Alvin knew it was getting on toward evening, sure as if he had him a watch in his pocket, cause here came Arthur Stuart, his face just scrubbed after supper, sucking on a horehound and saying not a word. Alvin was used to him by now. Almost ever since the boy could walk, he’d been like Alvin’s little shadow, coming every day it didn’t rain. Never had much to say, and when he did it wasn’t too easy to understand his baby talk—he had trouble with his Rs and Ss. Didn’t matter. Arthur never wanted nothing and never did no harm, and Alvin usually half-forgot the boy was around.
Digging there with the evening flies out, buzzing in his face, Alvin had nothing to do with his brain but think. Three years he been in Hatrack, and all that time he hadn’t got him one inch closer to knowing what his knack was for. He hardly used it, except for the bit he done with the horses, and that was cause he couldn’t bear to know how bad they suffered when it was so easy a thing for him to make the shoeing go right. That was a good thing to do, but it didn’t amount to much up-building, compared to the ruination of the land all around him.
The White man was the Unmaker’s tool in this forest land, Alvin knew that, better even than water at tearing things down. Every tree that fell, every badger, coon, deer, and beaver that got used up without consent, each death was part of the killing of the land. Used to be the Reds kept the balance of things, but now they were gone, either dead or moved west of the Mizzipy—or, like the Irrakwa and the Cherriky, turned White at heart, sleeves rolled up and working hard to unmake the land even faster than the White. No one left to try to keep things whole.
Sometimes Alvin thought he was the only one left who hated the Unmaker and wanted to build against him. And he didn’t know how to do it, didn’t have any idea what the next step ought to be. The torch who touched him at his birthing, she was the only one who might’ve taught him how to be a true Maker, but she was gone, run off the very morning that he came. Couldn’t be no accident. She just didn’t want to teach him aught. He had a destiny, he knew it, and not a soul to help him find the way.
I’m willing, thought Alvin. I got the power in me, when I can figure how to use it straight, and I got the desire to be whatever it is I’m meant to be, but somebody’s got to teach me.
Not the blacksmith, that was sure. Profiteering old coot. Alvin knew that Makepeace Smith tried to teach him as little as he could. Even now Alvin reckoned Makepeace didn’t know half how much Alvin had learned himself just by watching when his master didn’t guess that he was alert. Old Makepeace never meant to let him go if he could help it. Here I got a destiny, a real honest-to-goodness Work to do in my life, just like the old boys in the Bible or Ulysses or Hector, and the only teacher I got is a smith so greedy I have to steal learning from him, even though it’s mine by right.
Sometimes it burned Alvin up inside, and he got a hankering to do something spetackler to show Makepeace Smith that his prentice wasn’t just a boy who didn’t know he was being cheated. What would Makepeace Smith do if he saw Alvin split iron with his fingers? What if he saw that Al could straighten a bent nail as strong as before, or heal up brittle iron that shattered under the hammer? What if he saw that Al could beat iron so thin you could see sunlight through it, and yet so strong you couldn’t break it?
But that was plain dumb when Alvin thought that way, and he knowed it. Makepeace Smith might gasp the first time, he might even faint dead away, but inside ten minutes he’d be figuring an angle how to make money from it, and Alvin’d be less likely than ever to get free ahead of time. And his fame would spread, yes sir, so that by the time he turned nineteen and Makepeace Smith had to let him go, Alvin would already have too much notice. Folks’d keep him busy healing and doodlebugging and fixing and stone shaping, work that wasn’t even halfway toward what he was born for. If they brought him the sick and lame to heal, how would he ever have time to be aught but a Physicker? Time enough for healing when he learned the whole way to be a Maker.
The Prophet Lolla-Wossiky showed him a vision of the Crystal City only a week before the massacre at Tippy-Canoe. Alvin knew that someday in the future it was up to him to build them towers of ice and light. That was his destiny, not to be a country fixit man. As long as he was bound to Makepeace Smith’s service, he had to keep his real knack secret.
That’s why he never ran off, even though he was big enough now that nobody’d take him for a runaway prentice. What good would freedom do? He had to learn first how to be a Maker, or it wouldn’t make no difference if he went or stayed.
