Heartfire: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume V (3 page)

“Does there
have
to be?” asked Mike wistfully.

“Or something to do the same jobs,” said Verily. “And land, divided up so people can live. Food planted and harvested, or brought in to feed the population. Dry goods to make or buy, houses to build, clothes to make. There’ll be marrying and giving in marriage, unless I’m mistaken, and people will have children so we’ll need schools. No matter how visionary this city makes the
people, they still need roofs and roads, unless you expect them all to fly.”

Alvin leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed.

“Have I put you to sleep, or are you thinking?” asked Verily.

Alvin didn’t open his eyes when he answered. “I’m just thinking that I really don’t know a blame thing about what I’m doing. White Murderer Harrison may have been the lowest man I ever knowed, but at least he could build a city in the wilderness.”

“It’s easy to build a city when you arrange the rules so that bad men can get rich without getting caught,” said Verily. “You build such a place and greed will bring you your citizens, if you can stand to live with them.”

“It ought to be possible to do the same for decent folks,” said Alvin.

“It ought to be and is,” said Verily. “It’s been done, and you can learn from the way they did it.”

“Who?” asked Mike Fink. “I never heard of such a town.”

“A hundred towns at least,” said Verily. “I’m speaking of New England, of course. Massachusetts most particularly. Founded by Puritans to be their Zion, a land of pure religion across the western ocean. All my life, growing up in England, I heard about how perfect New England was, how pure and godly, where there were neither rich nor poor, but all partakers of the heavenly gift, and where they were free of distraction from the world. They live in peace and equity, in the land most just of all that have ever existed on God’s Earth.”

Alvin shook his head. “Verily, if Arthur can’t go to Camelot, it’s a sure bet you and I can’t go to New England.”

“There’s no slavery there,” said Verily.

“You know what I mean,” said Alvin. “They hang witches.”

“I’m no witch,” said Verily. “Nor are you.”

“By their lights we are.”

“Only if we do any hexery or use hidden powers,” said Verily. “Surely we can restrain ourselves long enough to learn how they created such a large country free of strife and oppression, and filled with the love of God.”

“Dangerous,” said Alvin.

“I agree,” said Mike. “We’d be insane to go there. Isn’t that where that lawyer fellow Daniel Webster came from? He’ll know about you, Alvin.”

“He’s in Carthage City making money from corrupt men,” said Alvin.

“Last you heard of him, maybe,” said Mike. “But he can write letters. He can come home. Things can go wrong.”

Arthur Stuart looked up at Mike Fink. “Things can go wrong lying in your own bed on Sunday.”

Alvin at last opened his eyes. “I have to learn. Verily’s right. It’s not enough to learn Makering. I have to learn governing, too, and city building, and everything else. I have to learn everything about everything, and I’m just getting farther behind the longer I sit here.”

Arthur Stuart looked glum. “So I’m never going to meet the King.”

“Far as I’m concerned,” said Mike Fink, “you
are
the real Arthur Stuart, and you’ve got as much right as he has to be king in this land.”

“I want him to make me a knight.”

Alvin sighed. Mike rolled his eyes. Verily put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “The day the King knights a half-Black boy...”

“Can’t he knight the White half?” asked Arthur Stuart. “If I do something real brave? That’s how a fellow gets hisself knighted, I hear.”

“Definitely time to go to New England,” said Alvin.

“I tell you I got misgivings,” said Mike Fink.

“Me too,” said Alvin. “But Verily’s right. They built a good place and got good people to come to it.”

“Why not go to that Tennizy place as calls itself Crystal City?” asked Mike.

“Maybe that’s where we’ll go after we get run out of New England,” said Alvin.

Verily laughed. “You’re an optimist, aren’t you.”

They mostly packed before they went to bed that night. Not that there was that much to put in their satchels. When a man is traveling with only a horse to carry himself and his goods, he gets a different idea of what he needs to carry from place to place than does a man riding a coach, or followed by servants and pack animals. It’s not much more than a walking man would be willing to tote, lest he wear down the horse.

