Heartfire: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume V (23 page)

He wasn’t home free, though. The foreman stopped him just as he started away from the dock. “What you got in
that
?” he demanded, pointing at the basket.

“I don’t know what my master put there,” said the waterboy.

“I know one thing he better put there,” said the foreman.

The two men looked at each other in grim silence for a long time, until finally the waterboy grinned and rolled his eyes and reached into the basket. “I so stupid, boss, I so stupid, I plumb forget.” He took out a coin and offered it to the foreman.

“Where’s the rest?” asked the foreman.

“That all he give me,” said the waterboy.

“Come on, Denmark,” said the foreman.

“Ah,” whispered Honoré. “We have learned his name.”

“Better be his name,” said Calvin. “He sure as hell ain’t no Scandinavian.”

“Tell you what,” said the foreman. “I’ll tell him you give me one penny and see what he says.”

“But I give you a shilling,” said Denmark.

“You think he’ll believe that, if I tell him otherwise?”

“You get me a whipping, that don’t get you no more money,” said Denmark.

“Get the hell off my dock,” said the foreman.

“You a kind man, boss,” said Denmark, bowing and nodding as he backed away. Then he turned his back and picked up the buckets again, but before he could stand up the foreman planted a foot on his backside and sent him sprawling on the dock. The stevedores and sailors laughed. But the slaves lined up for inspection by
the customs officers, they didn’t laugh. And Denmark himself, when he got up from the dock his face didn’t show much amusement. But Calvin and Honoré could see how he composed himself, putting on a silly grin before he turned around. “You a funny man, boss,” said Denmark. “You always make me laugh.”

With exaggerated care, Denmark picked up the buckets without turning his back to the foreman. And he made a show of stopping and looking behind him a couple of times to make sure no one had snuck up to kick him again. His clowning kept the White man laughing even after he was gone.

Through it all, the newly arrived slaves didn’t take their eyes off him.

“He is showing them how to survive here,” said Honoré.

“You mean get a White man mad? That’s smart.”

“He is not a stupid man,” said Honoré. “He is a clever man. He shows the others that they must act stupid and make the White man
laugh
. They must make the White man feel amusement and contempt, for this will keep Whites from feeling fear and anger.”

“Probably,” said Calvin. “Or maybe he just gets his butt kicked now and then.”

“No,” said Honoré. “I tell you I am the authority on human nature. He does this on purpose. After all, he is the one who gathers up their souls.”

“I thought you said these weren’t their souls at all.”

“I changed my mind,” said Honoré. “Look at them. The soul is missing now.”

They looked at the Blacks in their chains and ropes, while the customs inspectors prodded them, stripped them, checked their body orifices, as if they were animals. They bore it easily. The looks of fear that they had worn as they emerged into sunlight were gone now. Gone also was the intensity with which they had gazed after Denmark as he carried away their tokens, or whatever they were. They really did seem like animals now.

“They been emptied, all right,” said Calvin. “They all had heartfires getting off the boat, strong ones, but now they’re all slacked back like a fire settled down to coals.”

“They knew,” said Honoré. “The were ready before they got off the boat. How did they know?”

“Maybe that’s one of the things Margaret can tell us later,” said Calvin.

“If she ever speaks to us again,” said Honoré.

“She’ll speak to us,” said Calvin. “She’s a nice person. So she’ll start feeling guilty about sticking us for the price of the meal last night.”

“They knew,” said Honoré. “And they all consented. They gave away their souls into his hands.”

“What I want to know,” said Calvin, “is where he keeps them and what he does with them.”

“Then we must go to your sister-in-law and ask her, since you are certain she will speak to us.”

Calvin glared at him. “I’m already following him. He can’t see my bug.”

“Or he does not
show
you that he sees,” said Honoré.

“I been doing this longer than you have. I
know
.”

“Then why are you trembling?” said Honoré.

Calvin whirled on him, backing him against the crates. “Because I’m barely stopping myself from making your heart... stop... beating.”

Honoré looked surprised. “Did you lose your sense of humor under the hedge?”

Calvin backed away, only slightly mollified. “One thing you ain’t is funny,” said Calvin.

“But if I practice, perhaps I will
become
funny.”

“
I
’
m
the funny one,” said Calvin. He backed off, leaving Honoré room to stand without pressing his body against the crates. “Or did
you
lose
your
sense of humor under the hedge?”

“We are both funny fellows,” said Honoré. “Let’s follow the man with a basket of souls. I have to know what he does with them.”

“He’s going through a door.”

“Where?”

“In Blacktown,” said Calvin. “There’s junk hanging all over the place. Only one other heartfire in the house.” He whistled. “That’s
bright
.”

“What’s bright?” asked Honoré.

Calvin didn’t answer.

Honoré leaned closer to him. “It’s not fair not to tell me.

Calvin looked at him stupidly. “Tell you what?”

Margaret sat at her writing table, composing her daily letter to Alvin. She never mailed them. She could have, since she always knew where he was and where he was going. But why make him find post offices in every town he visited? Better to wait until the last hours before sundown. Whatever he was doing, he’d pause and let his thoughts turn to her. More to the point, he would send out his doodlebug to watch her. He could not read her thoughts, but he could see how her arms moved, her fingers; he could find the pen, the paper. She dipped it into ink only so that she could look back and see what she had written. She knew that he could see the words she formed on paper as clearly as if he were looking over her shoulder. She would ask questions; when they were half-formed, she would find the answer in his memory.

