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Authors: Orson Scott Card

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BOOK: Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III
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Hank Dowser started pulling off his stockings. “You don’t suppose old Horace Guester took him in on account of he’s the party responsible for causing the boy’s skin to be so light.”
“Hush your mouth with a pumpkin, Hank, before you say such a thing,” said Makepeace. “Horace ain’t that kind of a man.”
“You’d be surprised who I’ve known turn out to be that kind of
a man,” said Hank. “Though I don’t think it of Horace Guester, mind.”
“Do you think Old Peg Guester’d let a half-Black bastard son of her husband into the house?”
“What if she didn’t know?”
“She’d know. Her daughter Peggy used to be torch here in Hatrack River. And everybody knowed that Little Peggy Guester never told a lie.”
“I used to hear tell about the Hatrack River torch, afore I ever come here. How come I never seen her?”
“She’s gone, that’s why,” said Makepeace. “Left three years ago. Just run off. You’d be wise never to ask about her up to Guester’s roadhouse. They’re a mite ticklish on the subject.”
Barefoot now, Hank Dowser stood up on the bank of the stream. He happened to glance up, and there off in the trees, just a-watching him, stood that Arthur Stuart boy again. Well, what harm could a little pickaninny do? Not a bit.
Hank stepped into the stream and let the ice-cold water pour over his feet. He spoke silently to the water: I don’t mean to block your flow, or slack you down even further. The well I dig ain’t meant to do you no harm. It’s like giving you another place to flow through, like giving you another face, more hands, another eye. So don’t you hide from me, Water. Show me where you’re rising up, pushing to reach the sky, and I’ll tell them to dig there, and set you free to wash over the earth, you just see if I don’t.
“This water pure enough?” Hank asked the smith.
“Pure as it can be,” said Makepeace. “Never heard of nobody taking sick from it.”
Hank dipped the sharp end of the wand into the water, upstream of his feet. Taste it, he told the wand. Catch the flavor of it, and remember, and find me more just this sweet.
The wand started to buck in his hands. It was ready. He lifted it from the stream; it settled down, calmer, but still shaking just the least bit, to let him know it was alive, alive and searching.
Now there was no more talking, no more thinking. Hank just walked, eyes near closed because he didn’t want his vision to distract
from the tingling in his hands. The wand never led him astray; to look where he was going would be as much as to admit the wand had no power to find.
It took near half an hour. Oh, he found a few places right off, but not good enough, not for Hank Dowser. He could tell by how sharp the wand bucked and dropped whether the water was close enough to the surface to do much good. He was so good at it now that most folks couldn’t make no difference between him and a doodlebug, which was about as fine a knack as a dowser could ever have. And since doodlebugs were right scarce, mostly being found among seventh sons or thirteenth children. Hank never wished anymore that he was a doodlebug instead of just a dowser, or not often, anyway.
The wand dropped so hard it buried itself three inches deep in the earth. Couldn’t do much better than that. Hank smiled and opened his eyes. He wasn’t thirty feet back of the smithy. Couldn’t have found a better spot with his eyes open. No doodlebug could’ve done a nicer job.
The smith thought so, too. “Why, if you’d asked me where I wished the well would be, this is the spot I’d pick.”
Hank nodded, accepting the praise without a smile, his eyes half-closed, his whole body still a-tingle with the strength of the water’s call to him. “I don’t want to lift this wand,” said Hank, “till you’ve dug a trench all round this spot to mark it off.”
“Fetch a spade!” cried the smith.
Prentice Alvin jogged off in search of the tool. Hank noticed Arthur Stuart toddling after, running full tilt on them short legs so awkward he was bound to fall. And fall he did, flat down on his face in the grass, moving so fast he slid a yard at least. and came up soaking wet with dew. Didn’t pause him none. Just waddled on around the smithy building where Prentice Alvin went.
Hank turned back to Makepeace Smith and kicked at the soil just underfoot. “I can’t be sure, not being a doodlebug,” said Hank, as modest as he could manage, “but I’d say you won’t have to dig ten feet till you strike water here. It’s fresh and lively as I ever seen.”
“No skin off my nose either way,” said Makepeace. “I don’t aim to dig it.”
“That prentice of yours looks strong enough to dig it hisself, if he doesn’t lazy off and sleep when your back is turned.”
“He ain’t the lazying kind,” said Makepeace. “You’ll be staying the night at the roadhouse, I reckon.”
“I reckon not,” said Hank. “I got some folks about six mile west who want me to find them some dry ground to dig a good deep cellar.”
“Ain’t that kind of
anti
-dowsing?”
