Into the Bright Unknown by Rae Carson
A moment later, I hear scuffling, scraping of rocks, a bootheel digging into the ground.
“Okay, find it,” Mary says breathlessly.
My back is still to her, but I can sense the locket just fine. I roll my eyes. “It was clever of you to make all that racket, but the locket is still in your pocket.”
“No, it’s not,” she lies.
In answer, I imagine invisible fingers wrapping themselves around the locket. I picture them clenching into a fist, lifting the trinket into the air.
Mary blurts something in Chinese again. I turn around to find her gaping at the locket, a shiny bit of gold floating in the air before her, chain dangling.
But this is a new trick for me, and I can’t keep hold of it for long. My mental grip weakens fast, and the locket plummets to the ground. Slowly, almost reverently, Mary crouches to retrieve it, brushes off dirt and pine needles, and offers it to me.
I put it back around my neck, where it belongs.
“Who else knows?” she asks.
“Jefferson, of course. The Major. Becky and the children. The college men. Hampton.”
“Even the children?”
“They’ve seen some hard things since leaving Tennessee. They understand consequences, and they know to keep quiet.”
“Well.” Mary gazes into the distance. The damp air is chilly here by the rapids, making me shiver. A raptor screeches from far away, and I look up, expecting to see one of California’s giant condors, but the sky is a bright blue bowl of emptiness. “Thank you for telling me,” Mary says finally. “For trusting me.”
“You should understand, Mary, that being my friend is dangerous. My uncle murdered to get his hands on me, to control what I can do. You have a right to know what you’re in for.”
Mary waves it off. “California is nothing but danger. I expect being your friend might also be . . . useful . . .” Her mouth forms a little O. “That’s why Hampton’s claim is doing so well! And Jefferson’s. And yours. Lee, you’re going to be rich. If you’re not already . . .”
I know that gleam in her eye. I’ve seen the fever take people a thousand times.
“Don’t worry,” she adds, as if reading my thoughts. “I won’t tell anyone. And you don’t have to help me get rich. Though . . .” She waggles her eyebrows. “It wouldn’t hurt if you put in a good word for me with Becky. She should pay me more.”
I laugh. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’d better get back to the dishes before Becky—”
“Lee! Mary!” comes a high little-girl voice. It’s Olive, running toward us, skirts in her hands to keep them out of the mud. “Ma needs you again.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, just as Mary says, “Everything all right?”
“It’s the peddler,” Olive says, gasping for breath. “He’s here. And Ma got a letter.”
“From the Robichauds?” I say excitedly. “The Hoffmans?”
Olive shakes her head. “From a stranger. In San Francisco.”
I have no idea what that means, and my excitement slips away like water through a sieve. Letters ought to be exciting. Joyful, even. But as Mary and I follow Olive back to town at a jog, an uneasy feeling tingles the back of my neck.
By the time we reach the Worst Tavern, several of our friends have already gathered. The Major is there, bouncing the unnamed Joyner baby on his knee. The college men—Jasper, Tom, and Henry—have their heads together at the other end of the table, reading Becky’s letter. Jefferson and Hampton arrive just as Mary and I do, little towheaded Andy at their heels, followed by the dogs, Nugget and Coney.
Everyone else must be out perusing the peddler’s wares, because we have the tavern all to ourselves.
Jefferson grins when he sees me. Already, a smudge of mud sweeps across his brow, and his temples are slick with the sweat of hard work. The sight makes me happier than a lark in a meadow. I grin right back.
“We’ll have to move fast,” Tom tells Becky from his place at the table. “Seems as though the letter took a while to find you, and your cargo won’t be stored much longer.”
“What do you mean?” I say. “What’s going on?”
“It’s my house,” Becky says. “The one my late husband had disassembled and shipped across the Panama Isthmus. It arrived in San Francisco some time ago, and a letter to Andrew asking him to claim the cargo just now reached us.”
Jefferson sidles over so he can put an arm around my shoulders. I lean into him. My head barely reaches his jaw now, and I decide I like that just fine.