It was a lopsided arrangement, she knew. She could see his inmost thought, even the feelings he was scarcely aware of himself. She could see his choices unfold before him, could see them narrow again as he chose. He had no secrets from her. She, on the other hand, could keep anything secret that she chose, except for the condition of her body. He could reassure her that the baby was doing well; he could worry about her working too hard. But her thoughts remained closed to him. It hardly seemed fair.

And yet Alvin didn’t mind—honestly didn’t mind at
all, never even seemed to notice. She knew there were several reasons for this. First, Alvin was an open fellow, not given to keeping secrets. He could keep them, of course, but once he trusted someone, he told the whole story, leaving nothing out, whether it reflected badly on him or not. Sometimes it sounded to others like boasting, when the things he had done were quite remarkable. But it was neither boasting nor confession. He simply reported what was in his memory. So it was no burden to him to have her see into his heartfire so readily.

A second reason for his lack of resentment, however, troubled her: He simply didn’t care. He didn’t mind that she knew his secrets, and he also didn’t mind that he didn’t know hers. He might be more inquisitive! Did this mean he didn’t love her? Did it betray some fundamental selfishness? No, Alvin was generous of spirit. He simply wasn’t all that curious about the minutiae of her thoughts. He was content to know what she told him. He trusted her. That’s what it was, trust, not a lack of love.

The third reason, and probably the most important, was also the least satisfying. Alvin accepted everything about Margaret as a given, as part of the natural world around him. Though he didn’t learn of it till later, she had watched over him through his entire childhood and saved his life many times. She had taught him, disguised as an older spinster schoolmarm. As the sun had shone on him every day, so had her care for him. He took her for granted. Having her inside his mind was as natural as breathing.

I am not even the weather in his life. I am more like the climate. No, more like the calendar. There are holidays, but the rest of the time he loses track, knowing the days will pass one by one whatever he names them.

Mustn’t think that way. Write.

Dearest Alvin, I miss you now more than ever. Calvin is such an unpleasant boy, the opposite of you, and yet when I hear his voice it reminds me of yours.

Only the letters were not really written out so nicely. As soon as she saw that he understood, she would cease writing a word and skip ahead. The letter really began more like this: DA, I miss now mor. C is such an unpl boy, the opp of y&yet wh I hear hi voi it rem me of yo.

It was hard to imagine anyone else making sense of these scraps of words, scrawled in a child’s printed hand instead of Margaret’s elegant script, since printing was easier for Alvin to detect from a distance.

She kept writing: I think you’re a fool to stay in that jail a single night. Walk out of it, gather up your companions, and come home. I don’t much care for Mistress Purity. She has some good futures but they’re not likely, and there’s great harm possible, too, if you stay and win her away from New England.

His question: So it can be done?

Yes but...

Does she hang if we don’t take her?

Margaret knew that a truthful answer would leave Alvin no choice but to stay.

Death isn’t the worst thing in the world, she wrote. We’re all going to do it, and if she’s hanged as a witch it has a very good chance of leading to the repeal of the death penalty for witchery, and a much higher standard for conviction. So her death does much good.

In Alvin’s mind she saw the immediate answer but she had known it already, known it without looking, for it was in his character: Let’s try to achieve that same end without letting them dangle her.

By telling him the truth she had guaranteed that he would linger in that jail.

She wrote: Wasn’t last year’s imprisonment and trial enough of that for one lifetime?

He ignored her, and framed a question in his mind: Calvin? What does he want?

To be you, she wrote. Or, failing that, to destroy everything you ever accomplish. He seduced a fine lady by giving her irresistible lust. Can you do that?

His reply: Never thought of that. Want me to?

No!!!! Not while you’re not here in the flesh, you torturer.

I’m going to be tortured.

They’re just going to run you. You’ll enjoy the exercise.

The conversation would have gone on for a while, but there came an urgent knock at her door.

Someone knocking, she wrote.

Then she looked for heartfires just outside her door and found one. Fishy.

“Come in?”

“Two White man downstairs a-see you, ma’am.”

Visitors, she wrote.

She looked for heartfires downstairs, but found only one man there to visit her.

Honoré de Balzac, she wrote. Calvin’s partner in debauch. Must go down. Tomorrow?

And his answer: Tomorrow. Always. I love you.

Feeling a lump in her throat, Margaret folded up the paper and put it away. There were still many inches on the page to write more letters to Alvin.

Downstairs, Balzac bounded up from his chair. He was as jumpy as a frog on a frying pan.

“Monsieur Balzac,” Margaret began.

“You must to help me with Calvin,” said Balzac, his excellent English collapsing just a little. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” said Margaret. “He’s not here, if that’s what you mean.”

“But he is here, Madame. He is here but he is not here. Look!”

When she looked where he pointed, she was surprised to see that Calvin was indeed there, sitting on a wooden plank bench, bouncing mindlessly, his eyes staring off into space. How could she not have noticed he was with Balzac when she looked for heartfires before coming downstairs?

Because his heartfire wasn’t there. Or rather, it was a
mouse-sized heartfire, and there was no future in it, only a sort of numb awareness of the present. As if Calvin were looking at his own actions through peripheral vision.

As if Calvin were one of the slaves.

But no. The slaves of Camelot still had their heartfires. Weak ones, with their true names lost to them, their passions damped and gone, their futures channeled into a few narrow paths. More, certainly, than was left with Calvin. He kept his name, but very little else. And as for future and past, they were a thick fog. Shimmers and shadows appeared, but she could make no sense of them. Most particularly, Margaret could not see anything about where his doodlebug was.