But some things he could see. How, when Alvin broke down the sick flesh, he made it dissolve into the blood to be carried away. How he made sure to connect everything up inside when the cancerous parts were gone. How he left her strong.
“I feel sick,” she murmured.
“But not in pain,” Alvin whispered back.
“No, no pain.”
“I’m almost done. Your body is helping me find all the wrong places. I couldn’t do it without your own body’s help. You know how to heal yourself, not in your mind, but in the flesh and bone and blood. It just needed a little…direction. You see? There’s no miracle here. My knack is no more than finding what your body already wants to do but can’t figure out for itself, and…showing the way.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“The sick feeling will pass when the last of it comes out of you at stool,” he said. “By morning at the latest. Maybe sooner.”
“But I won’t die?”
“Can’t you feel it?” said Alvin softly. “Can’t you feel how right things are inside you now?”
She shook her head. “The pain’s gone, that’s all.”
“Well, that’s something, ain’t it?” said Alvin.
She began to weep.
At once Roy rushed to her, put a hand on her shoulder, and looked in anger at Alvin and Arthur Stuart. “She never cries! You made her cry!”
“She’s crying in relief,” said Arthur Stuart.
“No she’s not,” said Alvin.
“You hurt her!” said Roy.
“She’s crying because she’s afraid.” He looked to Mistress Cottoner. “What are you afraid of, ma’am?”
“I’m afraid that when you go, it’ll come back.”
“I can’t promise you it won’t,” said Alvin. “But I don’t think it will. But if it ever does, you send me a letter. Send it to Alvin the Miller’s son, at Vigor Church in the state of Wobbish.”
“You can’t come back here,” she said.
“Damn right he can’t,” said Roy. “I’ll be bigger then, and I’ll kill him!”
“No you won’t,” said Mistress Cottoner.
“Will so. Stealing all our slaves! Don’t you see, Mother? We’ll be poor!”
“We still have the land,” said his mother. “And you still have your mother. Isn’t that worth something to you?”
Her steady gaze must have said something to the boy that Arthur Stuart just didn’t understand, because the boy burst into tears and ran from the room.
“He’s young,” she said.
“We’ve all been guilty of that sin,” said Alvin. “And some never get over it.”
“Not me,” she said. “I was never young.”
Arthur Stuart reckoned there was a whole story behind that, but he didn’t know what it was. If his big sister Peggy had been there, she would’ve knowed, and maybe she could have told him later. Or if Taleswapper had ever been here and learned her story and wrote it in his book, then maybe he’d understand. As it was, though, he could only guess what she meant when she said she was never young.
Or what Alvin meant when he answered her, “You’re young now.”
“For a few hours, maybe,” she said.
Alvin opened his hands to let hers go. But she moved quickly and caught him by the wrists. “Oh, please,” she said. “Not yet.”
So he sat there a while longer and held her hands in his.
Arthur Stuart couldn’t watch it for long. There was no healing going on now. Alvin wasn’t doing a blame thing with his knack. He was just holding hands with a woman who looked at him like he was God or a long-lost brother or something. It made Arthur Stuart feel like something was wrong. Like his adopted sister, Peggy, was somehow being betrayed by this. Those aren’t your hands to hold, Ruth Cottoner, he wanted to say.
But he said nothing, and went outside, and saw how La Tia was quietly making decisions and keeping things moving without raising her voice. She even laughed sometimes, and got smiles and laughs from those who came to her.
She saw him, and called to him. “Come here, you!” she said. “I don’t got enough Spanish to understand this man!”
So Arthur Stuart got back into the business of camp, and left Alvin alone in the house with a woman who was half in love with him. Well, why shouldn’t she be? He just saved her life. He just looked inside her body and saw what was wrong and fixed it up. You have to love somebody who does that, don’t you?
