by Tim Westover
Chapter Twenty-Seven
At first, Mother Fresh-Roasted only had a wooden tray from which she sold interesting rocks to children: staurolite, also called a fairy cross; flat worry stones, with a depression made in them for the friction of concerned thumbs; arrow heads and petrified wood.
Then she bought a pushcart and expanded her selection to include devices and remedies for helping young girls dream of their future husbands. One popular set included a red wax candle and a polished metal bowl. The bowl was filled with mineral water and then the candle was lit, and after it had burned for some time with the girl’s thoughts fixed upon her future mate, she poured the wax into the water, and the resulting abstract shape was interpreted as a clue to the future mate’s profession. An additional guidebook helped to decipher these shapes, because not all of them resolved into well-known implements. Some were ancient forms, some purely symbolic, and a very few were outright unlucky. An adaptation was available for boys who wanted a hint as to how they would die, with most symbols pointing to violent misadventure.
On the strength of these sales, Mother Fresh-Roasted opened a sprawling emporium, to which Holtzclaw traveled to ask for her guidance for the upcoming gala. Her store consisted of three buildings connected by breezeways. Enormous porches provided ample rocking chairs where customers could enjoy a refreshing glass of Professor W’s Pleasant Potation and Universal Panacea Wine Draught or a bottle of Dr. Pep. Children and adults gorged themselves on sticky-sweet confections: maple fudge, sugar crystals, whirly twists, and poppy rocks.
Holtzclaw envied Mother Fresh-Roasted. Her products were local—the glowing honey from her fire-bees, ice cream egg sundaes laid by snowball hens, daguerreotypes of tourists posing with her pet deer, from whose back grew a peach in full fruit. And Holtzclaw was certain that she had fewer problems with baronesses than he did. She needed no agents or partners, and her establishment was always humming with conversations and coins.
He looked for Mother Fresh-Roasted among the penny whistles, tins of stewed tomatoes, and corn-husk brooms. He paused in front of a rack of gold-prospecting supplies. A girl was trying to reach a tin pan on a high shelf. A pair of boys selected a full kit: picks, shovels, pans, leather pouches to hold collected flakes, and printed instructions.
Holtzclaw at last found Mother Fresh-Roasted in the produce section of her store, which had large wooden bins holding corn, beans, nuts, mushrooms, ramps, and sweet potatoes. In one bushel were just-picked sheep-fruit; they made soft bleating noises, as though in their sleep.
“Sweet potatoes!” said Holtzclaw. “You think you can sell sweet potatoes? We cannot give them away at the hotel.”
Mother Fresh-Roasted picked one up. “Then you must be doing something wrong. Why wouldn’t someone want a sweet potato like this?” It was a collection of several potatoes that had grown together. From a certain angle, it looked like a person: a body, two stumpy legs, and two arms, one considerably longer than the other. Mother Fresh-Roasted held it like a doll, rocked it in her arms, and the sweet potato wiggled its limbs and cooed. “What did you need, Holtzclaw? I’m very, very busy, you see. The snowball hens are running a fever, and unless I give them ice cubes to sit on, their ice cream chicks will just be puddles of milk.”
“We are planning a gala, you see, at the hotel. No expense spared.”
“That’s no way to run a profitable business.”
“It’s our only chance at it. We must plan something spectacular, something that will draw a great crowd from far away. You seem to have a knack for such things.”
“How about a quartet of self-playing instruments?” Mother Fresh-Roasted pointed to a throng of listeners crowded around a stage. Two auto-banjos, an auto-dulcimer, and an auto-autoharp broke into a lively rendition of “Leather Britches.” Some of the listeners, still in their traveling finery, linked arms and swung in rough, failed approximations of square-dance forms.
“Mechanical?” asked Holtzclaw. “Clockwork?”
“Mechanical!” said Mother Fresh-Roasted. “Of course not, Holtzclaw! This isn’t a factory. This is Auraria. We run on spirits, not steam.”
“Spirits can play the banjo and the dulcimer and the autoharp?”
“They can be taught. And anyone can play the autoharp.”
“Well, they are pleasant enough and crowd-pleasing. Let’s have them. What else?”
Holtzclaw placed his order for poppy rocks, which he had seen at the Grayson House. He ordered moon pies to be baked fresh the night before the gala, glowing with luminous fire honey. He requested a dozen spools of thread that would wind themselves around the ankles of true lovers, causing them to trip into each others’ arms.
