Read Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III Online
Authors: Orson Scott Card
Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III (27 page)
BOOK: Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III
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Still, despite her elaborate avoidance of an open lie, she feared that she merely deceived herself. How could she believe that her presence here, so disguised, was anything but a lie?
And yet surely even that deception was the truth, at its root. She was no longer the same person she had been when she was torch of Hatrack River. She was no longer connected to these people in the former ways. If she claimed to be Little Peggy, that would be a deeper lie than her disguise, for they would suppose that she was the girl they once knew, and treat her accordingly. In that sense, her disguise was a reflection of who she really was, at least here and now—educated, aloof, a deliberate spinster, and sexually unavailable to men.
So her disguise was not a lie, surely it was not; it was merely a way to keep a secret, the secret of who she used to be, but was no longer. Her vow was still unbroken.
Mother was long since out of sight in the woods between the springhouse and the inn, but still Peggy looked after her. And if she wanted, Peggy could have seen her even yet, not with her eyes, but with her torch sight, finding Mother’s heartfire and moving close, looking tight. Mother, don’t you know you have no secrets from your daughter Peggy?
But the fact was that Mother could keep all the secrets she desired. Peggy would not look into her heart. Peggy hadn’t come home to be the torch of Hatrack River again. After all these years of study, in which Peggy had read so many books so rapidly that she feared once that she might run out, that there might not be books enough in America to satisfy her—after all these years, there was only one skill she was certain of. She had finally mastered the ability
not
to see inside the hearts of other people unless she wanted to. She had finally tamed her torchy sight.
not
to see inside the hearts of other people unless she wanted to. She had finally tamed her torchy sight.
Oh, she still looked inside other people when she needed to, but she rarely did. Even with the school board, when she had to tame them, it took no more than her knowledge of human nature to guess their present thoughts and deal with them. And as for the futures revealed in the heartfire, she no longer noticed them.
I am not responsible for your futures, none of you. Least of all you, Mother. I have meddled enough in your life, in everyone’s lives. If I know all your futures, all you people in Hatrack River, then I have a moral imperative to shape my own actions to help you achieve the happiest possible tomorrow. Yet in so doing, I cease to exist myself. My own future becomes the only one with no hope, and why should that be? By shutting my eyes to what
will
happen, I become like you, able to live my life according to my guesses at what
may
happen. I couldn’t guarantee you happiness anyway, and this way at least I also have a chance of it myself.
will
happen, I become like you, able to live my life according to my guesses at what
may
happen. I couldn’t guarantee you happiness anyway, and this way at least I also have a chance of it myself.
Even as she justified herself, she felt the same sour guilt well up inside her. By rejecting her knack, she was sinning against the God that gave it to her. That great magister Erasmus, he had taught as
much: Your knack is your destiny. You’ll never know joy except through following the path laid out before you by what is inside you. But Peggy refused to submit to that cruel discipline. Her childhood had already been stolen from her, and to what end? Her mother disliked her, the people of Hatrack River feared her, often hated her, even as they came to her again and again, seeking answers to their selfish, petty questions, blaming her if any seeming ill came into their lives, but never thanking her for saving them from dire events, for they never knew how she had saved them because the evils never happened.
much: Your knack is your destiny. You’ll never know joy except through following the path laid out before you by what is inside you. But Peggy refused to submit to that cruel discipline. Her childhood had already been stolen from her, and to what end? Her mother disliked her, the people of Hatrack River feared her, often hated her, even as they came to her again and again, seeking answers to their selfish, petty questions, blaming her if any seeming ill came into their lives, but never thanking her for saving them from dire events, for they never knew how she had saved them because the evils never happened.
It wasn’t gratitude she wanted. It was freedom. It was a lightening of her burden. She had started bearing it too young, and they had shown her no mercy in their exploitation. Their own fears always outweighed her need for a carefree girlhood. Did any of them understand that? Did any of them know how gratefully she left them all behind?
Now Peggy the torch was back, but they’d never know it. I did not come back for
you,
people of Hatrack River, nor did I come to serve your children. I came back for one pupil only, the man who stands even now at the forge, his heartfire burning so brightly that I can see it even in my sleep, even in my dreams. I came back having learned all that the world can teach, so I in turn can help that young man achieve a labor that means more than any one of us.
That
is my destiny, if I have one.
you,
people of Hatrack River, nor did I come to serve your children. I came back for one pupil only, the man who stands even now at the forge, his heartfire burning so brightly that I can see it even in my sleep, even in my dreams. I came back having learned all that the world can teach, so I in turn can help that young man achieve a labor that means more than any one of us.
