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Authors: Orson Scott Card

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Nevertheless, she walked the easier path, skirting the hill and then climbing up where the slope was longer and gentler. He was already there, waiting at the door.

“Why didn’t you open the door and set the bucket inside? The door isn’t locked,” she said.

“Begging your pardon. Miss Larner, but this is a door that asks not to be opened, whether it’s locked or not.”

So, she thought, he wants to make sure I know about the hidden hexes he put in the locks. Not many people could see a hidden hex—nor could she, for that matter. She wouldn’t have known about them if she hadn’t watched him put the hexes in the lock. But of course she couldn’t very well tell him
that.
So she asked, “Oh, is there some protection here that I can’t see?”

“I just put a couple of hexes into the lock. Nothing much, but it should make it fairly safe here. And there’s a hex in the top of the stove, so I don’t think you have to worry much about sparks getting free.”

“You have a great deal of confidence in your hexery, Alvin.”

“I do them pretty good. Most folks knows a few hexes, anyway, Miss Larner. But not many smiths can put them into the iron. I just wanted you to know.”

He wanted her to know more than that, of course. So she gave him the response he hoped for. “I take it, then, that you did some of the work on this springhouse.”

“I done the windows, Miss Larner. They glide up and down sweet as you please, and there’s pegs to hold them in place. And the stove, and the locks, and all the iron fittings. And my helper, Arthur Stuart, he scraped down the walls.”

For a young man who seemed artless, he was steering the conversation rather well. For a moment she thought of toying with him, of pretending not to make the connections he was counting on, just to see how he handled it. But no—he was only planning
to ask her to do what she came here to do. There was no reason to make it hard for him. The teaching itself would be hard enough. “Arthur Stuart,” she said. “He must be the same boy that Goody Guester asked me to teach privately.”

“Oh, did she already ask you? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“I have no intention of keeping it a secret, Alvin. Yes, I’ll be teaching Arthur Stuart.”

“I’m glad of that, Miss Larner. He’s the smartest boy you ever knew. And a mimic! Why, he can hear anything once and say it back to you in your own voice. You’ll hardly believe it even when he’s a-doing it.”

“I only hope he doesn’t choose to play such a game when I’m teaching him.”

Alvin frowned. “Well, it isn’t rightly a game, Miss Larner. It’s just something he does without meaning to in particular. I mean to say, if he starts talking back to you in your own voice, he isn’t making fun or nothing. It’s just that when he hears something he remembers it voice and all, if you know what I mean. He can’t split them up and remember the words without the voice that gave them.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

In the distance, Peggy heard a door slam closed. She cast out and looked, finding Father’s and Mother’s heartfires coming toward her. They were quarreling, of course, but if Alvin was to ask her, he’d have to do it quickly.

“Was there something else you wanted to say to me, Alvin?”

This was the moment he’d been leading up to, but now he was turning shy on her. “Well, I had some idea of asking you—but you got to understand, I didn’t carry the water for you so you’d feel obliged or nothing. I would’ve done that anyway, for anybody, and as for what happened today, I didn’t rightly know that you were the teacher. I mean maybe I might’ve guessed, but I just didn’t think of it. So what I done was just itself, and you don’t owe me nothing.”

“I think I’ll decide how much gratitude I owe, Alvin. What did you want to ask me?”

“Of course you’ll be busy with Arthur Stuart, so I can’t expect you to have much time free, maybe just one day a week, just an
hour even. It could be on Saturdays, and you could charge whatever you want, my master’s been giving me free time and I’ve saved up some of my own earnings, and—”

“Are you asking me to tutor you, Alvin?”

Alvin didn’t know what the word meant.

“Tutor you. Teach you privately.”

“Yes, Miss Larner.”

“The charge is fifty cents a week, Alvin. And I wish you to come at the same time as Arthur Stuart. Arrive when he does, and leave when he does.”

“But how can you teach us both at once?”

“I daresay you could benefit from some of the lessons I’ll be giving him, Alvin. And when I have him writing or ciphering, I can converse with you.”

“I just don’t want to cheat him out of his lesson time.”

“Think clearly, Alvin. It would not be proper for you to take lessons with me alone. I may be somewhat older than you, but there are those who will search for fault in me, and giving private instruction to a young bachelor would certainly give cause for tongues to wag. Arthur Stuart will be present at all your lessons, and the door of the springhouse will stand open.”

