by Tim Westover
Chapter Seven
Holtzclaw’s next destination, the next-to-last of the day’s essential properties, was a place called the Amazon Branch, a fork of one of Auraria’s many waterways that all flowed into the Lost Creek. When he arrived on the property, he found it deserted. A stone chimney rose up from a scorched place. The owner’s cabin must have burned recently.
Blast it! thought Holtzclaw. He should have done reconnaissance before hiking out here. Had the owner died in the cabin fire? Nearly everything on Shadburn’s map had been out-of-date—so too was the information about the Amazon Branch. Without giving too much away, he could have asked Abigail or the garrulous Emmett for confirmation, but he’d been in too great a hurry, and now he’d wasted a trip.
Holtzclaw’s head ached, as did his feet. He began to make a circuit around the property, to see if there were some signs as to how he should proceed. The land sloped downward and met a pleasant brook. It was shallow, clear, and fast—all excellent for the thirsty traveler. He remembered the cure he’d bought from the druggist. Holtzclaw took a draught of water, then a capful of Effervescent Brain Salts. The salt crystals hissed and popped inside his mouth. The taste was lively, in a way more literal than is usually meant, and he did not dislike it.
His field of vision flashed with green light, and there was a rush of bubbles in his ears. He blinked the occlusion away, but not every point of light faded. In the creek, a thousand points of yellow brightness lit up with an electric flicker. Holtzclaw would have recognized gold even if Auraria had another name and reputation. Perhaps he’d taken too great a draught of Effervescent Brain Salts, or maybe the water was not as fresh as it tasted. But these questions were lost in the sudden wonder of gold.
What luck, then, that Holtzclaw now possessed a genuine Auraria hat, whose special genius was its inner gold pan. It would be a shame if the hat were used only for its sartorial potential. He waded a few steps into the creek, balancing on flat stones that broke from the surface of the water. He bent down and collected a handful of gravel and mud, which he then carried back to the bank and deposited into his inverted hat. Then grasping opposite sides of the brim, Holtzclaw lowered the hat into the stream. A few of the smaller stones floated, and the mud swirled below the brim, but little else happened. Holtzclaw supposed that shaking was required. He shook the hat to and fro, first below the water, then above it. This was less effective than the plunge. Holtzclaw stirred the mud and gravel with his fingers, cupping the bowl of his hat with his other hand. That felt even less useful. But he persisted through his ineptness because the yellow flakes winked at him like so many alluring eyes.
“This is private property!” called a woman’s voice from behind him. Holtzclaw whirled and saw a tall, slender woman in a riding suit. Her golden hair was drawn back and capped with narrow-brimmed straw hat, encircled by a blue-and-white ribbon. She wore boots, gloves, long sleeves, and a high collar. Her face was shaded by her hat, and a small glimpse into the shadow revealed dark deep-set eyes. There was another flash of green light, a rush of bubbles, but this time not from a strange draught. It was the sudden sight of loveliness, and he was trespassing against it.
Holtzclaw felt a pang of lapsed decorum. He should have doffed his hat for the lady or at least tipped it, but he was not wearing his hat; it was filled with mud.
“I stopped for a drink, you see, and something was gleaming in the river,” he said, which was a foolish introduction and not at all suggestive of strength and command.
The woman’s face softened, and through the narrow red fissure of her lips, Holtzclaw saw perfect teeth. “I shouldn’t have been so concerned,” she said. “It doesn’t look like you know what you’re doing.”
“I confess that, by trade, I’m not a miner.”
“What is it that you do then?”
“My name is James G. Holtzclaw, and I’m an agent of the Standard Company. My chief tasks here involve preparation for the extraction of scrap metal. Old narrow-gauge from the mines, ore carts, pumps, stamps, weights, and the like.”
“Has metal become so rare that you’d rather have it covered in rust than freshly melted from the earth?”
“Ah, but that requires miners, purification, and refinement. It’s sometimes better to obtain metal already worked, even if decades old.”
“Oh, you do go on, Mr. Holtzclaw,” said the woman. Holtzclaw recognized her well-practiced tone from conversation circles. It was a manner of speech cultivated to betray neither interest nor boredom.
“We have no one here to make introductions. Thus, I’m afraid I will not learn your name,” said Holtzclaw.
“It’s Elizabeth Rathbun,” she said, “or, now that we’re introduced, Lizzie.”
“Are you a relation of Dr. Rathbun?”
