"Card, Orson Scott - The Tales of Alvin Maker 06 - The Crystal City" - читать интересную книгу автора (Card Orson Scott)
THE
THE TALES OF
ORSON SCOTT CARD
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
This is a work of
fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either
fictitious or are used fictitiously.
THE
A For Book Published by Tom Doherty
Associates, LLC
For is a registered
trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Library of Congress
Cataloging-in-Publication Data Card, Orson Scott.
The crystal city /
Orson Scott Card.—1st ed. p. cm.—(Alvin Maker ;
#6) ISBN 0-312-86483-3 (regular edition) ISBN 0-765-30874-6 (limited edition)
1. Maker,
PS3553.A655C79 2003 813'.54—dc21
2003055992
First Edition: November 2003
Printed in the
To Chris and Christi Baughan Evenly matched
Contents
1 Nueva Barcelona.....
2 Squirrel and Moose...
3 Fever..............
4 La Tia..............
5 Crystal Ball.........
6 Exodus.............
7 Errand Boy.........
8 Plans..............
9 Expeditions.........
10 Mizzippy...........
11 Flood..............
12
13
14 Plow...........
15
16 Labor..............
17 Foundation.........
Acknowledgments........
Maps……………
THE
1 
Nueva Barcelona
IT
SEEMED LIKE everybody and his brother was
in Nueva Barcelona these days. It was steamboats, mostly, that brought them.
Even though the fog on the Mizzippy made it so a white man couldn't cross the
river to the west bank, the steamboats could make the trip up and down the
channel, carrying goods and passengers—which was the same as saying they
carried money and laid it into the laps of whoever happened to be running
things at the river's mouth.
These days that meant
the Spanish, officially, anyway. They owned Nueva Barcelona and it had their
troops all over it.
But the very presence
of those troops said something. One thing it said was that the Spanish weren't
so sure they could hold on to the city. Wasn't that many years since the place
was called New Orleans and there was still plenty of places in the city where
you better speak French or you couldn't find a bite to eat or a place to
sleep—and if you spoke Spanish there, you might just wake up with your throat
slit.
It didn't surprise
"Guess you learnt
all that Spanish for nothing, Arthur Stuart," said
"Maybe so, maybe
not," said Arthur Stuart. "Not like it cost me nothing to learn
it."
Which was true. It had
been disconcerting to
Now Margaret was
pregnant again, but neither she nor Alvin saw much of each other these days.
Her so busy trying to prevent a bloody war over slavery. Him so busy trying to
figure out what he was supposed to do with his life. Nothing he'd ever tried to
do had worked out too well. And this trip to Nueva Barcelona was gonna end up
just as pointless, he was sure of it.
Only good thing about
it was running into Abe and Coz on the journey. But now they were in Barcy,
he'd lose track of them and it'd just be him and Arthur Stuart, continuing in
their long term project of showing that you can have all the power in the
world, but it wasn't worth much if you was too dumb to figure out what to do
with it or how to share it with anybody else.
"You got that look again,
"What look is that?"
"Like you need to piss but you're afraid it's
gonna come out in chunks."
"Nobody heard me."
"They don't have
to hear you to see your attitude," said
"I'm only half
black."
"You only got to
be one-sixteenth black to be black in this town."
"Dang it,
"What do you want
to bet all the white folks in Barcy can recite their ancestry back all the
way?"
"What do you want to bet they made up most of
it?"
"Act like you're afraid I'll whip you, Arthur
Stuart."
"Why should I, when you never act like you're
gonna?"
Now, that was a
challenge, and
It was all so real
that Arthur Stuart get a look of genuine fear in his eyes, and he really did
cower under the threatened blow.
But
"You did a pretty good job of looking
scared," said
"I wasn't acting," said Arthur Stuart
softly. "Were you?"
"Am I that good at it you have to ask?"
"No. You're a pretty bad liar, most times. You
was mad."
"Yep, I was. But not at you, Arthur Stuart."
"At who, then?"
"Tell you the
truth, I don't know. Didn't even know I was mad, till I started trying
to mime it."
At that moment, a
large hand took a hold of
"Abe," said
"I was just
wonderin' what I just saw here," said Abe. "I look over at my two
friends pretendin' to be master and slave, and what do I see?"
"Oh, he beats me all the time," said Arthur
Stuart, "when no one's looking."
"I reckon I might have to start," said
"So it was playacting?" asked Abe.
It shamed
"And none of
mine?" said Abe. "Reckon so. None of my business when one of my
friends reaches out to strike another. Guess a good man's gotta just stand by
and watch."
"Didn't hit him," said
"But now you want to hit me," said Abe.
"No," said
"Was that an
invitation to a meal?" said Abe. "Or an invitation to go away and let
you get about your business?"
"Mostly it was an
invitation to change the subject," said
"Oh, Coz won't be
joinin' us. Coz just found the love of his life, a-waitin' for him right on the
pier."
"You mean that
trashy lady he was a-talkin' to?" asked Arthur Stuart.
"I suggested to
him that he might hold out for a cleaner grade of whore," said Abe,
"but he denied that she was one, and she agreed that she had plain fallen in
love with him the moment she saw him. So I rigger I'll see Coz sometime
tomorrow morning, drunk and robbed."
"Glad to know
he's got you to look out for him, Abe," said
"But I did,"
said Abe. He held up a wallet. "I picked his pocket first, so he's got no
more than three dollars left on him for her to rob."
Alvin and Arthur both
laughed at that.
"Is that your
knack?" asked Arthur Stuart. "Pickin' pockets?"
"No sir,"
said
"But the girl would notice," said
"Mebbe, but she didn't say nothing."
"And since she
was planning on getting what was in that wallet herself," said
"So I reckon she didn't see me."
"Or she did but didn't care."
Abe thought about that
for a second. "I reckon what you're saying is I oughta look inside
this-here wallet."
"You could do that," said
Abe opened it up. "I'm jiggered," he said.
Of course it was empty.
"You're jug-eared, too," said
"So she already got him."
"Oh, I don't
suppose she ever laid a hand on him," said
"And her partner
goes for the pockets," said Arthur Stuart.
"You sound
experienced," said Abe.
"We watch for
it," said Arthur Stuart. "We both kind of like to catch 'em at it,
iffen we can."
"So why didn't
you catch them robbin' Coz?"
"We didn't know
you needed lookin' after," said Arthur Stuart.
Abe looked at him with
calculated indignation. "Next time you go to beatin' this boy, Al Smith,
would you be so kind as to lay down one extra wallop on my behalf?"
"Get your own half-black adopted brother-in-law
to beat," said
"Besides," said Arthur Stuart, "you do
need lookin' after."
"What makes you think so?"
"Because you
still haven't thought about how Coz wasn't the only one distracted by
her big fluttery eyes."
Abe slapped at his
jacket pocket. For a moment he was relieved to find his wallet still there. But
then he realized that Coz's wallet had been there, too. It took only a moment
to discover that he and Coz had both been robbed.
"And they had the
sass to put the wallets back," said Abe, sounding awestruck.
"Well, don't feel
bad," said Arthur Stuart. "It was probably the pickpocket's knack, so
what could you do about it?"
Abe sat himself right
down on the dock, which was quite an operation, seeing how he was so tall and
bony that just getting himself into a sitting position involved nearly knocking
three or four people into the water.
"Well, ain't this
a grand holiday," said Abe. "Ain't I just the biggest rube you ever
saw. First I made a raft that can't be steered, so you had to save me. And then
when I sell my cargo and make the money I came for, I let somebody take it away
from us first thing."
"So," said
"How?" said Abe. "I haven't got a
penny. I haven't even got a return passage."
"Oh, we'll treat you to supper," said
"I can't let you do that," said Abe.
"Why not?"
"Because then I'd be in your debt."
"We saved your
stupid life on the river, Abe Lincoln," said
Abe thought about that
for a moment. "Well, then, I reckon it's in for a penny, in for a
pound."
"The American version
of that is 'in for a dime, in for a dollar,' " said Arthur Stuart
helpfully.
"But my mama's
version was the one I said," retorted Abe. "And since I got exactly
as many pennies and pounds as I got dimes and dollars, I reckon I can please
myself which ones to cuss with."
"You mean that
was cussin'?" said Arthur Stuart.
"Inside me there
was cussin' so bad it'd make a sailor poke sticks in his own ears to keep from
hearin' it," said Abe. "Pennies and pounds was just the part I let
out."
All this while, of
course,
Meanwhile, though, the
woman and the man was strolling off as easy as you please. So
Arthur Stuart, of
course, had enough experience and training now that he was able to follow
pretty much what
In a way, thought
"Let's go eat,
then," said Arthur Stuart, "instead of talking about eatin'."
"Where shall we
go to find food that we can stand to eat?" said
"This way, I
think," said Arthur Stuart, heading directly toward the alleyway where the
coins had all been spilled.
"Oh, that doesn't look too promising," said
Abe.
"Trust me," said Arthur Stuart. "I got
a nose for good food."
"He does," said
"I'll happily provide the belly," offered
Abe.
They had him lead the
way down the alley. And blamed if he didn't just walk right past the money.
"Abe," said
"They ain't mine," said Abe.
"Finders keepers, losers weepers," said
Arthur Stuart.
"I may be a loser," said Abe, "but I
ain't weepin'."
"But you're a finder now," said Arthur
Stuart, "and I don't see you doin' no keepin'."
Abe looked at them a
bit askance. "I reckon we ought to pick up these coins and search out their
proper owner. No doubt somebody's going to be right sorry for a hole in his
pocket."
"Reckon so,"
said
"Gotta carry it
somewhere," said
But he didn't. Because
the money didn't fit. There was too blamed much of it.
Arthur Stuart started
laughing and kept laughing till he had tears running down his cheeks.
"So now who's the weeper?" said Abe.
"He's laughing at me," said
"Why?"
"Because I clean
forgot that you and Coz probably wasn't the first folks they robbed
today."
Abe looked down at the
full wallets and the coins that Alvin and Arthur Stuart were still holding and
it finally dawned on him. "You robbed the robbers."
Abe shook his head.
"Well, I'm beginning to get the idea that you got you some kind of knack,
Mr. Smith."
"I just know how to work with metals some,"
said
"Including metal that's in somebody else's pocket
or purse some six rods off."
"Let's go find Coz," said
"He's sleeping?" asked Abe.
"He had some encouragement," said
Abe gave him a look but said nothing.
"What about all this extra money?" asked
Arthur Stuart.
"I'm not taking
it," said Abe. "I'll keep what's rightfully mine and Coz's, but the
rest you can just leave there on the planks. Let the thieves come back and find
it."
"But it wasn't
theirs, neither," said Arthur Stuart.
"That's between
them and their maker on Judgment Day," said Abe. "I ain't gettin'
involved. I don't want to have any money I can't account for."
"To the
Lord?" asked
"Or to the
magistrate," said Abe. "I gave a receipt for this amount, and it can
be proved that it's mine. Just drop the rest of that. Or keep it, if you don't
mind being thieves yourselves."
"I expect if you
rob a robber," said
"I expect
not," said Abe.
Alvin and Arthur
Stuart let the money dribble out of their hands and back down onto the planks.
Once again,
"You always this honest?" said
"About money, yes sir," said Abe.
"But not about everything."
"I have to admit that
there's parts of some stories I tell that aren't strictly speaking the absolute
God's-own truth."
"Well, no, of
course not," said Alvin, "but you can't tell a good story without
improving it here and there."
"Well, you can,"
said Abe. "But then what do you do when you need to tell the same
story to the same people? You gotta change it then, so it'll still be
entertaining."
"So it's really
for their benefit to fiddle with the truth."
"Pure Christian
charity."
Coz was still asleep
when they found him, but it wasn't the sleep of the newly
knocked-upside-the-head, it was a snorish sleep of a weary man. So Abe paused a
moment to put a finger to his lips, to let Alvin and Arthur Stuart know that
they should let him do the talking. Only when they nodded did he start nudging
Coz with his toe.
Coz sputtered and awoke. "Oh, man," he said.
"What am I doing here?"
"Waking up," said Abe. "But a minute
ago, you was sleeping."
"I was? Why was I sleeping here?"
"I was going to
ask you the same question," said Abe. "Did you have a good time with
that lady you fell so much in love with?"
Coz started to brag.
"Oh, you bet I did." Only they could all see from his face that he
actually had no memory of what might have happened. "It was amazing. She
was—only maybe I shouldn't tell you all about it in front of the boy."
"No, best
not," said Abe. "You must have got powerful drunk last night."
"Last
night?" asked Coz, looking around.
"It's been a
whole night and a day since you took off with her. I reckon you probably spent every
dime of your half of the money. But I'm a-tellin' you, Coz, I'm not giving you
any of my half, I'm just not."
Coz patted himself and
realized his wallet was missing. "Oh, that snickety-pickle. That
blimmety-blam."
"Coz has him a knack for swearing in front of
children," said Abe.
"My wallet's gone," he said.
"I reckon that includes the money in it,"
said Abe.
"Well she wouldn't steal the wallet and leave the
money, would she?" said Coz.
"So you're sure she stole it?" said Abe.
"Well how else would my wallet turn up
missing?" said Coz.
"You spent a
whole night and day carousing. How do you know you didn't spend it all? Or give
it to her as a present? Or make six more friends and buy them drinks
till you ran out of money, and then you traded the wallet for one last
drink?"
Coz looked like he'd
been kicked in the belly, he was so stunned and forlorn. "Do you think I
did, Abe? I got to admit, I have no memory of what I did last night."
Then he reached up and
touched his head. "I must have slept my way clear past the hangover."
"You don't look
too steady," said Abe. "Maybe you don't have a hangover cause you're
still drunk."
"I am a
little wobbly," said Coz. "Tell me, the three of you, am I talking
slurry? Do I sound drunk?"
"Kind of a frog in your throat," said Arthur
Stuart.
"I've seen you drunker," said Abe.
"Oh, I'm never
gonna live down the shame of this, Abe," said Coz. "You warned me not
to go off with her. And whether she robbed me or somebody else did or I spent
it all or I clean lost it from being so stupid drunk, I'm going home
empty-handed and Ma'll kill me, she'll just ream me out a new ear, she'll cuss
me up so bad."
"Oh, Coz, you
know I won't leave you in such a bad way," said Abe.
"Won't you? You
mean it? You'll give me a share of your half?"
"Enough to be
respectable," said Abe. "We'll just say you ... invested the rest of
it, on speculation, kind of, but it went bad. They'll believe that, right?
That's better than getting robbed or spending it on likker."
"Oh, it is, Abe.
You're a saint. You're my best friend. And you won't have to lie for me, Abe. I
know you hate to lie, so you just tell folks to ask me and I'll do all
the lyin'."
Abe reached into his
pocket and took out Coz's own wallet and handed it to him. "You just take
from that wallet as much as you think you'll need to make your story
stick."
Coz started counting
out the twenty-dollar gold pieces, but it only took a few before his conscience
started getting to him. "Every coin I take is taken from you, Abe. I can't
do this. You decide how much you can spare for me."
"No, you do the
calculatin'," said Abe. "You know I'm no good at accounts, or my
store wouldn't have gone bust the way it did last year."
"But I feel like
I'm robbing you, taking money out of your wallet like this."
"Oh, that ain't
my wallet," said Abe.
Coz looked at him like
he was crazy. "You took it out of your own pocket," he said.
"And if it ain't yours, then whose is it?"
When Abe didn't answer, Coz looked at the wallet
again.
"It's mine," he said.
"It does look like yours," said Abe.
"You took it out of my own pocket when I was
sleeping!" said Coz, outraged.
"I can tell you
honestly that I did not," said Abe. "And these gentlemen can affirm
that I did not touch you with more than the toe of my boot as you laid there
snoring like a choir of angels."
"Then how'd you get it?"
"I stole it from you before you even went off
with that girl," said Abe.
"You ... but then ... then how could I have done
all those things last night?"
"Last night?" said Abe. "As I recall,
last night you were on the boat with us."
"What're
you..." And then it all came clear. "You dad-blasted gummer-huggit!
You flim-jiggy swip-swapp!"
Abe put a hand to his ear. "Hark! The song of the
chuckleheaded Coz-bird!"
"It's the same day! I wasn't asleep half an
hour!"
"Twenty minutes," offered
"And this is all my own money!" Coz said.
Abe nodded gravely. "It is, my friend, at least
until another girl makes big-eyes at you."
Coz looked up and down
the little alleyway. "But what happened to Fannie? One minute I was
walking down this alleyway with my hand on her . .. hand, and the next minute
you're pokin' me with your toe."
"You know something,
Coz?" said Abe. "You don't have much of a love life."
"Look who's
talkin'," said Coz sullenly.
But that seemed to be
something of a sore spot with Abe, for though the smile didn't leave his face,
the mirth did, and instead of coming back with some jest or jape, he sort of
seemed to wander off inside himself somewhere.
"Come on, let's
eat," said Arthur Stuart. "All this talkin' don't fill me up
much."
And that being the
most honest and sensible thing that had been said that half hour, they all agreed
to it and followed their noses till they found a place that sold food that was
mostly dead, didn't have too many legs, wasn't poisonous when alive, and seemed
cooked enough to eat. Not an easy search in Barcy.
After dinner, Coz got
him out a pipe which he proceeded to stuff with manure, or so it smelled when
he got the thing alight.
Instead he took his
leave, hoisted his poke onto his shoulder, made sure Arthur Stuart unwound
himself from his chair before standing up, and the two lit out in search of a
place to stay. None of the miserable fleabitten overpriced understaffed crowded
smelly firetraps near the river. Alvin had no idea how long he'd be staying and
he only had limited funds, so he'd want a room in a boarding house somewhere in
the part of Barcy where decent people lived who aimed to stay a spell. Where a
journeyman smith might stay, for instance, while he searched for a shop as
needed an extra pair of arms.
He wasn't thirty steps
out of the tavern where they'd dined afore he realized that Abe Lincoln was
a-following, and even though Abe had even longer legs than
It was disconcerting,
how Arthur had learnt a way to keep
But now wasn't the
time for remonstration, not with Abe a-lookin' on.
"You decided Coz
could be trusted with his own money tonight after all?" asked
"Coz can't be
trusted with his own elbows," said Abe, "but it occurred to me that
you and Arthur Stuart here have become right good friends, and I'd be sorry to
lose track of you."
"Well, it's bound
to happen," said
"You seem to be a
wandering man," said Abe, "and not likely to have a place where a man
can send you a letter. Me, though, I'm rooted. I don't make much money doing
much of anything yet, but I know where I want to do it. You write to Abraham
Lincoln, town of
"Your folks, I
reckon."
"I grew up there
and we're still on speaking terms," said
But Abe didn't smile
back. "I know the name of
"The story's dark
enough, and also true," said
"I never thought
about it, but I reckon there had to be some as had clean hands."
"I hadn't heard
that."
"It isn't much
spoken of," said
"You can be sure
I'll go there," said Abe. "And I'm glad to think tonight won't be the
last I'll hear of you."
"You can't be any
gladder than me," said
With a handshake they
parted yet again, and soon Abe's long legs were carrying him back toward the
tavern with a stride that parted the flow of the crowd in the street like an
upriver steamboat.
"I like that
man," said Arthur Stuart.
"Me too,"
said
"Not to mention
being the best-looking ugly man or the ugliest handsome man I ever seen,"
said Arthur Stuart.
"Speaking of
nothing much," said
Arthur Stuart looked
at him without blinking an eye and answered just as
"She didn't send
you to
"When I die, I'll
be dead everywhere, all at once," said
"You mean you really
don't know what you're supposed to do here? When you said that before I
thought you were just telling me it was none of my business."
"It might well be
none of your business," said
"And freed two
dozen black men as didn't want to be slaves."
"That was more
you than me, and not a thing to be bragging on here in the streets of
Barcy," said
"And you still
have yet to figger out what Peggy has in mind," said Arthur Stuart.
"We don't talk
like we used to," said
"It's been known
to happen."
"Well, I don't
like it. But I also know she wants our baby to have a living father, and so I
go along, though I remind her from time to time that a grown man likes to know why
he's doing a thing. And in this case, what the thing is I'm supposed to be
doing."
"Is that what
a grown man likes?" said Arthur Stuart, with a grin that was way too wide.
"You'll find out
when you're growed," said
But the truth was, Arthur
Stuart might be full grown already.
Which was probably why
Arthur Stuart had gone to the trouble to learn how to hide his heartfire from
Because at the ripe
old age of twenty-six, Alvin Miller, who had become Alvin Smith, and whose
secret name was Alvin Maker; this Alvin, whose birth had been surrounded by
such portents, who had been so watched over by good and evil as he was growing
up; this same Alvin who had thought he had a great mission and work in his
life, had long since come to realize that all those portents came to nothing,
that all that watching had been wasted, because the power of makery had been
given to the wrong man. In
He couldn't even save
the life of his own baby, or learn languages the way Arthur Stuart could, or
see the paths of the future like Margaret, or any of the other practical gifts.
He was just a journeyman smith who by sheerest accident got himself a golden plow
which he'd been carrying around in a poke for five years now, and for what?
It was this dark mood
that rode in his heart all the way into Barcy proper, and perhaps it was the
cloud that it put in his visage that made the first two houses turn them away.
He was so darkhearted
by the time they come to the third house that he didn't even try to be
personable. "I'm a journeyman smith from up north," he said,
"and this boy is passing as my slave but he's not, he's free, and I'm
blamed if I'm going to make him sleep down with the servants. I want a room
with two good beds, and I'll pay faithful but I won't have anybody treating
this young fellow like a servant."
The woman at the door
looked from him to Arthur Stuart and back again. "If you make that speech
at every door, I'm surprised you ain't got you a mob of men with clubs and a
rope followin' behind."
"Mostly I just
ask for a room," said
"Well, control
your tongue in future," said the woman. "It happens you chose the
right door for that speech, by sheer luck or perversity. I have the room
you want, with the two beds, and this being a house where slavery is hated as
an offense against God, you'll find no one quarrels with you for treating this
young man as an equal."
2
Squirrel and Moose
Alvin
held out his hand. "Alvin Smith,
ma'am."
She shook hands with
him. "I heard of an Alvin Smith what has a wife named Margaret, who goes
from place to place striking terror into the hearts of them as loves to tell a
lie."
"She puts a bit
of a scare into them as hates lying, too," said Arthur Stuart.
"As for me,"
said
"I'm none too
fanatic about telling the truth, myself," said the woman. "For
instance, I believe every girl ought to grow up in the firm belief that she's
clever and pretty, and every boy that he's strong and good-hearted. In my
experience, what starts out as a fib turns into a hope and if you keep it up
long enough, it starts to be mostly true."
"Wish I'd known
that fifteen years ago," said
"I'm
pretty," said Arthur Stuart. "I figure that's all I need to get by in
this world."
"You see the
problem?" said
"If you're
Margaret Larner's husband," said the woman, "then I'll bet this
pretty lad here is her brother, Arthur Stuart, who from the look of him is born
to be royalty."
"I wouldn't cross
the road to be a king," said Arthur Stuart. "Though if they brought
the throne to me, I might sit in it for a spell."
By now they were
inside the house,
"Y'all afraid of climbing
stairs?" she asked.
"I always climb
six flights before breakfast, just so I can be closer to heaven when I say my
prayers," said
She looked at him
sharply. "I didn't know you was a praying man."
"I've been known
to pray, ma'am," said
"It is,"
said the woman.
"Seems to
me," said Arthur Stuart, "that it's also a house where folks are all
named 'you,' cause they haven't heard about 'names' yet."
She laughed.
"I've had so many names in my life that I've lost track by now. Around
here, folks just call me Mama Squirrel. And let's have no idle speculation
about how I got that name. My husband gave it to me, when he decided that he
was Papa Moose."
"Always good to
accept the hospitality of moose and squirrel," said
"This ain't no
hospitality here," said Mama Squirrel. "You're paying for it, and not
cheap, either. We've got a lot of mouths to feed."
It wasn't till they
got to the third floor that they saw what she meant. In a large open room with
windows all along one wall, a sturdy brown-haired man with a look of beatific
patience was standing in front of about thirty-five children who looked to be
from five to twelve, who were sitting shoulder to shoulder on four rows of
benches. About a quarter of the children where black, a few were red, some were
white with hints of France or Spain or England, but more than half were of
races so mixed that it was hard to guess what land on earth had not contributed
to their parentage.
Mama Squirrel silently
mouthed the words "Papa Moose," and pointed at the man.
Only when her husband
took a step, which dipped and rolled like a boat caught in a sudden breeze, did
He was leading the
children in silent recitation of words on a slate. He would print four or five
words, hold them up so all could see, and then point to a child. The child
would then rise, and mouth—but not speak aloud—each word as Papa Moose pointed
at it. He would nod or shake his head, depending on correctness, and then point
at another child. In the silence, the faint popping and smacking of lips and
tongue sounded surprisingly loud.
The words currently on
the slate were "measure," "assemble," "serene,"
and "peril." Without meaning to,
Mama Squirrel led them
up to the garret, which was hot, with a ceiling that sloped in only one
direction, from the east-facing front of the house to the back.
"It's an oven up
here on a hot day," said Mama Squirrel. "And it gets mighty cold in
winter. But it keeps off the rain, which around here is no mean gift, and the
beds and linens are clean and the floor is swept once a week—more often, if you
know how to handle a broom."
"I been known to
kill spiders with one," said
"We kill no
living thing in this house," said Mama Squirrel.
"I don't know how
you can eat a blamed thing without causing something that was once alive to
die," said
"You got me
there," said Mama Squirrel. "We got no mercy on the plant kingdom,
except we're loath to cut down a living tree."
"But spiders are safe here."
"They live out their natural span," said
Mama Squirrel. "This is a house of peace."
"A house of silence, too, judging by the school
downstairs."
"School?"
asked Mama Squirrel. "I hope you won't accuse us of breaking the law and
holding a school that might teach blacks and reds and mixes how to read and
write and cipher."
"I'm surprised at
the breadth of your knowledge of the legal code of Nueva Barcelona," said
Mama Squirrel. "The law forbids us to cause a child to read or recite aloud,
or to write on slate or paper, or to do sums."
"So you only teach them to subtract and multiply
and divide?" said Arthur Stuart.
"And count," said Mama Squirrel. "We're
law-abiding people."
"And these children—from the neighborhood?"
"From this house," said Mama Squirrel.
"They're all mine."
"You are a truly amazing woman," said
"What God gives me, who am I to refuse?" she
said.
"This is an orphanage, isn't it?" said
"It's a
boardinghouse," said Mama Squirrel. "For travelers. And, of course,
my husband and I and all our children live here."
"I suppose it's
illegal to operate an orphanage," said
"An
orphanage," said Mama Squirrel, "would be obliged to teach the
Catholic religion to all the white children, while the children of color must
be auctioned off by the age of six."
"So I imagine
that many a poor black woman would rather leave her impossible baby at your
door than at the door of any orphanage," said
"I have no idea
what you're talking about," said Mama Squirrel. "I gave birth to
every one of these children myself. Otherwise they'd be taken away from me and
turned over to an orphanage."
"From the ages,
I'd say you had them in bunches of five or six at a time," said
"I give birth
when they're still very small," said Mama Squirrel. "It's my
knack."
"My, what strong
arms you have," said Mama Squirrel.
"Oh, now you done
it," said Arthur Stuart. "He'll be bragging on them arms all month
now."
"You wouldn't
need any wood-chopping," said
"The biggest
help," said Mama Squirrel, "would be the hauling of water."
"I heard there
wasn't no wells in Nueva Barcelona," said
"We collect rain
like everybody else, but it's not enough, even without washing the children
more than once a week. So for poor folks, the water wagon fills up the public
fountain twice a week. Today's a water day."
"You show me what
to tote it in, and I'll come back full as many times as you want," said
"I'll go along
with him to whisper encouragement," said Arthur Stuart.
"Arthur Stuart is
so noble of heart," said
"You two bring
lying to the level of music."
"You should hear my
concerto for two liars and a whipped dog," said
"But we don't
actually whip no dog," Arthur Stuart assured her quickly. "We trained
an irritable cat to do the dog's part."
Mama Squirrel laughed
out loud and shook her head. "I swear I don't know why Margaret Larner
would marry such a one as you."
"It was an act of faith," said
"But Margaret Larner is such a torch, she needs
no faith to judge a man's heart."
"It's his head she had to take on faith,"
said Arthur Stuart.
"Let's go get some water," said
"Not unless I get me to a privy house
first," said Arthur Stuart.
"Oh, fie on
me," said Mama Squirrel. "I'm not much of hospitaler, specially in
front of an innkeeper's son and son-in-law." She bustled over to the
stairs and led Arthur Stuart down.
Alone in the garret,
So he had no choice
but to go to the chimney and pull out a few loose bricks. Not that they were
loose to start with. He sort of helped them to achieve looseness until he had a
gap big enough to push the plow through.
He pulled the plow
from the sack. In his hand it was warm, and he felt a faint kind of motion
inside it, as if some thin golden fluid swirled within.
"I wonder what
you're good for,"
The plow didn't
answer. It might be alive, in some fashion, but that didn't give it the power
to speak.
Now his poke contained
nothing but a change of clothes and his writing materials. He could leave it
lying on his bed without a second thought.
Downstairs, he found
Arthur Stuart just washing up after using the privy. Two three-year-old girls
were watching him like they'd never seen handwashing before.
When he was done,
instead of reaching for a towel—and there was a cloth not one step away,
hanging from a hook— Arthur Stuart just held his hands over the basin.
"Sometimes," said
Arthur Stuart turned around, embarrassed. "I
didn't know it would get so cold."
"You can get frostbite doing it so fast,"
said
'Wow you tell me."
"How was I supposed to know you were too lazy to
reach for a towel?"
Arthur Stuart sniffed. "I got to practice, you
know."
"In front of witnesses, no less." He looked
at the two girls.
"They don't know what I done," said Arthur
Stuart.
"Which makes it all the more pathetic that you
were showing off for them."
"Someday I'll get sick of you bossing and judging
me all the time," said Arthur Stuart.
"Maybe then you won't come along on journeys I
told you not to come on."
"That would be
obeying," said Arthur Stuart. "I got no particular interest in doing
much of that."
"Well then set
your butt down and wait here and don't help me one bit while I go haul water
from the public fountain."
"I'm not that
easily fooled," said Arthur Stuart. "I'll obey you when you tell me
to do what I already want."
"And I thought
all you were was pretty."
This being water day,
and the neighborhood having no shortage of people who could use some water
beyond what their rain barrels held,
He reckoned that Mama
Squirrel's law against killing animals didn't apply this far from her house,
and besides, what she didn't know wouldn't offend her. So he spent a few
minutes working on the water, breaking down all the tiny creatures into bits so
small they couldn't do no harm. Not that he broke them one by one—that would
have taken half his life. He just talked to them, silently, showing them in his
mind what he wanted them to do. Break themselves apart. Spill their inner parts
into the water. He explained it was to keep folks from coming to harm by
drinking. He wasn't sure just what these tiny creatures actually understood.
What mattered was that they did
As if the skeeters
understood that he'd just wiped out their progeny, they made him pay in blood
for having cleaned the water. Well, he'd live with that, itch welts and all. He
didn't use his knack to make himself comfy.
"I know you're
doing something," said Arthur Stuart. "But I can't tell what."
"I'm fetching
water for Mama Squirrel," said
"You're standing
there looking at the fountain like you was seeing a vision. Either that or
trying real hard not to break wind."
"Hard to tell
those things apart," said
"Get bad enough
gas, though, and you can start a church," said Arthur Stuart.
They filled the jugs,
taking their turns along with the other folks, some of whom looked at them
curiously, the rest just minding their own business. One of the lookers, a
young woman not much older than Arthur Stuart, bumped into
"We're not
drawing for ourselves," said Arthur Stuart, mildly enough. "We're
hauling this for Mama Squirrel's house."
The girl spat in the
dust. "Hexy house."
An older woman joined
in. "You pretty bad trained, boy," she said. "You talk to a
white girl and never say ma'am."
"Sorry ma'am," said Arthur Stuart.
"Where we come from," said
The woman glared at him and moved away.
The teenage girl,
though, was still curious. "That Mama Squirrel, is it true she has babies
of all colors?"
"I don't know
about that," said
"Personne know
where they get the money to live," said the girl. "Some folks say
they teach them kids to steal, send them into the city at night. Dark faces,
you can't see them so good."
"Nothing like
that," said Arthur Stuart. "See, they own the patent on stupid, and
every time somebody in the city says something dumb, they get three
cents."
The girl looked at him
with squinty eyes. "They be the richest people in town, then, so I think
you lie."
"I reckon you owe
a dollar a day to whoever has the patent on no-sense-of-humor."
"You are not a
slave," said the girl.
"I'm a slave to
fortune," said Arthur Stuart. "I'm in bondage to the universe, and my
only manumission will be death."
"You gone to school, you."
"I only learned whatever my sister taught
me," said Arthur Stuart truthfully.
"I have a knack," said the girl.
"Good for you," said Arthur Stuart.
"This was sick water," she said, "and
now is healthy. Your master healed it."
"I was not
offended," said the girl. "But if you heal the water, maybe you come
home with me and heal my mama."
"I'm no
healer," said
"I think what she
got," said the girl, "is the yellow fever."
If anybody had thought
nobody was paying attention to this conversation, they'd have got their wake-up
when she said that. It was like every nose on every face was tied to a
string that got pulled when she said "yellow fever."
"Did you say yellow fever?" asked an old
woman.
The girl looked at her blankly.
"She did," said another woman. "Marie
la Morte a dit."
"Dead Mary says her ma's got yellow fever!"
called someone.
And now the strings
were pulled in the opposite direction. Every head turned to face away from the
girl—Dead Mary was her name, apparently—and then all the feet set to pumping
and in a few minutes, Alvin, Arthur, and Dead Mary were the only humans near
the fountain. Some folks quit the place so fast their jugs was left behind.
"I reckon
nobody's going to steal these jars if we don't leave them here too long,"
said
"They will be stole for sure," said Dead
Mary.
"I'll stay and watch them," said Arthur
Stuart.
"Sir and ma'am," said
"When there's nobody around, can I just set here and
pretend to be human?"
"Please yourself," said
It took a while to get
to Dead Mary's house. Down streets until they ran out of streets, and then
along paths between shacks, and finally into swampy land till they came to a
little shack on stilts. Skeeters were thick as smoke in some spots.
"How can you live with all these skeeters?"
asked
"I breathe them in and cough them out," said
Dead Mary.
"How come they call you that?" asked
"Marie la Morte?
Cause I know when someone is sick before he know himself. And I know how the
sickness will end."
"Am I sick?"
"Not yet, no," said the girl.
"What makes you think I can heal your
mother?"
"She will die if
somebody does not help, and the yellow fever, personne who live here knows how
to cure it."
It took
"It's a terrible
thing," said the girl. "Quick hot fever. Then freezing cold. My
mother's eyes turn yellow. She screams with pain in her neck and shoulders and
back. And then when she's not screaming, she looks sad."
"Yellow and
fevery," said
Diseases that made
your nose or bowels run were hard to track down, and Alvin never knew whether
they were serious or something that would just get better if you left it alone
or slept a lot. The stuff that went on inside a living body was just too
complicated, and most of the important things was way too small for
If he was a real healer,
he could have saved his newborn baby when it was born too young and couldn't
breathe. But he just didn't understand what was going on inside the lungs. The
baby was dead before he figured out a single thing.
"I'm not going to
be able to do much good," said
"I touch her
lying on her bed, and I see nothing but she dead of yellow fever," said
Dead Mary. "But I touch you by the fountain, I see my mother living."
"When did you
touch me?" said
"I bump you when
I draw water," she said. "I have to be sneaky. Personne lets me touch
him now, if he sees me."
That was no surprise.
Though
Illness or adultery,
There was a plank leading
from a hummock of dry land to the minuscule porch of the house, and Dead Mary
fair to danced along it.
It stank inside, but
not much worse than the swamp outside. The odor of decay was natural here.
Still, it was worse around the woman's bed. Old woman, Alvin thought at first,
the saddest looking woman he had ever seen. Then realized that she wasn't very
old at all. She was ravaged by worse things than age.
"I'm glad she's
sleeping," said Dead Mary. "Most times the pain does not let her
sleep."
The cause of all this
ruin was impossible for
Until at last he could
get to work on the liver. Livers were mysterious things and all he could do was
try to get the sick parts to look more like the healthy parts. And maybe that
was enough, because soon enough the woman coughed—with strength now, not
feebly—and then sat up. "J'ai soif," she said.
"She's
thirsty," said the girl.
"Marie," the
woman said, and then reached for her with a sob. "Ma Marie d'Espoir!"
He walked to the
doorway, leaving them their privacy. From the position of the sun, he'd been
there an hour. A long time to leave Arthur Stuart alone by the well.
And these skeeters
were bound to suck all the blood out of him and turn him into one big itch
iffen he didn't get out of this place.
He was nearly to the
end of the plank when he felt it tremble with someone else's feet. And then
something hit him from behind and he was on the damp grassy mound with Dead
Mary lying on top of him covering him with kisses.
"Vous avez sauvй
ma mere!" she cried. "You saved her, you saved her, vous кtes un
ange, vous кtes un dieu!"
"Here now, let
up, get off me, I'm a married man," said
The girl got up.
"I'm sorry, but I'm so full of joy."
"Well I'm not
sure I did anything," said
"I mean it,"
said
"I love
you," said the girl. "I love you forever, you good man!"
Back in the plaza,
Arthur Stuart was sitting on top of the four water jars—which he had moved some
twenty yards away from the fountain. Which was a good thing, because there must
have been a hundred people or more jostling around it now.
"Took you long enough," Arthur Stuart
whispered.
"Her mother was real sick," said
"Yeah, well, word
got out that this was the sweetest-tasting water ever served up in Barcy, and
now folks are saying it can heal the sick or Jesus turned the water into wine
or it's a sign of the second coming or the devil was cast out of it and I had
to tell five different people that our water came from the fountain before
it got all hexed or healed or whatever they happen to believe. I was about
to throw dirt into it just to make it convincing."
"So stop talking
and pick up your jars."
Arthur Stuart stood up
and reached for a jar, but then stopped and puzzled over it. "How do I
pick up the second one, while I got the first one on my shoulder?"
"Well, don't you
make it look easy," said Arthur Stuart.
"I can't help it
that I've got the grip and the heft of a blacksmith," said
"I haven't heard you offering to make me no
apprentice blacksmith."
"Because you're an apprentice maker, and not
doing too bad at it."
"Did you heal the woman?"
"Not really. But I healed some of the damage the
disease did."
"Meaning she can run a mile without panting,
right?"
"Where she lives,
it's more like splash a couple of dozen yards. That mud looked like it
could swallow up whole armies and spit them back out as skeeters."
"Well, you done
what you could, and we're done with it," said Arthur Stuart.
They got back to the
house of Squirrel and Moose and poured the water into the cistern. Mixed in
with what they already had, the cleaned water improved the quality only a
little, but that was fine with
Back at the house of
Dead Mary—or Marie d'Espoir—nobody was following
Meanwhile, the
skeeters, engorged with her blood, spread out over the swamp. Some of them
ended up in the city, and each person they bit ended up with a virulent dose of
yellow fever growing in their blood.
3
Fever
SUPPER
THAT EVENING was bedlam, the children
moving in and out of the kitchen in shifts with the normal amount of shoving
and jostling and complaining. It reminded
The food was plain and
poor, but healthy and there was plenty of it. So much, in fact, that both
serving pots had soup left in them. Mama Squirrel poured them back into the big
cauldron by the fire. "I never made but one batch of soup in all the years
we've lived here," she said.
Even the old bread and
the half-eaten scraps from the children's bowls were scraped into the big pot.
"As long as I bring the pot to a long hard boil before serving it again,
there's no harm from adding it back into the soup."
"It's like
life," said Papa Moose, who was scouring dishes at the sink. "Dust to
dust, pot to pot, one big round, it never ends." Then he winked. "I
throw some cayenne peppers in it from time to time, that's what makes it all
edible."
Then the children were
herded upstairs into the dormitories, kissing their parents as they passed.
Papa Moose beckoned
They all lay down on
mats on the floor—a floor well-limed and clean-swept. But not to sleep.
One-hour candles were lighted all around the room, and all the children lay
there, pretending to be asleep while Papa Moose and Mama Squirrel made a
pantomime of tiptoeing out of the room. Naturally,
Papa Moose held to the
banister and half hopped, half slid down the stairs on his good foot.
"It's not as if there were anything worth reading in the world," he
said.
"Though I wish they could read the holy
scriptures," said Mama Squirrel.
"Of course, they might be reading on the
sly," said
"Oh, no," said Papa Moose. "They are strictly
forbidden to do such a thing."
"Papa Moose
showed our ragged little collection of books to all the children and told them
they must never borrow those books and carefully return them as soon as
they're done."
"It's good to
teach children to obey," said
" 'Obedience is
better than sacrifice,' " quoted Papa Moose.
They sat down at the
kitchen table, where Arthur Stuart was already seated, reading a book.
"Since you know
everything there is to know in English," said Arthur Stuart, "I
reckon this is the only way to get one up on you."
They talked for a
while about the children—how they supported them, mostly. They depended a lot
on donations from likeminded persons, but since those were in short supply in
Barcy, it was always nip and tuck, allowing nothing to go to waste. "Use
it up," intoned Papa Moose, "wear it out, make it do or do
without."
"We have one
cow," said Mama Squirrel, "so we only get enough milk for the little
ones, and for a little butter. But even if we had another cow or two, we don't
have any means of feeding them." She shrugged. "Our children are
never noted for being fat."
After a few minutes
the conversation turned to
"I have no
idea," said
"At least you're
not a pawn," said Papa Moose.
"No, I'm the one
she can send jumping around wherever she wants." He said it with a
chuckle, but realized as he spoke that he actually resented it, and more than a
little.
"I suppose she
doesn't tell you everything so you don't go improving on her plan," said
Squirrel. "Moose always thinks he knows better."
"I'm not always
wrong," said Papa Moose.
"Margaret sees my
death down a lot of roads," said
"So instead of
giving you warnings, she asks you to help her," said Squirrel.
"The woman is the
subtlest beast in the garden," said Papa Moose, "now that snakes
can't talk."
"Meaning,"
said Arthur Stuart, looking up from his book, "do you have anything you'd
be willing to tell old
"Isn't that what
I said?"
"There's all
kinds of plots in this city," said Papa Moose. "The older children
eavesdrop for us during the day, as they can, and we have friends who come
calling. So we know about a good number of them. There's a Spanish group trying
to revolt and get Barcy annexed by
"Parties?"
"Them as favor
being part of an independent Canada, and them as want to conquer Haiti, and
them as want to be an independent city-state on the Mizzippy, and them as wish
to restore the royal family to the throne of France, and two different
Bonapartist factions that hate each other worst of all."
"And that don't
even touch the split between Catholics and Huguenots," said Squirrel.
"And between Bretons and Normans and Provencals and Parisians and a weird
little group of Poitevin fanatics."
"That's the
French," said Moose. "They may not know what's right, but they know
everybody else is wrong."
"What about the
Americans?" asked
"That depends on
the street," said Moose. "But you're right, this city has more
English-speakers than any other language. Most of them know they're just
visitors here. The Americans and Yankees and English care about money, mostly.
Make their fortune and head back home."
"The dangerous
plotters are the Cavaliers," said Squirrel. "They're hungry for more
land to put into cotton."
"To be worked by
more and more slaves," said
"And to restore
some glory to a king who can't get his country back," said Squirrel.
"The Cavaliers
are the ones who want to start a fight," said Papa Moose. "They're
the ones who hope that a revolution here would make the King step in to bail
them out—or maybe they're already sponsored by the king so he'd just use them
as an excuse to send in an army. There's rumors of an army gathering in the
Crown Colonies, supposedly to guard the border with the
"And any war
between the
"Does all this
have anything to do with Steve Austin's expedition to
They both hooted with
laughter. "
"He thinks
dark-skinned people are no match for white," said Squirrel. "It's the
kind of thing slaveowners can fool themselves into believing, what with black
folks cowering to them all day."
"So you don't
think
"I think,"
said Papa Moose, "that if they try to invade
"Doesn't sound
like there's much useful for me to do," said
"It kind of
reassures me to have you here," said Squirrel. "Iffen your Peggy sent
you here, stands to reason this is the safest place to be."
Arthur Stuart spoke up
sharp. "You don't know Peggy iffen you think that," he said.
"She don't send
Al, thought
Papa Moose chuckled.
"I sort of stopped listening at 'not nowhere.' I thought Margaret Larner
would've done a better job of learning you good grammar."
"Did you understand me or not?" said Arthur
Stuart.
"Oh, I understood, all right."
"Then my grammar was sufficient to the
task."
At that echo of
Margaret's teaching they all laughed— including, after a moment, Arthur Stuart
himself.
During the day
All the while he used
his makery to heal the house, he used his arms to chop and stack wood and do
other outward tusks—turning the cow out to eat such grass as there was, milking
it, skimming the milk, cheesing some of it, churning the cream into butter. He
had learned to be a useful man, not just a man of one trade. And if, when he
was done milking her, the cow was remarkably healthy with udders that gave far
more milk than normal from eating the same amount of hay, who was to say it was
Only one part of the
household did
Meanwhile, Arthur Stuart
ran such errands for the house as a sharp-witted, trusted slave boy might be
sent on. And as he went he kept his ears open. People said things in front of
slaves. English-speakers especially said things in front of slaves who seemed
to speak only Spanish, and Spanish-speakers in front of English-speaking
slaves. The French talked in front of anybody.
Barcy was an easy town
for a young half-black bilingual spy. Being far more educated and experienced
in great affairs than the children of the house of Moose and Squirrel, Arthur
Stuart was able to recognize the significance of things that would have sailed
right past them.
The tidbits he brought
home about this party or that, rebellions and plots and quarrels and
reconciliations, they added but little to what Papa Moose and Mama Squirrel
already knew about the goings-on in Barcy.
The only information
they might not have had was of a different nature: rumors and gossip about them
and their house. And this was hardly of a nature that he would be happy to bring
home to them.
All their elaborate
efforts to abide by the strict letter of the law had paid off well enough.
Nobody wasted any breath wondering whether their house was an orphanage or a
school for bastard children of mixed races, nor did anyone do more than scoff
at the idea that Mama Squirrel was the natural mother of any of the children,
let alone all of them. Nobody was much exercised about it one way or another.
The law might be filled with provisions to keep black folks ignorant and
chained, but it was only enforced when somebody cared enough to complain, and
nobody did.
Not because anybody
approved, but because they had much darker worries about the house of Moose and
Squirrel. The fact that the miracle water a few days ago had appeared in the
public fountain nearest that house had been duly noted. So had the traffic in
strangers, and nobody was fooled by the fact that it was a boardinghouse—too
many of the visitors came and went in only an hour. "How fast can a body
sleep, anyway?" said one of the skeptics. "They're spies, that's what
they are."
But spies for whom?
Some were close to the target, guessing that they were abolitionists or Quakers
or New England Puritans, here to subvert the Proper Order of Man, as slavery
was euphemistically called in pulpits throughout the slave lands. Others had
them as spies for the King or for the Lord Protector or even, in the most
fanciful version, for the evil Reds of Lolla-Wossiky across the fog-covered
river. It didn't help that Papa Moose was crippled. His strange
dipping-and-rolling walk made him all the more suspicious in their eyes.
There were more than a
few who believed like gospel the story that Moose and Squirrel trained their
houseful of children as pickpockets and cutpurses, sneakthieves and night-burglars.
They were full of talk about how there was coin and silverware and jewelry and
strange golden artifacts hidden all in the walls and crawlspaces of the house,
or under the privy, or even buried in the ground, though it would take six
kinds of fool to try to bury anything in Barcy, the land being so low and wet
that anything buried in it was likely to drift away in underground currents or
bob to the surface like the corpse of a drowned man.
Most of the stories,
though, were darker still—tales of children being taken into the house for dark
rites that required the eyes or tongues or hearts or private parts of little
children, the younger the better, and black only when white wasn't available.
With such vile sacrifices they conjured up the devil, or the gods of the
Mexica, or African gods, or ancient hobgoblins of European myth. They sent
succubi and incubi abroad in Barcy—as if it took magic to make folks in Barcy
get humpty thoughts. They cursed any citizens of Barcy as interfered with
anyone from that house, so those wandering children was best left alone—lessen
you wanted your soup to always boil over, or a plague of flies or skeeters, or
some sickness to fall upon you, or your cow to die, or your house to sink into
the ground as happened from time to time.
Most folks didn't
quite believe these tales, Arthur Stuart guessed, and them as did believe was
too scared to do anything about it, not by themselves, not in a way that their
identity might be discovered and vengeance taken. Still, it was a dangerous situation,
and even though Mama Squirrel joked about some of the rumors, Arthur Stuart
reckoned they didn't have any idea of how important their house was in the dark
mythology of Nueva Barcelona.
It was a sure thing they
never heard such talk directly. While he was still introducing himself as being
the servant of a man staying at the house of Moose and Squirrel, people would
be real cooperative but say nothing in his presence about that house. That was
no help, so he soon started telling folks the equally true story that he was
the servant of an American trader who came down the Mizzippy last week, and
then it didn't take much to get folks talking about strange things in Barcy, or
dangers to avoid. And it wasn't just slave chat. White folks told all the same
stories of Moose and Squirrel.
"Don't you think
it's dangerous?" Arthur Stuart asked
"I expect they
do, but as with many warnings and ill portents, they get used to them and stop
taking them serious till all of a sudden it's too late," said
"So you see it my
way. They gotta get out of here," said Arthur Stuart.
"Oh, sure,"
said
Arthur was annoyed
that
"I know,"
said
"Three things," said Arthur Stuart.
"I'm listening."
"First. It's about time you realized what a
brilliant asset I am on this trip."
"Shiny as a gallstone," said
"Second. There's
no chance this is what Peggy sent you for. Because if that was what she
had in mind, she would've told you. And then you could have told them that
she'd given warning, and they'd do whatever it took. As it is, they're just
gonna fight you every step of the way, since they don't think you and me is so
almighty smart that we can see how things are in Barcy better than they
can."
"Good thing,
'cause I got no plan to eat less."
"Well, it'll
still take you ten years to make up for how much I've wasted on you up to now
when you wasn't worth a hair on a pig's butt."
"So this ain't
what Peggy wants us to do," said Arthur Stuart, "and we can be pretty
sure Papa Moose and Mama Squirrel don't want us to do it. So the way I see it,
that makes it just about our number one priority."
"I'll talk to them."
"That always works."
"It's a start."
"And then you'll
sing to them? 'Cause that might do more toward getting them to move out."
"So what's the
third thing?" asked
Arthur had to think
for a second. Oh, yes. He wanted to ask
And besides, there was something else.
Wasn't Arthur supposed to be a prentice maker?
"Just my suggestion about singing to them,"
said Arthur.
"For now,"
said Arthur Stuart. "I already used up all my brains thinking up how you
ought to talk to Papa Moose and Mama Squirrel."
But there wasn't a
chance to talk to Moose and Squirrel about it, because next morning five of the
children were sick, screaming with pain, shaking with chills, burning up with
fever. By nightfall there were six more, and the first ones had yellow eyes.
There wasn't any
school now. The schoolroom became the sick ward, the benches all stacked up
against the wall. None of the other children were allowed into the room.
Instead they were sent outside to play among the skeeters. They could still
hear the screaming out there. They could hear it in their minds even when
nobody was making a sound.