“We could go up and you could teach me at the roadhouse.”

“Alvin. I have told you the terms. Do you wish to engage me as your tutor?”

“Yes, Miss Larner.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a coin. “Here’s a dollar for the first two weeks.”

Peggy looked at the coin. “I thought you meant to give this dollar back to Dr. Physicker.”

“I wouldn’t want to make him uncomfortable about having so much money, Miss Larner.” He grinned.

Shy he may be, but he can’t stay serious for long. There’ll always be a tease in him, just below the surface, and eventually it will always come out.

“No, I imagine not,” said Miss Larner. “Lessons will begin next week. Thank you for your help.”

At that moment, Father and Mother came up the path. Father
carried a large tub over his head, and he staggered under the weight. Alvin immediately ran to help—or. rather, to simply take the tub and carry it himself.

That was how Peggy saw her father’s face for the first time in more than six years—red, sweating, as he puffed from the labor of carrying the tub. And angry, too, or at least sullen. Even though Mother had no doubt assured him that the teacher lady wasn’t half so arrogant as she seemed at first, still Father was resentful of this stranger living in the springhouse, a place that belonged only to his long-lost daughter.

Peggy longed to call out to him, call him Father, and assure him that it was his daughter who dwelt here now, that all his labor to make a home of this old place was really a gift of love to her. How it comforted her to know how much he loved her, that he had not forgotten her after all these years; yet it also made her heart break for him, that she couldn’t name herself to him truly, not yet, not if she was to accomplish all she needed to. She would have to do with him what she was already trying to do with Alvin and with Mother—not reclaim old loves and debts, but win new love and friendship.

She could not come home as a daughter of this place, not even to Father, who alone would purely rejoice at her coming. She had to come home as a stranger. For surely that’s what she was, even if she had no disguise, for after three years of one kind of learning in Dekane and another three of schooling and study, she was no longer Little Peggy, the quiet, sharp-tongued torch; she had long since become something else. She had learned many graces under the tutelage of Mistress Modesty; she had learned many other things from books and teachers. She was not who she had been. It would be as much a lie to say, Father, I am your daughter Little Peggy, as it was to say what she said now: “Mr. Guester, I am your new tenant, Miss Larner. I’m very glad to meet you.”

He huffed up to her and put out his hand. Despite his misgivings, despite the way he had avoided meeting her when first she arrived at the roadhouse an hour or so past, he was too much the consummate innkeeper to refuse to greet her with courtesy—or at least the rough country manners that passed for courtesy in this frontier town.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Larner. I trust your accommodation is satisfactory?”

It made her a little sad, to hear him trying fancy language on her, the way he talked to those customers he thought of as “dignitaries,” meaning that he believed their station in life to be above his. I’ve learned much, Father, and this above all: that no station in life is above any other, if it’s occupied by someone with a good heart.

As to whether Father’s heart was good, Peggy believed it but refused to look. She had known his heartfire far too well in years past. If she looked too closely now, she might find things a daughter had no right to see. She’d been too young to control herself when she explored his heartfire all those years ago; in the innocence of childhood she had learned things that made both innocence and childhood impossible. Now, though, with her knack better tamed, she could at last give him privacy in his own heart. She owed him and Mother that.

Not to mention that she owed it to herself not to know
exactly
what they thought and felt about everything.

They set up the tub in her little house. Mother had brought another bucket and a kettle, and now Father and Alvin both set to toting water up from the well, while Mother boiled some on the stove. When the bath was ready, she sent the men away; then Peggy sent Mother away as well, though not without considerable argument. “I am grateful for your solicitude,” Peggy said, “but it is my custom to bathe in utter privacy. You have been exceptionally kind, and as I now take my bath, alone, you may be sure I will think of you gratefully every moment.”

The stream of high-sounding language was more than even Mother could resist. At last the door was closed and locked, the curtains drawn. Peggy removed her traveling gown, which was heavy with dust and sweat, and then peeled away her chemise and her pantalets, which clung hotly to her skin. It was one of the benefits of her disguise, that she need not trouble herself with corsetry. No one expected a spinster of her supposed age to have the perversely slender waist of those poor young victims of fashion who bound themselves until they could not breathe.

