Veins of Gold

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  Winn’s brow furrowed. “I . . . wouldn’t do that, Gentry. They really are harmless, but wild magic is different from—”

  “Gentry,” Rooster called over his shoulder, “stop flirting and help me!”

  The desert heat soaked deep into Gentry’s skin. She whirled on her brother. “I am not—” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. She rubbed the heels of both hands into her eyes. “Different from what?”

  “From the tame variety,” Winn finished, matching Gentry’s hushed tone. “Like the seagulls, or other physical creatures. Creatures capable of independent thought—”

  “You folks all right?”

  Gentry spun around at Hoss’s voice, her skin still too hot, and spotted her neighbor sprinting toward them. He passed a narrow glance toward Winn when he arrived.

  “Yes, we’re fine,” Gentry answered, half her thoughts lingering on Winn’s unfinished sentence. She rubbed her temples. “We will be.”

  Hoss looked toward his farm, to the war of bug and bird. “Thought I was done for. Well-timed seagulls. A little far from the lake, but thank the Lord.”

  Winn cleared his throat.

  Gentry said, “Hoss, this is Winn. Winn, this is Hoss Howland, our neighbor.”

  Hoss, hands on his hips, turned toward Winn and looked him up and down in a manner that seemed almost unfriendly. Very not Hoss. When he did shake Winn’s hand, he seemed to be trying to crush it. Gentry felt that itch between her shoulder blades again, but what could she say?

  “Winn what?” Hoss asked.

  Winn shrugged and withdrew from Hoss’s grasp. “Just Winn is fine.” He grinned.

  “You new in town?”

  “More or less.”

  Hoss raised a brow. “Where’d you settle? You don’t look like a farmer.”

  Gentry murmured, “We’re not all farmers, Hoss.”

  “Just passing through, really. I’m from around.” That smile never left his face, yet it wasn’t false. Everything about Winn’s sunny countenance appeared genuine. Gentry found herself staring and forced her eyes to move away.

  “Where’s your horse?” Hoss asked, eyeing the stable.

  Gentry frowned at Hoss’s animosity. “Mr. Howland—”

  “Locusts scared it off,” replied Winn.

  “Aren’t you going to look for it?”

  Winn shrugged. “I’m not worried.”

  Hoss somehow managed to both narrow his eyes and raise his brow. He adjusted his hat.

  “Winn,” Gentry began, “you were saying—”

  “Gentry,” called Rooster.

  She swallowed the question and focused on her brother. “Sorry, sorry.” She hurried around to the open gate to let herself into the garden. She didn’t need to investigate closely to see the ruined plants, the carnage she’d refused to notice until now. Some of the crops might still come back, but so many were unsalvageable. Just . . . gone.

  The elation of the seagulls and Winn’s small miracle evaporated from her skin. Her stomach cramped.

  This. How was she supposed to fix this?

  The seagulls drove off the locusts, but no one in Dry Creek survived them unscathed, though Rooster found Bounder roaming near the mercantile. The town was so small it didn’t have a governor or even a school, but one of the farmers took leadership upon himself and rallied people at the center of town. Gentry was surprised at the turnout, though the thought that her father should have been there nagged in the back of her mind. Even Winn came, though amid folk who looked common and melancholy, he stood out like a piece of gold in a cart of coal.

  But the damage had been done. Half the garden ruined—more if Gentry couldn’t coax injured plants back to life. The sight of the beds made Gentry sick, but at least the locusts hadn’t eaten it all. She reminded herself of that every time she saw the insects’ battlefield from the corner of her eye.

  Because the Abrams weren’t farmers, their garden was repaired as best as it could be quickly: the beds tidied, the plants watered, some clippings saved and put in water in hopes that they’d grow new roots. Then the townsfolk moved on to help larger families and those with cash crops. Gentry went to Hoss’s farm to clear out some of the mess the infestation had left, but Hoss hadn’t been struck badly. The seagulls had come just in time.

