Of course they didn’t knock. At this time of night? They would know at once it couldn’t be some chance traveler—it could only be the Finders. Knocking at the door would warn them, give them a chance to try to carry the boy farther off.
But the black-haired Finder didn’t so much as try the latch. He just let fly with his foot and the door crashed inward, pulling away from the upper hinge as it did. Then, shotgun at the ready, he moved quickly inside and looked around the common room. The fire there was dying down, so the light was scant, but they could see that there was no one there.
“I’ll keep watch on the stairs,” said the white-haired Finder. “You go out the back to see if anybody’s trying to get out that way.”
The black-haired Finder immediately made his way past the kitchen and the stairs to the back door, which he flung open. The white-haired Finder was halfway up the stairs before the back door closed again.
In the kitchen, Old Peg crawled out from under the table. Neither one had so much as paused at the kitchen door. She didn’t know who they were, of course, but she hoped—hoped it was the Finders, sneaking back here because somehow, by some miracle, Arthur Stuart got away and they didn’t know where he was. She slipped off her shoes and walked as quietly as she could from the kitchen to the common room, where Horace kept a loaded shotgun over the fireplace. She reached up and took it down, but in the process she knocked over a tin teakettle that someone had left warming by the fire earlier in the evening. The kettle clattered; hot water spilled over her bare feet; she gasped in spite of herself.
Immediately she could hear footsteps on the stairs. She ignored the pain and ran to the foot of the stairs, just in time to see the white-haired Finder coming down. He had a shotgun pointed straight at her. Even though she’d never fired a gun at a human being in her life, she didn’t hesitate a moment. She pulled the trigger; the gun kicked back against her belly, driving the breath out of her and slamming her against the wall beside the kitchen door. She hardly noticed. All she saw was how the white-haired Finder stood there, his face suddenly relaxing till it looked as stupid as a cow’s face. Then red blossoms appeared all over his shirt, and he toppled over backward.
You’ll never steal another child away from his mama, thought Old Peg. You’ll never drag another Black into a life of bowing under the whip. I killed you, Finder, and I think the good Lord rejoices. But even if I go to hell for it, I’m glad.
She was so intent on watching him that she didn’t even notice that the door out back stood open, held in place by the barrel of the black-haired Finder’s gun, pointed right at her.
Alvin was so intent on telling Peggy what he had done that he hardly noticed he was naked. She handed him the leather apron hanging from a peg on the wall, and he put it on by habit, without a thought. She hardly heard his words; all that he was telling her, she already knew from looking in his heartfire. Instead she was looking at him, thinking, Now he’s a Maker, in part because of what I taught him. Maybe I’m finished now, maybe my life will be my own—but maybe not, maybe now I’ve just begun, maybe now I can treat him as a man, not as a pupil or a ward. He seemed to glow with an inner fire; and every step he took, the golden plow echoed, not by following him or tangling itself in his feet, but by slipping along on a line that could have been an orbit around him, well out of the way but close enough to be of use; as if it were a part of him, though unattached.
“I know,” Peggy told him. “I understand. You are a Maker now.”
“It’s more than that!” he cried. “It’s the Crystal City. I know how to build it now. Miss Larner. See, the city ain’t the crystal towers that I saw, the city’s the people inside it, and if I’m going to build the place I got to find the kind of folks who ought to be there, folks as true and loyal as this plow, folks who share the dream enough to want to build it, and keep on building it even if I’m not there. You see, Miss Larner? The Crystal City isn’t a thing that a single Maker can make. It’s a city of Makers; I got to find all kinds of folks and somehow make Makers out of them.”
She knew as he said it that this was indeed the task that he was born for—and the labor that would break his heart. “Yes,” she said. “That’s true, I know it is.” And in spite of herself, she couldn’t sound like Miss Larner, calm and cool and distant. She sounded like herself, like her true feelings. She was burning up inside with the fire that Alvin lit there.
“Come with me, Miss Larner,” said Alvin. “You know so much, and you’re such a good teacher—I need your help.”
