“Okay, but why did you unfreeze now?”
“This I do not know.”
“So what’s your goal?”
“Goal?”
“Your purpose. What do you want now?”
“To solve the mystery of who I am. Yes. I am slowly forming into my old self. I can feel him creeping back. But I still have a long way to go. And if I did discover gold before, I want to find it again.”
“You’re about a century too late.”
“This I am afraid of. And I have accepted that. But the memories of my wife and child are the true gold I want to attain.”
“That’s rather lovely,” she said, getting up and wrapping herself in a see-through lavender shawl. “I can bring you up a plate of food if you want. You look like you haven’t had a good meal in about a hundred years.”
She was out the door and he felt a stirring down below, but the stirring was not for Adalaide. He pictured Aylen floating through the sky cocooned in her lavender shawl.
And before he could do anything, he came on her sheets, mystified by the arousal.
He quickly dressed and left before she could notice, forgoing a hot meal to protect his pride.
Back at the abandoned good store, the night passes in a fit. Wyatt clutches the picture of Adalaide and Joe but no memories resurface. He senses they exist in his brain but he’s been denied access. It’s been days since he’s seen the Barlows, and he decides this must be the cause. Worth it to sacrifice sleep and trudge through the woods so he can arrive to their house as soon as possible.
The moon, his only friend, lights a glowing path. He follows its come-hither beckon-ing. Having made this journey multiple times, he can do it without much stress. The fear lies in the fact that the trick might not work anymore. The memories he’s been given of Adalaide and Joe the only ones he’s allowed.
The little house sits quietly. A creek bed lapping behind its yard. The curtains closed, denying any view. This he finds insulting. The doghouse empty and he’s chilled so he crawls inside, a crudely made bed better than what he’s been lying on in the abandoned store. Sleep proves difficult but he’s not shivering since the doghouse has a flap for a door that blocks the wind.
He goes under momentarily, casting along choppy waters again. Shoulder to shoulder down below the deck with a hundred other wishful seekers. Stomach bloated with worms from turned fish for supper. His pack kept close to his chest for fear of it being stolen. No chance of turning back, destiny awaiting. Fantasies of glint gleaming in all their wide-awake eyes.
Coming to, his frozen eye causes pain. He’s attempted to separate the top lid from the bottom but no measure has proven sufficient. The sun breaks through the cold morning, shining along the hoarfrost on the yard like it’s lit with gold. His ear twitches at noises from inside the house. He could camp out and watch California and the child like always, but that’s simply a bandage to the wound. He must follow Trav and figure out a way to ingratiate himself into the family.
Knowing Trav takes the pickup each morning, he dives in the back and covers himself with the tarp like before. Usually Trav has left prior to dawn breaking so he’s lucky he didn’t miss his chance. Door slams soon enough. The scruff of boots against the snow.
“See ya, Chinook,” he hears Trav call out. A minute later, Trav gets in the pickup and they’re off.
Trav likes music this morning, and Wyatt can identify with the singer’s yearnings. A love gone lost. After a hundred years, nothing really changes. But he won’t weep anymore, since he’s doing all he can to get closer to his beloved.
The pickup stops amidst a din of gruff voices. Rollicking waves cutting. The air full of salt and fish. Cusp of the ocean. He peeks out of the tarp through a hole to see they’ve reached the docks. Burly fisherman mingling, their faces eaten up by beards like his own.
Some drink from steaming cups. Others get their boats ready to attack the waters. The motor shuts off and he hears Trav step outside. After a moment, Trav’s legs appear. Trav reaches down to tie a shoe, and while the two lookalike men don’t lock eyes, Trav glances in his ancestor’s vicinity. Wyatt clamps his breath shut, praying to a higher power that Trav doesn’t remove the tarp. The shoe-tying seems endless, likely due to Trav’s frozen fingers that can’t get a good grip on the loop. Trav rubs a fleck of dust from his eyelash, and once it’s discarded, he doesn’t stare at Wyatt anymore. Their chance meeting thankfully postponed until the optimal time.
