Auraria: A Novel

by Tim Westover

  Chapter Eight

  It was suppertime, already dark, when Holtzclaw returned to Auraria from the Terrible Cascade. He knew that he should find a carriage back to Dahlonega, report as summoned, and hope that Shadburn’s displeasure would be diffused by the six land deeds that Holtzclaw could present, rather than the one that he could not. But he knew he’d take a drubbing over it—any failure overwhelms every success.

  From within the Old Rock Falls Inn, a warm firelight glowed. Abigail was no doubt preparing some roasted dish. At McTavish’s, a greasy, wet smoke rolled from an open window. Mrs. McTavish had created a culinary miscegenation, and Holtzclaw didn’t want to eat it. At the Grayson House, there was a chorus of what sounded like eleven fiddlers. He had not been inside there yet. Taking a meal there would be invaluable scouting for future negotiations, and perhaps he would hear how much the people of Auraria knew about his mission. It would be a half hour well spent, and the delay would make no great difference to Shadburn. Besides, Holtzclaw could better face his employer’s wrath if he were fed.

  A man was napping on the Grayson House’s porch. It was Dan, the man who’d been asleep on the floor of Walton’s tower that was crammed with musical instruments. The fiddle music, crashes, and clinks from within the Grayson House were a fine lullaby for him. Holtzclaw stepped over the sleeping figure and into a whirl of motion.

  Two dozen people capered in the room, which served as a bar, dining area, and gaming parlor. In the crowd, Holtzclaw saw familiar faces—Moss, from whom he’d bought the frosted springhouse; Bogan, the miner; Emmett, the druggist. It was dangerous that Moss and Bogan were together in the same place. Each, on his own, might be discreet about his transaction. But if they began to converse between themselves, they might discover that they had both sold their lands in the same day, to the same stranger. Holtzclaw needed to unset the snare. How many more incidents like this would occur while he was away in Dahlonega, attending to whatever blasted whims Shadburn had felt were more pressing than the main mission? It was bad business, thought Holtzclaw—bad business. How could Shadburn turn this one into a profit?

  “It’s Jimmy!” called Emmett the druggist, approaching Holtzclaw. “Hi there, Jimmy! How were those Effervescent Brain Salts?”

  “I think they may have impaired my judgment,” he confessed.

  “Well, either you didn’t take enough, or you took too many. Supposed to work wonders for what ails you. Says so right on the label. In the meantime, we are having quite the night here. Moss over there is treating folks, which is right kind of him.”

  Holtzclaw felt a sickening pit form just below his spleen. “Did Moss say why he’s being so generous?”

  “Said he made a strike. Found some gold in his river. Can you imagine? He’s been digging for years and never got more than a sprinkle of powder, and now he’s talking about a nugget that he dug up, right by the Five Forks Creek.”

  “A nugget? Well, I’ll be,” said Holtzclaw. “That’s a fine discovery, isn’t it? Goodness. Moss say anything else?”

  “He might have, but I disremember. Finding a nugget is the biggest news there is. What could top that?”

  “Has anyone else been free with their purse tonight?” said Holtzclaw, hoping that the question itself was not too suspicious.

  “No one’s had to be,” said Emmett. “Moss is setting everyone up.”

  “Oh, a buffet? What’s on the offering? I’m famished.”

  “Setting up means drinks, Jimmy. You still got to buy your own food. See, buying someone a drink doesn’t insult their poverty. Everyone likes getting a drink. But you buy somebody food, and he gets offended. ‘You think I can’t buy my own food?’ he says. If you want food here at the Grayson House, this is what you have to do. You put out a bit of gold dust for yourself on this spot here.”

  Emmett motioned toward a burned indentation in the surface of the bar. Each stool had such an indentation in front of it.

  “Sampson’s shy, and the mistress says she’ll do whatever makes him comfortable. Put ten cents down for you and ten cents down for me. That’s just enough gold dust to cover up the spot.”

  “I have eight colors in the brim of my hat.”

  “Eight colors will buy you about eight beans,” said Emmett. “You got federal money?”

  Holtzclaw found two dimes in his breast pocket. He placed one on his own spot and one on Emmett’s.

  “What did I just tell you about insulting poverty?” said Emmett. Holtzclaw moved to retract the dime, but Emmett laughed. “You’re a soft touch, Jimmy. If you want to buy me supper, I won’t be upset. Now, Sampson’s real shy, so you don’t want to stare at your money. Otherwise you’ll never get fed. Just turn around and look out in the crowd. Watch Nimrod play the fiddle a bit.”