Last of all she removed her amulets, the three that hung around
her neck and the one enwrapped with her hair. The amulets were hard-won, and not just because they were the new, expensive ones that acted on what others actually saw, and not just on their opinion of it. It had taken four visits before the hexman believed that she really did want to appear ugly. “A girl so lovely as you, you don’t need my art,” he said it over and over again, until she finally took him by the shoulders and said, “That’s why I need it! To make me
stop
being beautiful.” He gave in, but kept muttering that it was a sin to cover what God created well.

God or Mistress Modesty, thought Peggy. I
was
beautiful in Mistress Modesty’s house. Am I beautiful now, when no one sees me but myself, I who am least likely to admire?

Naked at last, herself at last, she knelt beside the tub and ducked her head to begin the washing of her hair. Immersed in water, hot as it was, she felt the same old freedom she had felt so long ago in the springhouse, the wet isolation in which no heartfires intruded, so she was truly herself alone, and had a chance of knowing what her self might actually be.

There was no mirror in the springhouse. Nor had she brought one. Nevertheless, she knew when her bath was done and she toweled herself before the stove, already sweating in the steamy room, in the early August evening—she knew that she was beautiful, as Mistress Modesty had taught her how to be; knew that if Alvin could see her as she really was, he would desire her, not for wisdom, but for the more casual and shallow love that any man feels for a woman who delights his eyes. So, just as she had once hidden from him so he wouldn’t marry her for pity, now she hid from him so he wouldn’t marry her for boyish love. This self, the smooth and youthful body, would remain invisible to him, so that her truer self, the sharp and well-filled mind, might entice the finest man in him, the man that would be, not a lover, but a Maker.

If only she could somehow disguise his body from her own eyes, so that she would not have to imagine his touch, as gentle as the touch of air on her skin as she moved across the room.

Property

THE BLACKS STARTED in a-howling before the roosters got up. Cavil Planter didn’t get up right away; the sound of it sort of fit into his dream. Howling Blacks figured in his dreams pretty common these days. Anyway it finally woke him, and he bounded up out of bed. Barely light outside: he had to open the curtain to get light enough to find his trousers. He could make out shadows moving down near the slave quarters, but couldn’t see what all was going on. He thought the worst, of course, and pulled his shotgun down from the rack on his bedroom wall. Slaveowners, in case you didn’t guess, always keep their firearms in the same room where they steep.

Out in the hall, he nearly bumped into somebody. She screeched. It took Cavil a moment to realize it was his wife. Dolores. Sometimes he forgot she knew how to walk, seeing how she only left her room at certain times. He just wasn’t used to seeing her out of bed, moving around the house without a slave or two to lean on.

“Hush now, Dolores, it’s me, Cavil.”

“Oh, what is it, Cavil! What’s happening out there!” She was clinging to his arm, so he couldn’t move on.

“Don’t you think I can tell you better if you let me go find out?”

She hung on tighter. “Don’t do it, Cavil! Don’t go out there alone! They might kill you!”

“Why would they kill me? Am I not a righteous master? Will the Lord not protect me?” All the same, he felt a thrill of fear. Could this be the slave revolt that every master feared but none spoke of? He realized now that this very thought had been lingering at the back of his mind since he first woke up. Now Dolores had put it into words. “I have my shotgun,” said Cavil. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m afraid,” said Dolores.

“You know what
I’m
afraid of? That you’ll stumble in the dark and really hurt yourself. Go back to bed, so I don’t have to worry about you while I’m outside.”

Somebody started pounding at the door.

“Master! Master!” cried a slave. “We need you, Master!”

“Now see? That’s Fat Fox,” said Cavil. “If it was a revolt, my love, they’d strangle him first off, before they ever came after me.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she asked.

“Master! Master!”

“To bed,” said Cavil.

For a moment her hand rested on the hard cold barrel of the shotgun. Then she turned and, like a pale grey ghost in the darkness of the hall, she disappeared into the shadows toward her room.

Fat Fox was near to jumping up and down he was so agitated. Cavil looked at him, as always, with disgust. Even though Cavil depended on Fat Fox to let him know which slaves talked ugly behind his back, Cavil didn’t have to like him. There wasn’t a hope in heaven of saving the soul of any full-blood Black. They were all born in deep corruption, like as if they embraced original sin and sucked more of it with their mother’s milk. It’s a wonder their milk wasn’t black with all the foulness that must be in it. I wish it wasn’t such a slow process, turning the Black race White enough to be worth trying to save their souls.

