Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III (23 page)

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Authors: Orson Scott Card

BOOK: Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III
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“You’re not so much,” Alvin said, “and you know it, or you wouldn’t have a knife hid in your boot.”
Fink looked startled, then grinned. He pulled up his pantleg and took a long knife out of his boot, tossed it to the men behind him. “I won’t need a knife to fight you, he said.
“Then why don’t you take the knife out of the
other
boot?” asked Alvin.
Fink frowned and raised the other pantleg. “Ain’t no knife here,” he said.
Alvin knew better, of course, and it pleased him that Fink was worried enough about this fight not to part with his most secret knife. Besides which, probably nobody else knew about that knife but Alvin, with his ability to see what others couldn’t see. Fink didn’t want to let on to the others that he had such a knife, or word would spread fast along the river and he’d get no advantage from it.
Still, Alvin couldn’t afford to let Fink fight with the knife on him. “Then take off the boots and we’ll fight barefoot,” Alvin said. It was a good idea anyway, knife or no knife. Alvin knew that when the river rats fought, they kicked like mules with their boots. Fighting barefoot might take some of the spunk out of Mike Fink.
But if Fink lost any spunk, he didn’t show it. Just sat down in the dust of the road and pulled off his boots. Alvin did the same, and his socks too—Fink didn’t wear socks. So now the two of them had on nothing but their trousers, and already out in the sunlight there was enough dust and sweat that their bodies were looking a little streaked and cakey with clay.
Not so caked up, though, that Alvin couldn’t feel a hex of protection drawn over Mike Fink’s whole body. How could such a thing be? Did he have a hex on some amulet in his pocket? The pattern was strongest near his backside, but when Alvin sent his
bug to search that pocket, there was nothing but the rough cotton canvas of Fink’s trousers. He wasn’t carrying so much as a coin.
By now a crowd was gathered. Not just the river rats who’d been resting in the porthouse shade, but a whole slew of others, and it was plain they all expected Mike Fink to win. He must be something of a legend on the river, Alvin realized, and no surprise, with this mysterious hex he had. Alvin could imagine folks poking a knife at Fink, only to twist at the last moment, or lose their grip, or somehow keep the knife from doing harm. It was a lot easier to win all your wrassling if no man’s teeth could bite into you, and if a knife couldn’t do much more than graze your skin.
Fink tried all the obvious stuff first, of course, because it made the best show: Roaring, rushing at Alvin like a buffalo, trying to get a bear hug on him, trying to grab onto Alvin and give him a swing like a rock on a string. But Alvin wouldn’t have none of that. He didn’t even have to use knackery to get away, neither. He was younger and quicker than Fink, and the river man hardly so much as laid a hand on him, Al dodged away so sudden. At first the crowd hooted and called Alvin coward. But after a while of this, they began to laugh at Fink, since he looked so silly, rushing and roaring and coming up empty all the time.
In the meantime, Alvin was exploring to find the source of Fink’s hex, for there was no hope of winning this fight if he couldn’t get rid of that strong web. He found it soon enough—a pattern of dye embedded deep in the skin of Fink’s buttock. It wasn’t a perfect hex anymore, since the skin had changed shape somewhat as Fink grew over the years, but it was a clever pattern, with strong locks and links—good enough to cast a strong net over him, even if it was misshapen.
If he hadn’t been in the middle of a rassling match with Fink, Alvin might have been more subtle, might have just weakened the hex a little, for he had no will to deprive Fink of the hex that had protected him for so long. Why, Fink might die of it, losing his hex, especially if he had let himself get careless, counting on it to protect him. But what choice did Alvin have? So he made the dyes
in Fink’s skin start to flow, seeping into his bloodstream and getting carried away. Alvin could do without full concentration—just set it to happening and let it glide on, while he worked on dodging out of Fink’s way.
Soon enough Al could sense the hex weakening, fading, finally collapsing completely. Fink wouldn’t know it, but Alvin did—he could now be hurt like any other man.
