by Tim Westover
Chapter Sixteen
Holtzclaw’s traveling satchel, while it still held half a bottle of Effervescent Brain Salts and a dusting of Pharaoh’s Flour, had run out of currency, both gold and federal notes. The railroad twins had needed an immediate payment toward day laborers. He needed to resupply from Shadburn’s stock.
In his offices, Shadburn was consumed with letter writing. “I am putting out our advertisements,” he said. “All the major Eastern publications will have announcements. We’ll have a full complement of the best people in our resort for the upcoming season.”
“Your yet unnamed resort?” said Holtzclaw.
“No longer! I have the perfect solution. We’ll borrow a native name and apply it to the lake, village, and hotel, like Saratoga or Chautauqua. Colors of ancient mystery. The hotel will be called the Queen of the Mountains on the shores of Lake Trahlyta.”
“Have you asked permission from the owner of that name?”
“I would think she would be flattered.”
A red woolen blanket covered two dozen strongboxes stacked in a corner. Holtzclaw removed the covering with a flourish and broke the wax seal on the front of one of the strongboxes. When he opened it, he was astounded. It was filled with sand, and on the top was an envelope.
“Shadburn, you have been honey-fuggled! Sandbagged, or sand-boxed!”
Shadburn didn’t look up from his correspondence.
“There’s a letter, perhaps from the culprit,” said Holtzclaw. It was sealed with wax, too, and marked “To H.E. Shadburn—Personal and Confidential.” Holtzclaw opened it.
“‘Esteemed Mister Shadburn,’ it says, ‘your request for withdrawal from deposits held by our institution cannot be completed. Your account was closed and the full balance delivered over three years ago. Copies of correspondence and bills of travel and transfer are included. We send this weighted strongbox in lieu of actual currency to spare you any embarrassment that might result from an unanswered request for funds. We appreciate your past patronage and anticipate future deposits, which we will hold in the strictness security and confidence. Yrs truly, and with profound regards, etc., Absalom Fredricks, President, Second Sportsman’s Bank of the Mountains, Springfield.’ Shadburn, this is extraordinary! You have been robbed at the bank. I know that the Second Sportsman’s Bank account held at least twenty thousand dollars. I wrote this request myself after verifying it against the account books.”
“Oh, did you?” said Shadburn.
“This correspondence is dated three years ago. We were working on the Calhoun lumber project at the time, near Waycross, and that’s where the deposits were delivered.”
“Was that the sawmill in the swamp?”
“Yes, the cypress and pine on some of the Okefenokee islands.”
“Then I know where the funds were spent. There were some immediate concerns about transportation and flooding from Calhoun’s backers, and the deal was dying. Money was needed to drain a few canals and to build a plank road for the importation of machinery. I invested in the project so that the deal would not turn sour.”
“So you spent twenty thousand more than the ledgers showed? We cleared eleven thousand on the project, and I thought it a triumph. These new expenses would place the project at a nine-thousand-dollar loss.”
“So it would, by the rules of arithmetic.”
“You lost money.” Holtzclaw waved the letter at his employer.
“Is it a crime? You should have realized by now that not every project can be perfectly profitable.”
“How many of these strongboxes are empty? How many times have I reported a profit for a project when it was actually a loss?”
Shadburn’s mouth moved faintly. A cloud fell across his face. “I can’t remember. There have been a few. Honestly, Holtzclaw, the redness in your face is an overreaction. Did all of Vanderbilt’s projects pay off? Was there not some land deal gone bad? I am not an infallible Midas, whose every work is golden.”
“On paper, you are.”
“What shall I do, Holtzclaw? Issue an apology? File amended paperwork? We have no investors that have been misled.”
“No investors?” Holtzclaw threw up his hands. “Shadburn, I am an investor! I’ve put in the best years of my life.” He walked to the edge of the little room toward the fireplace. “Do you remember the silkworm land you bought from me? In Canton? What happened there? Did you pay for that dam?”
Shadburn relaxed in his chair and looked up at the history writ on the ceiling. “You and your kind were wasting your lives in silkworms, these little foreign pests. Their sole use is that their excretions are fancied by the rich. You toiled away, and for what? Dead bugs! You, Holtzclaw, most of all, should be thankful that I turned you to productive work.”
“I didn’t need rescue,” said Holtzclaw.
•
“He is stuffing the Lost Creek Valley with gold,” said Holtzclaw to Abigail as he studied his reflection at the bottom of a bottle of claret.
“The valley doesn’t need stuffing,” she said. “It’s already overflowing.”
