The Sisters Brothers (20 page)

‘And did you ever?’

‘It was all the doing of the bright-faced soldier, named Jeremiah. Every once in a while, out of boredom, he liked to go into town and find the very lowest sort of alcohol-muddled scallywag. He would fill him with drink, extract personal information, and then, once the man was totally incapacitated, drag him back to the barracks, outfit him in a military uniform, and put him to bed. This is what happened to me.’

‘Were you very angry when you understood you’d been tricked?’

‘Not particularly, because by the time I found out, I was glad to be there. Life in the militia brought about many positive changes in my life. I was forced to bathe regularly, which I did not like at the start, but I endured, and this return to the habits of cleanliness successfully killed my bedeviling excrement obsession. I was fed, and the cots were comfortable, the barracks warm enough, and there was usually at least a little something to drink at night. We played cards, sang songs. A sturdy group of men, those soldiers. A bunch of orphans, really, alone in the world, passing time together, with nothing much to do. In this manner, six or seven uneventful months rolled by, and I was beginning to wonder how I might get out of there when I had the good fortune to befriend a lieutenant colonel named Briggs. If I had not come to know him, then you and I would not presently be sitting about, waiting for the river’s riches.’

‘What happened?’

‘I will tell you. I was passing by his quarters one evening when I noticed his door, which usually was not only closed but bolted shut, was now ajar. Like many of the other soldiers, I had developed a curiosity about him, because while your typical officer was very much the taskmaster and bellower, Briggs was shy and retiring, a slight, gray-haired man with a faraway gaze, forever locked in the privacy of his room doing God only knew what. Mysteries are scarce in the militia; I found I could not help but investigate. I opened the door and peered in. Tell me then, Eli, what do you think I saw?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Take a stab.’

‘I really don’t know, Hermann.’

‘Not much for guessing, eh? All right, I’ll just say it. I saw our man Briggs, standing alone, deep in thought, and he was wearing a crisp cotton smock. On the table before him were burners and beakers and all manner of laboratory paraphernalia. Scattered around his room were numberless bulky, heady tomes.’

‘He was a chemist?’

‘A hobby chemist, and not a very keen one, I came to learn. But the sight of his effects took hold of me. Without hardly knowing what I was doing I entered fully into his quarters and stood before the equipment, staring over it as if hypnotized. By this time Briggs had noticed my gawking person; he blushed and cursed me, damning my impertinence and ordering me from the room. I begged his pardon but he would not hear me, and he pushed me out the door. That night I found I could not sleep. The nearness to the books and equipment reawakened my hunger for study and learning; it came over me like a fever, and at last I rose from my cot and wrote Briggs a letter by candlelight, explaining about my past and my father’s, and essentially demanding that he take me on as his assistant. I slid the missive under his door and he called for me the next morning. He was wary, but once he understood my seriousness and the depth of my knowledge we struck a bargain, which was that I would assist him in his experiments, and as payment for this he would allow me access to his effects and books, and I should be allowed a certain amount of time to work on my own in his room. I gladly quit my usual nights of cards and bourbon and dirty stories and set up what was, at least for militia barracks, a fairly ambitious laboratory. Guided then, by my own sense of intuition, and also by the books Briggs happened to have in his library, I was led to the realm of Light.’

Warm paused to pour himself a cup of coffee. He offered me a cup and I declined. He took a small drink and returned to his story.

‘The years that had passed me by since I last studied, how many had they been? And all that time I did little else but abuse and mistreat myself. I had had no sustenance to speak of, neither physical nor mental, and as I sat and cracked a book that very first evening I was visited by a concern that my brain might not recognize words the way it had in the past. The brain is a muscle, after all, and I would have to retrain it, wouldn’t you think? Eh? Well, I had a nice surprise then, which was that my mind, unbeknownst to me, had all the while been improving itself of its own accord, waiting for the day I might dust it off and use it again. Now that day had arrived and my brain, as though worried I might only shelf it once more, attacked every page of every book with a magnificent strength and vitality. It was all I could do to keep up, but thankfully I did, and received my reward some months later when the idea for the gold-finding formula came to me, or should I say hit me, for it was just as though I were knocked on the chest with a heavy stone—I actually fell back in my chair. Poor Briggs didn’t know what was wrong with me. At first I couldn’t speak. Then I jumped for the ink and paper and would not be moved for an hour.’

‘What did he think of the idea?’

