Chapter Six - Goblin

WE GOT AN EARLY START THE NEXT MORNING. A quick inspection of Sheba revealed no tampering, and I stashed the gear we'd brought along in the rear of the jeep.

Following a crude map Barry had drawn, we found the dirt road that led to Harmony Springs. The road was not much more than a couple of ruts in a bare dirt trail that twisted and turned through the Georgia mountains, and we kicked up dust all the way to Harmony Springs. The road was fairly passable because there were still a few family farms and orchards in those hills, but I wouldn't have wanted to try it in a heavy rain. It only got really rough for about the last three or four miles. By late morning, we pulled into the main street of Harmony Springs.

Weeds choked the unpaved main street, though not so badly that a good four-wheeler couldn't get through them. Most of the buildings were of undressed stone, and a few were of wood. Doors hanging by a single busted, rusted hinge and faded, peeling paint were everywhere. But Rachel had been wrong about one thing--by some miracle, no more than about half the windows panes were broken.

The rusted hulk of an old 1930 Ford sat in the middle of the street in front of what had been the city hall, and a fallen oak had turned the old Methodist church into a pile of scrap lumber. The desolation was tinged with irony--the "Welcome to Harmony Springs" sign in front of the city hall described the town as "America's Foremost Health Resort," and a badly faded poster next to the city hall's door urged visitors to "Invest for Your Future in Harmony Springs."

The biggest building in town was the Saranson Hotel, a five story stone structure at the end of the main street. The wrecked front doors stood open, and every fixture that was worth anything had been stripped a long time ago. Only about a quarter of the windows were broken, and somehow the building seemed not quite as dilapidated as the others. I craned my neck examining the place. In its time, it must have been elegant.

While I was reflecting on glories long lost, Bo nudged my arm. I looked at her, and she pointed at a well-worn path clearly visible through the trees on the mountainside up above the hotel. "You think that leads to Goblin's place?"

I looked where Bo was pointing. "I'd think so. It leads north, anyway." Rachel had been right about one thing--we sure weren't getting any four-wheel vehicle up that little track of bare earth.

I shut off the engine and we climbed out of the jeep. I looked all around as I stretched my cramped muscles, and wondered if I was in the crosshairs of a telescopic sight right at that very moment. Then I dug the shotgun out of the pile of gear, checked to see that it was loaded, dug out the extra five-shell clips I'd brought along and put them in the pockets of my hunter's vest. Bo checked her .38, and we set out.

The hike was almost pleasant. The mountain air was still chill and brisk from the autumn night, and though we were hiking up a fairly steep slope we weren¹t sweating at all. The rainbow foliage surrounding us was almost dizzying with its brilliance, and its thickness reduced visibility to no more than a few feet. I wondered for a moment what we might look like to any campers or hikers we might come across--even in northern Georgia, it's not typical to go for a stroll with a combat shotgun and a pistol--but immediately put it out of my mind. I'd rather have the state patrol catch me with my firepower than Monroe and his crew catch me without it.

We saw no one. But every once in a while we would hear leaves rustle a little too loudly for the slight morning breeze or there would be just a hint of movement at the edge of our visible range. I gave Monroe's boys some credit. Most people would never have noticed.

We were about a mile up the trail when we saw the cabin.

It was just as Rachel as described. The log cabin looked as though it had been built by some nineteenth century mountain man who had never heard of indoor plumbing or electricity. The windows had no glass or screens, only wooden shutters that stood wide open to the mountain air. Clay sealed the chinks between the logs, and the roof was tarred and shingled with hand-made wooden shingles.

There was a small porch. On the porch was an ancient rocking chair. In the rocking chair sat Goblin.

Goblin looked straight down at us while his hands whittled a small piece of wood. I could read nothing in his expression except perhaps a long and weary patience. Harper Coleman was a heavy man with a solid white Santa Claus beard and hair to match, and what could be seen of his face was wrinkled and dark brown from the sun. He wore only faded and worn overalls. His feet, arms and chest were bare and colored a pasty white. He must have been at least sixty five, but there was nothing decrepit or frail about him.

Bo and I stopped. For a moment, he studied us and we studied him, a city boy and a city girl encountering an eccentric mountain recluse. It was eerie, almost as if creatures from two different planets had discovered each other and each was trying to determine if the other was dangerous.

After a minute or so, Goblin stopped whittling, raised his hand and signaled for us to approach.

Slowly Bo and I covered the last few remaining feet to the cabin. Just as we reached the steps that led up to the little porch, Goblin raised his hand again and motioned for us to stop. We stopped. Goblin went back to whittling and rocking.

Nobody said anything for almost a minute. Apparently it was up to us to start the conversation.

I cleared my throat. "Mr. Coleman?"

He nodded his head once. "That would be me." His tone clearly said, State your business or be gone.

I hesitated a second and then said, "I understand you're a descendent of Ethan Coleman, a lieutenant in the Confederate army during the Civil War."

"The War Between the States," he corrected me and went on rocking and whittling.

Another momentary silence followed. I started to speak again, but Bo interrupted me. "Mr. Coleman, we understand that your ancestor was given a very unusual mission towards the end of the war."

"Unusual, you say?" The knife kept scraping more thin shreds of wood from the stick, and the chair kept rolling back and forth.

"Very unusual. In fact, we understand Jefferson Davis hoped to keep the war going for years with the mission he gave your several-times-great grandfather."