“Then it’s all the more foolish that he is doing it,” said Holtzclaw. “I opened two more strongboxes filled with sand before I found one with any money in it. How near is he to running out?”
“Men like him never run out of money.”
“That is what the poor always believe about the rich. But it’s not true. They can lose their fortunes very quickly, when their manias take them. He is calling in all his strongboxes, even if they are filled with sand. And there is still half a dam to build. His money may last until then, but then what? There is a hotel to run. Sawmills and tanneries to outfit. Money will be needed to pay your townsfolk until these businesses are operating on their own power, and that takes time. As soon as the lake begins to rise, Shadburn will be the only employer in the town, and what if he cannot meet his obligations? All that we have promised will be broken. And Auraria will dry up …”
Holtzclaw hoped that he had not oversold the matter, but Abigail was a nostalgic sort.
“Dry up?” The light tone of her voice was not entirely encouraging. Holtzclaw should have considered that she was a tavernkeeper and thus accustomed to people at their most maudlin and manipulative. Still, he persisted.
“Yes, and with negative consequences for the Old Rock Falls, or the New Rock Falls. We couldn’t keep a manager of the hotel—a position that is still yours for the having—nor could we hope to preserve what you have here within the new construction. He has enough money to destroy, but not enough to rebuild, and he cannot be persuaded to postpone the destruction.”
“And why is that of special concern to me?”
“Because you will lose the most, I fear. The farmers can move. The miners aren’t mining much any more. But you have your whole life here. I know you care for Hulen and Mr. Bad Thing and all your regulars.”
Abigail stalked away, behind the counter. She polished glasses that were already polished.
“Perhaps I’m even a regular now,” said Holtzclaw. “I haunt your bar stool often enough.”
“Ms. Rathbun doesn’t have good claret?”
“I’d rather drink here, in the Old Rock Falls.”
“Then you shouldn’t flood my valley.”
“It’s inevitable, Ms. Thompson. Bigger forces than you or me are in motion. The only hope we have is that we’ll drink together in the New Rock Falls.”
The faint blush on her cheek was exactly the amount of blush that Holtzclaw hoped to evoke. He was quite proud of himself for it, and, when he considered it, he was not dishonest in seeking to evoke it.
“So what do you suppose a little force like me can do?” said Abigail.
“We need an investor who cares about the future of this town. Who could reinforce our capital should the unthinkable happen: should we run out.”
“I don’t have anything, Holtzclaw.”
“You have dreams! Back at that creek, when you took me to meet the moon maidens. You
cared so little for gold that you threw it into the river. You don’t have to put down money. You can put down knowledge, which is free and not diminished in the giving. I will dig where you tell me to dig.”
“You’d pin all your chances of success on a dream? That’s not good business.”
“I think it is the only sort of business that is worthwhile,” said Holtzclaw.
Abigail gave a snort. “Where did you read that?”
“I believe it, Ms. Thompson. I’ve always believed it. Did I ever tell you about my silkworms?”
“Drink your claret, Holtzclaw. You’ve said enough already.”
•
Even after claret, Holtzclaw felt a pain through his midsection. It was a mild affliction, given the gamut of troubles in life, but Holtzclaw still found it unpleasant. He thought a bath might do him some good, but not in Mrs. McTavish’s old iron basin. Seeking a bath in the other two guesthouses might have consequences and entanglements that he, in his discomfort, didn’t want to face.
He walked upriver to a place called Sugar Shoals. The current swirled through a maze of boulders and kicked up white froth, which settled in eddies and shadows of rocks.
Holtzclaw doffed all the clothing that he dared, leaving a striped garment that reached from his knees to his elbows. He kicked at one of the foamy mounds, which burst into airy nothing at the passing of his foot. The water was pleasant, not too cold. He stretched out along a flat ridge and let the water pool behind him. It ran past his ears and toes. He moved into deeper water.
Beneath him, the rocks were slick. He lost his footing and came down hard on his tailbone. He stood and fell again but was not deterred. On his hands and knees, he crawled to the center of the river. A funnel of water coming between two rocks sculpted a natural sofa. Holtzclaw placed himself into this basin and let the water crash around him.
The water in his natural spa turned cold. Crystalline fragments of ice pricked at his skin. In the sugary froth, there were flakes of gold. He reached out to scoop up the colors, but the foam vanished before his fingers. His skin had acquired a golden hue, which faded to green. It looked sickly on his skin; he felt sickly, and the recurring pain throbbed stronger than ever. He plunged back into the waterfall channel, but the water there was thick and oozing. He rolled back the extremities of his undergarment, and beneath, the stain was worse. He stood up, turned, shook himself, and shivered.
