Suddenly Horace started chuckling. “Play fetch with my bones when I’m dead, but I do think that’s old Po Doggly.”
At once the man in the boat leaned back and Alvin could finally see him clear in the moonlight. It was Dr. Physicker’s driver, sure enough. But this didn’t seem to bother Horace none. He was already slipping down the riverbank, to splash out to the boat, climb aboard, and give Po Doggly such a violent hug the boat took on water. In only a second they both noticed that the boat was rocking out of kilter, and without a word they both shifted exactly right to balance the load, and then again without a word Po got the oars into the locks while Horace took a flat tin baling cup out from under his bench and commenced to dipping it and pouring it out overboard, again and again.
Alvin marveled for a moment at how smooth the two of them fit together. He didn’t even have to ask—he knew from how they acted that they’d done this sort of thing a good many times before. Each knew what the other was going to do, so they didn’t even have to think about it anymore. One man did his part, and the other his, and neither even had to check to make sure both parts were getting done.
Like the bits and pieces that made up everything in the world; like the dance of atoms Alvin had imagined in his mind. He’d never realized it before, but people could be like those atoms, too. Most of the time people were all disorganized, nobody knowing who anybody else was, nobody holding still long enough to trust or be trusted, just like Alvin imagined atoms might have been before God taught them who they were and gave them work to do. But here were two men, men that nobody’d ever figure even knew each other hardly, except as how everybody in a town like Hatrack River knows everybody else. Po Doggly, a one-time farmer reduced to driving for Dr. Physicker, and Horace Guester, the first settler in this place, and still prospering. Who’d’ve thought they could fit together so smooth? But it was because each one knew who the other was, knew it pure and true, knew it as sure as an atom might know the name God gave him; each one in his place, doing his work.
All these thoughts rushed through Alvin’s mind so fast he hardly noticed himself thinking them, yet in later years he’d remember right enough that this was when he first understood: These two men, together, made something between them that was just as real and solid as the dirt under his feet, as the tree he was leaning on. Most folks couldn’t see it—they’d look at the two of them and see nothing but two men who happened to be sitting in a boat together. But then, maybe to other atoms it wouldn’t seem like the atoms making up a bit of a iron was anything more than two atoms as happened to be next to each other. Maybe you have to be far off, like God, or anyhow bigger by far in order to see what it is that two atoms make when they fit together in a certain way. But just because another atom don’t see the connection don’t mean it isn’t real, or that the iron isn’t as solid as iron can be.
And if I can teach these atoms how to make a string out of nothing, or maybe how to make iron out of gold, or even—let it be so—change Arthur’s secret invisible signature all through his body so the Finders wouldn’t know him no more—then why couldn’t a Maker also do with people as he does with atoms, and teach them a new order, and once he finds enough that he can trust, build them together into something new, something strong, something as real as iron.
“You coming, Al, or what?”
Like I said, Alvin hardly knew what thought it was he had. But he didn’t forget it, no, even sliding down the bank into the mud he knew that he’d never forget what he thought of just then, even though it’d take him years and miles and tears and blood before he really understood it all the way.
“Good to see you, Po,” said Alvin. “Only I kind of thought we was doing something a mite secret.”
Po rowed the boat closer in, slacking the rope and letting Alvin spider his way on board without getting his feet wet. Alvin didn’t mind that. He had an aversion to water, which was natural enough seeing how often the Unmaker tried to use water to kill him. But the water seemed to be just water tonight; the Unmaker was invisible or far away. Maybe it was the slender string that still hooked Alvin to Arthur—maybe that was such a powerful Making that the Unmaker plain hadn’t the strength to turn even this much water against Alvin.
“Oh, it’s still secret, Alvin,” said Horace. “You just don’t know. Afore you ever got to Hatrack River—or anyway I mean afore you came back—me and Po, we used to go out and fetch in runaway slaves and help them on to Canada whenever we could.”
“Didn’t the Finders ever get you?” asked Alvin.