Alvin woke early in the morning, before dawn, but it took him no more than two breaths to notice that Arthur Stuart was gone. The window stood open, and though they were on the top floor of the house, Alvin knew that wouldn’t stop Arthur Stuart, who seemed to think that gravity owed him a favor.

Alvin woke Verily and Mike, who were stirring anyway, and asked them to get the horses saddled and loaded up while he went in search of the boy.

Mike only laughed, though. “Probably found him some girl he wants to kiss good-bye.”

Alvin looked at him in shock. “What are you talking about?”

Mike looked back at him, just as surprised. “Are you blind? Are you deaf? Arthur’s voice is changing. He’s one whisker from being a man.”

“Speaking of whiskers,” said Verily, “I think the shadow on his upper lip is due to become a brush pretty soon. In fact, I daresay his face grows more hair on it already than yours does, Alvin.”

“I don’t see your face flowing with moustachery, either,” said Alvin.

“I shave,” said Verily.

“But it’s a long time between Christmases,” said Alvin.
“I’ll see you before breakfast is done, I wager.”

As Alvin went downstairs, he stopped into the kitchen, where Mistress Louder was rolling out the dough for morning biscuits. “You didn’t happen to see Arthur Stuart this morning?” asked Alvin.

“And when wast thou planning to tell me ye were leaving?”

“When we settled up after breakfast,” said Alvin. “We wasn’t trying to slip out, it was no secret we were packing up.”

Only then did he notice the tears running down her cheeks. “I hardly slept last night.”

Alvin put his hands on her shoulders. “Mistress Louder, I never thought you’d take on so. It’s a rooming house, ain’t it? And roomers come and go.”

She sighed loudly. “Just like children,” she said.

“And don’t children come back to the nest from time to time?”

“If that’s a promise, I won’t have to turn these into salt biscuits with my silly tears,” she said.

“I can promise that I’ll never pass a night in Philadelphia anywhere other than your house, lessen my wife and I settle down here someday, and then we’ll send our children to your house for breakfast while we sleep lazy.”

She laughed outright. “The Lord took twice the time making thee, Alvin Smith, cause it took that long to put the mischief in.”

“Mischief sneaks in by itself,” said Alvin. “That’s its nature.”

Only then did Mistress Louder remember Alvin’s original question. “As for Arthur Stuart, I caught him climbing down the tree outside when I went out to bring in firewood.”

“And you didn’t wake me? Or stop him?”

She ignored the implied accusation. “I forced some cold johnnycake into his hands before he was out the
door again. Said he had an errand to run before ye boys left this morning.”

“Well, at least that sounds like he means to come back,” said Alvin.

“It does,” said Mistress Louder. “Though if he didn’t, thou’rt not his master, I think.”

“Just because he’s not my property don’t mean I’m not responsible for him,” said Alvin.

“I wasn’t speaking of the law,” said Mistress Louder, “I was speaking the simple truth. He doesn’t obey thee like a boy, but like a man, because he wants to please thee. He’ll do nowt because thou commandest, but does it only when he agrees he ought to.”

“But that’s true of all men and all masters, even slaves,” said Alvin.

“What I’m saying is he doesn’t act in fear of thee,” said Mistress Louder. “And so it won’t do for thee to be hot with him when thou find him. Thou hast no right.”

Only then did Alvin realize that he was a bit angry with Arthur Stuart for running off. “He’s still young,” said Alvin.

“And thou’rt what, a greybeard with a stoop in his back?” she laughed. “Get on and find him. Arthur Stuart never seems to know the danger a lad of his tribe faces, noon and night.”

“Nor the danger that sneaks up behind,” said Alvin. He kissed her cheek. “Don’t let all those biscuits disappear before I get back.”