“His daughter.”
“Is he the owner of this property, the Amazon Branch?”
“No,” she said. “It’s mine.”
Holtzclaw fidgeted with his cufflinks. “Well, then, it’s good luck that I found you here. I must speak with you regarding a business proposition. As I said, I’m an agent of the Standard Company …”
“You looked such a fool panning a few minutes ago,” said Ms. Rathbun. “Shall I show you how it’s done?” Holtzclaw, silenced, gave over his hat.
First, she plunged Holtzclaw’s hat into the river and emptied it of its prior contents. Scrabbling at the bank with her gloved hands, she packed the hat with black sand. A few steps down the creek, she located a still eddy of water formed in the shadow of a rock. She dipped the hat into the water and swirled the contents in counter-clockwise circles, catching the lightest grains. The worthless sand from the upper layers floated away. Holtzclaw’s eyed followed.
Again and again, she worked the pan, her movements becoming more delicate as the material that remained was washed down to no more than a spoonful. Her last circling motions were only subtle turnings of the wrist, but these were the most glorious; they revealed a few shining drops of gold in Holtzclaw’s own hat. Such cleverness!
Ms. Rathbun, flushed, returned the hat to Holtzclaw. “This is called powder gold,” she said, “because each flake is so small. Each flake is called a color. Forty thousand colors of powder gold melt into an ounce of free gold. And in your hat, you have … eight. Eight colors.”
“But there’s gold here? In this creek?”
“There is gold in every drop of water. Gold in the lakes, gold in the seas. If you were to pan your bathwater, you might see a color or two. There aren’t many places where panning is worth your while, though. Here, it’s too much work for too little reward.”
“You are quite knowledgeable, Ms. Rathbun.”
“I wish I wasn’t. It’s impossible not to know about these things in Auraria. I can’t make a living on the Amazon Branch as a gold panner, and if I tried to take a little money from it, the cost would be much ravaging on my poor hands. They are not hands meant for work, are they, Holtzclaw?”
She took off one of her gloves, which she had not removed even when panning. From wrist to fingertip, her hand was a soft, unblemished white.
“And what is it that you should want money for, Ms. Rathbun?”
“I want to leave,” she said. “Auraria is a sad place, an old place. Where is it that you come from?”
“My offices are in Milledgeville,” he said.
“Ah, the old capital! I hear that it is so much more dignified than Atlanta. Better people. Older money. Do they have fancy-dress galas there? Do women color their faces and have gowns without sleeves? And do you go as well, Holtzclaw, with shoes polished so well that they shine like the moon?”
Holtzclaw stirred to hear mention of polished shoes. He had thought they’d ceased to matter in the mountains, but he was only among the wrong people. “You have romantic words for it, but yes, every night there is some occasion for dancing. Often they are quite enchanting.”
“Oh, I should like to be a part of that,” said Ms. Rathbun. “But I’m tied to this land
, and in any case, I have no money of my own with which to establish myself.”
“I might then be of some assistance to you on both accounts. You would be a light to society.” Holtzclaw opened his purse where he kept the Harrisons’ gold coins. Ms. Rathbun’s eyes brightened, reflecting the color inside.
“I would need enough for travel expenses,” she said, “and several months’ lodging and board at a reputable guesthouse.”
“My conscience would not permit you to leave with less than sufficient for your comfort,” said Holtzclaw. She wanted to sell. He needed to find her price.
“Add to that enough for a ball costume, from shoes to gloves, even if modest.”
“I would think you would need at least two or three different outfits,” said Holtzclaw.
“Perhaps even a few more, and some jewelry besides, so as not to appear impoverished at these galas. I have to overcome the natural disadvantage of my rural education.”
“Four outfits, then?” That would be enough for a fine lady.
“Seven! Seven outfits! Because there is a ball every night of the week.”
“Then seven outfits.” Holtzclaw added another line to a running total that he was creating on a sheet of ledger paper. He realized he was tallying her expenses, not the features of the property.
“And how do the ladies amuse themselves when not at a gala?” asked Ms. Rathbun.
“They play faro or dominoes,” said Holtzclaw. “But we’ve started these negotiations incorrectly …”
“I have a set of dominoes, but they are made from cow bones! Can you imagine? It would be a laughing stock,” said Ms. Rathbun. “Would I not need a set of ivory dominoes?”
“Why, every woman in Milledgeville already has a set.”
