Veins of Gold

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  The locust turned toward her.

  “I know the going rate,” she added, “and this is a lot of gold. But I’ll give it to you, if you can take me to him. Do we have a—”

  Buzzing sounded from the sagebrush around her, growing more intense with each heartbeat until it drowned out her thoughts completely. Locusts she hadn’t seen suddenly appeared around the plants, taking to the air, swarming as they once had over her crops. Swarming around her.

  Gentry bit down on a shriek, squeezing her eyes shut and covering her head with her free hand. She forced the other to remain outstretched, even as hundreds of legs crawled over it and nibbled at her fingers. Small tugs dragged on her necklace and pried her fingers open, claiming chain and clasp. The pattern of the insects’ song filled her ears, yet it sounded . . . different. Not simply the buzzing of a mindless swarm. It had cadence. Melody. Almost like a speech Gentry could never hope to understand.

  She thought of Winn and his seagulls. The story he told her when they visited the Hagree. Their connection.

  Gentry opened her eyes and found herself consumed by darkness. Thousands of locusts surrounded her without a gap between them. They churned, forming a living tunnel before her. A tunnel of shadows, vibrating and humming. Though no matter how hard Gentry squinted at the tunnel’s sides, she couldn’t make out the shapes of wings or legs. Only hear them.

  She peered ahead. Light—not sunlight, but a muted glow not unlike the light within Winn’s house, the light that glowed in the corners from unseen places. She walked toward it, though the distance she gained seemed to be a quarter of what she should gain, as though the ground moved backward as she covered it. The glow stretched wider, and after a long moment, Gentry stepped out of the tunnel and into its warmth.

  Crisp orchard grass crunched under her feet. She found herself in a grove of aspens and pine, surrounded by the white blossoms of asters. The rocky face of the mountain was gone; she couldn’t even feel its incline beneath her feet. Turning around, Gentry sought the tunnel, but it had disappeared.

  The sounds of the forest—sounds that reminded her of Virginia—fell upon her like heavy rain. Hums and buzzes and shrieks, songs and shrills. A musical dissonance. She peered at the gaps between trees overhead. No sun, only that pale light.

  Her time with Winn had certainly had its effect on her—she was not as panicked at this sudden change in scenery as she would have been only months ago. There was a strange pressure to the air, as though behind this illusion of greenery the locusts breathed as one. Bated breath. Waiting. For what?

  What do you want me to do? she wondered. She thought to call out, but restrained herself. There was a strange reverence to these charmed woods, and the sound of her voice would break it.

  She took a step forward, studying the asters, searching for movement in the grass. She found none. She peered to the trees and beyond and now saw long, green paths between trunks. A path lay in every space between the trees, leading in varying directions. Identical. Or were they?

  She spun slowly, taking in the glade.

  Once I learned to listen to their spirits, I understood.

  Gentry closed her eyes and listened to the noise. Thunder, chickadee, wasp, cricket, owl, wind. She held still, skin tingling. Hog, rain, hummingbird, wolf, jay.

  Locust.

  She recognized the pattern amid the noise, the rhythm that had rattled her bones as she ran out to her garden in panic and fought the creatures to save her crops. She recognized its undertones among sounds that should have swallowed it.

  She kept her hands at her sides. Inhale, exhale. She moved forward until her toe hit a tree root, and she opened her eyes.

  A green path.

  The rest of the glade vanished, leaving only shadow behind her. One green path stretched ahead, glowing and colored by the shade of unseen boughs. She moved forward, her heart pumping hard and slow in her chest. Her footfalls made no noise, and each step carried her farther than it should have. Despite that, the path stretched on and on, with no end in sight. Gentry knew everything she saw was a trick, some unknown element of magic, yet her body grew weary with the distance, and she soon found herself out of breath.

  All at once, the path fell away, leaving her in a grove smaller than the first. No trees composed its walls, only shadows. No grass or earth covered the ground, but a path built from flecks of gold. In its center rested a single locust somehow familiar to her, and Gentry knew it as the one she’d first approached on the hillside by her home. Indeed, it crouched upon the pendant of her mother’s necklace.