  Rooster helped the other, larger homesteads. Pearl came home, her eyes brimming with tears, but one look at Winn brightened her countenance. Gentry made formal introductions. Pearl didn’t bother to ask how Winn knew where they lived, or how he knew Gentry’s name. She was young enough to accept it, and for that Gentry was grateful. She couldn’t handle the barrage of questions, not right now. No matter how well-intentioned they were.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” she said once Pearl ceased her fawning over Winn. She focused on keeping her tone even and her demeanor calm. “Rose won’t be back with us for a while yet. We can dismantle part of her stall and use the wood to build planter boxes. We’ll keep them inside, away from bugs and direct sunlight.” Her stomach eased a little. “Those plants can have the best care, and they can survive frost when it comes, so we can make up a little of what we lost.”

  Winn said, “Sounds splendid.”

  The seagull Turkey returned and made himself comfortable on the roof.

  Gentry pulled out her father’s tools. Handing Winn the hammer, she said, “How did you know they were coming?”

  “I sensed a rift in the desert’s disposition. Followed it here. Glad I did.”

  He grinned, and Gentry tried to mirror the expression. “Is there a way for me to know before something happens again? My family, my friends . . . I don’t want to see them hurt.”

  The grin faded. “I’m not sure I could teach it, Gentry. It’s intuitive. You need to be aware of the world around you and become part of it. Then you’ll feel it.”

  She nodded, though the advice did little to help her.

  Winn turned for the stables. She half expected him to magic something or other, but he worked just as any normal man would, yanking bent nails out of the stable wood while Bounder watched nervously. Pearl grabbed planks and heaved until they came free, then held them together while Gentry used the old nails to piece them into planter boxes. Used nails weren’t strong, but they would have to do until money arrived from California. Winn sawed down a few of the longer planks and found some chicken wire to refashion into hooks so the boxes hung off the window sills.

  Gentry had just started to dig down to moist earth to fill the boxes when Winn’s seagulls returned, cawing at random, but something about their sounds drew his attention away, northwest. He pressed his lips together.

  Gentry handed her sister the shovel and walked over to Winn. “What’s wrong?”

  He managed a small smile, but this one wasn’t genuine. Already Gentry saw the difference. “Something’s amiss over the mountains.”

  “From . . . the mines?”

  Winn sighed. “Maybe. Probably. I’m going to have a look. Will you be all right?”

  Gentry nodded. “Almost done, and Rooster will be home soon enough.” She touched his elbow, the place ringed with rolled shirtsleeve. “Thank you so much for your help. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”

  Again Winn tipped an invisible hat. “I aim to please, miss.”

  Gentry smiled. Moving to the garden fence, Winn stooped down and pulled a small groundsel weed out of the ground, plucked the yellow flower from it, and tossed the rest of the plant. He offered the flower to Gentry.

  “Until we meet again.” The words sounded like a promise.

  Without any direction from him that Gentry saw or heard, the seagulls leapt into the air and dived for him, swirling about in a cyclone of feathers, hiding Winn from sight. They rose into the air, then soared with a hawk-like speed west toward the San Pitches. Gentry shielded her eyes and watched him go until the bundle of birds vanished beyond a peak.

  Her heart hammered, seeing such a sight. She pinched the groundsel stem in her hands, a
nd it hammered all the more.

  “Did you see that?” Pearl asked, running to Gentry’s side and clinging to her arm. “He just vanished in a bunch of seagulls!”

  “Oh no, he rode off.”

  “What? On what horse?”

  “On his.” Gentry smiled and pinched Pearl’s side, making her sister jump. “We’re not done yet, Pearly. Come on.”

  “You’re fibbing,” Pearl whined, dragging her feet back to the garden.

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Gentry shook her head. The planters were a quarter filled with dirt. “Come on, let’s get this finished so we can eat.” It would be a late supper.

  “Is he coming back?”

  Gentry met her sister’s eyes, brown, like her own, but they looked prettier than Gentry’s. More . . . alight. “Do you want him to come back?” She winked.

  “Gentry, be fair!”

  Gentry laughed. “All right, all right. Yes, he’ll come back. Now let’s shovel.”

  Pearl grinned and dug the spade into the earth. Gentry, passing one last glance toward the mountains, tucked the groundsel into one of the button holes on her dress and got to work.