“Not the cleanest swimming hole, James,” said the princess.
On hearing the girl’s voice, Holtzclaw and his uncovered limbs scrambled into one of the deep wells. He was compelled by modesty. The icy waters fixed the golden residue against his flesh.
“Don’t dive too far,” said the princess. “There might be snakes down those basins.”
Holtzclaw scurried out of the pit and shielded himself behind a rock. His face was hot from embarrassment and chill from the water. He chattered and burned.
“James, you’re such a pitiable sight,” said Trahlyta. “Come out from there.”
“What’s happening up the river? What’s happening to me?”
“The moon maidens, like you, decided that the best cure for their ills was a bath. Sadly, you’re suffering from their runoff.”
“How can … how can that be? What’s this on me? Can I see them?” Veins of waterborne gold twisted downriver.
The princess shook her head. “Why? They are in a bad humor. The singing tree was supposed to perform for them, but he’s been unreliable of late. Their whole holiday is off, thanks to you. Even the current doesn’t wash as well as it once did. You’ve made it worse, with all the money you’re pouring into the water. Excuse me, I have tidying to do.”
A light rain started to fall. Wild wonder fish came to the surface and nibbled at shiny flakes; a larger catfish trawled the bottom with his whiskers.
“You’re doing this?” said Holtzclaw. “Washing the gold away?”
“Oh yes, James. Showers, storms, currents. They are my special talent.”
“I don’t understand, Princess. Why do you want to be rid of gold? Isn’t it as natural as any other rock?”
“It doesn’t belong in this valley. We should have springs and rivers, not mines and treasure tunnels. Gold is an unwelcome visitor. It works against the acclimation of people to the land.”
“I think that is a sentiment that can only belong to unearthly creatures,” said Holtzclaw. “We terrestrial people will never refuse gold, never say it’s unwelcome.”
“You won’t, will you? Ask Shadburn his opinion. And here you are, shivering and covered in gold, and you want more? Oh yes, for your floating hotel.” Holtzclaw tried to hang a puzzled look on his face, but he succeeded only in making the princess smile. “It’s hard to hide a steamship, James. Well, do you have enough gold now, considering what you have caked onto you?”
“I can’t spend this. I can’t even get it off me.”
The princess giggled. “How shall any of us get clean if the baths are dirty? Scrub up with Pharaoh’s Flour, I suppose.”
“And why is it funny?” said Holtzclaw. “I need every mote, even the ones between my toes.”
This caused the princess to quake with laughter. Her voice careened from the rocks of the river and the valley. The earth itself was laughing at him, in the round.
“Perhaps you would be so kind to show me, then,” said Holtzclaw, “where I can get some gold in a more dignified way.”
“Ask your friends, James!” said the princess, wiping tears from her cheeks. “They know where it is.”
“I am asking you, Princess. Show me where I can find the gold.”
“It is everywhere, James! Everywhere. That’s why you’re here, why I let you continue to be here. Because you are taking it away.”
“I’m so glad that I have your permission, princess!” said Holtzclaw, making a sweeping bow, unconcerned with how much of his bathing body he was exposing now. “I wasn’t aware that I operated only at your good pleasure. I hadn’t even seen you for weeks. And now I know it’s because you are letting us destroy your valley—or that you are powerless to stop it with anything but your strange sentiments.”
“James, I couldn’t let you destroy anything. That’s why I ruined your hydrocannon contraption, once I saw what it did. The poor Hag’s Head—she was quite a beauty in her time. Her hair of moss radiant in the summer sun, bluebirds nesting in her eyes.”
“So you’ll wreck the hydrocannon but let me demolish the town and build a massive dam? You’ll let me shut off the Terrible Cascade and drown the Cobalt Springs Lake and bury how many hundreds of springs? Without opposition?”
“These are only fragile changes, easily undone.”
“Not if I can help it. I mean for this lake—and my floating hotel, or whatever it turns out to be—to last as long as my employer and I wish.”
“Then that is where we differ, James. But please don’t feel too sorry when they don’t last very long.”
“You are wonderful at empty prognostications, princess. But I think if you had any real strength here, then the dam would have been attacked by typhoons or that the workers would have been drowned in mud. But I’ve faced no rainstorms, no mudslides, no interfering fish. It has been a cakewalk, Princess. Perhaps you are powerless after all. A local spirit. A little girl.”
The princess had stopped laughing. “Oh, James. You may think I am yielding, that I can be bottled and controlled. That is the way of water. It seeks the easiest channel, but it is powerful when released. I run cool and still. And when I please, and never before, I shall open the mountain and let the waters out.”
