Reckoning of Boston Jim (14 page)

“Can you mark, my good man, where the treasure lies?”

Mr. Oppenheimer smiles. “If I knew such a thing I should be a rich, rich man.”

“Hah, quite so, and now that I am quite supplied, I need a conveyance. A good horse would suffice.”

Mr. Oppenheimer straightens his spectacles. One of the Yale-ites laughs, says: “Won't find a horse, good or otherwise. You'd best go see the blacksmith. He's got a molly, I hear.”

The blacksmith brings her out blinking and bewildered into the sun, like someone long imprisoned. She is fat-bellied, the grey of a felt hat. The blacksmith pats her withers with his speckled hand, tells Eugene that she is a pack mule, owned previously by Cataline himself and didn't he care for her as if she were his own sister? She could get to the goldfields with her eyes closed and is alike to a mule the blacksmith had back in Toronto—affectionate, dependable, sweet-natured. He would keep her himself except that he does not have the space, nor the feed.

Eugene pretends a practiced eye. What does he know of mules? They are hybrid creatures, like griffins and chimeras. They cannot breed, poor sods.

“Is she sturdy?”

The blacksmith says she is indeed, leans his considerable bulk against her. The mule flicks her ears in seeming disdain and does not move.

“Quite so, and her hooves. Are they strong?”

“Strong and newly shod,” the blacksmith says, lifting one of the mule's hooves to show him.

Eugene glances down. “And her name? Am I to merely call her Miss Mule?”

“Miss Mule. Hah! Call her that if you want. Her name, though, is Zuri. I think it means good in Cataline's lingo.”

The blacksmith asks for forty dollars and when Eugene theatrically waffles he throws in an oiled canvas and an
aparejo
, which looks to Eugene to be nothing more than a leather sack stuffed with straw.

“Bring your supplies, I'll rig her for you. It's an easy business.”

But it is not an easy business. Eugene has to make three trips back to Culky's, has to enlist the help of Culky's boy to carry the three trunks and several sacks. The blacksmith stares aghast at Eugene's pile of supplies. No amount of cajoling will convince the blacksmith that it is not too much for both man and mule to carry. Reluctantly Eugene returns to Oppenheimer's. Sells him the so-called unnecessary articles—the folding table, the games board, the tome on alchemy that he has not yet read, the top hat and box, even the third trunk itself.

“And what of the tent?” Oppenheimer asks.

“Won't I be needing it?'

“I would advise to sleep in the air if the weather is fine, to stay at the roadhouses when it is not. Such is best.” Oppenheimer says, though for all his concern the price he sticks by is far below what Eugene asked.

Only now will the blacksmith show Eugene how to saddle the mule with the
aparejo
and then how to lash on the trunks and how to secure it all with a diamond hitch. The mule makes no protest except for a slight sinking, as if she were standing on soggy ground.

“Best carry your rucksack if you're able. Enough weight on her as it is. Hobble her at night. Let her forage for grass. Treat her well.” The blacksmith glances at the sun. “The Spuzzum Ferry is eleven miles or so on. Roadhouse there's run by Duteau and his half-breed wife. She makes a fine stew. Likely you could make it if you left now.”

“Spuzzum?”

“It's Indian for something. Don't recall for what. You'll find there's a lot of that around here.”

≈  ≈  ≈

What had he expected? Towering sentinels rigged up in gold miner's garb? A wayward, black-shawled fate? No, but he had expected some sense of a beginning. He looks back as he rounds a bend, can no longer see the high outline of that tire shrinking contraption outside of Yale, can no longer see any vestige of civilization at all. Thinks of Lot's wife. He is not one to criticize God's decisions. Yet it does seem rather harsh to have turned her into a pillar of salt for simply looking back. It is such a simple, human desire, and harmless withal.

But come now, Eugene Augustus, is not the canyon stupendous? In all your travels through Italy, France, even in your unwanted travels through the lands of the Ottoman Turks, have you ever seen a more ingenious road? Eugene has to agree with himself. He has not. The road, wide enough for a team of oxen, has been hacked and blasted from the cliffs. The bulwarking of rocks and logs is at times fifty feet high. No barrier guards against a wrong step. Not that Eugene trembles from heights. Once swung from a belfry on a dare. But this is different. The swirl of the river works a hypnotist's spell. And this is no Roman road that has proven its strength over centuries. This is so newly built that the cribbing logs are still paler where the bark has been ripped back. And how secure is that cribbing? If the road workers misplaced one log it could mean his death. The entire buttress could crack out from under him. Though it need not be so dramatic; a mere slip would do.

