Lewis laughed, but his laughter became a raspy wheeze.
A month passed.
The heat became unbearable. In the hottest hours, we had to drown our heads in the muddy water to avoid heat stroke. Our skin turned red, then brown.
“We’re running out of food.” Lewis pointed out as we shared some dry meat under the shadow of a dead tree. “Maybe I should walk to the nearest settlement and get us some more.”
I shook my head. “I’ll go. You’re better at panning than I’ll ever be. I need you here.”
“A minute wasted, a nugget lost.” Lewis smiled, tiredly. A cough began in his gut, but never found its way to the surface.
“This damned wind. I’ll get you something to ease your throat as well, old friend.”
Lewis nodded. “Thank you.”
Then he walked back to the creek.
Another month passed.
The creek carried nothing but sand. As did the wind. Lewis couldn’t bare the dust any longer and moved into the Mason’s old hut.
“I’ll stay here,” I said. “That way I can start panning as the sun rises.”
Lewis nodded in agreement, but his eyes were fixed on the horizon. I don’t think he heard a word I said.
I tried to space my trips to the miner’s settlement as much as I could, as I did not like to leave the creek. The summer heat had turned Lewis sluggish, and I didn’t feel I could trust him with his responsibilities any longer.
I reduced our rations so they’d last longer. Lewis didn’t seem to notice, although he didn’t notice much at all those days.
One afternoon at the tail end of summer, I came back from the settlement to find Lewis dozing under this old dead tree he’d developed a fondness for.
“Why aren’t you panning, Lewis?”
Lewis squinted up at me. “Did you get us food?”
His cheekbones protruded behind his beard, like two daggers. But at least he wasn’t coughing any longer.
“You wouldn’t imagine how much a loaf of bread costs. I had to sell the rest of our mining tools to get us enough to survive.”
“Why didn’t you sell the nugget, Barton?”
“I… I’m saving it for an emergency.”
How could he ask me to give up my future? My hope?
Lewis nodded and drifted off again.
The summer came to an end. We found nothing.
It took Lewis longer and longer to wake in the mornings. He rarely spoke. His eyes twitched. It seemed he was only at ease when he panned the creek, his glassy gaze fixed on the floating sand.
One night, I woke to the sound of whispers. I followed them down to the riverside, where I found Lewis. He paced up and down the water’s edge.
“Well, hello. It’s nice to see you too. It is true, yes. We leave in the morning. What an adventure.”
He talked and talked but no one was there. As I neared, I saw his eyes were wide open and his forehead was covered in sweat.
I took Lewis by the arm. His body was as hot as a furnace. I guided my friend back to our tent, and there he lay, trembling and muttering until the sun came up.
“What were you doing at the creek last night?” I asked him in the morning.
Lewis remembered nothing, and he insisted in joining me for the day’s panning.
That night, Lewis was too weak to walk to the Mason’s farm. He slept beside me. I watched him toss and turn in the same feverish unrest as the night before, and I faced the greed that for so many months had blinded me. I saw Lewis for what he’d become: skin and bones, twisted and dripping with wetness like his overalls after a day in the creek.
What had I done?
I hurried to the settlement for help. One of the miners was a former student of medicine. Surely, he would assist my sick friend. He must.
We arrived back at the camp just as the morning broke, but my soul had returned to me too late.
Lewis was dead.
VII
Sickness and grief had consumed my oldest, dearest friend before my very eyes, and there was no one to blame but myself. No tear I shed that morning, nor for many months after, gave me any relief.
If my rotten heart disgusts you, my dear Clara, read no more. For this is nothing compared to the darkness that would soon stir inside me.
I looked around. I hated the idea of burying Lewis in that ugly, barren land, but he deserved a burial nonetheless.
I carried my old friend’s body to the riverside, where the bushes made the view less hostile. I put Lewis to rest beneath the dead, old tree. With a raging grief, I collected the roundest, smoothest rocks I could find and placed them in a ring atop of his grave.
The full moon found me lying on the mud that night, beside the mound of stones. The rising sun found me the same way. Then the moon again. Then the sun.
I returned to the creek. I dipped, scooped, and shook, sunrise to sunset.
“Just one grain of gold. Just the one.”
My tears fell through the cracks of the pan and fed the stagnant creek. I howled like a madman each time I brought the pan up and saw nothing but pebbles and dirt.
“Just one, Lewis. Just one.”
Gold never came.
One evening, when the sun was low, I spied two sparkling eyes between the bushes, under the old tree.
I ran and cried his name. “Lewis!”
When I reached the tree, there was no one there. Perhaps fever had taken over my senses as it had my friend. I buried my hands in the dirt on top Lewis’ grave and prayed for death.
The next morning, I woke to the distant sound of hooves. Three horses were headed my way, and I was soon surrounded by men in blue and yellow uniforms. Cavalry.
The soldiers looked down at me from their horses with a mix of puzzlement and disgust.
“What the heck are you doing here, son?” The man was older than the rest, and his gaze was more severe.
“This is my land.”
The soldiers exchanged a quick glance.
“This land is yours, you say?”
“That is what I say, indeed. I bought it from the two brothers who owned it.”