“So what are you going to do?” Mary asks.
Becky raises her chin. “I’m going to get what’s mine, of course.”
“You sure it’s worth the trouble?” the Major asks gently. “You earn so much each day with your restaurant, and you have a sound cabin already.”
Becky’s eyes soften. “I do. And I’m grateful for all of it. But that house has sentimental value. And it comes with other items of worth—some furniture, a few heirlooms. It would be a final courtesy to Mr. Joyner to lay hold of it all and pass it along to his children someday.”
“Well, that’s good enough reason for me,” the Major says.
“Ba!” says the baby girl in his lap.
“I would dearly love to see San Francisco,” Henry says. “My claim has done fine. I could take my stake to the city. Get a job as a tutor.”
“Maybe this is a good time to set up my law practice,” Tom says.
Jasper says, “I’d love the opportunity to study with a city doctor for a while.”
I stare at the college men, my heart sinking. “So . . . you want to leave Glory?” We traveled across a whole continent together, and I can’t imagine the place without them.
“Maybe,” Henry says.
“Just temporarily,” Jasper says, with a pointed look at his friends. “I’m not giving up my claim.”
But Tom grasps Henry’s hand with his own, and some kind of understanding passes between them.
Hampton reaches down to scritch Coney behind his long ears. “I wouldn’t mind heading to San Francisco, see if there’s any word of my wife, Adelaide.” With Tom’s help, Hampton arranged to buy his wife’s freedom. We’re hoping to hear the sale has gone through and she’s on her way. It’s probably way too soon—it takes months for letters to find their way back east—but you can’t blame a fellow for being optimistic.
Becky turns to Jefferson and me. “What about you two? Any interest in a trip to San Francisco?”
“I don’t want to give up my claim,” Jefferson says. “I’m about to be a married man!”
“Tug and the Buckeyes could work your claims while you’re gone,” Tom suggests. “In exchange for keeping a percentage of what they find. They’ve proven themselves hardworking and trustworthy. I could even draw up some quick contracts.”
“I suppose that would work,” Jeff says. “Lee, what do you think?”
“I think . . .” I take a deep breath. Mama and Daddy were originally from Boston. They used to tell me about the sea, about water that stretched farther than a body could gander, a color that’s the most perfect deep blue in the world. “I think I want to see the ocean.”
“Then it’s settled,” Jasper says.
“Wait, Becky, what about your restaurant?” I ask. “You have so many customers that—”
“I’ll do it,” Mary says, and we all look at her. “I can do it,” she insists.
Becky taps a finger to her lips, considering, sizing up the girl.
“I might need to hire a little help,” Mary adds, “but I can keep the place running.”
“Very well,” Becky says at last, and Mary grins from ear to ear.
“We should leave soon,” Tom says. “Maybe even tomorrow. I don’t know what they do with unclaimed property, but if Becky doesn’t act fast, it could get dumped into the bay. Or even stolen.”
We work out a few more details, but it’s settled in no time. The Joyners, the college men, Hampton, the Ma
When our meeting comes to an end, Jefferson and I head out toward our adjacent claims, walking hand in hand, the dogs at our heels. I’m already rich. My stash of gold pieces and nuggets and dust is fit for a king. Still, I want to find as much gold as I can today, because who knows what our journey will bring?
“There’s another reason I want to go to San Francisco,” Jefferson says after a stretch of silence.
“Oh? Something you didn’t want to say in front of everyone else?”
“That James Henry Hardwick fellow. Doesn’t he have holdings there?”
We had some business with him over Christmas. We paid him a tidy sum for his services, and while he made good on his word to get rid of my uncle once and for all, he still hasn’t fulfilled all the terms of our agreement. “You’re thinking of the town charter he owes us.”
“Yep. If we don’t get that straightened out soon, the people of Glory have no protection. The town could just . . . go away.”
Together we leap over a small rivulet, onto a rocky embankment that marks the boundary of Jeff’s claim. “I thought you didn’t care about owning land and all that fuss.”