‘That I do not know, for I never told him—and he never forgave me for not telling him. It was not that I mistrusted him personally, but that I didn’t think any man could keep this information to himself. It was simply too much weight to carry. Of course, this offended him terrifically, and he banished me back to the barracks, where I tried for a time to continue my work. When this proved impossible—the men were fond of hiding or otherwise defacing my notes—I began to plan my escape by desertion. But when one of my bunkmates beat me to it, and when he was apprehended and shot the selfsame day he struck out, then the thought of desertion lost its appeal for me. At last I was beginning to feel desperate, fearful my grand idea would vanish into thin air, and I turned to Jeremiah, the man responsible for my being there. I told him, “Jeremiah, I want to quit this place. Tell me, please, what should I do about it?” He put his hands on my shoulders and said, “If you want to leave here then you should turn and walk away. Because, Hermann, you are not actually in the militia.” I had never formally joined, it turns out, never signed my name to anything. That night they threw me a party. I left in the morning and set up a modest laboratory nearby. It took me near a year of trial and error before I had the desired results. First I managed to illuminate the gold, but only for a brief instant. When I figured out a way to sustain the glow, something in the formula turned the gold gray. At one point I accidentally burned my shack halfway to the ground. It was not easy, is what I am saying. When at last I found myself pleased with the effects, this coincided with the news of the gold strike in California and I came west on the Oregon Trail. This spit me out in Oregon City and led me to your man the Commodore. From there, I believe, you know the story.’

‘More or less.’

Warm scratched his hands and legs. Gazing upward, he spoke over his shoulder: ‘What do you think, Morris? Sky dark enough to suit you?’

Morris called back, ‘Give us another minute, Hermann. The wretch has painted himself into a corner, and I’m closing in for the kill.’

‘We will see about it,’ said Charlie.

They were playing cards in the tent.

Chapter 52

Four men all at once removing their pants beside a river in the nighttime. The fire was tall behind us and we had had three drinks of whiskey apiece, this being just the proper amount for the task at hand, we decided—enough to offset the coldness of the water, but not so much that we would not be able to focus on the work, and later on, to remember it. The lead beaver was sitting lumpily atop the dam, scrutinizing us, and scratching himself with his hind legs like a dog; the formula had wreaked its havoc upon his flesh, also. But where were his comrades? It seemed they were hiding out or otherwise resting. When my feet touched the water I began nervously to laugh but suppressed this, feeling that outright gladness was not correct, or was disrespectful; to what or whom, I cannot say, but I had the impression we were all of us holding our breath, much in the same way, and for the same vague reasons.

One of the kegs had been rolled to the shore, its top opened, ready to be poured. I caught a lungful of the formula’s scent and my chest flashed with an instant, burning heat. Morris was standing shy of the river, watching the water with a look of dread.

‘How about your legs, Morris?’ I asked.

Regarding his shins, he shook his head. ‘Not good’ was his answer.

Warm said, ‘I put a pot of water on the fire, and laid out some scrub soap for us to wash ourselves just after. Morris and I failed to think of this last time, hence our present troubles.’ Turning to Morris, he said, ‘Can you stand another night of it?’

‘Let’s get it over with,’ Morris muttered. His legs were rashed to the thigh now, his skin rubbed raw and covered over in fat blisters, these filled with a brownish liquid and drooping slightly under their own weight. He was having trouble supporting himself upright, and as he hobbled closer to the water’s edge I wondered, Why are we putting him through this? ‘Morris,’ I said, ‘I think you should not do any work tonight.’

‘And forfeit the winnings to you all?’ he scoffed, but his tone, the weakness in his throat, betrayed any good humor. He was frightened, and Warm was quick to second my thought. ‘Eli is quite right. Why not sit back and rest, for now. You will still receive a share of whatever I pull.’

‘And from me, also,’ I added.

Warm and I looked to Charlie. His charity was slower in coming, but eventually he, too, nodded and said, ‘Me, also, Morris.’

‘There, you see?’ said Warm.

Morris hesitated. His pride had been awakened and he did not want to quit. ‘What if I were to pull only from the shallows?’

‘It’s good of you to suggest it,’ Warm said, ‘but that might disable you permanently. Best to sit back now, and let us do the work. You can make up for it next time around, eh? What do you say?’ Morris did not answer, but stood apart from us, looking morosely at the sand. Brightening, Warm said, ‘Last time, the glowing was concentrated on this side of the river where we poured the formula. But if you were to agitate the waters, with a tree branch, say, from atop the beaver dam, you would likely increase the field of illumination.’

Morris was pleased with the idea, and we found a long branch for him to work with. Warm led him by the arm and installed him at the center of the dam, shooing the beaver back into the water before continuing on his own to the farther shore, which would be his area of focus. Now he called for Charlie and me to dump the first keg into the waters, warning us not to let any of the formula rest upon our flesh. ‘You can see that it’s painful enough watered down; the raw liquid itself might burn a hole clean through you.’ He pointed out the second keg, positioned at the shoreline, twenty yards up river. ‘As soon as the first is emptied, dash up and empty the other.’