No, Alvin, not those words. I’ll come with you for those words, yes, but say the other words, the ones I need so much to hear. “How can I teach what only you know how to do?” she asked him—trying to sound quiet, calm.
“But it ain’t just for the teaching, either—I can’t do this alone. What I done tonight, it’s so hard—I need to have you with me.” He took a step toward her. The golden plow slipped across the floor toward her, behind her; if it marked the outer border of Alvin’s largest self, then she was now well within that generous circle.
“What do you need me for?” asked Peggy. She refused to look within his heartfire, refused to see whether or not there was any chance that he might actually—no, she refused even to name to herself what it was she wanted now, for fear that somehow she’d discover that it couldn’t possibly be so, that it could never happen, that somehow tonight all such paths had been irrevocably closed. Indeed, she realized, that was part of why she had been so caught up in exploring Arthur Stuart’s new futures; he would be so close to Alvin that she could see much of Alvin’s great and terrible future through Arthur’s eyes, without ever having to know what she would know if she looked into Alvin’s own heartfire: Alvin’s heartfire would show her whether, in his many futures, there were any in which he loved her, and married her, and put that dear and perfect body into her arms to give her and get from her that gift that only lovers share.
“Come with me,” he said. “I can’t even think of going on out there without you, Miss Larner. I—” He laughed at himself. “I don’t even know your first name, Miss Larner.”
“Margaret,” she said.
“Can I call you that? Margaret—will you come with me? I know you ain’t what you seem to be, but I don’t care what you look like under all that hexery. I feel like you’re the only living soul who knows me like I really am, and I—”
He just stood there, looking for the word. And she stood there, waiting to hear it.
“I love you,” he said. “Even though you think I’m just a boy.”
Maybe she would’ve answered him. Maybe she would’ve told him that she knew he was a man, and that she was the only woman who could love him without worshipping him, the only one who could actually be a helpmeet for him. But into the silence after his words and before she could speak, there came the sound of a gunshot.
At once she thought of Arthur Stuart, but it only took a moment to see that his heartfire was undisturbed; he lay asleep up in her little house. No, the sound came from farther off. She cast her torchy sight to the roadhouse, and there found the heartfire of a man in the last moment before death, and he was looking at a woman standing down at the foot of the stairs. It was Mother, holding a shotgun.
His heartfire dimmed, died. At once Peggy looked into her mother’s heartfire and saw, behind her thoughts and feelings and memories, a million paths of the future, all jumbling together, all changing before her eyes. all becoming one single path, which led to one single place. A flash of searing agony, and then nothing.
“Mother!” she cried. “Mother!”
And then the future became the present: Old Peg’s heartfire was gone before the sound of the second gunshot reached the smithy.
Alvin could hardly believe what he was saying to Miss Larner. He hadn’t known until this moment, when he said it, how he felt about her. He was so afraid she’d laugh at him, so afraid she’d tell him he was far too young, that in time he’d get over how he felt.
But
instead of answering him, she paused for just a moment, and in that moment a gunshot rang out. Alvin knew at once that it came from the roadhouse: he followed the sound with his bug and found where it came from, found a dead man already beyond all healing. And then a moment later, another gunshot, and then he found someone else dying, a woman. He knew that body from the inside out; it wasn’t no stranger. It had to be Old Peg.
“Mother!” cried Miss Larner. “Mother!”
“It’s Old Peg Guester!” cried Alvin.
He saw Miss Larner tear open the collar of her dress, reach inside and pull out the amulets that hung there. She tore them off her neck, cutting herself bad on the breaking strings. Alvin could hardly take in what he saw—a young woman, scarce older than himself, and beautiful, even though her face was torn with grief and terror.
“It’s my mother!” she cried. “Alvin, save her!”