“It is, Makepeace, and it’s a whole lot harder, too, in wettish country like this.”
“Well, come back this way, then,” said Makepeace, “and I’ll save you a sip of the first water pulled up from your well.”
“I’ll do that,” said Hank, “and gladly.” That was an honor he wasn’t often offered, that first sip from a well. There was power in that, but only if it was freely given, and Hank couldn’t keep from smiling now. “I’ll be back in a couple of days, sure as shooting.”
The prentice boy come back with the spade and set right to digging. Just a shallow trench, but Hank noticed that the boy squared it off without measuring, each side of the hole equal, and as near as Hank could guess, it was true to the compass points as well. Standing there with the wand still rooted into the ground, Hank felt a sudden sickness in his stomach, having the boy so close. Only it wasn’t the kind of sickness where you hanker to chuck up what you ate for breakfast. It was the kind of sickness that turns to pain, the sickness that turns to violence; Hank felt himself yearning to snatch the spade out of the boy’s hands and smack him across the head with the sharp side of the blade.
Till finally it dawned on him, standing there with the wand a-trembling in his hand. It wasn’t
Hank
who hated this boy, no sir. It was the
water
that Hank served so well, the
water
that wanted this boy dead.
The moment that thought entered Hank’s head, he fought it down,
swallowed back the sickness inside him. It was the plain craziest idea that ever entered his head. Water was water. All it wanted was to come up out of the ground or down out of the clouds and race over the face of the earth. It didn’t have no malice in it. No desire to kill. And anyway, Hank Dowser was a Christian, and a Baptist to boot—a natural dowser’s religion if there ever was one. When he put folks under the water, it was to baptize them and bring them to Jesus, not to drownd them. Hank didn’t have murder in his heart, he had his Savior there, teaching him to love his enemies, teaching him that even to hate a man was like murder.
Hank said a silent prayer to Jesus to take this rage out of his heart and make him stop wishing for this innocent boy’s death.
As if in answer, the wand leapt right out of the ground, flew clear out of his hands and landed in the bushes most of two rods off.
That never happened to Hank in all his days of dowsing. A wand taking off like that! Why. it was as if the water had spurned him as sharp as a fine lady spurns a cussing man.
“Trench is all dug,” said the boy.
Hank looked sharp at him, to see if he noticed anything funny about the way the wand took off like that. But the boy wasn’t even looking at him. Just looking at the ground inside the square he’d just ditched off.
“Good work,” said Hank. He tried not to let his voice show the loathing that he felt.
“Won’t do no good to dig here,” said the boy.
Hank couldn’t hardly believe his ears. Bad enough the boy sassing his own master, in the trade he knew, but what in tarnation did this boy know about dowsing?
“What did you say, boy?” asked Hank.
The boy must have seen the menace in Hank’s face, or caught the tone of fury in his voice, because he backed right down. “Nothing, sir,” he said. “None of my business anyhow.”
Such was Hank’s built-up anger, though, that he wasn’t letting the boy off so easy. “You think you can do my job too, is that it? Maybe your master lets you think you’re as good as he is cause
you got your knack with
hooves,
but let me tell you, boy, I am a true dowser and my wand tells me there’s water here!”
“That’s right,” said the boy. He spoke mildly, so that Hank didn’t really notice that the boy had four inches on him in height and probably more than that in reach. Prentice Alvin wasn’t so big you’d call him a giant, but you wouldn’t call him no dwarf, neither.
“That’s
right?
It ain’t for you to say right or wrong to what my wand tells me!”
“I know it, sir, I was out of turn.”
The smith came back with a wheelbarrow, a pick, and two stout iron levers. “What’s all this?” he asked.
“Your boy here got smart with me,” said Hank. He knew as he said it that it wasn’t quite fair—the boy had already apologized, hadn’t he?
Now at last Makepeace’s hand lashed out and caught the boy a blow like a bear’s paw alongside his head. Alvin staggered under the cuffing, but he didn’t fall. “I’m sorry, sir,” said Alvin.
“He said there wasn’t no water here, where I said the well should be.” Hank just couldn’t stop himself. “I had respect for his knack. You’d think he’d have respect for mine.”
“Knack or no knack,” said the smith, “he’ll have respect for my customers or he’ll learn how long it takes to be a smith, oh sir! he’ll learn.”
Now the smith had one of the heavy iron levers in his hand, as if he meant to cane the boy across the back with it. That would be sheer murder, and Hank hadn’t the heart for it. He held out his hand and caught the end of the lever. “No, Makepeace, wait, it’s all right. He did tell me he was sorry.”