“It’s that Salamandy girl, Master,” said Fat Fox.

“Is her baby coming early?” said Cavil.

“Oh no,” said Fat Fox. “No, no, it ain’t coming, no Master. Oh please come on down. It ain’t that gun you needing, Master. It’s your big old buck knife I think.”

“I’ll decide that,” said Cavil. If a Black suggests you ought to put your gun away, that’s when you hang onto it tightest of all.

He strode toward the slave women’s quarters. It was getting light enough by now that he could see the ground, could see the Blacks all slinking here and there in the dark, watching him, white eyes watching. That was a mercy from the Lord God. making their eyes white, else you couldn’t see them at all in the shadows.

There was a passel of women all outside the door to the cabin where Salamandy slept. Her being so close to her time, she didn’t have to do any field work these days, and she got a bed with a fine mattress. Nobody could say Cavil Planter didn’t take care of his breeding stock.

One of the women—in the darkness he couldn’t tell who, but from the voice he thought it was maybe Coppy, the one baptized as Agnes but who chose to call herself after the copperhead rattler—anyway she cried out, “Oh, Master, you got to let us bleed a chicken on this one!”

“No heathen abominations shall be practiced on my plantation,” said Cavil sternly. But he knew now that Salamandy was dead. Only a month from delivery, and she was dead. It stabbed his heart deep. One child less. One breeding ewe gone. O God have mercy on me! How can I serve thee aright if you take away my best concubine?

It smelled like a sick horse in the room, from her bowel opening up as she died. She’d hung herself with the bedsheet. Cavil damned himself for a fool, giving her such a thing. Here he meant it as a sign of special favor, her being on her sixth half-White baby, to let her have a sheet on her mattress, and now she turned around and answered him like this.

Her feet dangled not three inches from the floor. She must have stood on the bed and then stepped off. Even now, as she swayed slightly in the breeze of his movement in the room, her feet bumped into the bedstead. It took a second or two for Cavil to
realize what that meant. Since her neck wasn’t broke, she must have been a long time strangling, and the whole time the bed was inches away, and she
knew
it. The whole time, she could have stopped strangling at any time. Could have changed her mind. This was a woman who wanted to die. No, wanted to
kill.
Murder that baby she was carrying.

Proof again how strong these Blacks were in their wickedness. Rather than give birth to a half-White child with a hope of salvation, she’d strangle to death herself. Was there no limit to their perversity? How could a godly man save such creatures?

“She kill herself. Master!” cried the woman who had spoke before. He turned to look at her, and now it was light enough to see for sure that it was Coppy talking. “She waiting for tomorrow night to kill somebody else, less we bleed a chicken on her!”

“It makes me ill, to think you’d use this poor woman’s death as an excuse to roast a chicken out of turn. She’ll have a decent burial, and her soul will
not
hurt anyone, though as a suicide she will surely burn in hell forever.”

At his words Coppy wailed in grief. The other women joined in her keening. Cavil had Fat Fox set a group of young bucks digging a grave—not in the regular slaveyard, of course, since as a suicide she couldn’t lie in consecrated ground. Out among the trees, with no marker, as befit a beast that took the life of her own young.

She was in the ground before nightfall. Since she was a suicide, Cavil couldn’t very well ask the Baptist preacher or the Catholic priest to come help with it. In fact, he figured to say the words himself, only it happened that tonight was the night he’d already invited a traveling preacher to supper. That preacher showed up early, and the house slaves sent him around back where he found the burial in progress and offered to help.

“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” said Cavil.

“Let it never be said that Reverend Philadelphia Thrower did not extend Christian love to all the children of God—White or Black, male or female, saint or sinner.”

The slaves perked up at that, and so did Cavil—for the opposite reason. That was Emancipationist talk, and Cavil felt a sudden fear
that he had invited the devil into his own house by bringing this Presbyterian preacher. Nevertheless, it would probably do much to quiet the Blacks’ superstitious fears if he allowed the rites to be administered by a real preacher. And sure enough, when the words were said and the grave was covered, they all seemed right quiet —none of that ghastly howling.

At dinner, the preacher—Thrower, that was his name—eased Cavil’s fears considerably. “I believe that it is part of God’s great plan for the Black people to be brought to America in chains. Like the children of Israel, who had to suffer years of bondage to the Egyptians, these Blacks souls are under the Lord’s own lash, shaping them to His own purposes. The Emancipationists understand one truth—that God loves his Black children—but they misunderstand everything else. Why, if they had their way and freed all the slaves at once, it would accomplish the devil’s purpose, not God’s, for without slavery the Blacks have no hope of rising out of their savagery.”

