Читать книгу Crown of Dust - Mary Volmer - Страница 7

Of course, as soon as she says the word gold she begins to doubt, and while David does not deny her statement, he does not confirm it either. He drops to his knees and bows his head as if in prayer, rubbing ore between his fingers. He touches his fingers to his tongue, and his eyes grow round. His eyes track the angle of the ravine from base to skyline.

‘David?’ says Alex, but he’s up now and striding out of the clearing. He looks back once, a gesture she receives as an invitation to follow.

Men attach, like links in a chain, as they weave down the trail. The only sound is the sucking of boots in the mud; even the birds are silent, watching this strange migration. The afternoon sun, magnified and reflected through drops of water beading from tree leaves and rooftops, creates a million shimmering lights dripping to the ground. Alex jogs to keep up with David and ahead of those boots behind her. She’s surprised to find a small knot of men already waiting outside the general store.

‘What in the Sam Hill is going on? Back in ten minutes, you said. What is everyone…?’

Limpy pushes his way through the men. He wipes snot off his nose and moustache with the back of his hand and spits a mass of yellow to the ground at Alex’s feet.

‘David?’ he says.

The crowd contracts, tightening around her like the constricting segments of an earthworm, becoming one animal with eighty eyes. She’s afraid to look and find a fist full of mud. The gold she’s seen came in flakes of colour, or minted coins with heads and letters stamped like epitaphs, or gleaming nuggets filling the pages of the steamship fliers and travel bills. This had been a lump of jagged edges, just the size of her palm, a heavy lustreless stone like any of the hundreds she’d thrown as a child. She looks to David for reassurance, but David’s teeth clamp over his lower lip. His arms are crossed before him.

‘Best just to relax,’ says Micah, even as the vein of his empty socket strains through the skin. He swipes his hands down his apron. ‘Can’t tell by looking.’

‘Hell, I know gold when I see it,’ says Limpy. ‘When I see it, Alex…’ A murmur of agreement ripples through the crowd. She steps back and up the first step of the general store, and every head follows.

‘Now, shit, son, shit. Think this is funny? Think gold is funny business?’ says Micah.

‘Could be all you got is pyrite, make fools of us all,’ says Harry.

‘Wouldn’t want that, would you, Alex?’ says Limpy, his heavy hand on her shoulder. ‘To make fools of us?’

‘Best just to relax,’ Micah says again.

She opens her fingers, slow for the stiffness, expecting something larger, more substantial to match the way she suddenly feels.

Emaline has a drawer full of men’s clothing, shirts mainly, for it’s easier to walk out of a room without your shirt than your trousers. She has moth-eaten flannels with frayed collars and missing and mismatched buttons; silky-white dress shirts with embroidered initials, looking very official and somewhat smug next to blue muslin and tough, weathered buckskin. There are ruffled sleeves and holes in seams and stains in unusual places. Orphans all, which might explain why she can’t bear to throw them out, or even give them away. Lord knows, only a fool keeps more than she needs, but she smiles now as she digs through the musty pile of cloth, looking for one article in particular. Her ears prick and tingle at the sound of gunshots fired skyward. The echo rebounds back and forth between the ravine walls with the sharp unnerving staccato of firecrackers. Somebody gonna be bitten by one angry mosquito if they’re not careful, and she’s in no mood to be plucking bullets from a miner’s ass. She closes the drawer with her hip and holds up a blue calico shirt, remembering the buck-toothed young man she’d taken it from.

He was just off the boat from Italy or Chile or some such place and had tried to slip away without paying. ‘Everyone pays,’ she told him, catching him by the scruff of the neck, ‘even if it is with the shirt off your back.’

She’d laughed as the scrawny little bloke hightailed it down the hall, his backbone sawing holes through his skin. But as the evening wore on and the night howled cold and angry off the bay, she found herself clutching the shirt. Three days later, when the city of San Francisco was coated in a thin sheen of white, Emaline huddled warm by the fire as her stomach churned ice cubes, and resolved that, from now on, she would demand payment first. Of course, there was no way to tell if one of the fifty frozen bodies found the next morning was her Italian, but she’d kept the shirt just the same, carrying it to Sacramento, and now to Motherlode.