“And is that enough for you?”
“That and knowing you’ll listen to me and not to him,” said Hank. “I’m not so old I’m ready to hear boys with hoof-knacks tell me I can’t dowse no more.”
“Oh, the well’s going to be dug right here, you can bet your life. And this boy’s going to dig it all himself, and not have a bite to eat until he strikes water.”
Hank smiled. “Well, then, he’ll be glad to discover that I know what I’m doing—he won’t have to dig far, that’s for sure.”
Makepeace rounded on the boy, who now stood a few yards off, his hands slack at his side, showing no anger on his face, nothing at all, really. “I’m going to escort Mr. Dowser back to his new-shod mare, Alvin. And this is the last I want to see of you until you can bring me a bucket of clean water from this well. You won’t eat a bite or have a sip of water until you drink it from here!”
“Oh, now,” said Hank, “have a heart. You know it takes a couple of days sometimes for the dirt to settle out of a new well.”
“Bring me a bucket of water from the new well, anyway,” said Makepeace. “Even if you work all night.”
They headed back for the smithy then, to the corral where Picklewing waited. There was some chat, some work at saddling up, and then Hank Dowser was on his way, his nag riding smoother and easier under him, just as happy as a clam. He could see the boy working as he rode off. There wasn’t no flurry of dirt, just methodical lifting and dumping, lifting and dumping. The boy didn’t seem to stop to rest, either. There wasn’t a single break in the sound of his labor as Hank rode off. The
shuck
sound of the spade dipping into the soil, then the
swish-thump
as the dirt slid off onto the pile.
Hank didn’t calm down his anger till he couldn’t hear a sound of the boy, or even remember what the sound was like. Whatever power Hank had as a dowser, this boy was the enemy of his knack, that much Hank knew. He had thought his rage was unreasonable before, but now that the boy had spoke up, Hank knew he had been right all along. The boy thought he was a master of water, maybe even a doodlebug, and that made him Hank’s enemy.
Jesus said to give your enemy your own cloak, to turn the other cheek—but what about when your enemy aims to take away your livelihood, what then? Do you let him ruin you? Not this Christian, thought Hank. I learned that boy something this time, and if it doesn’t take, I’ll learn him more later.
Masquerade
PEGGY WASN’T THE belle of the Governor’s Ball, but that was fine with her. Mistress Modesty had long since taught her that it was a mistake for women to compete with each other. “There is no single prize to be won, which, if one woman attains it, must remain out of reach for all the others.”
No one else seemed to understand this, however. The other women eyed each other with jealous eyes, measuring the probable expense of gowns, guessing at the cost of whatever amulet of beauty the other woman wore; keeping track of who danced with whom, how many men arranged to be presented.
Few of them turned a jealous eye toward Peggy—at least not when she first entered the room in mid-afternoon. Peggy knew the impression she was making. Instead of an elegant coiffure, her hair was brushed and shining, pulled up in a style that looked well-tended, but prone to straying locks here and there. Her gown was simple, almost plain—but this was by calculation. “You have a sweet young body, so your gown must not distract from the natural litheness of youth.” Moreover, the gown was unusually modest, showing less
bare flesh than any other woman’s dress; yet, more than most, it revealed the free movement of the body underneath it.
She could almost hear Mistress Modesty’s voice, saying, “So many girls misunderstand. The corset is not an end in itself. It is meant to allow old and sagging bodies to imitate the body that a healthy young woman naturally has. A corset on
you
must be lightly laced, the stays only for comfort, not containment. Then your body can move freely, and you can breathe. Other girls will marvel that you have the courage to appear in public with a natural waistline. But men don’t measure the cut of a woman’s clothes. Instead they pleasure in the naturalness of a lady who is comfortable, sure of herself, enjoying life on this day, in this place, in his company.”
Most important, though, was the fact that she wore no jewelry. The other ladies all depended on beseemings whenever they went out in public. Unless a girl had a knack for beseemings herself, she had to buy—or her parents or husband had to buy—a hex engraven on a ring or amulet. Amulets were preferred, since they were worn nearer the face, and so one could get by with a much weaker—and therefore cheaper—hex. Such beseemings had no effect from far off, but the closer you came to a woman with a beseeming of beauty, the more you began to feel that her face was particularly beautiful. None of her features was transformed; you still saw what was actually there. It was your judgment that changed. Mistress Modesty laughed at such hexes. “What good does it do to fool someone, when he knows that he’s being fooled?” So Peggy wore no such hex.