So he never spoke of what he could do, and scarce used his gifts more than to shoe horses and feel the death of the land around him. But all the time in the back of his brain he recollected what he really was. A Maker. Whatever that is, I’m it, which is why the Unmaker tried to kill me before I was born and in a hundred accidents and almost-murders in my childhood back in Vigor Church. That’s why he lurks around now, watching me, waiting for a chance to get me, waiting maybe for a time like tonight, all alone out here in the darkness, just me and the spade and my anger at having to do work that won’t amount to nothing.
Hank Dowser. What kind of man won’t listen to a good idea from somebody else? Sure the wand went down hard—the water was like to bust up through the earth at that place. But the reason it hadn’t busted through was on account of a shelf of rock along there, not four feet under the soil. Why else did they think this was a natural meadow here? The big trees couldn’t root, because the water that fell here flowed right off the stone, while the roots couldn’t punch through the shelf of rock to get to the water underneath it. Hank Dowser could find water, but he sure couldn’t find what lay between the water and the surface. It wasn’t Hank’s fault he couldn’t see it, but it sure was his fault he wouldn’t entertain no notion it might be there.
So here was Alvin, digging as neat a well as you please, and sure enough, no sooner did he have the round side wall of the well defined than clink, clank, clunk, the spade rang against stone.
At the new sound, Arthur Stuart ran right up to the edge of the hole and looked in. “Donk donk,” he said. Then he clapped his hands.
“Donk donk is right,” said Alvin. “I’ll be donking on solid rock the whole width of this hole. And I ain’t going in to tell Makepeace Smith about it, neither, you can bet on that, Arthur Stuart. He told me I couldn’t eat nor drink till I got water, and I ain’t about to go in afore dark and start pleading for supper just cause I hit rock, no sir.”
“Donk,” said the little boy.
“I’m digging every scrap of dirt out of this hole till the rock is bare.”
He carefully dug out all the dirt he could, scraping the spade along the bumpy face of the rock. Even so, it was still brown and earthy, and Alvin wasn’t satisfied. He wanted that stone to shine white. Nobody was watching but Arthur Stuart, and he was just a baby anyhow. So Alvin used his knack in a way he hadn’t done since leaving Vigor Church. He made all the soil flow away from the bare rock, slide right across the stone and fetch up tight against the smooth-edge earthen walls of the hole.
It took almost no time till the stone was so shiny and white you could think it was a pool reflecting the last sunlight of the day. The evening birds sang in the trees. Sweat dripped off Alvin so fast it left little black spots when it fell on the rock.
Arthur stood at the edge of the hole. “Water,” he said.
“Now you stand back, Arthur Stuart. Even if this ain’t all that deep, you just stand back from holes like this. You can get killed falling in, you know.”
A bird flew by, its wings rattling loud as could be. Somewhere another bird gave a frantic cry.
“Snow,” said Arthur Stuart.
“It ain’t snow, it’s rock,” said Alvin. Then he clambered up out of the hole and stood there, laughing to himself. “There’s your well, Hank Dowser,” Alvin said. “You ride on back here and see where your stick drove into the dirt.”
He’d be sorry he got Al a blow from his master’s hand. It wasn’t no joke when a blacksmith hit you, s
pecially one like his master, who didn’t go easy even on a little boy, and sure not on a mansize prentice like Alvin.
Now he could go on up to the house and tell Makepeace Smith the well was dug. Then he’d lead his master back down here and show him this hole, with the stone looking up from the bottom, as solid as the heart of the world. Alvin heard himself saying to his master, “You show me how to drink that and I’ll drink it.” It’d be pure pleasure to hear how Makepeace’d cuss himself blue at the sight of it.
Except now that he could show them how wrong they were to treat him like they did, Alvin knew it didn’t matter in the long run whether he taught them a lesson or not. What mattered was Makepeace Smith really did need this well. Needed it bad enough to pay out a dowser’s cost in free ironwork. Whether it was dug where Hank Dowser said or somewhere else, Alvin knew he had to dig it.
