The road heading north of Gavot was a scenic route, lined with golden-leaved trees and rolling hills. It was pretty, picture perfect, and ordinarily, Mel would have made Stuart stop the car and she would have wasted half and hour taking photographs. Instead, she was dully staring ahead of, watching the painted stripes on the road pass by in a speckled blur. She was clutching her tote bag to her chest, not caring that it was now a lot heavier than it was before because she had stuffed her bed and breakfast embossed gift skillet into it. In the morning, to her surprise, she had found the skillet to be free of all scratches.
Stuart was driving, as usual, but he was frowning at the road. He wanted to say something, but after seeing Mel’s mutinous expression, he just pressed his lips together and turned on the car radio to a news station. The announcer mostly talked about the weather and politicians.
Lloyd Fenster had remarked that the horn silver mine was a few miles north of Gavot, perhaps about a fifteen minute drive. “You can’t miss it,” he had said. “It’s off to the side, but the land itself is pretty razed. There’s a sign that says ‘Gavot Silver Mine’ and below that, it’ll say ‘Gavot Cemetary, five miles’ right in front of it. Just take the small dirt road right after the sign, and it’ll be on your right. I’ll meet you at the driveway in front of the main office—it’s just a small brick building with some green shutters.”
“That thing doesn’t like iron,” Mel said suddenly.
Stuart turned off the radio, suddenly relieved that the photographer had decided to break the silence between them. “What did you say?”
“That thing doesn’t like iron,” she repeated. “I wonder why that is.”
“Hm, I don’t know. Although I seem to recall some folklore somewhere, I don’t know if it’s from a completely different culture or what, but they say that spirits or fairies or supernatural creatures can’t stand cold iron.”
“Oh?”
“Maybe it’s something from the earth that they can’t tolerate. Maybe iron takes away their strength or something. The reason is probably far from rational, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah.” She flexed her fingers, thinking that once she got back home, she would sign up for a weight lifting class herself. “But we do know what it’s looking for. Those beads. And they’re also made of metal.”
“If I remember, horn silver. But doesn’t that have different properties? Not all metal is the same, you know.”
“Sure, but…oh hell. You’re probably right. Metals do have different properties. I think you should start carrying a skillet too.”
“A knife might probably be sufficient.”
“A knife is too flimsy.”
“That’s what you think.”
“A knife isn’t made out of iron,” she pointed out. “At best, it’s probably made out of steel. And isn’t that an alloy of sorts, not entirely the same thing?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
The golden-leaved trees soon thinned out and were replaced by flat land, but unlike the rest of the flat land that was Gavot, this wasn’t the farmland with its waving fronds of wheat and corn. Lloyd Fenster hadn’t been kidding when he said that the land around the horn silver mines was razed. The ground was a bleak pebbly gray—sort of like dirty sandpaper which was layered. Perhaps the area had been strip mined at one time or another. The road itself was becoming cracked and the wheels of their rental car began kicking up dust. Mel was glad that the windows were rolled up.
They soon saw the sign in Lloyd Fenster’s directions. It was a beaten up wooden thing nailed to a stake that had been pounded into the unrelenting ground. The paint indicating the mines and the cemetery a few miles further was faded from too much sun. Stuart turned onto the small road right after the sign and with reluctance, the rental car bumped along the unpaved road. The shock absorbers did not entirely mitigate the pace of the rough road. The car jostled and churned and if the journalists had been prone to getting motion sick, they would have already been. Mel muttered a silent thanks as they soon saw the small office building that Lloyd Fenster would meet them at standing a few feet from the road. Stuart pulled the car off to the side and parked next to a dusty gray truck, which despite its uncleanliness, they could tell that it was the latest model.
“Is he here?” Mel asked as Stuart killed the engine. As if in response to her question, a figure stepped out of the office building.
In the late morning light—which was more faded than usual due to the cloudy sky—Lloyd Fenster looked like he was part of the mine landscape, gray sweatshirt, dusty jeans and boots, a faded cap on top of his head. He wore sunglasses which hid his expression as he watched the journalists get out of the car.
“Good morning,” Stuart greeted. Mel said the same.
Fenster only nodded. “Glad you could make it. Although I would have to say you’re missing some interesting things at the Harvest Festival today.”
“Oh?” said Mel.
“The competitions,” he clarified. “Or the last one anyway. The bingo club hired some rock climbing company to put up one of their fake walls out on the grounds of the town’s school. They’re going to tally up all the scores for the participants later today and announce the winner for the title of Horned King.”
“But isn’t the Horned King going to be crowned tomorrow?” asked Stuart.
“Sure, sure. I suppose if you’re picky about that kind of stuff, tomorrow would be the real day to actually see the festival in action. They’ll be doing the crowning in the morning and then there would be a big bonfire and some traditional dances by some people whose ancestors were once natives that lived on this land. Lucky for us, they haven’t planned on taking the land back—they could, you know, under that law that the state government passed about a month ago.”