All the other women at the ball were in disguise. Though no one’s face was hidden, this ball was a masquerade. Only Peggy and Mistress Modesty, of all the women here, were not in costume, were not pretending to some unnatural ideal.
She could guess at the other girls’ thoughts as they watched her enter the room: Poor thing. How plain. No competition there. And their estimation was true enough—at least at first. No one took particular notice of Peggy.
But Mistress Modesty carefully selected a few of the men who approached her. “I’d like you to meet my young friend Margaret,”
she would say, and then Peggy would smile the fresh and open smile that was not artificial at all—her natural smile, the one that spoke of her honest gladness at meeting a friend of Mistress Modesty’s. They would touch her hand and bow, and her gentle echoing courtesy was graceful and unmeasured, an honest gesture; her hand squeezed his as a friendly reflex, the way one greets a hoped-for friend. “The art of beauty is the art of truth,” said Mistress Modesty. “Other women pretend to be someone else; you will be your loveliest self, with the same natural exuberant grace as a bounding deer or a circling hawk.” The man would lead her onto the floor, and she would dance with him, not worrying about correct steps or keeping time or showing off her dress, but rather enjoying the dance, their symmetrical movement, the way the music flowed through their bodies together.
The man who met her, who danced with her, remembered. Afterward the other girls seemed stilted, awkward, unfree, artificial. Many men, themselves as artificial as most of the ladies, did not know themselves well enough to know they enjoyed Peggy’s company more than any other young lady’s. But then, Mistress Modesty did not introduce Peggy to such men. Rather she only allowed Peggy to dance with the kind of man who could respond to her; and Mistress Modesty knew which men
they
were because they were genuinely fond of Mistress Modesty.
So as the hours passed by at the ball, hazy afternoon giving way to bright evening, more and more men were circling Peggy, filling up her dance card, eagerly conversing with her during the lulls, bringing her refreshment—which she ate if she was hungry or thirsty, and kindly refused if she was not—until the other girls began to take note of her. There were plenty of men who took no notice of Peggy, of course; no other girl lacked because of Peggy’s plenty. But they didn’t see it that way. What they saw was that Peggy was always surrounded, and Peggy could guess at their whispered conversations.
“What kind of spell does she have?”
“She wears an amulet under her bodice—I’m sure I saw its shape pressing against that cheap fabric.”
“Why don’t they see how thick-waisted she is?”
“Look how her hair is awry, as if she had just come in from the barnyard.”
“She must flatter them dreadfully.”
“Only a certain
kind
of man is attracted to her, I hope you notice.”
Poor things, poor things. Peggy had no power that was not already born within any of these girls. She used no artifice that they would have to buy.
Most important to her was the fact that she did not even use her own knack here. All of Mistress Modesty’s other teachings had come easily to her over the years, for they were nothing more than the extension of her natural honesty. The one difficult barrier was Peggy’s knack. By habit, the moment she met someone she had always looked into his heartfire to see who he was; and, knowing more about him than she knew about herself, she then had to conceal her knowledge of his darkest secrets. It was this that had made her so reserved, even haughty-seeming.
Mistress Modesty and Peggy both agreed—she could not tell others how much she knew about them. Yet Mistress Modesty assured her that as long as she was concealing something so important, she could not become her most beautiful self—could not become the woman that Alvin would love for herself, and not out of pity.
The answer was simple enough. Since Peggy could not tell what she knew, and could not hide what she knew, the only solution was not to know it in the first place. That was the real struggle of these past three years—to train herself
not
to look into the heartfires around her. Yet by hard work, after many tears of frustration and a thousand different tricks to try to fool herself, she had achieved it. She could enter a crowded ballroom and remain oblivious to the heartfires around her. Oh, she
saw
the heartfires—she could not blind herself—but she paid no attention to them. She did not find herself drawing close to see deeply. And now she was getting skilled enough that she didn’t even have to
try
not to see into the heartfire. She could stand this close to someone, conversing, paying attention
to their words, and yet see no more of his inner thoughts than any other person would.
Of course, years of torchery had taught her more about human nature—the kinds of thoughts that go behind certain words or tones of voice or expressions or gestures—that she was very good at guessing others’ present thoughts. But good people never minded when she seemed to know what was on their mind right at the moment. She did not have to hide that knowledge. It was only their deepest secrets that she could not know—and those secrets were now invisible to her unless she chose to see.
She did not choose to see. For in her new detachment she found a kind of freedom she had never known before in all her life. She could take other people at face value now. She could rejoice in their company, not knowing and therefore not feeling responsible for their hidden hungers or, most terribly, their dangerous futures. It gave a kind of exhilarating madness to her dancing, her laughter, her conversation; no one else at the ball felt so free as Modesty’s young friend Margaret, because no one else had ever known such desperate confinement as she had known all her life till now.