  The creature hummed at her. Waited. The choice hovered in the space between them, unspoken and heavy.

  Gentry knelt and reached forward until its antennae tickled her fingertips.

  Then she woke up.

  Blue sky, blotted by a single, feathery cloud, filled Gentry’s vision. She stared at it, blinking, for several seconds until she came to herself.

  Starting, Gentry sat up, her spine protesting the sudden movement. She had lain sprawled against the side of the foothill, a half-buried stone digging into her hip, her foot shoved into the center of a small sagebrush. Down the slopes lay her home and the stable, the half-ruined garden. The feathery cloud passed in front of the sun, offering her a semblance of shade.

  The locusts announced themselves with soft buzzing.

  They gave her a small berth, perfectly circular, their bodies blanketing the rest of the inclined ground in shimmering black. Their presence turned the foothill into obsidian, there were so many of them. An entire swarm, yet she could not bring herself to fear it.

  Something pricked Gentry’s palm. She opened her hand to find the clasp to her ma’s necklace there, its shape imprinted against her skin. She wondered at it, holding the token between thumb and forefinger. Only the clasp, but she pocketed it and pressed her hand against the fabric, grateful.

  The creatures buzzed again, waiting. She had given them gold. And they had given her . . . what? Friendship? Trust?

  Do you trust me?

  The memory of Winn’s question stabbed into her heart like a cold metal spike. He should have been here for this. How she wanted him here.

  She moved forward to kneel; the swarm buzzed and shifted with her. She steeled herself. “I would ask a favor of you.” She didn’t know if she had to speak aloud or not, for Winn never did. Then again, she wasn’t Winn, and these creatures were not his seagulls.

  The swarm hummed.

  “I need you to search for . . . two . . . people for me.” An image of her pa wafted through her thoughts, making her body heavy and cold, despite the summer sun. She pushed him away. She had made choices. He had made choices. Whatever choices were left were each their own. Gentry would not choose for him.

  She leaned close to the swarm and whispered “Winn Maheux,” and then another name, a name that might help her plead her case, in the long run. But it was Winn’s name that lingered on her lips, soft and cold like snow. “Please. Please try.”

  The hum of the locusts intensified until the foothill itself began to shake. Their bodies rose into the air as one, a great storm cloud of wings and legs. It soared skyward before splitting off into three groups that repelled from one another, each taking a direction: west, north, and southeast.

  Gentry stood, heedless of the dust littering her skirt, and watched the locusts soar until her eyes could not tell their swarms from the blue of the sky. She reached into her pocket and pinched the clasp of her mother’s necklace, offering a prayer to whatever deity would listen.

  She picked her way back down the slope. Her belly grumbled, ready for lunch. Her neck felt uncomfortably bare.

  It took her over an hour to reach the stable, and she leaned against Bounder’s door while she caught her breath and stretched her legs. Bounder nuzzled the rim of her bonnet, and Gentry patted the mare’s jaw. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deep to alleviate the tightness in her chest, but she had to settle for a dull, lonely ache.

  I met
Winn because he was already in Utah Territory. Surely something will bring him through again. Maybe not to Salt Lake City, unless he needs work. And I’ll look for him. I’ll listen for the quaking of earth or follow the rumors of geysers and look for him, and someday, someday, I’ll tell him how sorry I am. That I love . . .

  She pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. Bounder nudged her bonnet. “It’ll be all right, girl,” she whispered. “Somehow, it will be all right.”

  Faint buzzing tickled her ear. Lowering her hands, Gentry looked at the door to Bounder’s stall and saw three locusts there regarding her with interest. Their wings glimmered with magic. She didn’t touch the golden clasp in her pocket, yet she saw the telling shimmer. Her eyes had been opened. What would Winn say, to know of this strange bargain she had made? To know she could see these creatures the way he could, without special enchantment?

  “Hello,” she whispered. “Thank you for your help. You’re welcome to stay, but don’t touch my crops. Those are for my family. And be sure not to linger underfoot.”