With lunch under his arm, Trav makes his way to a particularly burly man with an impressive beard and gut. The two appear jovial with each other, slapping each other playfully on their arms. Once they are far enough away, Wyatt jumps out from under the tarp and follows them down the dock to a boat called the Cutthroat, white bottom with a red trim. The men load up their supplies while Wyatt gets a chance to study Trav close up.
He props himself on a bench no more than twenty feet away.
Now that he’s seen his own reflection multiple times since his awakening, he’s able to put it up against Trav’s visage. He feels the slope of his own nose, both of them with an indented line down the middle. Prominent cheek bones and an identical touch of rosacea.
Trav’s beard maintained and trim but with the ability to sprout into a massive masterpiece like Wyatt’s. Thick hair short and clean in the front and tickling the back of Trav’s neck.
Wyatt’s fingers get caught up in the knots of his own mane. Thick thighs and stocky torso, strong shoulders made for physical labor like Wyatt’s. A smile that nearly cuts Wyatt in two, this great-great grandson of his with no idea how close the past idles beside him.
Wyatt longs to give him an engulfing hug, but he has more important plans. As Trav hops on the Cutthroat and the boat becomes untethered, rocking from the churning waves until it becomes a speck along the horizon amongst a dozen others, Wyatt takes out his notebook and flips to the front page with the date of 1898. He touches pen to paper, closes his good eye, and lets loose an outpouring. Tapping into over a century ago, his past illuminates—a brilliant show of colors and ancient but familiar sounds, tales of death-defying adventures that hopefully lead to elusive treasures.
15
August 12th, 1898
I embark! After traveling by train from our Washington farm to Seattle, I board the G.W.
Elder, a steamboat that will wind up the Panhandle and stop in Victoria, Nanaimo, Ton-gos, Wrangell, Juneau, Douglas, and Sitka. From there, I will make my way to where inklings of treasure are thought to be held. I am not a novice at this kind of expedition. The California Gold Rush persuaded many men like myself to leave behind their families in search of a prize, my own father one of them. But I was born too late to truly catch history. By the time I arrived in Sunshine, California, all I found was dust and despair. Others had been lucky enough to haul off with glint in their palms after tapping the Earth’s well dry. Alaska will be different, for its land is more untouched. The average prospector won’t take their chances at failure again, especially since its terrain is not as easy to traverse. A regular unfit hobo could meander down to California and stumble across gold, but in Alaska, only the adventurous seekers will be rewarded.
In preparation, I have exhausted all of my funds on clothing, gear, and the ninety-four dollars for the ship’s passage. I realize I am leaving Adalaide and Joe with meager money to live, but it is a risk that must be taken. We’ve carried on hand-to-mouth for too long and if Joe’s doctor bills keep getting more expensive, without this windfall we won’t stay afloat.
While I was not pleased with how things ended with Adalaide before my departure, to linger and chase her affection again would’ve been too dangerous. Adalaide has a talent for swaying one’s mind, and I do fear that since I’m not the youngster I used to be, this jaunt will be my last. Because of that, it’s destined to be the one that’s finally a success.
The ship, magnificent. Three tiers high with a smokestack puffing gray clouds into the sky. Ivory white with wraparound decks on each floor. Men like
me with calluses on their hands board along with religious missionaries and those heading to Alaska for work in the brand-new fish canneries. Smiles peek out of beards and mustaches. Songs of the sea pass from their lips. I clutch my ticket like it’s a lifeline, relieved once I’m finally on board waiting for the ship to leave port. There are wives along the dock with babes in one arm, waving handkerchiefs with another. Townsfolk arrive just to watch the ship go, the excitement of the journey palpable to all. I imagine Adalaide and Little Joe shouting their love to me, but alas, they are a mirage. I remove a picture of them from out of my coat pocket. A photographer took it outside of our farm the week Joe was born. My wife and I hold the baby between us, not smiling because it wasn’t a custom at the time. Both of us believing a ghost robs our souls a little every time a photograph is taken. Joe wrapped up in a blanket given to us by Adalaide’s mother, a little cocooned caterpillar against my forearm, tiny as a bug. I miss them already, the pieces of me I had to leave behind.