Meanwhile, Papa Moose
and Mama Squirrel were up and down two flights of stairs with water, poultices,
salves, and teas. A couple of the herbs in the tea seemed to be a little help,
and of course the water helped keep the fever down. But
Of course he and
Arthur Stuart helped—chasing up and down stairs with things so Papa Moose
didn't have to, running errands in town, keeping food in the house, tending the
fire, hauling the chamber pots to and from the sickroom. Moose and Squirrel
didn't allow them to come inside, though, for fear of contagion.
That didn't stop
He also studied the
sick children, trying to find out what caused the disease. He could see the
tiny disease-fighting creatures in their blood, but he couldn't see what they
were hunting down the way he could with gangrene or some other sicknesses. So
he couldn't find any way to help them get rid of the cause of the disease.
Still, he could see that it helped to keep the fever down and the seepage of
blood under control. With
And in the healthy children,
whom he examined one by one, he found that most of them were already producing
the disease-fighters, and he took such preventive action as he could.
What interested him,
though, was the handful of children who did not get sick. Were they stronger?
Luckier? What did they have in common?
Over the days of
sickness in the house,
Meanwhile, it was
Arthur Stuart who kept his eyes open outside the house. The yellow fever was
beginning to spread through the town, but the early cases all showed up in the
area around the fountain. It was inevitable that people began to say that the
"miracle water" had brought the fever back to Barcy. Many who still
had any of it threw it out. But others were just as convinced it was the only
cure, which God had sent in advance, knowing that the yellow fever was coming
to smite the wicked.
Arthur Stuart was
glad, for the first time he could remember, that white folks around here didn't
pay all that much attention to a half-black young man carrying water with his master.
So far nobody had linked him or Alvin to the miracle water. But that didn't
mean somebody might not remember how he sat there in the plaza, waiting for his
master to come back from some Swamptown shack where Dead Mary had said her
mother might have yellow fever. No, said she did have it. The first
victim of this epidemic.
And it occurred to
Arthur that however much danger the house of Moose and Squirrel might be in,
Dead Mary would face much worse, and much quicker, now that the yellow fever
was back.
When this thought came
to him he was in the market down in the old town, choosing whatever was cheap
but still edible. He debated with himself for a moment—what was more urgent, to
get food back to
What would
Well, that made it
easy. He always went for the dramatic over the sensible—or rather, he chose
whatever would cause him the most inconvenience and danger.
Arthur had already
bought a sack of yams, and not a light one. It not only got heavier as he
walked, but it made it so he couldn't run—nothing was more sure to get him
stopped than to be a half-black boy running with a sack of something on his
buck. Everybody knew that slaves on their masters' business always moved about
as slow as they could get away with, without somebody pronouncing them dead. So
when a boy of color was running, it was sure to be a crime in progress.
So he walked, but
quickly, and followed, as best he could find it, the path he'd seen Alvin's and
Dead Mary's heartfires trace through the swamps. He knew he didn't see
heartfires anywhere near as well as
Now it took a bit of
splashing around and slapping at skeeters before he finally got to the plank
bridge leading to Dead Mary's house. He stood this side of the plank and
clapped his hands. "Hello the house!" he called. "Company!"
Which was wrong, of course—he was supposed to call out, "Alvin Smith's
servant here!" Or, if the world had not been so ugly, "Alvin Smith's
brother-in-law!" Then again, he didn't know if
And they didn't. Because no one was home.
Or if they were, they weren't answering.
He walked swiftly
across the bridge and pushed open the door, half fearing that he might find
them dead, murdered by fearful people. But he knew that couldn't be so—iffen
some mob blamed Dead Mary for the plague and wanted to kill her for it, they'd
have burned down the house around them.
The house was empty.
Cleaned out, too—or else they didn't own a blame thing. Most likely they had
realized their peril and fled. He didn't need to tell them how Dead Mary
was regarded in this town.
He shouldered his sack
of yams and retraced his route back into the city. Staying away from crowded streets
and especially from the plaza with the public fountain, he made his way back to
the house of Moose and Squirrel, scratching at skeeter bites the whole way.
He emptied the sack of
yams into the bin in the kitchen, an action which Alvin, who was stirring the
soup, greeted with a raised eyebrow. Which made Arthur Stuart feel guilty about
how few of his errands he had finished.
"What?"
asked Arthur Stuart. "It's not like I had a lot of money, and besides, I
got worried about Dead Mary and her mother, and so I went out to check on
them."
"I expect they were gone," said
"You expect right," said Arthur Stuart.
"But that's not why I raised my eyebrow at
you."
"Too lazy to wave?"
"You don't just dump out a sack of yams. They
need washing. Or peeling."
"Why should I,
when you can just talk the dirt right off the skins, or the skins right off the
yams?"
"Because knacks
weren't given to us for frivolous purposes."
"Oh, like the
time you made me work half a summer making a dugout canoe when you could have made
a canoe out of it in five minutes."
"It was good for
you."
"It was a waste
of my time," said Arthur Stuart. "And it nearly got you shot by that
bear hunter."
"Old Davy
Crockett? I ended up kind of liking that fellow."
"Peeling the yams
wouldn't stop you from healing those kids upstairs the way you been
doing."
" 'Cause it's easy for you. You do it like
breathing."
"And when you run up a hill, how easy is it to
breathe?"
"Maybe I'd know what healing was like if you ever
tried to teach me."
"You only just started hotting up metal."
"So I'm ready for
the next step. You're working so hard on healing those children, I know you
are. So tell me, show me what to do."
"How small?"
"Look at the thinnest, smallest hair on your
arm," said
Arthur Stuart looked.
"That hair is like a feather."
Arthur Stuart tried to
get his rudimentary doodlebug inside that hair, to get the feel of it like he got
the feel of iron. He could almost do it. He couldn't see the featherness of it,
but he could sense that it wasn't smooth. That was something.
"And each strand
of that feather is made of lots of tiny bits. Your whole body is made of tiny
pieces, and each one of them is alive, and there's stuff going on inside those
pieces. Stuff I don't understand yet. But I get a sense of how those pieces are
supposed to work, and I kind of... you know..."
"I know," said Arthur Stuart. "You tell
them how you want them to be."
"Or ... sort of show them."
"I can't see that small," said Arthur
Stuart.
"Bones are
easier," said
Immediately Arthur Stuart
thought of Papa Moose's foot. Was that a problem with bones? Was
"But the yellow
fever," said
Arthur Stuart grinned. "So what about yams? Think
I could get the dirt off yams?"
"Sure. By scrubbing."
"What about taking off the skins?"
"By peeling only, my friend."
"Because it's good for me," said Arthur
Stuart, and not happily.
"Because if you do it any other way, I'll just put
the skins and dirt right back on them."
Arthur Stuart had no
answer to that. He sat down and held a yam in his hand. "All right, which
is it? Peel or wash? Cause I ain't doing both."
"You asking
me?" said
"So we'll roast them," said Arthur Stuart.
"Suits me," said
And it occurred to
Arthur Stuart that
"So I'll wash
them," he said.
"And
meanwhile," said
"Who's that?"
"You," said
"I'm not sick," said Arthur Stuart.
"Yes you are," said
Arthur Stuart thought
about that for a minute. He even tried to see inside his own body but it was
all just a confused mass of strange textures to him. "Is my body going to
win?"
"Who do you think
I am, Dead Mary?"
So it was on to
snapping beans and scrubbing yams, while Arthur Stuart wondered what had made
him sick. Somebody cursed him? He walked into a house that had fever in it a
week ago? Dead Mary touched him? Yams?
Where was Dead
Mary? Hiding in the swamp? Traveling to some safe, familiar place? Or skulking
somewhere, hoping not to get killed by those who thought her knack caused the
diseases that she warned about?
Or was she already
dead? Her body burnt somewhere? Her mother too? Caught by superstitious fools
who blamed them for something they had no part in causing?
Every terrible thing
in the world was caused by a whole combination of things. But everybody wanted
to narrow it down to one cause—and not even the real one. Much better to have
one cause—one person to punish. Then the unbearable could be borne.
So why is it, Arthur
Stuart wondered, that Alvin and Margaret and I and so many other decent people
manage to bear the unbearable without having to punish anyone at all?
Though come to think
of it,
What about me, then? I
talk big, I have a mouth like no half-black boy ought to have, my birth being
so shameful, the rape of a slave woman by her master. Haven't I had unbearable
things happen? My mother died after carrying me to freedom, my adopted mother
was murdered by the catchers who came to take me back to my owner. People tried
to bar me from school even in the north. Being nothing but a third-rate
prentice maker in the shadow of the greatest maker seen in this world in many
lifetimes. So much that I've lost, including any hope of a normal life. Who'll
marry me? How will I live when I'm not
Yet I never want to
lash out and punish anybody, except with words, and even then I always pretend
that it's a joke so nobody gets mad.
Maybe that's how God
will get out of it, when he gathers us at his judgment seat and tries to
explain why he let so many awful things go on. Maybe he'll say, "Can't you
take a joke?"
More likely, though,
he'll just tell the truth. "I didn't do it," he'll say. "I'm
just the one who has to clean up your mess." Like a servant. Nobody ever
says, How can we make things easier on God? No. We just make messes and expect
he'll come around later and clean it all up.
That night in bed,
Arthur Stuart sent out his doodlebug. He searched for Papa Moose's heartfire
and found him easily enough, sleeping lightly while Mama Squirrel kept watch
over the children.
Arthur Stuart wasn't
used to examining people's bodies, and he had trouble keeping his doodlebug
inside the boundaries. But he began to get the knack of it, and soon found the
club foot. The bone was clearly different from the other tissues—and the bones
were a mess, broken into dozens of pieces. No wonder his foot was so crippled.
He might have begun to
try to put the pieces back together, but it wasn't like looking at them with
his eyes. He couldn't grasp the whole shape of each bone fragment. Besides, he
didn't know what the bones in a normal foot were supposed to look like.
He found Papa Moose's
other foot and almost groaned aloud at his own stupidity. The good foot had
just as many bones as the bad one. The club foot wasn't the way it was because
the bones were broken. And when Arthur went back and forth between them, comparing
the bones, he realized that because Papa Moose's foot had been twisted up his
whole life, none of the bones were the right shape any more to fit together
like a normal foot.
So it wouldn't be a
matter of just getting the bones back into place. Each one would have to be
reshaped. And no doubt the muscles and ligaments and tendons would all be out
of place, too, and the wrong size. And those tissues were very hard to tell
apart. It was exhausting work just trying to make sense of them. He fell asleep
before he understood much of anything.
4
La Tia
The
rumor mill went on. The yellow fever only
added to it—who's sick, who's dead, who fled the city to live on some friend's
plantation until the plague passed.
The most important
story, though, was no rumor. The army that the King had been assembling was
suddenly ordered back home. Apparently the King's generals feared the yellow
fever more than they feared the military might of
Which might have been
a mistake. The moment the threat of invasion disappeared, the Spanish
authorities in Nueva Barcelona began arresting Cavalier agents. Apparently the
Spanish had been aware of the plots all along—they heard the same rumors as
everyone else—and had only been biding their time before striking.
So it wasn't just the
yellow fever that was decimating the English-speaking population of Nueva
Barcelona. Plenty of Americans and Yankees and Englishmen were taking ship out
of the city—Americans in steamboats up the river. Yankees and Englishmen in
clippers and coastal traders heading out to sea, bound for
Cavaliers weren't
finding it any easier than the French. The Pontchartrain ferry and all the
other passages out of the city were being watched, and those who carried royal
passports from the Crown Colonies were forbidden to leave. Since the Cavaliers
were the largest single English-speaking group, this left a lot of frightened
people trapped in Nueva Barcelona as the yellow fever made its insidious way
through the population.
Wealthy Spanish
citizens headed for
The result was a city
full of fear and anger.
"Still here in
Barcy," said
"I thought you
and your expedition would be long gone."
"We almost made
it before they closed the ports," said
Cuss the King? As if
"Well, the fever
will pass," said
"We don't have to
wait for that," said
"I reckon that
gave recruitment a big boost."
"You bet,"
said
"Well, good luck
to you."
"Seeing you in
the market here, I got to say, I'd feel a lot better about this expedition
iffen you were along."
So you can find a
chance to stab me in the back and get even for my humiliating you? "I'm no
soldier," said
"I been thinking about you," said
Oh, I'm sure of that.
"I think an army as had you on their side would
have victory in the bag."
"There's an awful
lot of bloodthirsty Mexica, and only one of me. And keep in mind I'm not much
of a shot."
"You know what
I'm talking about. What if all the Mexica weapons went soft or flat-out
disappeared, as once happened with my lucky knife?"
"I'd say that was
a miracle, caused by an evil god who wanted to see slavery expanded into
Mexican lands."
"You knew
that."
"Well, there's
folks who are just agin slavery and then there's abolitionists. Sometimes you
can offer a man a good bit of gold and he don't mind so much how many slaves
another fellow owns."
"That would be
someone else," said
"They're a terrible people," said
"And that's supposed to make me want to go fight
them?"
"A man don't shrink from a fight."
"This man does," said
"The Mexica won't
stand up to men as knows how to shoot. On top of that, we're bound to have
thousands of reds from other tribes join with us to overthrow the Mexica.
They're tired of having their men sacrificed."
"But you'd restore slavery. They didn't like that
either."
"No, we wouldn't enslave the reds."
"There's lots of black former slaves in
"But they're slaves by nature."
"Come on now, this is for kids in an
orphanage," said
"I know who it's for," said the farmer,
"and the price of melons today is ten cents each."
"What, it took so much more work to raise these?
They plated with gold inside?"
"Take it or leave it."
"Nobody helpless in that house," murmured
the farmer.
"I said don't turn your back on me,"
"I'm facing you
now," said
"You don't want me as your enemy," said
"That's true," said
"Too late for that," said
That was probably a
mistake, he thought. But then, it was a mistake for
Arthur Stuart woke up
in the middle of the night with his bowels in a state. It felt sloshy, so it
wasn't something that could be relieved by the soundless passing of gas and
then pretending to be asleep if
It was about a
miserable half-hour in there, but each time he thought he was done, he'd start
to get up and his bowels would slosh again and he'd be back down on the seat,
groaning his way through another session. Each time of course, thinking he was
through, he'd wipe himself, so by the end he felt like his backside was as raw
as pounded flank steak. At least the cows are lucky enough to be dead before
they get turned into raw meat, he thought.
Finally he was able to
get up without hearing more sloshing or feeling more pressure, though that was
no guarantee he wouldn't reach the top of the three flights of stairs and have
to go clomping back down. He worried, of course, that maybe this had something
to do with yellow fever, that
Though when he thought
about it, he reckoned it probably had more to do with the street vendor who
sold him a rolled pie this afternoon that might not have been cooked as much as
it ought.
He flung open the
privy door and stepped outside.
Someone tugged at his
nightshirt. He yelped and jumped away.
"Don't be
afraid!" said Dead Mary. "I'm not a ghost! I know Africans are afraid
of ghosts."
"I'm afraid of
people grabbing at my nightshirt when I come out of the privy in the middle of
the night," said Arthur Stuart. "What are you doing here?"
"You're sick," she said.
"No joke," he agreed.
"But you will not die this time," she said.
"And just when I was beginning to wish I
could."
"So many people are going to die. And so many of
them blame me."
"I know," said Arthur Stuart. "I went out
to warn you, but you and your ma were gone."
"I saw you go
there and I thought, this boy is coming to give warning. So tonight I think,
maybe you're the one who can give us some food. We're very hungry."
"Sure, come on in
the house," said Arthur Stuart.
"No no," she
said. "It's a strange house. Very dangerous."
Arthur Stuart made a
disgusted face at her. "Yeah, so the stories they tell about you are
lies, but the stories they tell about this house are all true, is that
it?"
"The stories they
tell about me are half true," said Dead Mary. "And if the
stories about this house are half true, I won't go in, no."
"This house has
no danger for you, at least not from the folks that live there," said
Arthur Stuart. "And now I've been standing outside the privy this long,
I'm beginning to notice how bad it stinks here. So get your ma and come on
inside where the air is breathable. And make it quick or I'll be out here in
the privy again and then who's going to feed you?"
Dead Mary considered
for a moment, then picked up her skirts and scampered off into the wooded
darkness near the back of the property. Arthur Stuart took the opportunity to
move farther away from the privy and closer to the kitchen.
A few minutes later,
he had a candle lighted and Dead Mary and her mother were gobbling slightly
stale bread and bland cheese and washing it down with tepid water. Didn't
matter how it tasted, though. They were swallowing it down so fast they
probably couldn't tell bread from cheese.
"How long has it
been since you last ate?" said Arthur Stuart.
"Since we
hid," said Dead Mary. "Didn't have no food in the house though, or we
would have took it."
"All the time
flies bite me," said her mother. "I got no blood now."
She did have a few welts
from skeeter bites, now that Arthur Stuart looked at her. "How you
feeling?" he asked her.
"Very
hungry," she said. "But not sick, me. That all done. Your
master, he make me well."
"He's not my
master, he's my brother-in-law."
Dead Mary looked at
him sideways. "So
"I'm adopted," said Arthur Stuart.
"So you're free?"
"I'm no man's
slave," said Arthur Stuart. "But it's not exactly the same as being
free, not when everybody says, You're too young to do this and you're too young
to do that and you're too black to go here and you're too inexperienced to go
there."
"I'm not black," said Dead Mary, "but I
rather be a slave than what I am."
"Being French ain't so bad," said Arthur
Stuart.
"I mean one who sees who is sick."
"I know,"
said Arthur Stuart. "I was joking. Course, like
"This
"My brother-in-law," said Arthur Stuart.
"Non, non," said the mother. "How he
make me so better?"
Suddenly Arthur was
suspicious. They come in the middle of the night and ask questions about
"I expect you can
ask him yourself in the morning."
"Got to be gone
by morning," said Dead Mary. "Before light. People watch this house.
They see us, they follow us, they kill us. Hang us for witches, like in
"They haven't
done that in
"Your
As if she had read his
desire, or perhaps because she thought her mother had been too obvious, Dead
Mary said, "We go now."
"Inmediatement," echoed her mother.
"Thank you for the food," said Dead Mary.
Even as she was
thanking him, her mother was putting a couple more baguettes into her apron.
Arthur would have stopped her—that was supposed to be part of breakfast in the
morning—but he thought of them out in the swamps for days with nothing to eat
and little to drink and he held his tongue. He'd go fetch more baguettes in the
morning.
He followed them out the door.
"Non," said the mother.
"You shouldn't go with us," said Dead Mary.
"I'm not,"
said Arthur Stuart. "I got to go sit in the privy again. So you best move
fast, cause I don't want the ensuing odor to offend your delicate
sensibilities."
"What?" said Dead Mary.
"I'm gonna let fly in the privy right quick,
ma'am, so hightail it if you value your nose."
They hightailed it, and Arthur Stuart went back to
groaning over the privy pot.
It began with a few
stones thrown against the house late the next night, and a muffled shout that
no one inside understood.
Next morning, a group
of men marched back and forth in front of the house carrying a coffin, calling
out, "Why ain't nobody sick in there!"
Since Papa Moose and
Mama Squirrel were still nursing three children who had been seized by the
fever despite
It wasn't because
No longer did he
pretend to run errands or do chores. The baguettes Arthur Stuart had shared
with Dead Mary and her mother were the last he bought; and when he slept it was
because he could stay awake no longer. He dozed fitfully, waking from
nightmares in which children died under his hands. And the worst nightmare of
all, a vision of Dead Mary's mother filled with invisible disease, walking
about giving people the yellow fever just by bumping into them or speaking to
them or whispering in their ear. Tousling the head of a child, she'd move on
and the child would drop dead behind her. And each dead person would turn to
Then he'd wake up and
search out more heartfires dimmed by disease and try to repair their ravaged
bodies.
It never occurred to
him not to reach first for those nearest to where he was at the moment. But the
result was that deaths from the fever increased in direct relationship to one's
distance from the orphanage. It was as if God had put a blessing on the place
that spilled over to neighboring houses.
Or, as the marchers
outside the house were broadly hinting, it was as if the devil was protecting
his own.
That night there were
more stones, and marchers with torches, and drunks who threw bottles that
crashed. Children woke up and cried, and Papa Moose and Mama Squirrel led them
into the back rooms of the house.
Still
Arthur Stuart dared
not interrupt his work—or wake him, if by chance he was asleep. He knew that
somehow
Arthur had no power to
heal anyone. But he had learned some makering, and thought now to use it to
protect the house. It was something Squirrel said that triggered his action:
"What I'm a-feared of are the torches. What if they try to burn us
out?"
So he reached out to
the torch-bearing men and tried to get a sense of the fire. He had worked in
metal before, but little else. Wood and cloth were organic and hard to get
into, hard for him to feel and know. But soon he found that what was burning
was the oil the torches had been soaked in, and that was a fluid that made more
sense to his half-blind groping doodlebug.
He didn't know how
fire worked, so he couldn't stop the burning. But he could dissipate the fluid,
turn it into gas the way he had turned metal into liquid. And when he had
vaporized it, the torch would soon go out.
One by one, the
torches nearest the house began to go dark.
It wasn't until Papa
Moose said, "What's happening? God help us, why are the torches going
out?" that Arthur Stuart realized that he might be doing something wrong.
There was fear in Papa
Moose's voice. "The nearest torches are going out."
Arthur Stuart opened
his eyes and looked. Me had blacked out about a dozen of the torches. But now
he saw that the remaining torchbearers had backed away from the house, and the
street was now littered with the discarded sticks, scattered about like the
bones of some long-dead creature.
"If they ever
wanted proof that this house was a cursy place, this was it," said Mama
Squirrel. "Whoever came near, his torch went out."
Arthur Stuart was sick
at heart. He was about to confess what he had done when the crowd began to move
away.
"Safe for
tonight," said Papa Moose. "But they'll be back, and more of them,
what with one more miracle to report."
"Arthur
Stuart," said Mama Squirrel. "You don't think
"No ma'am,"
said Arthur Stuart.
"Let's get the
children back to bed, Mama Squirrel," said Papa Moose. "They'll be
glad to know the mob is gone."
Only after they left
the room did Arthur Stuart see through the window the dark shape of one man
lingering in the street, not particularly watching the house, but not leaving
it, either. From the way the man moved, shambling like a bear, with pent-up
energy, he thought he recognized him. Someone he had met recently. Someone on
the riverboat. Abe Lincoln? Coz?
Tentatively he reached
out to the heartfire. Not being deft, like
It was hard to pull
himself back out of the fiery heart of the man, but he knew now who it was, for
in the midst of all the turmoil, one thing stood out—a constant awareness of
the knife at his hip, as if it were the man's best and truest hand, the tool
that he relied on before all others. Jim Bowie, without doubt.
With all that malice
in him, there was no doubt Jim Bowie was there for mischief. Arthur Stuart
couldn't help but wonder if he still harbored his old grudge from the river.
But then, why didn't he remember his fear, as well?
Maybe he needed a
reminder. Arthur Stuart couldn't make the knife disappear as
What Arthur Stuart
couldn't figure out was why, as he ran,
"Healer
man!"
It was a commanding
voice, and a strange one. Whoever called him in his sleep, it was not a voice
that he had heard before. But it seemed to know him, to speak out of the center
of his own heartfire.
"Wake up,
sleeping man!"
"Wake up, man who
keeps a golden plow in the chimney!"
In a moment he was out
of bed, across the long room, standing with his hand pressed against the brick.
The golden plow was still there. But someone knew about it.
Or no. That must have
been a dream. He had fallen asleep after healing a child four streets over. The
mother had also been dying, and he meant to heal her afterward. Had he done it,
before sleep took him?
He cast about wildly,
then with more focus, searching. There was the child, a boy of perhaps five
years. But where the mother should have been, nothing. His body had failed him.
The child was alive, but an orphan now. Sick guilt stabbed at him.
"Take your gold
out of the chimney, healer man, and come down to talk to me!"
This time it could not
be a dream. So strong was the voice that he obeyed almost as if it had been his
own idea. In a moment, though, he knew that it was not.
Yet there was no
reason not to obey. Someone knew about the golden plow, and so it was not
hidden anymore. Time to get it out of the chimney and carry it with him again
in his poke.
It took time and most
of his concentration, tired as he was, grieved and guilty as he felt, to get
the bricks apart and soften the golden plow to let it fall into his hand. It
quivered there, vibrant as always, alert, yet seeming to want nothing. It made
his hand tremble as he pulled it through the gap in the bricks and brought it
close to him. His heart warmed when the plow came near. Whether it was the plow
that caused it, or the emotion of greeting a friend and traveling companion, he
didn't know.
"Come down to me,
healer man."
Who are you? he asked
silently. But there was no answer. Whoever called him out of his own heartfire
either could not hear his thoughts or did not wish to answer him.
"Come down and
break bread with me."
Bread. Something about
bread. It meant more than mere eating. She wanted more from him than to share a
meal.
She. Whoever called
him was a woman. How did he know?
With his plow in its
poke, along with his few other belongings,
"
"Where are you going?" asked Papa Moose.
"Someone's calling me," he said. "Look
after Arthur Stuart till I come back."
"Whoever's
calling you," said Squirrel, "are you sure it's not a trap? Last
night they came with torches. Some strange power put the torches out as they
came near the house, and now you can be sure the house is watched. They'd love
to lure us out."
"She's calling me
as a healer," said
Arthur Stuart appeared
in the kitchen door. "It's the woman you healed in the swamp," he
said. "She came two nights ago, with Dead Mary. I gave them bread, and
they asked if you had bought it."
"There it
is," said Squirrel. "Terrible power, what Dead Mary has."
"Knowing something
may be a terrible burden to bear, but it holds no danger to them as aren't
afraid of truth. And it's not Dead Mary calling me."
"What about her mother?" asked Arthur
Stuart.
"I don't think so," said
"Do you think it
couldn't be no come-hither, then?" asked Squirrel. "Do you think that
you're so powerful such things have no hold on you?"
"A
come-hither," said
"So you mustn't
go," said Arthur Stuart. "Good people don't use such spells to draw a
man. Or to make the awful sacrifices such a spell must take."
"I suspect that
all it took was the burning of some bread," said
"Isn't that how
everyone feels, when they've had a come-hither set on them?" asked Papa
Moose. "Don't they all think up good reasons for obeying the
summons?"
"Maybe so," said Alvin, "but I'm
going."
He was out the door.
Arthur Stuart dogged his heels.
"Go back inside, Arthur Stuart."
"No sir,"
said Arthur. "If you're going to walk into a trap, I'm going to see it, so
I can tell the story to folks later, about how even the most powerful man on
earth can be dumb as a brick sometimes."
"She needs me," said
"Like the devil needs the souls of sinners,"
said Arthur Stuart.
"She's not commanding me," said
"Don't you see,
that's how a compulsion would feel to a good man? When people need you, you
come, so when someone wants you to come, they make you think you're
needed."
"So you know it
isn't safe."
"I know that I'm
going," said
He strode on, out into
the deserted early-morning street, as Arthur Stuart trotted at his side.
"I was the one
put them torches out," said Arthur Stuart. "No doubt," said
Either one, if it gets
strong enough, will make them put the house to the torch. You probably did no
more than tip them to the side of fear. Put it out of your mind."
"You have to
sleep," said Arthur Stuart, "so put your own troubles out of your mind,
too."
"Don't talk to me
like you understand my sins."
"Don't talk to me
like you know what I do and do not understand."
"I ain't talking
about nothing. I told you not to come with me."
"It was Jim Bowie
last night," said Arthur Stuart. "Last man who stayed behind when the
mob run off."
"He invited me to
join their expedition. Told me if I wasn't their friend, I was their foe."
"So he's maybe
goading on the mob, to try to force you into joining?"
"A man like that
thinks that fear can win loyalty." "Plenty of masters with a lash who
can testify it works." "Don't win loyalty, just obedience, and only
while the lash is in the room."
They were moving out
of the city of painted buildings and into a different New Orleans, the faded
houses and shacks of the persecuted French, and then beyond them into the huts
of the free blacks and masterless slaves—a world of cheap and desperate whores,
of men who could be hired to kill for a piece of eight, and of practitioners of
dark African magics that put bits of living bodies into flames in order to
command nature to break her own laws.
The black folks' way
was as different from the knacks of white folks as was the greensong of the
reds.
"Do you feel
it?" he asked Arthur Stuart. "The power around you?"
"I smell the
stink," said the boy. "Like folks here just spill their privy pots
onto the ground."
"The soil wagons don't come here," said
"Don't feel no power, me," said Arthur
Stuart.
"And yet you're talking like the French of this
place. 'Don't feel no power ... me?' "
"That don't mean
nothing, you know I pick up what I hear."
"You're hearing
them, then. All around you."
"This be
"French slaves
run away as sure as Spanish ones, or slaves of Cavaliers."
Now black children
were coming out of the houses, their mothers after them, tired women with sad
eyes. And men who looked dangerous, they began to follow like a parade. Until
they came to a woman sitting by a cookfire. Not a fat woman, but not a thin
one, either. Voluptuous as the earth, that's what she was, but when she looked
up from the fire she smiled at
"You come to see
La Tia," she said.
A smaller woman,
French by the look of her, came forward from behind the fire. "This be the
Queen," she said. "You bow now."
"On your knees,
white man, you want to live," said the French woman sharply.
"Hush now,
Michele," said La Tia. "I don't want no kneeling from this man. I
want him to do us a miracle, he don't have to kneel to me. He come when I call
him."
"Everybody have
to come, you call them," said Michele.
"Not this
one," said La Tia. "He come, but I don't make him. All I do is make
him hear me. This one choose to come."
"What do you want?" asked
"They gonna be burning here in Barcy," said the
woman.
"You know that for sure?" asked
"I hear that. Slaves listen, slaves talk.
You know. Like in Camelot."
"I had your skin
on that bread," she said. "Most gals like me, they don't see it, so
small that skin. But I see it. I got you then. While the fire burn, I got
whatever you have in there. I see your treasure."
She could see more in
his heartfire than
"Don't you fret,
mi hijo," she said. "I ain't gonna tell. And no, I don't mean that
thing you got in your poke. That ain't your treasure. That belongs to its own
self. Your treasure is in a woman's womb, far away and safe."
To hear it in words
like that, from a stranger, stabbed him in the heart. It brought tears to his
eyes, and a weakness, almost a giddiness to his head. Without thinking, he sank
to his knees. That was his treasure. Alt the lives he had failed to save in
Barcy, they were that one life, the child who had died those years ago. And his
redemption, his only hope, his—yes, his treasure—it was the new child that was
so far away, and beyond his reach, in someone else's charge.
"Get up,"
whispered Arthur Stuart. "Don't kneel to her."
"He don't kneel
to me," said La Tia. "He kneel to his love, to the saint of love. Not
Lord Valentine, no, not him. The saint of a father's love,
"You got the
power I need," said La Tia. "Maria de los Muertos, she tell
me. You make her mother whole, she."
"You're not sick," said
"The whole of
Barcy, she be sick," said La Tia. "You live in a house about
to die from that sick. This
"What do you think I can do? I got no
control over the mob."
"You know what I want, you."
"I don't."
"You maybe don't know
you know, but you got them words burnt in your heart by your mama all them
years ago, when you little, you. 'Let my people go.' "
"I'm not Pharaoh and this ain't
"Is too
"What do you want, a plague of cockroaches? Barcy
already got that, and nobody cares."
"I want you to part the sea and let us across on
dry land in the dark of night."
"Where you send
them slaves you set free from the riverboat?"
That flat out stunned
"I didn't tell
nobody," said Arthur. "You think I'm crazy?"
"You think I need
somebody tell me?" said La Tia. "I saw it inside you, all on fire,
you. Take us across the river."
"But you ain't
talking about no
"And all the
slaves as want to go," said La Tia. "In the fog of night. You make
the fog come into Barcy from off the river. You let us all gather in the fog,
you take us across the river. You got red friends, you take us safe to the
other side."
"I can't do it.
You think I can hold back the whole Mizzippy? What do you think I am?"
"I think you a
man, he want to know why he alive," said La Tia. "He want to know
what his power be for. Now La Tia tell you, and you don't want to know after
all!"
"I'm not
Moses," said
"You want to sec
a burning bush?" asked La Tia.
"No!" said
"Most of all by you," said La Tia.
They stood there in silence for a moment.
Arthur Stuart spoke up. "Usted es tia de
quien?"
"I don't speak no
Spanish, boy," said La Tia. "They call me La Tia cause them Spanish
people can't say my Ibo name."
"We don't say her
name neither," said the smaller woman. "She be our Queen, and she
say, Let my people go, so you do it, you."
"Hush,
child," said La Tia. "You don't tell a man like this what to do. He
already want to do it. So we help him find his courage. We tell him, go to the
dock and there he find him hope this morning. There he find a brother like
Moses did, make him brave, give him trouble."
"Oh good,"
said
"Tonight at first
dark, there be fog," said La Tia. "You make fog, everybody know to
come."
"Come
where?" said
"We leave this
place one way," said La Tia, "or we leave it another, we."
As they hurried away,
with blacks watching them on either hand, Arthur Stuart asked, "She mean
what I thought she meant?"
"They're going to
leave or they're going to die trying," said
"How about a
hurricane? You done a flood to stop the slave revolt in Camelot, but I think
this time you could do it with wind and rain," said Arthur Stuart.
"You don't know
what you're asking," said
Arthur Stuart looked
around him. "Oh," he said. "I guess they're all pretty much on
low ground."
"Reckon so."
White faces watched
them from the windows of poor shacks in Frenchtown, too. La Tia's words had gone
out already. They were all looking to
Story of my life,
thought
Drop of blood in a
bucket of water.
He remembered how
Tenskwa-Tawa made a whirlwind on a lake, put his blood into the waterspout, and
saw the future in the walls of it as he and Alvin rose up in the air inside.
He remembered that it
was in the visions inside that column of swilling water that he saw the
Blood in the water,
and a whirlwind, and walls as clear and smooth as glass.
5
Crystal Ball
LONG
BEFORE HE reached the dock,
There were many that
he recognized, having been in town for so many weeks. He easily found Steve Austin
and Jim Bowie, not together at the moment, and not really much alike. He knew
But soon his
reflections on Austin and Bowie were stopped cold by a bright familiar
heartfire that was just about the last one he expected—or wanted—to find here
in Barcy.
His younger brother
Calvin.
Calvin had been the
closest companion of
What neither had
counted on was Calvin's jealousy. He, too, was a seventh son of a seventh
son—though Calvin was seventh only because the firstborn, Vigor, had died in
crossing the river Hatrack on the very day, in the very hour that
But to have a knack
that was less than
The problem was that
Calvin had never worked at his knack. He had expected to be able to do whatever
Calvin didn't have
much of an ear for argument or criticism. He couldn't bear it, and avoided it,
and so the brothers who once had been close had spent the last few years with
little contact. It didn't help that Margaret disliked Calvin. Or perhaps not that—perhaps
she merely feared him, and didn't want him to be near
And yet here Calvin
was. The coincidence was too pointed. Calvin had probably been sent here. And
the only person likely to do such a sending was Margaret. Had she decided that Calvin's
presence was actually good for
As he drew nearer to
the dock,
Before Calvin began to
be seduced by that same enemy.
So
Behind him Arthur
Stuart trotted to keep up. "What is it? What's happening?"
And then they emerged
from the street and saw the endless row of ships and riverboats tied up along
the dock, the stevedores loading and unloading, the cranes lifting and
lowering, the passengers milling about—few arriving, many leaving—the vendors
shouting and pushing, the thieves and whores skulking and strutting, and in the
midst of them all, standing alone and gnawing on a baguette, was Calvin.
He had finally reached
his adult height. Not as tall as
"What are you
doing here, you great oaf!" cried
Calvin laughed and
hugged him back. "Came to save you from some dire peril, I gather, though
your wife wasn't more specific than that."
"It's good to
have you here," said
"Oh, I know why
we're here," said Calvin. "I just don't know why Peggy sent us."
"So ... are you
going to tell me?"
"We're here
because it's time for us to get over petty jealousies and work together to
really change the world."
They hadn't been
talking for a whole minute, and already
Apparently he'd
learned it all and was ready to take his place as
And when he really
bollixed it up,
No, no, that's not fair. Give the kid a chance.
The man, I mean.
Or maybe that's what I mean.
"All right," said Calvin. "Maybe we aren't
over our petty jealousies."
"Why not think
out loud?" asked Calvin. "Then maybe I'll have a chance to think of
an idea, instead of just waiting for yours."
He said it with a
smile, but
"Where's that
French fellow you were traveling with a few years back?"
"Balzac?"
said Calvin. "Back in
"And Napoleon permits it?"
"We don't know yet. Balzac hasn't actually
published any of it."
"Is it any good?"
"You'd have to decide that for yourself,"
said Calvin.
"I don't read French," said
"Too bad," said Calvin. "That's where
all the interesting writing is going on right now."
Go ahead, thought
"Hungry?"
asked
"I ate on the
boat," said Calvin. "In fact there wasn't much else to do but eat.
Nothing but fog on the river."
"Didn't it stay
to the western shore?"
Calvin laughed.
"Every now and then I'd play around with it a little. Whip up a little
extra fog using the river water. Surround the boat in fog. I suppose we looked
strange to anybody on shore. A little cloud floating down the river with the
sound of a steam engine coming from it."
Not that
And maybe he'd get one. But not over this, and not
right now. "Sounds fun," he said.
Calvin looked at him with amusement. "I guess
you've never whipped up a little fog?"
"From time to time," said
"Some noble
cause, I'm sure," said Calvin. "So, what dire problem are you working
on saving, and what part do you think I'll play in it?"
"So, what'll it
be? Take all these boats?"
"We don't have a
lot of sailors among the French and the slaves and the free blacks and the
orphans," said
"We could
persuade the crews to stay with them."
"La Tia has some
idea of my parting the river. Like Moses and the
"And you don't
want to do that."
"Makes no
sense," said
Calvin nodded. "I
ain't too surprised, Al. I mean, everybody else has a plan, but you can see how
they're all fools and their plans are no damn good."
"They ain't
fools," said
"Oh, yeah,
Lolla-Wossiky, that old one-eyed likkered-up red."
To speak of the great
Prophet that way made
"Of course I
suppose he doesn't drink much now," said Calvin. "And didn't
you fix his eye? Course, we don't know what all he's doing on the other side of
the fog. Maybe they're brewing good old corn mash and getting drunk every
Thursday." He laughed at his own humor.
"Oh, you old
stick-in-the-mud," said Calvin. "Everything's serious with you."
Just the people that I
love, thought
Calvin nodded. "I
don't know about red knacks."
"They don't have
knacks," said
"Now, that's
plain dumb," said Calvin. "We're all human, aren't we? Reds can marry
whites, can't they? So what would their children have, half a knack? What would
half a knack look like? And they could half draw their power from nature?"
"Here I thought
you didn't know about red knacks," said Alvin, "and you turn around
and insist that their knacks are just like ours."
"Well, if you're
going to be quarrelsome," said Calvin, "I'm gonna be sorry I
came."
That would make two of
us,
"So you think you
can do this thing old Lolla-Wossiky did," said Calvin. "And then
what? You make the river solid? Like a bridge, and the rest of the water flows
under it?"
"All the other
problems are still there," said
"Where's
that?"
"Just north of
the city. A huge briny lake, but it's shallow. Good for catching shrimp and
crawfish, and there's a ferry across it, but it doesn't get used much, because
there's nothing worth going to on the other side. Most folks either take a boat
upriver or a ship downriver. But at least on the other side of Pontchartrain
there's farms and food and shelter and no angry reds wondering what we're doing
coming across into their land."
"But there's a
whole passel of angry farmers wondering why you're bringing three thousand
people, including free blacks and runaway slaves, right through their cotton
plantations," said Calvin.
Now this was an
argument worth having, thought
"Well," said
"They
might," said Calvin. "Or they might send for the King's soldiers to
come and teach you proper discipline."
"And the King's
soldiers might find us in a fog somewhere," said
"Aha," said
Calvin. "I knew that fog would turn up as your idea."
"I thought you
wanted me to include your ideas in this plan," said
"As long as you
remember they're mine," said Calvin.
"
"But I thought of
it first," said Calvin.
"Well,
"And I guess
you're gonna make me whip up all this fog while you get to do the glamorous
stuff with the water."
"I don't
know," said
Calvin laughed and shook
his head. "So you've got my part all figured out."
"Tell you
what," said
"So you don't
need me," said Calvin. "I guess Peggy was wrong again."
"There's parts of
you I need, all right," said
Calvin just laughed. "I bet the horse would like
that even less than me."
"You're right," said
"Ease up, old Al," said Calvin. "Don't
you know when a body's teasing you?"
"I reckon I
do," said
"Threatening me?" said Calvin.
"Reminding you that I don't got all the patience
in the world."
"Don't even have patience enough for me? Your
beloved little brother?"
"A man could have
eight barrels full of patience for you, Cal, and you'd just have to keep
goading him till you saw what happened when it turned out he needed nine."
"Sometimes I rile people, I admit it," said
Calvin. "But so do you."
"I reckon I do," said
"So you'll make a bridge over this Paunchy
Train?"
"I thought you spoke French."
"Paunchy Train is
supposed to be French?" Calvin laughed. "Oh ... oh, now I get
it. Pont Chartrain."
He said it with an
exaggerated French accent so his mouth looked all pursed up like he'd just et a
persimmon.
It was like the best
of the old times, tossing words back and forth. "That was the best French
accent I ever heard from a journeyman blacksmith."
"Aw shucks,
"Iffen you wash
yourself proper, I'll take you to meet Bonaparte himself," said Calvin.
"No thanks,"
said
All at once the
playfulness fled from Calvin's face and
"Oh, don't be
a..."
"Don't be a what?
What were you going to call me, big brother?"
"I met him when I
was a kid, and I didn't like him. You met him, and apparently you did. What of
it? He was here in
"Oh, just shut
up," said Calvin, and he stalked off in another direction.
Since Calvin was
perfectly capable of finding
But the truth was,
Margaret was right to
send him, and
Arthur Stuart's big
accomplishment of the day was coming up with fifteen cloth bags that the older
children could use to carry food for the journey. Papa Moose and Mama Squirrel
were supervising the loading of the bags, arguing back and forth about what
they'd need. Papa Moose was determined that they should carry spare clothing,
while Mama Squirrel wanted nothing but food.
"They'll get
hungry before they get nekkid," she said.
"But no matter
how much we carry with us, we'll run out of food soon, and if we're going to
have to forage or buy food anyway, we might as well carry spare clothing so the
children don't have to travel in rags."
"If we can afford to buy food we can afford to
buy clothes, and we'll need the food first."
"We can pick food off trees and glean it
out of fields."
"Well, if you're talking about stealing, Papa
Moose, we can take clothes off clotheslines."
"If we're lucky enough to find clothes that
fit."
"There's not a child in this house who fits the
same clothes for six months in a row."
And on and on it went.
Meanwhile, to Arthur Stuart's amusement, they were unloading each other's bags
almost as fast as they were loading their own. The children seemed to be used
to seeing this sort of thing and most of the bags were in another room, where
the children were carefully loading them with food they were carrying out of
the kitchen. Apparently they were voting with Mama Squirrel.
"Don't like none
of our clothes nohow," said one of the children to Arthur Stuart.
"Druther travel nekkid."
At that moment a cry
from the kitchen sent them all running to see.
Papa Moose lay on the
floor, doubled up, holding his crippled foot and crying out with great groans
of pain.
"What
happened?" said Arthur, amid the clamor of the children.
"I don't know, I
don't know," said Mama Squirrel.
Arthur Stuart knelt down
by Papa Moose, moving some of the children out of the way as he did. He took
the man's ankle and foot in his hands and began unwinding and unfastening the
straps that bound it in place and held on the pad at the heel. Almost at once
the groaning stopped—but not because the pain had eased, Arthur Stuart soon
realized. Papa Moose had fainted.
No one even heard the
knock at the door—if there was one. The first they knew that they had a visitor
was when he spoke.
"This is what comes of having a kitchen built
right onto the house."
Arthur Stuart looked up. It was
Calvin shook his head. "Burn himself on the
stove?"
"Don't know," said Arthur Stuart.
"Hasn't
Arthur Stuart seethed, but stuck to the subject.
"It's something with his foot."
Calvin knelt down
across from Arthur and began to examine Papa Moose. "This looks like a
club foot," said Calvin.
Arthur Stuart looked
up at Mama Squirrel, raising his eyebrows to say, Isn't it wonderful to have a
real doctor here to tell us what we already knew.
Mama Squirrel was not,
however, in the mood for sarcasm. "Who are you, sir? And get your hands
off my husband's foot."
Calvin looked up at
her and grinned. "I'm Calvin Maker, the brother of a certain journeyman
blacksmith who's been living in your house, I think."
Now that really did
make Arthur Stuart mad. Calling himself a maker, as if that was his profession,
when
But Arthur held his
tongue, since there'd be nothing gained by going to war with Calvin.
"I'm getting the
lie of the bones in his foot. The muscles have grown up all wrong around the
bones." Calvin palpated the foot some more, then pulled off the thick
stockings.
"What are you
doing?" demanded Mama Squirrel.
"I can't believe
"My husband gets
along just fine on his foot the way it is."
"Well, he'll get
along better now," said Calvin. "Got everything back in place."
He stood up and offered his hand to her. "It'll take him some getting used
to, but in a few weeks he'll be walking better than he ever has in his whole
life."
"A few
weeks?" said Mama Squirrel, ignoring his hand. "Maybe you're all
proud of your miracle working, but you might have thought to ask if this was a
convenient day to go fixing up his foot. We've got miles to walk tonight! And
for weeks to come."
"And he was going
to do that with a club foot?" said Calvin.
Arthur Stuart knew,
from the slight snideness now creeping into Calvin's tone, that he was irked by
Mama Squirrel's lack of gratitude.
"Some
folks," said Mama Squirrel, "is so proud of their knacks that it just
don't occur to them that other folks might not want them to do their public
demonstrations on them."
"Well,
then," said Calvin, "I'm pretty sure I remember how the club foot
was. I think I can put it back."
"No you
can't," said Arthur Stuart.
Calvin looked at him with
cool, amused hostility. "Oh?"
"Because his foot
had already been changed before you got here," said Arthur Stuart.
"That's what made him cry out with pain and fall down. Something
moved all the bones around while the foot was still all strapped up. And that
was a good five minutes ago."
"How
interesting," said Calvin.
"So you
see," said Arthur Stuart, "the bones the way you found them when you
knelt down here, that ain't how they was."
Calvin shook his head
sadly. "Arthur Stuart, does
"I've done no
such thing!"
"If you knew how
his foot was before, and how it was different when I got here, that says you
been doodling around in there," said Calvin. "Don't deny it, you've
always been a bad liar."
"How do you know
what I've always been."
"Oh, then I
suppose you're a good liar," said Calvin. "Not a thing I'd
have expected a body to be proud of, but there you go." Calvin went to the
door and looked out into the back yard. "Mind if I use your privy? It's a
long time since I left the riverboat as brought me here, and I could use a
pissoir."
Mama Squirrel gestured
for him to go ahead. As soon as he was gone, she knelt again beside Papa Moose.
"He did it, didn't he?" she said. "Before he even walked in the
door."
"He likes to make
grand entrances," said Arthur Stuart. "And he loves to show
"Daring to cause
my husband so much pain. Do you think we don't know what
"Calvin's never
going to admit he done it," said Arthur Stuart. "So you might as well
work on helping him learn to walk with his foot this way. Have you got the
other shoe to this pair?"
"Other shoe?
Pair?" Mama Squirrel snorted. "He's never bought a pair of
shoes in his life."
"Well, is this the only shoe he's got?"
"He has another, for Sundays."
"Let's get it on his other foot."
"They don't match."
"One shoe on and one foot bare match a good bit
worse," said Arthur Stuart.
Mama Squirrel sent a
couple of children to go look for Papa Moose's Sunday shoe. Then she turned
back to Arthur Stuart. "I don't reckon you'd know how to wake my husband
up."
"I don't mess
around inside people's heads or feet," said Arthur Stuart.
"Besides, Calvin didn't do all that good a job. It's still a mess inside
his foot, even if it is shaped mostly right on the outside. I think when Papa
Moose wakes up, there's gonna be a lot of pain."
"Best let him
sleep then," said Mama Squirrel. "I just. I... ever since I knowed
him, I never seen Papa Moose laid out like that. In all these things that've
been happening, I never been scared till this moment."
"When
"Oh, I hope so, I sure do," said Mama
Squirrel.
"We might as well get back to loading up the
pokes," said Arthur.
And in moments, the
children were back to loading up with food. The extra clothing, all unloaded now,
was left in a pile in the parlor. "For the poor," said Mama Squirrel.
Arthur wondered if she
had some definition of the word poor that didn't include her and her
huge hungry family.
Well, to put it
precisely,
It's a good thing to
be able to scare away gators, thought
Sounded to him like a
better job than his current employment, which right now looked like having the
responsibility for saving the lives of hundreds of people without a clue of how
to actually do it.
He'd poked himself a
couple of times with his knife to draw blood, which was a kind of embarrassing
thing to do in the first place. It made him feel like he was just a couple of
steps away from a Mexica sacrifice. He let the blood drip into the murky water
and then felt it dissipate and vanish.
He had done this once,
on the Yazoo Queen, but not with river water. It was with drinking
water, already pure. The blood had nowhere to go, it mixed with the water
immediately and
More blood? Open a
vein? An artery?
How about opening a
gator's artery, how about that?
No, he knew that
wouldn't do at all. The maker is the one who is part of what he makes. If there
was one thing he knew, it was that.
But he'd spent his
childhood getting nearly killed by water over and over again, till his Pa was
plumb scared to let
Stop thinking, he told
himself. This ain't science, like feeling head bumps or bleeding a patient.
This is serious, and you gotta keep your mind open in case an idea comes
along—you want there to be some room for it to fit in.
So he occupied himself
with clearing the water around him. It wasn't hard—he was good with fluids and
solids, at purifying them, asking whatever belonged there to stay, and whatever
didn't to go. The skeeter eggs, the tiny animals, the floating silt, all the
creatures large and small, and above all the salt of this briny tidewater—he
bid them find somewhere else to go, and they went, till he could look down into
the water and under the reflection of the trees spreading overhead he could see
his bare feet and the muddy bottom.
It was an interesting
thing, looking into water, seeing two levels at once—the reflection on the
surface and what was underneath it.
He remembered being
there in the midst of the whirlwind with Tenskwa-Tawa, and in the walls of
solid water he saw not just some reflection or whatever was in the water, but
also things deep in time, hidden knowledge. He was too young to make much sense
of it at the time, and he wasn't sure anymore what he actually remembered or
merely remembered that he remembered, if you know what I mean.
He could hear a kind
of wordless song, he sat so still. It wasn't in his own mind, either. It was
another song, a familiar one, the song that he had heard so many times in his
life as he ran like wind through the woods. The greensong of the life around
him, of the trees and moss, the birds and gators and fish and snakes, and the
tiny lives and the momentary lives, all of them making a kind of deep harmony
together that became a part of him so that he could hear himself as nothing
more than a small part of that song.
And as he listened to
the greensong and as he looked down into the water, another drop of blood fell
from his hand and began to spread.
Only this time he let
his doodlebug spread out with his blood, following that familiar liquid,
keeping it warm, letting it bind with the water as if it was all part of the
same music. There were no boundaries to contain it, but he held on to the
blood, kept it as a part of himself instead of something lost, as if his heart
were still pushing it through his veins.
Instead of having
outside boundaries imposed on the blood, he set his own limits to its flow.