“Was one of them good old Pete Hardeman Burnett?” One of the younger soldiers winked at the other and they burst out laughing.
Burnett? Governor of California?
The captain shut the young soldiers up with an admonishing glare. “This land belongs to the government, friend.”
His words stopped the heart in my chest. I rushed back to camp and grabbed the document that stated the sale, and ran back to the soldiers, waving the yellowed paper in front of me. The captain took it and read it carefully. Then he handed it back.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Barton Saunders.”
“I don’t know who these men are, Barton Saunders, but they sold you land that wasn’t for them to sell. This is government territory and it borders Indian land. The natives have been coming awfully close to the mining settlements, and now it’s time we drive them back out.”
“But this is my land.” What were they saying? Davidson. The Masons. Lewis buried by the riverside. “My fortune.”
“Listen, friend.” The captain recovered his severity. “I’m sorry you lost your money, I am. And if I ever cross paths with those Masons, I’ll make sure they answer to my rifle. But either you leave, or you stay and get scalped by the Apache.”
I recalled those sparkling eyes, watching me from the shadows.
“I’ll leave.”
The captain nodded, and the party rode off while I stared numbly at the cloud of dust they left behind.
VII
I sold everything I had on the way back to Sacramento. Everything but my golden nugget. No matter how heavy it weighed on my soul, I couldn’t bear to see it in other men’s hands.
Sacramento had grown tremendously since we’d left. I wandered the streets, some of them so crowded I could taste the sweat of the newcomers. Cattle, I thought. Cattle racing each other to the slaughterhouse.
Durin
g the next few days, I used what little money I had left stumbling from saloon to saloon. I spoke to no one, nor did anyone speak to me. And why would they? I was a sunken-eyed scarecrow who reeked of desperation. A living nightmare of what they could become.
I could’ve sold my golden nugget for passage back east, but I felt undeserving of a way out. My heart festered in alcohol and bitter disappointment. Many times I walked to the docks ready to jump in the Sacramento. I always turned back. If what saved me was a strong will to live or plain cowardice, I couldn’t tell.
I sipped drink after drink, pondering which would be my last. Then one fateful night, the bartender tipped his hat to a man. He had strong, handsome features, though his nose was too thick for his face.
“It’s been a long time, Sam Griffin, you dog.” The bartender poured him a whisky from his top shelf.
Griffin. I had never heard that name before, but I felt I knew the man. I watched from a distance. He was fit, well dressed and clean shaven.
“Too long!” Griffin raised his glass and drank.
I’d heard that voice before, I was sure of it. But where? His gentlemanly clothes pointed to Cambridge, but I could swear I’d never met a Sam Griffin.
Sam chatted with the bartender and laughed heartily, but he glanced over his shoulder all the while. Finally, he downed his drink and left, a gold coin at the bar in his place.
Griffin limped out, leaning his weight on an ivory cane. Only then I knew. The man was none other than Phineas Mason.
I followed the man to the street, my muscles clenched so tightly that my neck twitched.
Because of his height, Sam Griffin stood out in the crowd. And because of his slow pace, I found it easy to stay close as he ventured through the narrow alleyways of Chinatown. His shadow turned red under the light of the paper lanterns, and the scent of fresh roasting tea leaves engulfed me as we crossed the boisterous spice market. There Sam Griffin entered a small store. Its window displayed exotic goods from the Orient: polished jade dragons, hand-painted paper fans, and boxes carved from dark, red wood.
Sam exited with a small package under his arm, and I followed him to a lonely house on the outskirts of town. Thin, white smoke flowed through the cracks of the closed door and out the house’s many windows.
I watched from the far corner. Sam looked left, then right, and knocked with four taps, one long, two short, one long. The door opened, and he disappeared inside.
I waited for a minute or two, then ventured closer. All of the windows were covered with thick curtains, but I found one of them ajar. I moved the fabric just enough to peek inside.
Nothing in this world could’ve prepared me for what I saw inside that house, for what I saw was not of this world.
IX
From my hiding spot under the window, I saw a big table filled with books, beakers, flasks, and bottles. Some of them rested on small burners, and produced the smoke I had seen through the cracks of the door.
Another man, a sturdier version of the one I’d followed, sat at the table, studying a big book. He looked up when he heard footsteps. I caught their brotherly resemblance at once. It was Will Mason.
“What the heck took you so long?”
Phineas, or rather Sam Griffin, threw the package on the table. “What’s the rush, Earle?”
“Have you been at the saloon again?”
“What if I have?”
“What if someone sees you, you goddamned fool?” Earle Griffin whispered.
“What’s all this chitchat about? Is Sam back yet?”
A shiver ran down my spine. There he was, David Davidson, icy, blue eyes and flowing white hair, that awful golden fang shining back at me.
The brothers turned, fear in their eyes.
“Here I am. The marketplace was packed and—”
Davidson slapped Sam so hard blood poured from his lip. “Don’t you ever lie to me. If you go to that goddamned saloon again without my permission, it will be your last visit, as my name is Jonas Griffin. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, father,” Sam murmured.
Sam, Earle, and Jonas Griffin. How fitting that beastly name sounded.