“Then you would put me at the mercy of the charity of others? I suppose I should beg for my own food, then, too. My sole word in defense of my character would be that my patron, Mr. Holtzclaw, did not provide me with enough.”
“No, do not say I am your patron, nor the Standard Company. Tell the truth—that you are a woman of means from Auraria, who came by her wealth in honest dealings over land.”
Holtzclaw then quoted a price for her land that did not seem extravagant until it left his lips, and then he could not make the words die from the air.
Ms. Rathbun smiled despite herself. “Oh my, what a generous offer.”
The ache returned to Holtzclaw’s head; the cure of the Effervescent Brain Salts had been too short-lived. “Well, you have a new life to start in the old capital of our fair state,” he said. “And starting a life cannot be done with pennies.”
Shadburn had warned him countless times against the traps that sellers lay for buyers: social entanglement, pity, and nostalgia. Did this land deserve a higher price because its owner was beautiful? Was a farm worth more because its owners were poor? Was a homestead that reared a dozen children more valuable than if a bachelor owned those acres? No! But Holtzclaw had been snared. He’d paid an exorbitant price for the Amazon Branch and paid not with his own money, but with Shadburn’s.
Deeds were signed because Holtzclaw could not turn back on his word. He counted out stacks of bills and coins that left his satchel much lighter. The weight of the new deed was small compensation.
“Well, now you can pan as much gold as you’d like,” said Ms. Rathbun. “Best of luck, Holtzclaw.”
Holtzclaw had no hat to tip as Ms. Rathbun strode away. It was sopping wet from its bath in the river and still held eight colors of gold. The flakes looked pathetic compared with the wealth that he had surrendered. But these eight colors were gold—real money. He couldn’t let them float away.
At least, Holtzclaw consoled himself, the money would go to the establishment of a new star in the Milledgeville social heavens, not into the pocket of a hoarding miser. And perhaps she would remember his generosity to her, which in her great cleverness, she should recognize and appreciate. She should be flattered that he succumbed to her beauty and to her polished words—it was as near a compliment as one could make. And she must be extraordinarily clever, for she’d bested him. It was her talent, not his failing. A green spark leapt in his heart, guttered, leapt again. To light a fire is such a rare thing.
•
Holtzclaw tried another dose of Effervescent Brain Salts, mixing them with creek water from the Amazon Branch. No green light filled his vision, but as he drank, he heard a splashing noise. He did not need to raise his head before greeting the princess.
“I leave you for a just a few minutes, James, and see what happens,” said Princess Trahlyta. “You did all right at Walton’s, but what a scandal here at the Amazon Branch.”
“Are you, Princess, the Amazon after which this branch is named?” said Holtzclaw.
“No, that’s an old legend,” she said. “Some mining party was attacked here by a woman wielding an ax. A prospector lost his head.”
“I can’t see that from you.”
“You’re right, an ax is not in my nature. Besides, one was not needed to separate your head from your shoulders, James. Ms. Rathbun did that rather nicely.”
“I suppose she did. My employer will be put out. But he usually finds some cause to be put out, no matter what I do. At least, I managed to get her land.”
“What have you bought, James? A woman’s name on a piece of paper. How do you know it was hers to sell?”
Holtzclaw blanched. “I’ll sort it out. There are courts. Lawsuits. I will at least be able to get my employer’s money back. It’s one small part of the valley—perhaps not even an essential one.”
“Why do you think your employer wants all this land?” asked Trahlyta.
“It isn’t hard to guess,” said Holtzclaw. “He would only undertake such a project if there was a promise of tremendous profit. I think he has some new strategy to extract gold.”
The princess brightened.
“Yes, so much gold that one bad deal wouldn’t hurt the final profits,” continued Holtzclaw, rhapsodizing. “Imagine some sort of powerful water cannon that would wash away the hillsides and bring minerals down into the river, and a mill that would pulverize the runoff and let us take out the gold.”
Trahlyta shook her head. “It wouldn’t work. Your water cannon would wash away the entire mountain before you carved into the deep deposits. And I can’t let the waters be bent to such work.”
“If my employer wants to move a mountain and take out the gold, then I’ll make it happen, whether you wish it or not.”
The princess mused about this for several moments. “James, when you try to change the course of things—well, you cannot tell the rain to fall upwards into the sky. I will help you, James, as long as you help me—it will all be so much easier. We will flow together.”
