Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III (42 page)

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Authors: Orson Scott Card

BOOK: Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III
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“You said no threats,” murmured the priest.
“Cavil needs to know the consequences,” said the sheriff.
“I won’t be back,” said Cavil.
“Pray to God for forgiveness,” said the preacher.
“That I will.” Cavil signed the paper.
That very night he rode out on his horse with a twenty-five-thousand-dollar draught in his pocket and a change of clothes and a week’s provisions on a pack horse behind him. Nobody bid him farewell. The slaves were singing jubilation songs in the sheds behind him. His horse manured the end of the drive. And in Cavil’s mind there was only one thought. The Overseer hates me, or this all wouldn’t have happened. There’s only one way to win back His love. That’s to find that Alvin Smith. kill him, and get back my boy, my last slave who still belongs to me.
Then, O my Overseer, will You forgive me, and heal the terrible stripes Thy lash has torn upon my soul?
Alvin Journeyman
ALVIN STAYED HOME in Vigor Church all summer, getting to know his family again. Folks had changed, more than a little—Cally was mansize now, and Measure had him a wife and children, and the twins Wastenot and Wantnot had married them a pair of French sisters from Detroit, and Ma and Pa was both grey-haired mostly, and moving slower than Alvin liked to see. But some things didn’t change—there was playfulness in them all, the whole family, and the darkness that had fallen over Vigor Church after the massacre at Tippy-Canoe, it was—well, not gone—more like it had changed into a kind of shadow that was behind everything, so the bright spots in life seemed all the brighter by contrast.
They all took to Arthur Stuart right off. He was so young he could hear all the men of the town tell him the tale of Tippy-Canoe, and all that he thought of it was to tell them his own story—which was really a mish-mash of his real mama’s story, and Alvin’s story, and the story of the Finders and how his White mama killed one afore she died.
Alvin pretty much let Arthur Stuart’s account of things stand
uncorrected. Partly it was because why should he make Arthur Stuart out to be wrong, when he loved telling the tale so? Partly it was out of sorrow, realizing bit by bit that Arthur Stuart never spoke in nobody else’s voice but his own. Folks here would never know what it was like to hear Arthur Stuart speak their own voice right back at them. Even so, they loved to hear the boy talk, because he still remembered all the words people said, never forgetting a scrap it seemed like. Why should Alvin mar what was left of Arthur Stuart’s knack?
Alvin also figured that what he never told, nobody could ever repeat. For instance, there was a certain burlap parcel that nobody ever saw unwrapped. It wouldn’t do no good for word to get around that a certain golden object had been seen in the town of Vigor Church—the town, which hadn’t had many visitors since the dark day of the massacre at Tippy-Canoe, would soon have more company than they wanted, and all the wrong sort, looking for gold and not caring who got harmed along the way. So he never told a soul about the golden plow, and the only person who even knew he was keeping a secret was his close-mouthed sister Eleanor.
Alvin went to call on her at the store she and Armor-of-God kept right there on the town square, ever since before there
was
a town square. Once it had been a place where visitors, Red and White, came from far away to get maps and news, back when the land was still mostly forest from the Mizzipy to Dekane. Now it was still busy, but it was all local folks, come to buy or hear gossip and news of the outside world. Since Armor-of-God was the only grownup man in Vigor Church who wasn’t cursed with Tenskwa-Tawa’s curse, he was also the only one who could easily go outside to buy goods and hear news, bringing it all back in to the farmers and tradesmen of Vigor Church. It happened that today Armor-of-God was away, heading up to the town of Mishy-Waka to pick up some orders of glass goods and fine china. So Alvin found only Eleanor and her oldest boy, Hector, there, tending the store.
Things had changed a bit since the old days. Eleanor, who was near as good a hexmaker as Alvin, didn’t have to conceal her hexes in the patterns of hanging flower baskets and arrangements of herbs
in the kitchen. Now some of the hexes were right out in the open, which meant they could be much clearer and stronger. Armor-of-God must’ve let up a little on his hatred of knackery and hidden powers. That was a good thing—it was a painful thing, in the old days, to know how Eleanor had to pretend not to be what she was or know what she knew.
“I got something with me,” said Alvin.
“So I see,” said Eleanor. “All wrapped in a burlap bag, as still as stone, and yet it seems to me there’s something living inside.”
“Never you mind about that,” said Alvin. “What’s here is for no other soul but me to see.”