This far, he told his blood, and no farther. And because it was still a part of
himself, it obeyed.
At the limits the
blood began to form a wall, become solid, become like a very thin sheet of
glass. Then, working inward, the blood formed itself into a latticework that
drew the water around it into complicated whorls that never ceased moving, but
also never left their orbit around the impossibly thin strands of blood.
The water moved faster
and faster, a thousand million tiny whirlwinds around the calm threads, and
Alvin reached down with his hands on both sides of the sphere of solidified
water and lifted it out of the clear water of Lake Pontchartrain.
It was heavy—it took
all his strength to lift it, and he wished he hadn't made it so large. It was
far heavier than the plowshare he carried in his poke. But it was also
strangely inert. Even though he knew the motion of water inside the sphere was
incessant, to his hands it felt as still as stone. And as he looked into it, he
saw everything at once.
He saw his own labor
to be born, straining to emerge into the world, his mother's wombwalls pressing
against him as he pushed back; he heard her cries and saw her surrounded by the
canvas walls of a covered wagon that rocked and slid and pitched and yawed in
the current of a river gone to flood. And now he was outside that wagon and he
saw a great fallen tree floating like a battering ram straight at the wagon,
straight at him, this passionate angry hopeful unborn infant, and then heard a
great loud cry and saw a man leap onto the tree and roll it over, over, so it
struck only a glancing blow against the wagon and careened off into the
rainstorm....
And now he saw a young
girl reach out to the face of a just-born infant who had not yet drawn breath
because a caul of flesh covered his whole face like a terrible mask. She pulled
the caul back and air rushed into the baby's mouth and he began to cry. The
girl put the caul away as tenderly as if it were the heart of a Mexica
sacrifice, and he felt how the baby and the caul remained connected, and he
knew that this was Little Peggy, the child five years old when he was born, who
was now his wife, with almost nothing of that ancient, dried-up caul left in
her keeping, because she had rubbed bits of it between her fingers and turned
each bit to dust in order to draw the power of Alvin's own knack out of it, to
use it to save his life.
But now, he thought.
What about now?
Whether the heavy
sphere responded to his question or simply showed him the desire of his heart,
he saw himself kneeling in the water at the shore of Pontchartrain, dripping
blood heavily into the inland sea, and watching as a crystal path hurtled
forward across the lake, six feet wide, as thin as the skiff of ice on a basin left
in the window on the night of the first freeze of autumn. And in ones and twos
the people began to step out onto this crystal bridge and walk along with the
surface of the water holding them up, a dozen, scores, hundreds of them, a
great long chain of people. But then he realized that the line was slowing
down, stopping, jostling, as more and more of them looked down into the crystal
at their feet and began to see the way Alvin was seeing now.
They would not go
forward, so captured were they by the crystal visions in the water. They took
too long, too many minutes, as the blood continued to flow out of him.
And then all of a
sudden in the glass he saw himself faint and fall onto the bridge and at once it
began to break up and crumble and all the people fell into the water and
screamed and splashed and...
He thought at first
that it had dissolved instantly upon breaking the surface, but when he reached
down into the water at his feet, there it was.
He picked it back up
again.
I thought the things
the crystal water showed me would be true, he thought. But that can't be true.
Margaret wouldn't have sent me here to them if I didn't have the strength in me
to make this bridge hold until the last soul had crossed over.
He looked at the ball
of crystal he held in his hands. I can't leave this thing here, he thought. But
I can't take it with me, either. It's too heavy, not with the plow, not with
all I've got to do.
"I will carry it,
me," said a soft voice behind him.
He saw her reflection
in the face of the crystal, and to his surprise the round surface did not
distort her image.
He wasn't seeing her on
the crystal, he was seeing her in it, and all at once he knew far
more about her than he had ever thought he could know about a person.
"You're not French," he said. "You and your mother are Portugee.
She has a knack with sharks. They took her on voyage after voyage because of
it, to keep the sea monsters at bay, only one of them used her for something
else and she got pregnant with you and so she threw herself from the ship and
rode the back of a shark to shore and gave birth to you at the very mouth of
the river."
"She never told
me, her," said Dead Mary. "Might be so, might not."
"I can bear any
burden," she said, "if I take it freely." And it was true.
Though she staggered a little from the weight, she held the ball to her and
didn't let it fall.
"Don't look in
it," said
"It's in front of
my face," she said. "How can I not look?" And yet she didn't
look. She closed her eyes tightly. "Bad enough to know what I already know
about people," she said. "I don't want to know all this else."
"No," said
Dead Mary. "You need all the strength you have for tonight's work."
All the children were
sitting on the floor in every room on the main floor. The older ones all had a
poke to carry, stuffed with every scrap of food in the house. Arthur Stuart
admired how they all obeyed Mama Squirrel, without all that much fussing from
her or from them.
What he didn't know
was what they were going to do about Papa Moose. He lay on the kitchen floor,
wide awake now, but with his eyes tight shut, saying nothing, making no groan,
showing no wince, but still a streak of tears ran from both eyes down into his
hair and ears. Arthur Stuart longed to help him, knew that all the little bones
were shaped wrong and didn't fit, pinching here and there, the ligaments and
tendons sometimes too short, sometimes too long for the place they were
supposed to be. What he didn't know was how to get them to change into
something closer to what was right.
The kitchen door
opened and
Before Arthur Stuart
could wonder what he'd done with his shirt, Dead Mary came in behind him carrying
something with
Calvin hadn't bothered
them a bit after causing Papa Moose all this pain. But now that
Arthur Stuart didn't
bother to answer, knowing that
"Then wait,"
said Mama Squirrel hotly. "You think he ain't man enough to bear it? Oh,
he can. I'll carry him if I have to, me and some of the bigger boys. My Moose,
he don't want to cost us what we can't afford to pay. He'd die for these
children, Alvin, you know he would."
They all knew he
would.
"But I need him
walking," said
Arthur Stuart tried so
hard to keep up with what
No, it wasn't a cry.
It was a great sigh of relief, so sharp and sudden that it sounded like a
shout.
"God bless you
sir," said Mama Squirrel.
Papa Moose stood up
and promptly fell back down the moment he tried to take a step.
"I don't know how
it's done," he said. "I can't walk on these two feet. My right leg
feels too long."
"Lean on me," said Mama Squirrel. He did,
and managed to stand.
"Go to Frenchman's Dock," said
"Me too?" asked Dead Mary.
"Go to your
mother and arrange a wheelbarrow from among the French, to tote that thing. I
got another shirt."
"Me?" asked
Arthur Stuart.
"To La Tia, and
tell her to get all them as is going down to Frenchman's Dock at
nightfall."
When all were gone, it
left only Alvin and Calvin there in the house of Moose and Squirrel, which was,
after all, just a big old empty house when it didn't have all them children in
it.
"I suppose I've
done a dozen things wrong," said Calvin with a crooked grin.
"I need a fog
from you," said
"I don't know
where that is," said Calvin.
"Don't
matter," said
He didn't say: For once.
"I can do that," said Calvin.
"I'm glad Margaret sent you," said
Arthur Stuart stood
outside the kitchen door until he heard those words. He could hardly believe
that
There was only one
meaning Arthur Stuart could get from it.
Burning with
resentment at Calvin, at the way a real brother could instantly supplant a
half-black oughta-be-a-slave step-brother-in-law in
6
Exodus
Calvin
stood on the levee that kept the Mizzippy
from pouring over its banks to flood the city of
It had been a sultry,
hazy day. Already everything got blurry only a mile off. The air was so wet
that sweat could hardly evaporate. It ran down Calvin's neck and back and legs,
and when he mopped his brow with a handkerchief, it came away dripping wet.
Nobody'd mind if he
cooled things off a little.
Around him the air
suddenly gave up some of its heat, sending it upward. The moment the air cooled
just a couple of degrees, the water vapor began to condense a little, just
enough to form a cloud, not enough to make rain or dew. It wasn't easy to
maintain the temperature at just that point, and Calvin had to jostle the
temperature up and down a little till he got it right.
But once the fog was
nicely formed, he began to reach out farther and farther, cooling the air,
condensing the invisible humidity into visible fog.
He turned a slow
circle, watching as his fog spread out over the city. This was power—to change
the look of the world, to blind the eyes of men and women, to block the light
and heat of the sun, to allow slaves and oppressed people to sneak to freedom.
Poor
It was like being
rich, but spending money like a poor man. That was
So I'll help you,
Alvin, because I can and because I love you and because I don't mind being part
of your noble causes when it suits me. But I make up my own mind on all things.
Collect your disciples and try to teach them some clumsy imitation of makery,
like that sad boy Arthur Stuart, whose true knack you stole from him. But don't
ever count me as one of your disciples. I spent too many years of my
life worshiping you and tagging along behind you and begging for your attention
and your love and your respect. Those were my childhood days. I'm a man now,
and I've held my own with a great emperor and I've slain an evil man that you
hadn't the courage to kill,
It's not enough to
have power,
Street after street,
the fog crept through the city, dimming the light of the setting sun and hiding
passersby.
Slaves felt the cool
clammy fog pass around them, or looked out windows and watched as buildings
across the street disappeared, and they thought, Today we cross over
In Frenchtown the
children and grandchildren of the founders of this place, whose city had been
stolen from them, looked out of their shanties and thought, You can't keep us
here no more, Conquistadores. You can take our city, but that's only land. You
can't hold onto us when we've a mind to go.
In Swamptown, the
poorest of the poor—free blacks and down-and-out whites—saw the fog and
gathered up their few possessions for the journey ahead. La Tia, Dead Mary,
some sorcerer from up north, they didn't care whom they were following. It
couldn't help but be better than here.
But in the rest of the
city, in fine houses and the humbler homes of the working class, in hotels and
whorehouses and along the dock, where people already cowered in fear of the
yellow fever, afraid to go out into the streets—they saw the fog roll through
and it looked like a biblical plague to them. I'm not going out in that
weather, they thought. I'll send a slave out on my errands. I'll leave the
streets to the poor and those whose business is so pressing they'd risk death
to carry on with it.
Only in the taverns,
where drink brought a few hours of courage and uncontained passion, did the
fear burn into hatred. Someone brought this yellow fever on us. It was them
French witches, that Dead Mary and her mother, didn't Dead Mary claim the
plague for her mother first?
It was those wicked
race-mixing abolitionists Moose and Squirrel, they're the ones brought this
down on us, cursing the city because they hate us for keeping black folk in the
place where God meant them to be. You want proof? All around that house folks
is dying of the fever, but not a soul in that crowded house is sick, not a body
has been brought out.
"Not Moose and
Squirrel, no sir," said a powerful-looking man who carried a knife at his
hip the way other men might carry a pistol. "Their house, but it's a
traveling man staying there, him and his half-black catamite he uses like a
witch does a cat. His name is
They listened
spellbound to the man. They itched for action, these men. They had come to
Barcy to take part in a war, but the dread of fever had sent the King's army
back into their holes, and here they were with nothing to do. Their fingers
flexed into fists. The drink burned in them. They could do with a good hanging.
Take a man and his slave boy and drag them to a tree or lamppost and hoist them
up and watch them clutch and twitch and pee themselves while they strangled on
the end of a rope. That was a good use of this foggy night. There'd be no
witnesses, and maybe it would stop the fever, and even if it didn't, a hanging
was still a good idea now and then, just to get your blood up, and none of this
nonsense about an innocent man. Wasn't nobody in this world hadn't earned
hanging five times over, if their hearts were only known.
Out of the tavern and
into the street they staggered and lurched, shouting threats and brags. A few carried
torches against the fog and night as darkness fell over the city, and as they
moved near the waterfront, they were joined by the drunk, the angry, the
fearful, and the merely curious from other taverns. Where are you going? Off to
hang us a traveling wizard and his boy.
The slaves skulking
through the streets dodged into alleys or into the shadows of doorways as the
mob passed. But they weren't looking to hang the first black man they found.
They had a specific man in mind tonight, thanks to that man with the big knife
at his belt. They'd find him at the house of Moose and Squirrel—who probably
needed hanging too, there being no shortage of rope in Barcy.
Arthur Stuart saw at
once that the name "Frenchman's Dock" was meant as a cruel irony.
Compared to the miles-long dock along the Mizzippy, this shabby jetty on
There was no room on
that busy wharf for fifty children, so Moose and Squirrel kept their family
loitering back around the fish houses, trying to stay out of the way. Many of
the shrimpers had already heard what was happening tonight. Either they'd come
along or not, but there was no debating or discussing it. Everyone stepped
around the children and made no comment about their presence there. Even if
they wouldn't follow Dead Mary out of the city, they wouldn't dare stand in her
way, either.
Blacks began arriving,
too, staying even farther out of the way. Like the children, they carried bags
and sacks, but it was a sad thing to see how little they had, considering that
most of them were carrying all they owned in the world. The blacks who did get
in some shrimper's path were met with a growl or a bark to get out of the way;
it was clear that even among the oppressed French, blacks had a lower status
still.
Flies hovered and
swarmed everywhere, there being plenty to feast on for them amid the shrimp
offal discarded all along the shore. Skeeters, too, and Arthur Stuart could
imagine that with all the people gathering here those little bloodsuckers would
probably drink their fill till they bloated up and exploded. He could imagine
the sound of it, like distant gunfire, the pop pop pop of busted skeeters.
Only he didn't want
them sucking blood out of these children.
He tried to get his
doodlebug inside a skeeter, but it wouldn't hold still. And besides, he wasn't
looking to perform surgery on it, he wanted to talk to it the way
A couple of boats ran
into each other in the fog, and there was much shouting and cursing. It was
silly, Arthur Stuart thought, to put up with fog here, where it wasn't needed.
And fog was more like metal or water, he could get inside it and work with it.
Arthur Stuart stirred up a little air, drawing a little breeze in from the
lake, blowing the fog back toward the city where it was needed.
Arthur was pleased
that it didn't take long for the air to clear. The sunset now blazed red in the
west, while the fog hung thickly only a street or two back from the water. The
shrimpers quickly got their boats tied up and their catch loaded off and
dragged into the fish houses. Then they disappeared into the streets, some of
them with shrimp carts to sell the catch, the others probably heading for their
families, to bring them to Frenchman's Dock for the escape.
There being no more
need for clear vision now, Arthur Stuart let the breeze die down, and the fog
drifted back out over the water a little. Stillness came with it, a heavy
silence in which footfalls were muffled and voices became whispers.
As it became fully
dark, Arthur began to worry about folk losing their way, or somebody stumbling
into the water, so he woke up the breeze again to clear the air near the shore.
In the distance, he could hear shouting, and after a while, he realized that it
was probably the noise of a mob moving through the streets of Barcy. He worried
about folks who was trying to make their way through the streets, but the fog
was the best help they could get, and there wasn't nothing Arthur Stuart could
think of to add to it.
As the fog cleared and
the faint light of the stars and a sliver of moon illuminated the shore, Arthur
Stuart realized that the man sitting crosslegged in the shallow water was
At once Arthur strode
forward, but said nothing, because
Blood began to flow
out in a slow trickle into the water.
Almost by habit now, Arthur
Stuart tracked the blood in the water, feeling its dissipation. But then it
stopped dissolving, and instead began to form a rigid structure, gathering
water around a delicate latticework, thickening and hardening the water into
something not at all like ice, and very much like thin, delicate glass.
The area of hardened
water extended to about six feet on either side of
"Can you see it, Arthur Stuart?" whispered
"Yes."
"And on the other end, do you think you can
anchor it there and hold it firm?"
"I can try."
"It's taking more
blood than I hoped," said
"Now?" said
Arthur Stuart.
"If we're going
to get all these people to walk across in one night, I think now's a good time
to start."
Arthur Stuart turned
around and beckoned to Moose and Squirrel. They didn't see him. So he called
out, but not loudly. "Papa Moose! Mama Squirrel! Can you bring the
children?"
With Papa Moose
leaning on Mama Squirrel and one of the older boys, they came down to the
water's edge. When they arrived, Arthur Stuart stepped out onto the crystal.
To the others it
seemed that he stood on water. They gasped, and one of the children began to
cry.
"Come
closer," said Arthur Stuart. "See? It's smooth where it's safe to
walk. It's not water any more. It's crystal, and you can walk on it. But stay
to the middle. Hold hands, stay together. If someone falls in, pull him back
up. It's strong enough to hold you, see?"
Arthur looked straight
down into the crystal as he stomped his foot a couple of times.
What he saw there made
him freeze.
It was his mother,
flying, a newborn baby strapped in front of her. Flying over the trees, heading
north, to freedom.
And suddenly she could
fly no farther. Exhausted, she tumbled to the earth and lay there weeping. She
would kill the baby now, Arthur Stuart realized. Rather than let it be taken
back into slavery, she'd kill the baby and herself.
"No," he
murmured.
"Arthur
Stuart," said
Arthur tore himself
away and was surprised to find Moose and Squirrel and their family all watching
him, wide-eyed.
"Nobody look down
into the bridge," said Arthur Stuart. "You'll think you're seeing
things, but they're not really there. It's not a thing to look at, it's a thing
to walk on."
"I can't see the
edges," said Mama Squirrel. "The children can't swim."
"They won't have
to," said Arthur Stuart. "Let's get the little ones in between the
older ones. Everybody hold hands."
"The youngest
can't walk so far," said Papa Moose.
Someone pushed her way
through the family to the water's edge. La Tia. "Don't you fret about
that. Got plenty of strong arms here to carry them as can't walk." She
called out several names, and strong young men and women stepped forward, most
of them black, but some French or of other European nations. "It's all
right, babies," La Tia said to the children. "You let these big folk
carry you, you be all right. You tell them be happy," she said to Mama
Squirrel.
"It's all
right," said Squirrel. "These are our friends now, they're going to
take us out across this bridge
Some of the children
whimpered and a few cried outright, but they hung on all the same, doing their
best to obey despite their fear. Arthur Stuart walked farther out onto the
bridge, taking care to stay right in the middle. The worst thing he could do
would be to stumble off the edge. They'd all be terrified then. "Come to
me," he said. "We have to move quick, once we get started."
"I stay right
here," said La Tia, "I keep it all moving, I make everybody help each
other. You go, you. We follow."
Arthur turned around
and walked a good twenty paces out onto the bridge. Then he stopped and turned
around. Several of the older children were following him tentatively. He strode
back to them and took the leading child by the hand. "All hold
hands," he said. "Stay right in line. It's a long walk, but you can
do it."
"Listen to the
music," said
Arthur Stuart knew the
greensong well, though he could never find it on his own. As soon as
In the darkness, he
couldn't see the bridge stretching out before him—his eyes told him only that
he was walking out into the middle of a trackless lake. But his doodlebug felt
the bridge as clear as day, reaching on and on, out and out, and he walked with
confidence.
At first he couldn't
stop his mind from fretting about all that could go wrong. Somebody falling
off. Losing the way somehow. Getting to the end of the bridge and finding that
it didn't quite reach the other shore. Or having the bridge get softer and
wetter the farther it got from
But the rhythm of the
step, step, step and the sound of the lapping water and the calls of birds
began to still that relentless fretting. It was the familiar rhythm of the
greensong. He let it come over him like a trance. His legs began to move, it
seemed, of themselves, so he no longer thought about walking or even moving, he
simply flowed forward as if he were a part of the bridge, as if he himself were
a breeze on the night air. The bridge was alive under him. The bridge was part
of
He only sometimes
noticed that he himself was singing. Not just humming, but singing aloud, a
strange song that he had always known but had never noticed before. The child
behind him picked up the melody and murmured it along with him, and the child
behind her, until Arthur Stuart could hear that many voices carried the song.
No one was crying or whimpering now. He could hear adult voices farther back.
But all of them were faint, only threads amid the fabric of the great wide song
that Arthur heard from the wind and the waves and the fish under the water and
the birds in the sky and from animals waiting for them on the other side and
from all the people on the bridge, a half mile of them, a mile of them.
Faster and faster
Arthur Stuart walked without realizing he was speeding up, but the children did
not complain. Their legs carried them as fast as they needed to go. And the
adults carrying children found that the little ones did not grow heavy. The
babies fell asleep clinging to their bearers, their breath whispering in rhythm
with the song. On and on they strode, the far shore coming no nearer, it
seemed.
And as they were all caught
up in the greensong, it seemed that the bridge turned into light. They could
all see the edges of it now, and could feel how the greensong throbbed within
it. Each footfall on the crystal bridge caused the song to surge a little
stronger for a moment and made the bridge glow a little more clearly in the
night. And Arthur Stuart realized that they were becoming part of the bridge,
their steps strengthening it, thickening it, making it stronger for those
coming after. And since the bridge was part of Alvin himself, they also
strengthened him, or at least made it so the creation of the bridge drained him
less than it might have.
Arthur could feel
It seemed to be
forever, that crossing. And then, suddenly, there was land ahead of him, and it
felt as if it had taken no time at all.
He reached forward
with his doodlebug and saw that the bridge did not reach the land yet. So,
without slowing down his stride, Arthur Stuart sent his doodlebug leaping
beyond the end of the bridge to find where the rim of the water lapped the mud
and he said to the bridge—to
The bridge leapt
forward. It was what
Arthur Stuart did not
speed up, though he wanted to run the last few hundred yards. There were people
behind him, hands linked. So he kept the same pace, right to the end, and then
drew the child behind him up onto the shore.
He continued to lead
her into the trees, talking to her as he went. "We'll go up into the
trees," he said to her. "The others will follow. Keep moving, move in
and off to the right, so there's room for everyone else. Keep holding hands,
all of you!"
Then he let go of her.
As he did, the greensong let go of him.
He staggered, almost fell.
He stood there gasping for a moment in the unwelcome
silence.
The line of people on
the bridge stretched out for miles, he could see, and all of them moving
swiftly, faster than he would have thought possible. Even Papa Moose now strode
easily, boldly, no one helping him.
He saw how Moose and
Squirrel, too, stumbled when they let go of the line. But they immediately took
charge of the children, not forgetting their responsibility.
Nor will I forget
mine, thought Arthur Stuart. He scanned the nearby area for the heartfires of
small creatures. Unlike the skeeters, he easily found the snakes and, not so
easily, awoke them and sent them slithering away. Danger here, he told them
silently. Go away, be safe. Sluggishly they obeyed him. It exhilarated him. He
suspected that some part of
Will we all be makers,
having crossed this bridge?
Here and there he
caused water to drain away from a bog, so that the land where the people would
have to stand was all firm. And from time to time he reached back out across
the water, following the bridge with his doodlebug, trying to see how
It was his job to make
sure there was room for them all, enough firm, safe ground that they could
gather.
Many of them sat down,
then lay down, and with the echoes of the greensong still singing in their
hearts, they dozed in the faint moonlight, their dreams infused with the music
of life.
Calvin couldn't help
being curious. And it's not as if he had to stay on the levee to keep the fog
in place.
In fact, the fog could
pretty much look after itself, at this point. And with all the angry,
frightened heartfires flowing through the streets of Barcy, Calvin couldn't see
any particular reason to stay by himself. Who knew what mischief these mobs
might be up to? And since he was a maker, wasn't it his job to keep such
mischief from happening?
One mob was moving
through Frenchtown, getting more and more furious as they found house after
house empty. Another mob, consisting mostly of dockside drunks, was looking for
slaves to throw into the water. Finding none, they started throwing in whatever
passersby spoke English with a foreign accent or not at all. Which wasn't too
logical, seeing how this wasn't even an American city.
All Calvin could see
of this was the anger in the heartfires and, of course, the panic in those
being tossed into the river.
The angriest mob, and
the one moving with the most sense of purpose, was moving directly toward the
orphanage where Alvin had been unable to resist showing off by one-upping Calvin's
fixing of the man's foot. What was the big deal, Calvin wanted to know. When
was he supposed to have learned anatomy? Of course,
So let him sit there by
that briny lake and flow his heartfire out as a bridge for the scum of the
earth to walk on. Wasn't that just like
Calvin jogged easily
along the foggy streets—sober, decent folk were all indoors, fearful of the
sudden fog and the sound of distant shouting. There were soldiers marching,
too. The Spanish were ostensibly looking for a riot to quell, but the officers
carefully found the quietest streets, since there was neither honor nor safety
in confronting a mob. If you shoot, it's a massacre; if you don't shoot, you're
likely to get a brick in the head.
So it wasn't hard to
avoid the soldiers, and soon Calvin found himself on the fringes of the mob
just when it reached the house of Moose and Squirrel. He wasn't that interested
in most of the people—a mob was a mob, and all the faces were as ugly and
stupid as always when people turn their decision-making over to someone else.
Brutal puppets, that's all they were. What Calvin wanted was the hot, dark
heartfire that was leading them and goading them on.
Glass was shattering
as bricks and stones went through the windows of the house. Several men with
torches were trying to set the house on fire, but the air was so moist and
heavy that it wasn't working.
The leader, who
carried a big heavy knife at his hip, was taunting the would-be firestarters.
"Y'all never set a fire before? Babies burn theirselves up all the time,
but you can't even get a dry wooden house to burn!"
Calvin sidled up.
"Reckon sometimes you gotta do a thing yourself."
The man turned to him
and sneered. "And have the Spanish find some informant to testify against
me? No thanks."
"I didn't mean
you." said Calvin. He reached out and pointed toward the roof. While he
was pointing, he hotted up the wood just under the peak of the gable, so sudden
and hot that it burst into flames.
A cheer went up from
the crowd, everyone being too drunk, apparently, to notice that the fire had
started about as far as possible from where the torchwielders were doing such a
pathetic job. But the mob's leader wasn't drunk, and that's the only person
Calvin was looking to impress.
"You know
something?" said the man with the big knife. "I think you look a
powerful lot like a certain thief and fraud name of Alvin Smith as was living
in that boardinghouse only this morning."
"You're speaking
of my beloved brother, sir," said Calvin. "Nobody gets to call him
names but me."
"Beg your pardon,
sir," said the man. "I'm Jim Bowie, at your service. And if I'm not
wrong, you just proved to me that
"Don't get no
ideas about siccing this mob on me," said Calvin. "My brother plain
hates to kill folks, but I got no such compunction. You turn the mob on me, and
they'll all blow to bits as if they'd swallowed a keg of gunpowder. You
first."
"What's to stop
me from killing you right here?" said the man. And then, suddenly, he got
a panicked look on his face. "No, I was just joking, don't do nothing to
my knife."
Calvin laughed in his
face. "Want to see the house go up real spectacular?"
"You're the
artist," said the man.
Calvin found his way
into the structure of the house, the thick heavy beams and posts that formed
its skeleton. He hotted them up all at once—and so hot did he make them that
they didn't so much burn as melt. The outer layer of each piece of wood burnt
so fast that as the ashes peeled away it looked as if somebody had just flumped
a busted pillow on the ground and released a hundred thousand feathers all at
once.
The house collapsed,
sending up such a cloud of smoke and ash and hot, searing air that it burned
the hair and eyebrows and eyelashes right off the men in the front row. Their
skin was also burned, and some were blinded, but Calvin didn't feel any
particular pity. They deserved it, didn't they? They were a murderous,
house-burning mob, weren't they? The ones who was blind now, they'd never join
a mob again, so Calvin had flat cured them of their violence.
"You look to be a useful man to have as a
friend," said the man with the knife.
"How would you know?" said Calvin. "You
haven't seen me with any of my friends."
The man stuck out his hand. "Jim Bowie, sir, and I'd
like to be your friend."
"Sir, I don't
reckon you have many friends in this world, and neither do I. So let's not
pretend to love each other. You have something you want to use me for, and I'm
perfectly willing to consider being used if you can let me see what's to gain
from it, and why it's a good and noble undertaking."
"They ain't no
good and noble undertakings. Everybody I know of gets undertaken has to be dead
first and doesn't seem to enjoy it."
"What do you want from me, Mr. Bowie?"
"Your
company," said
"Al ain't afraid
of anything," said Calvin.
"Anybody isn't
scared of the Mexica might as well shoot out his own brains, cause they ain't
worth keeping."
"The
Mexica?"
"Some of us think
it's time civilization came back to
Civilization ... like
this? Calvin watched the remaining mobbers cavorting and gamboling in front of
the hot glowing embers and laughed.
"A mob's a mob," said
"No doubt they do," said Calvin. "But
why is it your job?"
"I got tired of waiting on God."
Calvin grinned at him. "Maybe we got something to
talk about. I never been to
"Sun coming," said a woman's voice.
La Tia, that's who it was.
"Everybody already pass over," said another
woman. Dead Mary's mother.
"What's your name?"
"Rien," she said.
Dead Mary reached out
and took his bleeding hands in hers. "Get up, you wizard you. Get up and
cross over the bridge of your blood."
He tried to rise, with
her helping, but at once he felt faint and his legs gave way under him. He fell
face forward onto his hands and even his elbows buckled, and his face struck
the surface of the crystal bridge. The heavy weight of the plow made the poke
slide off his shoulder. It made the whole bridge shimmer with life, and
At once the bridge
began to give way under him.
"No!" cried
La Tia. "Hold up that bridge! You can't sleep now!" She reached down
and lifted the poke from the surface of the bridge. At once the shimmering stopped,
and
"The army coming,
boy!" La Tia said. "They know they slaves gone now, morning coming
and nobody doing they chores. This ain't no drunken mob today, no. This be
soldiers, and we got to cross over!"
It wasn't just her
words filling him with strength, though. He could feel the power of charms she
bore. He always saw the small magics of spells and hexes and could stop them if
he wanted, so he had gotten used to the idea that they had no effect on him.
But now he was
grateful for the strength that flowed into him as she draped a charm around his
neck.
"I have to stay
here," he said softly, "or the bridge won't hold."
"You had to stay
here to make the bridge," said La Tia. "But don't you feel your
brother put in his blood from the other side?"
La Tia and Dead Mary's
mother—Rien, was it?—supported him on either side, while Dead Mary pushed her
wheelbarrow out onto the bridge to lead the way. Already the last of the people
was out of sight in the fog. But the fog was thinning, and the first rays of
dawn were lighting the eastern sky. Arthur Stuart might still be on the job,
but Calvin wasn't.
Behind them Michele,
La Tia's friend and doorkeeper, was laying down charms on the bridge. They did
not cause the shimmer that the plow had brought. Rather they felt like salt
dropped on ice.
"That
burns," said
"Got to keep them
enemies back," said La Tia. "They my fear and fire charms she laying
down."
"This bridge was
made to welcome people. The crystal is meant to open their eyes. You can't put
darkness and fear onto it and hope to have it stay."
"You know what
you know," said La Tia. "You do a thing I never see, so while I stand
on your blood, I do what you say." She called back over her shoulder.
"Michele, you pick up all this stuff, you, you make it a ring on the
shore, hold them back a little!"
Michele ran back to
land and laid the charms in a great semicircle to keep the soldiers at bay as
long as possible.
"To them it be
like a fire," said La Tia. "Hate and fear, they make it into a
fire."
Blood still dripped
from
"So this thing
you make, it don't stay made?" said Dead Mary.
"First time I
done it," said
"Stop making him
talk," said Rien. "You keep pushing, Marie, you keep showing us the
way."
"I know the way," said
"But what happen to us when you faint, yes?
What?"
They weren't all that
far when they heard Michele run up from behind. "Soldiers come, and a lot
of other men, very angry. The fire hold them back for now, but they got their
own peeps and slinks and they get through soon. We got to run."
"I can't,"
said
But even as he said
it, he heard the greensong that had helped the others cross so quickly, and now
that he wasn't concentrating on holding the bridge alone, he could let it into
him, let it strengthen and heal him a little. He hushed them. "Hear
that?" he said. "Can you hear?"
And after a while,
yes, they could. They stopped talking then, and
It was good that they
did, because
It weakened him and
slowed him down, just a little at first, but more and more as they drew nearer.
Hundreds of them, carrying muskets. At the far end of the bridge, someone was
trying to get a horse out onto the crystal—a horse pulling a light piece of
field artillery.
"I can't hold
that up," gasped
"Almost
there," called Dead Mary. "I can see the shore!" She started to
run.
But there was no fog
on this side of Pontchartrain, so seeing the campfires on the far shore did not
mean they were truly almost there.
Just when it seemed
that the bridge was lengthening infinitely before them, they closed the last
hundred, the last fifty, the last dozen steps and staggered onto the shore.
Dead Mary had set down her barrow on the bank and now hovered around, eager to
help.
There lay Arthur
Stuart, prostrate in the sand, Papa Moose and Mama Squirrel kneeling beside
him, their hands on him, Papa Moose praying, Mama Squirrel singing the first
words Alvin had ever heard anyone put to the greensong, words about sap and
leaves, flowers and insects, fish and birds and, yes, squirrels all climbing
along in the nets of God.
Arthur Stuart's hands
were extended, his wrists bleeding onto the bridge, and his fingers digging
down into the face of the crystal. He shouldn't have been able to do that, to
push his skin and bone into
Arthur seemed not to
hear him, so deep was he in his trance of concentration.
"Pull his hands
out of the bridge,"
But Moose and Squirrel
couldn't do it, and La Tia and Dead Mary couldn't do it, and Alvin whispered
into his ear, "They're coming and we can't bear them up, the bridge can't
hold such a harsh load, you got to let go, Arthur Stuart, I can't hold it any
longer and if you try to hold alone it'll kill you."
Arthur Stuart finally
managed to make an answer, barely audible. "They'll die."
"I reckon
so," said
"They're just soldiers," said Arthur Stuart.
"And sometimes good men die in a bad cause, when
it comes to war."
Arthur Stuart wept. "If I let go I'm killing
them."
"They chose to
come up on a bridge that was built for freedom, with slavery and killing in
their hearts."
"Bear them up,
"I'll do my best," said
With a final cry of
anguish Arthur Stuart tore his blood-covered hands out of the crystal.
It lingered for a long
moment, held by the blood alone.
And then the bridge
was gone.
"Bear them up in
the water!" cried Arthur Stuart. And then he fell into something between a
faint and a deep sleep.
Papa Moose and Mama
Squirrel drew him back from the water's edge and bandaged his wounds, while
Dead Mary and her mother did the same for
La Tia grasped what he
was doing and stepped to the water's edge, where the bridge had once been. She
reared her head back and pinched a powder into her open mouth. Then she looked
out over the water and cried out in a voice that could be heard for miles
across the lake, a voice as loud as thunder, a voice that made wide ripples
race forward across the water.
"Drop your guns,
you! Try to swim! Take off your boots! Swim back!"
All heard, and most
heeded, and they lived. Three hundred soldiers went out onto that bridge that
morning, along with one horse hitched to a fieldpiece. The horse had no way to
save itself, but it took
Only then, with the
last of their enemies safe who was willing to be saved,
The north shore teemed
with thousands of people, of every age and color and several languages. They
desperately needed someone to tell them what to do, and where to go if they
were to find drinkable water and food to eat. But not one of them proposed
awakening Alvin or Arthur Stuart. The man and boy who made a crystal bridge out
of blood and water—such power struck them all with awe, and they would not
dare.
Back in Barcy, Calvin
saw what was happening with
I could kill him right
now. Just open up a hole in his heart and till his lungs with blood and he'd be
dead before anyone else realized what was happening and no one would know it
was me, or if they did, they'd never prove it.
But I won't kill him
today, thought Calvin. I'll never kill him. Even though he kills me all the
time, with his judgments and condemnations, his condescensions and his lessons
and his utter ignorance of who I am. Because I'm not like
He refrains from
purposely killing people because he thinks it's wrong, under some arbitrary
law. While I refrain from killing people, not out of obedience, but of my own
free will, because I'm merciful to those who hurt me and despitefully use me.
Who's the Pharisee
here? And who's the one like Jesus? Even though nobody else will ever see it
that way, that's the truth, as God is my witness.
7
Errand Boy
Verily
Cooper awoke in the old roadhouse in the
town of
It was that prenticeship
that brought Verily Cooper there. The old smith had died a while ago, and since
his wife had died before him, their children were now in possession of a will
that gave them "one plow of pure gold, stolen by a prentice named Alvin,
son of Alvin Miller of
If only the plow
didn't exist.
But it did exist, and
the smith had never owned it.
It would be an
open-and-shut case, if not for the local prejudice that for many years had made
And that's why Verily
Cooper, attorney-at-law, was here once again to plead
Not fair, not right.
Judge not, lest somebody think you're jealous of
It was full dark
outside. Why in the world had he woken up now? He didn't particularly need to
micturate. There must have been some kind of noise. Some drunk refusing to
leave the roadhouse at closing time?
No. Now he heard a stamping
of horses and the voice of the stableman as he led a team off to be walked and
watered and fed and stabled for the night. It was rare for the coach to push on
in the darkness. But when Verily stepped to the window and opened it, sure
enough, there it was, lanterns blazing—enough of them that from a distance it
might be mistaken for a forest fire.
Curiosity would never
let him go to sleep without finding out who had arrived at such an untimely
hour.
He was not altogether
surprised to find, sitting at the kitchen table,
"You," she
said.
"And I'm
delighted to see you, as well, Goody Smith." If she was going to be rude
to him, he could reply by giving her the "courtesy" of calling her by
her husband's name instead of her own.
She squinted her eyes
at him. "I'm tired and I was surprised to see you up, but you have my
apology, Mr. Cooper. Please accept it."
"I do, Mistress
Larner, and you have mine as well."
"Nothing to
apologize for," she said. "I haven't been a teacher in years, so I
hardly deserve the name Larner any more. And I'm proud to have my husband's
occupation as my title, since his work is all the work that's left to me."
Old Horace walked up
behind her and rubbed her shoulders. "You're tired, Little Peggy. Save
conversation till morning."
"He might as well
know it now. I expected not to see him till morning, but as long as I've woken
him, I might as well ruin the rest of his night."
Of course she had
known he was in
"What is it you want me to know?" said
Verily.
"
"
"Something more
urgent than this."
"Then send
somebody else," said Verily. "If I don't settle this business with
the will and the plow right now, it's going to come back to haunt him."
"Right now,"
said Margaret, "he's got about live thousand people who have just escaped
from Nueva Barcelona. More than half are runaway slaves or free blacks, and
most of the rest are despised French folk, so you can imagine how eager the
Spanish are to have them back under their thumb."
"So I'm going to
do what, recruit an army and we'll all fly down there like passenger pigeons to
save them just in the nick of time?"
Horace Guester clucked his tongue. "It's not
impossible, you know."
"It is to me," said Verily. "That's not
my knack."
"Your knack," said Margaret, "is making
things fit together."
"Sometimes."
"
"I assume you've
got a place in mind."
"
"And he has
land?"
"He's well-liked
in his part of the country. He can help you find some land."
"Free of charge,
I hope," said Verily. "My practice hasn't been such as to make me a
wealthy man. I keep working pro bono for my friends."
"I don't know how
it will be paid for," said Margaret. "I only know that if you don't
go to see Mr. Lincoln, there are few paths that lead anywhere but to disaster
for Alvin and the people in his care. But if you do go..."
"Let me
guess—there might be some path that leads to safety."
"First things
first," said Margaret. "He needs a place that will take in these
homeless folk and board them and bed them for a time. There's no place in the
slave lands that will have them, that's certain."
Verily sat down at the
table and leaned his chin on his hands and stared into her eyes. "I'd
rather stay here and get
She sighed and stared
into her bowl. "Mr. Cooper, I have spent five years of my life trying to
persuade people to do the things that would avoid a terrible, bloody war. With
all my years of talking, do you know what I accomplished?"
"We ain't had a
war yet," said Verily.
"I postponed the
war by a year or two, maybe three," she said. "And do you know how I
did that?"
"How?"
"By sending my husband to Nueva Barcelona."
"He put off a war?"
"Without knowing
what he did, yes, the war was delayed. Because of an outbreak of yellow fever.
But then he went on and did this—this impossible escape. This rescue, this
liberation of slaves."
Horace chuckled.
"Sounds like he finally got him the spirit of abolition."
"He's always had
the wish for it," said Margaret. "Why did he have to pick now to find
the will? This escape of slaves—it will lead to war as surely as ever."
"So he eliminated
one cause of war, and then brought about another," said Verily.
Margaret nodded and took
a bite of soup. "This is very good, Papa."
"Forgive me for
thinking like a lawyer," said Verily Cooper, "but why didn't you
foresee this before you sent him down?"
She was chewing, so
Old Horace answered. "She can't see that clear when it comes to
Horace was joking, and
so he laughed, but Margaret didn't take it as a joke. Verily saw her tears drop
into the stew.
"Ho, now,"
he said, "that's already salted well enough, I can swear to that, I had
some for supper."
"Father is right,"
she said. "Oh, poor
Verily had actually
had that thought occur to him several times in the past, and since he knew she
could see into his heartfire, he didn't bother trying to lie and reassure her.
"Maybe so," he said, "but as you already know,
She placed her hand on
his and gave him a weak smile. "You have a lawyer's way with words,"
she said.
"What I said is
true," said Verily. "
"How he feels
about me," she said, and shuddered. "What if he finds out that I sent
him to Nueva Barcelona knowing that by going there, he'd cause the deaths of
hundreds of souls?"
"Why does he have to find out?" said Verily.
But he knew the answer already.
"He'll ask me," said Margaret. "And
I'll tell him."
"He caused the plague of yellow fever, is that
it?"
"Not on purpose, but yes."
"And you knew he would."
"It was the only
thing that would stop the war that the King already planned. His invasion of
Nueva Barcelona would have forced the
"So at the cost
of those who die of the fever," said Verily, "you saved the lives of
all who would have died in the war."
She shook her head.
"I thought it would. But
"But you delayed it a few more years," said
Verily.
"What good is that?"
"It's two or
three more years of life. Of loving and marrying and having babies. Of buying
and selling, of plowing and planting and harvesting, of moving and settling. It
will be a different world in two or three years, and those who die in the war
will have had that much more life. It's not a small thing, those years."
"Maybe you're
right," said Margaret. "But that won't keep
"Hush now,"
said Horace. "He's not going to hate you."
But Verily wasn't
sure.
She shook her head.
"Because every path that included me telling him led to him doing
something else to prevent the war—and all those things would have failed, and
most of those paths ended with him dead."
She burst into tears.
"I know too much! Oh! God help me, I'm so tired of knowing so much!"
Horace was sitting
beside her in a moment, his arm around her shoulder. He looked at Verily, who
was about to try to offer comfort. "She's tired, and you were wakened out
of your sleep," said Horace. "Go to bed, as she will too. Tomorrow is
time enough for talk."
As usual, Horace knew
just the right thing for everyone to do to be content. Verily got up from the
table. "I'll go and do what you asked," he said to Margaret.
"You can count on me to help find a place for
She nodded slightly,
her face still hidden in her hands.
That was all the
good-night he was going to get, and so he headed back along the hall toward his
room. At first he was filled with irritation at having to set aside his plan to
free
In the morning, he
didn't see Margaret after all. There was a note waiting for him on the floor of
his room, giving the name of Abraham Lincoln's town and how to get there.
At breakfast the old
innkeeper looked grave. "I'm worried about the baby," said Horace.
"She started throwing up last night. She's worn herself out and she's sick
as a dog. She's asleep now, but if she loses this baby too, I swear I don't
know but what she'll lose her mind."
"So I should go on without talking to her?"
"Everything you need to know is on that
paper."
"I doubt that," said Verily.
"All right
then," said Horace with a wan smile. "Everything she thinks you
need to know."
Verily Cooper matched
his smile, then went back to his room to get his things together for the long
westward ride. If he'd only stayed in
Then again, that might
be as good a description of what life was supposed to be as anyone ever thought
of. The only real destination was death, and our lives consisted of finding the
most circuitous and pleasant path to get there.
He was on horseback
and on his way hours before
He thought, as he
rode, about how Alvin and Margaret were the two most powerful, gifted, blessed
people on this continent, without question, and yet Margaret was desperately
sad and frightened all the time, and Alvin wandered about half-lost and
melancholy, and not for the first time Verily thought it was a good thing to be
a man of relatively ordinary gifts.
8
Plans
Nueva
Barcelona finally had something to take
the people's minds off the yellow fever. Folks were still dying from it, and
you can bet their families weren't losing track of the fever's vicious progress
through the city, but a whole bunch of men who had felt completely helpless in
the face of the epidemic were now given a task that would cover them with honor
for doing what they'd been longing to do since the first outbreak of the
plague:
Get out of town.
It was the first move
that the rich made, whenever the fever struck—they packed up their families and
went to the plantation in the country. But regular folks didn't have that
option, and rather despised the rich because they did. No, real men
stuck around. They couldn't afford to get their families out of the city, so
they had to stay with them and risk watching their wives and children get sick
and die. Not to mention the risk of dying themselves. Not much of a way to die,
moaning with fever till you became one of those corpses the body wagons picked
up on their sad passage through the streets.
So when word spread
that Gobernador Anselmo Arellano was calling for volunteers to go upriver and
bring home all the runaway slaves—and kill the white renegades who had helped
them—well, there was no shortage of volunteers. Especially among that element
of the city that was commonly known as "drunk and disorderly."
Not everybody thought
them particularly brave or honorable. Few whores, for instance, gave them their
fifteen minutes free just because "I'm a soldier and I might die."
Nobody knew better than prostitutes just how few men were more than talk. This
wasn't an army that was likely to stand up long if they got any resistance.
Hanging helpless, unarmed French folk, that was all they'd be good for, and
then only if the French didn't do anything dangerous, like slapping them or
throwing rocks.
That's what Calvin was
hearing in the taverns along the dock as the "soldiers" assembled for
shipment upriver. The commander was the governor's son, Colonel Adan, who, as
longtime head of the Nueva Barcelona garrison, was grudgingly appreciated for
being less brutal than he could have been. But Calvin could easily imagine the
despair the poor colonel must have felt upon seeing this sorry lot that had
assembled to take ship.
Yet maybe they weren't
so sorry. Most of them were drunk—but tomorrow they wouldn't be, and they might
look like better soldiers by then. And it wasn't as if the enemy would be hard
to find. Five thousand slaves and French people, moving at the pace of the
slowest child—it wasn't going to be hard to locate them, was it? And what kind
of fight could they put up? Oh, Colonel Adan probably felt just fine about
things.
He might feel
differently if he actually believed those ludicrous reports about a bridge made
out of clear water that disappeared when his soldiers were out on it, causing a
score of deaths and a lot of splashing and spluttering. Perhaps he was so used
to pathetic excuses from his men for their failures that it never occurred to
him that this one might be true.
What will
Well, whatever he
does, I won't be there to help.
Though Calvin was not
against helping if it didn't put him out of his way. That's why he had searched
out Jim Bowie this morning and arranged with him to lead Calvin to Steve Austin.
They met in a saloon two streets back from the water, which meant it was
relatively quiet, with no jostling. There were a few other men there, though
none that Calvin cared much about. Either he'd get to know them later or he
wouldn't. Right now all that mattered was
Calvin only shook his head.
"I'd give him a listen, Steve," said
"Colonel Adan's
little slave-catching venture is doomed," said Calvin. "Don't be with
them when they go down in flames."
"Doomed? By what
army?"
In answer, Calvin
simply softened the metal in their mugs until they collapsed, covering the
table with ale and cold soft metal. With not a little of it flowing onto their
laps.
All the men sprang up
from the table and began brushing ale off their laps. Calvin avoided smiling,
even though they all looked like they'd peed in their trousers. He waited while
"What did you do?"
"Not much," said Calvin. "For a maker,
anyway."
Another man muttered, "Ain't no makers."
"And your ale is
still in your cup," said Calvin cheerfully. "I ain't much of a maker.
But my brother Alvin, he's a first-rater."
"And he's with
them," said Jim Bowie. "Tried to get him to join up with us, but he
wouldn't do it."
"When Colonel
Adan's army finds those runaways," said Calvin, "if he finds
them, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if all their weapons turn into pools of
metal on the ground."
"Or plumb
disappear," said
Calvin grinned.
Soon they were all
seated at the new table—except for a couple of Austin's men who found urgent
business to attend to in some place where somebody wasn't melting metal cups
just by thinking about it.
"Mr. Austin, do
you think I could be useful on your expedition to
"I do," said
"And I've got me
a hankering to see what that tribe is like. My brother, see, he thinks he knows
all about reds. But his reds is all peaceful like. I want to meet some
of them Mexica, the ones who tear the beating heart out of their
sacrifices."
"Will it satisfy
you if you see some of them dead? 'Cause we ain't going there to meet them,
we're going there to kill them."
"All of
them?" said Calvin. "Oh my."
"Well, no,"
said
"I'll tell you
what," said Calvin. "I'll go with you to the end of your expedition,
and help you all I can. Provided that you leave for
"Not dictating a
thing," said Calvin. "Just telling you that any expedition to
"Why are you so
all-fired eager to keep us from helping catch them runaways?"
"Well, first, my
brother's with them, like I said. Since your men are probably the most
dangerous in Barcy right now, I'm making my brother a little bit safer by
keeping you all out of it."
"That's what I
figured," said
"Second reason is
more important," said Calvin. "If you go upriver with Colonel Adan,
your men will get just as messed up as anybody else. My guess is that once
"I don't know if
your brother's all that dangerous."
Calvin got up, leaned
over to their first table, and brought back a congealed swatch of metal that
had once been a mug. "Can you just keep this in mind for a little while,
so I don't have to melt any more of them?"
"All right,"
said
"And the third
reason is, I don't like sitting around waiting. If the expedition starts
tomorrow, I'll be with it. If it doesn't, I'll get bored and go off and find
something entertaining to do."
"Good," said Calvin.
"But you still
didn't answer my question about how do we know you'll actually be there
tomorrow."
"I gave you my
word," said Calvin. "You can't make me go if I don't want to, but I
tell you that I want to, and so I will. You get no better guarantee than that.
You don't have to trust me. You can do what you want."
"How do I know I
won't have nothing but trouble from you along the way, trying to run
everything? The way you're bossing me around now?"
Calvin rose from his
chair. "I can see, gentlemen, that some of you are more interested in
being the big boss than in overcoming whatever powers these Mexica get from all
the blood they spill. I apologize for wasting your time. I hear that the Mexica
castrate the big boss before they cut out his heart. It's an honor you're
welcome to."
He started for the door.
Calvin didn't
hesitate. He just kept on walking. Out into the street. And still no one ran
after him. Well, doggone it.
No, there was somebody.
Jim Bowie—Calvin recognized his heartfire. And he was stopping and throwing a—
Calvin ducked down and
to the left.
A big heavy knife
quivered from the wooden wall right where Calvin's head used to be.
Calvin leapt up,
furious. In a moment, Jim Bowie was there, grinning. Calvin ripped out a long
string of French profanities—eloquent enough that a couple of people nearby,
who spoke French, looked at him with candid admiration.
"What's got your
dander up, Mr. Maker?" said Jim Bowie. "Of course I aimed right at
your head. Your brother would have made my knife vanish in midair."
"I have more
respect for cutlery," said Calvin. Though truth to tell, he could no more make
a knife disappear in mid flight than he could stop the world from spinning. He
could work with mugs because they mostly sat on the table, very very still.
"The way I see
it," said
"I'm not
mad," said Calvin.
"Glad to hear
it," said
Calvin wanted to blast
him into pieces on the spot. But he had his own rules, even if they weren't
So Calvin only nodded
and walked on toward the dock. "Well," said Calvin, "I reckon
that's a wise choice. You run on back to Steve Austin and tell him I said good
luck."
"That fog
yesterday," said Calvin. "That was mine."
"Easy enough to
claim you caused the weather. Me, I've been running winter ever since my old
pap left me the job in his will."
In reply, Calvin
cooled the air right around them. "I think we got us a fog starting up
right here, right now."