That
is my destiny, if I have one.
Along the way I’ll do what other good I can—I’ll teach Arthur Stuart, I’ll try to fulfill the dreams his brave young mother died for; I’ll teach all the other children as much as they’re willing to learn, during those certain hours of the day that I’ve contracted for; I’ll bring such poetry and learning into the town of Hatrack River as you’re willing to receive.
Perhaps you don’t desire poetry as much as you would like to have my torchy knowledge of your possible futures, but I daresay poetry will do you far more good. For knowing the future only makes you timid and complacent by turns, while poetry can shape you into the kind of souls who can face any future with boldness and wisdom and nobility, so that you need not know the future at all, so that any future
will be an opportunity for greatness, if you have greatness in you. Can I teach you to see in yourselves what Gray saw?
will be an opportunity for greatness, if you have greatness in you. Can I teach you to see in yourselves what Gray saw?
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire,
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed.
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed.
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But she doubted that any of these ordinary souls in Hatrack River were really route, inglorious Miltons. Pauley Wiseman was no secret Caesar. He might wish for it, but he lacked the wit and self-control. Whitley Physicker was no Hippocrates, however much he tried to be a healer and conciliator—his love of luxury undid him, and like many other well-meaning physician he had come to work for what the fee could buy, and not for joy of the work itself.
She picked up the water bucket that stood by the door. Weary as she was, she would not allow herself to seem helpless even for a moment. Father and Mother would come and find Miss Larner had already done for herself all that she could do before the tub arrived.
Ching-ching-ching.
Didn’t Alvin rest? Didn’t he know the sun was boiling the western sky, turning it red before sinking out of sight behind the trees? As she walked down the hill toward the smithy, she felt as if she might suddenly begin to run, to fly down the hill to the smithy as she had flown the day that Alvin was born. It was raining that day, and Alvin’s mother was stuck in a wagon in the river. It was Peggy who saw them all, their heartfires off in the blackness of the rain and the flooding river. It was Peggy who gave alarm, and then Peggy who stood watch over the birthing, seeing Alvin’s futures in his heartfire, the brightest heartfire she had ever seen or would ever see in all her life. It was Peggy who saved his life then by peeling the caul away from his face; and, by using bits of that caul. Peggy who had saved his life so many times over the years. She might turn her back on being torch of Hatrack River, but she’d never turn her back on
him.
Didn’t Alvin rest? Didn’t he know the sun was boiling the western sky, turning it red before sinking out of sight behind the trees? As she walked down the hill toward the smithy, she felt as if she might suddenly begin to run, to fly down the hill to the smithy as she had flown the day that Alvin was born. It was raining that day, and Alvin’s mother was stuck in a wagon in the river. It was Peggy who saw them all, their heartfires off in the blackness of the rain and the flooding river. It was Peggy who gave alarm, and then Peggy who stood watch over the birthing, seeing Alvin’s futures in his heartfire, the brightest heartfire she had ever seen or would ever see in all her life. It was Peggy who saved his life then by peeling the caul away from his face; and, by using bits of that caul. Peggy who had saved his life so many times over the years. She might turn her back on being torch of Hatrack River, but she’d never turn her back on
him.
But she stopped herself halfway down the hill. What was she thinking of? She could not go to him, not now, not yet. He had to
come to
her.
Only that way could she become his teacher; only that way was there a chance of becoming anything more than that.
come to
her.
Only that way could she become his teacher; only that way was there a chance of becoming anything more than that.
She turned and walked across the face of the hill, slanting down and eastward toward the well. She had watched Alvin dig the well—both wells—and for once she was helpless to help him when the Unmaker came. Alvin’s own anger and destructiveness had called his enemy, and there was nothing Peggy could do with the caul to save him that time. She could only watch as he purged the unmaking that was inside himself, and so defeated, for a time, the Unmaker who stalked him on the outside. Now this well stood as a monument both to Alvin’s power and to his frailty.
She dropped the copper bucket into the well, and the windlass clattered as the rope unwound. A muffled splash. She waited a moment for the bucket to fill, then wound it upward. It arrived brimming. She meant to pour it out into the wooden bucket she brought with her, but instead she brought the copper bucket to her lips and drank from the cold heavy load of water that it bore. So many years she had waited to taste that water, the water that Alvin tamed the night he tamed himself. She had been so afraid, watching him all night, and when at last in the morning he filled up the first vengeful hole he dug, she wept in relief. This water wasn’t salty, but still it tasted to her like her own tears.