“It’s thy business, not mine, what time thou’lt choose to come back,” she said. “Who can say how hungry the others will be this morning?”

For that remark, Alvin dipped his finger into the flour and striped her nose with it, then headed for the door. She stuck her tongue out at him but didn’t wipe the flour away. “I’ll be a clown if thou want me to,” she called after him.

*      *      *

It was far too early in the morning for the shop to be open, but Alvin went straight for the taxidermist’s anyway. What other business could Arthur Stuart have? Mike’s guess that Arthur had found a girl was not likely to be right—the boy almost never left Alvin’s side, so there’d been no chance for such a thing, even if Arthur was old enough to want to try.

The streets were crowded with farmers from the surrounding countryside, bringing their goods to market, but the shops in buildings along the streets were still closed. Paperboys and postmen made their rounds, and dairymen clattered up the alleys, stopping to leave milk in the kitchens along the way. It was noisy on the streets, but it was the fresh noise of morning. No one was shouting yet. No neighbors quarreling, no barkers selling, no driver shouting out a warning to clear the way.

No Arthur at the front door of the taxidermy shop.

But where else would he have gone? He had a question, and he wouldn’t rest until he had the answer. Only it wasn’t the taxidermist who had the answer, was it? It was the French painter of birds, John-James. And somewhere inside the shop, there was bound to be a note of the man’s address. Would Arthur really be so foolhardy as to...

There was indeed an open window, with two crates on a barrel stacked beneath it. Arthur Stuart, it’s no better to be taken for a burglar than to be taken for a slave.

Alvin went to the back door. He twisted the knob. It turned a little, but not enough to draw back the latch. Locked, then.

Alvin leaned against the door and closed his eyes, searching with his doodlebug till he found the heartfire inside the shop. There he was, Arthur Stuart, bright with life, hot with adventure. Like so many times before, Alvin wished he had some part of Margaret’s gift, to see into the heartfire and learn something of the future and past, or even just the thoughts of the present moment—that would be convenient.

He dared not call out for Arthur—his voice would only raise an alarm and almost guarantee that Arthur would be caught inside the shop. For all Alvin knew the taxidermist lived upstairs or in an upper floor of one of the nearby buildings.

So now he put his doodlebug inside the lock, to feel out how the thing was made. An old lock, not very smooth. Alvin evened out the rough parts, peeling away corrosion and dirt. To change the shape of it was easier than moving it, so where two metal surfaces pressed flat against each other, keeping the latch from opening, Alvin changed them both to a bevel, making the metal flow into the new shapes, until the two surfaces slid easily across each other. With that he could turn the knob, and silently the latch slid free.

Still he did not open the door, for now he had to turn his attention to the hinges. They were rougher and dirtier than the lock. Did the man even use this door? Alvin smoothed and cleaned them also, and now, when he turned the knob and pushed open the door, the only sound was the whisper of the breeze passing into the shop.

Arthur Stuart sat at the taxidermist’s worktable, holding a bluejay between his hands, stroking the feathers. He looked up at Alvin and said, softly, “It isn’t even dead.”

Alvin touched the bird. Yes, there was some warmth, and a heartbeat. The shot that stunned it was still lodged in its skull. The brain was bruised and the bird would soon die of it, even though none of the other birdshot that had hit it would be fatal.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” asked Alvin. “The address of the painter?”

“No,” said Arthur bleakly.

Alvin went to work on the bird, quickly as he could. It was more delicate than metal work, moving his doodlebug through the pathways of a living creature, making tiny alterations here and there. It helped him to
hold the animal, to touch it while he worked on it. The blood in the brain was soon draining into the veins, and the damaged arteries were closed. The flesh healed rapidly under the tiny balls of lead, forcing them back out of the body. Even the ball lodged in the skull shrank, loosened, dropped out.

The jay rustled its feathers, struggled in Alvin’s grasp. He let it loose.

“They’ll just kill it anyway,” said Alvin.