And sure enough, the
moisture in the air began to condense until
"All right,"
said
"My knack isn't
fog-making," said Calvin. "Or weather, or any other one thing."
A fish flopped up out
of the water onto the dock. And another. And a couple more. And pretty soon
there were scores of fish flopping around on the wooden planks right among the passersby.
Naturally, some of the fishermen on the dock started picking them up—some to
throw the fish back, others to try to keep them to sell. An argument
immediately sprang up. "Those fish must be sick, you can't sell
them!" To which the reply came, "He don't feel sick to me, a
fish this strong!" Whereupon the fish flapped out of the man's arms and
back into the water.
"If you ever need
fish," said Calvin.
"Oh, yeah,
sure," said
For a moment Calvin
wanted to slap him. Couldn't he recognize a miracle when he saw one? He would
have made a perfect Israelite, complaining at Moses because all they had was
manna and no meat.
Then
"So I pass your test?" said Calvin, letting
a little pissed-offedness seep into his voice.
"Sure enough," said
"But do you pass mine?"
No sooner had Calvin
said this than he felt a knife blade poking into his belly. He hadn't seen it
coming, not in
"If I wanted you dead," said
"I reckon you got a knack a man can
respect," said Calvin.
"Oh, that ain't my knack," said
But when he got up, he
found that he was surrounded by duties impossible to avoid. Things he had to do
before he could even void his bladder. Only his mind wasn't clear, and his eyes
were still bleary with sleep, and as people bombarded him with questions he
found that he couldn't bring himself to care about the answers.
"I don't
know," he said to the woman demanding to know where they were supposed to
find breakfast in this godforsaken place.
"I don't
know," he said to the man who tremulously asked, in broken English,
whether more soldiers would come in boats.
And when Papa Moose
came to him and asked if he thought there was fever on this side of the lake,
Alvin barked his "I don't know" so loudly that Papa Moose visibly
recoiled.
Arthur Stuart was
lying nearby, looking like a gator sunning itself on the shore of the lake. Or
a dead man.
Arthur was all right.
Just tired. At least as worn out as
"Let this man
be," said La Tia. "You see he bone tired, him?"
"I got to pee," he said softly.
"We set folks to digging latrines," she
said. "We got one not far off, you just lean on me."
"Thank you," he said.
She led him along a
short path through the underbrush till he came to a reeking pit with a plank
across it. "I think this wouldn't be hard to find in the dark," he
said.
"Bodies got to do
what bodies got to do," she said. "I leave you alone now."
She did, and he did
all his business. A lot of leaves had been piled up for wiping, and a couple of
buckets of water for washing, and he had to admit he felt better. A little more
awake. A little more vigorous. And hungry.
When he came back to
the shore, he saw that La Tia was doing a good job of keeping folks calm. She
had a line of people waiting to talk to her, but she answered them all with
patience. But it's not like she had a plan, nor was she organizing things for
the journey ahead. Nor did it seem that anybody was working on the problem of
food.
Mama Squirrel and Papa
Moose were not too far off.
"I'm too big to
be leaning on you," said
"You already did,
and I was strong enough," she said.
"I'm feeling
better." But then he did lean on her, because his balance wasn't all that
good yet, and the sand on the shore was irregular and treacherous, the damp
grass just inland of it slippery and creased with ditches and rivulets.
"Thank you," he told her again. Though he still tried not to put any
weight on her.
Papa Moose strode up
to him—strode, his legs showing no sign of his old limp. "I'm sorry I
plagued you the moment you woke up," said Papa Moose.
"I'm glad to see
you're doing better your own self," said
Papa Moose embraced
him. "It's a blessing from God, but I still thank the hands that did God's
work on me."
"For the
children," she said defensively.
"I know it's for
the children," said
Mama Squirrel weighed
this. He could see that it plain hurt her even to think of sharing away what
her children would need. But she also knew that it would hurt to see other
children starve, when hers had plenty. "All right, we'll share it out with
children. Bread and cheese, anyway. Nothing we can do with raw potatoes and
uncooked grain right now."
"Good
thinking," said
"You dreaming,
you think they all line up quietly," said Dead Mary.
"But if we ask,
some will," said
"Asking is
easy," said Dead Mary. She took off at a trot, holding up her skirt to hop
over obstructions on the way.
People were pretty
orderly in line, after all—but those adults that had no children were getting loud
and angry. As
"Thank you for
your patience,"
A stout black woman
called out, "Starving to death don't look like freedom to me!"
"You got a few
good hours of life left in you," called
Soon he was with La
Tia again, and Dead Mary and her mother. "We need to organize," he
said. "Divide people up into groups and pick leaders."
"Good idea,"
said La Tia. Then she waited for more.
"But I don't know
any of these folks," said
"They don't like
me," said Dead Mary.
"But they know
you," said
"You get mighty
hungry, maybe, you," said La Tia.
It took longer than
The way things worked
out, that gave them ten leaders of a hundred households that sat down on the
People fancied titles,
"Reckon that makes you 'general,' " said
Arthur Stuart.
"It makes me '
"I be general," said La Tia.
"Not this boy. Who gonna follow this boy, him?"
"You will," said
La Tia wanted to
answer him sharply, but she held her tongue and listened while
"We got no place
to go," said
"By sea,"
said Dead Mary. "We need boats."
"Boats do us no
good without willing crews," said
"Where we go,
then?" asked La Tia.
"Well, General La
Tia," said
"Don't take us to
red land!" said Rien.
"We can't stay
there," said
"But I don't know
the way."
"Go north for a
while, and then find a road that leads west to the Mizzippy," said
"But what if an
army comes?" said Dead Mary. "We got no fighters here, except maybe a
few of the French men. We got no guns."
"That's why
General La Tia has to consult with Arthur Stuart here."
"I don't got any
guns," said Arthur.
"But you know
what to do with any guns that are raised against us," said
"No," said
La Tia. "I can do that. I know how to do that, you can't lay so much on
that boy, him."
Arthur nodded
gratefully. "Watching heartfires ain't as easy for me as for you, Alvin.
And making fog—that's what Calvin done, not me."
"But it's not
hard," said
"Heck,
Everybody laughed at
that, but in truth they were all frightened—of the dangers on the road, but,
even more, of their own inexperience. It wasn't the blind leading the blind,
really. More like the clumsy leading the clumsy.
"And one more
thing," said
"How we gonna
throw out this angry hitting man?" said La Tia. "Who gonna do
that?"
"The general will
ask some strong men to put the offender out of the camp," said
"What if he got
family, him?"
Arthur snorted softly.
"Arthur
knows," said
"That why you
going?" asked La Tia.
"That's
right," said
He stared her down.
When she looked away, it occurred to him that maybe that didn't happen to her
very often. Giving way like that.
"When you
leaving?" asked one of the colonels.
"Not till we've
had our first meal," said
Margaret walked up the
stairs into the attic room where she had slept as a child. It was a storeroom
now. Father kept a room on the main floor for her, when she visited. She had
tried to get him to rent it out like any other room in the roadhouse, but he
wouldn't do it. "If other people pay to sleep in it," he said,
"it ain't your room."
It was the room where
Peggy—"Little
Peggy" then, since her mother was alive, and doing the midwifery—had a job
to do. She rushed to the woman lying on the bed and laid hands on her womb. She
saw so many things in that moment. How the child was lying in the womb. How the
mother was clamped down and couldn't open up to let the child out. Her mother
had done a spell with a ring of keys then, and the womb opened, and out came
the baby.
She had never seen a
baby whose heartfire told such a dire story. The brightest heartfire she had
ever seen—but when she cast her eyes into the paths of his future, there were
none at all. No paths. No future. This child was going to die, and before he
ever made a single choice.
Except... there was
one thing she could do. One tiny dim pathway leading out of all the dark
futures, but that one opened out into hundreds, into thousands of glorious
futures. And in that one narrow gate, the one that led to everything for this
child, she saw herself, Little Peggy Guester, five years old, reach out and
take a caul of flesh from the baby's face. So she did it, and all the deaths
fell away, and all the lives became possible.
I gave him life. In
that room.
But just the once. She
took the caul and saved it, and later brought it up here into the attic, to her
room, and hid it in a box. And as the baby grew up into a little boy, and then
a bigger boy, she used tiny pinches of the caul to access his own knack, which
he was too young and inexperienced to understand.
Not that Peggy knew
much better. She learned as she went. Learned to do her work of saving his
life. For when she removed the caul from his face, thousands of bright futures
opened up for him. But on every one of those paths, he died young. And each
time she saved him from one of those deaths, another death opened up for him
farther down the road.
Alvin the miller's son
had an enemy.
But he also had a
friend who watched over him. And gradually, as more and more paths showed him
reaching adulthood, she began to see something else. A prim and austere woman,
a schoolteacher, who loved him and married him and kept him safe.
There in that attic
room, holding one of the last shreds of the caul in her hand, she realized that
the prim, austere schoolteacher was herself.
I do love him, she
thought. And I'm his wife. I have his baby inside me.
But I can't keep him
safe.
In fact, I harm him as
much as anyone now. I have no more of his caul. And it wouldn't matter if I
did. He deeply understands his knack. He knows more about the way the whole
universe works than I ever will; even when I look inside him, I can't
understand what and how he sees.
So instead of watching
over him, I use him. I found my own purpose in life, to fight slavery but also
prevent the terrible war that I see in everyone's heartfire. I have gone
everywhere and done everything, while he floundered, unsure of what he ought to
do.
And why was he unsure?
Because I have never told him.
I know the great work
he is supposed to do. But I can't tell him, because once he sets his foot on
that road, there is no saving him. He will die, and die brutally, at the hands
of men who hate him, betrayed by some that he loved. A bitter, sad death, with
his great work unfinished. And without her even there beside him. In some paths
he is alone; in others, he has friends with him. Some of those friends die,
some live. But none can save him. In fact, it's his death that saves them.
But why? Why should he
die? This is a man who could stop bullets by melting them in the air. He could
simply walk through a wall and leave the room where they corner him. He could
drop them all through the floor. He could blind them all, or fill them with
unreasoning panic to make them run away.
And yet on every path,
he does none of those things. He accepts the death they bring him. And I can't
bear it. How could
She knelt in the
little attic window where, as a five-year old, she had stood to watch Alvin's
family ride away into the west, to the place where they built a mill that
became the foundation of the town of Vigor Church. And she realized: If
A man with a wife and
children doesn't want to die. Not if he loves them, and they love him. Not if
he has hope for the future. If I just love him enough, I could save him. I've
always known that.
Yet what have I done?
I sent him to Nueva Barcelona. Knowing that if he went, he would indirectly
cause the deaths of hundreds of people. Save thousands, yes, but hundreds would
still be felled, and it won't help that it was my responsibility. In fact, it
will hurt. Because he'll cease to trust me. He'll think I love something else
more than him. That I will expend his trust in a greater cause.
But it isn't true,
I just didn't love you
the way you wanted to be loved. I loved you like that little five-year-old
girl, keeping you safe. Helping turn you away from terrible futures. Giving you
the freedom to make all the good choices you've made as a grown man.
And then taking away
your freedom by not telling you all that I knew about the consequences of your
actions. She could hear him telling her: A man isn't free if he doesn't know
all that could be known about his choice.
But if I told you,
Instead you've turned
it into something wonderful. I didn't see these paths. When you use your power
you always open doors into the future that didn't exist before. So I didn't see
that bridge you made across the water, I didn't see these five thousand heartfires
you brought with you out of the city and into the wilderness. So it worked out
well, don't you see?
Except that he'll say,
"If my power opens doors to paths you didn't see, why didn't you trust me
to find my own way in Barcy?"
Or maybe he won't say
it. There are paths where he doesn't say that.
She reached down and
laid her hands on her own belly, above the womb where her baby's heart was
beating. A healthy baby, with a heartfire as bright and strong as she could
have reasonably hoped for.
But nothing like
Which is all she could
have hoped for. An ordinary child— talented in this, having a knack with that,
but all within the realms of the expected. This little boy will have no enemy
pursuing him every day of his life. And instead of watching him every waking
minute as I watched
God and Alvin willing,
that is. Because he may never come to me again. When he knows how I used him,
how I deceived him, what I caused him, unknowingly, to do. How I did not trust
him to make his own choices.
She sat down with her
back to the window and cried softly into her apron.
And as she wept, she
wondered: Did my mother weep like this, when my two older sisters died, each
one just a baby? No, I know what those tears are like. Even though my first
baby didn't live long enough for me to get to know him, I laid that little body
in the ground and I know at least something of what she went through, laying
her babies in their graves.
Nor do I weep the way
my mother would have wept, if she had known about my father and his love
for Mistress Modesty. I kept that secret from her because I saw the terrible
consequences of her learning the truth, how it would destroy them both.
No, the way I weep now
is the way my father would have wept, if he had known that his betrayal of my
mother was sure to be discovered, and he could do nothing to prevent it. My sin
was not adultery, to be sure. I've been faithful to
Bitter tears of
anticipated shame.
And with that thought,
the tears dried up. I weep for myself. It's myself I'm pitying here.
Well, I won't do it.
I'll bear the consequences of what I did. And I'll try to make the best of what
is left between us. And maybe this baby will heal us.
Maybe.
She hated all the maybes.
For on this matter, as so many others, the fog that blocked so many of
All her hopes were in
the hidden parts of his heartfire. Because the paths that were not hidden gave
her no cause for hope. There'd be no happiness for her on any of those roads.
Because a life without
Calvin stood on the
dock and watched the riverboats pull out, one by one. Colonel Adan had done his
planning well. The steamboats pulled out on schedule, and there was no danger
of collision.
Unfortunately, there
were also men determined to get out of this city whether they were part of the
official expedition or not. So in the midst of the attempt to order the
steamboats into a convoy for the passage upstream, two big rowboats swung out
into the river, with six men pulling at the oars of each and another dozen or
so under arms, many of them foolishly standing up and huzzahing their own
bravado.
Calvin laughed aloud
to see them. What fools. So eager for death, and so sure to find it.
Sooner, in fact, than
Calvin himself anticipated. Though in retrospect, it seemed almost inevitable.
Too much order always seemed to bore God or Fate or
Sure enough, one of
the rowboats, with its pilot yelling for a steamboat to get out of the way,
tried to insert itself between the big riverboats. But steamboats don't stop
quickly, and half-drunken rowers don't maneuver well when they try to cross the
wake of a steamboat. The captain of the steamboat saw the danger, and some of
the Spanish soldiers on board fired at the rowers.
That provoked the
armed men in the other rowboat to stand up and fire a volley at the Spanish
soldiers. Not a shot hit home, for the obvious reason that so many muskets
firing in the same direction at once had such a recoil that the boat rocked
over and capsized. Some of the men came up sputtering. Some came up screaming.
Some didn't come up—apparently unable to remove their boots in the water or get
rid of all the lead balls they carried in their ammunition pouches.
How short life is for
fools, thought Calvin. They go out on the water with no thought about how to
get ashore if the boat should fail them.
Meanwhile, panicked at
the warning shots the Spanish had fired, and some of them thinking that a
Spanish cannonball had sunk the other rowboat, the rowers on the first boat
tried to change direction. Trouble was, they hadn't agreed on which direction
to change to, and so the oars interfered with each other and the rowboat was
swept by the current right back into the bows of the big riverboat.
The collision broke
half the oars and turned some of them into spears that pierced the bodies of
their erstwhile masters. Some of the men jumped into the water; those that
didn't were borne under when the steamboat pushed the rowboat over.
It was bedlam on the
docks, with some people trying to help the swimmers ashore, and a couple even
diving in to help save some of the drowning men. Smaller rowboats quickly put
out to help with the rescue. But most of the people were laughing and hooting
and catcalling, having a grand old time at the expense of those fools. And
while he didn't do any of the catcalling, Calvin had to admit he was one of the
laughers.
But even if Calvin had
been able to think of something like that quick enough, and even if he had
enough control to do anything useful at such a distance, he wouldn't have
tried. The world was no poorer for the loss of a few such fools. Indeed, it was
downright generous of these "brave" drunk nitwits to improve the
breeding population of Barcy by removing themselves from it.
All fools on the river
today, thought Calvin. Because the ones following such careful plans were going
to end up looking just as stupid as these clowns, when
Which was probably
about how the expedition to
But not Calvin. He
might go along with the plans of fools as long as they looked useful, or at
least entertaining. But he would never turn his life over to someone else's
plan. His own plans were the only plans he ever followed.
Not like
9
Expeditions
It
took some doing, but they found the
nicest dresses in the whole company that would fit them, and decked out Dead
Mary and her mother, Rien, so they could pass for slaveowners. Slightly shabby,
perhaps, but it wasn't completely impossible that they would have a mammy slave
like La Tia seemed to be and a sturdy young man like Arthur Stuart.
It's not like
strangers would be rare in this country, either. Ten years ago the only white
folks here was trappers or fugitives. But when most of the reds who didn't want
to live white crossed over the Mizzippy, it opened up this land to settlement.
Around here, if your house had been standing for five years, you were an
old-timer. So nobody'd be too surprised to see two ladies of a family they
didn't know—or so they hoped.
I'm a white man, and
not a word I say would be useful to you after. I'll be watching in case anything
goes wrong, but you've got to do it yourselves."
La Tia and Arthur
Stuart waited just off the porch as Dead Mary and Rien stepped up to clap hands
and call someone to the door. Soon it was opened by an elderly black man.
"Good
evening," he said gravely.
"Good
evening," said Dead Mary. She was doing the talking because her French
accent was not so pronounced as Rien's. And because she could do a better job
of faking high-class conversation. "Sir, my mother and I would like to
speak to the master of the house, if we may."
"Master of the
house away," said the old man. "Mistress of the house poorly. But the
young master, he here."
"Could you fetch
him for us, then?"
"Would you like
to come and rest inside, where it's shady?" asked the old man.
"No thank
you," said Mary. She had no intention of getting out of sight of Arthur
Stuart or La Tia.
Soon the old man
returned, and brought with him a young man who could not have been much over
fourteen years old. Behind him hovered a white man of middle age. Not the
master of the house, and not a slave, so who was he?
Mary addressed the
young man. "My name is Marie Moore," she said. They had agreed an
English last name would be better for her, suggesting that her father had
simply married a Frenchwoman. "My mother is shy about speaking
English."
It was the middle-aged man who leapt to answer.
"Parleyvous francais, madame?"
"Mr. Tutor," said the boy, "they come
to see me."
"Came, young
master," said Mr. Tutor.
"This is not my
lesson right this very moment, if you please." So the boy was faking being
high class just as much as Mary. He turned back to her with an irked look on
his face, but quickly changed it to an expression of dignity. "What do you
wish? If you wish to have water or a bite to eat, the kitchen's around
back."
This was not a good
sign, that he was treating them like beggars, when he should take them for
slave-owning gentry like himself.
Fortunately, Mr. Tutor
saw the gaffe at once. "Young master, you can't ask ladies to go around
back as if they were servants or beggars!" To Mary and Rien he said,
"Please excuse his lapse. He has never met a visitor at the door before,
and so—"
"They're not
ladies," said the boy. "Look at their dresses. I've seen better
dresses on slaves."
"Master Roy, you
are being impolite, I fear."
"Mr. Tutor, you
forget your place," said
Mary smiled and put on
her archest high-class voice. "There's danger about, and yet you do not
invite two ladies inside because our dresses are not new enough to suit you.
Your mother will be pleased when all the neighbor ladies hear how we were
turned away at your door because the young master of the house was so
proud." She turned her back on him and started down the stairs. "Come
along, Mother, this is not a polite house."
"Young master!" said Mr. Tutor, in great distress.
"You always think
I do wrong, but I tell you I know they're a bunch of liars, it's my knack."
Mary turned around.
"You say that you have a knack for discerning a lie?"
"I always
know," said
"You must be
quite a help to your father," said Mary.
"I am," said
the boy proudly.
"But not all lies
are alike. My mother and I have fallen on hard times, but we still pretend to
be ladies of substance because that allows us to uphold our dignity. But I would
be surprised if we were the first ladies to come to this house planning to
deceive you about our rank in the world."
The boy grinned
sheepishly. "Well, you got that aright. When her friends come to call, the
lies come thicker and faster than hail in a storm."
"Sometimes you
should let a harmless lie stand, sir, without naming it so, for the sake of
good manners."
"I could not have
said that better," said Mr. Tutor. "The young master is still so young."
"They can see that
I'm young," said
"Lemonade would
be lovely," said Mary. "But before we accept your kind invitation, we
heard that your name is
"Why, we took our
name from what we grow. Roy Cottoner, and my father is Abner Cottoner, after
some general in the Bible."
"And in French," said Mary, "your first name means 'king.' "
"I know
that," said
They followed him into
the house. Mary had no idea if they were doing things properly—should Mother go
first, or should she?—but they figured Roy wouldn't know, and besides, they
were already tagged as impostors, so it wouldn't hurt if they got a few things
wrong.
"Master Cottoner," said Mary.
"Our servants are thirsty. Is there..."
He laughed. "Oh,
them. Old Bart, our houseboy, he'll show them around back to the cistern."
Sure enough, the
elderly black man was already closing the front door behind him as he headed
out to where Arthur Stuart and La Tia were waiting. Mary wished she had more
confidence in Arthur Stuart's knack. But
Mr. Tutor looked
mortally offended. "I am not a servant in this house, sir."
"Well what do you
think, I should go tell them myself?"
Mary suspected, from
what she knew of manners, that that was indeed what he ought to do, but Mr.
Tutor merely narrowed his eyes and went off to obey. Mary was just as happy to
have him out of the room.
She watched as
"Master
Cottoner," said Mary. "We have, as you guessed, come to ask for
aid."
"Father isn't
here," said
"It happens that
we don't need money. What we need is permission to bring a large group of
people onto your land, and feed them from your larder, and let them sleep the
night."
"We are
indeed," said Mary. "There are five thousand of us, and we'd rather
have your help offered freely. But if we have to, we'll just take what we need.
We have hundreds of hungry children among us, and we don't mean for them to go
hungry."
"You get out of
my house," said
For the first time,
Mother spoke. "You are young," she said. "But it is the essence
of dignity to pretend to desire what you cannot prevent."
"My father'll
shoot you down like dogs when he gets home."
"
"They're a bunch
of runaways from Barcy, Mama! They're threatening to take food and such from
us."
"That's no reason
not to be polite," said the woman. "I am Ruth Cottoner, mistress of
this house. Please forgive my ill-mannered son."
"You shouldn't
apologize for me, Mama, not to thieves and liars!"
"If I weren't so
ill, I'd have reared him better," said Ruth sadly.
Then she pulled up a
musket that she had been holding behind her leg. She aimed it straight at Rien
and before Mary could even scream, she pulled the trigger.
The gunpowder fizzled
and sparked, and a double handful of smallshot dribbled out the end of the
barrel.
"How odd,"
said Ruth. "My husband said it was loaded and ready to fire."
Arthur Stuart appeared
behind her. "It was," he said. "But sometimes guns just don't do
what you tell them."
She turned around to
face him, and now for the first time there was fear on her face. "Whose
slave are you! What are you doing in my house!"
"I'm no man's
slave," said Arthur Stuart, "nor any woman's neither. I'm just a
fellow who doesn't take kindly to folks pointing muskets at my friends."
La Tia appeared behind
him. "Ma'am," she said, "you lay down that foolish gun and
sit." La Tia was carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and six
glasses. "We gonna have a talk, us."
"You leave my
mother alone!" shouted
"You will die for laying a hand on my son,"
said Ruth.
"We'll all die someday," said Arthur Stuart.
"Now you heard the lady. Set."
"You have invaded my home."
"This ain't no
home," said Arthur Stuart. "This is a prison, where sixty black
people are held captive against their will. You are one of the captors, and for
this crime you surely deserve terrible punishment, ma'am. But we ain't here to
punish nobody, so maybe you best be keeping your thoughts of punishing us to
yourself. Now set."
She sat. Arthur
propelled
La Tia put the tray on
the small serving table and began to fill the glasses with lemonade. "Just
so you know," said La Tia, "we notice that some fool has lock all the
black folk into their cabins. In the heat of the day, that be so mean to
do."
"So I let them
all out," said Arthur. "They're drinking their fill at the pump right
now, but pretty soon they'll be helping our company find places to camp on your
lawns and in your barns, and setting out a supper to feed five thousand. It's
like being in the Bible, don't you think?"
"We don't have food enough for so many!"
said Ruth.
"If you don't, we'll impose on the hospitality of
some of your neighbors."
"My husband will be back any time! Very
soon!"
"We'll be
watching for him," said Arthur. "I don't think you need to fret—we
won't let him accidentally hurt somebody."
Mary couldn't help but
admire how cool he was, as if he was enjoying this. And yet there was no malice
in it.
"He'll raise the county
and have you all hanged!" said
"Even the women
and children?" asked Arthur Stuart mildly. "That's a dangerous
precedent. Fortunately, we aren't killers, so we won't hang you."
"I bet Mr.
Tutor's already run for help," said
"I take it Mr.
Tutor is that soft-bodied white man who has read more books than he
understood."
"He's standing
out in the yard with his pants down around his ankles, while some of the
illiterate black folks are reading to him from the Bible. It seems they heard
him make a big deal about how black folks couldn't be taught to read because
their brains wasn't big enough or they got baked in the sun or some such
theory, and they're proving him wrong at this moment."
"You were busy
out there," said Rien.
"I'm a sick and
dying woman," said Ruth. "It's cruel of you to do this to me in the
last weeks of my life."
Arthur looked at her
and smiled. "And how many weeks of freedom were you going to give any of
your slaves, before they died?"
"We treat our
servants well, thank you!" said Ruth.
As if in answer to
her, Old Bart came into the room. He didn't walk slowly now. His stride was
bold and quick, and he walked up to Ruth and spat in her lap. At once
"No!" cried
Mary, and her mother also cried out, "Non!"
"We don't hit
nobody," said La Tia softly. "And no spitting, neither."
Old Bart turned to
her. "The folks out back, they all wanted to do it, but I said, Let me do
it just the once for all of us. And they chose me for the job. You know this
boy already done had his way with two of the girls, and one of them not even
got her womanlies yet."
"That's a lie!" shouted
"My son is not capable of—"
"Don't you try to
tell black folks what white folks is capable of," said Arthur Stuart.
"But we're done with all that now. We ain't come here, sir, to bring
vengeance or justice. Just freedom."
"You bring me freedom,
and then say I can't use it?" said Old Bart.
"I know what you
doing," said La Tia. "You a house slave, you try make them field
slave forget you sleep indoors on a bed, you."
Old Bart glared at
her. "Every day I got them treating me like dirt, they in my face all the
time, you think a indoor bed make up for that? I hate them more than
anybody. Me slapping him stead of killing him, that what mercy look
like."
Arthur Stuart nodded.
"I got respect for your feelings, sir. But right now I don't care about
justice nor mercy neither. I care about getting five thousand people safe to
the Mizzippy.
And I don't need to
have the whole country stirred up by a bunch of stories about slaves slapping
the children of their former masters."
"They ain't gonna
tell no slapping story," said Old Bart. "They gonna tell that we killed
this white boy and raped that white woman, and cut that stupid
teacher all up. So as long as they gonna tell it, why not do a little of
it?"
Ruth gasped.
"You already done
all you gonna do," said Arthur Stuart. "I told you why. So if you
raise a hand against anybody else while we're here, sir, I'll have to stop
you."
Old Bart smiled
patronizingly at Arthur Stuart. "I'd like to see you try."
"No you
wouldn't," said Arthur.
Mary tried to defuse the
situation. She rose from her chair and approached Ruth Cottoner. "Please
give me your hand," she said.
"Don't touch
me!" cried Ruth. "I won't give my hand to an invader and a
looter!"
"I know something
about disease," said Mary. "I know more than your doctor."
"In Barcy,"
said Arthur Stuart, "everybody came to her to know if they was gonna get
better when they was sick."
"I'll do no
harm," said Mary. "And I'll tell you the truth of what I see. Your
son will know if I'm lying."
Slowly the woman
raised her hand and put it in Mary's.
Mary felt the woman's
body as if it became part of her own, and at once knew where the cancer was.
Centered in her womb, but spread out, too, eating away at her inside.
"It's bad," she said. "It started in your womb, but it's everywhere
now. The pain must be terrible."
Ruth closed her eyes.
"Mama," said
Mary turned to Arthur Stuart. "Can you ...?"
"Not me," said Arthur Stuart. "It's too
much for me."
"But
"You can ask
him," said Arthur Stuart. "It might be too much for him, too, you
know. He ain't no miracle worker."
"You have some
kind of healer with you?" said Ruth bitterly. "I've had healers come
before, the charlatans."
"He ain't mostly
a healer," said Arthur Stuart. "He only does it kind of, you know,
when he runs into somebody who needs it."
Mary let go of the
woman's hand and walked to the window. Already the people were walking onto the
land in their groups of ten households and fifty households. Blacks from the
plantation were guiding them to various buildings and sheds, and there were
noises of pots and pans, of chopping and chattering coming from the kitchen.
Among the swarming
people, it was easy to pick out
Verily Cooper's thighs
always got sore when he rode. Sore on the outside, and sore in the muscles as well.
There were people who throve on riding, hour after hour. Verily wasn't one of
them. And he shouldn't have to be. Lawyers prospered, didn't they? Lawyers rode
in carriages. On trains.
Riding a horse you had
to think all the time, and work, too. The horse didn't do it all, not by any
means. You always had to be alert, or the horse would sense that no one was in
control and you'd find yourself following a route to whatever the horse
happened to smell that seemed interesting.
And then there was the
chafing. The only way to keep the saddle from chafing the insides of your
thighs was to stand in the stirrups a little, hold yourself steady. But that
was tiring on the muscles of your legs. Maybe with time he'd develop more
strength and endurance, but most days he didn't take such long rides on
horseback. So it was raise yourself in the stirrups until your thighs ached,
and then sit and let your thighs chafe.
Either way your legs
burned.
Why should I do this for
He was ashamed of
himself for thinking such disloyal thoughts, but he couldn't help what entered
his head, could he? For a while he'd been a friend and traveling companion to
He could set a broken
bone—which wasn't a bad knack to have—but he couldn't heal an open wound. He
could make a barrel fit so tight it would never leak, but he couldn't open a
steel lock by melting the metal. And when
Yet
And not making much
money at lawyering.
I'm a good lawyer, Verily
told himself. I'm as good at law as I am at coopery. Maybe better. But I'll
never plead before the Supreme Court or the King's Bench or any other lofty
venue. I'll never have a case that makes me famous—except defending
And here his attention
had wandered again, and the horse was not on the main trail. Where am I this
time? Will I have to backtrack?
Just ahead the road he
was on crossed a little stream. Only instead of a ford, as most such roads
would have, there was a stout bridge—a covered one, too—only ten feet long, but
well above the water, and showing no signs of weakening even though as Verily
knew, all the covered bridges on this road had been built by Alvin's father and
older brothers, so no other travelers would lose a beloved son and brother
because some insignificant river like the Hatrack happened to be in flood on
the very day they had to cross.
So the horse had taken
a turn somewhere and now they were headed, not direct west to
What I need is to find
a lawyer in
I'll take a look at
And I won't go through
He turned his horse
and did not go far before he found the fork in the road where the horse had
taken the wrong turning. No, be honest, he told himself. Where you took
the wrong turning, hoping to flee like Jonah from your duty.
Arthur Stuart watched
So when
Then
In answer, she placed
her hands in his. And there, sitting in the parlor, with all the noise of the
business of camp outside, and some of it inside, too, as people bounded in from
time to time, demanding a decision from La Tia or Rien, Alvin set to work
changing her inside.
Arthur Stuart tried to
follow along, and this time
But some things he could
see. How, when
"I feel sick," she murmured.
"But not in pain,"
"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
She shook her head. "The pain's gone, that's
all."
"Well, that's something, ain't it?" said
She began to weep.
At once
"She's crying in relief," said Arthur
Stuart.
"No she's not," said
"You hurt her!" said
"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
"You can't come back here," she said.
"Damn right he can't," said
"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
"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
"For a few hours,
maybe," she said.
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.
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
It was no riverboat
they boarded for the
Calvin's respect grew
for Sieve Austin's ability to get things done. Naturally, there were plenty of
people willing to put up money to conquer
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
Not that Calvin didn't
know it all along.
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.
Around him the other
soldiers of the expedition were laughing and joking and boasting about what
they'd do in
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,"
"It's weather"
said Arthur Stuart. "I'm making weather."
"You're making a
fence around some people who need protection," said
"I'm not gonna
start no storm," Arthur Stuart said scornfully. "You know me all
these years, and you think I'm Calvin?"
"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?"
And then it was time for
"You have to sleep," said Dead Mary to him.
"Don't go till morning."
"Night time's the best for me," said
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
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
Then again, for all
Arthur Stuart knew, women were always falling in love with
But this time
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
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
It's not like
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
Good thing
And the last thing
So when it came time
for
Only Arthur Stuart,
and he didn't run up to
When he looked away
from where
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
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 keep 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.
"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.
"I got to learn
them first," said Arthur. "It's not like I already got all possible languages
inside my head."
She laughed lightly.
"What is it like, traveling with him all the time?"
"Like being with
your brother-in-law who sometimes treats you like a kid and sometimes treats
you like a person."
She smiled and shook
her head. "It must be wonderful, to see him do these noble things."
"He usually does
no more than one noble deed afore dinner, and then he's done for the day."
"You're teasing
me," she said.
"You want to know
what it's like?" said Arthur Stuart. "Just ask your ma how thrilling
it is every time she sees you find out whether somebody's sick, and whether
they'll die of it."
"How could you ever get used to something like
this?"
"I'm not trying to get used to it," said
Arthur. "I'm trying to learn to do it."
"Why? Why do you need to know, when he can
do it so much better?"
Didn't she have any
idea how hurtful it was to say such a thing? "Well, it's a good thing I
did learn something, don't you think?" he said. "Or we'd have to have
a bunch of watchmen out tonight, and in this group, how many reliable guards do
you think we'd find?"
"So you really made the fog? He didn't do
it?"
"He started it, to show me how. I made the
rest."
"And you can do it tomorrow?"
"I hope so,"
said Arthur Stuart, " 'cause we got to leave this fog behind. If we stayed
a second night here, this plantation wouldn't have anything left to eat and the
Cottoners would starve."
"They won't
starve—they don't have all those slaves to feed now, remember?" She lay
back on the grass. "If I could travel with him, I would be happy every
minute of every day."
"Don't work that
way for me," said Arthur Stuart. "About every other day, I stub my
toe or eat something that makes me queasy. Otherwise, though, it's pretty much
ecstasy."
"Why do you tease me? All I'm doing is telling
you what's in my heart."
"He's a married man," said Arthur Stuart.
"And his wife is my sister."
"Don't be jealous for your sister," said
Dead Mary. "I don't love him that way."
Yes you do, thought Arthur Stuart. "Glad to hear
it," he said.
"Can you help me?" she said.
"Help you what?"
"This globe of crystal water he made, that I've
been carrying with me—"
"As I recall, you
had a couple of boys who were sweet on you pushing that wheelbarrow most of the
day."
She waved his tease
away. "I look in it and what I see frightens me."
"What do you
see?"
"All the deaths
in the world," she said. "So many I can't even tell who is doing the
dying."
Arthur Stuart
shuddered. "I don't know how the thing works. Maybe you only see what
you've been trained to see. You already know how to see death, so that's what
you see."
She nodded. "That makes sense. I was going to ask
you what you see."
"My mother," said Arthur Stuart.
"Flying. Carrying me to freedom."
"So you were born in slavery."
"My mother spent all her strength and died of it,
getting me away."
"How brave of her. How sad for you."
"I had family. A
couple of families. A black one, the
"And all before you were twenty."
"I don't reckon we're done yet," said Arthur
Stuart.
"So you can tease me, but I can't tease
you?"
"I didn't know you were teasing."
"So you don't speak all the
languages." She laughed at him.
"If you don't mind, maybe it's time for
sleep."
"Don't be mad at
me, Prentice Maker. We have a lot of work to do together. We should be
friends."
"We are," said Arthur Stuart. "If you
want to be."
"I do."
He thought, but did not say: Just so you can use me to
stay close to
"Do you?" she said.
Does it matter what I
want? "Of course," he said. "This is all going to work better if
we're friends."
"And someday
you'll help me understand what I see in
"I don't even
understand what I see in my soup," said Arthur Stuart. "But I'll
try."
She rolled onto one
arm and leaned toward him and kissed his forehead. "I will sleep better knowing
you're my friend and I can learn from you."
Then she got up and
left.
You might sleep
better, thought Arthur Stuart, but I won't.
10
Mizzippy
Leaving Arthur in
charge of all the makery that this exodus required was dangerous, not because
there was any ill will in the young man, but because there was simply so much
he didn't know. Not just about makery, either, but about life, about what the
consequences of each action were likely to be. Not that
Worse, the actual
authority in the camp was held by La Tia, and—to a lesser extent—by Dead Mary
and her mother. La Tia he had only met the day before the crossing of the lake.
She was a woman who was used to being more powerful than anyone around her—how
would she deal with Arthur Stuart when
And Dead Mary. It was
obvious she was enamored of Arthur Stuart—the way she watched him, enjoyed his
company, laughed at his wit. Of course the boy would never see that, he wasn't
used to the company of women, and since Dead Mary wasn't a flirt or a tart, the
signs would be hard for him to recognize, being so inexperienced. But what if,
in
He also had misgivings
about bringing along the slaves from the plantations where they stopped along
the way. But as La Tia said, when he suggested they might not want to swell
their numbers: "This a march of freedom, man! Who you gonna leave behind?
These folk need less freedom? Why we the chosen ones? They as much Israelites
as us!"
Israelites. Of course
everybody was comparing this to the exodus from
But not all. There was
a lot of anger in this group. A lot of people who had come to hate all
authority, and not just that of the Spanish or the slaveowners. The anger in
Old Bart, the butler in the Cottoner house—there was so much fury in his heart,
But then they'd come
to a new plantation where slaves had suffered worse than they did on the
Cottoner place, and Old Bart's anger would rekindle, and the others from his
old plantation would see the fire in him and it would stir it up in them, too.
That was just human nature, and it made the situation dangerous.
How many others were
there, with bits of authority like Old Bart's? Not to mention the ones that
would like to make trouble just because they liked stirring things up. It's not
like they'd get to say, at each plantation, We're gonna free all of you what's
nice and forgiving, anybody who's got any nastiness in them, or is too angry to
act peaceful, you're gonna stay here under the lash.
Like Moses, they'd
take everybody that had been in bondage. And like Moses, they couldn't guess if
some of them might find some way of making a golden calf that would destroy the
exodus before they got to the promised land.
Promised land. That
was the biggest worry. Where in the world was he going to take them? Where was
the land of milk and honey? It's not as if the Lord had appeared to
And yet he was the
only angel
Oh, there had been
miracles enough in
With all this running
through his mind, over and over again, reaching no conclusion, he soon found
that his legs were tired and his feet were sore—something that hadn't happened
to him while running since Ta-Kumsaw had first taught him to hear the greensong
and let it fill him with the strength of all the life around him.
This won't do, he realized.
If I run like a normal man, I'll cover ground so slowly it will be more than
one night before I reach the river. I have to shut all this out of my mind and
let the song have me.
So he did the only
thing he could think of that would shut all else out of his mind.
He reached out,
searching for Margaret's heartfire, which he always knew as well as a man might
know his own self. There she was . .. and there, just under her own heartfire,
was that glowing spark of the baby that they had made together.
Exploring this new
life, this manling-to-be, all other worries left Alvin and then the greensong
came to him, and his son was part of it, that beating heart was part of the
rhythm of the trees and small animals and grass and, yes, even the slave-grown
cotton, all of it alive. The birds overhead, the insects crawling in and on the
earth, the flies and skeeters, they were all part of the music. The gators in
the banks of languid rivers and stagnant pools, the deer that still browsed in
the stands of wood that had not yet made way for the cotton fields, the small
herbs with healing and poison in them, the fish in the water, and the hum, hum,
hum of sleeping people who, in the nighttime, became part of the world again
instead of fighting against it the way most folks did the livelong day.
So it was that he was
not tired, not sore, but alert and filled with vigor and well-being when he
reached the shores of the Mizzippy. He had crossed many a wagon track but
nothing so fine as to be called a road, for in these parts the best road was
the water, and the greatest highway of all was the Mizzippy.
Though it was night,
there were stars enough, and a sliver of moon.
There was no doubt
that Tenskwa-Tawa knew
It wasn't something
Or not. After all,
it's not as if Tenskwa-Tawa came and went at
But if Tenskwa-Tawa
didn't come at all, what would that mean? That his answer was no? That he would
not let these five thousand children of Israel—or at least children of God, or
maybe Tenskwa-Tawa saw them as nothing more than the children of their
powerless parents, but human beings all the same—was it possible he would not
let them pass? What would
He looked toward his
left, not with his eyes, but searching for the heartfires of the northbound expedition
that had left Barcy that afternoon to bring these runaway slaves back home.
Good—they hadn't made much progress on the first day, and were still far off.
There was a lot of anger and discomfort in the group, too, as drunks vomited
and former drunks suffered from headaches and men who wished they were drunk
grumbled at the tedium of the journey and the poor quality of the pleasures
aboard a military boat.
Even farther was the
ship that carried Calvin. Plenty of anger on that ship, too—but of a different
kind, a sort of bitter sense of entitlements long delayed. Calvin had found a
like-minded bunch, people who felt the world owed them something and was slow
to pay up. Were they really going to
Mostly, though,
Building a bridge for
just himself didn't seem to have much point to it. But it was a long swim, and
a hard one to do wearing all his clothes and carrying a golden plow—which would
make a pretty good anchor but a mighty poor raft.
So he began to make
his way up the river. The trouble was that close to the water, all was a tangle
of trees and brush, while farther back, he couldn't see whether there was any
boat tied up. This wasn't hospitable country for farming or fishing, and it was
doubtful anybody lived too close. And there were gators—he could see their
heartfires, dimmed a bit by sleep, except the hungry ones. Wouldn't they just
like a piece of manflesh to digest as they lay on the riverbank through the
heat of the day tomorrow.
Don't wake up for me,
he murmured to a nearby wakeful gator. Keep your place, I'm not for you
today.
Finally he realized
there was going to be no boat unless he made one.
So he found a dead,
half-fallen tree—no shortage of those in this untended land—and got it to let
go of its roots' last hold in the earth. With a great splash it fell into the
water, and after a short while,
Mounting it was a bit
of a trouble, since it was inclined to roll, and it occurred to
But thinking about the
past reminded him of all those years of childhood, when it seemed that every
bad accident that befell him was related somehow to water. His father had
remarked upon it, and not as some kind of superstition about coincidence,
either. Water was out to get him, that's what Alvin Senior said.
And it wasn't
altogether false. No, the water itself had no will or wish to harm him or
anything. But water naturally tore and rusted and eroded and melted and mudded
up everything it passed over or under or through. It was a natural tool of the
Unmaker.
At the thought of his
ancient enemy, who had so often brought him to the edge of death, he got that
old feeling from his childhood. The sense that something was watching him from
just out of sight, just on the edge of vision. But when he turned his head, the
watcher seemed to flee to where the new edge of his vision was. Nothing was
ever there. But that was the problem—the Unmaker was nothing, or at
least was a lover of nothing, and wished to make everything into nothing, and
would not rest until it all was broken down and swept away and gone.
Or maybe he doesn't
hate me. Maybe he's a wild creature, hungry all the time, and I simply smell like
his prey. No malice in it. Wasn't tearing down just a part of building up? All
part of the same great flow of nature. Why should he be the enemy of the
Unmaker, when really they worked together, the maker and unmaker, the maker
making things out of the rubble of whatever the unmaker tore down.
There was a heartfire
near him. A hungry one indeed. That gator that he had told to stay away.
Apparently it changed its mind, what with
He fought to keep his
body's reflexes from taking over— flailing arms all panicking to try to swim up
for air wouldn't do him much good with a gator holding onto one leg.
The gator jerked its head
this way and that, and
Only the gator had no
interest in his story. What
And he could feel
other heartfires coming. More gators, drawn by the thrashing in the water.
Why wouldn't this gator respond?
Because you're in the water, fool.
No, I've been in water a thousand times with no danger,
and—
No time to settle this now. If I can't do it by
persuasion, I'll do it another way.
Didn't matter. The
gator didn't care.
And now
Another jerk.
The pain was terrible,
but
With one end of the
living plow between its teeth, the gator tried to snap at it. That meant
releasing its grip on
The other gators were
getting close.
The gator was still
trying to gnaw at the plow, and each time it bit down,
In that moment the
gator made its move, to try to get away with the plow in its mouth. But
That did bother the
gator. The plow was too big for its jaws to close with the plow between them,
and with
A long time,
After a while, he realized that the gator was no
longer thrashing.
Still he held on.
Yes, there it was. One last twitch, one feeble attempt
to rise to the surface and breathe.
And in that moment,
The other gators leapt upon the weakened one and
dragged it under the water.
No! shouted
They obeyed.
And as they swam away,
Alvin thought, for just a moment, that swimming alongside them was a reptilian
creature that was not a gator at all, but rather a fiery salamander, its glow
damped by the murky water of the Mizzippy.
Was that what Thrower
saw in his church, when Armor-of-God saw him cower in terror at whatever was
circling the walls? Or was it just a trick of my eyes because the pain is ...
so ... bad.
And then he realized
that even this would be a victory for the Unmaker. He didn't want me to cross
that river. Therefore I must cross, and without delay, or he still wins.
With the water to help
bear the agonizing weight of his disjointed leg,
Ahead of him the wall
of fog waited. It was safety. If
The fog closed around
him. And with the wave of relief that swept over him, he finally slipped into
unconsciousness.
He woke to find a
black man bending over him.
The man spoke in a
language that
Or maybe somebody on the river found him and brought
him to the other shore.
It was hard to care.
The man's voice became
more urgent. And then his meaning became very clear as large, strong hands
pulled on his injured leg and another pair of hands shoved at his upper thigh,
scraping bone on bone in a blinding flash of agony. It didn't work, the bone
wouldn't go back into the socket, and as they let his leg slide back into its
out-of-joint position the pain became too great and
He woke again, perhaps
only moments later, and again the man spoke and gestured and
But if they understood
his words or his gesture, they gave no sign. He saw now that there were several
of them, and they were determined to get his hip back together, and nothing he
said was going to stop him.
So, with desperate
hurry, he scanned through his own body, finding the ligaments that were
blocking the way, and this time when they pulled and pushed,
When he awoke he was
in a different place, indoors, and no one was with him, though he heard voices
in a strange language—not the same language—outside.
Outside what?
Open your eyes, fool, and see where you are.
A cabin. An old one,
in need of fresh mud to chink the holes in the walls. Long out of use, apparently.
The door opened. A
different black man entered. And now
But
"I am learn
English," said the man.
That's right, the slaves
on the boat spoke little English. Some spoke Spanish, and most spoke the
language of the Mexica, but both those languages were a mystery to him.
"You were on the
The man looked baffled.
"Riverboat," said
The man nodded happily. "You on boat! You put
I... we... off boat!"
"Yes," said
The man threw himself
to his knees beside
The man again looked
baffled. Apparently
"Sleep sleep," said the man.
"No, I've had enough sleep," said
"Sleep sleep!" insisted the man.
How could Alvin
explain to him that while they'd been talking and hugging, Alvin had checked
over his leg, found all the injuries—the sore spots in the joint, the places
where the gator's teeth had torn the skin—and fixed them?
All he could do was
raise the leg that had been dislocated and show that it could be moved freely.
The man looked at him in surprise, and tried to get him to lay his leg down,
but
The man suddenly
laughed and tugged at the blanket still covering
"Where are my clothes?"
In reply the man
darted for the door and pushed on out into daylight.
He cast about him with
his doodlebug, looking for the warm glow of it. But it wasn't like a heartfire,
a bright spark in a twinkling sea. The plow was living gold, yes, but gold all
the same, with no one place in it that held the fire of life. If
Finally he pulled up
the blanket and wrapped it as a skirt around his waist. They may not believe he
could heal so fast, but he wasn't going to let their caution or his modesty
keep him from finding what was lost.
He stepped out into
bright daylight—morning light, so maybe he hadn't slept all that long. If it
was morning of the same day. Why should he have slept longer? He'd been
perfectly refreshed by the greensong just prior to his fight with the gator.
And the fight hadn't lasted all that long. A few thrashes and it was done. Why
had it worn him out so bad in the first place? Apart from the pain and loss of
blood and the energy it took to help them put his hip back in place, it
shouldn't have taken that much out of him. No, this had to be the same morning.
He hadn't lost a day.
He was noticed very
quickly, and black men came rushing to him. These had to be the men that he and
Arthur Stuart had freed from slavery aboard the Yazoo Queen—the men that
Steve Austin had been planning to use as interpreters and guides in Mexico,
since they had once been slaves there. So they had no reason to do him harm.
"My poke,"
he said. "A homespun sack, I wore it slung over my shoulder, it was
heavy." He pantomimed putting it on and taking it off.
At once they
understood him. "Gold spirit!" cried the one who had talked to him
just moments before in the house. "Gold she fly!" He ran a few steps,
then beckoned for
He found the plow, out
of the poke, floating in the air about a yard above the ground. Three black men
sat forming a perfect triangle, looking up at the plow, each with one hand
extended toward it.
"No take,"
said the guide. "She no let."
Except
With lots of smiles
and bobbing heads, he found himself being dressed—they actually tried to lift
up both his legs at the same time to put them into his trouser legs.
"No!" he
said firmly. "I been dressing myself since I was little." He
carefully set the plow down in the damp grass. Must have been a heavy dew. Or
it rained in the night. Anyway, the moment he set it down, they rushed forward,
reaching for the plow, causing it to rise into the air.
"Gold she
fly!" the guide admonished him.
"It's a
plow," said
Dressed, holding the
poke in his hand,
The men sighed to see
it.
And then another black
man approached, carefully holding something on a mat of leaves. It shimmered in
the bright sun like crystal, and
"Now," said
"Profeta
Roja," said one of the men. "Ten-si-ki-wa Ta-wa." The way he
pronounced it sounded more like the way reds said the Prophet's name. Well,
speaking other languages wasn't
"Ten-sa-ka-wa
Ta-wa," he muttered.
One of the men tried
to correct him, but
"We stay,"
said the guide. "Wait-for."
So Tenskwa-Tawa was
coming. Well,
There was food at
After the meal,
He found that they
were on a wide, flat island near the right bank of the Mizzippy. The fog, which
was on their side of the river, ended at the shoreline, sharp as butter cut
with a knife. And canoes were drawn up on the shore of the river channel that
separated the island from the main shore. So these men weren't prisoners here.
Tenskwa-Tawa arrived
that afternoon with a great deal of to-do. All of a sudden a whole passel of
reds started hooting and hollering like they was going to war—Alvin had heard
that sound before, when he was taken captive by warriors, before the Mizzippy
was set as a dividing line. It was a terrible sound, and for a moment he
wondered whether the reds on this shore had been using their years of peace to
prepare for bloody war. But then he realized that the hooting and ululating was
the red equivalent of yee-haw, hosanna, huzzah, hallelujah, and hip-hip-hooray.
Tenskwa-Tawa emerged
from the woods on the far shore of the channel, and the reds surrounded him and
led him down to a large canoe. They carried him so he wouldn't even get his
feet wet and set him in the canoe, then leapt in and paddled furiously so he
shot across the water like a skipped stone. Then he was lifted up again and
carried to shore and set down right in front of
So there was
"Is this what it
looks like," said
"No," said Tenskwa-Tawa.
