Fools' Gold

by Wiley, Richard

  Back at the camp on Topcock Creek, both Phil and the old man were awake inside the tent. They felt fine and sober and would spend the day in one more search for small bits of firewood. The old man again took out the photograph of his daughter and thrust it into Phil’s hands. He had written her name and age on the back and waited until Phil saw what he’d written and repeated it. They nodded to each other and the old man thought what a fine time they would have together in Tokyo. He was still amazed at how much Phil resembled him. And if Phil and his daughter married he was sure that his grandson would have as great a likeness.

  The dog was ready and the two men pushed off toward a place where they believed they would be able to find wood. They carried axes and ran behind the sled, taking turns leaping on and off the runners. When they arrived at the area the old man was panting and sat on the sled to rest while Phil began cutting. The high, clipped sound of the axe shot far down the river and into Finn’s ears. The old man was satisfied and felt at home. He liked Phil so much better than Finn, better even than Fujino. He stood and offered to take the axe for a while and was surprised when Phil stood back to give him room.

  “Now that Finn is gone I will tell the best story of all,” he said. “It was easily Finn’s favorite but I didn’t want to repeat it while he was here.”

  The old man began chopping and then stopped and leaned heavily on the handle of the axe.

  “Tonight I will tell the story of Hideyoshi,” he said. “It is exciting and humorous. You are in for a great surprise.” He stood back lost for a moment in his decision as to just how he would begin the story. He would tell it better to his future son-in-law than he had to Finn. He got the idea for a new rhythm for the story from the sound that he heard snapping at the air around him. Phil had begun chopping again. What a good boy. He had seen in a moment that it was not right to let an old man work.

  Ellen stood outside, at the city’s center, and shook her head. Did the town not know what a monopoly was? Assayer, tax collector; rich man, mayor. It was too much for the fragile honesty of these men. Still, she could imagine a wide town before her, the tents gone, a city laid out in its finery like a section of Seattle. Her bath would still be second to none, could stand next to anything these builders might put up. It was strong and attractive. And it was a money maker as well.

  Ellen gauged the speed of the coming spring by the amount of time she could spend standing in one place and by the look of the ground under her feet once she moved. As she stepped aside there was moisture and she could see it now turning hard again. Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to spin in loose clothing on the sand once more, to watch the heavy ships pushing the salt sea into a froth? In the spring she would be kinder. She would buy fresh foods and give them to her friends. She’d buy clothing for Henriette though she was still angry with her, and she’d buy a fine cherrywood pipe for Finn. And she would conjure correctly the desires and needs of the reverend and of Phil and of Mr. Kaneda if she ever saw him again. As for Fujino, he would have a headstone. She had boxes of money, was making more each day. What could be more honorable than keeping people clean?

  And Ellen would find time for herself, come spring. More than wanting a husband she wanted to be a mother, and if she was not such a fine catch for the way she looked she was certainly no bad bargain. She had a business and an ordered mind and she was strong. She’d been a fool to expect a man to come along who was exactly the man she supposed he should be. Let the man alone, let him be himself, within limits. Still, she’d not have a drinker, no pubman who’d cast his hat for the home hook every night at midnight or later, leaving her to the care of the house. She’d not have a drinker or a politician; otherwise he could follow his natural impulses and she’d love him for it. A man with the fine side of her father would do nicely. A lovely man who would wrap his children in his greatcoat and hoist them high. It is enough to give a child wings, that kind of attention. And a man who would need his time alone, who would sit by the fire with the wrath of God for whoever might interrupt him. Ellen would tiptoe around, she swore she would. Oh, she laughed at the image, herself all big-boned and tiptoeing around the house. And he would have a soft hand for her and a word or two to set on the floor of her bedtime ear, all private like there were only the two of them scratching the surface of the earth. Was that too much to ask? For a man like that?

  The cold came through her greatcoat as if to say that it was, that she ought to settle for the first man who’d have her. Had there ever been a longer winter to make the promise of spring seem so great? Ellen didn’t know. She was a daydreamer so could survive the winter well. And would she take a daydreamer for a husband then? She could see the two of them, bodies back to back yet worlds apart.

  But for now, still winter, it was time to get back to the bath. She’d let Henriette work alone from the earliest part of the morning as punishment. It was back-breaking work, lugging those liquid buckets about. Maybe after today there’d be no more asking for an evening off to go running to the tent of that bleeder.

  It was impossible for Ellen to enter her bath without noticing the round-topped mule’s feet. Weren’t they more hideous than the entire frozen mule, rider and all? And each time she saw them she thought of Hummel, and each time she thought of him she found him sitting in some corner of the bath’s front room, tying his eyes to the moving figure of Henriette or talking to Ellen if she stood still for it.

  Today he was perched atop the counter, examining in his hot palm the marble egg given her by Finn.

  “Unhand my egg and get off the counter,” she said. “There are chairs all about you if you’d care to look.”

  Hummel slid to his feet but held the egg up in the air between them.

  “How much do you want for it?” he asked. “It’s a silly thing but I’ll take it off your hands.”