That would suit Alvin’s pride even better, now he thought of it. He’d come in with a bucket, just like Makepeace ordered him to —but from a well of his own choosing.
He looked around in the ruddy evening light, thinking where to start looking for a diggable spot. He heard Arthur Stuart pulling at the meadow grass, and the sound of birds having a church choir practice, they were so loud tonight.
Or maybe they were plain scared. Cause now he was looking around, Alvin could see that the Unmaker was lively tonight. By rights digging the first hole should’ve been enough to send it headlong, keep it off for days. Instead it followed him just out of sight, ever step he took as he hunted for the place to dig the true well. It was getting more and more like one of his nightmares, where nothing he did could make the Unmaker go away. It was enough to send a thrill of fear right through him, make him shiver in the warm spring air.
Alvin just shrugged off that scare. He knew the Unmaker wasn’t going to touch him. For all the years of his life till now, the Unmaker’ d tried to kill him by setting up accidents, like water icing up where he was bound to step, or eating away at a riverbank so he slipped in. Now and then the Unmaker even got some man or other to take a few swipes at Alvin, like Reverend Thrower or them Choc-Taw Reds. In all his life, outside his dreams, that Unmaker never did anything direct.
And he won’t now either, Alvin told hisself. Just keep searching, so you can dig the real well. The false one didn’t drive that old deceiver off, but the real one’s bound to, and I won’t see him shimmering at the edges of my vision for three months after that.
With that thought in mind, Alvin hunkered down and kept his mind on searching for a break in the hidden shelf of stone.
How Alvin searched things out underground wasn’t like seeing. It was more like he had another hand that skittered through the soil and rock as fast as a waterdrop on a hot griddle. Even though he’d never met him a doodlebug, he figured doodling couldn’t be much different than how he done it, sending his bug scouting along under the earth, feeling things out all the way. And if he was doodle-bugging, then he had to wonder if folks was right who allowed as how it was the doodlebug’s very soul that slithered under the ground, and there was tales about doodlebugs whose souls got lost and the doodler never said another word or moved a muscle till he finally died. But Alvin didn’t let such tales scare him off from doing what he ought to. If there was a need for stone, he’d find him the natural breaks to make it come away without hardly chipping at it. If there was a need for water, he’d find him a way to dig on down to get it.
Finally he found him a place where the shelf of stone was thin and crumbled. The ground was higher here, the water deeper down, but what counted was he could get through the stone to it.
This new spot was halfway between the house and the smithy—which would be less convenient for Makepeace, but better for his wife Gertie, who had to use the same water. Alvin set to with a will, because it was getting on to dark, and he was determined to take no rest tonight until his work was done. Without even thinking about it he made up his mind to use his power like he used to back on his father’s land. He never struck stone with his spade; it was like the earth turned to flour and fair to jumped out of the hole instead of him having to heft it. If any grownup happened to see him right then they’d think they was likkered up or having a conniption fit, he dug so fast. But nobody was looking, except for Arthur Stuart. It was getting nightward, after all, and Al had no lantern, so nobody’d ever even notice he was there. He could use his knack tonight without fear of being found out
From the house came the sound of shouting, loud but not clear enough for Alvin to make out the words.
“Mad,” said Arthur Stuart. He was looking straight at the house, as steady as a dog on point.
“Can you hear what they’re saying?” said Alvin. “Old Peg Guester always says you got ears like a dog, perk up at everything.”
Arthur Stuart closed his eyes. “You got no right to starve that boy,” he said.
Alvin like to laughed outright. Arthur was doing as perfect an imitation of Gertie Smith’s voice as he ever heard.
“He’s too big to thrash and I got to learn him,” said Arthur Stuart.
This time he sounded just like Alvin’s master. “I’ll be,” murmured Alvin.
Little Arthur went right on. “Either Alvin eats this plate of supper Makepeace Smith or you’ll wear it on your head. I’d like to see you try it you old hag I’ll break your arms.”
Alvin couldn’t help himself, he just laughed outright. “Consarn it if you ain’t a perfect mockingbird, Arthur Stuart.”