"Not enough guns, not enough clothes."
Which was true. Though
compared to the black men, the reds looked like they was pretty bundled up,
since there were whole stretches of their bodies here and there covered with
deerskin or cloth. If I dressed like that, thought
"I'm glad you
came," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "I also wanted to talk to you."
"About these
fellows?" asked
"Them? They're no
bother. As long as they sleep on this island, they move freely on the shore.
That's where their farms are. We'll be sorry to see them go, when you take
them."
"I didn't have no
plans to take them," said
"But they're
determined to become soldiers to fight for you and kill all your enemies.
That's why they have to sleep on this island. Because they refuse to give up
war."
Tenskwa-Tawa barked out a laugh.
"I mean, none that warriors can fight."
"It's so
strange," said Tenskwa-Tawa, "hearing black men speak a red language
like they were born to it. The language they speak is not all that different
from Navaho, which I had to learn because that tribe was less inclined to give
up war than most. It seemed they hadn't quite finished exterminating the Hopi
and didn't want to give up killing till the job was done."
"So it hasn't
been easy, getting all the reds to take the oath against war."
"No," said
Tenskwa-Tawa. "Nor to get the young men to join the oath when they come of
age. There's still a lot of playing at war among the young, and if you try to
stop it, they just sneak off and do it. I think we've been breeding our boys
for war for too many generations for it to disappear from our hearts overnight.
Right now the peace holds, because there are enough adults who remember all the
killing—and how badly we were defeated, time after time. But there are always
those who want to go across the river and fight to take our lands back and
drive all the white devils into the sea."
"There are plenty
of white folks as dream of getting through the fog and taking possession of
these lands, too," said
"Including your
brother," said Tenskwa-Tawa.
"That's the
one," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "It's what I wanted to talk to you
about."
He turned to the reds
who were with him and spoke a few words, then spoke in a different language to
the blacks.
"Don't tell me
them cards is printed on your side of the river," said
"Those black
fellows you sent me had them," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "They play betting
games, but their money is pebbles. Whoever wins the most struts for an hour,
but the next time they play, they all start even again."
"Sounds
civilized."
"On the
contrary," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "It sounds like childish savages."
His grin had a bit of
old pain in it, but
"Whereupon we red
devils would kill most of you and torture the rest to death because of the
power that we could draw from the pain." He held up a hand. "This is
what I wanted to talk to you about. Until your brother sailed for
"So he really has
joined up with them fools," said
"The Mexica have
been a problem for us. There's a wide desert between our lands and theirs, but
it's not as clear a wall as this river. There are plenty of tribes that live in
those dry lands, and plenty of trade and travel back and forth, and stories
about how the Mexica rose up against the Spanish and drove them out, except the
five thousand they kept for sacrifice, one a day, his heart ripped out of his
living body."
"Doesn't sound
like your kind of people," said
"They live a
different way. We remember well when their ancestors came down from the north,
a fierce people who spoke a language different from all others. The Navaho were
the last wave, the Mexica the first, but they did not trust in the greensong.
They took their powers from the pain and blood of their enemies. It's a way of
power that was practiced among our peoples, too. The Irrakwa league was
notorious for it, and you had a run-in, I think, with others who loved
bloodshed and torture. But always we could set it aside and get back into the
music of the living land. These reds can't, or don't try, which amounts to the
same. And they scoff at my teaching of peace and send threatening embassies
demanding that we supply them with white men to sacrifice or they'll come and
take captives from our people."
"Have they done
it yet?"
"All threats, but
we hear from other tribes farther south that once that threat is given, it's
only a matter of time before it's carried out."
"So what are you
going to do?"
"Not a fog,"
said Tenskwa-Tawa wryly. "Not enough moisture in that high desert air, and
besides, they'd just torture somebody and draw power from his pain, enough to
dispel whatever I put in their way."
"So ... if that ain't
your plan..."
"We live in
harmony with the earth," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "They soak their earth in
blood. We believe that with a little encouragement, we can waken the giant that
sleeps under their great city of
Tenskwa-Tawa looked
pained. "Their city is built right on top of an upwelling of hot flowing
rock. It hasn't broken through in many years, but it's growing restless, with
all the killing."
"You're talking about a volcano."
"I am," said the prophet.
"You're going to do to them what was done to
"The earth is going to do it."
"Ain't that kind of like war?" asked
Tenskwa-Tawa sighed.
"None of us will raise a weapon and strike down a man. And we've sent them
due warning that their city will be covered with fire if they don't stop their
evil sacrificing of human beings and set free all the tribes they rule over by
fear and force."
"So this is how
you wage war now," said
"Yes," said
Tenskwa-Tawa. "We'd be at peace with every people on earth, if they'd let
us. As long as we don't come to love war, or to use it in order to rule over
others, then we are still a peaceful people."
"So I take it the Navaho weren't just persuaded
to take the oath of peace."
"They had a long period of drought, where the
only rain that fell was on Hopi fields."
"I reckon that got the message to them."
"
"No sir,"
said
"Because we bore the slaughter of our friends and
loved ones at Tippy-Canoe."
"Yes. You let them slaughter you till they grew
sick of murder."
"But what should we do with people who never grow
sick of it?" asked Tenskwa-Tawa.
"So white folks ain't all bad, is what you're
saying."
"The gods of the
Mexica are thirsty for blood and hungry for pain. White folks generally want to
get rich and be left alone. While they're killing you, the motive doesn't make
that much difference. But most white people don't think of war and slaughter as
the goal—just the means."
"Well, don't that
just put us in a special place in hell."
"
"And you needed
to tell me because Calvin is headed right into it."
"It would grieve
me to cause the death of your own brother."
"Trouble
is," said
"I didn't think
it would be easy. I only knew that you would not forgive me if I didn't warn
you and give you a chance to try."
"With the Unmaker
dropping roof beams on your head and sending preachers to bleed you to death
under the guise of surgery?"
"At least then it
was only me I was trying to save. I can't go follow Calvin to
Tenskwa-Tawa motioned
with his arm to indicate the island where they were sitting. "If you think
you can fit five thousand here, you're welcome to it. But only the runaway
slaves. My people wouldn't bear it to have these white Frenchmen you speak of
living on our land."
"No," said
"
"We got some of
them, too," said
"Good," said
Tenskwa-Tawa. "Because it would be beyond my power to persuade the nations
to let you."
"What we need," said
"To where?"
"North. Along the
edge of the river. North till we're across the river from the
"Five thousand people," said Tenskwa-Tawa.
"Eating what?"
"Five thousand people leave a scar on the land
when they pass through."
"It's harvest
season," said
"It would take a
great amount of effort," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "We aren't like you. We don't
grow the food here and then carry it on wagons or trains or barges to sell it
there.
Each village grows its
own food, and only when famine strikes in one place is food brought from
another."
"Well, wouldn't
you say that five thousand people with no land or food is kind of a walking
famine?"
Tenskwa-Tawa shook his
head. "You're asking something very hard. And not just for those reasons.
What does it tell all the whites of the
"I didn't think of that."
"We'll have them trying to cross into our land by
the boatload."
"But they won't make it."
"The fog is
fog," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "We instill it with fear, yes, but those
with enough greed or rage can overcome that fear. A few try every year, and of
those few, now and then a man makes it over."
"What do you do
with them?" asked
"They wear
hobbles and work with the women until they find it in their hearts to take the
oath of peace and live among us."
"Or what, you send them back?"
"We never let anyone go back."
"Except me."
"And these
twenty-five black men. You can take them with you whenever you want. Because
they won't tell tales of this paradise just waiting for the right army to come
and drive out the heathen, unarmed savages."
"So maybe we got
to make the crossing so spectacular that nobody thinks they could do it in a
boat."
Tenskwa-Tawa laughed.
"Oh,
"You've put on a
couple of spectacles in your day, old friend."
"I suppose if it
looks like a miracle, the United States Army and the Royal Army won't think
they can do the same. The only flaw in your idea,
"Once I took down
the bridge," said
Tenskwa-Tawa shook his
head. "I have a war on my hands with the Mexica, and now I have to help
you pull off a miraculous crossing of the Mizzippy, putting the great peaceful
nation at risk."
"Hey, that goes
both ways," said
"Isn't it good we like each other so much,"
said Tenskwa-Tawa.
"You taught me everything I know," said
"But not everything I know."
"And I gave you back your eye."
"And healed my heart," said Tenskwa-Tawa.
"But you're a lot of bother all the same."
11
Flood
After
the second night, word went on ahead of
them and it got harder. Mistress Cottoner didn't talk, La Tia said so, but her
son did. And the people at the second house, Arthur Stuart had to use makery to
seal the doors and windows of a room in their house so they couldn't get out,
because they wouldn't calm down, they kept screaming, It's our life you're
taking, you're making us poor, you have no right, these slaves are ours, until
Marie wanted to fill their mouths with cotton, all the cotton that had ever
been picked by their slaves, just stuff it down their mouths until they were as
fat and soft as the huge pillows they slept on while their slaves slept on hard
boards and straw in filthy rat-infested cabins.
As filthy and
rat-infested as the cabin her mother had made her grow up in back in Swamptown.
Only her mother wasn't a slave. We're finer people than these scum, her mother
would say. We're Portuguese royalty, only Napoleon drove us out and forced us
into exile in Nouveau Orleans and then he sold it to the Spanish so that we could
never go home. Because you are the granddaughter of a duke, and he was the son
of a king, and you should be married to at least a count, so you must learn
fine manners and speak French and English very well and learn how to curtsey and
stand straight and...
And then Marie got old
enough to understand that not everybody could see into people's bodies and feel
whether they were sick and whether they would die of it. And all of a sudden
her mother's story changed. Your father was a great wizard, she said. A maker,
they call such a man here. Facteur. Createur. He could carve a bird out of wood
and breathe on it and it would fly away. And you have some of his gift, and
some of mine, because my talent is love, I love people, my dear Marie, you have
that love and it lets you see inside their hearts, and the power from your
father lets you see their death because that is the ultimate power, to stare
death in the face and be unafraid.
Her mother, such a
storyteller. That was when Marie knew that her mother's stories were all lies.
In
But she pretended to
believe her mother's stories because it made her mother happy to tell them. And
Marie was actually relieved, because she had always been afraid that someday
Napoleon would fall from power or die, and the Portuguese royal family would be
restored to the throne and they'd come looking for them and find them and it
would be fine for Mother, she could go back to being what she was raised to be,
but Marie wasn't good at curtseying and her French was not elegant and fine and
she was dirty and always covered in skeeter bites and they would despise her
and mock her in the royal court, just like they did here on the streets of
Barcy. Only it would be worse, because it would be fine ladies and gentlemen
doing it. So she hated the idea of being royalty. It was better just to be the
daughter of a cheap Portuguese whore in Nueva Barcelona.
But now, far from
being the most despised people in Barcy, they were actually important. Because
Alvin and Arthur Stuart and La Tia treated them with respect, because they were
the ones who went to the doors of the houses, everyone looked up to them. They
got to wear fine clothes and act like royalty, and even though it didn't really
fool people because the clothes weren't fine enough, it was still fun to
pretend that Mother's story had been a little bit true after all.
The third day, though,
as they approached the house La Tia said, "This house is not good. Pass it
by." And they would have done it, but then three men came out on the porch
with muskets and aimed them and demanded that they surrender.
So Arthur Stuart—such
a clever boy, bless him—made the ends of all three of their muskets go soft and
droop, so they couldn't shoot anymore. The men threw them down and drew swords
and began to run at them, and Arthur Stuart made the swords soft too, like
willow wands, and La Tia laughed and laughed.
But there was no
pretending this time. The people of this house, of the whole neighborhood, had
heard of the huge army of runaway slaves who captured plantations and raped the
women and killed the men and let the slaves burn everything to the ground. Of
course it wasn't true, not a bit of it— except for the part about how two
French women would come to the door and get themselves invited inside, and
while they were in there the two slaves that traveled with them, a mammy slave
and a young buck, would go provoke a rebellion among the slaves of the
plantation and then it was all murder and rape and burning.
There'd be no more
deception at the door. Every house would be more like a military campaign from
then on.
So that third night,
with all the white men tied up in the barn and all the white women locked in
the upstairs of the house and not a slave to be found because they had all been
sent away, La Tia and Arthur Stuart and Mother and Marie met with the council
of colonels to decide what to do.
"If we could hear
the greensong," said Arthur Stuart, "we could travel by night and not
get hungry—like we did crossing Pontchartrain."
"I don't remember no greensong," said La
Tia.
"Yes you do," said Arthur Stuart. "Only
you didn't know that's what you were hearing."
"What be in this song?" said La Tia.
"What make it green?"
"It's the song of
the life around you. Not the human life, that's just noise, most of the time.
Not machines, either. But the music of the trees and the wind and the heat of
the sun, the music of fish and birds and bugs and bees. All the life of the
world around you, and you let yourself be part of the song. I can't do it
alone, but when I'm with
It was lovely to hear
him talk about it, his face so lighted up like it got. This young half-black
man, he loved his friend, his brother-in-law Alvin, even more than Marie did.
Oh, to hold
But La Tia, she didn't
get dreamy hearing it. She was making a list. "Fish, birds, trees,"
she said when Arthur Stuart was done. "You don't get hungry, you don't get
thirsty. Wind. And bugs, yes? Heat of the sun. What else? Anything?"
"You think you
can make a charm that does the same thing?"
"I give it a
try," said La Tia. "Best I can do." She grinned wickedly.
"This my 'knack,' boy."
She immediately sent
her friend Michele and a half dozen others who had obviously run her errands
before, looking for the things she needed. Feather of a bird, fin of a
fish—that was the hardest one—a living beetle, leaves of a tree. A pinch of
dirt, a drop of water, ash from a fire, and when it was all in a little sachet
she would blow into it and then seal it closed with the hair of a long-haired
woman, who happened to be Marie herself.
By morning she had
made a sachet for Arthur Stuart and one for herself, and sachets for each of
the colonels. "Now we see if we hear this greensong as we walk," she
said.
"What about
me?" asked Marie. "And my mother?"
"You hold my
hand," said La Tia. "Your mama, she hold Arthur hand. I do it other
way, but you get thinking about love, you."
Arthur looked at her
and raised his eyebrows as if the idea were ridiculous. Ignorant boy.
She held La Tia's hand
and Arthur held Mother's hand and they started walking and ... nothing
happened. It was nothing like what she had felt crossing the bridge.
"I guess we just
need
La Tia groaned loudly
and smacked him softly on the forehead. "You silly boy, why you no tell La
Tia this be red man thing, this greensong? Get the colonels, all they, bring
they sachet to me."
Soon the march was
again halted and the colonels were gathered while the people mumbled and
murmured about another delay in their journey.
One by one, La Tia
opened each person's sachet and said, "All right, you. One drop of you
blood, right now."
Well, how many people
could do that without an argument? But Arthur Stuart, he came up and he
said, "I can let a drop of your blood go from your finger, and it won't
hurt, but only if you say yes." Well of course they all said yes, and sure
enough, Arthur held their hand and closed his eyes and thought real hard and
one single drop came out from under their fingernail and dropped into the sachet.
Once again La Tia blew
into the sachet and closed it, but this time she added a blade of grass to the
strand of Marie's hair to tie the top. "Now maybe," said La Tia.
And this time as they
walked, the charm seemed to have some effect. Marie couldn't be sure she was
actually responding to the greensong—she hadn't heard it, really, crossing the
bridge. It had been more like a sort of intensity inside her as she pushed the
wheelbarrow, so that her hands never got sore from the chafing of the handles,
and her back never got weary, she just stepped on and on.
Well, something like
that began to happen now. She had long since given up the wheelbarrow, and she
and her mother had taken turns carrying the ball of bloodwater
But she did get hungry
and hot and thirsty during the day. Yet she didn't mind being hungry and
thirsty and hot. And her feet always seemed to find the right place to step.
The only person it
didn't work for was Arthur Stuart, until he finally took off the sachet and
gave it to Mother. "I reckon while I'm spending all my thinking on making
this fog stay ahead of us and behind us, and watching for heartfires of them as
might mean us harm, this charm just don't affect me."
"Too bad for you,
child," said La Tia. "Keep doing what you doing, we all pray for
you."
Arthur Stuart tipped
his hat to her and grinned and then strode on ahead.
Marie wanted to run to
him and hold his hand and walk with him. But that was foolishness. For one
thing, she needed the sachet to help her. For another thing, he needed
to keep his mind on his work. And for a third thing, he probably wouldn't want
her to.
As for the rest of the
people, the sachets seemed to help. Little children kept up better. Adults who
carried babies didn't get so tired. There weren't people constantly dropping
out to rest and then losing their place in the company. So even though nobody
walked faster than before, they actually made far more progress during the day.
They also waited until
later to pick a plantation to be their host for the evening. "We've gone
so far," said Arthur Stuart, "maybe the people here will think
they're safe and not be looking out for us."
"You think I gonna walk up to no house?"
said La Tia. "Wake up from you dream, you."
"What else can we do?" said Arthur Stuart.
"Kill them in their houses."
They all turned at the
voice. It was Old Bart, the butler from the Cottoner house. "You heard me.
You got this knack, boy. Use it. Reach into they hearts and stop them from
beating no more."
"That would be
murder," said Arthur Stuart.
"It ain't
murder," said Old Bart. "It's war, and they be winning it, less you
do what soldiers do, and kill them as would kill you."
"Not here,"
said Arthur Stuart. "Not today."
"You kill them, we
win," insisted Old Bart. "Nothing but what they deserve, what
they done to us."
"You dead?"
asked La Tia. "Your heart stop beating?"
Old Bart whirled on
her. "Don't you tell me how angry to be. I was dead inside for all them
years, me a man, and couldn't act like one."
"Funny way to be
dead, you got. Stand there talking. Bet you piss three time a day, too, you!
How many dead man do that?"
Old Bart probably had
an answer for that, but the laughter of those nearby convinced him that this
wasn't the day to argue with her. But Marie saw that he hadn't changed his
mind. Just changed his mind about talking about it.
"Kill them in
they house," La Tia went on scornfully. "We want food. We want a
place to sleep. Kill somebody for that in they own house?"
Arthur Stuart shook
his head. "If I was in his place, I think I might feel the same."
"You men,"
said La Tia. "Killing just a thing you do."
"You know that
ain't so," said Arthur Stuart. "But when it needs doing, I bet you
glad you got somebody to do it."
This had gone far
enough. "I know," said Marie. "I go alone."
"No!" her
mother cried.
"They look for
two women with two slaves. I go alone, and Arthur Stuart and La Tia, they come
another way. Arthur, you look out for me, won't you?"
"I will," he
said.
"I just go and
explain to them. We only want food and a place to sleep. Only ... maybe you
show power to them, while I'm talking. Put fog at every window. Show them it's
better just to let us stay one night and go away."
They thought about it,
and Arthur only improved on it a little. "All the windows but one,"
he said. "Clear sky through one window."
"Then we better
do it before the sun goes all the way down," said Marie.
Only after everyone
agreed and they headed for the house they had chosen did Marie start to realize
what she had just done. What if they had shotguns this time? How fast
was Arthur Stuart?
Just before they got
within sight of the house, Arthur stopped them. "There's four grown men in
this house, and six women. And no shortage of guns. And no children."
That was a bad sign,
Marie knew. The children most likely had been sent away.
"Good sign,"
said La Tia. "They don't sent away the women. They don't think we come
tonight."
"Fog as soon as I
get inside," Marie reminded Arthur Stuart.
He squeezed her hand.
"Count on me," he said.
Then he let go and she
walked alone down the road and turned up the long drive to the house.
Long before she got to
the house she had been spotted and three men were on the porch, holding
muskets.
"You crazy,
girl?" said the oldest of them. "Don't you know there's an army of
raping and pillaging runaways coming this way?"
"My papa's wagon
overturned up the road, I need help."
"Your papa's out
of luck," said the biggest of the men. "We, ain't leaving this porch
for nobody."
"But he's hurt, when he try to stand up, he falls
down."
"What's that accent?" said the youngest man.
"You French?"
"My parents are from Nueva Barcelona," she
said.
"Being a Frenchwoman in these parts ain't such a
good idea this week."
She smiled at them.
"Can I change who I am? Oh, you must help me. At least send a couple of
servants with me to help right the wagon and bring my father here, can't you do
that?"
"Slaves are all
locked up, ready to be marched away in the morning, and we ain't letting any of
them out on the road, neither," said the big man.
"Then I see that
It sort of made sense
that when she seemed willing to leave, that was what convinced them.
"Ain't never turned folks in trouble away from my house before," said
the old man.
"Ain't never been
no slave revolt, neither," said the big man.
"But even during
a time of slave revolt," said the young man, "wagons can still
overturn and honest men can still be hurt and need help."
Marie didn't like
lying to these men. The old man wanted to be kind, and the young man wanted to
trust her. The big man was doing no worse than looking after his people. And
since his suspicions were all completely justified, it hardly seemed fair that
he was the one made to seem uncharitable. Well, it would all be clear soon
enough. She hoped that this one bad experience would not put them off helping
their neighbor in the future. It would be a shame if their journey did nothing
but make the world worse.
"Come back,"
shouted the old man.
"No, stay
there!" shouted the big man. "We'll go with you." And he and the
young man bounded down from the porch and started trotting toward her.
This was not the plan.
What would she do with them out here? "But we need to bring him
water."
"Plenty of time
for that when we've got him to the house."
Now they were beside
her, and there was nothing she could do but lead them down the drive.
Suddenly a fog came
up. Out of nowhere, and then there was a chill in the air and a fog so thick
she couldn't even see the men beside her.
"What the
hell," said the big man.
"I can't see my
feet on the drive," said the young man.
Marie, however, said
nothing, for the moment the fog came in, she turned around and started walking back
toward the house.
In a moment she was
out of the fog. She did not glance back to see what it looked like, to have a
single thick cloud— she wondered if it was like the Bible story, a pillar of
smoke.
The old man wasn't on
the porch.
And then, as she got
closer, there he was, with a musket in his hands. "I know devil's work
when I see it, you witch!" he shouted.
He fired the musket.
It was pointed right
at her. And the barrel was not soft. She thought she must surely die on
this spot.
But when the noise of
the gunshot died down, she felt nothing, and kept walking toward the porch.
That was when the lead
bullet popped out of the barrel of the musket and went maybe two yards and
plunked on the ground. It made a pool of lead there, flat as a silver dollar.
"I'm no
witch," she said. "And you are a kind and good man. Do you think
anybody will hurt you or the people you love? Nobody will hurt anybody."
From inside the fog
came shouts. "Who's shooting! Where's the house?"
Now she did look back.
Two thick clouds barely taller than a man were moving swiftly across the lawns,
but neither one was headed for the porch, and neither one was holding a
straight course, either.
"We heard what
you done in those other places, you liar!" shouted the old man.
"You heard
lies," she said. "Think about it. If we killed everybody, who would
tell you there was two French women and two slaves that came to the door?
That's what you were watching for, no?"
The old man was no
fool. He could listen pretty well.
"We want
food," she said. "And we will have food from this house. You
have plenty, but we don't take all. Your neighbors will help you replenish the
lack. And you won't need as much food, anyway."
"Because you're
gonna take all our slaves, is that it?"
"Take them?"
said Marie. "We can't take them. What would we do, put them in our
apron pockets? We let them travel with us if they choose to. If they choose to
stay with you, then they can stay. They do what they want, like the children of
God that they are."
"Abolitionist
bastards," said the old man.
"Abolitionists,
yes. In my case, also a bastard." She deliberately pronounced the word
with a thick French accent. "And you, a man who knows to be kind to
strangers, but keeps human beings as property. Even as you do it to the least
of these, my brethren."
"Don't quote
scripture to me," said the old man. "Steal from us if you want, but
don't pretend to be holy when you do it."
She was standing on
the porch now, facing the old man. She heard the door swing open behind her. She
heard the click of a hammer striking the Hint. She heard the sizzle of the
gunpowder in the pan.
And then the plop of the bullet hitting the porch.
"Damn," said a woman's voice.
"You would have murdered me," said Marie
without turning around.
"We shoot trespassers around here."
"We don't hurt
personne, but you with murder in your heart," said Marie, and she turned
to face the woman. "What is your food, that you could shoot a woman in the
back for asking you to share it?" She reached out a hand toward the
trembling woman, who cowered against the door. She touched the woman's
shoulder. "You have your health," said Marie. "That's good.
Treasure it, to be so strong, no disease in you. Live a long life."
Then she turned to the
old man and reached out to him. Took his bare hand in hers. "Oh, you're a
strong man," she said. "But you're short of breath, yes?"
"I'm an old
man," he said. "Ain't hard to guess I'm short of breath."
"And you have
pains in your chest. You try to ignore them, yes? But they come again in a few
months, and then a few months. Put your house in order, say your good-byes, you
good man. You will see God in only a few weeks time."
He looked her hard in
the eyes. "Why you cursing me?" he said. "What did I ever do to
you?"
"I'm not cursing
you," she said. "I have no such power, to kill or not kill. I only
touch a person and I know if they are sick and if they will die of it. You are
sick. You will die of it. In your sleep. But I know you are a generous man, and
many will mourn your death, and your family will remember you with love."
Tears filled the old
man's eyes. "What kind of thief are you?"
"A hungry
one," she said, "or otherwise I would not steal, not me, not any of
us."
The old man turned and
looked down onto the lawn. Marie assumed he was looking at the other two men,
or at the clouds that enclosed them, but no. While they were talking, Arthur
and La Tia and Mother must have opened the slaves' quarters and now the house
was surrounded by black men and women and children. The clouds no longer
surrounded the two white men. Unarmed, they were standing inside the circle.
Arthur Stuart stepped
forward and held out his hand. As if he expected a white slaveowner to shake
with a black man. "My name is Arthur Stuart," he said.
The old man hooted.
"You trying to tell us you're the King?"
Arthur shrugged.
"I was telling you my name. I'm also telling you that none of the guns in
that house is gonna work, and the man waiting just inside the door with a big
old piece of boardwood to bat me or Marie in the head, he might as well put it
down, because it won't hurt nobody any more than getting hit with a piece of
paper or a dry sponge."
Marie heard somebody
inside the house utter a curse, and a thick heavy piece of wood was flung out
the door onto the lawn.
"Please let us
come inside," she said. "My mother and my friends and I. Let us sit
down and talk about how to do this without hurting anyone and without leaving
you with nothing."
"I know the best
way," said the old man. "Just go away and leave us be."
"We have to go
somewhere," said Marie. "We have to eat something. We have to sleep
the night."
"But why
us?" he said.
"Why not
you?" she answered. "God will bless you ten times for what you share
with us today."
"If I'm going to
die as soon as you say, let me leave a good place to my sons and
daughters."
"Without
slaves," said Marie, "this will finally be a good place."
Later, with the family
not locked up, and everyone safely fed and sleeping, Marie had a chance
to talk with Arthur Stuart. "Thank you for giving me the fog when I needed
it, instead of waiting till I was in the house."
"Can't expect
plans to work out when other people don't know their part," he said with a
grin. "You done great, though."
She smiled back at
him. She had done a good job. But she had never before known what it
felt like to be told so. Not till this trip. Not till Alvin and Arthur
Stuart. Oh, they had such powers, such knacks. But the one that impressed her
the most was the power to fill her heart the way their kind words did.
A group of reds took
But a lone white man,
dressed like what he was, a journeyman blacksmith, and carrying a heavy poke
slung on his shoulder, nobody paid no mind to him.
Besides, there was
bigger news afoot. The governor's expedition had just arrived, and suddenly Red
Stick was swollen with hundreds of bored militiamen, some of whom had lost
their enthusiasm for slogging through back country and fighting runaway slaves.
In fact, their enthusiasm waned in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol
in their blood, and Colonel Adan wasn't such a disciplinarian that he didn't
see the wisdom of keeping these men just a little likkered up. So they were in
the saloons, with Spanish soldiers attempting to enforce a two-drink limit so
they weren't too drunk to march. Nobody was looking to see the leader of the
very group they came to destroy walking all by himself through the streets of
town.
It wasn't much trouble
for
Fighting the Unmaker
in gator form had taken a lot of the combativeness out of
So he went into a
saloon and leaned against the bar right by the Spanish officer who was
supervising. "So you know where them runaways actually is?" he
asked.
"They don't tell
me," said the officer, his English thickly accented.
"Well, the thing
is, I think I know," said
The officer looked at
him coldly. "What do we care for this rumor?"
"Don't that all
depend on who's doing the gossiping? I mean, any of these drunks in here, they
can tell you the runaways is on the moon for all it matters, 'cause they don't
know squat. Me, though, I got my rumor from a couple of reds who was smuggling
furs across the river upstream, and they said they seen a bunch of free
blacks not far inland."
The officer still
looked scornful. "Smuggling furs? And they did not kill you?"
"Well, maybe they
would have, except there was only two of them, and I'm not a little fellow, and
besides, they wanted me to tell you what they seen."
"And why would
they care?"
"Because if them
runaways is heading for the river, it might be they got it in their heads to cross
it, like they crossed
"So you are,
what... a messenger?"
The officer reached
out and seized
"I think you need
to come outside and tell me a little more," said the officer.
"And while you're
out there, you can bet these men will all get two more cups and then
they'll be pissing and puking the whole way upriver."
"Come with
me."
Outside the saloon,
the officer had the soldiers hold
"I told you before, that's what I don't want
to do."
"If you do not lie, then he must know this."
"I ain't lying,
and I can't think why them reds would lie, but I'll tell you where they said. You
go around this first big bight in the river, and then take the second big
curve, and where it comes east again, that's the place."
"Telling me is a
waste of time," said the officer.
"But you're the
only one that's gonna get told," said
The officer stepped back and drew his sword.
"No no," said
In answer, the officer slashed with his sword.
The officer cried out
as if it had been his arm, not his sword, that was broke in two.
Arthur Stuart woke up
from someone shaking him. "Who's—"
"Shh, don't wake
the others yet."
It was
"What part of
shhhh didn't you get?"
"There's nobody nearby," said Arthur. But he
talked softer, all the same.
"You think," said
"She wasn't when I went to sleep,"
said Arthur Stuart.
But by now they were both up and walking away into the
fog surrounding the camp.
"I just come from
Colonel Adan's army," said
"We crossing
over?"
"Tenskwa-Tawa is
granting us right to pass through, and they'll help us get food and shelter
without having to take over any more plantations."
"Good," said
Arthur Stuart. "I'm sick of it already, folks being so scared of us."
"Guess you're not
a natural bully," said
"Well, it's
worked out pretty good so far. Dead Mary's a natural liar, and I'm good at
fogging folks and bending musket barrels."
"And La Tia has
made some charms," said
"They seemed to help.
Not like having you march with us."
"Well, I'm here
to march with you now. I don't want another stop. I want to get there first.
And that means we need to wake everybody now and get moving."
"In the
dark?"
"We'll see if
it's still dark by the time you get them going."
It took less than an
hour to get under way, but that was mostly 'cause
Oh, there was plenty
of grumbling and some out-and-out surliness, but the past couple of days'
marching, with La Tia's charms giving them some good help, had left them
feeling hale and ready even with only half a night's sleep.
And now, with
Before dawn everybody
was running along—the adults jogging, the children running full tilt, but
everyone keeping up and nobody tired. In the dark they'd run without a soul
tripping over a root or straying from the group. Because in the greensong, you
always know exactly where you are and where everything else is because it's all
part of you and you're part of it.
They ran all morning.
They ran all afternoon. They did not stop to eat or drink. They splashed through
streams, barely pausing to lift the children who weren't tall enough to ford
them. Six thousand people now, with all the slaves at each plantation who had
shucked off their bondage to join them. Moving through the woods without need
for trail or trace.
The last red of the
sunset was just fading from the sky when they came to a low bluff overlooking
an eastward curve of the Mizzippy and saw it, more than a mile wide, streaked
with red from the sunset.
"We cross in the
morning?" asked Arthur Stuart.
"We cross as soon
as every last soul is up here on this bluff," said
They had spread out a
bit during the long day's run, so it was full dark and then some when the
colonels reported that everyone was accounted for.
Once again
Then
On the far side of the
river, the fog cleared and another torch could be seen, just a wink of light.
"Who's on the other side?" asked Arthur
Stuart.
"Tenskwa-Tawa," said
"Well," said Arthur Stuart, "I say, dam
the Mizzippy all to hell!"
It looked as if the
water leaped right back up into his hand, but it wasn't water, no sir, it was
the crystal again, and as
On the upstream side
of the dam, though, the water had risen, and Arthur expected it would start to
flow over the top any second. But it didn't. Because, he realized, upstream of
the bluff it had spilled over the banks and was flooding the land on the white
man's side of the river.
Now Arthur Stuart knew
why this spot had been chosen. The bluffs on the other side were higher and
extended farther upstream. There'd be no flood on the red side of the river.
"I got a job for you," said
"I'm game, if it's something I can handle."
"Colonel Adan is coming
up the river with a couple of his boats. He's also sent another bunch of
soldiers around by land. Well, those boys are gonna be scrambling to climb
trees and find high ground for the next while, but what I worry about is the
men on them boats."
"Won't they be
left high and dry with the river dammed like this?" said Arthur Stuart.
"They will. But
they'll be mighty tempted to get out of them boats and come upstream on foot.
And when we let go of this dam, they'll all be drowned."
"Like Pharaoh's
chariots."
"I don't want any
more dead men on account of this trek," said
"I'll keep 'em in the boats," said Arthur
Stuart.
"I was just asking you to give them advice."
"I'll give them such strong advice everybody
takes it."
"Well, on your
way to showing off for a bunch of men armed with muskets and artillery,"
said
And indeed it was
sloppy going for the first few people to try going down the bank into the empty
river bottom. But Arthur Stuart had learned enough these past days that it
wasn't hard for him to evaporate the water in the top layer of mud, making a
hard-surfaced dirt road about fifty feet wide— broad enough for a lot of people
to cross at once. This would go a lot faster than crossing Pontchartrain.
When La Tia saw what
Arthur had done, she let out a whoop of delight and called out, "Everybody
move quick! Quick as frogs!" And she began to jog over the new road.
Arthur took only a
moment to look at the dam itself. Being such pure crystal, however, it didn't
look like any kind of dam. It just looked as if the water simply stopped. Even
in the dark, he could see shapes moving in the water. At first he thought it
was fish, but then he realized that it was too dark to see anything like that
in the water. No, what he was seeing was in the crystal. The same kind
of visions that had been so disturbing and hypnotic as people crossed over the
bridge at Pontchartrain.
"Don't look at
the dam!" shouted
Which made everybody
look, of course. Look once, and then look away, because there was La Tia and
Moose and Squirrel and Dead Mary and Rien, urging them on, hurrying them,
hundreds and hundreds of them crossing the river bottom on Arthur's road.
Arthur took off at a
jog downriver, not running too fast because he had to dry a path before him or
he'd sink. All it took was rounding one bend in the river, and there were the
two big riverboats, looking pretty forlorn as they rested right on the bottom.
Already dozens of men
were out of the boats, slogging along in thick mud.
"Get back in the
boats!" Arthur Stuart shouted.
The men heard him, and
some of them stopped and looked around to try to find which bank the voice was
coming from.
"Vuelvan-se en
los nбvios!" he shouted again, jogging nearer.
Arthur Stuart wasn't
careless. He was just starting to scan the boat for weaponry when he heard a
shout of "Atiren!" and saw the flashes of a half dozen muskets on
board the first boat. Wasn't he out of range?
Well, he was and he
wasn't. The musket balls went far enough, but they had slowed considerably, and
the one that hit him didn't go into him all that terribly far. But the spot did
happen to be right in the belly, just above his navel, and it hurt worse than
the worst stomach ache of his life.
He doubled over and
fell to the ground. Careless, foolish ... he cursed himself even as he cried
from the pain of it.
But pain or not, he
had a mission to perform. Trouble was, with his stomach muscles torn like that,
he couldn't work up the strength to shout. Well, he had known persuasion wasn't
going to do it, and he already had a plan. When they'd been running with the
greensong toward the river, Arthur Stuart had heard and felt and finally seen
the heartfires of hundreds and hundreds of gators that lived in the river and
its tributaries in this region.
It wasn't hard to call
to them. Come to the boats, he told them. Plenty to eat in the boats.
And they came. Whatever
they might have thought in their tiny gator brains about the river suddenly
disappearing like it did, they understood a supper call.
Trouble was, they had
no idea what a "boat" was. They just knew they were getting called and
had a vague notion of where the call was coming from and pretty soon they were
all headed right for Arthur Stuart. And since he was giving off the smell of
blood and looking for all the world like a wounded animal— not unnatural,
considering he was wounded—he couldn't blame the gators for thinking he
was the meal they'd been promised.
This is about as dumb
a way to die as I ever heard of, thought Arthur Stuart. I called the gators down
on my own self. Good thing I died before I ever fathered children, because this
much stupidity should not survive into the next generation.
And then the gators
suddenly turned, all of them at once, and headed downstream toward the boats.
They walked right past Arthur Stuart, ignoring him like he was a stump. And
while they padded by on their vicious-looking gator feet, he felt something
going on inside his stomach. He opened his shirt and looked down at his wound,
just in time to see the lead ball nose out like a gopher and plop onto the dirt
at his feet.
And as he watched, the
blood stopped flowing out of his wound and the skin closed up and it didn't
hurt anymore and he thought, Good thing
The gators were
rushing toward the boat, but in the darkness it was plain some of the men
hadn't realized what was headed their way. "Gators!" he shouted.
"Get back in the boats!"
His alarm made them
look again, and some of the men nearest to him got a look at what was coming.
Now, a man can outrun a gator on dry land, but not in thick mud, so
Arthur Stuart figured his contribution would be to dry the river bottom around
the boats. But it was awfully far away from him and he couldn't be too precise.
Still, it seemed to help, and he was relieved that all the men got back to the
boats in time. The men onboard the boats reached down and helped haul them up,
and the last few had gator jaws gaping wide right under them as they rose into
the air, but not so much as a foot was lost, and only a few empty boots.
The gators remained in
place, snapping and climbing over each other, trying to get up on deck. Arthur
Stuart didn't think it was fair that the gators should get killed just because
he told them there was food to be had. Besides, he had something against the
muskets on board those boats. So he sauntered closer to the boats and used his
doodlebug to find the guns and bend their barrels as fast as he could. They
were bound to try the cannons next, but they were so thick-barreled that he
found it was easier to melt the fronts just enough to narrow the bore, keeping
the gunners from ramming the shot down.
So the men were
fighting off the gators using their muskets as clubs. Which struck Arthur
Stuart as more of an even match.
With that, he headed
back upriver toward the dam, following his own trail of dry ground.
By the time he got
back, most of the people were already across. Running twenty or thirty abreast,
with the greensong still lingering in their ears, they all ran or jogged
across, and kept moving on the other side to clear the way for the ones
following after. Arthur went around the flow of people and up onto the bank and
in no time he was standing beside
"Thanks for
taking that ball out of my gut," he said.
"Next time try
something more subtle than standing out in the open and yelling," said
"And thanks for getting
the gators to turn away from me."
"I figgered you
didn't really want them coming to you," said
"It wasn't a
lie," said Arthur Stuart. "Plenty of meat on that boat."
"Only a couple of
gators have got over the side since you started running back," said Alvin,
"and the soldiers managed to throw them back. But I reckon they'll be glad
enough when the water starts to flow again."
"Which is
when?" said Arthur Stuart.
"Well, I don't
see any heartfires up here on the bank aside from yours and mine," said
"Wherever I
am!" said Arthur Stuart. But when he turned, he saw Dead Mary was indeed
clambering back up onto the bank. "Everybody's gone," she said.
"Well, I'll just
sit tight here till they all get up on the other bank," said
"But I can't
leave you here alone!" said Arthur Stuart.
"And I can't
worry about you when it's time to take down this dam," said
"I guess I might
as well obey the fellow just saved my life," said Arthur Stuart.
"Double-saved
it," said
Arthur Stuart took
Dead Mary by the hand and they skittered clown the bank and ran across in front
of the dam. They moved fast enough that they weren't far behind the last of the
people, and all the way as they ran Arthur Stuart looked for the heartfires of
any that might have strayed. But the captains and majors and colonels had all
done their job, and not one soul had been left behind.
Papa Moose extended a
hand to help Dead Mary up, and La Tia laughed in delight as Arthur Stuart
flat-out ran right up the steep embankment without looking for the more gentle
slope that most folks had used.
There at the head of
the bluff stood Tenskwa-Tawa. It was Arthur Stuart's first sight of him, and
his first thought was, he doesn't look like all that much. And his second
thought was, he looks like a mighty angel standing there holding back the river
with a sheet of crystal partly made from the blood of his own hand.
Tenskwa-Tawa waved the
torch he held in his other hand. Then, when he saw that
On the far bank,
Arthur Stuart could not see with his eyes, but he could follow
He pulled the dam away
from the far bank, and the water burst through behind him.
"Throw it to
me!" cried Tenskwa-Tawa.
Whether
Arthur Stuart let
himself take one look downriver. Again with his doodlebug rather than with his
eyes, he saw the first fingers of water flow around the boats, lifting them,
starting them moving downstream. But the water came faster and faster, and the
boats began to spin in the eddying flood as they hurtled away, completely out
of control.
La Tia was the only
person bold enough at that moment to walk up to men who had just made such a
miracle and say, "What you doing acting like little boys? We give merci
beau-coup to God, us."
"Maybe you
Christians right about God," said La Tia, "maybe me right, maybe him
right, maybe nobody know nothing, but God, he take the merci beaucoup all the
same."
She had seen
Tenskwa-Tawa before, standing there holding the dam as everyone climbed the
riverbank, but apparently she hadn't had a good look at him. Because now, as he
sprang to his feet—far more energetically than his years should have allowed—a
look of recognition came to her. "You," she said.
Tenskwa-Tawa nodded. "Me," he said.
"I see you in the ball," she said.
"What ball?" asked
"The ball you
make, the ball she carry." La Tia pointed toward Dead Mary, who did indeed
have a burden slung over her shoulders. "I see him all the time in that
thing. He talking to me."
Tenskwa-Tawa nodded.
"And I thank you for helping," he said. "I didn't know you were
with this company."
"I didn't know you the Red Prophet."
"So you two met?" asked
"He been hotting
up under the earth, far away," said La Tia. "He ask my help, wake up
the earth there. Help the hot stuff find a way up. I think I figure out
how."
"Then I'm as glad to see you here in the flesh as
a man can be," said Tenskwa-Tawa.
"Many a man be glad to see my flesh," said
La Tia, "but it don't do them no good."
Tenskwa-Tawa smiled, which for him was like a gale of
laughter.
And Arthur Stuart
thought, not for the first time, that these really powerful people were like a
little club, they all knew each other and people like him were always having to
stand just outside.
12
Springfield
Verily
Cooper's knack wasn't just fitting barrel
staves together to make a tight keg. He could see how most things were supposed
to fit, and where the irregularities were that made it so they didn't. Most
things—and most people. He could see who was friends and who was enemies, where
pride or envy made a rift that few could see. The difference was that when two
barrel staves didn't fit, he could get inside them and almost without
thinking—and certainly without effort— change them till they did fit.
It wasn't quite so
easy with people. You had to talk them round, or figure out a way to change
what they wanted or what they believed about the world. Still, it was a good
knack for a lawyer to have. He could size people up pretty readily, not as
individuals, but how they fit together as families and communities.
Riding into the town
of
The people that he met
stopped and looked at him—what could a stranger expect, here on the frontier?
Or at least what passed for frontier now. With the Mizzippy closed to white
settlement, the land here was filling up fast. Verily saw the signs of it every
time he traveled through this part of the west. And Springfield was a pretty
lively place—lots of buildings that looked new, and some being built on the
outskirts of town, not to mention the normal number of temporary shanties folks
threw up for summer till they had more time to build something just before the
weather got cold.
But these folks didn't
just stop and look at him—they smiled, or waved, or even called out a
"howdy do" or a "good afternoon" or a "welcome
stranger." Little kids would follow along after him and while they were
normal children—that is, a few of them could not resist throwing clods of dirt
at his horse or his clothes (depending on whether Verily figured they hit their
target or missed it)—none of them threw rocks or mud, so there wasn't any
meanness in it.
The town center was a
nice one, too. There was a town square with a courthouse in it, and a church
facing it in each direction. Verily wasn't a bit surprised that the Baptists
had to face the back of the courthouse, while the Episcopalians got the front
view. The Presbyterians had the north side and the Lutherans had the south. And
if Catholics or Puritans or Quakers showed up, they'd probably have to build
their churches outside the town. Verily enjoyed the cheerful hypocrisy of
American freedom of religion. No church got to be the established one, but you
sure knew which ones were way more disestablished than others.
It was the courthouse,
though, where Verily figured he'd have the best luck finding out the
whereabouts of Abraham Lincoln, erstwhile storekeeper and river trader.
The clerk knew a lawyer when he saw one, and greeted
Verily with an alert smile.
"I was hoping you could help me locate a citizen
of this town," said Verily.
"Serving papers on somebody?" asked the
clerk cheerfully.
So much for thinking I
look like a lawyer, thought Verily. "No sir," said Verily. "Just
a conversation with a friend of a friend."
"Then that ain't
legal business, is it?"
Verily almost laughed.
He knew what type of fellow this was right off. The kind who had memorized the
rule book and knew his list of duties and took pleasure in refusing to do
anything that wasn't on the list.
"You know,"
said Verily, "it's not. And I've got no business wasting your time. So
what I'll do is, I'll remain here in this public space where any citizen of the
United States is permitted to be, and I'll greet every person who enters this
courthouse and ask them to help me locate this citizen. And when they
ask me why I don't just ask the clerk at the desk, I'll tell them that I
wouldn't want to waste that busy gentleman's time."
The man's smile got a
little frosty. "Are you threatening me?"
"Threatening you
with what?" said Verily. "I'm determined to locate a citizen of this
fair town for reasons that are between me and him and a mutual friend, doing no
harm to him or anyone else. And since this building is at the very center of
town—a fine building it is, too, I might add, as good a courthouse as I've seen
in any county seat of comparable size in Hio or Wobbish or New England, for
that matter—I can think of no likelier place to encounter someone who can help
me find Mr. Abraham Lincoln."
There. He'd got the name
out. Now to see if the man could resist the temptation to show off what he
knew.
He could not. "Old Abe? Well, now, why didn't you
say it was Old Abe from the start?"
"Old? The man I'm looking for can't be thirty
yet."
"Well, that's him, then. Tall and lanky, ugly as
sin but sweet as sugar pie?"
"I've heard
rumors about his height," said Verily, "but the rest of your
description awaits personal verification."
"Well he'll be in
the general store, now that he's out of the store business himself. Or in Hiram's
tavern. But you know what? Just go out on the street and listen for laughter,
follow the sound of it, and wherever it's coming from, there's Abe Lincoln,
cause either he's causing the laughter or doing the laughing himself."
"Why thank you,
sir," said Verily. "But now I fear I've taken too much of your time,
and not on proper legal business at all, so I'll step on out of here before I
get you in some kind of trouble."
"Oh, no
trouble," said the clerk. "Any friend of Abe's is a friend of
everybody's."
Verily bade him
farewell and stepped back out into the afternoon sunshine.
Abe Lincoln sounds for
all the world like the town drunk— or a ne'er-do-well, in any case. Failed at a
store. No job to do so he can be found in a tavern or a general store. And this
is the one I've been sent to find?
Though a drunk or
ne'er-do-well would probably not get such a warm description from someone as
precise and well ordered as that clerk.
To his surprise, when
he stopped two men coming out of a barber shop—sporting that new clean-shaven
look that required a man to spend ten cents a day getting his beard removed—and
asked them if they knew the current whereabouts of Abraham Lincoln, they both
held up a hand to hush him, listened, and sure enough, the sound of a distant
gale of laughter could be heard.
"Sounds like he's
over at Cheaper's store," said one man.
"Just straight on
down the street," said the other, "kitty-corner from here."
So Verily followed the
sound of laughter and sure enough, when he walked into the cool darkness of the
store's interior, there were a half a dozen men and a couple of ladies, sitting
here and there, while leaning up against the wall was about the ugliest man
Verily Cooper had ever seen, who wasn't actually injured in some way. Tall,
though, just like they said, a giraffe among men.
Now Verily hardly knew
what the story was about, and he certainly did not know this Coz fellow Abe was
talking about. But when the people in that store laughed—which they did about
every six words, on average—he couldn't help but join in. It wasn't just what
Lincoln said, it was how he said it, such a dry manner, and willing to make
himself the fool of the story, but a fool with a sort of deeper wit about him.
What was most
interesting to Verily, though, was the way
It went way beyond
being likable. Verily had met a few who had something of a knack for that—you
find them rather thick on the ground in the lawyering profession—and he found
that no matter how good their knack was, when you weren't with them, you were
really angry at being taken in, and even when you were in that spell, some of
that anger remained with you. Verily would sense it, but it wasn't there. No,
these people weren't being hoodwinked, and
It didn't take Verily
Cooper much time to notice all this—it was his knack, after all. The
story continued and
"Now Coz, he
thinks about this—so he's holding really still, because you know when Coz is
thinking, it kind of uses up his whole body, unless he has gas—and finally he
says to me, Abe, I used to think that way myself, only I found that no matter
what you call it, you got to put your legs into the top of your
trousers first."
It took some of them a
couple of moments to get the joke, but the thing is, they all knew they
were going to get it and that the joke wasn't meant to exclude them. Verily
found himself liking
"But here we are
ignoring our visitor," said
"Or stabled my
horse," said Verily. "But I have urgent business that couldn't wait
for such niceties."
"And yet you came
to Cheaper's and listened to my story about Coz and me on the river. You must
come from a town even smaller than
"No sir,"
said Verily Cooper. "Because you're Abraham Lincoln, and my business is to
talk to you."
"Please don't
tell me I've got another creditor I didn't know about."
There was still
laughter from the others, but it was rueful— and a bit wary. They didn't want
ill things to happen to Mr. Lincoln.
In fact, one of the
ladies spoke up. "If your client thinks that Mr. Lincoln won't pay his debts,
he can rest assured, Old Abe never leaves a debt unpaid."
"Which I mostly
accomplish by never borrowing," said
"Never borrowing
for yourself, you mean," said the lady. A lady considerably older
than
"Mr. Lincoln, my
name is Verily Cooper, and we have a friend in common—Alvin Smith, whom I
believe you met on a trip down the Mizzippy not more than a couple of weeks
ago."
"A good
man," said
"What," said
one of the men. "No story about this Smith fellow?"
"I was raised to
be a cooper," said Verily, "and when the lawyering business is slow,
I can always support myself by making a keg or two."
"Whereas my
family could never get over the shire they came from back in
"I am, but a
citizen of this country now," said Verily. "We're none of us very far
from the boats that brought our people over."
"Well, I'm eager
to talk to you," said
Verily could, and did.
In fact, he used the half hour to get his horse stabled and fed, and when he
returned, there were no customers in the shop.
"Mr.
Cooper," he said, "there ain't been time for good news to get
from Barcy to here, but I heard some bad stories about yellow fever breaking
out there. I hope you're not here to tell me that Alvin or his young friend
with the royal name has took sick."
"Best of health,
as far as I know," said Verily.
"Also there's a
strange tale came upriver on a steamboat and got included in the daily lie
collection known as the
"And you guessed
that
"I hoped,"
said
"I came here
because he needs some help, and you're the only person we could think of who
might be able to handle it."
