Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III

by Orson Scott Card

  “You’re saying that what we see as solid objects are really nothing but illusion. Little nothings making tiny spheres that are put together to make your bits, and pieces made from bits, and the anvil made from pieces—”

  “Only there’s a lot more steps between, I reckon. Don’t you see, this explains everything? Why it is that all I have to do is imagine a new shape or a new pattern or a new order, and show it in my mind, and if I think it clear and strong enough, and command the bits to change, why—they do. Because they’re alive. They may be small and none too bright, but if I show them clear enough, they can do it.”

  “This is too strange for me, Alvin. To think that everything is really nothing.”

  “No, Miss Larner, you’re missing the point. The point is that everything is alive. That everything is made out of living atoms, all obeying the commands that God gave them. And just following those commands, why, some of them get turned into light and heat, and some of them become iron, and some water, and some air, and some of them our own skin and bones. All those things are real—and so those atoms are real.”

  “Alvin, I told you about atoms because they were an interesting theory. The best thinkers of our time believe there are no such things.”

  “Begging your pardon, Miss Larner, but the best thinkers never saw the things I saw, so they don’t know diddly. I’m telling you that this is the only idea I can think of that explains it all—what I see and what I do.”

  “But where did these atoms come from?”

  “They don’t come from anywhere. Or rather, maybe they come from everywhere. Maybe these atoms, they’re just there. Always been there, always will be there. You can’t cut them up. They can’t die. You can’t make them and you can’t break them. They’re forever.”

  “Then God didn’t create the world.”

  “Of course he did. The atoms were nothing, just places that didn’t even know where they were. It’s God who put them all into places so he’d know where they were, and so they’d know where they were—and everything in the whole universe is made out of them.”

  Miss Larner thought about it for the longest time. Alvin stood there watching her, waiting. He knew it was true, or at least truer than anything else he’d ever heard of or thought of. Unless she could think of something wrong with it. So many times this year she’d done that, point out something he forgot, some reason why his idea wouldn’t work. So he waited for her to come up with something. Something wrong.

  Maybe she would’ve. Only while she was standing there outside the forge, thinking, they heard the sound of horses cantering up the road from town. Of course they looked to see who was coming in such a rush.

  It was Sheriff Pauley Wiseman and two men that Alvin never saw before. Behind them was Dr. Physicker’s carriage, with old Po Doggly driving. And they didn’t just pass by. They stopped right there at the curve by the forge.

  “Miss Lamer,” said Pauley Wiseman. “Arthur Stuart around here?”

  “Why do you ask?” said Miss Larner. “Who are these men?”

  “He’s here,” said one of the men. The white-haired one. He held up a tiny box between his thumb and forefinger. Both the strangers looked at it, then looked up the hill toward the springhouse. “In there,” said the white-haired man.

  “You need any more proof than that?” asked Pauley Wiseman. He was talking to Dr. Physicker, who was now out of his carriage and standing there looking furious and helpless and altogether terrible.

  “Finders,” whispered Miss Larner.

  “That’s us,” said the white-haired one. “You got a runaway slave up there, Ma’am.”

  “He is not,” she said. “He is a pupil of mine, legally adopted by Horace and Margaret Guester—”

  “We got a letter from his owner, giving his birthdate, and we got his cachet here, and he’s the very one. We’re sworn and certified, Ma’am. What we Find is found. That’s the law, and if you interfere, you’re obstructing.” The man spoke real nice and quiet and polite.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Larner,” said Dr. Physicker. “I already have a writ from the mayor, and that’ll hold him till the judge gets back tomorrow.”

  “Hold him in jail, of course,” said Pauley Wiseman. “Wouldn’t want anybody to try to run off with him, now, would we?”

  “Wouldn’t do much good if they tried,” said the white-haired Finder. “We’d just follow. And then we’ll probably shoot them dead, seeing how they was thieves escaping with stolen property.”

  “You haven’t even told the Guesters, have you!” said Miss Larner.

  “How could I?” said Dr. Physicker. “I had to stay with them, to make sure they didn’t just take him.

