Auraria: A Novel

by Tim Westover

  Chapter Thirteen

  Shadburn’s office in Auraria had developed a peculiar aroma during the months he’d occupied it. A man sitting in a room too long fills it with various emanations and eructations. Had they set up their offices in Walton’s infinite dwelling, the worst of these odors would have diffused among the many stories. But Shadburn had insisted on a different space, any space. He had spent too many unproductive hours in the Walton house, he said. Instead, he and Holtzclaw had occupied a second-story warren of rooms above an abandoned storefront. Whatever respectability Shadburn pretended in the streets was not kept in the offices. Only Holtzclaw was admitted—none of the townspeople could hope for an audience here.

  “Come in, Holtzclaw. Excuse the mess. Have a seat.” To emphasize his order, Shadburn pointed to a chair that was already occupied with papers. “I’ve finished with those. You can dump them out.”

  Holtzclaw removed a few sheets from the top of the pile.

  “I did not say to examine them,” said Shadburn.

  “These are receipts, bills of sale,” said Holtzclaw. “They should be indexed.”

  “The work has been done and the money paid. Why keep them?”

  “In case there is some dispute.”

  “They are useless jetsam. In a true knock-’em-down fight, each party will produce contradictory receipts and claim the others are false.”

  Shadburn took the receipts that Holtzclaw was holding, tore them into pieces, and cast them into the fire. Rising cinders extinguished themselves against the cast iron of a kettle.

  “You have a few thousand others here,” said Holtzclaw. “Will you burn them too?”

  “I’ll burn the whole building. It must be destroyed, just like all the others, before the floodgates are closed. Now, be kind enough to take a seat.”

  Holtzclaw lifted the back of the chair, and the pile of papers fell forwards onto the floor. A stain on the fabric disconcerted Holtzclaw; he stooped to inspect it and was relieved to find it was likely tea and, in any case, long dried.

  “Alas, I have not offered you anything to eat, Holtzclaw!” said Shadburn. “The best I can give is the remainder of my lunch.” He extended a plate containing a half-eaten, congealed mound of mushroom-topped hash browns. With his other hand, he wiped a fork against his trouser leg. “How I’ve missed the mushrooms! You’d think a man wouldn’t cling to the tastes of his youth, having been away from them for so long. It’s not so. They are like a siren song. Have a mushroom.”

  “Would you believe I have had my fill of mushrooms today?” Holtzclaw recounted his visit with Emmy and his hopes that the dead would soon be persuaded to move.

  “If they do not want to cooperate, then we may have to proceed past them,” said Shadburn.

  “Do you mean not relocate the graveyard?” said Holtzclaw.

  “We can move the stones without permission from the ghosts.”

  “The trouble is that the dead are sitting on those stones, and my men are not brave enough to approach them and remove the stones from underneath.”

  “Then we can order new stones,” said Shadburn. “Have them engraved appropriately with names and dates.”

  “Then we do not move the bodies?”

  “I don’t care, Holtzclaw. Do it however you think best. Only do not hold up the matter any further. Did you talk with the Sky Pilot?”

  Holtzclaw nodded. “More significantly, I talked with a large terrapin, who is the Sky Pilot’s conscience on the matter.”

  Shadburn sighed. “That fat turtle …. Probably telling the same stories as fifty years ago.”

  Holtzclaw nodded. “Our conversation did not accomplish much. At the end, it played for me a song that emphasized that it will not be moved, and by extension, neither will the Sky Pilot. I am not sure what other legal recourse we have. Some kind of condemnation ruling?”

  “Too slow,” said Shadburn. “We’ll put the dam upstream, as we said.”

  “But the cost …”

  “Another strongbox arrived just this morning from the Bank of the Ozarks. Half of it I’ve already paid out to the railroad men, but there is still money, and a good many more boxes besides.”

  “Money in and money out,” said Holtzclaw. “It’s flowing so quickly.”

  “It’s all necessary, I assure you.”

  “It’s necessary to pay the railroad men up front twice what they’re asking? It’s necessary to promise marble offices and a silver-topped cupola to Dr. Rathbun?”