“Perhaps they’re not taking the land back because of the curse they laid on it generations ago,” Mel replied.
“Well, there’s that story,” Fenster agreed, “but I’d say that they’re just stories for amusement. Or to frighten children, depending on your temperament.”
“That’s lucky for you then,” said Stuart. “So how long has this building been up?”
“This is actually pretty new,” the owner to the mines remarked. “Compared to everything else, that is. The office building has been build, what, oh, about fifty years ago. My grandfather had it built after he razed the old office building that had been built there a hundred years even before that. I was a teenager back then—I remember it was really, just this old shack—definitely not built to last. One would think that a thunderstorm could have leveled it in one blow.” He shook his head. “Well, my grandfather thought something more sturdy and permanent was the way to go so here it is. Nowadays, I just use it as an office to store old records and the like. Since the mine has been closed, I just haven’t found anything new to do with it.”
“I would imagine that the mines are worth more because of this building,” said Stuart.
“Meh.” Fenster shrugged. “Perhaps. But for any prospective buyer to the place, the first thing they would look at would be what the mine itself would be worth and how much more horn silver one could squeeze out of the thing. Without killing anyone, of course.” The mine owner stepped off toward the bleak terrain and motioned for the journalists to follow him. “There really isn’t that much to see, except maybe the entrance. I can’t take you inside, of course. Too dangerous, even allowing for hard hats.”
As they walked across the pebbly land, the rocks crunching under their feet and the dust getting kicked about their knees, Stuart asked, “So how did the mine get into your family holdings?”
“Ah, that?” Fenster tucked the brim of his cap lower on his head as if to hide the frown on his forehead. “Well, I suppose it was similar to how a lot of people’s families acquired things around here. A long time ago, this used to be a farm, actually. I don’t remember the name of the family who originally owned the land, but nonetheless, they sold it to my family for one reason or another. An ancestor of mine recalled that the natives had used this land to obtain horn silver for their artifacts. He reasoned that there must be a mother lode of the stuff around here and that maybe he could make a profit.”
“Your ancestor was a businessman?”
“My entire family is made out of businessmen and businesswomen,” the mine owner remarked. “It’s in our blood. Anyway, the horn silver mine soon opened and it was a booming business. It was a booming business until it closed, at any rate. People always want the stuff to make trinkets and inlays and all sorts of things. Most of the horn silver from this mine actually went to some local artists to make all of that.”
“So it was more for artisan type purposes rather than something more utilitarian? To be honest, I’ve never heard of, say utensils, made out of horn silver.”
“Yep, it was mostly for decoration purposes.”
Fenster suddenly stopped and the three of them looked out over the small hill that they had climbed. Below them was a depression—one could tell it was a pit, actually—but the sides had been weathered by erosion. There was a dark hole at the bottom of the valley that looked like the opening of a cave. Broken two-by-fours littered the outside and there was yellow warning tape pinned across the opening. Some of the tape was ripped and it fluttered in the slight breeze.
“Well, there it is,” Fenster remarked. “The opening of the mine. The last time it was inspected, the geologists said that the integrity of the mine wouldn’t last for another six months if the workers continued digging. So, of course for the safety of all concerned, I decided to close it. There are other still operating horn silver mines in the area. I figured a closed one wouldn’t really make that much dent in the supply. It’s not as if there was a huge demand for horn silver artifacts anyway.”
“What about the necklaces?” said Mel. “You know, like the ones they give the winners to the competitions at the Harvest Festival?”
Fenster’s mouth slightly thinned. “Necklaces? Ah yes, that stuff. Well, I’ll have to admit that the ones that are given out for the winners are made of horn silver from these very mines. I do have a bit stockpiled for various purposes. I sent some down to an artist in Callas. Gerald Thompson. Ever heard of him?”
The journalists shook their heads.
“Well, that figures, you being city folk and all. He’s pretty famous around these parts. Anyways, he can make anything out of everything so I sent him some horn silver samples and he made some necklaces for the traditional winners’ gifts. If you see any horn silver being sold around Gavot nowadays, though, it’s probably not from here but elsewhere.”
Mel nodded. “I suppose that explains some things. So you only donate that for the Harvest Festival?”
“Hm.” Fenster appeared distracted, but it was obvious that he didn’t want to say anything else. Perhaps he thought that whoever he gave the horn silver to was none of their business.
“Our editor had a necklace made out of horn silver,” said Stuart, seemingly off-hand. “Perhaps it came from here?”
“I wouldn’t know,” the mine owner said grudgingly. “Horn silver is actually quite a common mineral around these parts. He could have gotten it anywhere.”
Mel took out her camera and began taking a few photographs. “It looks a bit lonely out here. It’s almost as if you’re on the moon instead of here on earth.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Fenster, obviously relieved that the topic had been changed. “It’s nice to get out here to be alone, if you know what I mean. Sometimes, even in this out of the way place, you don’t want to be by anyone.”