  “What if someone takes my coin off the table when I’m not looking?”

  “You’d think that would happen in a place like this?” said Emmett. “Well, you’d be right. So glance back every once and a while. If your money is gone but there’s no food, then yeah, you got robbed. Maybe you’ll just have to steal a little back from the fellow at the next stool over. But most people get fed on the first try.”

  Holtzclaw and Emmett turned to watch a dice game that was taking place at a nearby table. Holtzclaw knew that it was chuck-luck, a game that was not unique to Auraria. It was played in every tavern from Lexington to Savannah. Dice were more reputable than playing cards, but the most refined people amused themselves with dominoes.

  “What are the shooters dipping their fingers into?” said Holtzclaw.

  “Why, Pharaoh’s Flour, of course! Before I started to carry Pharaoh’s Flour, it was cornmeal, but now they all buy from me. Soaks up the sweat, gives a clean release on the dice, imbues you with the spirit of ancient Hittite warriors.”

  “Aren’t dice throws supposed to be a matter of chance?”

  “No, no! That’s not a game then. No skill, no merit. Chuck-luck isn’t like gold mining. If you keep digging, you’re bound to find a nugget. But unless you’ve got the knack, you’re going to lose that nugget over dice. You’ll lose it to a better player, who uses all the advantages he’s got.”

  Holtzclaw turned back to see if his money had been taken. It was gone, but in its place was supper. Three steaming bowls had been placed at each stool. The largest held a creamy soup; another, breaded frogs’ legs; the last, a grayish pudding.

  “What’s in the small bowl?” asked Holtzclaw.

  “Squirrel brains. Even people that don’t like the taste of squirrel still like the brains.”

  First, Holtzclaw gave each bowl a thorough visual inspection. Second, a complete olfactory profile to ascertain the freshness of the ingredients. Third, a vigorous stirring, to investigate the murky depths. Fourth, a hesitant bite, followed by a prolonged pause to sample for fast-acting poisons. And finally, a substantial morsel.

  “These are all quite good!” said Holtzclaw, who proceeded to dig into the bowls with delight.

  Emmett scraped up the last bite from his bowl of gray pudding. “These squirrels died happy. You can tell because these brains are sweet. Not bitter, like they are when you shoot your own squirrel. I don’t how Sampson does it. The lady would keep him around just for the squirrel brains, even if everything else were blinky.”

  Holtzclaw ate until all traces of the soup and the squirrel pudding were gone. The frogs’ legs were also cleaned to the bone. While the Old Rock Falls Inn offered more pleasant company, the Grayson House won on culinary merit. Poor Abigail—she wasn’t even the best cook in this tiny town.

  The fiddler struck the opening notes of a new tune, and a whoop made Holtzclaw turn away from his empty bowls. An excited Moss flailed his hat above his head and leapt from one leg to another.

  “Chickens are crowing up on Sourwood Mountain!” sang Moss, somewhere near the tune. “Hi-o diddle-um day!”

  Moss had imbibed enough to loosen his tongue. A large enough drink might push him past the phase of total candor and int
o a less talkative mood. It was a trick that Holtzclaw had found in certain French novels, and there it seemed … disreputable. And yet, advantageous and not entirely morally impaired, for it required willing participation. Claret should certainly not be involved—better to use a baser liquor.

  “What’s the most powerful thing you serve here?” Holtzclaw asked Emmett.

  “That would be moonshine.”

  “Wouldn’t that make it too easy for the revenuers to intercept your home brew, if you sell it in your tavern?”

  “No, you’re thinking of white lightning. Moonshine doesn’t have liquor in it. You don’t even drink it.”

  “And it’s enough to knock a grown man flat?”

  “I’ve never seen anyone stay standing,” said Emmett. “That’s the kind of stuff Mother Fresh-Roasted sells. The Grayson House gets it from her.”

  Then it would serve his purposes, thought Holtzclaw, whether it was a liquid or powder or unguent. Holtzclaw excused himself from Emmett and approached Moss, who had taken a seat on a long bench.

  “Why, hello, stranger! I’m Moss.”

  “Yes, pleased to meet you. Your friends tell me you’ve had a piece of good fortune.”

  “I should say so! Been digging for ten years, twenty years. I was owed. I was due! Name’s Moss, by way.”

  “Can I help you celebrate, then? What would you like? Moonshine, maybe?”

  Moss nodded, then continued to nod, then flung his head so wildly back and forth that he fell forward from the bench. Holtzclaw picked him up again. It may not take a full dram of moonshine to finish this man for the evening, but better to overfill than underfill.