Eleanor didn’t ask any questions. She knew from those words exactly why he brought his mysterious parcel by. She told Hector to wait on any customers as came by, and then led Alvin out into the new ware-room, where they kept such things as a dozen kinds of beans in barrels, salt meat in kegs, sugar in paper cones, powder salt in waterproof pots, and spices all in different kinds of jars. She went straight to the fullest of the bean barrels, filled with a kind of green-speckle bean that Alvin hadn’t seen before.
“Not much call for these beans,” she said. “I reckon we’ll never see the bottom of this barrel.”
Alvin set the plow, all wrapped in burlap, on top of the beans. And then he made the beans slide out of the way, flowing around the plow smooth as molasses, until it sank right down to the bottom. He didn’t so much as ask Eleanor to turn away, since she knew Alvin had power to do
that
much since he was just a little boy.
“Whatever’s living in there,” said Eleanor, “it ain’t going to die, being dry down at the bottom of the barrel, is it?”
“It won’t ever die,” said Alvin, “at least not the way folks grow old and die.”
Eleanor gave in to curiosity just enough to say, “I wish you could promise me that if anybody ever knows what’s in there, so will I.”
Alvin nodded to her. That was a promise he could keep. At the time, he didn’t know how or when he’d ever show that plow to anybody, but if anybody could keep a secret, silent Eleanor could.
So anyway he lived in Vigor Church, sleeping in his old bedroom in his parents’ house, lived there a good many weeks, well on toward July, and all the while he kept most of what happened in his seven-year prenticeship to himself. In fact he talked hardly more than he had to. He went here and there, a-calling on folks with his Pa or Ma, and without much fuss healing such toothaches and broken bones and festering wounds and sickness as he found. He helped at the mill; he hired out to work in other farmers’ fields and barns; he built him a small forge and did simple repairs and solders, the kind a smith can do without a proper anvil. And all that time, he pretty much spoke when people spoke to him, and said little more than what was needed to do business or get the food he wanted at table.
He wasn’t glum—he laughed at a joke, and even told a few. He wasn’t solemn, neither, and spent more than a few afternoons down in the square, proving to the strongest farmers in Vigor Church that they weren’t no match for a blacksmith’s arms and shoulders in a rassling match. He just didn’t have any gossip or small talk, and he never told a story on himself. And if you didn’t keep a conversation going, Alvin was content to let it fall into silence, keeping at his work or staring off into the distance like as if he didn’t even remember you were there.
Some folks noticed how little Alvin talked, but he’d been gone a long time, and you don’t expect a nineteen-year-old to act the same as an eleven-year-old. They just figured he’d grown up to be a quiet man.
But a few knew better. Alvin’s mother and father had some words between the two of them, more than once. “The boy’s had some bad things happen to him,” said his mother; but his father took a different view. “I reckon maybe he’s had bad and good mixed in together, like most folks—he just doesn’t know us well enough yet, after being gone seven years. Let him get used to being a man in this town, and not a boy anymore, and pretty soon he’ll talk his leg off.”
Eleanor, she also noticed Alvin wasn’t talking, but since she also knew he had a marvelous secret living thing hidden in her bean
barrel, she didn’t fuss for a minute about something being
wrong
with Alvin. It was like she said to her husband, Armor-of-God, when he mentioned about how Alvin just didn’t seem to have five words altogether for nobody. “He’s thinking deep thoughts,” said Eleanor. “He’s working out problems none of us knows enough to help him with. You’ll see—he’ll talk plenty when he figures it all out.”
And there was Measure, Alvin’s brother who got captured by Reds when Alvin was; the brother who had come to know Ta-Kumsaw and Tenskwa-Tawa near as well as Alvin himself. Of course Measure noticed how little Alvin had told them about his prentice years, and in due time he’d surely be one Alvin could talk to—that was natural, seeing how long Alvin had trusted Measure and all they’d been through together. But at first Alvin felt shy even around Measure, seeing how he had his wife, Delphi, and any fool could see how they hardly could stand to be more than three feet apart from each other; he was so gentle and careful with her, always looking out for her, turning to talk to her if she was near, looking for her to come back if she was gone. How could Alvin know whether there was room for him anymore in Measure’s heart? No, not even to Measure could Alvin tell his tale, not at first.