“What makes you think you can stop me?” said Holtzclaw. “Are you powerful? Are you rich?”
She knelt in the creek. The waters rushed past her waist. Her hands scrabbled in the mud before her; she withdrew them and held them up for Holtzclaw. He saw they were covered in flakes of gold, as though they had been gilded by a jeweler. Then she returned her hands to the water, scrubbed them together, and they were clean.
“To find gold is so simple,” said the princess. “Ridding ourselves of it is much more difficult.”
Holtzclaw stepped forward. The creek rushed over his shoes, flooding his toes. “Show me how you did that, Princess.”
“It can’t be taught.”
“It’s a trick, then. Sleight of hand. Are you trying to buy me off, like Moss? Are you plying me with fool’s gold?”
“Gold can’t help if it’s found by a fool. As I said, you’ll never settle into this valley if you are always looking for tricks.”
“I would vastly prefer if, instead of speaking to me in slogans and sayings, you would tell me the plain truth instead.”
“Would you believe me?”
She crossed to the far side of the Amazon Branch, splashing from rock to rock, and vanished into the
woods. She moved with a lightness he could not hope to match. His clumsy feet would never catch up.
•
Holtzclaw heard the land before he saw it; as he approached the Terrible Cascade, his thoughts were drowned by the waterfall.
The Terrible Cascade was a confused tumble of water, a steep series of cataracts rather than a simple drop. The Lost Creek entered a narrow channel, gaining speed and anger as the gorge walls narrowed. Water leapt into space and fell against a jagged line of stones, made more perilous by a pike line of branches and metal detritus. The frothy waters raced for another hundred yards over boulders before crashing into a solid wall of granite, then turned like a hairpin, first to the north and then back to the south. Beyond this turn, the river regained its tranquility, as if all its rage had been shaken out in the journey. In the half mile that Holtzclaw could survey of the gorge, the waters fell at least two hundred feet. Here was the end of the mountains and the beginning of the spreading lowlands.
At the horizon line of the falls was a hut, and in front of the hut was a man. He was an amalgamation of clothing scraps that were held together by leather straps. Bandoliers supported knives, a bow, a quiver, and a long-barreled rifle. He looked like he was wearing boots, but upon closer inspection, Holtzclaw saw it was a thick crust of mud that coated the man’s legs halfway to the calf.
“Are you the Sky Pilot?” asked Holtzclaw, shouting over the noise of the waterfall.
“That’s what I call myself, and other folks picked up the habit,” said the man, shouting back.
“What does a sky pilot do? Are you a balloonist?”
The Sky Pilot shook his head. “I would never climb into such an unnatural thing. Doesn’t even have wings. A man came through here with a balloon one time. He wanted to take pictures. Thought he could see from up there where some gold was buried.”
“Did he see anything?”
“Don’t know. He and his balloon fell out of the sky, right into the gorge. The current got his body. They found it two miles down river at the Beaver Ruin. That balloon basket was pinned against some rocks for months until a freshet broke it up.”
“I’ve heard many stories in your town,” said Holtzclaw. “But yours is the most morbid yet.”
“Why, I’ve got half a hundred of them that are worse. What would you like to hear? Folks die in all kinds of ways.”
“What I’d prefer to discuss is a business matter. My name is James Holtzclaw. I’m an agent of the Standard Company. May we retire to your cabin for discussion?”
“If you like. Makes no never mind. It’s not any quieter, and that’s how I like it.”
The Sky Pilot’s cabin was little more than a corn crib. The chinking had been removed from between the logs so that the walls of the structure did little to separate the inside from the outside. Wind and sun blew through the structure, and the roar of the Terrible Cascade below was undiminished. A pleasant consequence of this drafty construction was that the Sky Pilot’s cabin did not possess a foul odor. Nature was allowed to sweep it out. There was no chimney, hearth, tables and chairs, or even a bed. But the absence of such cultural niceties was compensated by a plethora of savage artifacts. A variety of rifles and weapons were suspended on the walls; Holtzclaw was intrigued by one long-barreled gun onto which had been lashed a double-bladed woodsman’s axe.
Among the clutter, Holtzclaw could not locate a place to rest. The Sky Pilot sat on the skeleton of a crocodile that had been nailed on to a wooden scaffold.
“Did you kill that crocodile?” asked Holtzclaw.
“Where would I kill a crocodile? This is the Lost Creek, not the Nile. I got it from a roving tinker. I traded him a gorilla skull for it.”