  Gentry walked to the window cut into the side of the mercantile, wringing her finger in her opposite fist. Through it she saw the edge of the counter of the shop as well a small shelf for sorting what mail made it to the small town. An old telegraph sat on a table across from it.

  Mr. Olson sorted spices inside, spectacles low on his nose. His white shirt was ironed and crisp, and there was a little oil in his hair. She wondered how much he made and if he’d ever had to go hungry.

  He glimpsed her and set the spices down, wiping his hands on his apron before coming to the window. “Ah, Miss Abrams. You’re in luck.”

  Her heart lodged in her throat so tightly she couldn’t speak.

  “Let’s see.” He turned to the shelf. Gentry put her hands on the glassless window’s sill and leaned forward, watching him search the small cubbies. He pulled a single letter from one of them.

  She swallowed her heart down. Finally, a letter! She tried not to dwell on the thinness of it in Mr. Olson’s hands. Of course Pa wouldn’t have wages to send yet. He probably just started working, and wanted them to know he was all right. Just his handwriting would be enough for Gentry.

  “Postage already paid for.” Mr. Olson handed the letter to her with a smile.

  “Thank you,” Gentry breathed, grasping the letter. She scurried away from the mercantile and turned the letter over, but at the sight of the return address, her shoulders—and heart—dropped.

  Hannah Hinkle, the neat penmanship read. The name blurred together, and Gentry blinked back tears, taking in deep, raking breaths to calm herself. She silently thanked the breeze that swept by to dry her eyelashes.

  Normally she would be jubilant to receive a letter from Hannah, but with time stretching since her father’s departure, she was more desperate than ever to hear from him. To know he was all right. To receive some of his wages and get bread on the table, since without the gun, Rooster had a hard time of catching any game.

  She opened the letter.

  June 4

  Dear Gentry, Rooster, and Pearl,

  Thinking of you. I hope Gentry and Pearl made it back all in one piece. You all are welcome to visit at any time. Please let me know if you need anything. Have you heard from your father?

  Caleb is running about, encouraged by the other children. He has a sweet, if rambunctious, soul. Getting him to sit through even one hour of church is nigh impossible!

  Please write back and let me know what’s going on in Dry Creek. I’ll pay the postage, just get the letter posted.

  Much Love,

  Hannah

  At least there was Hannah.

  Massaging tension from her shoulders, Gentry returned to the window, handed Mr. Olson the letter to her father, a few precious pennies, and a voiceless prayer that she’d hear from Butch Abrams soon.

  “Math barely makes sense with numbers,” Pearl complained from the kitchen table, a small slate before her and a nub of chalk clutched in her fingers. “You can’t add letters.”

  “Pearl.” Gentry tried to keep frustration from sharpening her voice as she cleaned the floor. She frowned at a thumb-sized piece of bread left on Ma’s old rag rug, now crawling with ants. She picked up the morsel and stomped on the bugs.

  “No need to get constipated,” Pearl grumbled.

  “I—what?” Gentry asked, turning around. She clutched Rooster’s drawers and a pair of his work pants under one arm, again in need of patching. “It’s not constipated, it’s consternated. And I’m not. I explained the letters to you last week.”

  Ma had always valued education. She’d been a teacher back in Virginia. It wasn’t fair to Pearl that their mother’s tutoring was cut short.

  “I don’t remember.” Pearl put her head down on the table.

  Huffing, Gentry came over and set the mending down on a chair. “The letters stand for something. Don’t think of them as letters, but . . . like secrets. You’re trying to find out what the secret is.”

  “It’s an X,” Pearl said.

  Gentry rubbed her forehead. “No, here.” She took the slate and rewrote the equation with question marks instead of Xs and Ys. “See? It’s a mystery.”

  “But the answer is right there.” She pointed to the four at the other end of the equals sign.

  “The four is not the mystery, this is—oh bother!”

  The stovetop sizzled as a pot of vegetable broth bubbled over, spilling against the hot surface. Gentry grabbed the handle to move it, then dropped the pan as it burned her palm. More broth sloshed out and steamed, but at least the pan had stayed upright.