  “We sell baths, no longer eggs,” she said. “Besides, it’s not something you can sink your teeth into.”

  Ellen took the egg and placed it back where it belonged, rolling about the floor of one of the empty chicken coops. She could hear Henriette in the back and could tell from the sound that there were no customers.

  “I believe you’re next, Mr. Hummel, if you’ve come for a bath.”

  Henriette came out when she heard Ellen’s voice. “The baths are clean and the last of the morning crowd is gone,” she said. She took Ellen’s hand and shook it. “Did you know, Ellen, that Mr. Hummel plans to bring his mother to live with him? As soon as he gets his house built.”

  Ellen looked from Hummel to Henriette. No doubt he’ll be needing a wife for his mother to browbeat, she thought.

  “Did he feed you as properly as he claimed he would?” she asked.

  “Ptarmigan,” said Henriette. “It was fowl where I expected fish.”

  Ellen put her arm around Henriette. “Lord knows we’ve had enough of fish this winter,” she said. “It would be a pleasure for anyone to have a taste of something else.”

  This was the time of day when there was a chance for one of them to rest before the afternoon rush began. People cleaned themselves in the morning or just before supper, or just before bed. One of them always stayed downstairs, but the other took a real nap, stretched out on a bed above. Hummel’s habit was to come every other day, when it was Henriette’s turn to tend the bath.

  “Go ahead on up,” Ellen said to Henriette. “You didn’t get your proper sleep last night and I’ve a mind to stay down anyway.”

  Henriette nodded and turned toward the stairs without looking at Hummel. “I thought you’d stay down today,” he said, but Henriette didn’t answer. She merely motioned with her free hand, trailing a sweater behind her in the other.

  Hummel walked to the bottom of the stairs and put his hand on the railing, his foot on the lower step.

  “Feel free to sit upon the steps, Mr. Hummel,” said Ellen. “Walking on them, however, is reserved for the employees.”

  “We had such a good time last night. I came here today especiall
y to talk to her.”

  “Well,” said Ellen, “what’s another day in winter? If you want me out of the way Henriette will be running the shop alone this time tomorrow, I can guarantee you.”

  Hummel lowered himself foot and head, then turned back toward Ellen as she stood behind the counter.

  “It was you who told everyone about my beach strike,” he said evenly. “You’re the one I should have blamed.”

  “It was the assayer, not I,” she said. “The man you’ve all appointed tax collector. And you were not so ill treated as you think. It was no real strike and it was municipal property. Consider yourself lucky to have found it first.”

  Hummel wiped his sweaty palms on the top of a stack of bath towels and then looked up quickly to see if Ellen had seen him do it. He picked up his heavy coat and stepped toward the door.

  “I’ll draw you a map to your murdered man’s grave soon. To the snow mound where we’ve dumped him.”

  Ellen stared up from her counter but said simply, “Suicide.”

  With the soft closing of the door Ellen was left alone once again. While Hummel had hovered about her she’d pretended to count the morning’s receipts three times and still had little idea how much they’d taken in. She tried to think of what it was she needed to supply herself with and where she might be able to get her hands on it. She needed soap, that was one thing, but there’d be no soap until the ice broke and the ships could come into the bay once again. She turned around and looked at the barren shelves and empty chicken coops behind her. Next winter, if she lived so long, she’d triple her stock and stay up nights, if she had to, to keep them alive.

  Ellen saw her marble egg and took it out of the coop and held it between her hands. If the egg ever disappeared she’d know whose door to pound on for it. She felt the need to hide the egg even now, but its shape made finding a hiding place difficult. The egg was made to lie snugly under a chicken, not to roll around the floor of an empty coop. She put it in the cigar box that held her money, then took it out again. She walked to her coat and pushed the egg deep into the fur-lined pocket. This way when she wore the coat she’d have something to rest her hand upon. The bottom of her pocket held the egg perfectly. With her hand on it she felt like a mother, protective and waiting. And she felt it would not do to let the egg grow cold again.

  On impulse and not long after Finn left, Phil took the runners off the sled and made a pair of ice skates for Kaneda. They were longer than the reverend’s but Phil tried them himself and was satisfied with the way they worked. He made platforms out of wood and strapped the skates to the old man’s feet, using strips of hide. Later he drew a map of the camp and showed Kaneda the river path to the Eskimo village, and the old man understood.

  “We are going to take a trip to your place,” he said. “We can leave everything but the gold. It will be our vacation before the work of the coming spring.”

  That night the storytelling went well and they slept without whiskey, both of them excited about the next morning’s departure. Phil had made special covers for the mute dog’s paws so that he would be able to run on the ice, and he strung the remaining golden snowflakes together so that they fit over the old man’s shoulders and hung down his back and chest like armor. The dog sat all night licking at his feet but getting none of his usual pleasure from it. In the morning, dressed in his skates and gold the old man did figure eights on the familiar front ice and, seeing his chest glimmer, pulled a stick from the bank and made samurai passes through the air.

  “Like this and like this!” he yelled, his long skates pointing like swords in the direction he chose.