“Are these objects part of the trade of a sky pilot?”
“No, just a hobby. A sky pilot’s work is to go all the way up to the top of the mountains. I know how to get up there, and I know how to get back.”
“What do you need at the top of the mountains?”
The Sky Pilot leaned forward. “Ice.”
“Ice?”
“Ice.”
“Just ice?”
“What’s ‘just ice?’ Everyone needs ice.”
“Well, it’s only water, of which your valley has plenty. And I’ve met another man that has no shortage of ice.”
“You mean Moss? That’s frost, not ice.”
The Sky Pilot approached the corner of his windy crib and cleared away debris and possessions to reveal two wooden strongboxes, made of burled maple with copper ornaments, which were much finer than their surroundings. Inside, protected by layers of straw and blankets, were cubes of ice. They measured a handspan in each dimension, and each surface was as smooth as if cut by a jeweler. The ice had no internal blemishes and only the faintest color. It was truly fine ice. But it was still just ice.
Holtzclaw continued, “I did say that I had some business to discuss. It is a matter of land. I represent the Standard Company, and we have a potential interest in the property that you own. I had wondered if you had considered the possibility of making your land available to me for purchase.”
“What do you need a place like this for?”
Holtzclaw could not think of a reason that corresponded to his cover story—nor any use at all. The property was no good for transportation since the Terrible Cascade was unnavigable. Agriculture was impossible and mining unsuitable given the proximity of the water table. The Terrible Cascade’s sole advantage was as a geographical oddity—it was the neck of the valley.
Holtzclaw told the Sky Pilot a slanted truth. “I don’t know why my employer wants the property. I’m a lower man, a functionary, and I’m not always told the full truth. My employer says, ‘Buy, Holtzclaw!’ and I buy.”
“I am glad I don’t have an employer,” said the Sky Pilot.
“It’s not a curse. He’s a good man, a visionary.”
“I’m sure.”
“If you sold your lands here, Mr. Sky Pilot, you could afford to buy some other lands. Better hunting grounds.”
The Sky Pilot shook his head back and forth. “I don’t believe I would give up this place.”
“Your land here is not vital to your profession.” Holtzclaw’s voice betrayed more urgency and weariness than he wanted. “Your ice comes from somewhere else.”
“Makes no never mind,” said the Sky Pilot.
“Do you have some special connection to the cascade? Were you raised here?”
“It’s the meanest waterfall in all the world. Plug ugly. If I never saw it again I wouldn’t cry.”
“Then what is your attachment? Why will you not even listen to my offer?”
“I have a friend here. He lives in a cave down in the gorge. He means no harm to anyone.”
Holtzclaw nodded. “And your friend wouldn’t move? He can’t be very comfortable in a wet cave.”
“He has lived in the same place for as long as I’ve known him. I think the cave suits him.”
“Do you think I can talk with your friend?”
The Sky Pilot thought for a very long time. He closed his eyes and dropped his head. Holtzclaw was at first worried that the man had fallen asleep and then that he had expired, but just as Holtzclaw was contemplating reaching out his hand, the Sky Pilot stirred.
“No, I don’t believe that you should talk with him,” said the Sky Pilot. “I think that you had best leave.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you, sir. I speak for my employer, and I’m endeavoring to complete my duty to him. Please, let’s talk a little longer.”
“I don’t care,” said the Sky Pilot. “It is a rotten duty if you need to disturb my friend. Now, please leave.”
“I have federal notes, real money …”
“Nope.”
“How about gold? Local coins with pictures of groundhogs and bathing beauties?” Holtzclaw fumbled in his traveling satchel and pulled up a handful of the bright metal.
“I don’t care a whit about it. Gold is not my friend. It
has no songs.”
“What do you mean, ‘no songs’? Gold can keep the piano playing all night.”
The Sky Pilot shook his head again. He pointed to the door.
Holtzclaw did not want this last property to escape him, but he eyed the long-barreled rifle lashed to the double-bladed axe. If he persisted, he might provoke the Sky Pilot to employ it. What could Holtzclaw do but leave as commanded? It was too much to hope that every landowner would sell on the first visit. His easy tricks were exhausted, and the more persuasive maneuvers needed time, of which Holtzclaw had none.
“Holtzclaw, you blasted fool!” Shadburn’s words echoed inside his head, drowning out even the roar of the Terrible Cascade. “You blasted, blasted fool.”