He didn’t wait a second. He just tore on out of the smithy, running barefoot on the grass, in the road, not caring how the rough dirt and rocks tore into his soft, unaccustomed feet. The leather apron caught and tangled between his knees; he tugged it, twisted it to the side, out of his way. He could see with his bug how Old Peg was already past saving, but still he ran, because he had to try. even though he knew there was no reason in it. And then she died, and still he ran, because he couldn’t bear not to be running to where that good woman, his good friend was lying dead.
His good friend and Miss Larner’s mother. The only way that could be is if she was the torch girl what run off seven years ago. But then if she was such a torch as folks around her said. why didn’t she see this coming? Why didn’t she look into her own mother’s heartfire and forsee her death? It made no sense.
There was a man in front of him on the road. A man running down from the roadhouse toward some horses tied to trees just over yonder. It was the man who killed Old Peg, Alvin knew that, and cared to know no more. He sped up, faster than he’d ever run before without getting strength from the forest around him. The man heard him coming maybe thirty yards off, and turned around.
“You, smith!” cried the black-haired Finder. “Glad to kill you too!”
He had a pistol in his hand; he fired.
Alvin took the bullet in his belly, but he didn’t care about that. His body started work at once fixing what the bullet tore, but it wouldn’t’ve mattered a speck if he’d been bleeding to death. Alvin didn’t even slow down; he flew into the man, knocking him down, landing on him and skidding with him ten feet across the dirt of the road. The man cried out in fear and pain. That single cry was the last sound he made; in his rage, Alvin caught the man’s head in such a grip that it took only one sharp jab of his other hand against the man’s jaw to snap his neckbone clean in half. The man was already dead, but Alvin hit his head again and again with his fists, until his arms and chest and his leather apron was all covered with the black-haired Finder’s blood and the man’s skull was broke up inside his head like shards of dropped pottery.
Then Alvin knelt there, his head stupid with exhaustion and spent anger. After a minute or so he remembered that Old Peg was still lying there on the roadhouse floor. He knowed she was dead, but where else did he have to go? Slowly he got to his feet.
He heard horses coming down the road from town. That time of night in Hatrack River, gunshots meant only trouble. Folks’d come. They’d find the body in the road—they’d come on up to the roadhouse. No need for Alvin to stay to greet them.
Inside the roadhouse, Peggy was already kneeling over her mother’s body, sobbing and panting from her run up to the house. Alvin only knew for sure it was her from her dress—he’d only seen her face but once before, for a second there in the smithy. She turned when she saw Alvin come inside. “Where were you! Why didn’t you save her! You could have saved her!”
“I never could,” said Alvin. It was wrong of her to say such a thing. “There wasn’t time.”
“You should have looked! You should have seen what was coming.”
Alvin didn’t understand her. “I can’t see what’s coming,” he said. “That’s your knack.”
Then she burst out crying, not the dry sobs like when he first came in, but deep, gut-wrenching howls of grief. Alvin didn’t know what to do.
The door opened behind him.
“Peggy,” whispered Horace Guester. “Little Peggy.”
Peggy looked up at her father, her face so streaked with tears and twisted up and reddened with weeping that it was a marvel he could recognize her. “I killed her!” she cried. “I never should have left, Papa! I killed her!”
Only then did Horace understand that it was his wife’s body lying there. Alvin watched as he started trembling, groaning, then keening loud and high like a hurt dog. Alvin never seen such grieving. Did my father cry like that when my brother Vigor died? Did he make such a sound as this when he thought that me and Measure was tortured to death by Red men?
Alvin reached out his arms to Horace, held him tight around the shoulders, then led him over to Peggy and helped him kneel there beside his daughter, both of them weeping, neither giving a sign that they saw each other. All they saw was Old Peg’s body spread out on the floor; Alvin couldn’t even guess how deeply, how agonizingly each one bore the whole blame for her dying.
After a while the sheriff came in. He’d already found the black-haired Finder’s corpse outside, and it didn’t take him long to understand exactly what happened. He took Alvin aside. “This is pure self-defense if I ever saw it,” said Pauley Wiseman, “and I wouldn’t make you spend three seconds in jail for it. But I can tell you that the law in Appalachee don’t take the death of a Finder all that easy, and the treaty lets them come up here and get you to take back there for trial. What I’m saying, boy, is you better get the hell out of here in the next couple of days or I can’t promise you’ll be safe.”