“I thought you’d want an elegant gala, with waltzes and lobsters,” said Mother Fresh-Roasted.
“Waltzes! Lobsters! They are universal. I want a spectacle that only Auraria could make,” said Holtzclaw. “The gala-goers will carry the name of the Queen of the Mountains to every club and chowhouse in Milledgeville, and we’ll have a full booking for the very next week and every week thereafter. Where else could they go to see such wonders?”
“You can be certain of a spectacle,” said Mother Fresh-Roasted.
“That leaves only Dasha Pavlovski. We are trying to have him for the chief entertainment, and I imagine that his handlers will have special requirements. When I’m told what they are …”
“Dasha Pavlovski? Never heard of him. Not grand, not strange. You need to talk to a friend of mine, the singing tree. Oh, but the singing tree puts on a grand show! Unique in the world!”
“If he’s a tree, then how does he get on stage? Do we have to dig him up and repot him for each number?”
“He gets up on his root tips, and he can skitter wherever he would like,” said Mother Fresh-Roasted. “He knows all the old favorites: ‘Possum on a Rail,’ ‘Squirrel Heads and Gravy,’ ‘Let the Mermaids Flirt With Me.’”
“It’s just that the guests, you see, have their hearts set on a big star, like Dasha Pavlovski.”
“The Singing Tree is a big star! When I was a girl, I liked no one better. I saw his branches waving in the moonshine bowl. Then one night, I went to hear him sing, and there were wisteria vines, in purple bloom, creeping all over him. Oh I was heartbroken! But it was for the best. They are good together, the tree and the vine.”
“If Dasha Pavlovski is booked, then we’ll ask this tree friend of yours.”
“You will have to ask him soon; his schedule fills up. Just this afternoon, he’s playing two weddings and a wake.”
•
Abigail and Holtzclaw sat at a table in the New Rock Falls. Through the windows that opened back into the hotel, Holtzclaw could see a dozen people loitering on the front stoop. The feedings at the main hotel were running slowly, a consequence of a complicated table-side flambé that was being extinguished by inexplicable cold winds. Holtzclaw had called Abigail away for a planning session, and the dining room troubles had grown in her absence.
Meanwhile, the New Rock Falls, which had plenty of open tables, had no paying customers, but a full complement of spirits. Abigail ladled up bowls of stew and filled cups with a hot drink derived from roasted sweet potatoes, all while trying to formulate a menu.
Holtzclaw read off what they’d selected so far. “Groundhog, lobster tails, oysters on the half shell, squirrel brains, fresh-squeezed caviar, wild coney and wild venison, scalloped potatoes and sweet potatoes. If it grows here, put it on a plate; if it has to be shipped in refrigerated cars from across the country, put it on a plate. I want ramps so pungent that the paint comes off the wall. And honey like liquid gold.”
“And Shadburn is agreeable to this?”
“He practically insists,” said Holtzclaw, “as long as it benefits the hotel and thus brings in money that we can put into the dam. And I can think of no greater benefit, no bigger spectacle, than to invite all the local spirits and have them mingle with the most splendid elements we can find from outside the valley. I think
that these tourists need to see a little of the real Auraria, with all its eccentricities. They need to appreciate the sweet potato as it is prepared here.”
Abigail smiled.
“Have you picked a costume yet?” said Holtzclaw.
“Won’t I be wearing hotel livery as part of the serving class?”
“Senior staff will be our guests, and no one is more senior than you. You are expected to attend and enjoy, in all your finery. If you need a stipend toward your wardrobe, it is available.”
“Not necessary. But if I am not in the kitchen, it will just fall apart. Grinning faces will get into the potatoes again. We’ll have a blizzard from the refrigerator.”
“It’s true,” said Holtzclaw, “but necessary. It will be a talking point.”
“Mr. Bad Thing will kick up a wind beneath the tablecloths. Ladies will be abashed.”
“I forgot about him!” said Holtzclaw. “A thousand pardons. He is most welcome. Where shall I deliver his invitation? Is ‘Mr. Bad Thing’ his full title, or is he an esquire?”