  A short man with an apron was scurrying around, filling mugs from behind a wooden bar and delivering them to chuck-luckers, dancers, idlers, and spitters. Holtzclaw caught the edge of the bartender’s sleeve.

  “Sir, we’d like a mug of moonshine or a cup or shot or however it comes.”

  “Bowl, comes in a bowl. Silver bowl,” said the bartender. He returned, bearing a heavy metal bowl and pitcher, which he placed on the table with a thump that was heard above even the noise of the fiddler tuning up. Many heads turned to see the bartender pouring the contents of the pitcher into the bowl. A shimmer of starlight filled the tavern.

  Moss, holding on to the edge of the table, peered into the bowl. He started to say something, but his knees gave out. He slumped to the floor, dazed, mouth moving, but no sounds coming out. Two patrons caught Moss by the armpits and lifted him up. Holtzclaw, astounded but pleased with the results, resisted the urge to look himself—if the sight of the contents of the bowl was enough to flatten Moss, he was sure it would do the same to him.

  “Now he’s got to sleep it off,” said the bartender to Holtzclaw. “You want to pay for a room too?” Holtzclaw counted out money into the waiter’s waving palm. The bowl of moonshine had cost more than an acre of timber, but buying Moss’s silence for another day could prove far more valuable.

  It was a malodorous success, though. It hung around Holtzclaw’s nose in a vapory cloud that smelled damp and dreamy. He wondered if he would have to bait other loose-lipped clients the same way, if he should perhaps open an account at the Grayson House for an unending stream of moonshine. Had Shadburn ever needed to liquor up the natives, or was it only Holtzclaw’s inadequacies that required such dealings?

  Bogan sat alone at a corner table, drinking a bottle of Dr. Pep. Without a character like Moss to draw the words out, Bogan wasn’t likely to spill the news of the land sale.

  “Who’s got poppy rocks?” called out the fiddler. “I need some.”

  “The lady doesn’t like it, Nimrod!” replied a voice from the crowd. “They wake her up from her beauty sleep.”

  “She’s not even here!” said the fiddler. “She’s up visiting Daddy.”

  “Naw, she’s upstairs,” said someone from the crowd. “She came in the back way a few minutes ago.”

  The fiddler whooped and took a crystal from an outstretched hand. He put it into his mouth and bit down. A terrific bang shot from between his lips, complete with sparks and a sulfurous smell. “Why, howdy! That’ll wake you up!” He bit again, and another bang jolted his head to the side. Smoke drifted from his nose. Some of the spectators started to cheer. Others slipped out of the exits.

  “Boys, just what is going on down here?” A woman’s voice cut through the hoots, hollers, explosions, and clatter.

  The room fell silent, except for one voice that said with a stage whisper, “I told you she was here! I told you she came in the back way.”

  Ms. Rathbun appeared from the kitchen. She was wearing an evening dress, narrow-waisted with voluminous skirts, black, trimmed with red ribbons that spiraled up her forearms. Her head was uncovered. Her blonde hair had been taken out of its tight coil, and it rolled in loose waves.

  “Beg your pardon, ma’am,” said the fiddler. “I didn’t think you were here.”

  “It shouldn’t matter if I’m here or not. We have rules at the Grayson House about poppy rocks. It’s not the noise, but the vapors. The place smells like Waterloo. Makes me wrinkle my nose, and if it wrinkles enough, the wrinkles will stay there. Plus that sulfur ruins the aroma of Sampson’s delicious food. You wouldn’t want that to happen to Sampson, would you?”

  “No, ma’am,” said the fiddler.

  “Let’s have it, then.” Ms. Rathbun held out her handkerchief. The fiddler opened his mouth and extracted the saliva-covered artifact. He placed it into Ms. Rathbun’s hand, and as he withdrew his fingers, she squeezed. A deafening thunderclap tore through the tavern. Men cowered, covering their ears. Mugs tumbled. Furniture shook apart. Beards were curled. Boots came untied.

  Ms. Rathbun’s voice rose out of the din. “What song will you play for me as I leave?” she said.

  “I can play ‘Liza Jane,’” said the fiddler, tugging on his ear.

  “Why, that sounds delightful.”

  Accompanied by the strains of fiddle music, Ms. Rathbun glided toward the doorway from whence she had come, into a small alcove out of the bustle. Holtzclaw intercepted her at the foot of the stairs.

  “Why, if it isn’t our resident agent of the Standard Company!” she said. “Welcome, Holtzclaw! Did you have any more luck at the Amazon Branch?”