  “A fitting house for him. And he’ll remember I put it there. Quite a nice present from that scoundrel Hiram, yes?”

  “Excuse the impertinence, but as your advisor …”

  “My assistant.”

  Holtzclaw looked down at his pant cuffs. They were filled with mud. Seeds could take root in them, and Holtzclaw could carry a little farm around his ankles. “As your assistant, then, I must advance the hypothesis that your affection for your hometown is leading to ill-advised business decisions.”

  Shadburn, using two fingers, lifted a mushroom from the cold plate of hash browns. He lowered the gray butter-slathered thing onto his outstretched tongue and drew it into his mouth.

  “If you run out of money before you see your project through,” said Holtzclaw, “then no one will ever benefit.”

  “Then I will take care not to run out.”

  •

  Holtzclaw pressed his anger and confusion into a gallstone, and what was left was an emptiness that resonated with hunger. He hadn’t had lunch; that should be a simple problem to solve. The palaver with Shadburn had parched him worse than a morning spent climbing the valley slopes. Outside of the Old Rock Falls Inn, a new fruit hanging from a shrub attracted Holtzclaw’s attention. It was difficult to ignore—the smell was unpleasant, and the noise worse.

  The locals called it a sheep-fruit plant. It had been agitated by the work in the valley, and its fruits had come out early, over-plump and strained. They resembled eggplants, including a purple skin, and they were covered with a fine white fuzz that made them more closely resemble their namesake. Like their namesake, the sheep-fruit bleated to express their content or displeasure. In this late season, the fruit had become much more vocal. Their angry cries affected the sleep of the townsfolk, even those inured to barnyard noises.

  This shrub had five or six sheep-fruit hanging from it, and they were very disturbed about the presence of another—a twisted, half-rotten thing that had clung to the vine for too long. The better sheep-fruit bleated and whined, clucked and snuffled. They made such a fuss that it was a wonder anyone could pass by and not act. Holtzclaw grabbed the rotten fruit at the top and yanked. It came free easily; there was not much strength left in its stem.

  The demeanor of the other fruit changed. The offender was no longer in the realm of their senses, which did not extend beyond the shoots and leaves of the shrub. One of the fruit purred like a cat. Others gently rocked on their vines, mewing.

  “What are you going to do with that?” A boy at Holtzclaw’s elbow gestured to the rotten fruit that he held.

  “With this awful thing?” said Holtzclaw. “Throw it into the woods.”

  “Let me have it.”

  “Why? Are you going to smear it in your sister’s hair? Put it on the school matron’s stool?”

  “I’m going to put it up as preserves.”

  “Come now. You can think of a better lie than marmalade.”

  “It’s not a lie,” said the boy. “Chop it up fine, then put it up with some wood berries. Sweet. Old folks like it too.”

  “Do the ripe ones taste better than the rotting?”

  “I’ve never tasted the ripe ones. They go on pleading and bleating right up until you stew them up in butter and even a little past. Sometimes they moan on the plate. Other boys will eat them, but not me. I don’t want to kill an innocent creature.”

  “You’d kill a chicken,” said Holtzclaw.

  “A chicken has wings—it could have flown. It has claw
s and a beak—it could have fought back. A sheep-fruit is helpless. That’s why I only eat the rotten ones. They don’t suffer.”

  “Well, even if it isn’t true, it is good enough to earn your prize. Have it.”

  The boy pressed the narrow end of the fruit between his fingers. A brownish softness oozed from a hole in the skin. The boy got it on the side of his finger and put it into his mouth. “Tastes like relief.”

  •

  “I’ve already put the fire out,” said Abigail as Holtzclaw entered the dining room of the Old Rock Falls. “I don’t have any food for you.”

  “No biscuits or stew or fried meats?”

  “Nothing warm,” she said. “I suppose you could pluck one of the sheep-fruit and have it on bread.”

  “I’d prefer not. How about a glass of claret?”

  “Our supplier hasn’t made the run since the railroad construction started. He can make a better wage running chuck up to the crews, which leaves us short on certain vital commodities, like claret.”

  “I can speak to Shadburn about that. He does not want the town to be in want. We could award a small subsidy for deliveries to you and other townsfolk to stay competitive with the other enterprises cropping up.”