•
Only the Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society was busier than Holtzclaw in the days leading up to the gala. They sought to ensure that no one of worth would attend the gala without proper accompaniment. Among their recent victories was the matching of a cross-eyed scion of a peppermint concern to an obese belle-dame of a New England dynasty. No less thrilling was the merger of two great houses that had, until recently, been set in a frosty war of words against another. Reconciliation was made in the betrothal of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed son to a blonde-haired, blue-eyed daughter. Their union was commemorated with the signing of favorable railroad tariffs through the middle states.
An official dance card for the gala had been created in the shape of a fan. The obverse showed a picture of the Queen of the Mountains, bedecked in summer evening splendor, with the moon rising behind her; the reverse had twenty slots, where the lady could record her companion for twenty dances—three waltzes, four quadrilles, two square dances, a contra dance, an Old Country Stomp, a mazurka, a molasses boiling promenade, two serenades, a polka, two mixers, two lancers, and a big set. The Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society members hosted instructional opportunities for the formal dances. The rural ones, Holtzclaw promised, could be learned on site. He knew this was a lie: a contra dance is no less intricate than a mazurka, and the patterns of molasses boiling were distinguishable from a complete chaos only because its able dancers never collided.
Holtzclaw brought a dance card to Ms. Rathbun aboard the Maiden of the Lake. In her presence and by her leave, he put his name in every slot, for every dance. That was as official as any contract.
He was hastening back from this personal journey when he was intercepted by the Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society. They caught him by the elbows and turned him onto the veranda.
“Walk with us, Holtzclaw,” said Almeda, the Reader of Mysteries.
“I have so much work to do,” he said. But the women would not hear of it. They boxed him in with the sweep of their dresses.
“Dearest Holtzclaw,” said Almeda, the Reader of Mysteries, “we have selected a gala partner for you. She is a duchess from one of those bellicose countries that shrink after every war in which they entangle themselves. Anemic, consumptive, shy, and inelegant, but rich as they come, and an ideal match for someone like you who is ambitious, comfortable, but can’t seem to get ahead financially. The simplest path for you, Holtzclaw, would be to marry into wealth. Here is your chance. She has been a difficult case, and you have been a difficult case, and we think that it is a splendid solution.”
“Two special projects solved,” said Vera, the Tender of the Entwined Rose and Briar.
“Yup,” said Luella, the Poetess of the Stirring Heart.
“Ladies,” said Holtzclaw, “I appreciate your help, and I am sure this sickly duchess is both as rich and delightful as you say. But I have already placed my name with a lady for her dance card, exclusively. I will be accompanying Ms. Elizabeth Rathbun to the gala.”
The faces of the Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society members flushed purple.
“You have done this outside of our assistance,” said Almeda “Thus, we cannot endorse your match.”
“It’s of no concern to me whether you endorse it or not,” said Holtzclaw.
“Oh, it will be. It will be of concern,” said Almeda, “if you do not escort our duchess to the gala.”
“Grave, deep, utmost concern,” said Vera.
“Big concern,” said Luella.
“If the duchess is sickly, wouldn’t she rather spend the gala evening taking a treatment in the baths?” said Holtzclaw.
“The baths,” said Almeda, “are where people spend their idle hours between galas. Even the anemic and consumptive want to attend galas. They are the harvest time, where all that has been sown through social effort will be reaped.”
“Must I be the one accompany her?”
“If not you, then someone,” said Almeda. “Else her offended nation might go to war against someone, maybe against your valley. Do you want to be invaded?”
“There is little risk of that, I think,” said Holtzclaw.
“There is every risk that you will lose our alliance and our friendship,” said Almeda. “The Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society”—obligatory flapping gesture—“is a powerful force, Holtzclaw, and it can be with you or against you. If you choose to defy our match, then you must find a replacement escort for the duchess, if you want our good will.”
“I don’t want honorary membership in your society,” said Holtzclaw, “and I don’t think I need your good will. After the gala, I am certain that I will no longer need you.”