He steers Zuri closer to the canyon walls, tries to eradicate the image of himself pinwheeling into the gorge, his wail heard by naught but the birds and by this mule who would no doubt plod on without him, undaunted, uncaring. His body would be smashed beyond recognition. It would not be found for days, weeks, months, perhaps at all, and who would care in any case about one more lost miner?

He must write a note, yes. He will keep it in his coat pocket. It will explain who he is should his ravaged body be found. It will declare his love for Dora, instruct that all his worldly goods be left to her. He catalogues these worldly goods and comes up with a short list indeed. Ah, but at least his love is endless.

He stops and heaves off his rucksack. It has grown heavier in the preceding hours, has left a great blotch of sweat on his back, a cutting ache in his shoulders. He spreads the map on Zuri's haunches. They are the only souls in sight. If not for the fly-thick turds of oxen and other mules he might wonder if they are the only souls for a thousand miles. The canyon has that sort of eeriness. Has a green liquidity cut with columns of light, an ominous quiet but for the river roiling below. Pines and spruce cling to the dry cliffs, and the shadows of vast clouds stretch over the earth like those of monsters awakening. Where is this bloody Lady Franklin's rock? Her rock should be monumental. Something worthy of her epic search for her husband lost somewhere in the arctic ice. Would Dora search for Eugene with such determination if he should vanish? Or would she wait and wait for a return that never came, become a shadow from lamenting for him? Or would she curse his name, believing he had abandoned her? He doesn't know. He should know. Why hadn't they discussed such things?

He pulls on Zuri's bridle. “Come, damn you, the day has outrun us.”

The road dips down and the river breathes out mist. Eugene recognizes fir, balsam, hemlock, maples: comforting trees that might speckle an English countryside. A bird screeches. From ahead comes the sound of rocks dislodging and splashing into the river. Bears? Lions? He hauls out his rifle. Are they being watched? Are Indians clinging to the cliff as stubbornly as the pines? And this mule. Is it possible she is slowing? Smacking her makes no difference. It is like smacking a stone.

“Move! Giddyup! Christ!” His shouts echo back to him. Zuri's ears do not even flicker. It is alike to the dreams where he must run but cannot, as if his legs were mired in molasses. Think of other things. What did Oppenheimer say? That this road is an engineering wonder. The eighth in all the world. But then anything built larger than a grist mill is called the eighth bloody engineering wonder of the world. Which begs the question. What are the other seven? The pyramids of Giza. Cheeps, no Cheops, the largest one. No, that is an ancient wonder. But engineering went into it. They must be the same. And the Colossus of Rhodes, so huge it bestrode the harbour. A lighthouse of some description. A temple. A tomb. And the hanging gardens, yes, of Babylon.

“How many men can name so bloody many? Tell me that, damnit.”

Zuri answers with a great mournful blast, as if she has suddenly recalled some great tragedy. It startles a flock of small birds roosting in a copse of trees nearby. It certainly startles Eugene.

She haws again, ends it with a gasping sob.

“Quite so, are you finished? Zuri. It does not suit. Something tragic is what is needed here. Semele? Dido? Medea. Hah, what of Ariadne? Leading her Theseus through the maze. For I will be abandoning you as soon as possible, mark my words. And then you'll have something to mourn.”

She flicks her ears. Eugene pushes her from behind to no avail. He hauls on her bridle. She shows her teeth, plods ever slower. Her nose. It shows white where the bridle has rubbed, where the ash once was. At least Eugene thinks it is ash. Not that it matters. What matters is that Eugene has been duped. He has bought an ancient mule, a mule ready for the knacker's yard. For dog meat. Why was he not suspicious? A mere forty dollars for such a prize of a mule? And an
aparejo
and oiled canvas? And hadn't that damned Canadian been over-eager to help him load her? As if to get Eugene on his way before he changed his mind. He could turn back. He has been on the road only four hours or so. He could demand the return of his money. But then he will still have the problem of how to haul his supplies. This decrepit mule was apparently the only one to be had in Yale. “You're lucky to get her,” the blacksmith said. No matter, he will return her forthwith to the blacksmith and then reduce his supplies to the barest minimum. He has seen others equipped with one rucksack alone. Come now, Eugene Augustus, who ever returns money once a deal has been made? The blacksmith will merely say the mule had been nosing in the cold forge fire. No fault of his if Eugene could not tell an old mule from a young one. Green hand. Greenhorn. Useless son of the minor gentry.

