Prentice Alvin ttoam-3

by Orson Scott Card

  On those quick errands, Arthur Stuart stayed bundled up on the sleigh– Alvin never stayed indoors long enough to warm up from the walk between sleigh and front door. It wasn't till they got to Pieter Vanderwoort's general store that it was worth going inside and warming up for a spell. Pieter had his stove going right hot, and Alvin and Arthur wasn't the first, to think of warming up there. A couple of boys from town were there warming their feet and sipping tea with a nip or two from a flask in order to keep warm. They weren't any of the boys Alvin spent much time with. He'd throwed them once or twice, but that was true of every male creature in town who was willing to rassle. Alvin knew that these two– Martin, that was the one with pimples, and the other one was Daisy– I know that sounds like a crazy name for anyone but a cow, but that was his name all right– anyway, Alvin knew that these two boys were the kind who like to set cats afire and make nasty jokes about girls behind their back. Not the kind that Alvin spent much time with, but not any that he had any partickler dislike for, neither. So he nodded them good afternoon, and they nodded him back. One of them held up his flask to share, but Alvin said no thanks and that was that.

  At the counter, Alvin pulled off some of his scarves, which felt good because he was so sweaty underneath; then he set to unwinding Arthur Stuart, who spun around like a top while Alvin pulled on the end of each scarf. Arthur's laughing brought Mr. Vanderwoort out from the back, and he set to laughing, too.

  “Tbey're so cute when they're little, aren't they,” said Mr. Vanderwoort.

  “He's just my shopping list today, aren't you, Arthur?”

  Arthur Stuart spouted out his list right off, using his, Mama's voice again. “A keg of wheat flour and two cones of sugar and a pound of pepper and a dozen sheets of paper and a couple of yards of cloth that might do for a shirt for Arthur Stuart.”

  Mr. Vanderwoort like to died laughing. “I get such a kick out of that boy, the way he talks like his mama.”

  One of the boys by the stove gave a whoop.

  “I mean his adopted mama, of course,” said Vanderwoort.

  “0h, she's probably his mama all right!” said Daisy. “I hear Mock Berry does a lot of work up to the roadhouse!”

  Alvin just set his jaw against the answer that sprang to mind. Instead he hotted up the flask in Daisy's hand, so Daisy whooped again and dropped it.

  “You come on back with me, Arthur Stuart,” said Vanderwoort.

  “Like to burned my hand off!” muttered Daisy.

  “You just say the list over again, bit by bit, and I'll get what's wanted,” said Vanderwoort. Alvin lifted Arthur over the counter and Vanderwoort set him down on the other side.

  “You must've set it on the stove like the blamed fool you are, Daisy,” said Martin. “What is it, whiskey don't warm you up less it's boiled?”

  Vanderwoort led Arthur into the back room. Alvin took a couple of soda crackers from the barrel and pulled up a stool near the fire.

  “I didn't set it anywheres near the stove,” said Daisy.

  “Howdy, Alvin,” said Martin.

  “Howdy, Martin, Daisy,” said Alvin. “Good day for stoves.”

  “Good day for nothing,” muttered Daisy. “Smart-mouth pickaninnies and burnt fingers.”

  “What brings you to town, Alvin?” asked Martin. “And how come you got that baby buck with you? Or did you buy him off Old Peg Guester?”

  Alvin just munched on his cracker. It was a mistake to punish Daisy for what he said before, and a worse mistake to do it again. Wasn't it trying to punish folks that brought the Unmaker down on him last summer? No, Alvin was working on curbing his temper, so he said nothing. Just broke off pieces of the cracker with his mouth.

  “That boy ain't for sale,” said Daisy. “Everybody knows it. Why, she's even trying to educate him, I hear.”

  “I'm educating my dog, too,” said Martin. “You think that boy's learnt him how to beg or point game or anything useful?”

  “But you got yourself the advantage there, Marty,” said Daisy. “A dog's got him enough brains to know he's a dog, so he don't try to learn how to read. But you get one of these hairless monkeys, they get to thinking they're people, you know what I mean?”

  Alvin got up and walked to the counter. Vanderwoort was coming back now, arms full of stuff. Arthur was tagging along behind.