“Ah, but you do, Holtzclaw,” said Almeda. “Your guests are not here for your mineral waters and your fresh mountain air and your vague notions of healthfulness. They sound nice enough in your advertisements, but they are irrelevant. Even fine foods and fine clarets have a lesser role—they are necessary but ancillary. Your guests are here to make business deals and marriage matches. They are searching, Holtzclaw, for a good marriage for an aging daughter or an incorrigible son. A corundum miner may meet a steel baroness, and social graces will broker a business deal. It is sound business, but the soundest part is to keep us, your most skilled practitioners, happy. What does Saratoga have that you do not? You have a dozen different springs; Saratoga has one. You have a shimmering lake; Saratoga has a muddy field. But whose rooms go for a higher rate? Saratoga’s, because the matches are more profitable. The people are better, Holtzclaw. But you could have their success. Your resort could be even greater. A good word from us, a well-brokered match whose fame flows back into the society circles, is worth a dozen hot springs and a thousand sunrises over the lake. Now that we are clear on the structures of power, with whom will this poor duchess be attending the gala? Will you break your engagement with this Rathbun woman?”
The Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society, on its second lap of the interlinked verandas, came to a sudden halt as a figure barred their way.
“Oh, hello, Princess!” said Holtzclaw to his rescuer. “I am very glad to see you. Yes, introductions. To the members of the Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society”—the three women flapped their hands—“may I present Princess Trahlyta, Queen of the Mountains.”
“Enchanted,” said the princess, dipping at her knees in the perfect imitation of a curtsy.
“I have known very few barefoot princesses,” said Almeda. “Exactly where is your kingdom?”
“These springs,” she said. “The valley. An hour upriver, the same downriver. And thousands of miles beneath my feet.”
“How can we help you, Princess?” asked Holtzclaw.
“I’ve come, as always, to help you, James,” said the princess. “I overheard you talking about the sad consumptive duchess, and I wanted to propose an eligible match for her. He’s a royal acquaintance of mine. We’ve held court together many times.”
“He is
a guest here?” said Almeda, arching an eye. “One that has escaped our notice?”
“No, a resident of the valley,” said the princess. She ducked into an alcove and led out by the hand a tall, slender man. He wore a green day suit of a satin-like fabric, accented by gold cufflinks. His hair was cut very short, in the huntsman’s style. He held a handkerchief in front of his face so that Holtzclaw could not see if he was bearded or smooth-shaved.
“This is Prince Rano,” said the princess. “You’ll forgive him, please, for the handkerchief. He has a hay fever.”
Prince Rano executed a crisp, deep bow, despite the handicap of having to keep the handkerchief in front of his face. He raised a finger to excuse himself and then dashed away a dozen feet before loudly—and somewhat exaggeratedly, thought Holtzclaw—blowing his nose.
“A prince, you say?” said Almeda.
“Of a long and ancient line,” said the princess.
“One of those Old World ones then? There are so many that it’s hard to keep track.”
“I have known him for many years—purely in state and functionary roles—and he has always carried himself with a spring in his step.”
“What can you say of his character?” said Almeda.
“Chiefly, he is a sociable creature,” said the princess. “He loves to make music in the evenings and take healthful swims. He stretches his legs in the out-of-doors. He is a connoisseur of all foods, native and exotic, though there are some winged things he likes better than others. He has friends and relations throughout the world, and he is quick and eager to travel. I think he would be an excellent match for your sad, rich duchess.”
“Are there any others that can vouch for his character besides Your Majesty?”
“I would be happy to duplicate all the praises that Princess Trahlyta has heaped upon Prince Rano,” said Abigail, who stepped out from a doorway. Her hair was dusted through with Pharaoh’s Flour; it coated her hands and made them ashy.
“There are two motions,” said Vera.
“One more is needed by the law,” said Luella.
“And you, Holtzclaw?” said Almeda. “What do you think? Is this Prince Rano an eligible match?”
“Oh yes,” said Holtzclaw, who had never met Prince Rano before in his life. “I can only sing his virtues. We are not well acquainted, but in our short but firm friendship, I have seen his worth. He is so quick-witted that when he plays at cards, he always wins if he wants to, but he is wise and gracious enough to know that sometimes he should let others win instead. I think a match with him would be a credit to your society.”
“And a credit to your hotel?” asked Almeda.
“We will write it above the door in ten-foot letters.”
“If the match is successful, you should put the faces of Prince Rano and the duchess in cartouches at the corner of your next advertisements, encircled by gold bands. It would be the best money ever spent. It would ensure the fame of your hotel for a generation. To have placed such a one as the consumptive duchess with a suitable match—what a coup!”
“Coo-coo!” said Vera.
“Coo-coo-coo!” said Luella.
For the next few nights, at dinner, the unfolding story of the legendary match was passed around every table. The Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society, supporting the consumptive duchess under her arms, met Prince Rano in the shadows beside the fireplace. The half-light concealed his face, but firelight twinkled in his large black eyes, and all were charmed.