She spreads it on her bed, running her hands over the wrinkles. She’d washed it twice, but never managed to get rid of the smell of him. Cloves, was it? He had been chewing on cloves, and his black hair had streaks of brown that matched his eyes. He should be, he would be, too big for the shirt now, with broad shoulders and muscles filling in the wiry sinew of his arms. She shook her head and blew a curl from her face. It will be a relief to get rid of the thing, a redemption of sorts—the only motive she considers as she knocks on Alex’s door. She flings it open to the sickly glow of the candle, half expecting, hoping in fact, to find him in all his newborn glory, skinny as the Italian.

Alex sits fully clothed on the bed. He wrenches himself upright. The boy is skittish, Emaline thinks, but as she becomes accustomed to the dark, her gaze falls upon a solid lump nestled like an egg on the blanket. The Victoria hatches before her, shedding its rough skin and primitive décor for a dreamed-of elegance. She’ll have the downstairs floors redone in smooth milled redwood, stained dark brown to hide whisky spills; replace the make-do bar with a hard oak one, with shelves beneath to keep the good stuff and new shelves on the wall to hold the cheap. She’ll build a proper kitchen, add a cellar and a dining room with a long maple table. A wonder of woodwork. Oak for the doors, sweet cedar for the chairs, ash for the two upholstered settees that will sit by the new stone fireplace. Plush carpeting. Green with red roses and dyed canvas tapestries to cover the plain wooden walls. Glass for all the windows, a mahogany nightstand with a finished ceramic washbasin in every room. A new bed for herself, four-poster, with sheets of pure silk and—Alex snatches the golden lump from the bed and holds it to his chest.

Emaline’s mouth closes with a pop and curls to a frown. Might as well just accuse her of thievery. She crumples the calico shirt in a ball and crosses her arms before her chest.

‘Now, if it were me,’ she says, her voice cooler than she intended, ‘I’d wrap it up as good as I could and leave the damn thing here, hidden under the bed, wherever. Unless it’s worth your life protecting.’

His eyes grow to wide, moon-like discs, but she doesn’t care if she scares him. It’s dangerous holding things of value too close to you. And grown men have been killed for smaller hunks of metal. She shivers at this, and squints down at the clear complexion, the hairless lips, the slender shoulders of Alex, feeling suddenly protective of the thankless little snot.

‘I brought this. For you,’ she adds, taking the calico from beneath her arm. She holds it before her as though judging fit. ‘The one you got’s a bit rank, you don’t mind me saying.’

Alex says nothing, but ventures cautiously forward, his feet, very light on the floor. It strikes her just how small he seems now with his shoulders hunched, his arms tucked in as though his guts would otherwise spill out. He’d waltzed into town today like the crown prince himself, a trail of men following after him, practically falling at his feet. But she can’t recall anything about his expression. Her attention, as now, was fixated on the gold. The devil himself might as well have been carrying it. She lays the shirt flat upon the bed and smoothes the sleeves over the chest.

‘Try it. Bound to fit you,’ she says, and waits. His eyes flit from her to the shirt, as if either will bite him. Emaline shakes her head, waves away her disbelief, and turns to leave in one motion. She’s got better things to do than wait for a thank—

‘Emaline?’ Emaline turns round. ‘Thank you?’

She closes the door behind her, ignoring the heavy lump in her gut. He was forgettable before, without the gold. Safer for it.

Downstairs she finds David leaning against the wall on a stool and staring out at the foolery in the road. He’s lit the lamps and the fishy smell of the oil permeates the room. On the far wall, across from the kitchen, the portrait of Queen Victoria gazes out across the saloon, her complexion all the more pale in the yellow light. ‘Damn fools,’ says Emaline, and the third leg of David’s stool thumps to the ground. ‘Don’t want to join them?’