  “I didn’t,” said Holtzclaw. “Someone else did. Namely you, mademoiselle.”

  “It is not an easy creek for gold,” said Ms. Rathbun. “For you, I mean. But I’m sure you’ll find some purpose. Some higher and better use.”

  “You exploited my natural respect of women. I was enamored by your charms and made mistakes.”

  “Am I charming? Why Holtzclaw, that’s rather forward of you to say. But I will accept your words in the kindest and gentlest spirit.”

  “Now that I know your character, I should not have been surprised to find you the proprietor of a place like the Grayson House. When you were telling me about your dreams of making a new start in Milledgeville, you didn’t tell me about your decadent empire here.”

  “How is it decadent? I look after these boys, and I give them rules. No poppy rocks because they rot their teeth. No cards because of paper cuts.”

  “But as much food and drink and dice and fiddle music as they can buy?”

  “I help them change money, which is cold and heavy, to pleasure, which is warm and light. I hope that our transaction this afternoon has brought you happiness, Holtzclaw.”

  “I have a suspicion that the land was not yours to sell.”

  “Who told you such lies?” said Ms. Rathbun. Her voice was unchanged, as light as ever.

  “Princess Trahlyta,” said Holtzclaw, though as soon as it said it, he recognized it as a strange source of evidence, certainly not a precedent that would hold in court.

  “That wet child? Who did she say owned it?”

  “She didn’t say, but she implied …” Holtzclaw sputtered.

  “You assumed that she was telling you the truth. You believed her ludicrous
tales. Why? Because they were ludicrous?”

  “I’ve encountered several phenomena here in the valley, Ms. Rathbun, that are not easily explained,” said Holtzclaw. “And it’s been said to me that I should not attempt to understand it all.”

  “Those sound like the words of those who are trying to manipulate you. Have you gotten this far in life by believing in folk tales and nonsense?”

  Ms. Rathbun turned away from Holtzclaw and climbed a single riser, then stopped. She was taller than Holtzclaw now by half a head.

  “My father gave me the Amazon Branch as a birthday present,” she said, half-turned away from him. Her profile caught the lamp light, and line of gold surrounded her head like a nimbus. “He got it from an immigrant named Millan, who had a catarrh that my father cured with spring water. Millan bought it from Bowlin, who won it in the lottery. It’s all in the courthouse, if you care to check when you file your deed. And that is no folk tale.”

  She stood in profile, pensive, with a hand on the banister and a graceful arm arcing upward from there to a shoulder angled back toward Holtzclaw. Even this casual pose seemed practiced.

  “Now, did you want to cancel our deal?” she said. “Did you want a refund? I will give it to you if you believe that moist maiden over me.”

  “No, it’s not that. I just wanted to inquire. My curiosity is satisfied.” Holtzclaw turned to go, with a deferential tip of the hat.

  Ms. Rathbun called after him.

  “I heard that you bought Moss’s property, and for a lot less than you paid me. I find that flattering.”

  “That is a private transaction,” said Holtzclaw, spinning around. “And I would thank you to keep it such.”

  “You’ve bought many other properties too. Strickland. Bogan. Patterson. Walton. You’ve told them all lies about scrap metal. We both know there’s no money in that. Why are you really buying them?”

  “My employer has his own motives.”

  “Why, a creature like that is not going to share our interests. You ally yourself with those who are least likely to reward you. Tell me, Holtzclaw, have you thought of buying some of these lands yourself? Before your employer gets to them? You have money of your own, I presume, and so do I. If we were to find a few key parcels of land ahead of your employer, there would be a good profit in it. I’d perform the negotiations. He wouldn’t know about us.”

  “I am not going to betray him.”

  “We wouldn’t thwart his plans, just place ourselves to benefit from them. A little foreknowledge, a few hard bargains, and it adds up to a tidy profit for you and me.”

  Holtzclaw said nothing. He looked at the nimbus around her face, searching for any tarnish.

  “Should you decide that you have any information to share, Holtzclaw, I may be persuaded into a partnership.”

  Holtzclaw watched her exaggerated ascent up the narrow staircase. Her motives, so transparent, made more sense than many of the things he’d seen in the Lost Creek Valley. At the top of the stairs, Lizzie Rathbun paused, as though considering a last word of parting, but she said nothing. Her blonde hair fell in loose waves against the midnight of her dress.

  How clever she was, thought Holtzclaw, that in parting from her, his disgust had turned to dreams, and his righteous anger into revelry.