  “My hero,” said Abigail. “A small subsidy to the rescue.”

  “It would only be temporary, and the permanent solution is on the horizon. When the railroad is running, you will have access to such an array of goods as you’ve never seen before, and at better prices too.”

  “When the railroad is running, the Old Rock Falls will be drowned,” said Abigail.

  “There is a site uphill ready for your new construction,” said Holtzclaw.

  “Do you think my guests would be so ready to move? Would Mr. Bad Thing settle into a new home? He was so accustomed to this place that even death could not separate him from his routine.”

  “I have become a bit of an old hat at persuading ghosts to relocate. Just this morning, I ate mushrooms with the leader of the dead. I took her by the hand, and we walked together. I could speak with Mr. Bad Thing and any of the others that are reluctant to exchange their old haunt for a new one.”

  The piano, which had been softly tinkling in the background of their conversation, ceased.

  “He’s not interested,” said Abigail. “Was there something I could help you with, Holtzclaw? Something related to business?”

  The piano started again with a new tune: a loose interpretation of the Song of Parting. One could hardly expect the same sort of performance from a haunted piano and from the shell of the Great and Harmless and Invincible Terrapin. Now that Holtzclaw knew the origin of the tune, it leapt out from his memory. Mr. Bad Thing had played it every time he’d come in to the Old Rock Falls. Boys had whistled it on the street as he walked by. The rain tapping on leaves had echoed its rhythm.

  “I do have a proposition, Ms. Thompson. Of a business nature. I hadn’t planned on offering it just yet. But, to be frank, I could use an ally at the moment. A friend, even. Sometimes, it feels like everyone is against me.”

  “No one could really be against you, Holtzclaw. You’ve got all the money. You can buy all the allies that you need. How do you think you’ll buy me?”

  Holtzclaw had not sat down at a table, as he’d envisioned. He was still standing, hat in hand. “You know that the centerpiece of this project is a hotel, yes?” he said.

  “That’s a blasted fool thing to say. Of course I know. I’ve been to all the meetings. I’ve heard you and Shadburn sing its glories.”

  Holtzclaw swallowed fitfully, his preamble in pieces. “I thought, that is, Shadburn and I, on reflection, thought it would be right and proper to honor local traditions within that hotel. We would have local lumber, local stone. A taproom that is the spitting image of the Old Rock Falls, even. Your bar and floorboards and tables. Hulen’s stool. The row of mugs and photographs on the wall.”

  “Wouldn’t your fine guests want something more plush and luxurious than my old, sorry artifacts?”

  “There can be two dining rooms,” said Holtzclaw. “One will have crushed velvet and brass finials, and one will have a piano for Mr. Bad Thing to play any tune he wishes.”

  “Ah, so the fine people wouldn’t have to see Auraria if they didn’t deign to. And what if the occasional shadow came unfixed and flew about the room? What would your guests think of that?”

  “They would call it character,” said Holtzclaw. “They might even enjoy it.”

  Abigail acknowledged no interest.

  “Of course,” continued Holtzclaw, “to ensure the success of the whole operation, we would need an experienced hotel manager. You would be my top choice for such a post.”

  “Not Lizzie Rathbun?” said Abigail.

  “The kind of establishment she keeps is out of line with the expectations of my employer and his anticipated clientele. I sincerely feel that you would keep a better and more proper reign on this property.”

  Abigail removed some copper mugs from a wash basin where they had been soaking. There was the faintest flicker of a smile on her face. “You’d sound less awkward if the hotel had a name,” she said.

  “It does not as of yet.”

  “You can’t make one up?”

  “No, I wouldn’t venture. What would you call it?”

  “The Auraria Hotel,” said Abigail.

  “Well, whatever it will be, you would have the advantage of a regular salary.”

  “As long as there are any guests,” said Abigail.

  “The hotel is bound to succeed,” said Holtzclaw, offering the party line. “Shadburn is at the helm, and he has yet to fail on any project that I have known. He has a Midas touch.”

  Abigail laughed. “He is turning us to gold, is he? I thought he wanted to turn the gold into anything else.”