them are. That’s all we need. Only two or three fabulous fortunes, not six or ten.”

“Well, it’s good to know you’re not greedy,” said Abigail. She tallied up their bill. The fat man withdrew a small pouch and poured out a quantity of gold dust onto a set of balances. Holtzclaw had seen its like only among jewelers and herbalists, never in a tavern.

“They are good men,” said Abigail to Holtzclaw, after the turkey drovers left, “and hardworking, even when they’re digging for gold.”

“Nothing wrong with people trying to find their fortune in the world, is there?”

“Only if they dream of nothing else.”

The piano in the corner began an up-tempo number that had been popular a decade ago. It wasn’t suited to the mood, and it stirred Holtzclaw out of his thoughts.

“I should be on my way to McTavish’s,” he said. He paid for his supper in ordinary federal coins, which Abigail accepted without complaint. At the threshold of the house, he turned back and called to Abigail. “I think your player piano may be a bit out of tune. May I take a look?”

“It’s not a player piano,” said Abigail. “I wouldn’t touch it if I were you. Mr. Bad Thing is a little jealous.”

Ignoring her, Holtzclaw lifted the lid of the upright piano. Inside, there were no gears, no mechanisms at all—just the ordinary contents of a piano. “How can this possibly work, Ms. Thompson?”

“Just because you don’t know how it works,” said Abigail, “doesn’t mean that it can’t work. Mr. Bad Thing plays just fine.”

The tune jumped to a minor key, then cut off. A shiver ran over the crown of Holtzclaw’s head. A pale fear tickled at his feet; they cried out for him to flee.

“See, you shouldn’t have touched it,” said Abigail.

#

Outside, Holtzclaw’s head swam with claret and discomfort. The night air cut into his thoughts. Why had he fled at something so preposterous as … nothing? The absence of a player piano?

These were the improper workings of a wearied mind; he himself was going out of tune. Somewhere, there was a trick whose explanation, for the moment, eluded him. It wouldn’t be proper to keep on with his mission in this state. He should find his correct quarters and make it an early night. If he tried too hard to solve the matter now, on a depleted constitution, it would pollute his dreams. A sober, fresh morning would give him back his reason, and with reason he could sort out the strange events of the day.

He opened the front door at the guesthouse that he now knew to be McTavish’s. He was greeted by an immense globe of a woman. Her head, feet, and arms were undifferentiated from the purple sphere of her body.

“You’re Mr. Holtzclaw, yes? X. T. left off your trunk earlier this afternoon, and I made him haul it up to your room. I’m glad you made it here safe; I was fixing to worry about you, and I wouldn’t have felt right to charge you for a room you weren’t to sleep in, but I guess since your trunk’s already up there, you are occupying it. What brings you to Auraria?”

An excellent lie occurred to him. “I am a dealer in scrap metal. You have a great deal of it in your old mines, and I would like to buy and remove the larger pieces for better purposes.” He was quite pleased by this story; it would excuse his behavior and wouldn’t inflame too many suspicions.

“As good a call as any,” said Mrs. McTavish. “Most folks come to dig for gold too. Figure you’ll be doing that at some point? You could hardly say you’d seen Auraria unless you looked up at it while kneeling in the sand of the river!” Mrs. McTavish made this remark from memory. She had perfected the melody of the joke while neglecting this meaning. Still, Holtzclaw performed his duty of issuing a slight chuckle.

“Now, are we going to be getting you some supper?” she said.

Holtzclaw confessed to his blunder and that he had already eaten at the Old Rock Falls Inn.

“Why would you trust a skinny innkeeper?” said Mrs. McTavish.

#

When Holtzclaw awoke, it was midmorning. The claret had been too fragrant, the sweet potato stew too heavy, the wear on his feet and mind too taxing. He’d fallen into the feather bed at McTavish’s and had not stirred until a chickadee at his window began tapping in an unintelligible code.