  “We obey the law,” said the white-haired Finder.

  “There he is,” said the black-haired Finder.

  Arthur Stuart stood in the open door of the springhouse.

  “Just stay where you are, boy!” shouted Pauley Wiseman. “If you move a muscle I’ll whip you to jelly!”

  “You don’t have to threaten him,” said Miss Larner, but there wasn’t nobody to listen, since they were all running up the hill.

  “Don’t hurt him!” cried Dr. Physicker.

  “If he don’t run, he won’t get hurt,” said the white-haired Finder.

  “Alvin,” said Miss Larner. “Don’t do it.”

  “They ain’t taking Arthur Stuart.”

  “Don’t use your power like that. Not to hurt someone.”

  “I tell you—”

  “Think, Alvin. We have until tomorrow. Maybe the judge—”

  “Putting him in jail!”

  “If anything happens to these Finders, then the nationals will be in it, to enforce the Fugitive Slave Treaty. Do you understand me? It’s not a local crime like murder. You’d be taken off to Appalachee to be tried.”

  “I can’t do nothing.”

  “Run and tell the Guesters.”

  Alvin waited just a moment. If it was up to him, he’d burn their hands right off before he let them take Arthur. But already the boy was between them, their fingers digging into Arthur’s arms. Miss Larner was right. What they needed was a way to win Arthur’s freedom for sure, not some stupid blunder that would end up making things worse.

  Alvin ran for the Guesters’ house. It surprised him how they took it—like they’d been expecting it all the time for the last seven years. Old Peg and Horace just looked at each other, and without a word Old Peg started in packing—her clothes and Arthur Stuart’s.

  “What’s she packing her things for?” asked Alvin.

  Horace smiled, a real tight smile. “She ain’t going to let Arthur spend a night in jail alone. So she’ll have them lock her up right alongside him.”

  It made sense—but it was strange to think of people like Arthur Stuart and Old Peg Guester in jail.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Alvin.

  “Load my guns,” said Horace. “And when they’re gone, I’ll follow.”

  Alvin told him what Miss Larner had said about the nationals coming if somebody laid hand on a Finder.

  “What’s the worst they can do to me? Hang me. I tell you, I’d rather be hanged than live in this house a single day if they take Arthur Stuart away and I done nothing to stop them. And I can do it, Alvin. Hell, boy, I must’ve saved fifty runaway slaves in my time. Po Doggly and me, we used to pick them up this side of the river and send them on to safety in Canada. Did it all the time.”

  Alvin wasn’t a bit surprised to hear of Horace Guester being an Emancipationist—and not a talker, neither.

  “I’m telling you this, Alvin, cause I need your help. I’m just one man and there’s two of them. I got no one I can trust—Po Doggly ain’t gone with me on something like this in a week of Christmases, and I don’t know where he stands no more. But you—I know you can keep a secret, and I know you love Arthur Stuart near as much as my wife does.”

  The way he said it gave Alvin pause. “Don’t you love him, sir?”

&nbs
p; Horace looked at Alvin like he was crazy. “They ain’t taking a mixup boy right out from under my roof, Al.”

  Goody Guester come downstairs then, with two bundles in homespun bags under her arms. “Take me into town, Horace Guester.”

  They heard the horses riding by on the road outside.

  “That’s probably them,” said Alvin.

  “Don’t worry, Peg,” said Horace.

  “Don’t worry?” Old Peg turned on him in fury. “Only two things are likely to happen out of this, Horace. Either I lose my son to slavery in the South, or my fool husband gets himself probably killed trying to rescue him. Of course I won’t worry.” Then she burst into tears and hugged Horace so tight it near broke Alvin’s heart to see it.

  It was Alvin drove Goody Guester into town on the roadhouse wagon. He was standing there when she finally wore down Pauley Wiseman so he’d let her spend the night in the cell—though he made her take a terrible oath about not trying to sneak Arthur Stuart out of jail before he’d do it.

  As he led the way to the jail cell, Pauley Wiseman said, “You shouldn’t fret none, Goody Guester. His master’s no doubt a good man. Folks here got the wrong idea of slavery, I reckon.”