  •

  Holtzclaw had not found a carriage driver in the Grayson House, and now it was risky to inquire there. Secrets were already seeping out. He didn’t want to hasten the leak with his own questions. Abigail would be more discreet. He crossed to the Old Rock Falls and was enveloped by a jaunty piano tune.

  There were no visible customers at the Old Rock Falls. Mr. Bad Thing played the piano. Abigail worked behind the counter. “Why, there’s our long-absent stranger. Need some supper, Mr. Holtzclaw? It’s the same as dinner—sweet potatoes. I’ll get you a bowl.”

  “I’ve already eaten, Ms. Thompson, thanks.”

  “Oh. Well, bully for you. Where?”

  Holtzclaw threaded his way through the tables and leaned across the counter. “Actually, I’m in a bit of a predicament. I need to find a ride back to Dahlonega tonight. I must be there by morning. Do you know where I could find a driver?”

  Abigail walked past Holtzclaw to fetch a broom. She started sweeping under the tables. “Folks here don’t like to drive at night. X.T. won’t go. Byers won’t go. Even the Sky Pilot won’t go.”

  “Will anyone?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said.

  “Then I shall have to go by myself.”

  “That’s a fool idea.”

  “Why is that?” said Holtzclaw. “What dangers lurk out there?”

  “There’s the plat-eye.”

  “And what is a plat-eye?” There was bound to be some spirit on the roadway; he wondered how this one was peculiar.

  “The shade of a man,” said Abigail. “This particular one was named Hulen Holmes. He used to have a farm in Hope Hollow. Hulen didn’t take to being dead, though. He doesn’t sleep sweetly.”

  “So the road is haunted? It wouldn’t be the most unusual thing I’ve seen so far. I can endure it.”

  “When a place is haunted, there’s no real worry,” said Abigail. “Furniture flies around. Footsteps, whispers, piano plays itself. It’s eerie when it starts, but then you get used to it. The ghosts are playful. They love a place so much they don’t want to leave it just because of death. Sometimes they had a bad time there at the end. That makes the ghost want to stay all the more. They want to fix their memories. A plat-eye, though, is wrathy. He feels alone, especially in death, and it fills him with despair. If you’re a stranger, a new face that he doesn’t know and love from his life, he’ll try to take your head off your shoulders.”

  “I suppose it isn’t as simple as steering around Hulen’s old homestead,” said Holtzclaw.

  “You could meet him a few miles up the road or at one of the springs if you stop to water your horse. If you’re resolved to go, I’ll have to take you.”

  “Ms. Thompson, you’d venture out against this plat-eye?”

  “Well, he likes me.”

  “And how much will this cost?”

  “Cost? If it were to cost something, then it would not be cheap. It’s the middle of the night, and we are alone on the road, excepting the ominous shade of the dead. And if you need a horse too, that’s extra.”

  “I shall pay you, Ms. Thompson, as a professional courtesy.”

  “Professional it is.” She quoted a price, and Holtzclaw did not think it outlandish, given the sudden departure and the late hour.

  Abigail began putting her hair up. “I assume you’re not going with just the clothes on your back. You need your portmanteau or your proper hat. Go get what you need, and I’ll close up here.”

  When Holtzclaw returned to the Old Rock Falls, he followed Abigail through the last steps of her closing routine. Certain regulars had to be appeased. On the counter, she laid out five bowls and filled each with a different substance. In the first, she poured an entire bottle of Dr. Pep. In the second, she poured a bottle of cream.

  “For the cat?” asked Holtzclaw.

  “She doesn’t drink cream. She wants butter because it’s easier to eat. Lazy thing.”

  Abigail opened a small mahogany box and withdrew a geometric form wrapped in red silk. It was ice, of the quality that he’d seen at the Sky Pilot’s cabin. Abigail placed the blade of her kitchen knife above the smoldering ashes of the hearth fire; then she cut off a perfect slice, leaving all the edges as smooth as before.

  In the last two bowls, she poured out the contents of two ewers. The liquids were colorless, but one gave off a distinct metallic odor, while the other reeked of sulfur. “Mineral waters,” said Abigail. “Some need the chalybeate, and others the yellow sulfur.”

  After sweeping the kitchen and dining room, Abigail poured out a handful of Pharaoh’s Flour onto the floor around the counter. “This is the most important part because it shows all the guests who went to which bow
l. No one can lie and say, ‘I never got any ice!’ There’s evidence.”

  “Ah, that’s clever,” said Holtzclaw.

  “The worst part of the profession,” said Abigail, “is dealing with disputes between the customers. When I was younger, there was more fighting. Now the wilder spirits have settled somewhat. Like gold at the bottom of a pan.”