By this time, though, Fink was no longer making those rough and stupid rushes at him. He was circling, feinting, looking to grapple in a square, then use his greater bulk to throw Alvin. But Alvin had a longer reach, and there was no doubt his arms were stronger, so whenever Fink reached to grab, Alvin batted the river man’s arms out of the way.
With the hex gone, however. Alvin didn’t slap him away. Instead, he reached inside Fink’s arms, so that as Fink grasped his arms, Alvin got his hands hooked behind Fink’s neck.
Alvin pulled down hard, bowing Fink down so his head was even with Alvin’s chest. It was too easy—Fink was letting him. and Alvin guessed why. Sure enough. Fink pulled Alvin closer and brought his head up fast, expecting to catch Alvin on the chin with the back of his head. He was so strong he might’ve broke Alvin’s neck doing that—only Alvin’s chin wasn’t where Fink thought it would be. In fact. Alvin had already rared his own head back, and when Fink came up hard and out of control, Alvin rammed forward and smashed his forehead into Fink’s face. He could feel Fink’s nose crumple under the blow. and blood, erupted down both their faces.
It wasn’t all that surprising, for a man’s nose to get broke during a rassle like this. It hurt like blazes of course, and it would’ve stopped a friendly match—though of course a friendly match wouldn’t have included head butts. Any other river rat would’ve shook his head, roared a couple of times, and charged back into the fight.
Instead, Fink backed away. a look of real surprise on his face, his hands gripping his nose. Then he let out a howl like a whupped dog.
Everybody else fell silent. It was such a funny thing to happen,
a river rat like Mike Fink howling at a broke-up nose. No, it wasn’t rightly funny, but it was strange. It wasn’t how a river rat was supposed to act.
“Come on, Mike,” somebody murmured.
“You can take him, Mike.”
But it was a half-hearted sort of encouragement. They’d never seen Mike Fink act hurt or scared before. He wasn’t good at hiding it, either. Only Al knew why. Only Al knew that Mike Fink had never in his life felt such a pain, that Fink had never once shed his own blood in a fight. So many times he’d broke the other fellow’s nose and laughed at the pain—it was easy to laugh, because he didn’t know how it felt. Now he knew. Trouble was, he was learning what others learned at six years old, and so he was acting like a six-year-old. Not crying, exactly, but howling.
For a minute Alvin thought that maybe the match was over. But Fink’s fear and pain soon turned to rage, and he waded back into the fight. Maybe he’d learned pain, but he hadn’t learned caution from it.
So it took a few more holds, a few more wrenches and twists, before Alvin got Fink down onto the ground. Even as frightened and surprised as Fink was, he was the strongest man Alvin had ever rassled. Till this fight with Fink, Alvin had never really had occasion to find out just how strong he was; he’d never been pushed to his limit. Now he was, and he found himself rolling over and over in the dust, hardly able to breathe it was so thick, Fink’s own hot panting breath now above him, now below, knees ramming, arms pounding and gripping, feet scrabbling in the dust, searching for purchase enough to get leverage.
In the end it came down to Fink’s inexperience with weakness. Since no man could ever break a bone of his, Fink had never learned to tuck his legs, never learned not to expose them to where a man could stomp them. When Alvin broke free and scrambled to his feet, Fink rolled over quick and, for just a moment, lying there on the ground, he drew one leg across the other like a pure invitation. Alvin didn’t even think, he just jumped into the air and came down with both feet onto Fink’s top leg, jamming downward with all his
weight, so the bones of the top leg were bowed over the lower one. So sharp and hard was the blow that it wasn’t just the top leg that shattered, but the bottom one, too. Fink screamed like a child in the fire.
Only now did Alvin realize what he’d done. Oh, yes, of course he’d ended the fight—nobody’s tough enough to fight on with two broken legs. But Alvin could tell at once, without looking—or at least without looking with his
eyes
—that these were not clean breaks, not the kind that can heal easy. Besides, Fink wasn’t a young man now, and sure he wasn’t a boy. If these breaks healed at all, they’d leave him lame at best, outright crippled at the worst. His livelihood would be gone. Besides, he must have made a lot of enemies over the years. What would they do now, with him broken and halt? How long would he live?