‘No, thank you,’ he says. Emaline pauses, holding the kitchen door half open, looking back up the stairs.

‘David?’ she says. ‘Do me a favour?’

As she expects, he nods a quick agreement. She points to Alex’s room above them. ‘Watch out for him for me.’ She doesn’t expect the ashen look that falls across his face. He sits up straight. ‘Yes?’ Emaline asks. Before he can answer, the door of the saloon slams open and Limpy ducks beneath the doorframe holding two bottles by their glass necks.

‘Rum!’ says Limpy, an exclamation and a statement. Behind him, the street is a flurry of movement. The shadows of evening spread like fingers through town.

‘Thank you, David,’ Emaline says, and pushes through to the kitchen, leaving him with his mouth open.

Limpy met Alex at the stairwell, called her the Golden Boy, bought her a drink and whisky isn’t nearly as sweet as she’d imagined.

‘Drink it down, son,’ says Limpy, leaning with his back to the bar. The taste lingers in her mouth like the fuzz of a peach. She squirms on her stool and readjusts the nugget where it hangs hidden in the pouch between her thighs.

Klein muscles the accordion to life and a man in the corner stands on his stool singing, ‘Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming…’ in a wavering Scottish brogue. It takes a rag to his face to sit him down, but the song has caught here and there, and while none of the singers agree on a verse, all come together in time for the truth to go marching on.

‘Whisky,’ Limpy says, ‘is not meant for sipping, am I right? Micah? Show the boy how it’s done.’

Micah tips his head back, barely swallowing. He orders two more drinks, offers one to Alex. She shakes her head. ‘No, Micah. Thank you.’

‘Do well to accept gifts given you.’ He sets the cup down anyway. ‘Remember that.’

‘Women and whisky, son, rarely come free,’ says Limpy.

‘Not that I blame you,’ says Micah, ‘what with this rot-gut-mule-piss whisky Jed’s been serving. Jed? Jed, a cup of your best for the boy. New England rum.’

‘And don’t tell us you ain’t got any,’ says Limpy. ‘Carried two bottles in myself this very afternoon. Got the good stuff in your own glass—that’s what I thought.’

Jed is wiping a clean spot on the bar, but his eyes follow Emaline as she circles the room, talking, laughing, gathering cups as she goes. If Emaline feels eyes, she ignores them.

Alex adjusts herself. She takes another sip of the whisky in her hand and finds it empty. The rum smells of sugar beets, but she doesn’t trust the sweetness until she tastes it, soft on her tongue, slipping down her throat so easy.

‘Good, huh? What I tell you? New England rum,’ says Micah, separating Eng and land. ‘You’re welcome.’ He winks his eye and she watches him totter back to his poker game.

She’d practised walking about her room, adjusting the knot around her waist to still the anchor-like swing. But as she watches the Scotsman approach the bar, she wonders if her nugget hangs a bit too low. She couldn’t leave it in the room, didn’t quite trust the heavy look in Emaline’s eye at the suggestion. Nor was Alex ready to part with the flannel, her adopted skin.

She ducks low over her drink, now, every time the woman passes.

The tobacco smoke rises layer upon layer to the ceiling and the room feels smaller, more cluttered even than it looked from the stairwell, as if each clump of bodies sections off its own living, breathing room. Man breath, she thinks. Men springing from rocks. What would Gran think of that? Men from rocks. She takes a sip. Water from wine. Her head feels very large. She pulls away from the hand tugging at her flannel. New. She feels new. The Golden Boy Alex. She turns to find Preacher John pointing at his Bible as if trying to spear the words with his fingernail.

‘You read?’

Alex nods her head yes and Preacher says, “Course not, no,’ and begins pointing out every word as he reads, tugging on Alex’s arm now and then to regain her attention.

‘Whoever sows sp-spar-sparingly,’ Preacher reads, ‘will also reap sparingly, and whoever sows gener-ous generous-ly will also reap generously. God loves a cheerful giver.’