  Yanking back her sleeve, Gentry dunked her hand into the half-full pail of water on the floor. Don’t cry.

  Pearl, frowning, slid off her chair and grabbed a rag, first wetting it in the same pail and then whisking it over the stove to clean up the hot broth. She peered into the pot. “It’s good. It’s enough.”

  “It’s not.” The now familiar lump reformed in Gentry’s throat. She looked at her hand and the red streak crossing her palm, which had only recently lost the marks from her fall in American Fork. No blisters. Not so bad of a burn, but hand injuries were always the worst, especially when there was so much work to be done.

  Her mind traveled back to the ledger. When was that next mortgage payment due?

  “I’ll make tortillas,” Pearl said. “Hannah showed me how. They’re Mexican.”

  “I know what tortillas are.”

  “They’ll make up for what you spilled, and we don’t have to wait for them to rise, and they won’t use much flour.”

  Gentry pulled her hand from the bucket and gingerly dried it on her skirt. “Thank you, Pearl. That will help.”

  Pearl beamed and fetched the nearly empty flour sack, her studies blissfully forgotten.

  Gentry sat on the floor a long moment, leaning against the wall, staring out over the house. Maybe they could all move to Salt Lake City. There would be more work there, possibly even something for Gentry. Rooster didn’t want to be a farmhand forever, after all. The move would be costly . . . but if they found work first, it might be worth it. If.

  Gentry frowned. They’d have to say goodbye to this house, the house they built when the family was still whole. Before Ma died. And Pa . . . he wouldn’t know where to send his letters.

  But you’ll hear from him before any of this nonsense can happen, she thought, and sighed. Most of the Mormons were poor. Carolyn had said so herself. Who was to say there was even work to be had?

  Gentry ached for Virginia. She could get a job teaching if they lived in Virginia. Just like Ma had.

  A squishing sound, almost like curds wrung in a cheesecloth, drew Gentry’s attention to the window by the door, its shutters open to encourage the breeze. On the sill bobbed one of the dark, drop-shaped spirits from earlier. The black holes Gentry thought were its eyes rolled about. />
  Gentry froze and eyed Pearl, who busied herself pressing lard into flour. She touched the gold chain around her neck. “Pearl?”

  “Hm?”

  “Look at the window. Do you see anything?”

  Pearl glanced up from her work, her gaze slowly wandering to the window by the door. It slid passed it to the window at the end of the house, then back. “See what?”

  Gentry managed a small smile. “Oh, nothing, it’s gone. Just a wasp, I think.”

  Pearl rolled her eyes and turned back to the dough. Gentry took a step near the window; the blob shivered with . . . delight?

  It knows I can see it, she thought, unclasping her necklace and palming it to protect it. But was this the same wild magic that had heeded her earlier, or another one?

  She mouthed, “I don’t have any gold for you,” to it, but of course the small creature didn’t understand. She slid the necklace into her pocket. The blob’s dark spot-eyes followed the gesture. Seconds later, its body stiffened and it twisted about like taffy. It made that squishing sound again and faded right before Gentry’s eyes, as though it was never there at all.

  Gentry touched the pane where the creature had sat. She felt nothing, heard nothing. Peered outside so see only desert and dust. She frowned. Had something frightened it, or had it understood her after all?

  She looked out over the dusty yard, out toward the mountains. Closed her eyes and took deep, swelling breaths. Tried to feel the earth the way Winn had tried to explain, after the locusts. She’d last seen one of those blob things before the insects attacked. Was something else looming in the future?

  Gentry felt nothing, of course.

  “When is Pa going to write?” Pearl asked, a smudge of white flour already on her cheek.

  Gentry opened her eyes and pulled back from the window. “When he decides to remember us.”

  Pearl stilled her spoon, expression drawn.

  Gentry closed her eyes and shook her head. “No, sorry. I’m sorry. He’s probably working very hard to see that we’re looked after, and he doesn’t have time to write a letter just now. But it will come, and he’ll send us enough money to buy a cow and some maple syrup.”