So Alvin knelt on the ground beside where Mike Fink writhed —or rather, the upper half of him writhed, while he tried to keep his legs from moving at all—and touched the legs. With his hands in contact with Fink’s body, even through the cloth of his pants, Alvin could find his way easier, work faster, and in just a few moments, he had knitted the bones together. That was all he tried to do, no more—the bruise, the torn muscle, the bleeding, he had to leave that or Fink might get up and attack him again.
He pulled his hands away, and stepped back from Fink. At once the river rats gathered around their fallen hero.
“Is his legs broke?” asked the loudmouth river rat.
“No,” said Alvin.
“They’re broke to pieces!” howled Fink.
By then. another man had slit right up the pantleg. Sure enough he found the bruise, but as he felt along the bone, Fink screeched and pulled away. “Don’t touch it!”
“Didn’t feel broke to me,” said the man.
“Look how he’s moving his legs. They ain’t broke.”
It was true enough—Fink was no longer writhing with just the top half of his body, his legs were wiggling now as much as any other part of him.
One man helped Fink to his feet. Fink staggered, almost fell, caught himself by leaning against the loudmouth, smearing blood from his nose on the man’s shirt. The others pulled away from him.
“Just a boy,” muttered one.
“Howling like a puppydog.”
“Big old baby.”
“Mike
Fink
.” And then a chuckle.
Alvin stood by the wagon, putting on his shirt, then sat up on the wagon seat to pull on his shoes and socks. He glanced up to find the lady watching him. She stood not six feet off, since the smith’s wagon was pulled right up against the loading dock. She had a look of sour distaste. Alvin realized she was probably disgusted at how dirty he was. Maybe he shouldn’t have put his shirt right back on, but then, it was also impolite to go shirtless in front of a lady. In fact, the town men, especially the doctors and lawyers, they acted ashamed to be out in public without a proper coat and waistcoat and cravat. Poor folks usually didn’t have such clothes, and a prentice would be putting on airs to dress like that. But a shirt—he had to have his shirt on, whether he was filthy with dust or not.
“Beg pardon, Ma’am,” he said. “I’ll wash when I get home.”
“Wash?” she asked. “And when you do, will your brutality also wash away?”
“I reckon I don’t know, since I never heard that word.”
“I daresay you haven’t,” she said. “Brutality. From the word
brute
. Meaning beast.”
Alvin felt himself redden with anger. “Maybe so. Maybe I should’ve let them go on talking to you however they liked.”
“I paid no attention to them. They didn’t bother me. You had no need to protect me, especially not that way. Stripping naked and rolling around in the dirt. You’re covered with blood.”
Alvin hardly knew what to answer, she was so snooty and boneheaded. “I wasn’t naked,” Alvin said. Then he grinned. “And it was
his
blood.”
“And are you proud of that?”
Yes, he was. But he knew that if he said so. it would diminish him in her sight. Well, what of that? What did he care what she thought of him? Still, he said nothing.
In the silence between them, he could hear the river rats behind him, shooting at Fink, who wasn’t howling anymore, but wasn’t saying much, either. It wasn’t just Fink they were thinking about now, though.
“Town boy thinks he’s tough.”
“Maybe we ought to show him a
real
fight.”
“Then we’ll see how uppity his ladyfriend is.”
Alvin couldn’t rightly tell the future, but it didn’t take no torch to guess at what was going to happen. Al’s boots were on. his horse was full-hitched, and it was time to go. But snooty as she was, he couldn’t leave the lady behind. He knew she’d be the river rats’ target now, and however little she thought she needed protection, he knew that these river men had just watched their best man get whupped and humbled, and all on account of her, which meant she’d likely end up lying in the dirt with her bags all dumped in the river, if not worse.
“Best you get in,” Alvin said.
“I wonder that you dare to give me instructions like a common—What are you doing?”
Alvin was tossing her trunk and bags into the back of the wagon. It seemed so obvious to him that he didn’t bother answering her.

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