"Well, now. Ain't that somethin'? What would that mission be?"

Bo frowned and looked at me. I thought for a minute and made a decision. "You may as well see for yourself," I said. Then I reached inside my shirt, pulled out Barry's letter, and held it up close enough that Goblin could reach it.

Goblin reached forward, took the sheet of paper, pulled a pair of spectacles out of a pocket, and began to read. The chair never stopped rocking. After a few minutes he raised his eyes from the paper and looked straight down at me. His eyes were as gray and hard as polished flint.

"So you've come for the gold."

"Not exactly. But Monroe and his gang are definitely coming for the gold."

Goblin looked away and resumed whittling. He heaved a great sigh. "I knew ever since I was almost just a baby that someone would find out sooner or later." He spoke as if he were all alone and talking to himself. He focused on me suddenly. "What happened to your friend?"

"Monroe killed him. Or at least someone connected with Monroe killed him."

"You don't like this Monroe much, do ya?"

I grinned in spite of myself. "No, not much."

"I reckon you expect me you tell you where the gold is. Just like that."

"No. Not really. What's important is keeping the gold away from Monroe. I'm morally certain he killed my best friend. I'll be damned if he'll get rich off it. I don't care if I get it or not. I just want to make sure that Monroe doesn't."

Goblin smiled sadly. "Not much to worry about, then, son."

"What do you mean?" asked Bo.

"Ain't no gold."

"No gold?"

"No gold. Not an ounce."

Was he lying? I couldn't tell. If he knew where the gold was, no doubt he'd lie to protect it. Then again, it had been more than a hundred and thirty years. It was possible, even likely, that the gold wasn't there anymore.

"What happened to all that gold?" Bo asked.

Goblin gave an even bigger sigh than before. "Somebody took it. And a long time ago, too."

"Who took it?" asked Bo.

"Don't rightly know. Prob'ly never will, either."

"Well, then, how do you know the gold's gone?" I asked.

"I looked." He sighed yet again. "I'm ashamed of it. Before God himself, I confess I'm ashamed of it." His eyes focused on his hands as he whittled and a faraway light began to shine in them. "I lost faith. I doubted. And it weren't no more than a week after my daddy died.

"My daddy believed. He never doubted. There it was, almost 1970, and we was living on the mountain still without no electricity. Mama had passed on years before. September, 1969, daddy just up and died. Stroke, the doctor said. When I was a child, I believed. Even when I was a young man, I believed. But not when daddy died. By that time, even a fool could see it wasn't going to happen. Even a fool. The South was not going to rise. My daddy didn't go to school, but I did. I know."

Goblin's hands fell still for a moment, and he stared off into the distance as if at a magnificent vision far away. After a few seconds, he seemed to come out of it, fixed his eyes back on his hands, and began whittling again.

Bo and I waited for a few seconds.

"Mr. Coleman," Bo gently prompted the old man, "how do you know the gold isn't there?"

"I looked."

"You looked? When?"

"Right after my daddy died. Just like I told you. I broke the covenant and entered the chamber, God forgive me. We wasn t supposed to ever go into the chamber."

"What chamber? Where?"

Goblin stopped rocking, stopped whittling, and fixed a cold stare on Bo. His hands clenched the arms of the rocker so fiercely that his knuckles turned white. Despite the heavy beard, I could see him clenching his teeth. The tortured look on his face belonged in a Heironymous Bosch painting. It was the look of a soul in hell.

"Beneath the Saranson Hotel. In the basement. North wall. Carved in the living stone of the mountain."

Neither Bo nor I spoke for several seconds. Goblin's cold stare remained fixed on Bo. The old man was as motionless as a stone.

At last Bo moved. Slowly and cautiously, as if she was approaching a wounded animal, Bo climbed the steps to the porch and stood before Goblin. With great care, she extended her hand and gently stroked his hair. Goblin didn't even twitch. It took almost a minute, but his face began to soften as he stared up at Bo. With both hands she softly stroked his temples and cheeks until Goblin was looking up at her with something like a look of wonder on his face.

"How do you get into the chamber?" Bo's voice was a soothing whisper.

Goblin swallowed hard. "Gotta dig your way in. Use a pickaxe on the north wall. Dead center. I sealed it up again after I left. Lotta hard work."

"Booby traps?"

"Not one. I swear."

Goblin said nothing more.

Bo held his face between her hands and gazed directly into his eyes for a few seconds. Then she bent forward and kissed him tenderly on the forehead.

After that, she turned, came down the steps and joined me. Goblin's eyes followed her the entire way. The tormented look was gone, but there was an infinite sadness in his eyes. He looked as if he were staring at the world through a thick pane of cloudy glass.

"If he's not telling the truth," Bo whispered, "he's the best damned actor I ever saw."

I nodded in agreement. "I think we've gotten what we came for. Let's go."

But just as we turned, Goblin shot up from his rocking chair, extended his arms to the sky, and called in a voice almost loud enough to be a shout, "I lost faith! I lost faith! Before God Himself, I confess my shame! I lost faith!"

We stood staring sorrowfully at him. He had been waiting so long, and nothing had come of it. The South had not risen, the gold was gone. His life was a mockery, and the life of his father, and the life of his father's father's father. But there seemed nothing to do. We said nothing, then turned and began to make our way back down the mountain trail. There was a horrible pleading look in Goblin's eyes as he watched us walk away.

Next episode: The Chamber