The little boy looked up at Alvin and a grin stole across his face. Down from the house come the sound of breaking crockery. Arthur Stuart started to laugh and run around in circles. “Break a dish, break a dish, break a dish!” he cried.
“If you don’t beat all,” said Alvin. “Now you tell me, Arthur, you didn’t really understand all them things you just said, did you? I mean, you were just repeating what you heard, ain’t that so?”
“Break a dish on his head!” Arthur screamed with laughter and fell over backward in the grass. Alvin laughed right along, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the little boy. More to him than meets the eye, thought Alvin. Or else he’s plain crazy.
From the other direction came another woman’s voice, a full-throated call that floated over the moist darkening air. “Arthur! Arthur Stuart!”
Arthur sat right up. “Mama,” he said.
“That’s right, that’s Old Peg Guester calling,” said Alvin.
“Go to bed,” said Arthur.
“Just be careful she don’t give you a bath first, boy, you’re a mite grimy.”
Arthur got up and started trotting off across the meadow, up to the path that led from the springhouse to the roadhouse where he lived. Alvin watched him out of sight, the little boy flapping his arms as he ran, like as if he was flying. Some bird, probably an owl, flew right alongside the boy halfway across the meadow, skimming along the ground like as if to keep him company. Not till Arthur was out of sight behind the springhouse did Alvin turn back to his labor.
In a few more minutes it was full dark, and the deep silence of night came quick after that. Even the dogs were quiet all through town. It’d be hours before the moon came up. Alvin worked on. He didn’t have to see; he could feel how the well was going, the earth under his feet. Nor was it the Red man’s seeing now, their gift for hearing the greenwood song. It was his own knack he was using, helping him feel his way deeper into the earth.
He knew he’d strike rock twice as deep this time. But when the spade caught up on big chunks of rock, it wasn’t a smooth plate like it was at the spot Hank Dowser chose. The stones were crumbly and broke up, and with his knack Al hardly had to press his lever afore the stones flipped up easy as you please, and he tossed them out the well like clods.
Once he dug through that layer, though, the ground got oozy underfoot. If he wasn’t who he was, he’d’ve had to set the work aside and get help to dredge it out in the morning. But for Alvin it was easy enough. He tightened up the earth around the wall
s of the hole, so water couldn’t seep in so fast. It wasn’t spadework now. Alvin used a dredge to scoop up the mucky soil, and he didn’t need no partner to hoist it out on a rope, either, he just heaved it up and his knack was such that each scoop of ooze clung together and landed neat as you please outside the well, just like he was flinging bunny rabbits out the hole.
Alvin was master here, that was sure, working miracles in this hole in the ground. You tell me I can’t eat or drink till the well is dug, thinking you’ll have me begging for a cup of water and pleading for you to let me go to bed. Well, you won’t see such a thing. You’ll have your well, with walls so solid they’ll be drawing water here after your house and smithy have crumbled into dust.
But even as he felt the sweet taste of victory, he saw that the Unmaker was closer than it had ever come in years. It flickered and danced, and not just at the edges of his vision anymore. He could see it right in front of him, even in the darkness, he could see it clearer than ever in daylight, cause now he couldn’t see nothing real to distract him.
It was scary, all of a sudden, just like the nightmares of his childhood, and for a while Alvin stood in the hole, all froze with fear, as water oozed up from below, making the ground under him turn to slime. Thick slime a hundred feet deep, he was sinking down, and the walls of the well were getting soft, too, they’d cave in on him and bury him, he’d drown trying to breathe muck into his lungs, he knew it, he could feel it cold and wet around his thighs, his crotch; he clenched his fists and felt mud ooze between his fingers, just like the nothingness in all his nightmares—
And then he came to himself, got control. Sure, he was up to his waist in mud, and if he was any other boy in such a case he might have wiggled himself down deeper and smothered hisself, trying to struggle out. But this was Alvin, not some ordinary boy, and he was safe as long as he wasn’t booglied up by fear like a child caught in a bad dream. He just made the slime under his feet harden enough to hold his weight, then made the hard place float upward, lifting him out of the mud until he was standing on gravelly mud at the bottom of the well.
Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III Page 12