"Well, I'll help
him if I can. I owe him something, you know."
"That's not why
we're asking," said Verily. "This isn't a debt, because whatever you
think you might owe him, what he's asking is way bigger."
"What could be
bigger than saving my life?"
"The lives of
five or six thousand French folks and former slaves, who have no place of
safety to which they can repair in their time of trouble."
"I can put up
three of them in my room over the tavern, but not one more, and that's if they
don't mind getting stepped on if somebody has to get up in the night to use the
privy."
"They're coming
up the river and they need a place that will take them in and protect them.
"Highly thought
of among abolitionists," said
"Margaret is, as
you may also have heard, a torch."
"That doesn't get
mentioned even in the pro-slavery press, and you'd think they'd make a big deal
of it."
"She retired from
the public use of her knack," said Verily. "But she still sees what she
sees, and what she saw was this: The only way this expedition of runaway slaves
and Frenchmen is going to find any peace or safety is with your help."
"You won't do
it?"
"Oh, I'll do
whatever I can. But you got to understand something. Everything I turn my hand
to fails. I mean everything. I think I've got a knack for failure, because I
manage it no matter what I undertake to do."
"I don't know," said Verily. "You tell
a good story."
"Well, that's not something a man can make a
living at."
"I do," said Verily.
"Telling stories? Forgive me for saying it, but
you don't look like the humorous type."
"I didn't say my
stories were funny, but it wouldn't hurt a bit in my profession if I had a
little more humor from time to time."
"You're saying
that lawyers are storytellers?"
"That's our main
job. We take a set of facts, and we tell a story that includes them all and
doesn't leave out or contradict a one of them. The other fellow's lawyer then
takes the same facts and tells a different story. And the jury believes one
story or they believe the other."
"Do you really
believe that's all you do?" asked Verily.
"I think the
evidence of your own eyes should confirm that story, sir," said
"My eyes see what
your eyes can't," said Verily Cooper. "This town is a happy place—one
of the happiest towns, house for house and man for man, that I've ever
seen."
"It's a good
place to live, and it's good neighbors make it that way, I always say,"
said
"A town's like a
living thing," said Verily. "It all fits together like a body—not an
attractive body, because there's a head of this and a head of that, and all
kinds of arms and legs and fingers, but you get my analogy, I'm sure."
"Everybody's got
his place," said
"Ah, but most
towns have people who can't find their place, or aren't happy with it, or are
trying to take a place that they're not suited for, or hurt somebody who
belongs there just as much as they do. But from the feel of this town I'd say
there's not too much of that."
"We got our
skunks, like any other town. When they get their tail up, folks know to duck
for cover."
"This town has a heart," said Verily.
"I'm glad you could see that," said
"And the heart is you."
Verily just smiled.
"Mr. Lincoln, I think if you set yourself to figuring out where these five
or six thousand souls might find refuge, you'd not only come up with a good
answer, but you'd be the very man best suited to persuading folks to let them
go there."
"But how are you at
pleading for the downtrodden? Especially when every word you'd say about them
would be true?"
"In case you
haven't noticed, Mr. Cooper, the downtrodden get less popular as their numbers
increase. A man approached by one beggar is likely to give him a penny. A man
approached by five beggars in one day won't give a thing to the last one. And a
man approached by five beggars at once will run away and claim he was being
robbed."
"Which is why we
need to have a refuge for these folks before anybody can see with their own
eyes how many they are."
"Oh, I know how
many five thousand is. It's about four times the population of
"So there's not
room for them here," said Verily.
"Or any other
town along the Mizzippy. And I reckon if they're being carried on boats up the
river, you'll want a place for them that's near a landing."
"Not on
boats," said Verily.
"Walking? If they
can make their way to
"They're not
walking up the east bank of the river."
"Pass through,
but not linger."
"No, I reckon
not," said
"Mr.
Lincoln," said Verily, "I know you don't think you can do the job,
but Margaret Larner thinks you can, and from what I've seen of you, I think you
can, and all that is lacking at the moment is your agreement to try."
"Knowing that I'm likely to fail," said
"I can't fail worse with your help than
I'm bound to fail without it," said Verily.
"You know that Coz will want to help, and he's even
more of a blockhead than I am."
"I'd be happy to
have the help of Coz, whoever that might be, as long as I can rely on
you."
"I'll tell you what," said
"There's something you want in return?"
"Oh, I'll do it
anyway," said
"You don't talk
law," said Verily Cooper, "you read law."
"You read law
after you've decided that a lawyer's what you want to be," said
"I don't think
you'll spend your whole life doing any one thing," said Verily.
"I don't think that's in you, if I know anything about a man. But I think
if you set your mind to lawyering, you'd be a good one. And not least because
there's no chance under heaven that you will ever, for a single moment, look
like a lawyer."
"You don't think
that's a drawback?"
"I think that for
a long while, every lawyer who comes up against you in court will think you're a
country bumpkin and he won't have to work at all to beat you."
"But I am a
country bumpkin."
"And I'm a
kegmaker. A kegmaker who wins most of his cases in court."
"You can't help
what other people choose to believe about you, before they have all the
evidence in hand."
"Splitting them up
might be necessary," said Verily. "But it might also be dangerous.
You know there'll be slave catchers here as soon as it becomes known where they
are."
"So you need them
all to be in a place where slave catchers won't be able to cart them all back
south one at a time."
"A place that
will afford protection, yes," said Verily.
"A completely
abolitionist county, then, is what you need. With its own judge, not a circuit
rider, so you know how he's going to rule on every slavery issue."
"A strong
enthusiasm for habeus corpus would be an advantage, yes."
"A county where
every justice of the peace can be relied on not to cooperate with the
catchers."
"Is there such a county?" asked Verily.
"Not yet," said Lincoln, and he grinned.
13
It
was all as well planned as a church
party, and Arthur Stuart plain admired how they done it. All the stories about
reds that folks told these days was about savages living a natural life picking
fruit off the trees and calling to deer and they'd come right up and the red
man would clunk them on the head. Or else stories about savages murdering and
raping and scalping and capturing white folks and keeping them as slaves till
they got away or till some soldiers find them and they refuse to go home. Or
about how if you give a red man likker he'll get as drunk as a skunk in five
minutes flat and spend the rest of his life devoted to getting more.
Of course, Arthur
Stuart knew in the back of his mind that this sort of thing couldn't be the
complete story.
And Arthur had seen
plenty of red men, from time to time—but they were Irrakwa or Cherriky and they
wore business suits just like everybody else and stood for Congress and
supervised railroad construction and ran banks and did all kinds of other jobs
so there wasn't no difference between them and white folks except the color of
their skin and how fat they got when they grew up, because some of them reds
could get huge.
Arthur Stuart figured
what
But when you thought
about the red men living out beyond the Mizzippy, you sort of thought they'd be
living the old way, hunting and fishing and living in wigwams. So it plain
irritated Arthur Stuart at first to find out that they built log cabins and
laid out their towns in streets, and that they planted acre after acre in maize
and beans.
"This don't feel
like no greensong to me," Arthur Stuart said to Dead Mary. "This just
feels like a town."
Dead Mary laughed at
him for that. "Why shouldn't red folk have towns? Big cities, too? You
think only white people know what a city is?"
And when it came to
feeding all these six thousand runaways, why, the red men was as organized as a
church picnic. There was fifty tables set up, and each colonel and major would
bring their fifty households and they'd pass along the tables and pile up food
on baskets and carry them off to the pastures that had been designated as their
campsites and it was so smooth that everybody got their breakfast before the
sun even got hot. And all the while, there was red women hauling more food to
the tables—corn bread and flat bread and bean mash and cider and apples and
pawpaws and big bunches of grapes.
The grapes he just had
to ask about. "Iffen red folks got grapes, how come they didn't invent
wine?"
"They didn't have
grapes,"
"So what are they
doing, making wine now?"
"Their cider and
their wine have so little alcohol that you'd have to pee it all out long before
you got drunk," said
"Hard to think of
that man being slave to anything," said Arthur Stuart.
"But he
was," said
"So red folks got
books?"
"He gets them
from our side of the Mizzippy," said
All that morning,
Tenskwa-Tawa was holed up with La Tia and about a dozen old red men and women,
and when Arthur asked what they were doing.
But at noon—when they
started in on yet another meal, this time with meat in it—mostly smoked turkey,
which the reds seemed to herd like sheep—Alvin was invited in to the big hall
where the red council and La Tia were meeting, and in a few minutes he came back
out and fetched Arthur Stuart inside.
It was a cool, dark
place, with a fire in the middle and a hole in the roof, even though the reds
knew perfectly well how to make a chimney, as every cabin in town proved. So it
must have something to do with keeping up the old ways. The reds sat right on
the ground, on blankets, but they had a chair for La Tia, just like the one she
sat in back in Barcy. So she was the tallest thing in the room, like one lone
pine standing up in the middle of a stand of beeches.
"Sit with us,
Arthur Stuart," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "We have a mission for you, if
you're willing."
This was about the
last thing Arthur Stuart expected. A mission for him? He'd expected to follow
along with
"I'll do my
part," said Arthur Stuart, "but you do know that I'm not a maker, I
hope."
"It's not makery
they need you for," said
That made no sense to
Arthur Stuart, but he was willing to listen—no, he was eager to hear what it
was that they actually needed him for, himself.
Tenskwa-Tawa laid out
for him what was going on in
"Or both,"
said La Tia. "Some men has to die two times to get the point."
"So we need you
for two things," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "You have to go warn the white
men and help them get out, if they're willing."
Arthur Stuart laughed.
"You gonna send a half-black boy my age to warn white men to get
out?"
"My brother Calvin's with them," said
"But he don't like me."
"But he'll know
you came from me," said
"So this is about
saving Calvin's life," said Arthur Stuart dubiously. He knew perfectly
well that his sister Margaret had no high opinion of Calvin and Arthur Stuart
kind of suspected that if Calvin died it might ease her mind. But
"And all the others," said
"But how am I going to get there in time to warn
them?"
"Two things," said
"But it's desert between here and there."
"The greensong doesn't
depend on the color green, really," said
"But I can't do
the greensong alone."
La Tia spoke up.
"I give you a charm like I made before, only better."
"And I'll run
with you the first hour or so, to get you started. Arthur Stuart, you've passed
the threshold, don't you realize it? You're the first one to do it, but you're
a man who wasn't born to be a maker, but he's learned makery all the
same."
"Not as good as
you. Nowhere near."
"Maybe not,"
said
"And somehow I'll find the way?"
"The closer you get to
"And if somebody decides my heart would make a
dandy sacrifice?"
"Then you'll use
the powers you've learned to get away. I don't just want you to deliver the
message, I want you to come back safe and sound."
"Oh," said
Arthur Stuart, realizing. "You want me to bring these white men with
me."
"I want you to
bring them as far as it takes to make them safe," said
"I don't think a
soul's gonna listen to me," said Arthur Stuart. "When did Calvin ever
listen to you?"
"Calvin will do
what he wants," said
"I just hope I get there before the volcano
blows," said Arthur Stuart. "What if I get lost?"
"Don't you worry," said La Tia. "You be
carrying the volcano with you."
The other part of the errand? "How can I do that?"
Tenskwa-Tawa answered.
"We have awakened the giant under the earth," he said. "It flows
now hotter and hotter. But what we couldn't do was control the moment when it erupted.
Or where. But La Tia, she knows the old African ways of calling to the earth.
She's made two charms. They won't work until they're burned. But where they're
burned, and what you say when you burn them, you'll have to memorize that and
teach it to my people who are there."
"Why two
charms?" asked Arthur.
"The one she call
smoke from the ground," said La Tia. "The other one, she call the hot
red blood out of the earth."
"My people,"
said Tenskwa-Tawa, "will tell the Mexica people what day the smoke will
first appear, and when it happens, they'll believe. We want to give them plenty
of time to leave. The idea isn't to kill Mexicas. The idea is to show them that
a greater power rejects their lies about what God wants them to do."
"We're trying to break the power of the priests
who sacrifice human beings," said
"Three days after the first charm," said
Tenskwa-Tawa, "they'll use the second one."
"And the volcano blows up."
"We don't know
how bad it will be," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "We can't control what the
giant does, once it's awake."
"What about the reds who work the charm?"
asked Arthur Stuart.
"We hope that they'll get away in time,"
said Tenskwa-Tawa.
"I don't know how fast she work," said La
Tia. "I never make this kind before."
"How do you know it'll work at all, then?"
said Arthur Stuart.
It seemed a practical
question to him, but La Tia shot him a glare. "I be La Tia, me," she
said. "Other people charms, they maybe don't work."
Arthur Stuart grinned
at her. "I hope I grow up to be perfect like you."
She apparently didn't
detect the irony in his words. "You be so lucky," she said.
Arthur Stuart spent
the next hour studying the charm to learn how it was put together—"in case
she come apart on the road," La Tia said—and learning the words and the motions.
"What if I don't
do it exactly right?" said Arthur Stuart. "What if I forget some bit?
Will it just work a little slower, or will it not work at all?"
La Tia glared at him
again. "Don't forget any. Then we never find out how much she go wrong
when stupid boy forget."
So even after she was
satisfied that he knew what to do, Arthur Stuart went off by himself, to a
stand of trees near the river, to go through it all again.
That's where he was
when Dead Mary found him. But he was asleep by then, exhausted from all that
he'd been doing for days. The greensong helped him and everyone else stay
vigorous all through the night and into the morning, but the need for sleep had
caught up with him and there was no denying it.
Arthur Stuart felt a
hand on his shoulder and sat bolt upright. He was confused to see that it was
Dead Mary who was kneeling beside him, because she had also been in his dream.
"
Arthur shook his head. "That's all right," he
said. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."
"What's that you were lying on?"
Arthur Stuart looked
down and was horrified to see that he had rolled over on the smaller charm and
bent it. He said a swear word, apologized for it, and when Dead Mary said it
was all right, he thanked her and said it again. "She's gonna kill me if I
don't get this back together right."
"La Tia?"
said Dead Mary. "Sometimes I think she might kill someone for practice.
The power she has!"
"I'm just glad she's on our side," said
Arthur Stuart.
"She is for now."
"Same could be
said for you," said Arthur. "When we get to safety, what then? Where
will everybody go?"
"Where can we
go?" said Dead Mary. "All these runaway slaves, where will they be
safe? And my people, the French— we don't speak the way they do in
"
"Then maybe we wander."
Oh right,
She looked at him like he was crazy. "I know
that, ignorant boy."
"Is that what I am?"
"When you talk
like that, yes," said Mary. "You think I want a husband? You
think all women, they want a man for a husband or not at all?"
"Well, you ain't got
a husband," said Arthur Stuart.
"And when I want
one," she answered, "I will tell him and it will be none of your
business."
So much for Arthur
Stuart's dream. "It's none of my business now." He looked at the
small charm from every angle. There was nothing wrong with it that he could
see, and yet it still didn't feel quite right.
"Was this
supposed to be part of it?" said Mary. She held up a grain of dried
maize—a red one.
"Yes, yes, thank
you." He inserted it into its place between two pieces of birchbark.
"It's hard to remember what you're not seeing. I'm going to mess
this up, I just know it. This is important, and they're crazy to send an
ignorant boy to do it."
She laid a reassuring
hand on his shoulder. "You are not really an ignorant boy," she said.
"No, you had it
right."
"You are an
ignorant boy when you try to guess what a woman is thinking," said Mary.
"But you are not an ignorant boy when it comes to doing a man's
work."
"I guess then I'm
an ignorant man" he grumbled, but he liked having her touch his
shoulder, even if she was sweet on a married man.
"I saw you in the
crystal ball," she said. "I saw you running and running. Through
desert, up a mountain. To a great valley surrounded by tall mountains, with a
lake in the middle, and a city on the lake. I saw you run to the middle and
light a fire and it turned all the mountains into great chimneys giving off
smoke, and then the earth began to shake and the mountains began to
bleed."
"Well, the plan
is for me not to be there by the time that stuff happens."
"The ball does
not show what will actually happen," said Mary. "It shows the meaning
of what might happen. But you will run, yes? And thousands of people
will be saved from the fire."
"A fire that
wouldn't happen except for this." He held up the bigger charm. "You
want to know how scary La Tia is?"
"I have seen my
mother ride the back of a shark," said Dead Mary. "I have seen her
swim with sharks, and play with them like puppies. I am not afraid of La
Tia."
"Why are some
people so powerful, and other people barely got a knack at all?" asked
Arthur Stuart.
"Why can I see
sickness and death, and do nothing about it?" asked Mary. "Why can
you speak any language you want, but you don't know what to say? To have a
knack is a burden; not to have a knack is a burden; God only cares to see what
we do with the burden we have."
"So now you're
speaking for God?"
"I'm speaking the
truth," said Mary, "and you know it." She got up. "
"I
remember," said Arthur Stuart. "But I wasn't coming back till I got
this fixed."
"I know,"
she said. "But now it's fixed, and here we are. What are you waiting for,
Arthur Stuart?"
"We was talking
is all," he said.
Then, to his surprise,
she put her hands on his shoulders, leaned up, and kissed him right on the
mouth. "You were waiting for that," she said.
"Reckon I was," he said. "Was I waiting
for maybe two of them?"
She kissed him again.
"So you're telling me you're not sweet on
She laughed. "I
want him to teach me everything he knows," she said. "But you—I want
to teach you everything I know."
Then she ran off ahead
of him, toward the red city.
When Arthur Stuart got
back to camp, La Tia immediately demanded to see the charms, and though she
clucked and straightened a little here and there, she did it as much on the one
he had not crushed as on the one he had, so he figured she was just
fussing and he had done OK at putting it back together.
"You're going to
get me started," said Arthur Stuart, "but I'm gonna have to stop
along the way, if only to ask directions, and then how will I get started
again?"
"You can stop
without losing the greensong," said
"I'll keep that
in mind."
"It's one of the
things that makes it hard for me," said
"Engineers only
get to go where the tracks have been laid," said Arthur Stuart.
"There you have
it," said
"That's why you
should be making this trip, not me," said Arthur Stuart. "I'm gonna
mess this up, and folks are gonna wish it had been you all along."
"Nobody wished it
had been me leading that exodus across the delta lands."
"I did."
"You'll do
fine," said
They began to run, and
soon Arthur Stuart was caught up in the greensong, stronger than he'd ever
heard it before. The red farmland wasn't like white men's farms. The maize and
the beans grew right up together, all mixed in, and there were other plants and
lots of animals living in it, so the song didn't go silent where the ground had
been plowed and planted. Maybe there was a way that machines could be made
harmonious with the earth the way these farms were. Then
After a while Arthur Stuart
noticed that
It occurred to him
that he might move even faster, and then he did. Faster yet, and now he fairly
flew. But his feet always found just the right place to step, and when he leapt
he cleared every hurdle, and every breath he took in was filled with pleasure,
and every breath he let out was a whispery song of joy.
14
Plow
"Why won't you look in the crystal ball,
"Nothing there that I want to see," said
"We look into it and see important things,"
she said.
"But you can't trust it, can you?" said
"It gives us an idea of what's coming."
"No it
doesn't," said
"For someone who refuses to look," said Dead
Mary, "you know a lot about it."
"I don't like what I see there."
"Neither do I," said Dead Mary. "But I
think that is not why you refuse to look."
"Oh?"
"I think you do
not look because it is your wife who sees the future, not you. And if you ever
looked into the ball, then you would not need her any more."
"I think you're
talking about things you don't know anything about," said Alvin, and he
turned away to leave.
"I also don't
like what I don't see," said Dead Mary.
"A good husband for
me, for one thing," she said. "Or children. Or a happy life. Isn't
that what crystal balls are supposed to show?"
"It ain't no
carnival fortune telling ball."
"No, it's made of
water from the swamps of Nueva Barcelona," said Dead Mary. "And it
shows me that you love your wife and will never leave her."
He turned around to
face her again. "Does it show you that it's wrong of you to toy with
Arthur Stuart and lead him to think you're in love with him?"
"It is not wrong," said Dead Mary, "if
it's true."
"True that you're toying with him? Or true that
you're in love with him?"
"True that I am drawn to him. That I like him.
That I wanted to kiss him before he left."
"Why?"
"Because he's a good boy and he shouldn't die
Without ever being kissed."
"The crystal ball showed you he was going to die,
is that it?"
"Isn't he?"
"The ball tells
back to you what you already believe," said
"Let me tell you
what the ball shows me," said Dead Mary. "A city on a hill over
a river, and in the center of the city, a great palace of crystal, like the
ball, water standing up and shining in the sunlight so you cannot bear to look
on it."
"Just one
building made of crystal," said
She nodded. "And
the name of the city is The City of Makers, and The City Beautiful, and
"That's a lot of names for one dream."
"This is where you are leading us, isn't
it?" said Dead Mary.
"So maybe the ball doesn't show you only
your own dream," he said.
"Whose dream did I see, then?"
"Mine."
"Let me tell you
something, Monsieur Maker," said Dead Mary. "These people don't need
some fancy building made of crystal. All they need is some good land where they
can set a plow, and build a house, and raise a family, and they'll do just
fine."
In
When Verily Cooper met
up with Abe Lincoln in Cheaper's store at
"Out of your territory, aren't you?" asked
Verily.
"I'm on duty, as a matter of fact," said the
clerk.
"Then your list of duties is longer than I
thought," said Verily.
The clerk walked up to him and handed him a folded and
sealed paper. "That's for you."
Verily glanced at it. "No it's not," he
said.
"Are you or are
you not the attorney for one Alvin Smith also known as Alvin Miller, Jr., of
"I am," said
Verily Cooper.
"Then in that
capacity papers to be served on Mr. Smith can be served on you."
"But," said
Verily, touching the man on the shoulder to suggest that he should not rush out
of the store as he seemed to be in quite a hurry to do. "But, we are not
in the state of Hio, where I am licensed to practice law, or the state of
Wobbish, where I am licensed to practice law. In those states, I am indeed Mr.
Smith's attorney. But in the state of
He handed them back to the clerk.
The clerk glared at him. "I think that's pure
horse piss, sir."
"Are you a lawyer?" asked Verily Cooper.
"Apparently you aren't either, in this
state," said the clerk.
"If you're not a lawyer, sir, then you should not
be offering a legal opinion."
"When did I do that?"
"When you said
that what I said was pure horse piss. It would take a lawyer to offer an opinion
on the degree of purity of any particular sample of horse piss. Or are we to
assume you are practicing law without having been accepted at the bar in the
state of
"Did you come
here just to make my life a living hell?" asked the clerk.
"It's you or
me," said Verily. "But let me tell you something that it was my
pleasure once to say to the Lord Protector and all his legal officers in
"What's that?"
"Good-bye."
Verily clapped his hat on his head and strode out the
door into the street.
The clerk stomped out
immediately after him, and kept on stomping, which raised something of a dust
cloud behind him, the day being quite dry and hot.
Then Abe Lincoln
sauntered out, followed by his faithful companion, Coz. "What do you think,
Coz? I think we got to agree that was sharp lawyering. But then again, any time
a lawyer says he ain't a lawyer, isn't that some kind of improvement to the
general condition of humanity?"
Coz grinned and then
spat into the dirt, which made a little ball of mud that actually rolled a few
inches before it settled down and disappeared. "But we like Mr.
Cooper," said Coz. "He's a good lawyer."
"He's a good man,"
said Abe. "And he's a good lawyer. But is it possible for him
to be both at the same time?"
"You keep this up," said Verily, "and I
won't teach you any more about lawyering."
"I think Abe is already a fine lawyer," said
Coz.
"What do you mean?" said Verily.
"Well, look at
you," said Coz. "You're just walking around, right? And nobody's
paying you, right?"
"Right," said Verily.
"That's what Abe does most of the time."
"You know I'm a
hardworking man, Coz," said Abe. "I split half the fence rails in
"Aw, come on,
Abe," said Coz. "Can't you let another man have his joke?"
"Just wouldn't
want Mr. Cooper to think I was a lazy man."
Since Verily had spent
the last few days trying to keep up with the long-legged, fast-walking Mr.
Lincoln, he really hadn't got the impression of laziness from him.
Today, though, they
were not walking. At
"We're poor men," said Abe.
"I'm poorer," said Coz.
"Because you spend every dime you make on riotous
living."
"A man in love is inclined to buy gifts for his
lady."
"And drinks."
"She was thirsty."
"And then she was
unconscious," said Abe. "And then you paid for a room in the tavern
for her to sleep it off, hoping no doubt that her gratitude in the morning
would be greater than her headache, only in the morning..."
"My love life ain't none of Mr. Cooper's
business."
"Your love life is imaginary, except for the
amount of money you lose at it," said Abe.
And so it went all the way from
They left the
cornfields behind them after a couple of hours and forded
They reached a
tree-covered bluff overlooking the great river just before dark. There wasn't
much to see. A lot of trees below them, and beyond the trees, a glimpse of the river
reflected scattered moonlight. And then the fog that obscured all vision of the
land on the other side.
"Here's where we spend the night," said
"And eat supper, I hope," said Coz.
"Supper?" said Verily.
Abe looked at him sharply. "I said we'd need
provisions."
"You didn't say we'd need food," said
Verily.
"Well I'm blamed if provisions don't mean food!"
said Abe, sounding a little cross.
"If you meant food," said Verily, "you
should have said food."
"If you think I'm
going to hunt for rabbit this time of night on an empty stomach, you're
looney," said Coz.
"Myself,"
said Abe, "I'm thinking of maybe turning cannibal."
Verily grinned.
"Now I know why you brought Coz along."
Coz put his hands on
his hips and glared at them both by turns. "Now see here, there ain't
nobody going to eat nobody, least of all me. I may look stout, but I assure you
it's all fat, every bit of it, not a scrap of muscle on me, so if you tried to
fry me up like bacon you'd end up gagging on account of there being no lean in
it."
Verily sighed. "It's hard to play a joke on men
who refuse to notice the jest."
"We were joking back," said Coz. "We
knowed you had food all along."
"Oh, no, I don't have food," said Verily.
"The joke was the part about eating you."
They both uttered
disgusted noises and then Verily laughed. "All right, then, I suppose I
might have something left over from my journey here in my saddlebags."
He was getting the
waybread and corned beef out of the saddlebag when Abe said, "You know,
I'm a mite uncomfortable that the campfire that was going down by the river
when we got here has since been put right out."
"Maybe they got done eating," said Coz.
"I didn't see a campfire," said Verily.
"Maybe they don't want a fire 'cause it's a hot
night," said Coz.
"Or maybe they
took note of some travelers on horseback coming out of the wood at the crown of
this bluff and decided that we looked like easy folk to rob."
A powerful voice came
from the brush off behind the horses. "Fine time to think of that, sir."
And out from the bushes stepped a big man, who looked like he'd been in a lot
of fights but hadn't lost any of them. And he had pistols and knives all over
him, it seemed, with a cocked musket in his hands.
It was the first time
Verily had seen Abe Lincoln look scared. "If you were hoping to rob
somebody easy," said Abe, "you're half right. We'll be easy, only we
ain't got nothing to steal."
"Speak for
yourself, Abe," said Coz. "I bet Mr. Cooper's got everything he owns
on that horse."
Abe gave Coz a shove.
"Well, ain't that a fine thing, drawing this man's attention to our friend
Mr. Cooper!"
"Well Mr. Cooper was planning to fry me up
like bacon!" said Coz, shoving Abe back.
"That was a joke, Coz," said Abe, shoving
him harder.
"He says now," said Coz, shoving Abe back,
even harder.
But when Abe flung
himself forward to shove again, it wasn't Coz he shoved. He took a flying leap
at the stranger and down they tumbled into the bushes.
"Don't you worry,
none, Mr. Cooper," said Coz. "Abe's a pretty bad fighter, but he puts
his whole self into it and he don't give up early."
"Verily!"
called the big man from the bushes. His voice sounded like somebody was
pounding on his chest.
"He knows your
name?" said Coz.
"Verily, are you
going to say something, or am I going to have to kill your big ugly
friend!"
"He oughtn't to call Abe ugly like that,"
said Coz.
"Abe," said Verily, "this man is not
here to rob us."
The fight quieted down. "You know each
other," said Abe.
"Abe Lincoln, meet Mike Fink. Mike Fink, vice
versa."
"Leave off that
legal talk, Mr. Cooper," said Mike. "It just riles me up and then I
have to kill somebody."
"Well, don't kill
Mr. Lincoln," said Verily. "He hasn't yet told me why he brought me
to this godforsaken spot."
"I don't know
either," said Mike, "but this is where Peggy said you'd be on this
very evening, so this is where I came to meet you."
"Don't tell me
you rowed upstream the whole way from
"I'd never tell
such a lie," said Mike Fink, "but it's kind of flattering you'd think
it was a possibility. Also kind of stupid, since half the journey would have
been down the Hio, which ain't upstream."
"Ah. You didn't
start in
"
"My butt says it
was far enough," said Coz. "They made me ride the uncomfortable
horse."
"Any horse with
you on it's gonna be uncomfortable," said Abe.
"So Peggy knew
that we'd be here," said Verily.
"Who is this
Peggy," said Abe, "and how did she supposedly know days ago a thing I
didn't find out about till yesterday?"
"A man who fights
like a big-armed baby oughtn't to imply that a man that just whupped him is a
liar," said Mike.
"Didn't accuse a
soul," said Abe. "I asked a question."
"Peggy is
Margaret Larner," said Verily. "
"She didn't
happen to say," said Abe, "whether the plan that brought us here is a
good idea."
"I'm not here for
you," said Mike. "No offense. Nor for Verily Cooper, neither."
"Well I sure hope
you ain't here for me," said Coz, "cause I peed my pants just looking
at you, and if you rassle me it'll get all over you."
"I appreciate the
warning," said Mike. "But I'm here for
"I thought Peggy
sent you," said Verily.
"Peggy sent
me," said Mike, "to meet
Coz was delighted.
"
"That makes this
a right propitious spot," said Abe.
"No it
doesn't," said Verily. "Margaret wouldn't have sent Mike Fink unless
"What Peggy says
is, when neither Alvin nor his lawyer showed up in court, the judge put out a
summer judgment against
"Let me guess," said Verily. "Is there
a reward?"
"Somebody put up five hundred dollars," said
Mike.
"And you're here to help
"I'm here to take
anybody who tries to earn that reward and grind him into flour and bake him
like bread."
"We ain't looking to do that," said Coz.
"Five hundred dollars is a lot of money,"
said Abe.
Mike took a step toward Abe—who, to his credit, did
not flinch.
"Calm down,
Mike," said Verily. "Abe Lincoln is a man who likes his joke. He's a
trusted friend of Al's."
"Ain't trusted by
me" said Mike.
"My question
is," said Coz, "if he's got you willing to protect him, how come he
runs around all the time with that scrawny brother-in-law of his?"
"He don't need me
to protect him from the kind of danger you meet on the road," said Mike.
"He can defend himself just fine against that. It's when they come to him
with legal papers and he gets all honorable and starts believing that he should
let them haul him off to jail and then he stays there even though we
know there ain't no jail can hold him—that's when he needs me. Because I
don't mind beating in the face of a man who's just doing his job."
"Or biting off his ear," added Coz,
hopefully.
"Gave up ear-biting long ago," said Mike.
"And eye-gouging.
"Made you?"
asked Abe.
Mike looked embarrassed.
"He's a blacksmith, don't you know. Look at them shoulders he's got. Not
to mention that he could just look at my leg and break it."
"I think the
fight, which is legendary, was equally unfair on both sides," said Verily.
"Oh, that's
so," said Mike. "I wasn't accusing
"Ha ha,"
said Coz lamely. "You're such a joker, you are."
"When's
"Well, you know
how Peggy gets kind of vague when it comes to
"Came by
train," said Verily. "Would've been nice if I could've done
that."
"So I wondered if
you folks already et," said Mike. "Because I just couldn't see no
point in hotting up a pot just for me, and I also didn't much care to eat my beans
cold."
Soon they had a fire
going right on the bluff, with two pots beside it, one full of stew, the other
full of water, waiting to come to a boil.
"I reckon we're
putting this fire right out in the open like this," said Abe, "so
anybody seeking a reward won't waste time tripping over foxes and beavers in
the dark."
"
It wasn't that Mike
Fink was completely incautious, though. He volunteered for the first watch of
the night, and warned Verily that he was next.
So it was that a
groggy Verily Cooper was the one leaning against a tree looking out over the
river when suddenly there was a man standing beside him. "River's
beautiful at night," said
Verily didn't even bat an eye. "Someday I'd like
to see it with no fog."
"Someday," said
"Glad to see you," said Verily.
"Glad to be seen."
"Where's your company of five thousand?"
"Six thousand
now. They're coming north. I ran on ahead to meet you and see if you're doing
what I hope you're doing."
"Finding a place for your people to come."
"Have you? Found a place?"
"Abe Lincoln and
I have been up and down, here and there," said Verily. "There are
abolitionist towns that'll take a hundred or so. But I don't think there are
sixty such towns in the whole state."
"Bad news,"
said
"So tell me some
good news,
"Before I
do," said Verily, "tell me this. Did you come here tonight because
this is the right place for us to be?"
"I came here
tonight because tomorrow I need you to make the handles for my plow."
When Dead Mary told
All he had ever seen
or thought of was the part of it that was made of crystal, the part of it that
would be filled with dreams and visions like the ball, like the bridge, like
the dam. And he had always thought that to live in such a place, all the citizens
would have to be makers, like him. That's why he had been teaching them, or
trying to teach them, all these eager people who simply couldn't do it. All had
accomplished something, some slight increase of awareness or ability. Verily
Cooper, of course, already had something of makery in his knack, and Calvin was
a maker, after his fashion. And Arthur Stuart—now, he was a marvel,
all these years and suddenly he makes his breakthrough and he sees it. But
that's what, four people? And Calvin none too reliable. You don't make a
But that's why Dead
Mary's vision of the
It's a city of makers,
not because everyone in it is a Maker, but because the whole city cooperates in
making the Making possible, and the whole city participates in the good thing
that they have made.
So obvious now. Who is
the builder of a great cathedral? The architect can truly say, I built this,
even though he never lifts a stone. The stonecutters can say, I built this,
even though it was not their hands that put the stones in place. The masons,
the glassmakers, the carpenters, the weavers of rugs, they are all part of the
building of it. And the bishop who caused them to build it, and the rich people
who donated the money, and the women who brought the food to the workers, and
the farmers who grew the food they serve, all the people of the city caused that
building to exist. And fifty years later, when all the people whose hands did
the work, they're all dead now, or old and doddering, their grandchildren can
walk inside that building and say, "This is our cathedral, we built
this," because it was the city that built the building, and the city that
goes inside to use it, and each new generation that keeps the city alive, and
walks into the building with veneration and pride, the cathedral is theirs as
much as anyone's.
I can still teach makery
to those who want to learn, thought
And since everyone
will have contributed in one way or another to the crystal edifice, then they
are part of it, aren't they? Part of the
Which means the
Through the morning he
watched and then tried not to watch and then watched again, as Verily Cooper
stroked the wood and with his bare hands made it into what it needed to be.
Verily did not set a tool to the wood. Nor did he choose a fallen log or fell a
tree. He found two saplings that were of a size, and stroked them until they
separated from the tree. He didn't exactly knead the wood like clay, but the
effect was the same. Bark stripped away from the living wood, and the wood
shaped itself, bent itself until each of the saplings was now the shape of a
plow handle.
Abe and Coz and Mike
watched too, for a while. In awe, at first. But miraculous as it might seem, it
was a slow and repetitive process, and after a while they wandered off to do
other things—survey the area, Abe said.
So it was that when
Verily was done, it was just him and Alvin there. The two saplings were now
joined at the base as completely as if they had grown that way.
"Time to take that plow out of the sack,"
said Verily.
"The wood is still alive," said
"I know," said Verily.
"Have you made anything out of living wood
before?" asked
"No," said Verily.
"Then how did you know how?"
"You asked me to
do it, and I didn't have any tools," said Verily. "But all this work
you've had me doing, learning how to actually see and understand what was going
on inside the wood when I made barrel staves and hooped them—well, Al, did you
think I wouldn't learn anything!"
"So let's see if
it'll fit."
"Gold is
soft," said Verily. "It'll wear away quickly in hard ground, won't
it?"
"A living plow
don't fit into the world the way ordinary ones do, and I expect it'll be as
hard as I need it to be."
Verily laughed.
"I'll hold the handles in place, and you work it out from there."
Leaping together,
joining, the plowshare sliding into exactly the right spot, the wood flexing a
bit to let it in, then closing back down over it, so it looked as if the
handles had been carved from a tree that had the golden plow already embedded
inside it.
Neither of them had a
chance to marvel and admire, though, for the moment the plow leapt into place,
there came such a music as Alvin had never heard before. It was the greensong—the
song of the living wood, the living world, he recognized it, and felt how the
handles vibrated with it. And yet it was another music, too. The music of
worked metal, of machinery, of tools made to fit human needs and to do human
work. It was the beating throb of the engine in a steamboat, and hissing and
spitting of a locomotive, the whine of spinning wheels, the clatter and clump
of power looms. Only instead of the cacophony of the factory, it all blended
together into a single powerful song, and to
Even then, he scarcely
had time to realize what the music was before the plow started bucking and
bouncing. It was clear that it no longer intended to be still, and Verily, far
from controlling it, was barely able to hang on as the plow lurched forward—no
ox or horse pulling it, nothing at all but its own will. It skipped a few feet
and then dug into the thatch of the meadowgrass, cut through it like a hot
knife through butter, then raced forward, Verily hanging on for dear life,
running and twisting to keep up with it.
Whatever else this
plow might want, it had no respect for the idea that the best furrow is a
straight one. It twisted and turned all around the meadow, as if it were a
dowser's stick searching for water.
Which, when
"I can't hold on
any longer!" cried Verily, and he fell to the ground as the plow lurched
forward another yard and then ... stopped.
The plow just stood there in the ground, unmoving.
Alvin ran over as Verily got up off the ground.
Gingerly, Verily
reached a hand out to it. The moment his skin touched it, the plow bucked again
and moved forward.
"I have an idea," said Alvin. "You take
the right handle, I'll take the left."
"Both at once," said Verily.
"One," said Alvin. And Verily joined in on
"two" and "three."
"Wait a minute," said Verily. "How high
are we counting?"
"I was thinking of three, but looks like that
won't be it after all."
"When we say three, or when we would have
said four?"
"When we say three, we should be grabbing right
then," said Alvin.
One.
Two.
And away they went.
Only this time there
was no bucking. The plow moved, all right, cutting deep into the ground and
turning up the soil just like a plow should do. But its path was no longer so
crooked.
And its purpose seemed
to be to get out of the meadow, move through the trees, and climb back up onto
the bluff.
It was steep
going—this wasn't all that gentle a slope— and there were low branches that
looked like they were designed to take the head right off anyone foolish enough
to be hanging on behind a living plow.
But the greensong in
the music of the plow was powerful, and the branches seemed to rise up or bend back,
and neither Alvin nor Verily suffered so much as a scrape or scratch or bump.
Nor did they get weary as they ran up the hill behind the plow.
When it reached the
top, the plow turned a little and ran across the face of the bluff. That was
when Alvin became vaguely aware of the voices of Mike and Abe and Coz,
somewhere in the distance, whooping and hollering like little boys. But there
was no waiting for them to catch up. For the plow was zeroing in on its
destination and speeding up as it grew closer.
Closer to a stony
outcropping some twenty yards back from the front of the bluff, a spot where no
trees grew because the stone continued under the meadow, leaving too little
soil for any tree to root deep enough to withstand a storm.
They headed straight for
the bare rock in the middle of the clearing, and Alvin was not altogether
surprised when the plow cut right through the stone without so much as a
stutter. It cut a furrow into the rock just as it had with the soil, only where
the soil behind the plow had been loose and warm, the upturned stone hardened
in place, like a sculpture of a furrow.
And when the plow got
to a spot where a puddle of water had formed in a depression in the stone, it
went straight to the middle of the puddle and stopped.
The water drained down
the furrow the plow had made. A thin stream of pure water being guided by the
stone furrow, and then the furrow in the soil, to the edge of the bluff and
along it down to the meadow where Verily had made the handles.
The plow did not move.
Alvin and Verily took their hands from the handles.
The music faded.
"I think we're done here," said Alvin.
"What is it we did?" said Verily.
"We found the spot for the Crystal City,"
said Alvin.
"Is that what we've been looking for?" asked
Verily.
"I think it's what this plow has been looking for
since it was first made."
Alvin knelt beside the
plow that he had carried for so long. All these years of toting it, and now its
work was done, and wild and joyful as the trip up the hill was, it hadn't taken
long. Just a few minutes. But when Alvin reached out and touched a finger to
the golden face of the plow, the thing quivered, and the handle came loose and
fell away. Fell to the ground.
Verily picked it up. "Still alive," he said.
"But no longer part of the plow."
The music was gone,
too. The greensong still lingered, as it always did in Alvin's mind. But the
music of machinery was completely still.
Alvin tugged on the
plow and it slid easily out of the stone. He put it back in the poke. It still
quivered with life, no more nor less than it always had. As if it had no memory
of what it had just done.
They all drank from
the spring that now welled up from the end of the furrow. The water was sweet
and clean. "We could keg this up and sell it for wine," said Abe,
"and nobody'd say we cheated them."
"But we
won't," said Verily.
Abe gave him an
I'm-not-an-idiot look. "So you reckon this plow of yours has picked this
spot for your city."
"Might be,"
said Alvin. "If we can figure out who owns the land and figure out a way
to buy it."
"Well, you're in
luck," said Abe. "It's why I brought you here. This is part of what
the Noisy River government calls River County. It's the wild land along the Mizzippy
between Moline and Cairo. There's an old law from territory days that offers to
make a county out of any part of River County that can prove it has two
thousand settlers and at least one town of three hundred people."
"A county?" asked Verily.
"A county," said Abe.
"But a county has the right to elect its own
judges," said Verily.
"And its own sheriff," said Abe.
"So when somebody
comes into Furrowspring County with a warrant from some court in Hio,"
said Verily, "the Furrowspring County court can vacate the warrant."
"That's how I
figured it," said Abe.
"You were really
listening when I explained about the law."
"And I remember
my old dad trying to farm boggy land along the Hio, and somebody come along and
told him all about River County, and how the land was there for the taking if
just two thousand folks would join up and go, and Dad said he had a hard enough
time farming a swamp, the last thing he needed was fog on top of it."
"If we have our
own county," said Alvin, "then we can build a city here, and populate
it with black people and French people and anybody else we want to invite, and
nobody can stop us."
"Well," said
Abe, "it's not that simple."
"You mean there's
some law against folks moving in here?"
"There is against
runaway slaves," said Abe, "but I think we got that solved, since the
same judge can vacate a lot of other orders, and the same sheriff can run any
slave-catchers out of town or at least make it real hard to find any former
slaves. Hut what I was getting at was, anybody can move in. Not just
folks that you invite."
"Well, we invite
everybody," said Alvin.
Abe laughed.
"Well, shoot, word gets out about this golden plow that cut right through
stone and brought water out of the rock like Moses, and your six thousand won't
be but a drop in the bucket for all the thousands of gold hunters and miracle
seekers who'll be tramping all up and down this country. And I reckon they'll
be the ones electing the sheriff and the judge and maybe somebody'll get
that reward after all."
"I see," said Alvin. "It ain't all that
easy after all."
"If I kill you all," said Mike, "won't
be nobody to tell about this place."
"Except you," said Alvin.
"Well, I didn't say it was a perfect plan."
"What we
need," said Verily, "is a charter from the state. Granting us the
boundaries that we want for our county, and then we got to make sure we control
all the land so it only gets sold to people we choose. People who are with us
and won't cause trouble."
"People who are
willing to help build this place as a city of makers," said Alvin.
"I know how to
write such a charter," said Verily. "But I don't know that I'll be
able to find my way around the state government."
"Well don't look
at me," said Abe. "I'm no politician."
"But you're from
around here," said Verily. "You don't talk like a highfalutin
Englishman. And you have a way of making people like you."
"So do you," said Abe.
"You know everybody hates him," said Coz.
"Well, yes,"
said Abe, "but only because they know Englishmen are smarter than other folks
and they resent it."
"Will you help me get that charter for
Furrowspring County?" said Verily.
"I notice you took it upon yourself to name the
place," said Abe.
"Do you have a better one?" said Verily.
"I was partial to Lincoln County," said Abe.
"How about Lincoln-Fink County?" suggested
Mike.
"Now that's pure vanity," said Abe.
"Naming the county after yourself."
"What were you doing?"
"Naming it for the county in England, of
course," said Abe.
"Furrowspring it
is, then," said Alvin. "The voting is unanimous." He turned to
Abe. "But in the meantime, settlers can come freely into River County
lands, right? And farm and build wherever they want?"
"That's the
law," said Abe. "Don't need permission. As long as you don't step on
somebody else's farm, and I don't see any around here."
"You know,"
said Alvin, "I was wondering why there wasn't at least one or two
farmsteads, belonging to the kind of folks who think six houses make a city too
big to enjoy living in."
"Maybe because
this is land meant for something better than a stumpy little farm," said
Verily.
"And who's doing
the meaning?" asked Alvin.
"Maybe the stone
itself was ambitious," said Verily. "Or maybe it was the water,
begging to be let out from under the rock."
"Or the sun that
wanted this patch to have no trees to make shade," said Alvin. "Or
the wind, needing a little meadow to blow across. Gentlemen, I don't think any
of the elements have a plan."
"The plow did," said Verily.
Alvin had to concede the point.
They put the plow
handles on the back of one of Verily's steeds and instead of anyone riding they
led the three horses back to Springfield together. They moved with the
greensong, all of them, and got there in only an hour of steady running, and
the horses weren't lathered or winded, and the men weren't hungry or tired, and
as for thirsty, they had all drunk from that clear spring, and they were loath
to taste any other water, because they knew it would taste like tin or mud or
nothing at all, instead of sweet, the way they knew now water ought to be.
15
It
was such a lovely ride from the coast to
"You are not safe to go outside," said the
door warden.
"We're going," said Steve Austin. "Out
of the way."
"I will not let you go. White people die out
there, give bad name to
"No, no,"
said Calvin impatiently. "What did you bring me for, anyway, if you're
just going to go shooting people. What if we need to get back here and thanks
to you they shoot us on sight?"
"When we come back we'll be the rulers of
"Fine," said Calvin. "But let me do
this."
So he dissolved the
linchpins in the hinges and then, with a gentle nudge, made sure the gates fell
outward instead of inward.
The door warden—with
no more door to ward—shrugged and turned away. And out they rode, a hundred
heavily armed white men, to take on the Mexica.
Almost at once they
were confronted by Mexica soldiers. These were not the club-wielding warriors
that Cortez had faced three centuries before. They were mounted and carried new-model
muskets that had probably been bought from the
"Patience,"
said Calvin to
Calvin was ready. He
knew how
"Don't shoot," said Calvin.
"But they're about to lay a volley into us,"
said
"They only think they are," said Calvin.
The Mexica captain
gave the command, and the soldiers pulled the triggers of their muskets.
Whereupon every single
one of them exploded, killing or blinding almost all of them, and blowing the
heads right off more than a few.
The Mexica captain was
left standing there with his ceremonial obsidian-edged sword and only a few of
his men still alive enough to writhe on the ground moaning or screaming in
agony.
"Shoot him!"
cried
"No!" cried
Calvin. "Let him go! You want somebody to tell the story of this, don't
you?"
Calvin had thought
he'd have to do several more demonstrations, but it all went better than he'd
hoped. The first city they came to, the alcalde came out to them and insisted
that the people of this place were not Mexica and begged the mighty priest they
had with them not to harm them.
So when they came to
the next city, they weren't just a hundred white men, they had a brightly costumed
troupe of reds with them, singing and chanting. Again the alcalde came out and
begged them to pass on through, giving them food and water and another five
hundred men to accompany them. Calvin was getting a little frustrated, so this
time he crumbled part of the stone wall of the city so there'd be more to the
story. The alcalde fell to his knees and offered them anything they wanted, but
"What did you do that for when they'd already
surrendered?" said
"They've got to see that we come with
power," said Calvin.
"Well, what you showed them was that we come to
tear stuff down."
"I'll find something better to do next
time," said Calvin. "Nondestructive."
"Thank you kindly," said
So it went all the way
up to the high Mexican plateau and through villages and cities, and by the time
they got within sight of the great volcanic mountains that ringed Mexico City,
they had at least fifteen thousand reds with them, a mighty army indeed,
marching ahead of them and behind them and singing and chanting and dancing at
every opportunity.
It was a glorious
entrance they made into the
"All run away, if
they've got any brains," said
Jim Bowie was riding
close by, and he seconded Calvin. "This is all too easy," he said.
"I don't like it."
"We raised up the
conquered people against the oppressor. The Mexica soldiers aren't going to
waste their lives resisting the irresistible."
"There's a trap
waiting for us here," said
So while
Not until they
actually reached the long causeway that led to the ceremonial city in the
middle of the lake did they finally see any kind of Mexica opposition. And
while there was plenty of pomp and color, lots of flags and feathers, there
weren't many that looked like soldiers. In fact, there weren't many of
anything—maybe three hundred men in the whole group that came down the causeway
to meet them.
"Do they think
this is going to be a picnic?" asked
"How many men do
you think it takes to surrender to us?" said
"We demand that
you surrender!" shouted
He turned to look for
an interpreter, but apparently they hadn't kept up when the white men had
ridden forward. No, there was one, and
But before the
interpreter could go forward with the message, a befeathered Mexica standing on
a huge litter borne by a dozen men began to speak.
"What's he
saying?" asked
The interpreter
listened. "He is the high priest and he thanks the people of... all these
tribes ... for bringing so many fine sacrifices for the god."
"Yes," said the interpreter.
"What a fool," said
"There's a fool all right," said
All at once, the reds
who were surrounding them gave a great shout and dragged the white men off
their horses.
Calvin woke up in
pain, and not just from his head, which was throbbing. He was also tightly
trussed, and lying on a stone floor. He was also blindfolded.
He could make his
bonds break apart, but he figured he ought to find out first where he was and
what was going on. So with his doodlebug he worked on the threads of the
blindfold and soon he had an opening he could see through. He was lying on the
floor of a large dimly lighted room—a Catholic church of some kind, from the
look of it, but not one that was used much. A couple of statues of saints stood
against one wall, and there was an altar near the front, but everything looked
shabby and dusty.
All the white men were
sitting or lying on the floor, and at the doors stood heavily armed Mexica
soldiers.
Calvin sent his
doodlebug to see behind him, and sure enough, there were four soldiers standing
over him. He was the only one of the white men with a special guard. Which
meant the Mexica knew he was the powerful one. He was surprised they hadn't
just killed him outright—but no, he was the prize, he was the one they'd be
proudest to sacrifice.
Ain't gonna happen, he
told himself.
He continued to lie
still, checking the condition of the other men. It might still be possible to
bring this thing off and snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.
Then a door opened, putting
a wedge of light into the room, and four women came in, carrying golden cups.
They began offering drinks to the men, who took them eagerly, some of them even
thanking the women. Calvin almost called out to warn them that the drink was
drugged, but decided it was better to deal with it himself. One by one he went
into the cups and separated the water from the drug, making it sink to the
bottom of the cups and stay there, under the pure water. Except for the first
few who had drunk, none of the others were getting any of the drug at all.
So when they got to
him, Calvin offered no resistance. He pretended to be groggy—which wasn't hard,
with his head hurting so bad. Pain shot through his head when he sat up, and he
wished he'd paid more attention when
They put the cup to
his lip and he drank eagerly.