  She whirled on him. “Then you’ll go in his place, Pauley? Seeing how it’s so fine?”

  “Me?” He was no more than amused at the idea. “I’m White, Goody Guester. Slavery ain’t my natural state.”

  Alvin made the keys slide right out of Pauley’s fingers.

  “I’m sure getting clumsy,” said Pauley Wiseman.

  Goody Guester’s foot just naturally ended up right on top of the key ring.

  “Just lift up your foot, Goody Guester,” said the sheriff, “or I’ll charge you with aiding and abetting, not to mention resisting.”

  She moved her foot. The sheriff opened the door. Old Peg stepped through and gathered Arthur Stuart into her arms. Alvin watched as Pauley Wiseman closed and locked the door behind them. Then he went on home.

  Alvin broke open the mold and rubbed away the clay that still clung to the face of the plow. The iron was smooth and hard, as good a plow as Alvin ever saw cast till then. He searched inside it and found no flaws, not big enough to mar the plow, anyway. He filed and rubbed, rubbed and filed till it was smooth, the blade sharp as if he meant to use it in a butcher shop instead of some field somewhere. He set it on top of the workbench. Then he sat there waiting while the sun rose and the rest of the world came awake.

  In due time Makepeace came down from the house and looked at the plow. But Alvin didn’t see him, being asleep. Makepeace woke him up enough to get him to walk back up to the house.

  “Poor boy,” said Gertie. “I bet he never even went to sleep last night. I bet he went on down and worked on that fool plow all night.”

  “Plow looks fair.”

  “Plow looks perfect, I’ll bet, knowing Alvin.”

  Makepeace grimaced. “What do you know about ironwork?”

  “I know Alvin and I know you.”

  “Strange boy. Ain’t it the truth though? He does his best work when he stays up all night.” Makepeace even had some affection in his voice, saying that. But Alvin was asleep in his bed by then and didn’t hear.

  “Sets such store by that mixup child,” said Gertie. “No wonder he couldn’t sleep.”

  “Sleeping now,” said Makepeace.

  “Imagine sending Arthur Stuart into slavery at his age.”

  “Law’s the law,” said Makepeace. “Can’t say I like it, but a fellow has to live by the law or what then?”

  “You and the law,” said Gertie. “I’m glad we don’t live on the other side of the Hio, Makepeace, or I swear you’d be wanting slaves instead of prentices—if you know the difference.”

  That was as pure a declaration of war as they ever gave each other, and they were all set for one of their rip-snorting knock-about break-dish fights, only Alvin was snoring up in the loft and Gertie and Makepeace just glared at each other and let this one go. Since all their quarrels came out the same, with all the same cruel things said and all the same hurts and harms done, it was like they just got tired and said, Pretend I just said all the things you hate worst in all the world to hear, and I’ll pretend you said the things I hate worst back to me, and then let be.

  Alvin didn’t sleep all that long, nor all too well, neither. Fear and anger and eagerness all played through his body till he could hardly hold still, let alone keep his brain drifting with the currents of his dreams. He woke up dreaming of a black plow turned to gold. He woke up dreaming of Arthur Stuart being whipped. He woke up again thinking of aiming a gun at one of them Finders and pulling the trigger. He woke up again thinking of aiming at a Finder and not pulling the trigger, and then watching them go away dragging Arthur after them, him screaming all the time, Alvin, where are you! Alvin, don’t let them take me.

  “Wake up or hush up!” shouted Gertie. “You’re scaring the children.”

  Alvin opened his eyes and leaned over the edge of the loft. “Your children ain’t even here.”

  “Then you’re scaring me. I don’t know what you was dreaming, boy, but I hope that dream never comes even to my worst enemy —which happens to be my husband this morning, if you want to know the truth.”

  Her mentioning Makepeace made Alvin alert, yes sir. He pulled on his trousers, wondering when and how he got up to this loft and who pulled his pants and boots off. In just that little amount of time, Gertie somehow got food on the table—cornbread and cheese and a dollop of molasses. “I don’t have time to eat, Ma’am,” said Alvin. “I’m sorry, but I got to—”

  “You got time.”