Prince Rano and the consumptive duchess took their dinner together at a large round table; the other seats were filled out by their many chaperones. The prince had a toothache. His mouth was wrapped with gauze; his voice was an odd croak. But he talked of many subjects that interested the consumptive duchess, whose own voice was a reedy wheeze. The prince spent moon-filled nights paddling the river, singing his ballads and love songs. He had seen mighty cataracts and thickets of trees; he had been through swamps and dry creeks. Once he had wintered in a hollow log, shivering through the season and subsisting on what he could catch.
Prince Rano and the consumptive duchess walked through grassy meadows filled with wild flowers. Their chaperones were just a step behind. The prince’s hay fever still bothered him. His face was always screwed up as though to sneeze.
In the evening, Prince Rano and the consumptive duchess sat in chaise lounges on one of the upper porches and looked over the lake, where fireflies drew complex signs to their allies and enemies. The consumptive duchess put her hand to the prince’s cheek to look into his eyes, but Prince Rano bashfully turned away. The Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society made much of this show of virtue and decorum. Rumors abounded that the prince was soon to propose. The Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society gathered their accolades.
One evening, after these events had become the talk of the hotel, Holtzclaw was in the midst of writing one last plea to Dasha Pavlovski’s handlers; the words though would not come. Holtzclaw had ceased believing in them; he was considering the possibility of hiring a more spectacular local entertainer. There was a knock at the door of his little chamber. Abigail and Trahlyta stood outside, snickering like schoolgirls.
“Tonight’s the night, Holtzclaw!” said Abigail. “The duchess, the prince, the bird women—they’ll all get what’s coming to them. You have to come see.”
Trahlyta smiled as broadly as Holtzclaw had ever seen.
Prince Rano and the consumptive duchess were taking a moonlit carriage ride around the lake; the Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society members followed in a second vehicle, at just enough of a distance to grant the couple their privacy and yet near enough to see and approve every move.
The driver of the first coach had been told to stop at the top of the dam. Trahlyta and Abigail, with Holtzclaw in tow, hid behind the far side of the flume.
The prince and his beloved descended from the carriage. She pressed her hand to her chest; the prince gazed romantically into the vast emptiness of the Terrible Cascade. Starlight reflected in a single tear that slid down his cheek, but all the rest was lost in the night. He dropped to his haunches, took the hands of the duchess, and felt for his pocket. The Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society plunged into raptures, holding their breath as they anticipated the splendid climax. Abigail and Trahlyta stopped their mouths with their palms.
But then a dragonfly flashed past the prince’s nose. Prince Rano could not suppress his instinct. He whirled toward the morsel, tongue loosened. A moonbeam fell across his face, which was wide with happiness—the prince was a frog! Now after just a glimpse, it was all so clear—the black bulbous eyes, the rounded snout, and the lipless mouth.
The consumptive duchess stepped backward in surprise, and the throat of the frog-prince swelled up from consternation and chagrin. He fled into the lake with a flying leap, his green suit becoming slick amphibian skin.
The Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society reached for the consumptive duchess to draw her into their absorbing bosom, but the duchess stopped their hands. She shook free of her bonnet and her boots and leapt after the prince into the lake. Despite her terrestrial frailty, she was an excellent swimmer, and she frog-kicked toward the green and lanky open arms of her prince. They swam in the moonlight, and powerful strokes took them farther, farther from their chaperones, farther into the waters, farther into the night.
The women in the Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society fell, like upended dominoes, into each others’ arms. Employees loaded them into the baggage compartment of the carriage.
Abigail and Trahlyta linked arms and promenaded and then did molasses turns and cartwheels, over and under, time and time again, until they were giddy and nauseous. Tears streamed from their eyes.
“It was a mean-spirited trick,” said Holtzclaw to them as their glee subsided. “You should not have plucked the consumptive duchess so cruelly.”
“Do you think we meant to trick anyone but those horrible bird-women?” said the Abigail.
“There is no better
creature for the poor duchess than a playful frog-prince,” said Trahlyta. “She’ll want to stay here forever, and there will be only joy between them.”
“Well, I think we’ve made some eternal foes of the Billing, Wooing, and Cooing Society,” said Holtzclaw.
“The birds,” said the princess, “have always been our enemies.”