No doubt they'd become
complacent soon, thinking that even the great white wizard was under control.
Except, of course,
only the first few men were acting drugged. The women were beginning to
be confused, talking to each other, probably wondering why most of the men were
still awake.
So Calvin put them to
sleep, one by one, until they all lay unconscious on the floor. That was what
the women wanted, and out they went. Out, too, went the Mexica soldiers, even
the ones guarding Calvin.
As soon as they were
gone, Calvin woke all the ones he had put to sleep. The drugged ones, though,
were another matter. It was simple to separate the drug from the water in the
cups, but impossible to do anything of the kind when the drug was already in
somebody's blood. So they slept on while the others sat up and looked around.
"Talk
softly," said Calvin. "There are still guards outside the door, and
we don't want them to hear us."
"You bastard," said a man.
"Don't tell us what to do."
But they talked softly.
"Are you so
stupid you blame me for this?" said Calvin. "I never claimed
to be a mind reader. How should I know we were prisoners the whole way here?
Did any of you guess it?"
No one had an answer
to that.
"But I'm the
reason the poison didn't work on you, once I realized the water was drugged. So
don't get pissed at me, let's plan how to get out of here."
"Better plan
fast," said
"I'm hurt,"
said Calvin. "I would have thought they'd save me for last."
"They're not
stupid," said
"Won't
happen," said Calvin.
"The way we
figure it," said
"Good plan,"
said Calvin. "Of course, without me you won't know where your weapons are
stored. You won't know how to get out of this room without getting caught. I
think a few of you might make it as much as a hundred yards from this
place."
They were thinking
about this when suddenly the ground shook under them. At once, from the city
outside this building, they could hear screaming and shouting.
Calvin broke open his
bonds and stood up. None of the others were tied, so they also stood. But the
windows were too high in the walls to see through.
The ground shook again.
"I think we ought to lie down again," said
"They aren't going to," said Calvin.
"How do you know?"
"Because the guards at the door just ran
away."
The door opened.
"Get ready to
go," said the young man. "We got about a day to get out of the city
before
"Before
what?" asked a man.
"
"Who's
'we'?" asked
"My guess is it's
my brother Alvin doing all this," said Calvin. "Cause this is his
brother-in-law, Arthur Stuart."
At once there were cries of protest.
"Your brother is married to a black woman?"
"Somebody named him for the King?"
"We're supposed to listen to a slave tell us what
to do?"
But Arthur Stuart's
voice cut through the noise. "It's not
"So what are you doing here?" asked
Calvin.
"Saving you," said Arthur Stuart. "And
anybody else who wants to come with us."
"I don't need you to save me," said Calvin
contemptuously.
"I know you don't
need me to get you out of this old church," said Arthur Stuart. "But
how are you going to get out of the city? I speak Spanish, which most of the
folks here speak well enough, and I also picked up quite a bit of
Nahuatl—that's the Mexica language. Any of you know how to ask for
directions or food? And good luck finding your way out of this valley with all
the panicky people filling the roads. Plus I reckon a lot of folks'll think you
brought this down on their heads, and they won't be too glad to see you."
"But why should
we leave at all?" said Calvin.
"So you don't get
burnt to a crisp and covered over with lava," said Arthur Stuart.
"This don't take no Aristotle to figure out, Calvin."
"Don't you talk
to a white man that way!" shouted a man, and a couple of others got up to
do him some kind of violence.
And Calvin was
perfectly willing to let them get started. Arthur Stuart needed to learn who
was in charge here, and how to show proper respect.
But the men never
reached Arthur. Instead, they started sliding and tripping over themselves just
as if the floor was suddenly smooth marble covered in butter, and after a
minute it became clear that anybody as started after Arthur Stuart would end up
on his butt.
The boy had really
learned some makery—but not as much as he probably thought. Calvin toyed with
the idea of having an all-out wizard's war with him right here on the spot, to
show him just how far he had to go—but what would be the point? There was no
time to waste.
"Forget
him," said Calvin. "He came to save us, so great, anybody who wants
to run away, go with him, right now. He's not much of a maker but he's got a
knack with languages and maybe he can get you to safety. But me, I think we can
turn this to our advantage. We came here to rule over
"What does Steve
say?" asked a man.
It was only then that
they all realized that
"You know what
he'd say," said Calvin. "He didn't come here to quit. He didn't come
here so he could run away after a black boy who thinks he's hot stuff cause he
can make a floor slippery. We came here to take over an empire and I aim to do
it."
"Everybody
already knows it's Tenskwa-Tawa's doing," said Arthur Stuart. "His
people are already here, they said when the smoke would start coming, and it
came when they said."
"But Tenskwa-Tawa
ain't going to come down here and rule over
"Anybody who
wants to get out of this valley alive, come with me now," said Arthur
Stuart.
"I'd rather die
than trust a slave for anything!" shouted one of the men he had put on the
floor.
"That's the
choice," said Arthur Stuart.
The ground trembled
again, and then again, and a third shock was so strong that several of the men
fell down.
"You're not doing
that, are you?"
"I can do it
whenever I want," said Calvin.
"You're such a
humbug," said Arthur Stuart. "It took a council of shamans a year to
get this volcano at the point of eruption. Even
"Maybe there's
things I can do that 'even
Arthur Stuart turned
to the rest of the men. "How fast can any of you run? How far do you think
you'll get? When
A few of the men were
wavering. "We can't take over
"We can do it
from outside this valley."
Calvin laughed.
"You saw what I did back in True Cross, didn't you? Have you forgotten who
and what I am? This boy is no wizard, he's nothing, my brother keeps him like a
pet, to do tricks." And with those words, Calvin made the door behind Arthur
Stuart fly from its hinges and burst outward onto the street. And then he made
a wind that picked up Arthur Stuart and flung him through the door.
"Anybody who
wants to," said Calvin, "is free to follow him. Seeing how he has so
much power."
Arthur Stuart appeared
in the door. "I never claimed to be more powerful than Calvin. But all his
power doesn't give him a single word of Spanish or Nahuatl. And he knows
nothing about the red man's way of running faster than a man can run. Come with
me if you want to live. I can get you back to True Cross, and from there you
can get safely home. Look at him! He doesn't care about you!"
"All I care
about," said Calvin, "is the lives of these men." Now he started
talking to the men directly. "You trusted in me and I will give you what I
promised—
Jim Bowie strode toward Arthur Stuart. "I know
this boy," he said. "I'm going with him."
Calvin didn't like that.
"So it turns out Steve Austin couldn't rely on
you after all," said Calvin.
"He's
asleep," said
"Yes," said Calvin, "who are the
cowards who refuse the chance to rule an empire?"
"Now," said Arthur Stuart. "No second
chances. Come now, if you're coming with me."
About a dozen men got up and came over to join, not
Arthur Stuart, but Jim Bowie.
"What about the ones they poisoned?" asked
one man.
"Their bad luck," said
But Arthur Stuart
looked at the men near the door, the ones who drank first and were drugged. And
as he gazed at them, one by one, they woke up.
Calvin was mortified.
This stupid knackless boy had somehow learned how to counter the poison in
their blood. And now he had to show off and rub Calvin's face in it. Didn't he
know that Calvin could have learned how to do anything if he had wanted to? But
why should Calvin bother learning how to wake up men who were stupid enough to
get themselves drugged?
In the end, though,
not one of the drugged ones decided to go; in fact, one of them was able to
persuade his brother not to leave with Arthur Stuart and Jim Bowie. So when the
boy left, he had ten men with him. The others all stayed in the church. With
Calvin.
"Now all we've
got to do," said Calvin, "is find out where they took our
weapons."
"How you gonna do
that?"
"By watching
where that boy goes. Do you think
Several of the men
laughed.
And sure enough, as
Calvin kept track of
"It's only one street over, just outside the
walls of this church," said Calvin.
"Then let's go," said Steve Austin.
"But let's get organized first."
"Let's get armed first," said Calvin.
"Doesn't do any good to have guns if we don't
have a plan!" said
Ten minutes later they
were still talking when the Mexica soldiers poured in through the open door.
"Fools!" shouted Calvin. "I told you to
go!"
Two of the Mexica aimed their muskets at Calvin and
fired.
Their guns blew up in their faces.
But the others were bringing their weapons to bear too
fast for Calvin to plug them all.
So he did the only sensible thing. He stepped backward
through the wall.
He'd done it before,
back when Napoleon had him imprisoned in
And there stood Calvin
on the outside of the church.
Where was Arthur
Stuart? Calvin found the boy's heartfire, though it took some hard searching,
and he was at the limit of Calvin's range. Well, the boy said he knew how to
get out of the city, and that's what Calvin needed, now that these fools had
wasted the opportunity Calvin gave them. They didn't deserve to live.
He took off at a run.
He had to pass near where the Mexica were dragging the white men out of the
front of the church, but he didn't even have to make up some kind of fog—nobody
saw him.
And why should they
even be looking? With him gone, there was nothing these unarmed men could do.
And waiting for them there in the plaza in front of the church was that same
high priest who had met them on the causeway. One by one the men were dragged
to him and thrown onto a wooden altar that had been placed in the square. Two
priests cut their clothing open and laid bare their chests, and Calvin could
hear the screaming as one by one they had their hearts torn from them and held
up as an offering to whatever god the Mexica thought might prevent the eruption
of Popocatepetl.
What a stupid end to
Steve Austin's dream. But that's all the man was, a dreamer, a planner. Even
now, when he could have turned this all to victory, he chose planning instead
of action and now he'll die for it and ain't that just too bad.
Calvin turned his
attention to the streets of the city. There were people running every which
way, and with Arthur Stuart so far away, it was all Calvin could do to keep track
of where he was. Nor did he know which of these labyrinthine streets would take
him there, so there was always the danger that Calvin would guess wrong and
make a turn that took him out of range.
Instead, though, he
was lucky and chose right every time, or at least right enough, and instead of
getting weaker, his vision of Arthur Stuart's heartfire got stronger. He was
gaining on them.
When they reached the
wall of the city, they stopped, and Calvin's running was now pure gain. Arthur
Stuart was opening a gap in the wall, and in his clumsy way he was making it
take ten times longer than it needed to. Well, good for me, thought Calvin. And
he got there just as the last of them was passing through an opening in the
wall. Calvin ran straight up to it and plunged through.
Outside the wall at
this spot was an orchard, and Arthur Stuart and Bowie and the others were
running through it. But running oddly—they were all holding hands, for heaven's
sake, which was about as stupid a thing as Calvin could imagine. Nobody made
his best speed holding hands.
Only they were running
awfully fast. No one tripped. No one stumbled. And they gained speed and kept
speeding up and no matter how hard Calvin ran, he couldn't catch up. Nor did
the ground prove as smooth for him as it had for them. Branches whipped his
face and he stumbled over a root and fell and by the time he got up, they were
out of sight. And when he looked for Arthur Stuart's heartfire, he couldn't
find it. Couldn't find any of them. It was like they had ceased to exist. There
was only the trees and the birds and the insects, and the distant sound of
shouting from the city and the roads.
Calvin stopped and
looked back. The ground outside the city had sloped up enough, and he had run
far enough, that he could see over the walls, though not down into the streets.
Somewhere back there most of the men he had journeyed with were having their
hearts ripped out, while in the other direction Arthur Stuart had run off with
the ten best of them—the ones who were smart enough to act instead of plan. Why
do I always get stuck with the fools on my side? thought Calvin.
Beyond the city,
Popocatepetl spewed thick plumes of white ash into the air. And now it was
beginning to fall onto the city like hot grey snow. It got into his lungs
almost at once, and it felt like it was burning him. So Calvin turned his
attention to keeping the air in front of his face clear of ash, as he began to
jog on in the direction that he had last seen Arthur Stuart's group going.
He ran and jogged and,
when he was too tired to do more, he walked and staggered and never once caught
a glimpse of Arthur Stuart's group or saw any sign of what path they took. But
he climbed ever higher up the slopes of the valley into the hills, and when
darkness came he found an adobe house with nobody home. He sealed it to keep
ash from seeping in, except for a few airholes through the thick walls. Then he
fell onto cornstalk mat on the floor and slept.
When he woke it was
still night. Except it wasn't. The sun was up—but it was only a dim red
disk in the ashes that filled the air. Morning. How long till the eruption?
What time of day had it been when the smoke first started?
Doesn't matter. Can't
control that. Keep walking. There was no running in him today, especially since
his path led inexorably uphill, and the ground kept shaking so much that if
he'd been running he would have fallen down.
He was still far from
the crest when the volcano blew up. He only had time enough to burrow his way
into an outcropping of rock, which took the brunt of the shockwave. It struck
with such force that the rock he was hiding in would have given way and
crumbled and collapsed into the valley, but Calvin held it firm, kept all but a
few shards and slivers of rock in place. And when the hot fiery air blew past,
incinerating all life in its path, Calvin kept a bubble of air around him cool
enough to bear, and so he did not die.
And when the shock
wave passed, he stepped out into the burning world, keeping that cool bubble
around him, and turned back to see lava pouring down the slopes of the mountain
like a flood from a burst dam. Only it wasn't heading toward the city, because
there was no city. Every building had been blown flat by the blast. Only a few
stone structures stood, and then only in ruins, most of the walls having been
broken down. There was not a sign of life. And the lake was boiling.
Calvin wondered, for a
moment, whether any of the men of Austin's expedition had lived long enough to
be killed by the eruption. Probably not. Who was to say which was the better
way to die? There was no good way to die. And Calvin had come this close.
But close to death was
still not death.
Cooling the ground
under his feet so his shoes didn't burn, he slowly made his way up the slope until,
before nightfall, he reached the crest and started down the unburnt side. Ash
had fallen here, too, but this land had been sheltered from the blast, and he
could eat the fruit from the trees, as long as he got the ash off it first. The
fruit was partly cooked—the ash had been that warm when it fell—but to Calvin
it tasted like the nectar of the gods.
I have been spared
alive yet again. My work is not yet done in the world.
Might as well head
north and see what Alvin's doing. Maybe it's time I started learning some of
the stuff he taught to Arthur Stuart. Anything that half-black boy can learn, I
can learn, and ten times better.
16
Labor
Tenskwa-Tawa
watched from the trees as Dead Mary,
Rien, and La Tia uncovered the crystal ball.
"We got to do something good for Alvin, all he do
for us," said La Tia.
"Maybe we should ask him what he wants,"
said Dead Mary.
"He not here," said La Tia.
"Men never know
what they want," said Rien. "They think they want one thing, then
they get it, then they don't want it."
"Your life story,
Mother?" asked Dead Mary.
"I name her Marie
d'Espoir," said Rien to La Tia. "Marie of hope. But maybe Marie de la
Morte is the right name. She the death of me, La Tia."
"I don't think
so," said La Tia. "I think men be the death of you, and that don't
come from the crystal ball, no."
"I'm too old for
men," said Rien.
"But they never
too old for you, Caterina," said La Tia. "Now we look to see what
"Can you command it to show what you want?"
asked Dead Mary.
"It always show me the right thing," said La
Tia.
"But I would still find a way to do the
wrong thing," said Dead Mary.
"You see?" said Rien. "My fille n'a pas
d'espoir."
"I have hope, Mother," said Dead Mary.
"But I have experience too."
"Look," said La Tia. "Do you see what I
see?"
"We never do," said Dead Mary.
"I see
"I see him with a woman," said Rien.
"That is what he miss the most."
"I see him kneeling by a child's grave,"
said Dead Mary. "That is what he fears the most."
"I can make a charm for this," said La Tia.
Tenskwa-Tawa stepped out from the tree. "Don't
make a charm for him, La Tia."
"I knew you was there, Red Prophet."
"I knew you
knew," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "That crystal shows you want you want
to see, not always the truth."
"But the truth
what I want to see," said La Tia.
"Everybody thinks
they want to see the truth," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "That's one of the
lies we tell ourselves."
"Him heart more
dark than Dead Mary, him."
"
"Give him the woman he love," said Rien.
"I know you have the charm for this."
"He has the woman he loves," said
Tenskwa-Tawa. "She's carrying his child right now."
"Give him the power to keep the child from dying,"
said Dead Mary.
"He has the
power," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "He figured out what the baby needed. He
just couldn't do it fast enough. The baby suffocated before he could get its
little lungs to breathe."
"Ah," said La Tia. "Time what he need.
Time."
"You have a charm for this?" said Rien.
"I got to think," said La Tia.
"Leave him
alone," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "Let his life be what it is. Let it be
what he makes of it."
"Did he leave our
lives as they were?" said Dead Mary. "Or did he heal my mother?"
"He heal me
better than I was before," said Rien. "I had the Italian disease,
long time, long before the yellow fever, but he fix that too."
"Did he leave
black people in chains, him?" asked La Tia.
"But he knew
what he was doing," said Tenskwa-Tawa.
La Tia reared back and
roared with laughter. "Him! He don't know what he do! He do the best thing
he think of, and when that go wrong he do the best thing he can think of then.
Like all us, him!"
Tenskwa-Tawa shook his
head. "Don't meddle with his baby or his wife," he said. "Don't
do it."
"The Red Prophet
command the Black Queen?" said La Tia.
"Lolla-Wossiky
was a slave to hate, and blind with rage, and
"You do what you
think with him," said La Tia. "I gonna bless him back, me."
Margaret spent all day
preparing for her journey to
And then there was the
carriage to arrange. She had seen many paths in which the journey was too much
for her, and caused the baby to come early. This baby must not come early
again. Already it had lasted longer in the womb than their firstborn, but not
long enough. If he was born on this journey the child would die.
So she hired the
finest carriage in town, the one belonging to the young doctor. He tried to
refuse, telling her that any carriage was out of the question in her condition.
"Stay here and have this baby," he said. "To travel now would
only endanger you and the child. Do you think you're made of iron?"
No, she had no such
fancy. Nor did her torchsight show her everything clearly. The futures of this
child were as foggy and confused, almost, as
Perhaps that was why
she was sure she had to go to
So she spent her day
cushioning the carriage while workmen resprung it. Choosing a team of horses
that would pull evenly and not run faster than she could bear. Packing her few
things, writing her letters. Until at the end of the day she was ready to drop
with exhaustion. Which was good, she would sleep without fretting, she would
rise early and refreshed and set out to meet her husband and put a baby in his
arms.
She was just
undressing for bed when the first labor pain came.
"No," she
cried softly. "Oh, please, God, no, not yet, not now." She laid her
hands upon her own womb and saw that the baby was indeed coming. He faced in
the right direction, all was well with him, but she saw no future for him. He
was going to be born, like his brother, only to die.
"No," she
whispered.
She walked to the door
of her room. "Papa," she called.
Horace Guester was
serving the last round of drinks to the night's customers. But he had an
innkeeper's ears, to hear all needs and wishes, and in a few moments he came.
"The baby is coming," she said.
"I'll fetch the midwife," he said.
"It's too early," said Margaret. "The
birth will be easy, but the baby will die."
Tears came to her
father's eyes. "Ah, Peggy, I know what it cost your mother, those two tiny
graves on the hill behind the house. I never wished for you to have two of your
own."
"Nor I," she
said.
"But I should
fetch her anyway," said Father. "You shouldn't be alone at such a
time, and it's not fitting for a father to see his daughter in labor."
"Yes, fetch
her," said Margaret.
"But not in
here," said Father. "You shouldn't do this in the room where the
baby's father was born."
"There's no
better place," said Margaret. "It's a room where hope once triumphed
over despair."
"Have hope then,
my little Peggy." Father kissed her cheek and hastened away.
My little Peggy, he
had called her. In this room, that's who I am. Peggy. My mother's name. Where
is she now, that fierce, wise, powerful woman? Too strong for me, she was, or
anyone else in this place, I see that now. Too strong for her husband, a woman
of such will that even fate would not defy her. Perhaps that's why I was able
to see the way to save baby
Perhaps it was losing
two babies against her will made her so indomitable.
Or perhaps she simply
imprinted her own life on mine so indelibly that I, too, must bury my first two
babies before giving birth to a child who might live.
Tears flowed down her
cheeks. I can't go through this again. I'm not as strong as Mother. It will not
make me stronger. It took all my courage just to let
The midwife found her
weeping on the bed. "Aw, Mistress Larner, what have you done? Stained the
bedclothes, and your own fine underthings as well, couldn't you have taken them
off? What a waste, what a waste."
"What do I care
about my clothing," said Margaret savagely. "My baby is going
to die."
"What! How can you—"
But the midwife knew exactly how Margaret Larner could say such a thing, and so
she fell silent.
"Grieving on your
own childbed," grumbled the woman, "grieving for the baby before it's
had a chance to live, it's not right."
"I wish I didn't
know," said Margaret. "Oh, please God, make me wrong!"
And with a single
push, the baby, small and thin, slipped out into the midwife's waiting hands.
The emptiness in her
own body hurt more than the pains of labor. "No!" cried Margaret.
"Don't cut the cord! Don't tie it off, no!"
"But the baby needs to—"
"As long as the
cord is still connected to my body then he isn't dead!"
They were starting to
cross over the river now, but not with any spectacular show. The people might have
expected otherwise, but
"That'll take weeks," Verily told him.
"I know," said
"Then why—"
"The first to come
will fell logs and make shelters. A place for the children when they cross over
the river. Six thousand souls, all in a place where there's nothing standing,
nothing cleared? It's not too heavy a burden on Tenskwa-Tawa's people, to keep
most of them on his side of the river for a while. They can spare the food—and
the time. And on our side, well, Verily, you're the man who knows how things
should fit together."
"But I should be
with
"Who will I put
in charge, if not you, Verily? You drew up the plat of the city. Who else knows
it the way you do? Arthur Stuart isn't back from
"You can trust yourself," said Verily.
"I can't," said
"It's your city."
"Not today," said
It took Verily a moment to register what baby he was
talking about. "Now?"
"Soon," said
Verily looked as if he had been slapped.
"Die," he said. "And you, who've healed
so many..."
"Many but not all," said
"But you'll try."
"I'll do what I
do," said
The truth of that sank
in and Verily nodded gravely. "So I did." He turned and left.
And then, in the
far-off place where his attention really lay, in the very room where he himself
had come out of his mother's womb, his wife gave a mighty push and all at once
the baby was out in the open air and there was no more time for grief because
even though he knew he could not save the baby, he had to try.
This time, at least,
there was no fumbling and searching. He knew exactly what was wrong—the lungs,
not yet fully formed inside, the tiny structures not yet ready to filter the
air through into the blood. The tissue was a little better formed this time;
some air was passing. And for some reason the baby's umbilical cord had not yet
been tied off. The placenta would soon detach itself from the wall of the womb,
but for the moment, there was still air passing into the baby's blood. So there
was a little time. Not enough, it would take hours and hours to prepare the
lungs, and the placenta could not last that long.
But he did not brood
on what he could not do. Instead he simply did it, told each tiny part of the
lung what to do, helped it do it, and then the next part, and the next, each
time a little easier because the tissues could more easily change when they
were adjacent to tissue that had already matured enough to transform the air
into what the blood needed it to be.
It was almost as if
the baby's very heart slowed down— indeed, for a moment
"I've got to tie
this cord," said the midwife. "You know your business, I'm sure, but
I know mine, and you don't wait for the afterbirth to come out of itself!"
"Look how he
breathes in the air," said Margaret. "Look, almost as if he had a
hope of life."
And then, as she
watched his quick breathing, as she felt his rapid heartbeat, she began to see
paths emerging out of darkness. He would not die. He would live. Mentally
damaged from the lack of air at the time of his birth, but alive. She was not
afraid of such damage—maybe
More paths opened, and
more and more, and now there were a few where the baby was not damaged, where
it would learn to walk like any other child, and talk, and...
And now all paths were
open, like a normal life, except that there was something that she needed to
do.
"Cut the
cord," she said. "He can breathe on his own now."
"About
time," said the midwife. She strung a thread around the cord and tied it
tight, then another about two inches away, and then passed a sharp knife under
the cord between the knots and pulled upward.
The afterbirth slid
out onto the clean rags covering the bed.
The baby cried, a
whimpering sound, not the lusty cry of a full-term baby, and the poor lad was
still as scrawny as could be, but he could breathe, and now almost every path
in the child's life showed him in his father's arms, as the three of them,
father, mother, and son, stood on the bluff overlooking the river.
The sound of an axe
chopping against wood rang out and
He got up from the
stone, his body stiff from resting in one position for so long. He walked to
the edge of the bluff, expecting to see many trees fallen.
Instead, there was
Verily making his way down the hill. What had he been doing, coming up and
checking on
What had Verily been
doing all day, while
Only as he was about
to cry out to Verily impatiently did
It was still morning.
Early morning. Only minutes after Verily had left
"Verily!" he called. "Wait!"
Verily turned and watched as
"What is it?" said Verily.
"How long ago did we talk?"
Verily looked at him as if he were crazy. "Three
minutes."
"I did it," said
"Did what?"
"The baby's born. He can breathe, He's
alive."
Only then did Verily understand. "Thank God,
Alvin."
"I do," said
Then he burst into tears and wept in the arms of his
friend.
17
Foundation
"Like a
tick," said Margaret. "Can't pry him loose till he's full."
"He's getting
strong, don't you think?
"Getting some
muscle on him," said Margaret. "But I don't think he'll ever be one
of those fat little babies."
"That's
fine," said
"You'll raise him
whatever he is," said Margaret. "And if anyone's likely to spoil him,
it's you."
"That's my plan,
more or less," said
"Don't want him to
be spoiled, but you plan to spoil him."
"Can't help it.
Only way to save this boy is to have another child to divide up my
doting."
"I'll do my
best," said Margaret.
"Do you mind, not
traveling now, not being in the world of affairs?"
"I don't look beyond
this town now," said Margaret. "I try to forget that the world
outside is maneuvering itself toward war. I pretend that somehow it will stay
beyond the borders of our little county."
"Not so little. Very and Abe got us good
boundaries. Lots of room to grow."
"I'm more concerned about how much our people
grow inside them."
"Can't make them," said
"I know."
Vigor was done with
breakfast, and now
"Mayor of the
fastest-growing city in
"I'm fixing your breakfast, and that's all
the difference."
"My but we're in love," said Margaret.
Old pain and ancient loneliness hung in the air
between them.
"
"I know," said
"And sometimes what was best was not to tell you
all that I knew."
"You never would
have gone to Barcy," she said. "We never would have had all these
people, the core of this City of
"Might have gone to Barcy all the same,"
said
"But you would never have gone near Rien."
"You sure that saving her was what spread the
fever?"
"In all the paths
where you never met her, she died without a single other soul catching the
disease."
"Yes, I can see
that all those lessons I gave you have paid off. I can't take you out in
company."
"Guess we'll just have to stay in."
"You'll never listen to me again, will you?"
she said.
"I'm listening right now."
"But you'll never do something just because I tell
you that you ought to."
"Have you
changed?" asked
"I've already
promised a dozen times over."
"But I don't
believe you," said
"You're not the most important thing in the world
to me now, you know," said Margaret.
"Am so," said
"The baby is."
"The baby's just little and he can't get into
much trouble yet."
"You
did."
"You got the
habit of looking out for me too deep set. I can't trust you to let me decide
for myself."
"Yes you can," said Margaret. "Besides,
you don't need me to tell you everything now."
"I can't control what the crystal ball shows me.
It's not like your knack."
"It's better."
"I think the blood and water make more of a
mirror than a window."
"I think it shows
good people how to do good, and bad people how to do bad. You won't come asking
me what to do, when you can see what's good and right in the walls of the house
you're building."
"Don't know if we
should rightly call it a house," said
"It's not a
chapel—nobody's going to preach."
"A factory,
maybe," said
"Then it's a house after all," said
Margaret. "And I was right."
"Didn't say you weren't right," said
"You'd rather have chosen wrong, knowing, than
chosen right, not knowing."
"Well, when you put it that way, it makes me
sound like a dunce on purpose."
"Indeedy," said Margaret.
"Do I have to be
mayor?" said
"They all look to
you, anyway, whether you have the title or not. You're the one who looks out
for them, who watches the borders. You're the one who causes the slave-catchers
who come near here to keep losing their way. You're the one who figured out
that draining the swamp would stop the malaria."
"It was Measure who suggested it," said
"You're the one who watches over everybody like a
mother hen."
"Then let me run for mother hen."
"
"Didn't think of
someone else having to do it," said
"I know you
didn't," said Margaret primly. "Because you're still a hopelessly
ignorant journeyman smith."
"I am, you know," said
"You know I was teasing," said Margaret.
"But I am,"
said
"You can make many a good person better."
"Can't," said
"Well, of course, but you help."
"I'm trying to
knit everybody together as one people, and I don't think it can be done. Now
that the journey's over, the French folks suddenly don't want much to do with
the former slaves. And the former house slaves lord it over the former field
slaves, and the blacks who were already free in Barcy lord it over all of them,
and the ones who still remember
"The queens, more
likely," said Margaret.
"And then there's
all the folks who've been close to me for years, they come here and think they
know everything, but they weren't on the journey, they didn't cross over Pontchartrain
on that crystal bridge, they didn't camp in a circle of fog, they didn't run
before the face of the Mizzippy dam, they didn't live being fed by reds on the
far side of the river. You see? They think they're closest to me, but they went
down a different road and there's nothing but divisions among the people and I
can't make it right. Even Verily can't do more than patch up some of the tears
in the fabric here and there, and that's his knack!"
"Give it time."
"Will it last, Margaret?" asked
"I haven't looked," said Margaret.
"And you expect me to believe you?"
"I can't always see, when it comes to you and
your works."
"You've looked, and you've seen. You just don't
want to tell me."
A single tear spilled
over one eyelid, and Margaret looked away. "Some of the things you're
building will outlast you."
"Which ones?"
"Arthur Stuart," said Margaret. "You're
building him, and you've done a fine job."
"He builds himself."
"
"Is Arthur Stuart
the only thing I've created that outlasts me?"
She shook her head.
"I see now that you were right. I can't keep my promise. I can't tell you
everything." She faced him, and now her cheeks were striped with tears,
and her eyes were full of longing and regret. "But not because I'm trying
to manipulate you or control you or get you to do something you wouldn't
otherwise do, I promise that, and I'm keeping that promise."
"So why won't you
tell me?"
"Because I hate
knowing the future," said Margaret. "It robs the present of its joy.
And I won't make you live the way I do, seeing the end of everything when it's
still young and hopeful to everyone else."
"So the city
fails."
"Your life,"
said Margaret, "is a life of great accomplishments, and the best things
you make will last for as many lifetimes as I can see." Then she raised
the baby higher in her arms, and though little Vigor was sleeping, she buried
her face in the blanket he was wrapped in and wept.
"No you're not," she said, her voice muffled
by the baby, by weeping.
"Am so."
"You're the husband I want."
"Your bad judgment."
"I know."
"You tell me what I need to know to be a good
man," said
"But you are one, always, whether I tell you
anything or not."
"You tell me that
much, and I won't ask for more." He kissed her. "And I'm sorry that
you carry the burden that you do."
"I'm not sorry
for it," she said. "It's who I am. But I wouldn't wish it on anyone
else, that's all."
Arthur Stuart watched
the men digging the foundation of the observatory—for so Verily insisted on
calling it, and Arthur liked the name. They dug deep to bedrock all the way
around the outcropping of stone where the water came out. That would not be
touched—it would remain inside, forever pouring its water out to flow in a
clear, cold stream down the bluff and into the Mizzippy. It was the dry season
now and other streams had slackened or gone dry, but this one flowed exactly as
it had all summer.
The men digging the
foundation trench—did they know that
It was one of the
perverse things
But now Arthur was
beginning to see what
These men who were putting
in their day, digging the foundation, they couldn't drip their blood into the
Mizzippy and come up with blocks of visionary crystal. But they could dig into
the earth, so when the finished observatory rose into the sky and people went
inside to see what they could see, to learn what they might be, these men would
be able to say, that building stands on the foundation I dug. I helped make
that miraculous place. It has my sweat in it, along with Alvin Maker's blood.
There was a man
standing on the far side of the cleared land, watching, not the diggers, but
Arthur Stuart. It took a moment for Arthur to realize who it was.
"Taleswapper!"
he cried, and he ran full tilt right toward him, leaping over the trench just
as a man was about to pitch a spadeful of earth, earning Arthur an irritated
curse as the man had to stop himself in midswing and spill half the dirt back
into the hole. "Taleswapper, I thought that you were dead!"
Taleswapper greeted
him with an embrace, and his arms were stronger than Arthur had feared, but
feeble indeed compared to what they had been, years before, when last they met.
"You'll know when
I'm dead," said Taleswapper. "Because suddenly all the jokes will run
dry and all the gossip will go silent and people will just sit and look glum
because they got no tales to tell."
"I reckon you
heard what we were doing here and had to come and add it to your book."
"I don't think
so," said Taleswapper. "I filled it already." He slid a thick
volume from inside his deerskin jacket. "Every page in it, full, and I
even added a few scraps to make more pages than the blamed thing had. No, I
think I'm here because what you're building, it'll take the place of books like
mine."
"I hope
not," said Arthur Stuart. "I hope never."
"Well, we'll
see," said Taleswapper. "You've grown a lot taller, but not a whit
smarter, as far as I can see."
"Can't see smart," said Arthur Stuart.
"I can," said Taleswapper.
"Come on,
then," said Arthur Stuart. "Even I'm smart enough to know
"Forthwith?" asked Taleswapper.
"Abe Lincoln is reading law with Verily Cooper,
and they let me listen in."
"I'd rather you kept on speaking English like the
rest of us."
"Law is the biggest
mishmash of languages. Two kinds of Latin, two kinds of French, and three kinds
of English all made into a soup that nobody can understand except a
lawyer."
"That's what it's
for," said Taleswapper. "It's how lawyers make sure they'll always
have work, cause nobody can understand what they wrote down except another
lawyer."
Arthur led him down
off the bluff to the flatland leading to the river. The trees were mostly gone
from this area, cut down and turned into cabins and fence rails. "Eight
thousand people living here now," said Arthur.
"Still more than
half of them runaway slaves, though, right?" said Taleswapper. "And
therefore subject to being taken back south?"
"All citizens here,"
said Arthur Stuart. "Ain't no catcher been able to claim a soul yet."
"Word outside is
that Furrowspring County is in virtual rebellion against the laws of the United
States, refusing to accept the Supreme Court ruling that slaveowners can
recover their escaped property."
"I reckon so,"
said Arthur Stuart proudly.
"There's war
fever, and those as want to prevent the war, they might decide to sacrifice
this town."
"As if they
could," said Arthur Stuart. "With
Taleswapper only shook
his head.
They found
"Reckon so,"
said Taleswapper. "But I got sense enough not to stand up to my neck in
mud."
"This ain't just
ordinary mud," said
"Well, that's a
recommendation for it. Make a cup out of such clay and it'll suck the tea right
out of your mouth, is that the way of it?"
Alvin and all the men
laughed. "Make a jar from it and it'll collect water from dry air."
"So you carry a
bit of the Mizzippy with you even into dry land," said Taleswapper.
"Why, with advertising like that, I reckon you could sell such jars for a
dollar each and make fifty bucks in every town, as long as you hightailed it
out before they found out the jars don't work."
"They'd work if
"Well, if you're
gonna waste time cheering a man covered in mud, I reckon I'll leave you to your
own work and go show my good friend just what a perfect baby looks like."
"Show him your
son, too, while you're at it!" shouted one of the workers, which was good
for another laugh and another cheer for
They passed Measure,
who was leading a team of men and horses doing stump removal. Arthur Stuart
knew perfectly well that Measure was using as much makery as he had mastered to
help free up the roots from the deep soil. But since there was still plenty of
hard work for the men and teams to do, Alvin didn't say anything about it to
him, and Arthur Stuart figured that as long as Measure kept his makery secret,
nobody would give him the credit for how fast the clearing of the land was
going.
But Measure left the
work and came along. And when they got to
"I can't stay in
this room," said Taleswapper. "So many glorious women, I have no
choice but to be in love with all of you at once. It'll tear me apart."
"Live with
it," said Peggy dryly. "I think you know them all."
"Them as I don't
know, I hope I soon will," said Tale-swapper. "If I don't die in the
next few minutes from pure happiness."
"That man talk some," said La Tia
appreciatively.
"I didn't know there was a meeting," said
"You wasn't invite," said La Tia. "My
meeting. But you welcome a stay."
"What's the topic?" asked
"The name of that
thing what you build," said La Tia. "I don't like what Verily call
it, me."
Peggy laughed.
"Nobody likes what anybody calls it," she said. "But La Tia was
reading in the Bible and she has a name."
"You lead us out
like Moses," said La Tia. "And Arthur Stuart, he lead us like Joshua
when you gone. Not like Aaron, no! We got no golden calf! But we the book of
Exodus, us. So this thing you build, I find out in the Bible, she a tabernacle."
"Oui!" cried
Rien. "Only instead of you go and a priest pretend to be God, we go inside
and find out where he live in our heart!"
"For a building
that don't exist yet, everybody's got a good idea of how it's gonna work,"
said
But of course they
did.
"In the
Bible," said Marie d'Espoir, "the tabernacle was a place where only
the priest could go. He'd come out and tell everyone what he saw. But our
tabernacle, everybody's the priest, everybody can go inside, man and woman, to
see what they see and hear what they hear."
"It suits me
fine," said
"I like it,"
said La Tia. "But I don't can say it, me."
That issue decided,
the women went on talking about which families didn't have clothes enough for
their children, and which houses weren't big enough or warm enough, and who was
sick and needed help. It was a good work they were doing, but the men weren't
needed in the discussion and soon Arthur Stuart found himself outside. But not
with Alvin and Taleswapper—they were off looking at the big house where Papa
Moose's and Mama Squirrel's family were living even as the house was still
being built. "Fifty-seven children," said Taleswapper. "And all
of them born to this Mama Squirrel herself."
"We have the legal
documentation," said
"A remarkable
pregnancy," said Taleswapper. "And such a small woman, she seemed,
from what I saw of her."
Arthur Stuart stood
outside the house and looked up at the bluff. The house was well placed. At the
back door, you could look out onto the river and see any boat that might tie up
at the new dock. And out the front door, you could see where the ... tabernacle
would stand, and even now you could see the two rows of stacked up crystal
blocks waiting to be laid in place.
He felt a hand on his shoulder.
He jumped. "Marie," he said. "You
startled me."
"I meant to," she said. "All your
makery, but you still don't notice a woman at all."
"Oh, I notice you," said Arthur Stuart.
"I know,"
said Marie, "You notice me all the time. You make sure you know exactly
where I am, so you can always be somewhere else."
"Oh, I don't think that's what I'm..."
But it was what he was doing. He just hadn't
realized it.
"You afraid I kiss you again?" asked Marie.
"I didn't mind it, you know," he said.
"Or you afraid I won't?"
"I can live without it, if that's how you want
it."
"Ignorant boy," she said. "You are
supposed to say, I can't live without your kisses."
"But I can," said Arthur Stuart.
"All right,"
said Marie. She playfully slapped his shoulder as if brushing dust from it.
Then she started to walk back to the house.
"But I don't want
to," said Arthur Stuart.
He wasn't quite sure
where he had found the courage to say it. Except maybe the fact that it was
true, that he hardly went an hour without thinking about her and wondering
whether she had kissed him to tease him or whether it meant something and how
would he go about finding out. And so the words just spilled out of him.
She turned around and
came back to him. "How much do you not want to live without my
kisses?"
He gathered her into
his arms and kissed her, with perhaps more fervor than skill, but she didn't
seem disposed to criticize. "Enough to do that in front of God and everybody,"
he said.
"Ah, look what you've done now," said Marie.
"What?"
"You kiss me so hard, now I'm going to have a
baby."
It took him a moment
to realize that she was joking, but in the meantime he'd been standing there with
such a stupid look on his face that no wonder she laughed at him. "Why are
you always so serious?" she said.
"Because when I kiss you," he said,
"it's not a game to me."
"Life is a game," she said. "But you
and me, I think we can win it together."
"You proposing something?" asked Arthur
Stuart.
"Maybe," she said.
"Like marriage?" asked Arthur Stuart.
"Maybe a man should propose such a thing."
"And if I did, would you say yes?"
"I will say yes," said Marie, "as soon
as Purity says yes to Verily Cooper."
"But he ain't asked her," said Arthur
Stuart.
Marie laughed gaily and darted back into the cabin.
Leaving Arthur Stuart
convinced that something really deep was going on between him and Marie
d'Espoir, and he didn't have the least idea what it was.
He turned around and
looked back at the rows of crystal blocks up on the bluff, and saw two men
standing between them, looking into the walls. He knew them at once, without
even sending his doodlebug out to confirm their identity. Jim Bowie and Calvin
Miller.
"
Arthur Stuart ducked
inside the cabin again. "Peggy," he said, and beckoned.
"No, don't do
that way," said La Tia. "You take her, all we talk about is why she
go. Take us all!"
"Calvin's
back," said Arthur Stuart. "And the man that's with him, he's a
killer. I knew him on the river and in
The women started out
of the house behind him, but Arthur Stuart didn't wait for them. He ran up the
bluff and arrived just as
"Calvin,"
said
"Could you lend a
hand here?" said Calvin. "Seems old Jim Bowie here just can't tear
himself away from whatever he's seeing in these mirrors of yours."
"He's seeing
himself," said Alvin. "Like you did."
"I think he's
seeing more than that," said Calvin. "Though I can't think
what."
Was it possible that Calvin
saw nothing but his own reflection, as simple as a mirror, when he looked into
these walls? Arthur Stuart thought it might just be possible—Calvin wasn't
known for being a deep thinker, and maybe the walls had no more depth than the
person looking into them. But it was more likely that Calvin saw the same kinds
of visions as everyone else, but just couldn't bring himself to tell the truth
about it, any more than he could tell the truth about much of anything else.
Alvin walked between the
blocks, and when he reached Jim Bowie, put a hand on his shoulder. Immediately
Bowie looked at him, grinned. "Why, I was seeing you in there, and seeing
you out here, it's like the same vision. With just one tiny difference."
"I don't want to
hear about it," said Alvin. "Come on out of here, both of you."
He began to lead them along.
"The difference
was, in the wall there I saw you full of bulletholes," said Jim Bowie.
"But how could a thing like that happen? Imagine the bullet that could hit
you!"
"Just wishful thinking on your part," said
Alvin.
"Bulletholes!" said Calvin. "What a
cheerful mural to put on public display, Alvin."
They reached the end of the corridor where Arthur
Stuart was waiting.
"Howdy, Calvin," said Arthur. "I see
you made it out of Mexico City after all."
"No thanks to you," said Calvin.
"Leaving me there to die like the others."
Arthur didn't bother
to argue. He knew Alvin already knew the truth, and would not be inclined to
believe Calvin's version, which was naturally designed to pick a fight between
Alvin and Arthur Stuart.
"I know Alvin's
glad you lived," said Arthur Stuart. No need to say that Alvin was about
the only one, apart from their mother and father.
"And I've
forgiven Jim here for leaving me to have my heart ripped out."
Jim Bowie didn't rise
to the bait, either. His attention was directed entirely toward Alvin.
"Calvin told me what you're building here," said Bowie. "I want
to be part of it."
"Yes," said
Calvin. "If it's a city of makers, how could you think to do it without
the only other living maker." He grinned at Arthur.
"We're all makers
here," said Alvin, ignoring the fact that Calvin already knew how
offensive his words were. "Come on along, my house is just down
here."
They met the women on
the way, and Alvin introduced everybody to everybody. Jim Bowie was, to
Arthur's surprise, quite a charmer, able to put on elegant Camelot manners when
there was someone to impress. Calvin was his normal saucy self—but Rien seemed
to enjoy his banter, much to Arthur's disgust, and when Calvin showered
flattery on Marie d'Espoir, Arthur Stuart thought about causing him a subtle
but permanent internal injury—but of course did nothing at all. You don't start
a duel with a maker who has more power and fewer scruples than you.
They got to the house
and Alvin invited them inside to sit down. The furniture, except for Peggy's
rocking chair, was all rough-hewn benches and stools, but they were good enough
to sit on—and Arthur had heard Peggy say that she didn't wish for more comfortable
furniture, because if the chairs were softer, company would be inclined to stay
longer.
Calvin seemed to want
to talk about his narrow escape from Mexico City, but since Tenskwa-Tawa had
already told Alvin and Arthur Stuart all about it as soon as Arthur got back
from his mission there, they were not inclined to hear a version of the story
that made Calvin out to be something of a hero. "I'm glad you got out all
right," said Alvin—and meant it, which was more than Arthur Stuart could
say for himself. "And Jim, I think you know that your going along with
Arthur Stuart here probably saved the lives of all the other men who went with
you, since they might not have gone if you had refused."
"I don't plan to
die for any cause," said Jim Bowie. "Nor any man, excepting only
myself. I know that ain't noble, but it prolongs my days, which is philosophy
enough for me."
He expected, Arthur
thought, a bit more amusement or admiration for his attitude—but this wasn't a
saloon, and nobody here was drunk, and so it rang a little hollow. There were
people here who would die for a cause, or for someone else's sake.
It was Peggy, bless
her heart, who came right to the point. "So where will you go now,
Calvin?"
"Go?" said
Calvin. "Why, this is the city of makers, and here I am. I had some
experiences—I was just about to get to them, but I know when it's not time for
a tale—I had some experiences that made me realize how much I wished I'd paid
more attention to Alvin back when he was trying to teach me stuff. I'm an
impatient pupil, I reckon, so no wonder he kicked me out of school!"
Even this was a lie,
and everyone there knew it, and it occurred to Arthur Stuart once again that
Calvin seemed to lie just because he liked the sound of it, and not to be
believed.
"I'm glad to have
you," said Alvin. "Whatever you're willing to learn, I'll be happy to
teach, if I know it, or someone else will, if it's something they know better
than me."
"That's a short list," said Calvin, chuckling. It should
have been a compliment to the breadth of Alvin's knack—but it came out sounding
as if it were an accusation of vanity.
Arthur didn't have to
be told that his sister was furious that Calvin was staying and Alvin was
welcoming him. He knew Peggy thought that Calvin would one day cause his
brother's death. But she said nothing about that, and instead turned to Jim
Bowie. "And you, sir? Whither now?"
"I reckon I'll
stay, too," said Bowie. "I liked what I saw up there. Well, no, not
what I saw in the glass—don't misunderstand me, Alvin—but the manner of seeing.
What an achievement! There's kings and queens would give up their kingdoms for
an hour in that place."
"I'm
afraid," said Alvin, "that you won't be welcome inside when the
tabernacle is built."
Bowie's expression
darkened. "Why, I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "Might I ask
why?"
"There's some as
finds the future in there," said Alvin. "But a man who kills his
enemies shouldn't have access to a place that might show him where his future
victims might be."
Bowie barked out a laugh.
"Oh, I'm too much of a killer for your tabernacle, is that it? Well,
here's a thought. Everybody here who has ever killed a man in anger, stand up
with me!" Bowie rose to his feet and looked around. "What, am I the
only one?" Then he grinned at Alvin. "Am I?"
Reluctantly, Alvin
rose to his feet.
"Ah," said
Bowie. "Glad to know you admit it. I saw it in you from the start. You've
killed, and killed with relish. You enjoyed it."
"He killed the
man who killed my mother!" cried Peggy.
"And he enjoyed
it," Bowie said again. "But it's your place for visions, Al, I won't
dispute you about it. You can invite whoever you please. But that only applies
to the building, Al. This is a free country, and a citizen of it can move to
any town or county and take up residence and there ain't a soul can stop him.
Am I right?"
"I thought you
were a subject of the King, from the Crown Colonies," said Peggy.
"You know that an
Englishman has only to cross the border and he's a citizen of the U.S.A.,"
said Bowie. "But I've gone them one better, and taken the oath just like a
... Frenchman."
He grinned at Rien.
"I think I know you, ma'am," he said to her.
She looked at him with
eyes like stones.
"I'll be your
neighbor like it or not," said Bowie. "But I hope you like it,
because I intend to be a peaceable citizen and make a lot of friends. Why, I
might even run for office. I have a bent for politics, having once made a try
at being emperor of Mexico."
"As you
said," Alvin answered quietly. "It's a free country."
"I will admit I thought
I'd get a warmer welcome from old friends." He grinned at Arthur Stuart.
"This lad saved my life in Mexico. Even though he surely would rather not
have done it. I'll never forget that."
Arthur Stuart nodded.
He knew which part Bowie would never forget.
"Well," said
Bowie. "The good cheer and bonhomie in this room is just too much for me.
I'll have to find a place where I find less cheer and more alcohol, if you
catch my drift. I hear it may take going into Warsaw County to get that particular
thirst satisfied. But I'll be back to build me a cabin on some plot of land.
Good day to you all."
Bowie got up and left
the cabin.
"An obnoxious
fellow," said Calvin loudly—Bowie could certainly hear him, even outside
the door. "I don't know how I managed the journey from Barcy to here
without quarreling with him. Maybe it was his big knife that kept the
peace." Calvin had a remarkable ability to laugh at his own jokes with
such gusto that one could miss the fact that he was the only one laughing.
Calvin turned to
Arthur Stuart. "Of course, I could have got here sooner if somebody had
bothered to take me along the way you did with Jim and his crew. He says you
were able to make them run like they were flying, as if the ground rose up to
meet their feet and trees got right out of their way.
But I suppose I'm not
worthy of such transportation."
"I offered to let
you come along," said Arthur Stuart—and then immediately regretted it.
Arguing with Calvin's lies just made him more enthusiastic.
"If you'd told me
about this—greensong, was it?—I'd have come with you in a second. But to come
along just because the Red Prophet was making threats—well, I reckon he wanted
to conquer Mexico as bad as we did, and he got there first. Now he's got the
empire, and I'm just an ordinary fellow—well, as ordinary as a maker can ever
be. You, Alvin, you pretend to be ordinary, don't you? But you always manage to
let people see a bit of what you can do. I understand! You want to be thought
modest, but at the same time, nobody thinks a man's modest unless they know
what great things he's being modest about, eh?" He laughed and laughed at
that one.
The baby was fussy
tonight, and since Margaret had already fed him and Alvin had changed his
diaper, there was nothing for it but to carry him around and sing to him. Alvin
had long since learned that it was his voice that Vigor wanted— something about
the deep male tones vibrating in Alvin's chest, right next to the baby's head.
So he let Margaret go back to sleep and walked outside in the air of a warm
September evening.
He expected to be the
only person abroad in the night, except for the night watchmen with their
lanterns, and they'd be more on the outskirts of town, one along the river and
the other along the edge of the bluff. But to Alvin's surprise, someone else
soon fell into step beside him. His brother, Measure.
"Evening, Al," said Measure.
"Evening yourself," said Alvin. "Baby
was fussy."
"I was the fussy one in my house. 1 sent myself out
so I wouldn't cause any trouble."
"Calvin's staying with you, then?"
"I never could
figure out why Ma and Pa felt the need to have the one more child. Not like
there was a shortage."
"They didn't know
what he'd be," said Alvin. "There's never too many children in the
house, Measure. But you're not responsible for what they want, only for what
you teach them."
"Alvin, I'm afraid," said Measure.
"Big man like you," said Alvin. "That's
just silly."
"What we're doing
here, it's wonderful. But how folks hate us and fear us and talk against us,
that's pretty fierce. The law's against us—oh, I know, that charter is mighty
fine, but it'll never stand up, not with us resisting the fugitive slave law.
And with Calvin here—I don't know how, but he's going to cause trouble."