“Any slave got this far, that meant the Finders wasn’t too close behind,” said Po. “A good number that reached us stole their own cachet.”
“Besides, that was afore the Fugitive Slave Treaty,” said Horace. “Long as the Finders didn’t kill us outright, they couldn’t touch us.”
“And in those days we had a torch,” said Po.
Horace said nothing, just untied the rope from the boat and tossed it back onto shore. Po started in rowing the first second the rope was free—and Horace had already braced himself for the first lurch of the boat. It was a miracle, seeing how smooth they knew each other’s next move before the move was even begun. Alvin almost laughed out loud in the joy of seeing such a thing, knowing it was possible, dreaming of what it might mean—thousands of people knowing each other that well, moving to fit each other just right, working together. Who could stand in the way of such people?
“When Horace’s girl left, why, we had no way of knowing there was a runaway coming through here.” Po shook his head. “It was over. But I knowed that with Arthur Stuart put in chains and dragged on south, why, there wasn’t no way in hell old Horace wasn’t going to cross the river and fetch him back. So once I dropped off them Finders and headed back away from the Hio a ways, I stopped the carriage and hopped on down.”
“I bet Dr. Physicker noticed,” said Alvin.
“Course he did, you fool!” said Po. “Oh, I see you’re funning me. Well, he noticed. He just says to me, ‘You be careful, them boys are dangerous.’ And I said I’d be careful all right and then he says to me, ‘It’s that blame sheriff Pauley Wiseman. He didn’t have to let them take him so fast. Might be we could’ve fought exerdiction if we could’ve held onto Arthur Stuart till the circuit judge come around. But Pauley, he did everything legal, but he moved so fast I just knew in my heart he wanted that boy gone, wanted him clean out of Hatrack River and never come back.’ I believe him, Horace. Pauley Wiseman never did like that mixup boy, once Old Peg got the wind in her sails about him going to school.”
Horace grunted; he turned the tiller just a little, exactly at the moment when Pauley slacked the oar on one side so the boat would turn slightly upstream to make the right landing on the far shore. “You know what I been thinking?” said Horace. “I been thinking your job just ain’t enough to keep you busy, Po.”
“I like my job good enough,” said Po Doggly.
“I been thinking that there’s a county election this fall, and the office of sheriff goes up for grabs. I think Pauley Wiseman ought to get turned out.”
“And me get made sheriff? You think that’s likely, me being a known drunk?”
“You ain’t touched a drop the whole time you been with the doctor. And if we live through this and get Arthur back safe, why, you’re going to be a hero.”
“A hero hell! You crazy, Horace? We can’t tell a soul about this or there’ll be a reward out for our brains on rye bread from the Hio to Camelot.”
“We ain’t going to print up the story and sell copies, if that’s what you mean. But you know how word spreads. Good folks’ll know what you and me done.”
“Then you be sheriff, Horace.”
“Me?” Horace grinned. “Can you imagine me putting a man in jail?”
Po laughed softly. “Reckon not.”
When they reached the shore, again their movements were swift and fit together just right. It was hard to believe it had been so many years since they worked to
gether. It was like their bodies already knew what to do, so they didn’t even have to think about it. Po jumped into the water—ankle deep is all, and he leaned on the boat so as not to splash much. The boat rocked a bit at that, of course, but without a bit of wasted motion Horace leaned against the rocking and calmed it down, hardly even noticing he was doing it. In a minute they had the bow dragged up onto the shore—sandy here, not muddy like the other side—and tied to a tree. To Alvin the rope looked old and rotten, but when he sent his bug inside to feel it out, he was sure it was still strong enough to hold the boat against the rocking of the river against the stern.
Only when all their familiar jobs was done did Horace present himself like militia on the town square, shoulders squared and eyes right on Alvin. “Well, now, Al, I reckon it’s up to you to lead the way.”
“Ain’t we got to track them?” asked Po.
“Alvin knows where they are,” said Horace.
“Well ain’t that nice,” said Po. “And does he know whether they got their guns aimed at our heads?”