It was a rotten start to a day that was burdened with tasks. If he didn’t make at least six visits today, from the Strickland’s through to the Sky Pilot at some place called the Terrible Cascade, he might as well surrender the project; he would be too far behind schedule. Procrastination would make the prices go up, perhaps too high to overcome.

Holtzclaw put on the shoes that he had not found time to polish the night before and ate an unsatisfying breakfast in McTavish’s parlor. She offered hard rolls, garnished with marmalades imported at great distance and expense, and a glass of buttermilk. Holtzclaw first tried to eat the buttermilk with a spoon, as though it were some breakfast custard, before her glare corrected him. He took a glass of water instead, and this was the only restorative part of the meal. The water was cool and sweet and fresh.

Before leaving town to make his first visit of the day, Holtzclaw decided to purchase a few needed effects from local stores. In hi
s
trousseau de voyag
e
, he had mirrors, ablution bowls, shavers, basins, ewers, powders, pill cases, and an array of bottles, sprinklers, and spritzers, in addition to a gentleman’s wardrobe—none of it was useful. He needed a pair of boots and a walking stick so he could cover the terrain before nightfall; a hat in the local fashion might help prevent townsfolk from instantly marking him as an outsider.

Holtzclaw walked from McTavish’s to the center of town. Around the open lot that constituted the square of Auraria were several merchants, though twice the number of empty storefronts. By their signs, Holtzclaw recognized a tailor, a barber and tonsor, a store for dry and general goods, a confectionary (a curious find in a small town), a pharmacy, and, most germane to his purposes, a seller of readymade clothing.

He went inside, where the proprietor, Burton, directed him to a display of boots. Holtzclaw selected a workhorse pair. Of the hats, Holtzclaw asked Burton’s opinion.

“Well, if you’re looking for a farm hat,” said Burton, “then most folks would go for the straw one, with the wide brim. Keeps the sun off your neck. But you can’t wear that if you’re off visiting folks. You’d look like a hayseed. Most folks buy something like this if they want a traveling hat.” Burton indicated an array of low-quality bowler hats in brown or grey felt. “People like this one, even though it’s more expensive.” He held it out to Holtzclaw. “Dark lining and the bowl is stiff, so you can turn it over for a quick pan if you happen to see colors in the water.”

“But then isn’t your hat wet for the rest of the day?”

“With the right strike, you could buy a whole store full of hats.”

Holtzclaw bought the gold-panning hat, along with the boots. No walking stick was to be had, though. “Folks don’t buy a thing like that,” laughed Burton. “Plenty of sticks out in the forest; you can make it yourself.”

After outfitting himself sartorially, Holtzclaw aimed to stop at the confectionary and purchase two tarts—one for now, as a supplement to a hasty breakfast, and one for later, to give him some extra vigor on the road. At the door of the confectionary, he met Abigail Thompson, who was exiting.

“Victuals for the Old Rock Falls’ dining room?” he asked. “Or a treat for your dear Mr. Bad Thing? Don’t let the syrup gum up the piano keys.” Beneath his jokes, he felt a strange shudder.

“He doesn’t much care for sweets, Holtzclaw, except for sweet potatoes. If he did, he wouldn’t have such a temper. They say no one who eats sweets can have a sour disposition.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” said Holtzclaw. “I can be quite sour sometimes, even if I’ve eaten well.”

“Then stop by later. I’ve got a sweet potato pie that will do wonders. That is, if you’re not busy. But you’re probably the busy type, aren’t you? Not here in Auraria to vacation, I imagine. Just how are you keeping busy here, Holtzclaw?”

“I have some visits to make to various old mines. Recover some scrap metal, if the price is fair.” The lie felt hollow the second time, either because of the repetition or because he had a higher opinion of Abigail than of Mrs. McTavish. “It would be an easier journey if I had a walking stick, but the shopkeeper said that I’d have to make my own.”