“Christ's blood and damnation!” he shouts. “Son of a whore!” He curses the blacksmith and all his Canadian brethren—a drab people who will be forgotten by England, wrapped whole in the Yankee flag, and then popped down history's sewer. He curses all mules. A eunuch species, ignoble and traitorous. In no great tales do they figure, none that he can recall.

The echo of his shouts fades. He opens a jar of brandy and takes a steadying drink. Feels the warmth of it down to his boots. A flush of the old courage. Unrolls his map again. “You'll be lucky to make it to Spuzzum,” the blacksmith said, no doubt chuckling inside. Yes, Ariadne is slow. She is old. She is most likely stone deaf. But she is moving forward. They are moving forward. The day is still fine. Steady on each and every day. You will make it to the goldfields. Only keep your wits, man.

He takes a great breath. “Come then, my girl. Let us get through this labyrinth.” And so they continue, Eugene imagining them merely as two old friends, walking in the park, each pondering alone life's great mysteries.

≈  ≈  ≈

Two or more hours pass. The light is fading in the canyon and still no sign of this Spuzzum Ferry and roadhouse. Again he checks his pocket watch. At a mile per half-hour or so he should be nearly there. He takes another swallow of brandy. Holds a measure of it in his palm for Ariadne. She licks it with greater enthusiasm than she has shown for anything else all day.

The road winds ever closer to the riverbed. The sky is a cobalt blue. Not a cloud. Hardly a wind. “We could camp, Ariadne. It is possible,” he says with little conviction.

Ariadne nuzzles the brush by the road. Ridiculous, this chatting to a deaf mule. Next he'll be chatting to his pickaxe. His tin pan.

He tethers Ariadne and scrambles down toward the broad bank of the river. Drinks deeply from a pooled space and fills his water flask, notices, a short distance on, the smashed remains of a rocker caught in the river rocks, and a glinting in the trees just beyond. He wanders over. Ah, a forest glade. . . . Good Christ. That sweetish odour. He knows it. The road is hidden from view. Ariadne is hidden from view. There is the rush of the river, the rushing in his ears. A ferocious carved bear sits atop some nightmare creature. Poles with torn banners of calico and trade cloth. Spindly scaffolding hung with axes, pipes, bows, arrows, kettles, a wheeled toy. Atop the scaffolding are canoes. In them are bodies swathed and propped upright. One skull is near clean of flesh. Another is half-decayed. A third is intact but for its eyes, which are being picked out by the birds.

“Quite bloody so.” He backs away, revolver in hand. Hears footfalls.

“Who's there! Goddamnit! Who's there? I'll fire. I'm well-armed!”

There, along the riverbank, passing not fifteen feet before him. Indians. Thirty at least, including the children. They wear deer hide, blanket cloaks, trade bangles, beaded necklaces, calico. One man wears a scarlet tunic with epaulettes, another a linen duster. A woman wears a fanciful bonnet, its lace torn to shreds. They have rifles and long knives and carry boxes of goods from tramping lines across their foreheads. They pay him no mind, as if he does not exist. The breeze carries their odour of old leaves, earth, uncured hide. All except the very young are terribly scarred from the pox. Some have one eye that is milk-white, gelid. One woman is wholly blind. She walks with her hand on the shoulder of the boy before her. Eugene could call out
Klahohya
or
Tillicum
. At least one of them must know Chinook. He will tell them he is just a sojourner. Then what? No, they are not interested in conversation. They are not even speaking to each other. Eugene's mouth is dry. If they are hostile, he is doomed. Dammit all. This road is not a place for a man alone.

The man bringing up the rear is slightly built, stoop-shouldered. He wears spectacles, a trade blanket coat, the white of it now grey with dust, the edge stripes of red and green encrusted with dirt. His left eye is a hole, rawly healed. His right eye passes over Eugene, but he gives no indication that he has seen him. And it is not a trick of the thinning light. His matted hair is blonde, his skin dark from the sun alone. Eugene does not call out. Could not even if he wanted to. The people disappear 'round the bend. At that instant a boom reverberates through the canyon. Ariadne haws. Eugene drops his revolver and it clatters on the stones.