“Yes,” said Alvin. He said it in such a way as to make it plain that he didn’t want no more questions.
It wasn’t plain enough for Po. “You telling me this boy’s a torch, or what? Most I heard was he got him a knack for shoeing horses.”
Here was the bad part about having somebody else along. Alvin didn’t have no wish to tell Po Doggly what all he could do, but he couldn’t very well tell the man that he didn’t trust him.
It was Horace came to the rescue. “Po, I got to tell you, Alvin ain’t part of the story of this night.”
“Looks to me like he’s the biggest part.”
“I tell you, Po, when this story gets told, it was you and me came along and happened to find the Finders asleep, you understand?”
Po wrinkled his brow, then nodded. “Just tell me this, boy. Whatever knack you got, you a Christian? I don’t even ask that you be a Methodist.”
“Yes sir,” said Alvin. “I’m a Christian, I reckon. I hold to the Bible.”
“Good then,” said Po. “I just don’t want to get myself all mixed up in devil stuff.”
“Not with me,” said Alvin.
“All right then. Best if I don’t know what you do, Al. Just take a care not to get me killed because I don’t know it.”
Alvin stuck out his hand. Po shook it and grinned. “You blacksmiths got to be strong as a bear.”
“Me?” said Alvin. “A bear gets in my way, I beat on his head till he’s a wolverine.”
“I like your brag, boy.”
A moment’s pause, and then Alvin led them off, following the thread that connected him to Arthur Stuart.
It wasn’t all that far, but it took them an hour cutting through the woods in the dark—with all the leaves out, there wasn’t much moonlight got to the ground. Without Alvin’s sense of the forest around them, it would’ve taken three times as long and ten times the noise.
They found the Finders asleep in a clearing with a campfire dying down between them. The white-haired Finder was curled up on his bedroll. The black-haired Finder must’ve been left on watch; he was snoring away leaning against a tree. Their horses were asleep not far off. Alvin stopped them before they got close enough to disturb the animals.
Arthur Stuart was wide awake, sitting there staring into the fire.
Alvin sat there a minute, trying to figure how to do this. He wasn’t sure how smart the Finders might be. Could they find scraps of dried skin, fallen-off hairs, something like that, and use it for a new cachet? Just in case, it wouldn’t do no good to change Arthur right where he was; nor would it be too smart to head on out into the clearing where they might leave bits of their own selves, as proof of who stole Arthur away.
So from a distance, Alvin got inside the iron of the manacles and made cracks in all four parts, so they fell away to the ground at once, with a clank. The noise bothered the horses, who nickered a bit, but the Finders were still sleeping like the dead. Arthur, though, it didn’t take him a second to figure out what was happening. He jumped to his feet all at once and started looking around for Alvin at the clearing’s edge.
Alvin whistled, trying to match the song of a redbird. It was a pretty bad imitation, as birdcalls go, but Arthur heard it and knew that it was Alvin calling him. Without a moment’s waiting or worrying, Arthur plunged right into the woods and not five minutes later, with a few more bad birdcalls to guide him, he was face to face with Alvin.
Of course Arthur Stuart made as if to give Alvin a big old hug, but Alvin held up a hand. “Don’t touch anybody or anything,” he whispered. “I’ve got to make a change in you, Arthur Stuart, so the Finders can’t catch you again.”
“I don’t mind,” said Arthur.
“I don’t dare have a single scrap of the old way you used to be. You got hairs and skin and such all over in your clothes. So strip them off.”
Arthur Stuart didn’t hesitate. In a few moments his clothes were in a pile at his feet.
“Excuse me for not knowing a bit about this,” said Po, “but if you leave those clothes a-lying there, them Finders’ll know he come this way, and that points north to them sure as if we painted a big white arrow on the ground.”
“Reckon you’re right,” said Alvin.
“So have Arthur Stuart bring them along and float them down the river,” said Horace.