Preacher nods furiously and Alex finds her head bobbing right along. ‘A cheerful giver,’ Preacher says again as Limpy leans over.

‘Now, Preacher, you’re not bothering the boy, are you?’ He takes the empty cup from Alex’s hand and gives her another rum. ‘Me and Alex have business, you understand. Business.’

‘Business,’ says Alex, and s’s tickle her tongue.

‘Generosity and righteousness,’ Preacher says, still tugging on Alex’s sleeve. Limpy pulls her away. He drapes his great arm like a yoke across her shoulder.

‘Generosity. All well and good,’ he says. ‘But men like us have to look out for our own interests, Alex. Drink up now, attaboy. Been thinking real hard ‘bout you, son, all night, real hard. Always had a good feeling ‘bout-chah. It’s a gift. Always could tell an honest man by lookin’, and I liked the look of you. From day one, boy, ask anyone, ask David. “Got luck riding with him,” I tells him. David’s got skill, but you need both.’

‘I say I was feeling lucky tonight?’ yells Micah, and a groan sounds from the men at his table, David, John Thomas, Harry and Fred among them.

‘See there?’ says Limpy, pointing to Micah’s table. ‘David thinks he’s got some sort of talent for cards, but he only ever wins enough to keep him playing. Now what’s that tell you?’

She’s not sure that tells her anything, but she hears the word boy wafting from the table and smiles because boy means her, Alex, Golden Boy.

‘You listening to me, son? Alex? Could be very important to your future. Partners, you understand, but not equal. No. I understand you was the one found the gold, and that’s most important, no doubt. But can’t do much on your own, can you? Wouldn’t know where to begin, would yah? Thirds is what I’m thinking, with you keeping any nugget bigger than a chispa, as should be. Know what a chispa is? No? Anything bigger than your big toenail, in my book. Now, some will tell you big as the whole toe, but I’m a fair man. An honest man. Like you.

‘Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy, ‘cause some would have you sell the claim, see. Them over there—’ He waves his hand in the general direction of Micah’s table. ‘Give you pennies for it. Already planning to scoop up all the land on either side, which is yours by right, once you strike gold. And with me and David claiming side by side, sure to keep that gold in the family, you understand. That’s how I think of you: family. David, too. Said himself you reminded him of his brother back in Cornwall.’

‘Jed,’ Micah hollers. ‘Jed, you send that boy over with a dram o’ rum. And fill it good, too. Hell! Can you smell the luck, boys?’

‘Here now, Alex—look here, Alex,’ says Limpy. ‘Wouldn’t have saved your ass in the clearing if we didn’t think fondly of yah. It’s what’s important. Family. Trust.’

‘Come on, boy! Don’t have all night, and no telling when the luck runs out!’ yells Micah. Alex finds the word family lingering between her ears and a fresh cup in her hand.

‘You ain’t saying no to it, then?’ Limpy asks as she slips from the stool. She navigates towards Harry, edges between shoulders and around stools with the nugget pulling her down, making her bow-legged. The racket of the room pokes her with individual sticks of conversation, so unlike the solid mass of sound that met her on the stairwell during the rain.

‘Likely to be nothing but pyrite from now on,’ says Harry. She stops short of the table to listen, minding the cup.

‘Way it goes, sometimes,’ Harry continues. ‘Fate. Now don’t look at me like that, Fred. You know it too. Get all excited for a hundred dollars of poverty and heartache. But, hell, that’s life, right?’

‘You done?’ says Micah, and Alex takes a sip of his rum.

‘Just an old wives’ tale, Harry,’ says Fred. ‘You can’t kill luck with hopeful talk. Micah and I went back and it looked rich.’

‘What you know about it?’ John Thomas asks Fred.

Fred discards four. David folds.

‘Fred here fancies himself an expert in all things natural,’ says Harry. ‘Tell them the name of your book, Fred, tell them.’