One day in high summer, Alvin was out in a field building fences with his younger brother Cally, who was man-size now, as tall as Alvin though not as massive in the back and shoulders. The two of them had hired on for a week with Martin Hill. Alvin was doing the rail splitting—hardly using his knack at all, either, though truth to tell he could’ve split all the rails just by asking them to split themselves. No, he set the wedge and hammered it down, and his knack only got used to keep the logs from splitting at bad angles that wouldn’t give full-length rails.
They must have fenced about a quarter mile before Alvin realized that it was peculiar how Cally never fell behind. Alvin split, and Cally got the posts and rails laid in place, never needing a speck of help to set a post into soil too hard or soft or rocky or muddy.
So Alvin kept his eye on the boy—or, more exactly, used his knack to keep watch on Cally’s work—and sure enough, Alvin
could see that Cally had something of Alvin’s knack, the way it was long ago when he didn’t half understand what he was doing with it. Cally would find just the right spot to set a post, then make the ground soft till he needed it to be firm. Alvin figured Cally wasn’t exactly planning it. He probably thought he was finding spots that were naturally good for setting a post.
Here it is, thought Alvin. Here’s what I know I’ve got to do: teach somebody else to be a Maker. If ever there was someone I should teach, it’s Cally, seeing how he’s got something of the same knack. After all, he’s seventh son of a seventh son same as me, since Vigor was still alive when I was born, but long dead when Cally came along.
So Alvin just up and started talking as they worked, telling Cally all about atoms and how you could teach them how to be, and they’d be like that. It was the first time Alvin tried to explain it to anybody since the last time he talked to Miss Lamer—Margaret—and the words tasted delicious in his mouth. This is the work I was born for, thought Alvin. Telling my brother how the world works, so he can understand it and get some control over it.
You can bet Alvin was surprised, then, when Cally all of a sudden lifted a post high above his head and threw it on the ground at his brother’s feet. It had so much force—or Cally had so ravaged it with his knack—that it shivered into kindling right there where it hit. Alvin couldn’t hardly even guess why, but Cally was plain filled with rage.
“What did I say?” asked Alvin.
“My name’s Cal,” said Cally. “I ain’t been Cally since I was ten years old.”
“I didn’t know,” said Alvin. “I’m sorry, and from now on you’re Cal to me.”
“I’m
nothing
to you,” said Cal. “I just wish you’d go away!”
It was only right at this minute that Alvin realized that Cal hadn’t exactly invited him to go along on this job—it was Martin Hill what asked for Alvin to come, and before that, the job had been Cal’s alone.
“I didn’t mean to butt into your work here,” said Alvin. “It just
never entered my head you wouldn’t want my help. I know I wanted your company.”
Seemed like everything Alvin said only made Cal seethe inside till now his face was red and his fists were clenched tight enough to strangle a snake. “I had a place here,” said Cal. “Then you come back. All fancy school taught like you are, using all them big words. And
healing
people without so much as touching them, just walking into their house and talking a spell, and when you leave everybody’s all healed up from whatever ailed them—”
Alvin didn’t even know folks had noticed he was doing it. Since nobody said a thing about it, he figured they all thought it was natural healing. “I can’t think how that makes you mad, Cal. It’s a good thing to make folks better.”
All of a sudden there were tears running down Cal’s cheeks. “Even laying hands on them, I can’t always fix things up,” said Cal. “Nobody even asks me no more.”
It never occurred to Alvin that maybe Cal was doing his own healings. But it made good sense. Ever since Alvin left, Cal had pretty much been what Alvin used to be in Vigor Church, doing all his works. Seeing how their knacks were so much alike, he’d come close to taking Alvin’s place. And then he’d done things Alvin never did when he was small, like going about healing people as best he could. Now Alvin was back, not only taking back his old place, but also besting Cal at things that only Cal had ever done. Now who was there for Cal to be?
“I’m sorry,” said Al. “But I can teach you. That’s what I was starting to do.”
“I never seen them bits and what-not you’re talking about,” said Cal. “I didn’t understand a thing you talked about. Maybe I just ain’t got a knack as good as yours, or maybe I’m too dumb, don’t you see? All I can be is the best I figure out for myself. And I don’t need you proving to me that I can’t never measure up. Martin Hill asking for you on this job, cause he knows you can make a better fence. And there you are, not even using your knack to split the rails, though I know you can, just to show me that
without
your knack you’re a match for me.”

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