“Just make sure you don’t touch Arthur or nothing,” said Alvin. “Arthur, you just pick up your clothes and follow along slow and careful. If you get lost, give me a redbird whistle and I’ll whistle back till you find us.”
“I knew you was coming, Alvin,” said Arthur Stuart. “You too, Pa.”
“So did them Finders,” said Horace, “and much as I wish we could arrange it, they ain’t going to sleep forever.”
“Wait a minute anyway,” said Alvin. He sent his bug back into the manacles and drew them back together, fit them tight, joined the iron again as if it had been cast that way. Now they lay on the ground unbroken, fastened tight, giving no sign of how the boy got free.
“I don’t suppose you’re maybe breaking their legs or something, Alvin,” said Horace.
“Can he do that from here?” asked Po.
“I’m doing no such thing,” said Alvin. “What we want is for the Finders to give up searching for a boy who as far as they can tell doesn’t exist no more.”
“Well that makes sense, but I still like thinking of them Finders with their legs broke,” said Horace.
Alvin grinned and plunged off into the forest, deliberately making enough noise and moving slow enough that the others could follow him in the near-darkness; if he wanted to, he could’ve moved like a Red man through the woods, making not a sound, leaving no whiff of a trail that anyone could follow.
They got to the river and stopped. Alvin didn’t want Arthur getting into the boat in his present skin, leaving traces of himself all over. So if he was going to change him, he had to do it here.
“Toss them clothes, boy,” said Horace. “Far as you can.”
Arthur took a step or two into the water. It made Alvin scared, for with his inward eye he saw it as if Arthur, made of light and earth and air, suddenly got part of himself disappeared into the blackness of the water. Still, the water hadn’t harmed them none on the trip here, and Alvin saw as how it might even be useful.
Arthur Stuart pitched his wad of clothes out into the river. The current wasn’t all that strong; they watched the clothes turn lazily and float downstream, gradually drifting apart. Arthur stood there, up to his butt in water, watching the clothes. No, not watching them—he didn’t turn a speck when they drifted far to the left. He was just looking at the north shore, the free side of the river.
“I been here afore,” he said. “I seen this boat.”
“Might be,” said Horace. “Though you was a mite young to remember it. Po and I, we helped your mama into this very boat. My daughter Peggy held you when we got to shore.”
�
��My sister Peggy,” said Arthur. He turned around and looked at Horace, like as if it was really a question.
“I reckon so,” said Horace, and that was the answer.
“Just stand there, Arthur Stuart,” said Alvin. “When I change you, I got to change you all over, inside and out. Better to do that in the water, where all the dead skin with your old self marked in it can wash away.”
“You going to make me White?” asked Arthur Stuart.
“Can you do that?” asked Po Doggly.
“I don’t know what all is going to change,” said Alvin. “I hope I don’t make you White, though. That’d be like stealing away from you the part of you your mama gave you.”
“They don’t make White boys be slaves,” said Arthur Stuart.
“They ain’t going to make this partickler mixup boy a slave anyhow,” said Alvin. “Not if I can help it. Now just stand there, stand right still, and let me figure this out.”
They all stood there, the men and the boy, while Alvin studied inside Arthur Stuart, finding that tiny signature that marked every living bit of him.
Alvin knew he couldn’t just go changing it willy-nilly, since he didn’t rightly understand what all that signature was for. He just knew that it was somehow part of what made Arthur himself, and you don’t just change that. Maybe changing the wrong thing might strike him blind, or make his blood turn to rainwater or something. How could Alvin know?
It was seeing the string still connecting them, heart to heart, that gave Alvin the idea—that and remembering what the Redbird said, using Arthur Stuart’s own lips to say it. “The Maker is the one who is part of what he Makes.” Alvin stripped off his own shirt and then stepped out into the water and knelt down in it, so he was near eye-to-eye with Arthur Stuart, cool water swirling gently around his waist. Then he put out his hands and pulled Arthur Stuart to him and held him there, breast to breast, hands on shoulders.
Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III Page 31