  “No Ma’am, I’m sorry—”

  “Take the bread, then, you plain fool. You plan to work all day with an empty belly? After only a morning’s sleep? Why, it ain’t even noon yet.”

  So he was chewing on bread when he come down the hill to the forge. There was Dr. Physicker’s carriage again, and the Finders’ horses. For a second Alvin thought—they come here cause Arthur Stuart got away somehow, and the Finders lost him, and—

  No. They had Arthur Stuart with them.

  “Good morning, Alvin,” said Makepeace. He turned to the other men. “I must be about the softest master I ever heard of, letting my prentice boy sleep till near noon.”

  Alvin didn’t even notice how Makepeace was criticizing him and calling him a prentice boy when his journeyman piece stood there finished on the workbench. He just squatted down in front of Arthur Stuart and looked him in the eyes.

  “Stand back now,” said the white-haired Finder.

  Alvin didn’t hardly notice him. He wasn’t really seeing Arthur Stuart, not with his eyes, anyhow. He was searching his body for some sign of harm. None. Not yet anyway. Just the fear in the boy.

  “You haven’t told us yet,” said Pauley Wiseman. “Will you make them or not?”

  Makepeace coughed. “Gentlemen, I once made a pair of manacles, back in New England. For a man convicted of treason, being shipped back to England in irons. I hope I never make a manacle for a seven-year-old boy who done no harm to a living soul, a boy who played around my forge and—”

  “Makepeace,” said Pauley Wiseman. “I told them that if you made the manacles, they wouldn’t have to use this.”

  Wiseman held up the heavy iron-and-wood collar that he’d left leaning against his leg.

  “It’s the law,” said the white-haired Finder. “We bring runaway slaves back home in that collar, to show the others what happens. But him being just a boy, and seeing how it was his mama what run away and not him, we agreed to manacles. But it don’t make no difference to me. We get paid either way.”

  “You and your damned Fugitive Slave Treaty!” cried Makepeace. “You use that law to make slavers out of us, too.”

  “I’ll make them,” said Alvin.

  Makepeace looked at him in horror. “You!”

  “Better than that collar,” said Alvin. What he didn’t say was, I don’t inte
nd for Arthur Stuart to wear those manacles a minute longer than tonight. He looked at Arthur Stuart. “I’ll make you some manacles as don’t hurt much, Arthur Stuart.”

  “Wisely done,” said Pauley Wiseman.

  “Good to see somebody with sense here,” said the white-haired Finder.

  Alvin looked at him and tried to hold all his hatred in. He couldn’t quite do it. So his spittle ended up spattering the dust at the Finder’s feet.

  The black-haired Finder looked ready to throw a punch at him for that, and Alvin wouldn’t’ve minded a bit to grapple with him and maybe rub his face in the dirt a minute or two. But Pauley Wiseman jumped right between them and he had sense enough to do his talking to the black-haired Finder, and not to Alvin. “You got to be a blame fool, setting to rassle with a blacksmith. Look at his arms.”

  “I could take him,” said the Finder.

  “You folks got to understand,” said the white-haired Finder. “It’s our knack. We can no more help being Finders than—”

  “There’s some knacks,” said Makepeace, “where it’d be better to die at birth than grow up and use it.” He turned to Alvin. “I don’t want you using my forge for this.”

  “Don’t make a nuisance of yourself, Makepeace,” said Pauley Wiseman.

  “Please,” said Dr. Physicker. “You’re doing the boy more harm than good.”

  Makepeace backed off, but none too graciously.

  “Give me your hands, Arthur Stuart,” Alvin said.

  Alvin made a show of measuring Arthur’s wrists with a string. Truth was, he could see the measure of him in his mind, every inch of him, and he’d shape the iron to fit smooth and perfect, with rounded edges and no more weight than needed. Arthur wouldn’t feel no pain from these manacles. Not with his body, anyhow.