So it was that Peggy’s evening at the Governor’s Ball was glorious. Not a
triumph,
actually, since she vanquished no one—whatever man won her friendship was not conquered, but liberated, even victorious. What she felt was pure joy, and so those who were with her also rejoiced in her company. Such good feelings could not be contained. Even those who gossiped nastily about her behind their fans nevertheless caught the joy of the evening; many told the governor’s wife that this was the best ball ever held in Dekane, or for that matter in the whole state of Suskwahenny.
Some even realized who it was who brought such gladness to the evening. Among them were the governor’s wife and Mistress Modesty. Peggy saw them talking once, as she turned gracefully on the floor, returning to her partner with a smile that made him laugh with joy to be dancing with her. The governor’s wife was smiling and nodding, and she pointed with her fan toward the dance floor, and for a moment Peggy’s eyes met hers. Peggy smiled in warm
greeting: the governor’s wife smiled and nodded back. The gesture did not go unremarked. Peggy would be welcome at any party she wanted to attend in Dekane—two or three a night, if she desired, every night of the year.
Yet Peggy did not glory in this achievement, for she recognized how small it really was. She had won her way into the finest events in Dekane—but Dekane was merely the capita! of a state on the edge of the American frontier. If she longed for social victories, she would have to make her way to Camelot, to win the accolades of royalty—and from there to Europe, to be received in Vienna, Paris, Warsaw, or Madrid. Even then, though, even if she had danced with every crowned head, it would mean nothing. She would die, they would die, and how would the world be any better because she had danced?
She had seen true greatness in the heartfire of a newborn baby fourteen years ago. She had protected the child because she loved his future; she had also come to love the boy because of who he was, the kind of soul he had. Most of all, though, more important than her feelings for Prentice Alvin, most of all she loved the work that lay ahead of him. Kings and queens built kingdoms, or lost them; merchants made fortunes, or squandered them; artists made works that time faded or forgot. Only Prentice Alvin had in him the seeds of Making that would stand against time, against the endless wasting of the Unmaker. So as she danced tonight, she danced for him, knowing that if she could win the love of these strangers, she might also win Alvin’s love, and earn a place beside him on his pathway to the Crystal City, that place in which all the citizens can see like torches, build like makers, and love with the purity of Christ.
With the thought of Alvin, she cast her attention to his distant heartfire. Though she had schooled herself not to see into nearby heartfires, she never gave up looking into his. Perhaps this made it harder for her to control her knack, but what purpose was it to learn anything, if by learning she lost her connection to that boy? So she did not have to search for him; she knew always, in the back of her mind, where his heartfire burned. In these years she
had learned not to see him constantly before her, but still she could see him in an instant. She did so now.
He was digging in the ground behind his smithy. But she hardly noticed the work, for neither did he. What burned strongest in his heartfire was anger. Someone had treated him unfairly—but that could hardly be new, could it? Makepeace, once the most fair-minded of masters, had become steadily more envious of Alvin’s skill at ironwork, and in his jealousy he had become unjust, denying Alvin’s ability more fervently the further his prentice boy surpassed him. Alvin lived with injustice every day, yet never had Peggy seen such rage in him.
“Is something wrong, Mistress Margaret?” The man who danced with her spoke in concern. Peggy had stopped, there in the middle of the floor. The music still played, and couples still moved through the dance, but near her the dancers had stopped, were watching her.
“I can’t—continue.” she said. It surprised her to find that she was out of breath with fear. What was she afraid of?
“Would you like to leave the ballroom?” he asked. What was his name? There was only one name in her mind: Alvin.
“Please,” she said. She leaned on him as they walked toward the open doors leading onto the porch. The crowd parted; she didn’t see them.
It was as if all the anger Alvin had stored up in his years of working under Makepeace Smith now was coming out, and every dig of his shovel was a deep cut of revenge. A dowser, an itinerant water-seeker, that’s who had angered him, that’s the one he meant to harm. But the dowser was none of Peggy’s concern; nor was his provocation, however mean or terrible. It was Alvin. Couldn’t he see that when he dug so deep in hatred it was an act of destruction? And didn’t he know that when you work to destroy, you invite the Destroyer? When your labor is unmaking, the Unmaker can claim you.
The air outside was cooler in the gathering dusk, the last shred of the sun throwing a ruddy light across the lawns of the Governor’s mansion. “Mistress Margaret, I hope I did nothing to cause you to faint.”
BOOK: Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III
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