  The locusts hummed to each other. Or, perhaps, to her.

  Six days since she walked into the dreamlike grove of the locusts. Six days since she gave them her mother’s necklace. Six days since she whispered Winn’s name and they carried it across the desert on buzzing wings.

  Six days, and they hadn’t returned.

  Gentry leaned on the sill of the glassless window, staring past the garden and the stable, where Pearl brushed down Bounder to get her ready for the long trek to Salt Lake City. Gentry watched the line where the sky met the desert, her fingers drawing circles on the magic-hardened brick that, at its heart, still encompassed Winn’s earring. The only piece of him she had left, and soon Gentry wouldn’t have that, either.

  She’d been silly enough to consider digging the memento out, but of course her family still lived here, and it would have done no good to have the assessor come by and see they lived in a three-walled house instead of a four-walled one.

  Gentry rested her chin against her palm, watching the cloudless sky. In her mind’s eye she imagined a seagull crossing it, then another, and another, and then Winn appeared for some reason she couldn’t fathom. Maybe because he’d forgiven her, or maybe because for some reason he figured she would never really marry Hoss and had come to her senses. But that sky stayed clear of both bird and bug, and the emptiness of it radiated deep in her core, a hunger that couldn’t be satiated with food.

  Perhaps some choices couldn’t be unchosen. Perhaps there was no redemption for her. Perhaps she deserved that.

  “Do you . . . need help?” Pearl asked.

  Blinking herself to her senses, Gentry turned from the window to her sister. They were nearly packed, with some of the furniture already loaded in the wagon. Once the house was emptied, their supplies were set, and they got word from the assessor, Dry Creek would be only a memory.

  “Sorry.” She stepped away from the window. She had tasked herself with beating out the rag rugs, and here she was moping again, daydreaming, whatever she should call it. She scooted an old chair off the carpet and picked it up. It left smears of dust on her sleeve.

  She tried not to notice the sympathetic look Pearl gave her. It was in the arch of her eyebrows and the slouch of her shoulders. Though Gentry hadn’t spoken of it, she knew both her siblings recognized her heartsickness. Pearl was more astute than Gentry gave her credit for, and she missed Winn as well. Each time Pearl mentioned him, Gentry felt like her spirit shrank inside her body. She’d collapse on herself, thinking too much of him. Yet she could hardly bring herself to think of anything else, other than what a fool she’d become.

  She glanced out the window again, searching the empty sky. What if the locusts never came back? What if they found Winn and he coerced them to go on their way? Could he hate Gentry that much?

  She shook her head as she dragged herself from the window. Crossing to the stove, she checked the bread sitting atop it. Cool enough to wrap.

  “Pearl.” She tied the cloth into a tight knot atop the bread’s crust. “Would you take this to Hoss, please?” A simple parting gift, but he would like it.

  Pearl came without complaint and took the bundle in her arms. After she’d gone, Gentry hauled the old rug outside, her mind quickly picking up where it had left off.

  No, Winn wouldn’t hate her. He wasn’t capable of hate. Yet a world where he never forgave her, never saw her again, was becoming more and more realistic. Gentry played with the idea of moving on, venturing out in Salt Lake City, finding some nice Mormon boy to marry, but none of it soothed her or kindled her hope. Better that she stay independent and grow old looking after Rooster and Pearl.

  She shook her head and tossed the rug over the clothesline, disturbing a locust hiding in its slender shade. “Be of use, Gentry,” she muttered to herself. Retrieving a stick, she beat the rug senseless until her arms ached and she coughed dust from her lungs. Then she folded the thing and stuck it into the back of the wagon.

  Wanting a walk, Gentry tied on her bonnet and ventured toward the mercantile, wondering if it was at all cooler in Salt Lake City than in Dry Creek. Certainly the lake made it cooler. Would winter be harsher to compensate?