“I was going anyway,” said Alvin.
“I don’t know how you done it,” said Pauley Wiseman, “but I reckon you got that half-Black pickaninny away from them Finders tonight and hid him somewhere around here. I’m telling you, Alvin, when you go, you best take that boy with you. Take him to Canada. But if I see his face again, I’ll ship him south myself. It’s that boy caused all this—makes me sick, a good White woman dying cause of some half-Black mixup boy.”
“You best never say such a thing in front of me again, Pauley Wiseman.”
The sheriff only shook his head and walked away. “Ain’t natural,” he said. “All you people set on a monkey like it was folks.” He turned around to face Alvin. “I don’t much care what you think of me, Alvin Smith, but I’m giving you and that mixup boy a chance to stay alive. I hope you have brains to take it. And in the meantime, you might go wash off that blood and fetch some clothes to wear.”
Alvin walked on back to the road. Other folks was coming by then—he paid them no heed. Only Mock Berry seemed to understand what was happening. He led Alvin on down to his house, and there Anga washed him down and Mock gave him some of his own clothes to wear. It was nigh onto dawn when Alvin got him back to the smithy.
Makepeace was setting there on a stool in the smithy door, looking at the golden plow. It was resting on the ground, still as you please, right in front of the forge.
“That’s one hell of a journeyman piece,” said Makepeace.
“I reckon,” said Alvin. He walked over to the plow and reached down. It fairly leapt into Alvin’s hands—not heavy at all now—but if Makepeace noticed how the plow moved by itself just before Alvin touched it, he didn’t say.
“I got a lot of scrap iron,” said Makepeace. “I don’t even ask for you to go halves with me. Just let me keep a few pieces when you turn them into gold.”
“I ain’t turning no more iron into gold,” said Alvin.
It made Makepeace angry. “That’s gold, you fool! That there plow you made means never going hungry, never having to work again, living fine instead of in that rundown house up there! It means new dresses for Ge
rtie and maybe a suit of clothes for me! It means folks in town saying Good morning to me and tipping their hats like I was a gentleman. It means riding in a carriage like Dr. Physicker, and going to Dekane or Carthage or wherever I please and not even caring what it costs. And you’re telling me you ain’t making no more gold?”
Alvin knew it wouldn’t do no good explaining, but still he tried. “This ain’t no common gold, sir. This is a living plow—I ain’t going to let nobody melt it down to make coins out of it. Best I can figure, nobody could melt it even if they wanted to. So back off and let me go.”
“What you going to do, plow with it? You blame fool, we could be kings of the world together!” But when Alvin pushed on by, headed out of the smithy, Makepeace stopped his pleading and started getting ugly. “That’s my iron you used to make that golden plow! That gold belongs to me! A journeyman piece always belongs to the master, less’n he gives it to the journeyman and I sure as hell don’t! Thief! You’re stealing from me!”
“You stole five years of my life from me, long after I was good enough to be a journeyman,” Alvin said. “And this plow—making it was none of your teaching. It’s alive, Makepeace Smith. It doesn’t belong to you and it doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to itself. So let me just set it down here and we’ll see who gets it.”
Alvin set down the plow on the grass between them. Then he stepped back a few paces. Makepeace took one step toward the plow. It sank down into the soil under the grass, then cut its way through the dirt till it reached Alvin. When he picked it up, it was warm. He knew what that had to mean. “Good soil,” said Alvin. The plow trembled in his hands.
Makepeace stood there, his eyes bugged out with fear. “Good Lord, boy, that plow moved.”
“I know it,” said Alvin.
“What are you, boy? The devil?”
“I don’t think so,” said Alvin. “Though I might’ve met him once or twice.”
“Get on out of here! Take that thing and go away! I never want to see your face around here again!”
Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III Page 34