The G.W. Elder blows its horn and we set sail, the sun hot against my cheek. I’ve dressed for Alaska but I’m sweating from the summer heat, so I strip down to just a shirt and stuff the rest in my pack, which nearly overflows. We are directed down below where we’re shown our bunks, rows and rows of thin mattresses with a few inches be-
tween them. Most men have already claimed theirs, the smart ones settling in corners or by the dusty windows right below the ceilings. I am left with a dark mattress I can barely see, even in the daylight. A man has already placed his pack down at the adjacent bed.
His pack resembles mine and I know he’s not a missionary or fisherman. He is after the same hope.
“Watch out for that one,” says a different man to my left. His face reddened from drink and obesity, little wisps of hair stick up from his head, his full beard the color of mustard. He’s missing a tooth or two but has an affable smile. His pudgy fingers rest on my shoulder. “Just a word of advice,” he adds, with a wink.
“Why do you say that?”
“I recognize his pack. CFL stitched on the inseam.” The pudgy fingers move from my shoulder to indicate his evidence. “Been on a ship with him before. Pickpocket.”
I instantly check my pockets as if this unseen man may have already been sneaky.
“I should move,” I say, gathering up my pack. The man shakes his head, the lines in his protruding neck disappearing and reforming.
“All out of beds I’m afraid. Looks like we’ll have to sleep with one eye open.”
He widens the eye that previously winked. Bloodshot veins cloud the white part.
“Frank Allard.” He shoves his meaty hand in mine, squeezing rather tight. “Good to have another pair of eyes on your side, don’t ya think?”
“Wyatt Barlow. Pleasure to meet you.”
The boat tilts, forcing me to hold onto the wall for support. With his stocky frame, Frank stays firm.
“Gonna be a lot of that so you better get used to it,” Frank says, with a laugh that jiggles around the phlegm in his throat. “You headed up north for gold, religion, or fish?”
“What do you think?”
Frank takes a step back, as if to take all of me in. Satisfied, he nods and replies,
“Gold.”
“What gave it away?”
“There ain’t a stench of fish or God on ya.”
I laugh at that. For a moment, I miss Adalaide and Joe a little less, having found a confidant so quickly.
“Fish for me, that’s my gold,” he says, picking out a bite of food from between his teeth. “For fish are real whereas gold is fantasy.”
I clench my fists and chew on my lip. “I’m gonna find it.”
His laugh jiggles around more phlegm. “Okay, Wyatt. You let me know when you start rubbing elbows with Mr. Rockefeller.”
We head over to get some food into our bellies. A mushy meat along with hard bread, cheese and relishes, and a small piece of cake. Frank laps his up, nary taking a breath between each bite. The rocking of the ship has affected my stomach, and it feels like whatever I consume might come back up. But Frank tells me that meals are only served twice a day, and since we boarded after breakfast, this will be all for the night.
“So, Mr. Gold,” Frank asks, “got a sweetheart at home?”
At first, I don’t want to talk about Adalaide out of fear of missing her more. But when I begin to speak of her appearance, her luscious warmth, how doting a mother she is, I am filled with a swell of comfort I’ve lacked since I left.
“I have a good woman too. Rosalie. Two children as well. If there’s work in Alaska, I’ll wire some money down so they can join me.”
“Times been tough for you?”
“The panic of ’93 nearly bankrupted us. Couldn’t get a loan to save our life. Was working in a shingle mill at the time. All of ’em closed. McKinley’s brought things back to normal somewhat, that’s what a conservative will do, but Rosalie and I are still buried by loans and IOUs. Had a friend doing well up in the fishing canneries around Sitka. Said he’d introduce me.”
“I wish you all the best, my friend.”
“And you, Wyatt? Always been a gold hunter?”