It was no riverboat they boarded for the Mexico expedition. Steve Austin must have found somebody with mighty deep pockets, because what they had was a three-masted lateen-rigged schooner, good for the coastal trade, and with oar ports like a galley ship because the Gulf of Mexico was so often calm. There were full blown cannon on this ship, and field-pieces to take ashore when they got there. Artillery, by damn!
Calvin’s respect grew for Steve Austin’s ability to get things done. Naturally, there were plenty of people willing to put up money to conquer Mexico—if they believed the expedition could actually succeed. And since there was almost no chance that it would—not with just one ship and a hundred or so minimally obedient “soldiers”—the fact that he got so much money behind this project meant that Steve Austin knew how to sell.
That’s something I need to learn, thought Calvin. I’ll watch this man and learn how he persuades people to invest money in insane projects. That would be a useful knack to have.
The ship turned in the river with the help of a couple of lines still attached to shore, so there’d be no chance of it getting out into the perpetual fog on the far bank and being lost. Then they cast free and began the long, stately voyage to the Mizzippy’s mouth.
Not far below Barcy, the fog on the right bank thinned and well before they reached the open sea the fog was gone. That was interesting. The fog must not be attached to the river, it must be attached to the boundary of the land that Tenskwa-Tawa intended to protect. Which made Calvin wonder if there was fog along the coast, too, and fog between the Mexica lands and the lands that Tenskwa-Tawa had taken under his protection.
Or was Tenskwa-Tawa somehow allied with the Mexica? Did Tenskwa-Tawa maybe do some of this human sacrificing, too? And if he does, does Alvin know about it? What an interesting thought. All this high-mindedness about opposing slavery and trying to prevent a bloody war, and all the time he’s best friends with a red prophet who chums up with the heart-ripping savages of Mexico.
Not that Calvin didn’t know it all along. Alvin pretended to be virtuous and only use his power for “good,” but he didn’t know what “good” was any more than Calvin did or anyone else. Whatever story he believed in, whatever “us” he was protecting against “them,” Alvin had to think that whatever he was doing was noble, but it wasn’t. It never was. Alvin was just like everybody else, doing what he wanted that he thought he could get away with, using whatever power came to hand, and stepping on whoever got in his way.
At least Calvin knew that about himself. Didn’t have any illusions.
He looked out over the sun-shimmered water as the breeze caught the sails and bellied them and allowed the ship to zigzag its way out to sea. So smooth and clean, this ocean, so bright and dazzling. Downright blinding, when the sun reflects on the little waves and the light gets thrown into your eyes. All so clean, with the little white clouds parading along in the bright blue sky.
But underneath the water was murky, the bottom was filth, and creatures crawled there, devouring whatever they could, and getting scooped up into shrimpers’ nets like God coming down to punish the sinners. Only there wasn’t any punishment, and there weren’t any sinners, just hungry brutal animals that got caught, and hungry brutal animals that got left behind.
Alvin tries to live on top of the bright blue sea. But not me.
Around him the other soldiers of the expedition were laughing and joking and boasting about what they’d do in Mexico. But Calvin had a pretty good idea that when it came right down to it, Steve Austin’
s plan consisted of getting ashore somewhere and then using Calvin’s powers to impress potential allies and terrify the Mexica. These laughing, boasting men—they were hirelings, every one. And there weren’t many hirelings who rented out their courage along with their bodies. As long as nobody was shooting at them, as long as they didn’t see their comrades turned to corpses, they’d be brave. But when trouble started, they’d be gone.
Well, why not? So will I.
Poor Steve Austin. All this money, just to carry some cannons to the Mexica.
Then again, he might just win. After all, he had Calvin Maker, the man with power who wasn’t ashamed to use it.
Wasn’t it Calvin who kept the wind blowing, nice and steady, and always in a direction they could use? Not a soul on board suspected that it was him. But when you’ve got me aboard, you don’t need those oar ports.
It was evening, and everyone had eaten. Thick fog now surrounded the Cottoner plantation on every side, though in the middle the air was clear and they could see stars.