‘Hydraulicking,’ says Fred, ignoring Harry, ‘would clear more earth in a week than a hundred shovels could in a year. You watch, if we don’t do it, someone else will. I heard they just got a load of hydraulic tubing down there in Marys—’

‘That is bull-sheeit,’ says John Thomas. ‘Woulda been up there for yourself if you’d know’d there was gold.’ He discards one, slams all five to the table when he sees his draw. Alex feels her lip curl. ‘Bullshit,’ he says again.

‘A Geological and Floral Survey of the Greater Alta California,’ says Harry, holding his cards in front of his laughter, revealing to Alex a pair of sixes. ‘That’s what he calls it, and that’s all he’s got, other than a bunch of weeds smashed between the pages.’

‘I never said I could find it,’ admits Fred. ‘Just recognize a find. Was me that told them Empire boys to stick it out, and look at them now.’

John Thomas slumps back in his chair. ‘Boy don’t deserve it,’ he says to no one in particular.

‘Exactly why we need to buy the claim right up. Follow it to the quick,’ says Fred.

‘Jed!’ Micah yells. ‘What about my…W’hell—Alex!’ and suddenly the whole lot of them are looking her way.

‘Sure!’ booms Limpy behind her, and she nearly spills the drink. His great paw clamps down on her shoulder and she does spill some. ‘Just take the claim, fellas. Boy won’t care, will he? Don’t know jack about mining and can’t work alone. He’ll take his luck to some juanita in Grass Valley and be all the better for it. Am I right? Am I right? Alex?’

Limpy’s words chatter back through her head. Alex finds the drink in her hand and a mush of words in her mouth and for some reason needs to deliver the drink first. She holds the cup in front of her, too intent on keeping the liquid level to notice that John Thomas has thrust his leg out.

Alex is falling, flailing her arms to stop herself. Fails. Collides with the card table. She feels her nose crack and blood pour into her mouth, warm and bitter after the rum. She opens her eyes to red splintered wood and whiskydrenched playing cards spinning in a kaleidoscope of colour. She gulps down blood, tries to rise. Fails.

‘Clumsy son-of-a—’ John Thomas begins, and Alex feels the strength of rage surge through her. She wants to stop it, the voice, the tone of the voice, the man speaking. She lunges, misjudges the location of the stool, lands hard on the ground. Laughter bounces off the inside of her head. She opens her eyes to silence, a frayed hemline, thick ankles. Emaline’s cool hand on her forehead.

‘Out,’ says Emaline. Out of the Victoria, out of Motherlode, Alex thinks. Tries to rise. ‘No, no, now easy,’ says Emaline, tipping Alex’s head back.

‘And Jesus came to the temple,’ Preacher yells from somewhere above her. ‘He came and saw the sin of the Farsees and overturned the tables of wickedness…’

‘Emaline, I—’ says John Thomas.

‘Out,’ Emaline says, ‘before I decide you can’t come back.’

‘Out, out. Can’t come back,’ someone parrots in the corner.

‘Forty years to build what was demolished in a day, the word of—’

‘Preacher! Shut your mouth and get this boy outside ‘fore he bleeds a river on my floor.’

‘Your mouth, Preacher. Shut your mouth,’ says the parrot, and the voice recedes into laughter.

Alex feels herself hefted. Her knees can only bend. Through the haze she sees Emaline float across the wreckage to John Thomas. Men step out of her way. Jed jumps over the bar and stands ready. The room is silent, listening, but Emaline has said all she will. She nods to Jed, and then to David. They hustle over to flank John Thomas. John Thomas opens his mouth to protest, shuts it as if he can think of nothing to say, yanks himself free from Jed.

‘Get your nigger hands off me, boy,’ he says, and Jed gives him a shove out the door, past Alex who stands bleeding on the porch planking.

‘Stupid fool,’ David mumbles from the doorway. ‘And you,’ he says to Alex. ‘Told you to stay the hell away from him.’

Her eyes blur and she feels as if part of her is hovering there above the porch, watching John Thomas stumble down the road, watching herself bleed to a puddle on the floor.