“I have one you could borrow,” said Abigail. He followed her, forgetting about the confectioner’s shop. She led him back to the Old Rock Falls; on the way, he modeled his new hat for her. “It’s a proper Auraria hat,” she said, stretching up to give it a rap with her knuckles. “It’s got gold on the brain.”

Just inside the door of the Old Rock Falls was an umbrella urn containing several walking sticks. Abigail selected one and gave it to Holtzclaw. It was made of pale wood, without the knobs and twists of a walking stick made from a fallen branch.

“This one belonged to my uncle,” she said. “He was out walking through some brush when a copperhead started coming for him. Most times, a copperhead will skedaddle, but this one wanted blood. My uncle held up his walking stick, and the copperhead’s fangs got caught in it. There it was, thrashing and crashing on the end of that stick, biting it over and over, and the snake didn’t quit even when my uncle dunked the end of the stick in the river. The copperhead just kept struggling until it drowned. Then the stick began to swell up. When you get bit by a copperhead, your leg will swell up—that’s the poison. Well, his walking stick had got the poison, and by the time he got home, he could hardly carry the stick anymore—it was a log bigger than a railroad tie. Ten feet long, two feet around. I saw it! But my uncle liked that walking stick. So, he spent the next two weeks whittling and planing that walking stick back down to a size he could use.”

“So he carved himself a walking stick from a bigger walking stick?” said Holtzclaw.

“That’s why it’s special,” said Abigail.

“And you don’t mind if I take it?”

“I’ll mind if you don’t bring it back.”

#

The beat of the walking stick measured the miles as Holtzclaw ascended the Fiddlehead Trail. Beneath the high canopy of chestnuts, an unbroken carpet of ferns strained for light.

Holtzclaw was confident enough in his boots and walking stick that he ignored the path and instead reviewed his notes on the acquisition. He hoped that they were more accurate than the notes concerning the amalgamated empire of the widow Octavia Smith Patterson.

He arrived at a two-story cabin, covered on the sides with clapboard and painted white, and was admitted into the farmhouse of Edgar and Eleanor Strickland by the former. Inside, the bottom story was one large room; a ladder in the corner led upstairs. Small feet scurried overhead. Three brooms of various lengths were hanging by the door—two pointed downward and a short-handled one pointed upward.

“Begging your pardon,” said Edgar as he shook corn husks off a cane-seat chair. “The house has been a bit of a mess since the wife died.”

“I am very sorry for your loss, Mr. Strickland,” said Holtzclaw. “When did she pass?”

“Oh, about a year ago, I suppose,” said Edgar. “Yup, that would be about right.”

A woman in an apron entered from the rear door of the cabin. Holtzclaw stood as the lady entered and came toward them.

“That’s nobody, just ignore her,” said Edgar. “That’s my wife’s ghost. She’s been fluttering around here ever since she died.”

Holtzclaw was in a quandary. Propriety demanded that he introduce himself to the lady of the house, but this risked offending Edgar, who was insistent about his odd marital spat. Holtzclaw decided on a middle way, with which he hoped to reconcile his duty with the superstitions of Auraria. He bowed slightly toward the lady, with his hat touched against his breast. The lady said nothing but curtsied in reply, which was a very unghostly response.

In Holtzclaw’s experience, those who reported encounters with ghosts usually described subtle, ambiguous events—rattling doors or pans, tapping inside walls, faint whispering. These subtleties made them easy to emulate. Shadburn had once expelled a stubborn family by giving a pack of street urchins ten cents each to hide beneath the foundations of a home and whisper the bloody details of their murders to the terrified inhabitants above. This particular trick Holtzclaw did not think very sporting, but Shadburn had excused it by giving the family a good deal of money for their land.

This ghost wife appeared neither subtle nor ambiguous, but like an ordinary mortal. Beneath her apron, she wore a long bone-white dress that ended in lace at the collar and cuff—not fitting for farmwork. Her raven black hair tumbled below her shoulders. Had she been in the kitchen or fields, she would have put it up in a bun or braid, away from her work.