Arthur Stuart was proud of having learned how to shape the fog. It was hard to realize that only a couple of weeks ago, he had just been learning how to soften iron, and it was so agonizingly slow. But he was like a toddler who struggles to take a couple of steps, and then two weeks later is running headlong through the house and yard, bumping into everything and having a grand old time.
Fog or clear air. Arthur Stuart could decide.
“It’s just fog,” Alvin told him when he got so excited. “You didn’t make a new moon or move a mountain.”
“It’s weather,” said Arthur Stuart. “I’m making weather.”
“You’re making a fence around some people who need protection,” said Alvin. “Don’t start showing off, and don’t start trying to decide who gets rain and who doesn’t. Once you get a storm started, it’s mighty hard to slow it back down again.”
“I’m not gonna start no storm,” Arthur Stuart said scornfully. “You know me all these years, and you think I’m Calvin?”
Alvin grinned. “I ain’t confused on that point. But you ain’t never gonna be able to tell me, It ain’t my fault, I didn’t know!”
“So you’re gonna teach me everything?”
“Everything I think of.”
“Who taught you?”
“My own stupid mistakes.”
“So if stupid mistakes have done so much for you, how come you won’t let me study from the same teacher?”
Alvin had no answer to that, just a laugh.
And then it was time for Alvin to go.
“You have to sleep,” said Dead Mary to him. “Don’t go till morning.”
“Night time’s the best for me,” said Alvin. “And I’ll sleep as I go.”
Dead Mary looked confused.
“It’s a thing he learned from the reds,” said Arthur Stuart. “He runs in his sleep. We got some of that last night, crossing the lake. Didn’t you hear it?”
“Hear it? What does running in your sleep sound like?” She laughed, thinking Arthur Stuart was joking.
But in a moment she had forgotten Arthur again. She was back to watching Alvin, and it occurred to Arthur that watching Alvin was pretty much what she did, whenever she wasn’t actually compelled to do something else. She didn’t look at him in that emotional way Ruth Cottoner had. It was something else. Perfect raptness. Complete intensity. As if she wanted to own him with her eyes.
Ruth Cottoner, that was love, all right, love made of gratitude and relief and fear and trust in this man who had saved her. But Dead Mary, she loved him, too, but it was something else. It was purposeful. She hadn’t yet got what she wanted. But she meant to get it.
I can’t know that, thought Arthur Stuart. I’m not Peggy, I’m no torch to see inside folks’ heartfires.
And anyway, Peggy wouldn’t send Alvin into a place where some other woman was going to fall in love with him.
Then again, for all Arthur Stuart knew, women were always falling in love with Alvin and he had always been too young and dumb to notice. He remembered a few times, sure. Never amounted to much. It’s not like Alvin ever flirted back.
But this time Alvin didn’t seem to see how she looked at him. Because maybe she was more subtle. After all, Arthur hadn’t seen it himself until just now, just tonight. So maybe Alvin didn’t notice how her gaze was always attached to him, how she listened to every word, how she worshiped him. But notice it or not, it had its effect on him. He kept turning to her. He’d be speaking to somebody else, but he kept glancing at her, as if checking to make sure she’d heard him. As if he expected her to get some joke that only the two of them knew.
Only there was no joke between them, there was nothing, there hadn’t been time for anything, Arthur Stuart had been there, hadn’t he? Almost always, except that very first time they met, when she led him to that cabin in the swamp to heal her mother.
This Dead Mary, all she ever sees in every man she meets is whether he’s sick or not, and if he’s gonna die of it. But in Alvin, what does she see? The man who can make her nightmares not come true.
No, she sees power. To change the world, change the future.
Or maybe it’s just them strong blacksmith’s arms and shoulders.
And what do I care, anyway? It’s not like Alvin’s going to fall for her. He doesn’t even look at other women than Peggy—if he ever did I’d know it. So what difference does it make to me?