  "Come on behind the counter with me, Al," said Vanderwoort. "Best if you pick out the cloth for Arthur's shirt. "

  “I don't know a thing about cloth,” said Alvin.

  “Well, I know about cloth but I don't know about what Old Peg Guester likes, and if she ain't happy with what you come home with, I'd rather it be your fault than mine.”

  Alvin hitched his butt up onto the counter and swung his legs over. Vanderwoort led him back and they spent a few minutes picking out a plaid flannel that looked suitable enough and might also be tough enough to make patches on old trousers out of the leftover scraps. When they came back, Arthur Stuart was over by the fire with Daisy and Martin.

  “Spell 'sassafras,'” said Daisy.

  "Sassafras, " said Arthur Stuart, doing Miss Larner's voice as perfect as ever. "S-A-S-S-A-F-R-A-S.

  “Was he right?” asked Martin.

  “Beats hell out of me.”

  “Now don't be using words like that around a child,” said Vanderwoort.

  “Oh, never you mind,” said Martin. “He's our pet pickaninny. We won't do him no harm.”

  “I'm not a pickaninny,” said Arthur Stuart. “I'm a mixup boy.”

  “Well, ain't that the truth!” Daisy's voice went so loud and high that his voice cracked.

  Alvin was just about fed up with them. He spoke real soft, so only Vanderwoort could hear him. “One more whoop and I'll fill that boy's ears with snow.”

  “Now don't get riled,” said Vanderwoort. “They're harmless enough.”

  “That's why I won't kill him.” But Alvin was smiling, and so was Vanderwoort. Daisy and Martin were just playing, and since Arthur Stuart was enjoying it, why not?

  Martin picked something off a shelf and brought it over to Vanderwoort. “What's this word?” he asked.

  “Eucalyptus,” said Vanderwoort.

  “Spell 'eucalyptus,' mixup boy.”

  “Eucalyptus,” said Arthur. “E-U-C-A-L-Y-P-T-U-S.”

  “Listen to that!” cried Daisy. “That teacher lady won't give time of day to us, but here we got her own voice spelling whatever we say.”

  “Spell 'bosoms,'” said Martin.

  “Now that's going too far,” said Vanderwoort. “He's just a boy.”

  “I just wanted to hear the teacher lady's voice saying it,” said Martin.

  “I know what you wanted, but that's behind-the-barn talk, not in my general store.”

  The door opened and, after a blast of cold wind, Mock Berry came in, looking tired and half-froze, which of course he was.

  The boys took no notice. “Behind the barn don't got a stove,” said Daisy.

  “Then keep that in mind when you decide how to talk,” said Vanderwoort.

  Alvin watched how Mock Berry took sidelong glances at the stove, but made no move to go over there. No man in his right mind would choose not to go to the stove on a day like this– but Mock Berry knew there was worse things than being cold. So instead he just walked up to the counter.

  Vanderwoort must've known he was there, but for a while he just kept on watching Martin and Daisy play spelling games with Arthur Stuart, paying no mind to Mock Berry.

  “Suskwahenny,” said Daisy.

  “S-U-S-K-W-A-H-E-N-N-Y,” said Arthur.

  “I bet that boy could win any spelling bee he ever entered,” said Vanderwoort.

  “You got a customer,” said Alvin.

  Vanderwoort turned real slow and looked at Mock Berry without expression. Then, still moving slow, he walked over and stood in front of Mock without a word.

  “Just need me two pounds of flour and twelve feet of that half-inch rope,” said Mock.

&
nbsp; “Hear that?” said Daisy. “He's a-fixing to powder his face white and then hang himself, I'll bet.”

  “Spell 'suicide,' boy,” said Martin.

  “S-U-I-C-I-D-E,” said Arthur Stuart.

  “No credit,” said Vanderwoort.

  Mock laid down some coins on the counter. Vanderwoort looked at it a minute. “Six feet of rope.”

  Mock just stood there.

  Vanderwoort just stood there.

  Alvin knew it was more than enough money for what Mock wanted to buy. He couldn't hardly believe Vanderwoort was raising his price for a man about as poor but hard-working as any in town. In fact, Alvin began to understand a little about why Mock stayed so poor. Now, Alvin know there wasn't much he could do about it– but he could at least do what Horace Guester had once done for him with his master Makepeace– make Vanderwoort put things out in the open and stop pretending he wasn't being as unfair as he was being. So Alvin laid down the paper Vanderwoort had just written but for him. “I'm sorry to bear there's no credit,” Alvin said. “I'll go fetch the money from Goody Guester.”