Sam reached for the small package on the table and handed it to his father.
The old man’s face relaxed. “You did good, my boy.”
Jonas Griffin opened the package and placed its content on the table. It was a shiny, flat, black stone. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but all three men were awed.
“What if it doesn’t work?” Earle asked.
“It will,” Jonas Griffin answered curtly.
“That thing was hard to get, and not cheap. The money we got from those two geese from Massachusetts is running out. Either we find the formula soon or we’ll—”
Jonas Griffin shut Earle up with just a look. “Give me the sulphur solution. Sam, the essential salts and the quicksilver.”
Jonas put the stone on top of a burner. The black stone started gleaming with a soft, blue glow. His sons handed him different flasks that Jonas mixed inside a beaker. He then put the beaker on top of the black stone and waited until it boiled.
“Give me something, anything, quick.”
Sam went through his pockets and handed him an acorn. Jonas threw it inside the bubbling potion. It floated there for a second, bobbing like a buoy in the sea.
Then the acorn turned into solid, shiny gold, and sank to the bottom of the beaker with a soft clank.
The Griffins laughed and hugged each other.
“Success at last, my boys,” Jonas proclaimed with a wide grin.
“We’re rich.” Sam’s eyes were fixed on the golden acorn.
“Are we the first to achieve this, father?”
“The first indeed. But remember we come from a long and distinguished lineage. Our achievements are based on the knowledge of our ancestors, and we’ll pass ours to the generations to come.”
Jonas wrapped a piece of cloth around the beaker and took it from the blazing stone. Then he blew out the flame of the burner.
“There’s still much to be done. Tomorrow morning we’ll hit the markets. Bleed this town dry, and we’ll be on the road in two days’ time.”
The brother nodded. Jonas sighed and stood up.
“Now clean yourselves up. I won’t allow that ragged look at my dinner table.”
Sam and Earle Griffin left the room. When Jonas was alone, he began to cackle. It was the disquieting laughter of a madman. I closed my eyes and saw David Davidson chewing tobacco by the campfire. For all his deception, he hadn’t been able to conceal that maniacal laugh.
So deep was my rage and confusion that I could take no more. I crept from the window to the street, and then I ran, as far from that awful house as I my legs could take me.
X
I stopped at the river’s edge. My heart raced so fast I thought it’d break my ribs. The world spun fast around me. I did not know if I was asleep or awake, alive or dead. What I’d seen at the Griffins’ house had seared my mind like a branding iron.
“Gold!” I howled. I dropped to my knees. “The impossible, Lewis! Gold! Gold! Gold!”
I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe. I cried until finally my heart was filled not with the lust for richness, but for blood. No matter if I condemned myself a million times, the Griffins would suffer. I tapped the golden nugget I’d kept inside the pocket of my vest for so many months. I’d finally found its purpose.
I stayed by the Sacramento until morning, like the ghost of a drowned man haunting the docks. My senses twirled in such a turmoil that I had no sleep that night, nor did I think I would ever sleep again.
In the afternoon, I strode back to the saloon, ordered one more whisky shot, and waited. A drunk trapper trampled through the double doors, swaying under his furs like a dazed bear. I exited, deliberately bumping into him. Then I apologized profusely and ran, the six shooter that hung from his belt in my hands. What was theft but one more sin to add to my list?
I threw
the gun and the gold nugget onto the work table of an alarmed metal worker. “Melt it into a bullet and make sure that it fires.”
I walked back to the Griffin’s house that evening and knocked on the door. One long tap, two short, one long. No answer. I placed my ear on the warm wood. No sound came from the other side.
The door was locked, but the window was still ajar. I slid inside and landed in a room that would put Harvard’s chemistry department to shame. But no matter the skill and dedication of the Griffins, I could look upon the complex of flasks, tubes and beakers with only disgust.
Jonas Griffin’s potion rested on the same spot it had the night before, the golden acorn still inside at the bottom of the glass beaker. It glowed with a soft, pulsing gleam. Gold. It called to me still.
I grabbed the potion, my palm tingling with power. Just a few drops of that elixir could bring more riches than I had ever imagined.
Steal it, my mind said. Steal it and go.
But I recalled Lewis’ sickly face as he panned the hollow creek. His sad and hopeful smile, which he kept until the day he died. I closed my eyes and saw Jonas Griffin’s grin, and his deranged gaze as the acorn turned into gold. The Griffins were a disease. Their greed would plague the next people unlucky enough to cross their path. And then the next and the next. I had to stop them.
I picked up the black stone and put it in my pocket, then I grabbed the potion and explored the empty house. No sound came from the upper floor, so I mounted the stairs. I found a bedroom with two narrow beds, neatly made. Sam and Earle’s, no doubt. The washstand in the furthest corner of the room gave me an idea. I emptied the porcelain jar on the bottom shelf of the washstand. Then I filled it with Jonas Griffin’s potion.
Finally, I crept back downstairs, hid behind a pair of thick, velvet curtains and waited for the Griffins to return.
XI
Shortly after, I heard the Griffins at the door.
“Go clean yourself up for dinner, Samuel.”
American Alchemy_Gold Page 2