It’s not like Alvin’s the only man around here who can do things. I may not be able to heal folks, but I held up the other end of Alvin’s bridge, and that ain’t nothing. I kept Ruth Cottoner’s musket from firing. I made the fog.
What am I thinking? She must be five years older than me. And white, and French. Though I can speak French now pretty good. And I’m half white, and what difference should it make, anyway, once we get out of slave country?
No. I’m a child in her eyes, and a half-black one at that, and most of all, I’m Alvin’s prentice maker, and he’s the real thing, so why should she ever look at me?
Good thing Alvin’s going, though. Good thing he’s got errands to run. Wouldn’t want to have a lot of distraction, when they had so much to do.
Alvin didn’t make a big deal about going. He’d done all he said he’d do. La Tia and Arthur and Dead Mary and Rien knew their jobs—Dead Mary and Rien to distract the folks in the big house until Arthur Stuart and La Tia could get the slaves free and learn what all they had to know. It wouldn’t always be like this, of course, with the man of the house gone and the slaves all locked down in their cabins and the overseer drunk and easy to keep asleep. And there’d be no healings of sick women, with Alvin gone. But they’d manage.
And the last thing Alvin wanted was for all the thousands of refugees from Barcy to see a lot of fuss about him going. Especially not if anybody was going to get emotional and plead with him to stay. That would fill the camp with uncertainty. As it was, the people who had actually done all the important work today were still with them. And when folks started asking where Alvin was, they could say, He’s scouting on ahead, he’ll be back soon.
So when it came time for Alvin to step away, most people didn’t even notice that he’d done it.
Only Arthur Stuart, and he didn’t run up to Alvin and say any last words, just gave him a grin and watched him shoulder his poke, slip into the trees, and move on into the fog.
When he looked away from where Alvin had faded from view, nobody else even seemed to have noticed.
Except Dead Mary. She was ostensibly talking with her mother and a couple of Frenchmen about something, but her gaze was fixed on the place where Alvin had last been visible.
It’s love, thought Arthur Stuart. Girl is crazy with love. Or something.
It took a while for folks to settle down. They hadn’t got much sleep, so you’d think they’d all be tired, and the children had fallen asleep about as soon as their stomachs were full. But there was conversation and wonderment and worry, plenty to kee
p things humming for an hour or so after the meal and the cleanup were over.
Arthur knew he needed sleep as much as anyone, maybe more. But first he checked to make sure the fog was in place. That was his first job, and if he failed at that, what would he be worth? So he walked the perimeter of the camp one last time. A couple of the blacks just released from slavery on the Cottoner plantation saw him and came and gave him thanks, but he refused, and just said he didn’t give them anything God didn’t give them first, and then excused himself to finish checking on things.
When he got back to the big house, most everyone was asleep. And it occurred to him that he hadn’t arranged so much as a blanket for himself.
No matter. The grass was dry and the air was warm and he didn’t mind the insects. He found an empty patch of ground not far from the edge of the fog, where nobody else was sleeping, and he sat down and started rubbing the bottoms of his feet with grass, which he found was soothing after a day’s walking. His shoes were somewhere near the house, he remembered now. He’d get them in the morning, or do without. Shoes were good to have in winter, but they were a bother to have to carry around all summer, when mostly you wanted to feel the ground under your feet.
“So he’s gone,” said Dead Mary.
Arthur hadn’t even noticed her approach. He cursed himself. Alvin always knew who was nearby. And Arthur Stuart could see the heartfires, the near ones anyway. He just wasn’t used to looking. There were hundreds around him now, all sleeping. He hadn’t been paying attention.
“And you are the maker now,” said Dead Mary.
“Prentice maker,” said Arthur Stuart. “If that. My real knack is learning languages.”
She said something to him in a language that sounded partly like Spanish and partly like French.
The Crystal City: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume VI Page 18