  Vanderwoort looked at Alvin. Now he could either make Alvin go fetch the money or say right out that there was credit for the Guesters, just not for Mock Berry.

  Of course he chose another course. Without a word he went into the back and weighed out the flour. Then he measured out twelve feet of half-inch rope. Vanderwoort was known for giving honest measure. But then, he was also known for giving a fair price, which is why it took Alvin aback to see him do otherwise with Mock Berry.

  Mock took his rope and his flour and started out.

  “You got change,” said Vanderwoort.

  Mock turned around, looking surprised though he tried not to. He came back and watched as Vanderwoort counted out a dime and three pennies onto the counter. Then, hesitating a moment, Mock scooped them off the counter and dropped them into his pocket. “Thank you sir,” he said. Then he went back out into the cold.

  Vanderwoort turned to Alvin, looking angry or maybe just resentful. “I can't give credit to everybody.”

  Now, Alvin could've said something about at least he could give the same price to Blacks as Whites, but he didn't want to make an enemy out of Mr. Vanderwoort, who was after all a mostly good man. So Alvin grinned real friendly and said, “Oh, I know you can't. Them Berrys, they're almost as poor as me.”

  Vanderwoort relaxed, which meant it was Alvin's good opinion he wanted more than to get even for Alvin embarrassing him. “You got to understand, Alvin, it ain't good for trade if they come in here all the time. Nobody minds that mixup boy of yours– they're cute when they're little– but it makes folks stay away if they think they might run into one of them here.”

  “I always knowed Mock Berry to keep his word,” said Alvin. “And nobody ever said he stole or slacked or any such thing.”

  “No, nobody ever told such a tale on him.”

  “I'm glad to know you count us both among your customers,” said Alvin.

  “Well, lookit here, Daisy,” said Martin. “I think Prentice Alvin's gone and turned preacher on us. Spell 'reverend,' boy.”

  “R-E-V-E-R-E-N-D.”

  Vanderwoort saw things maybe turning ugly, so of course he tried to change the subject. “Like I said, Alvin, that mixup boy's bound to be the best speller in the county, don't you think? What I want, to know is, why don't he go on and get into the county spelling bee next week? I think he'd bring Hatrack River the championship. He might even got the state championship, if you want my opinion.”

  “Spell 'championship,'” said Daisy.

  “Miss Larner never said me that word,” said Arthur Stuart.

  “Well figure it out,” said Alvin.

  “C-H-A-M-P,” said Arthur. “E-U-N-S-H-I-P.”

  “Sounds right to me,” said Daisy.

  “Shows what you know,” said Martin.

  “Can you do better?” asked Vanderwoort.

  “I'm not going to be in the county spelling bee,” said Martin.

  “What's a spelling bee?” asked Arthur Stuart.

  “Time to go,” said Alvin, for he knew full well that Arthur Stuart wasn't a regular admitted suident in the Hatrack River Grammar School, and so it was a sure thing he wouldn't be in no spelling bee. “Oh, Mr. Vanderwoort, I owe you for two crackers I ate.”

  “I don't charge my friends for a couple of crackers,” said Vanderwoort.

  “I'm proud to know you count me one of your friends,” said Alvin. Alvin meant it, too– it took a good man to get caught out doing something wrong, and then turn around and treat the one that caught him as a friend.

  Alvin wound Arthur Stuart back into his scarves, and then wrapped himself up again, and plunged back into the snow, this time carrying all that he bought from Vanderwoort in a burlap sack. He tucked the sack under the seat of the sleigh so it wouldn't get snowed on. Then he lifted Arthur Stuart into place and climbed up after. The horses looked happy enough to get moving again– they only got colder and colder, standing in the snow.

  On the way back to the roadhouse they found Mock Berry on the road and took him on home. Not a word did he say about what happened in the store, but Alvin knew it wasn't cause he didn't appreciate it. He figured Mock Berry was plain ashamed of the fact that it took an eighteen-year-old prentice boy to get him honest measure and fair price in Vanderwoort's general store– only cause the boy was White. Not the kind of thing a man loves to talk about.