The hammer was silent. As always, she found Alvin’s heartfire at once, without even trying. He was leaving the smithy, coming outside. Did he know she was there? No. He always came for water when he finished his work for the day. Of course she could not turn to him, not yet, not until she actually heard his step. Yet, though she knew he was coming and listened for him, she couldn’t hear him; he moved as silently as a squirrel on a limb. Not until he spoke did he make a sound.
“Pretty good water, ain’t it?”
She turned around to face him. Turned too quickly, too eagerly—the rope still held the bucket, so it lurched out of her hands, splashed her with water, and clattered back down into the well.
“I’m Alvin, you remember? Didn’t mean to frighten you, Ma’am. Miss Larner.”
“I foolishly forgot the bucket was tied,” she said. “I’m used to pumps and taps, I’m afraid. Open wells are not common in Philadelphia.”
She turned back to the well to draw the bucket up again.
“Here, let me,” he said.
“There’s no need. I can wind it well enough.”
“But why should you, Miss Larner, when I’m glad to do it for you?” She stepped aside and watched as he cranked the windlass with one hand, as easily as a child might swing a rope. The bucket fairly flew to the top of the well. She looked into his heartfire, just dipped in, to see if he was showing off for her. He was not. He could not see how massive his own shoulders were, how his muscles danced under the skin as his arm moved He could not even see the peacefulness of his own face, the same quiet repose that one might see in the face of a fearless stag. There was no watchfulness in him. Some people had darting eyes, as if they had to be alert for danger, or perhaps for prey. Others looked intently at the task at hand, concentrating on what they were doing. But Alvin had a quiet distance, as if he had no particular concern about what anyone else or he himself might be doing, but instead dwelt on inward thoughts that no one else could hear. Again the words of Gray’s Elegy played out in her mind.
Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stay;
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Their sober wishes never learned to stay;
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Poor Alvin. When I’m done with you, there’ll be no cool sequestered vale. You’ll look back on your prenticeship as the last peaceful days of your life.
He gripped the full, heavy bucket with one hand on the rim, and easily tipped it to pour it out into the bucket she had brought, which he held in his other hand; he did it as lightly and easily as a housewife pours cream from one cup into another. What if those hands as lightly and easily held my arms? Would he break me without meaning
to, being so strong? Would I feel manacled in his irresistible grasp? Or would he burn me up in the white heat of his heartfire?
to, being so strong? Would I feel manacled in his irresistible grasp? Or would he burn me up in the white heat of his heartfire?
She reached out for her bucket.
“Please let me carry it, Ma’am. Miss Larner.”
“There’s no need.”
“I know I’m dirtied up, Miss Larner, but I can carry it to your door and set it inside without messing anything.”
Is my disguise so monstrously aloof that you think I refuse your help out of excessive cleanliness? “I only meant that I didn’t want to make you work anymore today. You’ve helped me enough already for one day.”
He looked straight into her eyes, and now he lost that peaceful expression. There was even a bit of anger in his eyes. “If you’re afraid I’ll want you to pay me, you needn’t have no fear of that. If this is your dollar, you can have it back. I never wanted it.” He held out to her the coin that Whitley Physicker had tossed him from the carriage.
“I reproved Dr. Physicker at the time. I thought it insulting that he should presume to pay you for the service you did me out of pure gallantry. It cheapened both of us, I thought, for him to act as if the events of this morning were worth exactly one dollar.”
His eyes had softened now.
Peggy went on in her Miss Larner voice. “But you must forgive Dr. Physicker. He is uncomfortable with wealth, and looks for opportunities to share it with others. He has not yet learned how to do it with perfect tact.”
“Oh, it’s no never mind now, Miss Larner, seeing how it didn’t come from you.” He put the coin back in his pocket and started to carry the full bucket up the hill toward the house.
It was plain he was unaccustomed to walking with a lady. His strides were far too long, his pace too quick, for her to keep up with him. She couldn’t even walk the same route he took—he seemed oblivious to the degree of slope. He was like child, not an adult, taking the most direct route even if it meant unnecessary clambering over obstacles.
And yet I’m barely five years older than he is. Have I come to believe my own disguise? At twenty-three, am I already thinking and acting and living like a woman of twice that age? Didn’t I once love to walk just as he does, over the most difficult ground, for the sheer love of the exertion and accomplishment?
BOOK: Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III
10.3Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
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