  She went to the window on the side, and Mr. Olson tended her, pulling a single letter from her family’s cubby. She still felt a twang, seeing mail for her, wondering if, by chance, her pa had written after all. That it was all a big misunderstanding, that he was coming home, that he’d struck gold. Anything. But Gentry turned the letter over and saw the address of the assessor. At least the disappointment had whittled itself down to a speck. Soon, in time, she’d stop hoping for her pa’s handwriting altogether.

  “Thank you.” She turned back for the house, opening the letter with her thumbnail. They were behind on mortgage payments, so there was to be no return of funds on their family lands. But everything else seemed to be in order, and after a few more of Rooster’s paychecks, the Abrams would be unburdened of their father’s holdings and be able to truly start anew.

  She’d not reached halfway home when the ground rumbled beneath her, causing her to stumble. She dropped the assessor’s letter and stooped to grab it, only to have the earth shake again like a great beast was rolling over beneath the ground.

  Her pulse raced as she straightened, trying to find her footing as gentle trembling stirred the dust around her. She saw a shimmer through it, an uneven road of subtle sparkles that wove westward. She heard the hum of one of her locusts before she saw it land on her shoulder.

  Setting her jaw, Gentry hurried home. The earth bucked again, knocking her to her knees, then resettled into a purr that shook the sparse trees and the scant buildings around them. Gentry had no gold save for the clasp of her mother’s necklace, which she kept in her pocket. Even so, she didn’t know how to calm an earthquake.

  She reached home, and the ground settled. She searched for Pearl, but she had likely holed up in Hoss’s home during the quake.

  Gentry peered westward. The shimmering road had vanished, but she knew where it led. The mines. The people attacking the earth without realizing the consequences. Surely the quakes and geysers didn’t appear near the gold itself, else even the least believing of men would make the connection. Wouldn’t they?

  With so much gold in California, anything that remembered magic would probably be drunk on it. The thought brought images of her pa to mind, which she pushed away.

  The first quake, the one that introduced her to Winn, had been as far as American Fork. Surely they reached Salt Lake City and beyond. For how long? Even the voice of God wouldn’t persuade every gold hunter to give up his livelihood and go home penniless. So men would continue to mine gold from the veins in California, bleeding out the earth, until none of it remembered it was once so much more.

  And Gentry and her family had to suffer the consequences until the deed was done.

  The locust on her shoulder hummed.

  Or do we? she wondered, and he
r hands balled into fists. She couldn’t stop the mining, no, but couldn’t she slow it, at least a little? Grant her loved ones—and the earth itself—some respite?

  She turned toward the bug on her shoulder. Its antennae twitched.

  “How many more are there of you here?” she murmured. The locust hummed, and in the back of her mind, Gentry thought the word, Enough.

  She licked her lips. Squared her shoulders. Sucked in a deep breath and hurried into the desert, away from Dry Creek, until she was sweating and aching and sure no one could watch her.

  Turning to the locust on her shoulder, she whispered, “You want gold?”

  The insect buzzed.

  She nodded. “Take me to the mines.”

  The song of the swarm bellowed through the hot air. Locusts appeared as if birthed by the earth itself. They hit like a thunderous wind, slamming into her, scooping her off the desert soil and tossing her into the air until Gentry couldn’t tell one direction from the other. She bit down on a scream. Trust. She had to choose to trust.

  A nauseating sensation of weightlessness assaulted Gentry, and suddenly the sky was everywhere, patches of blue winking between so many bodies of black. The locusts formed a tight, vibrating bowl around her, thousands of legs clinging to cloth and skin alike, all of them glimmering with the sheen of magic. Gentry struggled to adjust or shift, sit or stand, to gain her bearings.

  She dropped suddenly, and for the space of a breath she fell, untouched by any of the locusts. Then the insects scooped her up again, spinning her until Gentry had to squeeze her eyes shut and grit her teeth to battle the dizziness swirling through her body. Tendrils of wind pierced the dense cloud, whipping by her like switches. The magic sped her through the air. Covering her head with her arms, Gentry closed her eyes and tried to breathe deeply. She was under the ocean with a storm coming or trapped inside a boulder rolling down the steep slopes of the Wasatch.