“Now, that sounds downright theological,” said Cavil.

“Don’t the Emancipationists understand that every Black who escapes from his rightful master into the North is doomed to eternal damnation, him and all his children? Why. they might as well have remained in Africa as go north. The Whites up north hate Blacks, as well they should, since only the most evil and proud and stiff-necked dare to offend God by leaving their masters. But you here in Appalachee and in the Crown Colonies. you are the ones who truly love the Black man, for only you are willing to take responsibility for these wayward children and help them progress on the road to full humanity.”

“You may be a Presbyterian, Reverend Thrower, but you know the true religion.”

“I’m glad to know I’m in the home of a godly man, Brother Cavil.”

“I hope I am your brother, Reverend Thrower.”

And that’s how the talk went on, the two of them liking each other better and better as the evening wore. By nightfall, when they sat on the porch cooling off, Cavil began to think he had met the first man to whom he might tell some part of his great secret.

Cavil tried to bring it up casual. “Reverend Thrower, do you think the Lord God speaks to any men today?”

Thrower’s voice got all solemn. “I know He does.”

“Do you think He might even speak to a common man like me?”

“You mustn’t hope for it, Brother Cavil,” said Thrower, “for the Lord goes where He will, and not where we wish. Yet I do know that it’s possible for even the humblest man to have a—visitor.”

Cavil felt a trembling in his belly. Why, Thrower sounded like he already knew Cavil’s secret. But still he didn’t blurt it out all at once. “You know what I think?” said Cavil. “I think that the Lord God can’t appear in his true form, because his glory would kill a natural man.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Thrower. “As when Moses craved a vision of the Lord, and the Lord covered his eyes with His hand, only letting Moses see His back parts as he passed by.”

“I mean, what if a man like me saw the Lord Jesus himself, only not looking like any painting of him, but instead looking like an overseer. I reckon that a man sees only what will make him understand the power of God, not the true majesty of the Lord.”

Thrower nodded wisely. “It may well be.” he said. “That’s a plausible explanation. Or it might be that you only saw an angel.”

There it was—that simple. From “what if a man like me” to Thrower saying “you saw an angel.” That’s how much alike these two men were. So Cavil told the whole story, for the first time ever, near seven years after it happened.

When he was done, Thrower took his hand and held it in a brotherly grip, looking him in the eye with a fierce-looking kind of expression. “To think of your sacrifice, mingling your flesh with that of these Black women, in order to serve the Lord. How many children?”

“Twenty-five that got born alive. You helped me bury the twenty-sixth inside Salamandy’s belly this evening.”

“Where are all these hopeful half-White youngsters?”

“Oh, that’s half the labor I’m doing,” said Cavil. “Till the Fugitive Slave Treaty, I used to sell them all south as soon as I could, so they’d grow up there and spread White blood throughout the Crown Colonies. Each one will be a missionary through his seed. Of course, the last few I’ve kept here. It ain’t the safest thing,
neither, Reverend Thrower. All my breeding-age stock is pure Black, and folks are bound to wonder where these mixup children come from. So far, though, my overseer, Lashman, he keeps his mouth shut if he notices, and nobody else ever sees them.”

Thrower nodded, but it was plain his mind was on something else. “Only twenty
-five
of these children?”

“It’s the best I could do,” said Cavil. “Even a Black woman can’t make a baby right oft after a birthing.”

“I meant—you see. I also had a—visitation. It’s the reason why I came here, came touring through Appalachee. I was told that I would meet a farmer who also knew my Visitor, and who had produced twenty-six living gifts to God.”

“Twenty-six.”

“Living.”

“Well, you see—well, ain’t that just the way of it. You see, I wasn’t including in my tally the very first one born, because his mother run off and stole him from me a few days before he was due to be sold. I had to refund the money in cash to the buyer, and it was no good tracking, the dogs couldn’t pick up her scent. Word among the slaves was that she turned into a blackbird and
flew
, but you know the tales they tell.”

“So-twenty-six then. And tell me this—is there some reason why the name ‘Hagar’ should mean anything to you?”

Cavil gasped “No one knows I called the mother by that name!”

BOOK: Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III

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