“I don’t. But Glory is bigger than me. It’s a safe place for a lot of folks now.”
“A sanctuary.”
“Exactly. A sanctuary. So maybe we can find Hardwick, remind him he still owes us that charter.”
I frown. “He gives me a bad feeling.”
“Oh? Why?”
“He uses tricky words and fancy deals and shiftiness. Like my uncle. I prefer a straight-up fight.”
Jefferson laughs. “Well, maybe we’ll learn to fight differently. Anyway, going is the right thing. It’s fitting.”
“What do you mean?”
“Once we get to San Francisco, once we see the ocean, we’ll have really gone all the way across the continent. I mean, it’d be a pity to come all this way and not finish the journey.”
I squeeze his hand. “Then let’s do it. Let’s finish the journey.”
Chapter Two
On a cold, cloudless morning, after weeks of hard travel, we reach the busy San Francisco docks. The Major and the college men depart right after breakfast to pursue their own errands, so it’s just me, Jefferson, Hampton, and the Joyners.
The huge bay is a wonder, so crowded with ships it looks like another city spread out across the water. Masts rise like steeples of a hundred churches, each one a temple to the love of gold. Seagulls dive between ships, or settle on abandoned masts, or swirl in the air. Beyond the ships, choppy gray-green waves froth into white peaks.
The air is breezy and wet, and it smells of salt and fish. To our left, out of sight beyond the golden hills of the peninsula, the Pacific Ocean supposedly stretches as far as the eye can see. We caught glimpses of it on our way here—smudges of blue shining through the creases of the hills—but I’ve never seen an ocean up close, and there’s no way I’ll allow us to do our business and be on our way without setting eyes on such a marvel.
I turn to say as much to Jefferson. He’s riding Sorry, the sulky sorrel mare that carried him all the way from Dahlonega, Georgia, to the goldfields of California, the same way my palomino girl, Peony, carried me.
Jefferson’s hat is tipped back, his dark hair spilling out around the edges. His eyes are alight beneath raised brows. An odd thing happens every time I look at his face, ever since I asked him to marry me and he said yes: my heart beats faster and everything else in the world—the crowds, the noise, even the smell of fish gone sour—disappears like a puff in the wind.
A grin plays at the corner of his mouth.
“What?” I wipe the back of my hand across my cheek, thinking of the crumbly sweet bread we had for breakfast at Mission Dolores.
“That look!” he says. “Miss Leah Westfall has seen all the wonders of the continent, and she still turns into a slack jaw at something new.”
I clamp my mouth shut and glare at him.
“It’s one of the things I like most about you,” he admits.
“Well, can you blame me?” The wide sweep of my arm encompasses the city, the ships, and the bay. “They say it’s one of the most perfect harbors in the world. Canyon deep all the way through the Golden Gate, but shallow in the shelter of the bay.”
He turns his head toward the water, which is fine by me, because I like his profile as much as any other part of his face. Peony shifts beneath me. We’ve all stopped to take in the view, but the folks around us are starting to glare, like we’re taking up too much space.
The muddy street overflows with people bustling by foot and cart and horse, with faces and fabrics from all over the world. A brand-new warehouse goes up before our eyes as workmen scamper up and down the scaffolds. Beyond the warehouse rise the hills of the San Francisco peninsula, the slopes covered with every manner of building, house, and tent. The air resounds with voices shouting in a hundred languages, hammers pounding, wagons creaking.
Jefferson says in a soft voice, as if we’re all alone, “Those ships look like the woods after a wildfire. No leaves, no branches, nothing left but barren trunks standing up against the sky.”
I see it through his eyes. A forest of abandonment. “What will happen to them all, do you think?”
“They’ll get scavenged. Used for building up on land. Some might be turned into prisons, like the one we saw on the Sacramento River.”
The one holding my uncle Hiram, is what he doesn’t say. We’ve been through a lot together, Jeff and me. I reach out and clasp his fingers with mine.