  “Give a howdy to Goody Berry,” said Alvin, as Mock hopped off the sleigh up the lane from his house.

  “I'll say you said so,” said Mock. “And thanks for the ride.” In six steps he was clean gone in the blowing snow. The storm was getting worse and worse.

  Once everything was dropped off at the roadhouse, it was near time for Alvin's and Arthur's schooling at Miss Larner's house, so they headed on down there and threw snowballs at each other all the way. Alvin stopped in at the forge to give the deliverybook to Makepeace. But Makepeace must've laid off early cause he wasn't there; Alvin tucked the book onto the shelf by the door, where Makepeace would know to look for it. Then he and Arthur went back to snowballs till Miss Larner came back.

  Dr. Whitley Physicker drove her in his covered sleigh and walked her right up to her door. When he took note of Alvin and Arthur waiting around, he looked a bit annoyed. “Don't you boys think Miss Larner shouldn't have to do any more teaching on a day like this?”

  Miss Larner laid a hand on Dr. Physicker's arm. “Thank you for bringing me home, Dr. Physicker,” she said.

  “I wish you'd call me Whitley.”

  “You're kind to me, Dr. Physicker, but I think your honored title suits me best. As for these pupils of mine, it's in bad weather that I do my best teaching, I've found, for they aren't wishing to beat the swimming hole.”

  “Not me!” shouted Arthur Stuart. “How do you spell 'championship'?”

  “C-H-A-M-P-I-0-N-S-H-I-P,” said Miss Larner. “Wherever did you hear that word?”

  “C-H-A-M-P-I-0-N-S-H-I-P,” said Arthur Stuart in Miss Larner's voice.

  “That boy is certainly remarkable,” said Physicker. “A mockingbird, I'd say.”

  “A mockingbird copies the song,” said Miss Larner, “but makes no sense of it. Arthur Stuart may speak back the spellings in my voice, but he truly knows the word and can read it or write it whenever he wishes.”

  “I'm not a mockingbird,” said Arthur Stuart. “I'm a spelling bee championship.”

  Dr. Physicker and Miss Larner exchanged a look that plainly meant more than Alvin could understand just from watching.

  “Very well,” said Dr. Physicker. “Since I did in fact enroll him as a special student– at your insistence– he can compete in the county spelling bee. But don't expect to take him any farther, Miss Larner!”

  “Your reasons were all excellent, Dr. Physicker, and so I agree. But my reasons–”

  “Your reasons were overwhelming, Miss Larner. And I can't help but relish in advance the co
nsternation of the people who fought to keep him out of school, when they watch him do as well as children twice his age.”

  “Consternation, Arthur Stuart,” said-Miss Larner.

  “Consternation,” said Arthur. “C-O-N-S-T-E-R-N-A-T-I-O-N.”

  “Good evening, Dr. Physicker. Come inside, boys. Time for school.”

  * * *

  Arthur Stuart won the county spelling bee, with the word “celebratory.” Then Miss Larner immediately withdrew him from further competition; another child would take his place at the state competition. As a result there was little note taken, except among the locals. Along with a brief notice in the Hatrack River newspaper.

  Sheriff Pauley Wiseman folded up that page of the newspaper with a short note and put them in an envelope addressed to Reverend Philadelphia Thrower, The Property Rights Crusade, 44 Harrison Street, Carthage City, Wobbish. It took two weeks for that newspaper page to be spread open on Thrower's desk, along with the note, which said simply:

  Boy turned up here summer 1811, only a few weeks old best guess. Lives in Horace Guester's roadhouse, Hatrack River. Adoption don't hold water I reckon if the boy's a runaway.

  No signature– but Thrower was used to that, though he didn't understand it. Why should people try to conceal their identity when they were taking part in works of righteousness? He wrote his own letter and sent it south.

  A month later, Cavil Planter read Thrower's letter to a couple of Finders. Then he handed them the cachets he'd saved all these years, those belonging to Hagar and her stole-away Ishmael-child. “We'll be back before summer,” said the black-haired Finder. “If he's yourn, we'll have him.”

  “Then you'll have earned your fee and a fine bonus as well,” said Cavil Planter.

  “Don't need no bonus,” said the white-haired Finder. “Fee and costs is plenty.”