  Phil was afraid the old man would tire on the journey so he pulled a long rope from the shelter and tied an end to each of their waists. They looked like flatland mountain climbers. They would make good time if they left immediately, for the hours of daylight were far greater now than at the time of Phil’s arrival. Phil thought briefly that they might even see Finn, trudging along the shore path, looking toward the river.

  “Come, Taro,” cried Kaneda, and he gave a slight pull on his end of the rope, forcing Phil to leave the shore before he had secured all of the gold pans in their poker-chip chimneys the way he’d seen them stacked at other abandoned sites. They coasted away from Topcock Creek, the old man in front, his armor looking to Phil like a gold woven net thrown over the shoulders of a fisherman. They turned onto the Snake and then skated side by side. The tips of the old man’s skates were curled slightly and they were longer so he worked less, pushing off once for every two of Phil’s steps. Their faces were covered and the fur collars of their jackets were packed hard around their eyes.

  Phil could feel the pressure again, around his ankles and against the sides of his feet. He looked toward the old man but could see nothing of the discomfort he must feel. The old man skated as Phil’s father might have. He was old but his body was taut, every tuned muscle involved with the skating.

  When he got home Phil would tell his children the story of the owls. He went over it in his mind, deciding which rhythms to use, deciding his pace and tone. He would take his style from the old man or from the reverend and he would tell the story in both Eskimo and English so that the reverend could hear it and make helpful suggestions. Now he practiced telling the story according to the rhythms of the skating. He pulled out a rope’s length in front of Kaneda, then was held back and remembered that in storytelling a common rhythm must be maintained, that it is not good to be continually speeding up and slowing down. At this lesson from the old man’s steadiness, Phil thought of a way to relieve him of part of the hard work of skating. He turned slightly and grabbed the rope and pulled it hard so that the old man slipped past him, grinning with his eyes. Now the old man was a rope’s length in front of Phil and they could skate at different speeds until Phil passed him and was in a position to pull him forward again. Back and forth they went, the tundra trees flipping past silently, the wide Snake twisting beneath their skates.

  The old man could feel, more than the soreness of the skates, the weight of the golden snowflakes that hung from him, backside and front. Phil had tied the gold in such a way that there was no chance of any of it breaking and falling soft and unnoticed on the quiet ice, so he wasn’t worried about that. Still, the old man would not have objected if the gold hung from Phil’s shoulders rather than from his own. Had he been skating with Fujino he would have ordered him to carry it. But with Phil it was different. Though he was like a son he was not like a son. He was an equal and would never allow himself to be subjugated in the way that Japanese sons-in-law were supposed to be.

  Phil was older and it had crossed Kaneda’s mind that all these random thoughts about his daughter were pure madness. His daughter might find Phil less desirable than she had found young Fujino. He suspected that he might also have a difficult time explaining why he had returned to Japan with this man who did not speak their language and why he had allowed the young man of his daughter’s clear choice to so spiritually decline that he had chosen seppuku over continued life. It was so unlike Fujino that the old man feared they might not believe him. And, though his daughter was beautiful, he worried that Phil might find her shyness unbecoming. He might want her to be more visibly strong like the two women they’d arrived with, the two women from Nome. And there were so few foreigners in Japan that Phil might find himself lonely and might find the task of learning Japanese as difficult as Kaneda found the study of English. These little problems were something he was not facing. He’d been so overjoyed at the discovery of this man who fit his plans so well that he had failed to look at the obstacles.

  Phil was a rope’s length ahead again and pulled hard, and Kaneda felt the surge of speed and bent his knees slightly so that when he shot past Phil he saw only the blurred side of Phil’s coat. It was thrilling, being pulled forward with such a rush. He could see the curled fronts of the sled runners out ahead of him and he could see, way out ahead, the brown speck of dog, trotting. And, though the gold
was heavy, it kept him warm. He had no sense of winter except as pinpoints of ice, shafts of it stabbing him directly in the eyes.

  The river turned, and when the two men skated together the rope between them swung to the ice and touched pieces of debris that the wind had set in their way. There was no sound other than the sound of the skates, and no place did the ice show a weakening, any of the bluing that preceded its thaw.

  In an hour the skaters had moved on the ice so that Phil was always in the lead and the old man always being pulled. It was the weight of the gold and the spreading soreness in his legs and ankles. Much of the time he squatted down, letting the tail of his snowflake armor nearly touch the ice. He could sit that way for a very long time and from there could see clearly the true nature of the ice they passed over. He let his skates fall into and widen the grooves made by Phil’s thinner blades.

  The ice Kaneda saw was cloudy, with grains running as the water had, toward the sea. It appeared to him that the water had merely stopped in its pitch and roll, frozen in its churn, and he thought that it would have been proper for men to have stopped as well. Ice is slippery because it demands no movement and winter should be a time of no movement for men. Happily the old man touched with his glove the gold webbing that lay over his heart. It was soft and heavy and not subject to the laws that governed the river and men. Suddenly he got the idea that gold would not freeze at any temperature and thus had become so valuable. It was constant, and though it came in many forms it remained persistent and persuasive. Like the flaw in a man’s character, it is sometimes hidden but always reappears.