“Will the two of you stop mooning over each other?” Becky Joyner asks, from the wagon behind us. “You’d think nobody in the world ever fell in love before the two of you invented it.”
“Becky!” Heat fills my cheeks, and I drop Jefferson’s hand.
She grins at me.
Becky sits with Hampton on the wagon bench, holding the reins of a team of cart horses we bought at Mormon Island. The one on the right, a chestnut with a wide white blaze, tosses his head in impatience.
“I don’t care if the two of you make eyes at each other all day like lovebirds in a cage,” she says, “but can you carry on with it after we get my house? If we don’t run into any snags, we can shop for your wedding dress and then head home as early as tomorrow.”
I frown. This is not the first time we’ve had this discussion. “Jeff and I don’t need a fancy wedding, and I don’t need a fancy dress.”
“Nonsense. We’re family now, and your family wants to see this done right.”
“Jefferson?” I plead.
The traitor holds up his hands in mute surrender.
Hampton quickly schools his grin. “We might even have time to get a proper suit for the groom,” he suggests with a perfectly straight face.
Jefferson and I glare at him.
“All right, folks,” Becky says. “Let’s go get my house.”
I urge Peony toward the docks, and the wagon rattles behind. We carefully make our way down the slippery, muddy slope until we reach the dock described in the letter.
“That’s it!” Becky calls out.
I swing a leg over Peony’s back to dismount, but as soon as my feet touch the ground, my legs turn to jelly, and I stumble.
Becky jumps down from the wagon, and Jefferson leaps off Sorry, so that within seconds I have someone at each elbow, steadying me.
“You all right?” Jefferson asks.
“Just need get my bearings,” I say, suddenly breathless. There’s no need to explain the problem—they all know my secret.
Gold has been singing a muted song for our entire journey here, sometimes from far away, sometimes buzzing in my throat. But this, when my feet touch ground here . . . this is like hearing a chorus of a thousand voices.
Softly, so only Jefferson and Becky can hear, I say, “I think it’s all the practice I’ve been doing, lea
“How bad?” Jeff asks.
“It’s everywhere—like trying to sip water from a flood.”
“What do you mean, everywhere?” says Becky, looking around in consternation. “I don’t see—”
“Everywhere,” I whisper.
My gold sense is always strongest when I touch the earth. Men are digging a hole in the street outside the warehouse to sift gold flakes from the dirt—there are two ounces to be found if they’ve half an eye. A block farther, a couple of children sit outside a tavern, where they lick the heads of pins and use the wet tips to pick gold dust out of the sweepings, speck by speck. They won’t get much for their labor, but each mote of gold burns like a tiny ember. Buttons and watches and brooches and hairpins flare all around me. Gold is in almost every purse and pocket. My own significant store of gold, in Peony’s saddlebag, brought along for an emergency. The locket dangling at my throat. A half-dozen nuggets in Jefferson’s right trouser pocket—he’s been carrying them for months, ever since we escaped from my uncle’s camp. And, in a little velvet clutch tied to her waist, Becky has more than a dozen gold coins—
A group of laughing, dirty-faced children plows into us, setting the horses to bellyaching. They are no older than Olive or Andy. A few apologize with “Sorry, ma’am!” and “Sorry, sir!” while others shout “Tag!” and “You’re it!” before dashing away.
Becky brushes dirt off her skirt, as if the children’s behavior might be contagious. “So rude. I have to wonder where their mothers are.”
“Becky, where is your—?”
I sense her purse, or rather the particularly shaped pile of gold coins in her purse, moving away. I scan the crowded street ahead.
There—a towheaded little scamp, rapidly disappearing among taller bodies. Without taking my eyes off him, I hand Peony’s reins to Jeff. “Hold this,” I say, and I start running.
The boy is small and quick as a rodent, disappearing behind people and barrels and wagons. I’m not really pursuing him, only what he carries, and all the other gold around me is a distraction, like trying to follow the buzz of a single bee in a hive. But my practice pays off. With focus, I hear the unique melody of Becky’s gold, not quite overwhelmed by a cacophony of overlapping songs.