‘What of the third keg?’ asked Charlie. ‘Would it not be best to dump them all and be done with it?’

‘We are already pushing our luck with two,’ answered Warm.

‘If we were to finish tonight we could leave in the morning and get Morris to a doctor.’

‘We would all of us need doctors. Keep focused, Charlie, please. After you two empty the second barrel we’ll let Morris mix it all. Once you see the glow, take up your buckets and get to work, quickly!’

Charlie and I squatted before the keg to lift it. My hands were shaking terribly, I was so nervous all of a sudden; my shoulders twitched and quivered and I thought, I have not felt this way since I lay down with a woman for the very first time. And it was just the same type of divine excitability: I was tortured with giddiness in anticipation of that river coming to life. Charlie noticed my shivering and ducking and asked me, ‘All right?’ I said I thought I was. I gripped the bottom lip of the keg with my fingers, digging into the hard-packed sand. We counted three and slowly hefted the heavy barrel into the air and began taking our cautious, crabwise steps, easing into the running river. The shock from the cold made Charlie hiss, and then laugh, which made me laugh, and we ceased moving for a moment that we might both laugh together. The moon and bright stars hung above our heads. The formula swayed and rolled in the barrel. Its surface was black and silver, and the river was black and silver. We tilted the keg and the dense liquid dropped from the lip. I could not remember ever feeling quite so bold.

From the moment we started pouring we took small backward steps in the direction of the sandy bank. The keg swirled its fumes and vapors and once more I caught the scent in my nose and lungs; I retched and nearly vomited, it was so strong and overpowering. The heat attacked my eyes and they were instantly awash in tears.

Once we were clear of the water we tossed the barrel and dashed upriver for the second. We hefted and dumped this and I stood back on the sand to wait. On the far shore, Warm instructed Morris to begin his stirring. When the frail man could not keep a sufficiently brisk pace, Warm foraged a branch for himself and agitated the waters by slapping the surface over and over, just as quickly and violently as he was able. I heard a noise at my back and turned to find Charlie cracking open the third barrel with a hatchet.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

‘We will dump them all,’ he said, grunting as he wrenched back the top of the keg.

Warm took notice and shouted across the river: ‘Leave off with that!’

‘We will dump them all and be done with it!’ said Charlie.

‘Leave off!’ Warm cried. ‘Eli, stop him!’

I came closer but Charlie was already lifting the keg on his own. He took several weighted steps before misplacing his balance and stumbling; the thick fluid crested the lip and ran down the front of the barrel, covering and coating his right hand over the knuckles. This began in a matter of seconds to attack his flesh and he dropped the keg at the waterline, where the current pulled the formula out and to the dam.

Charlie was bent over in pain, his jaw clenched and locked, and I took up his wrist to study his injury. There were blooming blisters across the knuckles and upward to the wrist—I could actually see the blisters rising and falling, as though they were breathing, the way a bullfrog takes air into its throat. He was not frightened, but angry, his nostrils flaring like a bull’s, with spit running down his chin in a long, elastic ribbon. His eyes, I thought, were magnificent; their reflection in the firelight revealed the very embodiment of defiance, of clarified hatred. I took up the heated water from the fire and doused his hand to rinse it, afterward fetching a shirt to wrap him. Warm did not know what we were doing, or that Charlie had had an accident. ‘Hurry, you men!’ he called. ‘Can’t you see? Hurry up over there!’

‘Can you hold a bucket with it?’ I asked Charlie.

He attempted to close his hand and his forehead folded in sheer pain. The tips of his fingers, sticking from the dressing, were already bloating and it occurred to me this was his shooting hand—something I imagine he had thought of the moment the formula had been spilled. ‘I can’t close it,’ he said.

‘But can you still work?’

He said he believed he could and I fetched a bucket, sliding the handle past his hand and onto his forearm. He nodded, and now I took up a bucket for myself, and we turned to face the river.

In the time we had been distracted with Charlie’s injury the formula had taken hold, its glow so bright I had to shield my eyes. The river bottom was illuminated completely, so that every pebble and mossy rock was visible. The flakes and fragments of gold, which moments earlier were cold and mute, were now points of the purest yellow-and-orange light, and just as distinct as the stars in the sky. Warm was working away, his hand dipping into the river, his head darting up and back in search of the larger pieces. He was methodical about it, working intelligently, efficiently, but his face and eyes, lit from the river glow, revealed the highest, most supreme type of joy. Morris had exhausted himself and could no longer stir; he planted his long stick into the dam and leaned against it, gazing over the waters with an expression of calm, almost narcotic satisfaction. I looked at Charlie. His face had softened, gone slack, his pain and anger removed, forgotten, and I saw his throat drop as he swallowed. My brother was overwhelmed. He looked into my eyes. He smiled at me.