I ponder this phrase. I’ve been a hunter my whole life. Learned it early on from my pap, who fed us wild animals in and around our farm, taught me how to fight and kill. I grew up a Civil War baby and the notion that the threads of society could unravel at any moment made Pap instill in me a striving for survival above all else. He fed my restless spirit, often fleeing down to California for gold, usually returning with nothing more than blackened hands, except for one time. I was awoken in the middle of the night to a light so bright shining from his palm, a golden nugget that seemed as if the entire world made sense because of it—all of our struggles: losing a sister to scarlet fever, my mother’s jaundice and eventual muteness, Pap’s war injuries that sometimes kept him howling into all hours of the night. This gold bullion made it all worth it. So, with frozen thumbs, he wiped the tears from my eyes and swore that we’d get to keep the farm, the very one where I’m raising my own family.
“Gold means promise,” I say with a lump burning in my throat. “It means sicknesses that could be healed. It means a chance for more than food scraps. It means me making a mark on this here Earth.”
“Ah,” he says, swallowing a gulp of fatty milk. “You want to be revered?”
“I want to save my family,” I reply, clenching my fists again.
“I believe that. But you want to have a legacy as well. All dreamers do. You want a name etched in stone.”
“Is that—is that so wrong?”
“The dreamers never sleep soundly,” he tells me, rubbing his astounding belly. “They are never fulfilled.”
“If I find my treasure, I will be.”
“Always more treasure to find, no?” He loosens some more phlegm and points with his fork at my plate. “Eating that beef, are you?”
My stomach does flips like a gymnast. The sour taste of the beef trickling up the back of my tongue.
“It’s all yours.”
“Fizzing, my friend. Fizzing!”
I leave Frank after we sup and make my way to the poop deck. Choppy waters cause me to finally retch, but my stomach does not feel settled even after the sickness has gone.
I wonder if Frank spoke of my truth. That even after finding gold, I may still be restless enough to leave my loved ones again. That missing them will be a bigger part of my life than actually being with them. What kind of man does this make me? Heartless? Selfish?
Cruel? Did the explorers of yore who discovered all the great lands think similarly? Or were they so focused on their quests that loved ones didn’t engulf their woes? I resolve
that since we already set sail, I must put the expedition above all else. Adalaide and Joe need to recede into the far reaches of my mind, only to be brought out when I require their comfort the most. This is how the greats achieved their trophies. And the name Barlow will become emblazoned
on the biggest golden one of them all. For to return home a failure is not an option.
I’d rather not return at all.
August 13th, 1898
The ship hits a rough patch of weather in the middle of the night and I’m awakened.
Teeming rains batter the windows like falling nails. The other passengers stew in their bunks, but most seem to get back to sleep while I’ve lost the ability to chase my dreams.
The moonlight launches a blue haze over our quarters, dust mites dancing in its beam.
The bunkmate to my left is a heavy snorer who will not relent. I fish out a picture of Adalaide and Joe, needing them more than ever.
At the bottom of the pocket where the picture lies, my fingers glide across a metallic object. I hold it to the blue light to discover the compact mirror given to Adalaide by her mother when we married. I certainly wouldn’t have taken it with me, since her mother passed from consumption a year prior and the wound still fresh. This means that Adalaide, however angry she was because of my departure, placed the heirloom in my pocket as a good-luck souvenir. My worst fears alleviated! No doubt she was mad, but made sure I left with a good-luck charm. When I return home, I’m certain now that the two of us will overcome our dispute.
“Beautiful mirror,” a voice croaks. In the near darkness, it could be coming from anywhere. To my left, the brute still plays a foghorn with his nostrils. To the right, two hazel eyes blink in my direction. “Rolling waves are keeping me up as well.”
I’d forgotten about the churning ship, too wrapped up in my newfound discovery. The hazel eyes have a snake-like resemblance. In fact, his whole body does. Bald with tattoos weaving up his arms. Skin with a leathery reptilian quality. The man Frank had warned me about.
I shift in place so we aren’t facing each other, so he’ll understand I’m not in the mood for chatting. But the rogue has no social graces and keeps flapping his gums.
“I’m a collector. Always have been. My father owned an antique shop.”
“I really must get back to sleep,” I say, gritting my teeth.
The Ancestor Page 8