"It's the
Unmaker," said Alvin. "It always is. No matter how fast you build
things up, he's there, trying to tear it down even faster."
"Then he's bound
to win, isn't he?"
"That's the funny
thing," said Alvin. "All my life, I've seen that all I can build is
just a little bit, and he tears down so much. And yet... things keep getting
built, don't they? Good things. And I finally realized, here in this town,
watching all these people—the reason the Unmaker is gonna lose, in the long
run, isn't because somebody like me or you does some big heroic deed and knocks
him for a loop. It'll be because of all these people, hundreds of them,
thousands of them, each building something in his own way—a family, a marriage,
a house, a farm, a sturdy machine, a tabernacle, a classroom full of students
just a little wiser than they were. Something. And after a while, you come to
realize that all those somethings, they add up to everything, and all the
Unmaker's nothings, you put them all together and they're still nothing. You
see what I mean?"
"You must be
smarter than Plato," said Measure, "because I can understand him."
"Oh, you
understood me," said Alvin. "The question is, when we go down this
dangerous road, with so many hands against us, will you be there with me,
Measure? Will you stand beside me?"
"I will, to the
end," said Measure. "And not just because you saved my life that
time, you know."
"Oh, that wasn't
much. You were trying to save mine, as I recall, so it was a fair trade on the
spot."
"That's how I see
it," said Measure.
"So why will you
stand beside me? Because you love me so much?" He said it jokingly, but he
thought that it was true.
"No," said
Measure. "I love all my brothers, you know. Even Calvin."
"Why, then?"
"Because the
things you make, I want them to be made. You see? I love the work. I want it to
be."
"And you're
willing to pay for it, right along with me?"
"You'll
see," said Measure.
They stood facing the
rows of crystal blocks, ready to become the gleaming tabernacle of the Crystal
City. The baby was asleep. But Alvin tilted him up anyway, just enough that his
little sleeping face was pointed toward the blocks. "Look at this
place," he said to Vigor—and to Measure, too. "I didn't choose this
place. I didn't choose my life, or the powers I have, or even most of the
things that have happened to me. But for all the things that have been forced
on me, I'm still a free man. And you know why? Because I choose them anyway.
What was forced on me, I choose just the same." He turned and faced Measure.
"Like you, Measure. I choose to be a maker, because I love the
making."
Acknowledgments
So much of what a novelist does is made up
at the moment of composition—details of milieu and character, questions that
need to be answered, a secondary character's hopes and fears—that it is
impossible, over the years between volumes of an ongoing series like this, to
remember everything. As a result, there are contradictions between volumes (or
even within a volume), threads that are left dangling, questions that remain
unanswered.
Unless the novelist is
fortunate enough to have a group of readers who are willing to collaborate by
checking the current composition against what went before. In the online
community that has formed at our Hatrack River Web site (http:// www.hatrack.com) there were several
generous and careful readers who volunteered to vet this manuscript for just
such problems.
Undoubtedly there are still
problems remaining. During my years as a professional proofreader and copy
editor I learned that no matter how careful you are and no matter how many
proofreaders and editors go over it, in a work of any length some problems will
always get through. The errors that remain are entirely my fault, but the
errors you don't see were corrected because of the work of Michael Sloan
("Papa Moose" on Hatrack), Noah Siegel ("Calvin Maker"),
Adam Spieckermann, Anna Jo Isabell ("BannaOj"), "Kayla,"
and the most dedicated of all, Andy Wahr ("Hobbes").
In addition, Michael
Sloan won a trivia contest at EnderCon in July of 2002, and the prize was to
have a character named after you in a future book of mine. My intention—which
everyone understood—was that this would be a "cameo," a momentary
appearance of a character with the contest winner's name. But it happened that
Michael Sloan wrote a fascinating autobiographical note as his "thousandth
post" on the Hatrack River forum that triggered some interesting
possibilities in my mind, and as a result the character named for
him—"Papa Moose," his online identity at Hatrack—became considerably
more important in the story than either he or I had expected. Since his wife
has long been nicknamed Squirrel, as a reference by the two of them to the
famous moose and squirrel of television cartoon fame, I naturally gave that
name to the character's wife. So the characters of Papa Moose and Mama Squirrel
in this book are named, not for Rocket J. Squirrel and Bullwinkle Moose, but
for two longtime readers of my work and contributors to the life of the
Oh, all right, I admit
that I enjoyed having Rocky and Bullwinkle references in the book. If I could
have George Washington beheaded in the first volume and have
Roland Brown read the
novel just after it was finished, and offered wise suggestions on the character
of Old Bart and several other points, which I gratefully accepted.
My editor, Beth
Meacham, and my publisher, Tom Doherty, deserve great thanks for their patience
with my unpredictable delivery dates and for the wonderful things they do for
and with my books after I turn them in. It was because Tom and Beth took a
chance on this strange American fantasy series back in 1983—based on, of all
things, an epic poem I wrote— that I was able to leave fulltime employment for
the second time and return to the freelance writing life for the past twenty
years.
Barbara Bova, my agent
since 1978, has watched over my career assiduously, and she and her husband,
Ben Bova—the Analog editor who discovered me back in 1976—have been dear
friends all this time. This book, like all my others, exists because Barbara
won for me a place in the commerce of books that allows me time enough to
write.
Family members and
friends have also read this book, chapter by chapter, as I wrote it, catching
errors, reminding me of questions still unanswered, and making occasional
suggestions that opened doors to my imagination. Erin and Phillip Absher,
Kathryn H. Kidd, and my son Geoffrey were all of great help to me.
My wife, Kristine,
remains my first reader, the one who receives my pages at her bedside when I
finally crawl downstairs at three or five or seven a.m. after yet another late-night writing session. She also
tends to the family and business matters that would, if I had to attend to
them, seriously interfere with my ability to concentrate on my writing. The
most important work of my life has been and continues to be my family, and she
is my collaborator and partner in every aspect of that oeuvre.
And to Zina, our
nine-year-old, my thanks for her patience with a father who vanishes for hours
and days at a time, only to emerge with books she does not yet enjoy reading.
So I'll leave her to the pleasures of Lemony Snicket, Harry Potter, Avalon, and
the many other books that accompany her throughout her life, hoping someday to
earn a place on that illustrious list.
I began writing this
book on my laptop while my daughter Emily drove along I-40 toward
The Tales of Alvin
Maker "With delicacy and insight, incorporating folk tales and folk magic
with mountain lore and other authentic details, Orson Scott Card has evoked a
vision of America as it might have been."
—
In this world where
"knacks" abound,
But Nueva Barcelona is
about to experience a plague, and
ORSON SCOTT CARD is
the author of the international
bestsellers Ender's Shadow, Shadow of the Hegemon, Shadow Puppets, and
of the beloved science fiction classic, Ender's Game. The Crystal City is
the sixth volume of his remarkable fantasy series, The Tales of Alvin Maker. He
lives in
THE
THE TALES OF
ORSON SCOTT CARD
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
This is a work of
fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either
fictitious or are used fictitiously.
THE
A For Book Published by Tom Doherty
Associates, LLC
For is a registered
trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Library of Congress
Cataloging-in-Publication Data Card, Orson Scott.
The crystal city /
Orson Scott Card.—1st ed. p. cm.—(Alvin Maker ;
#6) ISBN 0-312-86483-3 (regular edition) ISBN 0-765-30874-6 (limited edition)
1. Maker,
PS3553.A655C79 2003 813'.54—dc21
2003055992
First Edition: November 2003
Printed in the
To Chris and Christi Baughan Evenly matched
Contents
1 Nueva Barcelona.....
2 Squirrel and Moose...
3 Fever..............
4 La Tia..............
5 Crystal Ball.........
6 Exodus.............
7 Errand Boy.........
8 Plans..............
9 Expeditions.........
10 Mizzippy...........
11 Flood..............
12
13
14 Plow...........
15
16 Labor..............
17 Foundation.........
Acknowledgments........
Maps……………
THE
1
Nueva Barcelona
IT
SEEMED LIKE everybody and his brother was
in Nueva Barcelona these days. It was steamboats, mostly, that brought them.
Even though the fog on the Mizzippy made it so a white man couldn't cross the
river to the west bank, the steamboats could make the trip up and down the
channel, carrying goods and passengers—which was the same as saying they
carried money and laid it into the laps of whoever happened to be running
things at the river's mouth.
These days that meant
the Spanish, officially, anyway. They owned Nueva Barcelona and it had their
troops all over it.
But the very presence
of those troops said something. One thing it said was that the Spanish weren't
so sure they could hold on to the city. Wasn't that many years since the place
was called New Orleans and there was still plenty of places in the city where
you better speak French or you couldn't find a bite to eat or a place to
sleep—and if you spoke Spanish there, you might just wake up with your throat
slit.
It didn't surprise
"Guess you learnt
all that Spanish for nothing, Arthur Stuart," said
"Maybe so, maybe
not," said Arthur Stuart. "Not like it cost me nothing to learn
it."
Which was true. It had
been disconcerting to
Now Margaret was
pregnant again, but neither she nor Alvin saw much of each other these days.
Her so busy trying to prevent a bloody war over slavery. Him so busy trying to
figure out what he was supposed to do with his life. Nothing he'd ever tried to
do had worked out too well. And this trip to Nueva Barcelona was gonna end up
just as pointless, he was sure of it.
Only good thing about
it was running into Abe and Coz on the journey. But now they were in Barcy,
he'd lose track of them and it'd just be him and Arthur Stuart, continuing in
their long term project of showing that you can have all the power in the
world, but it wasn't worth much if you was too dumb to figure out what to do
with it or how to share it with anybody else.
"You got that look again,
"What look is that?"
"Like you need to piss but you're afraid it's
gonna come out in chunks."
"Nobody heard me."
"They don't have
to hear you to see your attitude," said
"I'm only half
black."
"You only got to
be one-sixteenth black to be black in this town."
"Dang it,
"What do you want
to bet all the white folks in Barcy can recite their ancestry back all the
way?"
"What do you want to bet they made up most of
it?"
"Act like you're afraid I'll whip you, Arthur
Stuart."
"Why should I, when you never act like you're
gonna?"
Now, that was a
challenge, and
It was all so real
that Arthur Stuart get a look of genuine fear in his eyes, and he really did
cower under the threatened blow.
But
"You did a pretty good job of looking
scared," said
"I wasn't acting," said Arthur Stuart
softly. "Were you?"
"Am I that good at it you have to ask?"
"No. You're a pretty bad liar, most times. You
was mad."
"Yep, I was. But not at you, Arthur Stuart."
"At who, then?"
"Tell you the
truth, I don't know. Didn't even know I was mad, till I started trying
to mime it."
At that moment, a
large hand took a hold of
"Abe," said
"I was just
wonderin' what I just saw here," said Abe. "I look over at my two
friends pretendin' to be master and slave, and what do I see?"
"Oh, he beats me all the time," said Arthur
Stuart, "when no one's looking."
"I reckon I might have to start," said
"So it was playacting?" asked Abe.
It shamed
"And none of
mine?" said Abe. "Reckon so. None of my business when one of my
friends reaches out to strike another. Guess a good man's gotta just stand by
and watch."
"Didn't hit him," said
"But now you want to hit me," said Abe.
"No," said
"Was that an
invitation to a meal?" said Abe. "Or an invitation to go away and let
you get about your business?"
"Mostly it was an
invitation to change the subject," said
"Oh, Coz won't be
joinin' us. Coz just found the love of his life, a-waitin' for him right on the
pier."
"You mean that
trashy lady he was a-talkin' to?" asked Arthur Stuart.
"I suggested to
him that he might hold out for a cleaner grade of whore," said Abe,
"but he denied that she was one, and she agreed that she had plain fallen in
love with him the moment she saw him. So I rigger I'll see Coz sometime
tomorrow morning, drunk and robbed."
"Glad to know
he's got you to look out for him, Abe," said
"But I did,"
said Abe. He held up a wallet. "I picked his pocket first, so he's got no
more than three dollars left on him for her to rob."
Alvin and Arthur both
laughed at that.
"Is that your
knack?" asked Arthur Stuart. "Pickin' pockets?"
"No sir,"
said
"But the girl would notice," said
"Mebbe, but she didn't say nothing."
"And since she
was planning on getting what was in that wallet herself," said
"So I reckon she didn't see me."
"Or she did but didn't care."
Abe thought about that
for a second. "I reckon what you're saying is I oughta look inside
this-here wallet."
"You could do that," said
Abe opened it up. "I'm jiggered," he said.
Of course it was empty.
"You're jug-eared, too," said
"So she already got him."
"Oh, I don't
suppose she ever laid a hand on him," said
"And her partner
goes for the pockets," said Arthur Stuart.
"You sound
experienced," said Abe.
"We watch for
it," said Arthur Stuart. "We both kind of like to catch 'em at it,
iffen we can."
"So why didn't
you catch them robbin' Coz?"
"We didn't know
you needed lookin' after," said Arthur Stuart.
Abe looked at him with
calculated indignation. "Next time you go to beatin' this boy, Al Smith,
would you be so kind as to lay down one extra wallop on my behalf?"
"Get your own half-black adopted brother-in-law
to beat," said
"Besides," said Arthur Stuart, "you do
need lookin' after."
"What makes you think so?"
"Because you
still haven't thought about how Coz wasn't the only one distracted by
her big fluttery eyes."
Abe slapped at his
jacket pocket. For a moment he was relieved to find his wallet still there. But
then he realized that Coz's wallet had been there, too. It took only a moment
to discover that he and Coz had both been robbed.
"And they had the
sass to put the wallets back," said Abe, sounding awestruck.
"Well, don't feel
bad," said Arthur Stuart. "It was probably the pickpocket's knack, so
what could you do about it?"
Abe sat himself right
down on the dock, which was quite an operation, seeing how he was so tall and
bony that just getting himself into a sitting position involved nearly knocking
three or four people into the water.
"Well, ain't this
a grand holiday," said Abe. "Ain't I just the biggest rube you ever
saw. First I made a raft that can't be steered, so you had to save me. And then
when I sell my cargo and make the money I came for, I let somebody take it away
from us first thing."
"So," said
"How?" said Abe. "I haven't got a
penny. I haven't even got a return passage."
"Oh, we'll treat you to supper," said
"I can't let you do that," said Abe.
"Why not?"
"Because then I'd be in your debt."
"We saved your
stupid life on the river, Abe Lincoln," said
Abe thought about that
for a moment. "Well, then, I reckon it's in for a penny, in for a
pound."
"The American version
of that is 'in for a dime, in for a dollar,' " said Arthur Stuart
helpfully.
"But my mama's
version was the one I said," retorted Abe. "And since I got exactly
as many pennies and pounds as I got dimes and dollars, I reckon I can please
myself which ones to cuss with."
"You mean that
was cussin'?" said Arthur Stuart.
"Inside me there
was cussin' so bad it'd make a sailor poke sticks in his own ears to keep from
hearin' it," said Abe. "Pennies and pounds was just the part I let
out."
All this while, of
course,
Meanwhile, though, the
woman and the man was strolling off as easy as you please. So
Arthur Stuart, of
course, had enough experience and training now that he was able to follow
pretty much what
In a way, thought
"Let's go eat,
then," said Arthur Stuart, "instead of talking about eatin'."
"Where shall we
go to find food that we can stand to eat?" said
"This way, I
think," said Arthur Stuart, heading directly toward the alleyway where the
coins had all been spilled.
"Oh, that doesn't look too promising," said
Abe.
"Trust me," said Arthur Stuart. "I got
a nose for good food."
"He does," said
"I'll happily provide the belly," offered
Abe.
They had him lead the
way down the alley. And blamed if he didn't just walk right past the money.
"Abe," said
"They ain't mine," said Abe.
"Finders keepers, losers weepers," said
Arthur Stuart.
"I may be a loser," said Abe, "but I
ain't weepin'."
"But you're a finder now," said Arthur
Stuart, "and I don't see you doin' no keepin'."
Abe looked at them a
bit askance. "I reckon we ought to pick up these coins and search out their
proper owner. No doubt somebody's going to be right sorry for a hole in his
pocket."
"Reckon so,"
said
"Gotta carry it
somewhere," said
But he didn't. Because
the money didn't fit. There was too blamed much of it.
Arthur Stuart started
laughing and kept laughing till he had tears running down his cheeks.
"So now who's the weeper?" said Abe.
"He's laughing at me," said
"Why?"
"Because I clean
forgot that you and Coz probably wasn't the first folks they robbed
today."
Abe looked down at the
full wallets and the coins that Alvin and Arthur Stuart were still holding and
it finally dawned on him. "You robbed the robbers."
Abe shook his head.
"Well, I'm beginning to get the idea that you got you some kind of knack,
Mr. Smith."
"I just know how to work with metals some,"
said
"Including metal that's in somebody else's pocket
or purse some six rods off."
"Let's go find Coz," said
"He's sleeping?" asked Abe.
"He had some encouragement," said
Abe gave him a look but said nothing.
"What about all this extra money?" asked
Arthur Stuart.
"I'm not taking
it," said Abe. "I'll keep what's rightfully mine and Coz's, but the
rest you can just leave there on the planks. Let the thieves come back and find
it."
"But it wasn't
theirs, neither," said Arthur Stuart.
"That's between
them and their maker on Judgment Day," said Abe. "I ain't gettin'
involved. I don't want to have any money I can't account for."
"To the
Lord?" asked
"Or to the
magistrate," said Abe. "I gave a receipt for this amount, and it can
be proved that it's mine. Just drop the rest of that. Or keep it, if you don't
mind being thieves yourselves."
"I expect if you
rob a robber," said
"I expect
not," said Abe.
Alvin and Arthur
Stuart let the money dribble out of their hands and back down onto the planks.
Once again,
"You always this honest?" said
"About money, yes sir," said Abe.
"But not about everything."
"I have to admit that
there's parts of some stories I tell that aren't strictly speaking the absolute
God's-own truth."
"Well, no, of
course not," said Alvin, "but you can't tell a good story without
improving it here and there."
"Well, you can,"
said Abe. "But then what do you do when you need to tell the same
story to the same people? You gotta change it then, so it'll still be
entertaining."
"So it's really
for their benefit to fiddle with the truth."
"Pure Christian
charity."
Coz was still asleep
when they found him, but it wasn't the sleep of the newly
knocked-upside-the-head, it was a snorish sleep of a weary man. So Abe paused a
moment to put a finger to his lips, to let Alvin and Arthur Stuart know that
they should let him do the talking. Only when they nodded did he start nudging
Coz with his toe.
Coz sputtered and awoke. "Oh, man," he said.
"What am I doing here?"
"Waking up," said Abe. "But a minute
ago, you was sleeping."
"I was? Why was I sleeping here?"
"I was going to
ask you the same question," said Abe. "Did you have a good time with
that lady you fell so much in love with?"
Coz started to brag.
"Oh, you bet I did." Only they could all see from his face that he
actually had no memory of what might have happened. "It was amazing. She
was—only maybe I shouldn't tell you all about it in front of the boy."
"No, best
not," said Abe. "You must have got powerful drunk last night."
"Last
night?" asked Coz, looking around.
"It's been a
whole night and a day since you took off with her. I reckon you probably spent every
dime of your half of the money. But I'm a-tellin' you, Coz, I'm not giving you
any of my half, I'm just not."
Coz patted himself and
realized his wallet was missing. "Oh, that snickety-pickle. That
blimmety-blam."
"Coz has him a knack for swearing in front of
children," said Abe.
"My wallet's gone," he said.
"I reckon that includes the money in it,"
said Abe.
"Well she wouldn't steal the wallet and leave the
money, would she?" said Coz.
"So you're sure she stole it?" said Abe.
"Well how else would my wallet turn up
missing?" said Coz.
"You spent a
whole night and day carousing. How do you know you didn't spend it all? Or give
it to her as a present? Or make six more friends and buy them drinks
till you ran out of money, and then you traded the wallet for one last
drink?"
Coz looked like he'd
been kicked in the belly, he was so stunned and forlorn. "Do you think I
did, Abe? I got to admit, I have no memory of what I did last night."
Then he reached up and
touched his head. "I must have slept my way clear past the hangover."
"You don't look
too steady," said Abe. "Maybe you don't have a hangover cause you're
still drunk."
"I am a
little wobbly," said Coz. "Tell me, the three of you, am I talking
slurry? Do I sound drunk?"
"Kind of a frog in your throat," said Arthur
Stuart.
"I've seen you drunker," said Abe.
"Oh, I'm never
gonna live down the shame of this, Abe," said Coz. "You warned me not
to go off with her. And whether she robbed me or somebody else did or I spent
it all or I clean lost it from being so stupid drunk, I'm going home
empty-handed and Ma'll kill me, she'll just ream me out a new ear, she'll cuss
me up so bad."
"Oh, Coz, you
know I won't leave you in such a bad way," said Abe.
"Won't you? You
mean it? You'll give me a share of your half?"
"Enough to be
respectable," said Abe. "We'll just say you ... invested the rest of
it, on speculation, kind of, but it went bad. They'll believe that, right?
That's better than getting robbed or spending it on likker."
"Oh, it is, Abe.
You're a saint. You're my best friend. And you won't have to lie for me, Abe. I
know you hate to lie, so you just tell folks to ask me and I'll do all
the lyin'."
Abe reached into his
pocket and took out Coz's own wallet and handed it to him. "You just take
from that wallet as much as you think you'll need to make your story
stick."
Coz started counting
out the twenty-dollar gold pieces, but it only took a few before his conscience
started getting to him. "Every coin I take is taken from you, Abe. I can't
do this. You decide how much you can spare for me."
"No, you do the
calculatin'," said Abe. "You know I'm no good at accounts, or my
store wouldn't have gone bust the way it did last year."
"But I feel like
I'm robbing you, taking money out of your wallet like this."
"Oh, that ain't
my wallet," said Abe.
Coz looked at him like
he was crazy. "You took it out of your own pocket," he said.
"And if it ain't yours, then whose is it?"
When Abe didn't answer, Coz looked at the wallet
again.
"It's mine," he said.
"It does look like yours," said Abe.
"You took it out of my own pocket when I was
sleeping!" said Coz, outraged.
"I can tell you
honestly that I did not," said Abe. "And these gentlemen can affirm
that I did not touch you with more than the toe of my boot as you laid there
snoring like a choir of angels."
"Then how'd you get it?"
"I stole it from you before you even went off
with that girl," said Abe.
"You ... but then ... then how could I have done
all those things last night?"
"Last night?" said Abe. "As I recall,
last night you were on the boat with us."
"What're
you..." And then it all came clear. "You dad-blasted gummer-huggit!
You flim-jiggy swip-swapp!"
Abe put a hand to his ear. "Hark! The song of the
chuckleheaded Coz-bird!"
"It's the same day! I wasn't asleep half an
hour!"
"Twenty minutes," offered
"And this is all my own money!" Coz said.
Abe nodded gravely. "It is, my friend, at least
until another girl makes big-eyes at you."
Coz looked up and down
the little alleyway. "But what happened to Fannie? One minute I was
walking down this alleyway with my hand on her . .. hand, and the next minute
you're pokin' me with your toe."
"You know something,
Coz?" said Abe. "You don't have much of a love life."
"Look who's
talkin'," said Coz sullenly.
But that seemed to be
something of a sore spot with Abe, for though the smile didn't leave his face,
the mirth did, and instead of coming back with some jest or jape, he sort of
seemed to wander off inside himself somewhere.
"Come on, let's
eat," said Arthur Stuart. "All this talkin' don't fill me up
much."
And that being the
most honest and sensible thing that had been said that half hour, they all agreed
to it and followed their noses till they found a place that sold food that was
mostly dead, didn't have too many legs, wasn't poisonous when alive, and seemed
cooked enough to eat. Not an easy search in Barcy.
After dinner, Coz got
him out a pipe which he proceeded to stuff with manure, or so it smelled when
he got the thing alight.
Instead he took his
leave, hoisted his poke onto his shoulder, made sure Arthur Stuart unwound
himself from his chair before standing up, and the two lit out in search of a
place to stay. None of the miserable fleabitten overpriced understaffed crowded
smelly firetraps near the river. Alvin had no idea how long he'd be staying and
he only had limited funds, so he'd want a room in a boarding house somewhere in
the part of Barcy where decent people lived who aimed to stay a spell. Where a
journeyman smith might stay, for instance, while he searched for a shop as
needed an extra pair of arms.
He wasn't thirty steps
out of the tavern where they'd dined afore he realized that Abe Lincoln was
a-following, and even though Abe had even longer legs than
It was disconcerting,
how Arthur had learnt a way to keep
But now wasn't the
time for remonstration, not with Abe a-lookin' on.
"You decided Coz
could be trusted with his own money tonight after all?" asked
"Coz can't be
trusted with his own elbows," said Abe, "but it occurred to me that
you and Arthur Stuart here have become right good friends, and I'd be sorry to
lose track of you."
"Well, it's bound
to happen," said
"You seem to be a
wandering man," said Abe, "and not likely to have a place where a man
can send you a letter. Me, though, I'm rooted. I don't make much money doing
much of anything yet, but I know where I want to do it. You write to Abraham
Lincoln, town of
"Your folks, I
reckon."
"I grew up there
and we're still on speaking terms," said
But Abe didn't smile
back. "I know the name of
"The story's dark
enough, and also true," said
"I never thought
about it, but I reckon there had to be some as had clean hands."
"I hadn't heard
that."
"It isn't much
spoken of," said
"You can be sure
I'll go there," said Abe. "And I'm glad to think tonight won't be the
last I'll hear of you."
"You can't be any
gladder than me," said
With a handshake they
parted yet again, and soon Abe's long legs were carrying him back toward the
tavern with a stride that parted the flow of the crowd in the street like an
upriver steamboat.
"I like that
man," said Arthur Stuart.
"Me too,"
said
"Not to mention
being the best-looking ugly man or the ugliest handsome man I ever seen,"
said Arthur Stuart.
"Speaking of
nothing much," said
Arthur Stuart looked
at him without blinking an eye and answered just as
"She didn't send
you to
"When I die, I'll
be dead everywhere, all at once," said
"You mean you really
don't know what you're supposed to do here? When you said that before I
thought you were just telling me it was none of my business."
"It might well be
none of your business," said
"And freed two
dozen black men as didn't want to be slaves."
"That was more
you than me, and not a thing to be bragging on here in the streets of
Barcy," said
"And you still
have yet to figger out what Peggy has in mind," said Arthur Stuart.
"We don't talk
like we used to," said
"It's been known
to happen."
"Well, I don't
like it. But I also know she wants our baby to have a living father, and so I
go along, though I remind her from time to time that a grown man likes to know why
he's doing a thing. And in this case, what the thing is I'm supposed to be
doing."
"Is that what
a grown man likes?" said Arthur Stuart, with a grin that was way too wide.
"You'll find out
when you're growed," said
But the truth was, Arthur
Stuart might be full grown already.
Which was probably why
Arthur Stuart had gone to the trouble to learn how to hide his heartfire from
Because at the ripe
old age of twenty-six, Alvin Miller, who had become Alvin Smith, and whose
secret name was Alvin Maker; this Alvin, whose birth had been surrounded by
such portents, who had been so watched over by good and evil as he was growing
up; this same Alvin who had thought he had a great mission and work in his
life, had long since come to realize that all those portents came to nothing,
that all that watching had been wasted, because the power of makery had been
given to the wrong man. In
He couldn't even save
the life of his own baby, or learn languages the way Arthur Stuart could, or
see the paths of the future like Margaret, or any of the other practical gifts.
He was just a journeyman smith who by sheerest accident got himself a golden plow
which he'd been carrying around in a poke for five years now, and for what?
It was this dark mood
that rode in his heart all the way into Barcy proper, and perhaps it was the
cloud that it put in his visage that made the first two houses turn them away.
He was so darkhearted
by the time they come to the third house that he didn't even try to be
personable. "I'm a journeyman smith from up north," he said,
"and this boy is passing as my slave but he's not, he's free, and I'm
blamed if I'm going to make him sleep down with the servants. I want a room
with two good beds, and I'll pay faithful but I won't have anybody treating
this young fellow like a servant."
The woman at the door
looked from him to Arthur Stuart and back again. "If you make that speech
at every door, I'm surprised you ain't got you a mob of men with clubs and a
rope followin' behind."
"Mostly I just
ask for a room," said
"Well, control
your tongue in future," said the woman. "It happens you chose the
right door for that speech, by sheer luck or perversity. I have the room
you want, with the two beds, and this being a house where slavery is hated as
an offense against God, you'll find no one quarrels with you for treating this
young man as an equal."
2
Squirrel and Moose
Alvin
held out his hand. "Alvin Smith,
ma'am."
She shook hands with
him. "I heard of an Alvin Smith what has a wife named Margaret, who goes
from place to place striking terror into the hearts of them as loves to tell a
lie."
"She puts a bit
of a scare into them as hates lying, too," said Arthur Stuart.
"As for me,"
said
"I'm none too
fanatic about telling the truth, myself," said the woman. "For
instance, I believe every girl ought to grow up in the firm belief that she's
clever and pretty, and every boy that he's strong and good-hearted. In my
experience, what starts out as a fib turns into a hope and if you keep it up
long enough, it starts to be mostly true."
"Wish I'd known
that fifteen years ago," said
"I'm
pretty," said Arthur Stuart. "I figure that's all I need to get by in
this world."
"You see the
problem?" said
"If you're
Margaret Larner's husband," said the woman, "then I'll bet this
pretty lad here is her brother, Arthur Stuart, who from the look of him is born
to be royalty."
"I wouldn't cross
the road to be a king," said Arthur Stuart. "Though if they brought
the throne to me, I might sit in it for a spell."
By now they were
inside the house,
"Y'all afraid of climbing
stairs?" she asked.
"I always climb
six flights before breakfast, just so I can be closer to heaven when I say my
prayers," said
She looked at him
sharply. "I didn't know you was a praying man."
"I've been known
to pray, ma'am," said
"It is,"
said the woman.
"Seems to
me," said Arthur Stuart, "that it's also a house where folks are all
named 'you,' cause they haven't heard about 'names' yet."
She laughed.
"I've had so many names in my life that I've lost track by now. Around
here, folks just call me Mama Squirrel. And let's have no idle speculation
about how I got that name. My husband gave it to me, when he decided that he
was Papa Moose."
"Always good to
accept the hospitality of moose and squirrel," said
"This ain't no
hospitality here," said Mama Squirrel. "You're paying for it, and not
cheap, either. We've got a lot of mouths to feed."
It wasn't till they
got to the third floor that they saw what she meant. In a large open room with
windows all along one wall, a sturdy brown-haired man with a look of beatific
patience was standing in front of about thirty-five children who looked to be
from five to twelve, who were sitting shoulder to shoulder on four rows of
benches. About a quarter of the children where black, a few were red, some were
white with hints of France or Spain or England, but more than half were of
races so mixed that it was hard to guess what land on earth had not contributed
to their parentage.
Mama Squirrel silently
mouthed the words "Papa Moose," and pointed at the man.
Only when her husband
took a step, which dipped and rolled like a boat caught in a sudden breeze, did
He was leading the
children in silent recitation of words on a slate. He would print four or five
words, hold them up so all could see, and then point to a child. The child
would then rise, and mouth—but not speak aloud—each word as Papa Moose pointed
at it. He would nod or shake his head, depending on correctness, and then point
at another child. In the silence, the faint popping and smacking of lips and
tongue sounded surprisingly loud.
The words currently on
the slate were "measure," "assemble," "serene,"
and "peril." Without meaning to,
Mama Squirrel led them
up to the garret, which was hot, with a ceiling that sloped in only one
direction, from the east-facing front of the house to the back.
"It's an oven up
here on a hot day," said Mama Squirrel. "And it gets mighty cold in
winter. But it keeps off the rain, which around here is no mean gift, and the
beds and linens are clean and the floor is swept once a week—more often, if you
know how to handle a broom."
"I been known to
kill spiders with one," said
"We kill no
living thing in this house," said Mama Squirrel.
"I don't know how
you can eat a blamed thing without causing something that was once alive to
die," said
"You got me
there," said Mama Squirrel. "We got no mercy on the plant kingdom,
except we're loath to cut down a living tree."
"But spiders are safe here."
"They live out their natural span," said
Mama Squirrel. "This is a house of peace."
"A house of silence, too, judging by the school
downstairs."
"School?"
asked Mama Squirrel. "I hope you won't accuse us of breaking the law and
holding a school that might teach blacks and reds and mixes how to read and
write and cipher."
"I'm surprised at
the breadth of your knowledge of the legal code of Nueva Barcelona," said
Mama Squirrel. "The law forbids us to cause a child to read or recite aloud,
or to write on slate or paper, or to do sums."
"So you only teach them to subtract and multiply
and divide?" said Arthur Stuart.
"And count," said Mama Squirrel. "We're
law-abiding people."
"And these children—from the neighborhood?"
"From this house," said Mama Squirrel.
"They're all mine."
"You are a truly amazing woman," said
"What God gives me, who am I to refuse?" she
said.
"This is an orphanage, isn't it?" said
"It's a
boardinghouse," said Mama Squirrel. "For travelers. And, of course,
my husband and I and all our children live here."
"I suppose it's
illegal to operate an orphanage," said
"An
orphanage," said Mama Squirrel, "would be obliged to teach the
Catholic religion to all the white children, while the children of color must
be auctioned off by the age of six."
"So I imagine
that many a poor black woman would rather leave her impossible baby at your
door than at the door of any orphanage," said
"I have no idea
what you're talking about," said Mama Squirrel. "I gave birth to
every one of these children myself. Otherwise they'd be taken away from me and
turned over to an orphanage."
"From the ages,
I'd say you had them in bunches of five or six at a time," said
"I give birth
when they're still very small," said Mama Squirrel. "It's my
knack."
"My, what strong
arms you have," said Mama Squirrel.
"Oh, now you done
it," said Arthur Stuart. "He'll be bragging on them arms all month
now."
"You wouldn't
need any wood-chopping," said
"The biggest
help," said Mama Squirrel, "would be the hauling of water."
"I heard there
wasn't no wells in Nueva Barcelona," said
"We collect rain
like everybody else, but it's not enough, even without washing the children
more than once a week. So for poor folks, the water wagon fills up the public
fountain twice a week. Today's a water day."
"You show me what
to tote it in, and I'll come back full as many times as you want," said
"I'll go along
with him to whisper encouragement," said Arthur Stuart.
"Arthur Stuart is
so noble of heart," said
"You two bring
lying to the level of music."
"You should hear my
concerto for two liars and a whipped dog," said
"But we don't
actually whip no dog," Arthur Stuart assured her quickly. "We trained
an irritable cat to do the dog's part."
Mama Squirrel laughed
out loud and shook her head. "I swear I don't know why Margaret Larner
would marry such a one as you."
"It was an act of faith," said
"But Margaret Larner is such a torch, she needs
no faith to judge a man's heart."
"It's his head she had to take on faith,"
said Arthur Stuart.
"Let's go get some water," said
"Not unless I get me to a privy house
first," said Arthur Stuart.
"Oh, fie on
me," said Mama Squirrel. "I'm not much of hospitaler, specially in
front of an innkeeper's son and son-in-law." She bustled over to the
stairs and led Arthur Stuart down.
Alone in the garret,
So he had no choice
but to go to the chimney and pull out a few loose bricks. Not that they were
loose to start with. He sort of helped them to achieve looseness until he had a
gap big enough to push the plow through.
He pulled the plow
from the sack. In his hand it was warm, and he felt a faint kind of motion
inside it, as if some thin golden fluid swirled within.
"I wonder what
you're good for,"
The plow didn't
answer. It might be alive, in some fashion, but that didn't give it the power
to speak.
Now his poke contained
nothing but a change of clothes and his writing materials. He could leave it
lying on his bed without a second thought.
Downstairs, he found
Arthur Stuart just washing up after using the privy. Two three-year-old girls
were watching him like they'd never seen handwashing before.
When he was done,
instead of reaching for a towel—and there was a cloth not one step away,
hanging from a hook— Arthur Stuart just held his hands over the basin.
"Sometimes," said
Arthur Stuart turned around, embarrassed. "I
didn't know it would get so cold."
"You can get frostbite doing it so fast,"
said
'Wow you tell me."
"How was I supposed to know you were too lazy to
reach for a towel?"
Arthur Stuart sniffed. "I got to practice, you
know."
"In front of witnesses, no less." He looked
at the two girls.
"They don't know what I done," said Arthur
Stuart.
"Which makes it all the more pathetic that you
were showing off for them."
"Someday I'll get sick of you bossing and judging
me all the time," said Arthur Stuart.
"Maybe then you won't come along on journeys I
told you not to come on."
"That would be
obeying," said Arthur Stuart. "I got no particular interest in doing
much of that."
"Well then set
your butt down and wait here and don't help me one bit while I go haul water
from the public fountain."
"I'm not that
easily fooled," said Arthur Stuart. "I'll obey you when you tell me
to do what I already want."
"And I thought
all you were was pretty."
This being water day,
and the neighborhood having no shortage of people who could use some water
beyond what their rain barrels held,
He reckoned that Mama
Squirrel's law against killing animals didn't apply this far from her house,
and besides, what she didn't know wouldn't offend her. So he spent a few
minutes working on the water, breaking down all the tiny creatures into bits so
small they couldn't do no harm. Not that he broke them one by one—that would
have taken half his life. He just talked to them, silently, showing them in his
mind what he wanted them to do. Break themselves apart. Spill their inner parts
into the water. He explained it was to keep folks from coming to harm by
drinking. He wasn't sure just what these tiny creatures actually understood.
What mattered was that they did
As if the skeeters
understood that he'd just wiped out their progeny, they made him pay in blood
for having cleaned the water. Well, he'd live with that, itch welts and all. He
didn't use his knack to make himself comfy.
"I know you're
doing something," said Arthur Stuart. "But I can't tell what."
"I'm fetching
water for Mama Squirrel," said
"You're standing
there looking at the fountain like you was seeing a vision. Either that or
trying real hard not to break wind."
"Hard to tell
those things apart," said
"Get bad enough
gas, though, and you can start a church," said Arthur Stuart.
They filled the jugs,
taking their turns along with the other folks, some of whom looked at them
curiously, the rest just minding their own business. One of the lookers, a
young woman not much older than Arthur Stuart, bumped into
"We're not
drawing for ourselves," said Arthur Stuart, mildly enough. "We're
hauling this for Mama Squirrel's house."
The girl spat in the
dust. "Hexy house."
An older woman joined
in. "You pretty bad trained, boy," she said. "You talk to a
white girl and never say ma'am."
"Sorry ma'am," said Arthur Stuart.
"Where we come from," said
The woman glared at him and moved away.
The teenage girl,
though, was still curious. "That Mama Squirrel, is it true she has babies
of all colors?"
"I don't know
about that," said
"Personne know
where they get the money to live," said the girl. "Some folks say
they teach them kids to steal, send them into the city at night. Dark faces,
you can't see them so good."
"Nothing like
that," said Arthur Stuart. "See, they own the patent on stupid, and
every time somebody in the city says something dumb, they get three
cents."
The girl looked at him
with squinty eyes. "They be the richest people in town, then, so I think
you lie."
"I reckon you owe
a dollar a day to whoever has the patent on no-sense-of-humor."
"You are not a
slave," said the girl.
"I'm a slave to
fortune," said Arthur Stuart. "I'm in bondage to the universe, and my
only manumission will be death."
"You gone to school, you."
"I only learned whatever my sister taught
me," said Arthur Stuart truthfully.
"I have a knack," said the girl.
"Good for you," said Arthur Stuart.
"This was sick water," she said, "and
now is healthy. Your master healed it."
"I was not
offended," said the girl. "But if you heal the water, maybe you come
home with me and heal my mama."
"I'm no
healer," said
"I think what she
got," said the girl, "is the yellow fever."
If anybody had thought
nobody was paying attention to this conversation, they'd have got their wake-up
when she said that. It was like every nose on every face was tied to a
string that got pulled when she said "yellow fever."
"Did you say yellow fever?" asked an old
woman.
The girl looked at her blankly.
"She did," said another woman. "Marie
la Morte a dit."
"Dead Mary says her ma's got yellow fever!"
called someone.
And now the strings
were pulled in the opposite direction. Every head turned to face away from the
girl—Dead Mary was her name, apparently—and then all the feet set to pumping
and in a few minutes, Alvin, Arthur, and Dead Mary were the only humans near
the fountain. Some folks quit the place so fast their jugs was left behind.
"I reckon
nobody's going to steal these jars if we don't leave them here too long,"
said
"They will be stole for sure," said Dead
Mary.
"I'll stay and watch them," said Arthur
Stuart.
"Sir and ma'am," said
"When there's nobody around, can I just set here and
pretend to be human?"
"Please yourself," said
It took a while to get
to Dead Mary's house. Down streets until they ran out of streets, and then
along paths between shacks, and finally into swampy land till they came to a
little shack on stilts. Skeeters were thick as smoke in some spots.
"How can you live with all these skeeters?"
asked
"I breathe them in and cough them out," said
Dead Mary.
"How come they call you that?" asked
"Marie la Morte?
Cause I know when someone is sick before he know himself. And I know how the
sickness will end."
"Am I sick?"
"Not yet, no," said the girl.
"What makes you think I can heal your
mother?"
"She will die if
somebody does not help, and the yellow fever, personne who live here knows how
to cure it."
It took
"It's a terrible
thing," said the girl. "Quick hot fever. Then freezing cold. My
mother's eyes turn yellow. She screams with pain in her neck and shoulders and
back. And then when she's not screaming, she looks sad."
"Yellow and
fevery," said
Diseases that made
your nose or bowels run were hard to track down, and Alvin never knew whether
they were serious or something that would just get better if you left it alone
or slept a lot. The stuff that went on inside a living body was just too
complicated, and most of the important things was way too small for
If he was a real healer,
he could have saved his newborn baby when it was born too young and couldn't
breathe. But he just didn't understand what was going on inside the lungs. The
baby was dead before he figured out a single thing.
"I'm not going to
be able to do much good," said
"I touch her
lying on her bed, and I see nothing but she dead of yellow fever," said
Dead Mary. "But I touch you by the fountain, I see my mother living."
"When did you
touch me?" said
"I bump you when
I draw water," she said. "I have to be sneaky. Personne lets me touch
him now, if he sees me."
That was no surprise.
Though
Illness or adultery,
There was a plank leading
from a hummock of dry land to the minuscule porch of the house, and Dead Mary
fair to danced along it.
It stank inside, but
not much worse than the swamp outside. The odor of decay was natural here.
Still, it was worse around the woman's bed. Old woman, Alvin thought at first,
the saddest looking woman he had ever seen. Then realized that she wasn't very
old at all. She was ravaged by worse things than age.
"I'm glad she's
sleeping," said Dead Mary. "Most times the pain does not let her
sleep."
The cause of all this
ruin was impossible for
Until at last he could
get to work on the liver. Livers were mysterious things and all he could do was
try to get the sick parts to look more like the healthy parts. And maybe that
was enough, because soon enough the woman coughed—with strength now, not
feebly—and then sat up. "J'ai soif," she said.
"She's
thirsty," said the girl.
"Marie," the
woman said, and then reached for her with a sob. "Ma Marie d'Espoir!"
He walked to the
doorway, leaving them their privacy. From the position of the sun, he'd been
there an hour. A long time to leave Arthur Stuart alone by the well.
And these skeeters
were bound to suck all the blood out of him and turn him into one big itch
iffen he didn't get out of this place.
He was nearly to the
end of the plank when he felt it tremble with someone else's feet. And then
something hit him from behind and he was on the damp grassy mound with Dead
Mary lying on top of him covering him with kisses.
"Vous avez sauvй
ma mere!" she cried. "You saved her, you saved her, vous кtes un
ange, vous кtes un dieu!"
"Here now, let
up, get off me, I'm a married man," said
The girl got up.
"I'm sorry, but I'm so full of joy."
"Well I'm not
sure I did anything," said
"I mean it,"
said
"I love
you," said the girl. "I love you forever, you good man!"
Back in the plaza,
Arthur Stuart was sitting on top of the four water jars—which he had moved some
twenty yards away from the fountain. Which was a good thing, because there must
have been a hundred people or more jostling around it now.
"Took you long enough," Arthur Stuart
whispered.
"Her mother was real sick," said
"Yeah, well, word
got out that this was the sweetest-tasting water ever served up in Barcy, and
now folks are saying it can heal the sick or Jesus turned the water into wine
or it's a sign of the second coming or the devil was cast out of it and I had
to tell five different people that our water came from the fountain before
it got all hexed or healed or whatever they happen to believe. I was about
to throw dirt into it just to make it convincing."
"So stop talking
and pick up your jars."
Arthur Stuart stood up
and reached for a jar, but then stopped and puzzled over it. "How do I
pick up the second one, while I got the first one on my shoulder?"
"Well, don't you
make it look easy," said Arthur Stuart.
"I can't help it
that I've got the grip and the heft of a blacksmith," said
"I haven't heard you offering to make me no
apprentice blacksmith."
"Because you're an apprentice maker, and not
doing too bad at it."
"Did you heal the woman?"
"Not really. But I healed some of the damage the
disease did."
"Meaning she can run a mile without panting,
right?"
"Where she lives,
it's more like splash a couple of dozen yards. That mud looked like it
could swallow up whole armies and spit them back out as skeeters."
"Well, you done
what you could, and we're done with it," said Arthur Stuart.
They got back to the
house of Squirrel and Moose and poured the water into the cistern. Mixed in
with what they already had, the cleaned water improved the quality only a
little, but that was fine with
Back at the house of
Dead Mary—or Marie d'Espoir—nobody was following
Meanwhile, the
skeeters, engorged with her blood, spread out over the swamp. Some of them
ended up in the city, and each person they bit ended up with a virulent dose of
yellow fever growing in their blood.
3
Fever
SUPPER
THAT EVENING was bedlam, the children
moving in and out of the kitchen in shifts with the normal amount of shoving
and jostling and complaining. It reminded
The food was plain and
poor, but healthy and there was plenty of it. So much, in fact, that both
serving pots had soup left in them. Mama Squirrel poured them back into the big
cauldron by the fire. "I never made but one batch of soup in all the years
we've lived here," she said.
Even the old bread and
the half-eaten scraps from the children's bowls were scraped into the big pot.
"As long as I bring the pot to a long hard boil before serving it again,
there's no harm from adding it back into the soup."
"It's like
life," said Papa Moose, who was scouring dishes at the sink. "Dust to
dust, pot to pot, one big round, it never ends." Then he winked. "I
throw some cayenne peppers in it from time to time, that's what makes it all
edible."
Then the children were
herded upstairs into the dormitories, kissing their parents as they passed.
Papa Moose beckoned
They all lay down on
mats on the floor—a floor well-limed and clean-swept. But not to sleep.
One-hour candles were lighted all around the room, and all the children lay
there, pretending to be asleep while Papa Moose and Mama Squirrel made a
pantomime of tiptoeing out of the room. Naturally,
Papa Moose held to the
banister and half hopped, half slid down the stairs on his good foot.
"It's not as if there were anything worth reading in the world," he
said.
"Though I wish they could read the holy
scriptures," said Mama Squirrel.
"Of course, they might be reading on the
sly," said
"Oh, no," said Papa Moose. "They are strictly
forbidden to do such a thing."
"Papa Moose
showed our ragged little collection of books to all the children and told them
they must never borrow those books and carefully return them as soon as
they're done."
"It's good to
teach children to obey," said
" 'Obedience is
better than sacrifice,' " quoted Papa Moose.
They sat down at the
kitchen table, where Arthur Stuart was already seated, reading a book.
"Since you know
everything there is to know in English," said Arthur Stuart, "I
reckon this is the only way to get one up on you."
They talked for a
while about the children—how they supported them, mostly. They depended a lot
on donations from likeminded persons, but since those were in short supply in
Barcy, it was always nip and tuck, allowing nothing to go to waste. "Use
it up," intoned Papa Moose, "wear it out, make it do or do
without."
"We have one
cow," said Mama Squirrel, "so we only get enough milk for the little
ones, and for a little butter. But even if we had another cow or two, we don't
have any means of feeding them." She shrugged. "Our children are
never noted for being fat."
After a few minutes
the conversation turned to
"I have no
idea," said
"At least you're
not a pawn," said Papa Moose.
"No, I'm the one
she can send jumping around wherever she wants." He said it with a
chuckle, but realized as he spoke that he actually resented it, and more than a
little.
"I suppose she
doesn't tell you everything so you don't go improving on her plan," said
Squirrel. "Moose always thinks he knows better."
"I'm not always
wrong," said Papa Moose.
"Margaret sees my
death down a lot of roads," said
"So instead of
giving you warnings, she asks you to help her," said Squirrel.
"The woman is the
subtlest beast in the garden," said Papa Moose, "now that snakes
can't talk."
"Meaning,"
said Arthur Stuart, looking up from his book, "do you have anything you'd
be willing to tell old
"Isn't that what
I said?"
"There's all
kinds of plots in this city," said Papa Moose. "The older children
eavesdrop for us during the day, as they can, and we have friends who come
calling. So we know about a good number of them. There's a Spanish group trying
to revolt and get Barcy annexed by
"Parties?"
"Them as favor
being part of an independent Canada, and them as want to conquer Haiti, and
them as want to be an independent city-state on the Mizzippy, and them as wish
to restore the royal family to the throne of France, and two different
Bonapartist factions that hate each other worst of all."
"And that don't
even touch the split between Catholics and Huguenots," said Squirrel.
"And between Bretons and Normans and Provencals and Parisians and a weird
little group of Poitevin fanatics."
"That's the
French," said Moose. "They may not know what's right, but they know
everybody else is wrong."
"What about the
Americans?" asked
"That depends on
the street," said Moose. "But you're right, this city has more
English-speakers than any other language. Most of them know they're just
visitors here. The Americans and Yankees and English care about money, mostly.
Make their fortune and head back home."
"The dangerous
plotters are the Cavaliers," said Squirrel. "They're hungry for more
land to put into cotton."
"To be worked by
more and more slaves," said
"And to restore
some glory to a king who can't get his country back," said Squirrel.
"The Cavaliers
are the ones who want to start a fight," said Papa Moose. "They're
the ones who hope that a revolution here would make the King step in to bail
them out—or maybe they're already sponsored by the king so he'd just use them
as an excuse to send in an army. There's rumors of an army gathering in the
Crown Colonies, supposedly to guard the border with the
"And any war
between the
"Does all this
have anything to do with Steve Austin's expedition to
They both hooted with
laughter. "
"He thinks
dark-skinned people are no match for white," said Squirrel. "It's the
kind of thing slaveowners can fool themselves into believing, what with black
folks cowering to them all day."
"So you don't
think
"I think,"
said Papa Moose, "that if they try to invade
"Doesn't sound
like there's much useful for me to do," said
"It kind of
reassures me to have you here," said Squirrel. "Iffen your Peggy sent
you here, stands to reason this is the safest place to be."
Arthur Stuart spoke up
sharp. "You don't know Peggy iffen you think that," he said.
"She don't send
Al, thought
Papa Moose chuckled.
"I sort of stopped listening at 'not nowhere.' I thought Margaret Larner
would've done a better job of learning you good grammar."
"Did you understand me or not?" said Arthur
Stuart.
"Oh, I understood, all right."
"Then my grammar was sufficient to the
task."
At that echo of
Margaret's teaching they all laughed— including, after a moment, Arthur Stuart
himself.
During the day
All the while he used
his makery to heal the house, he used his arms to chop and stack wood and do
other outward tusks—turning the cow out to eat such grass as there was, milking
it, skimming the milk, cheesing some of it, churning the cream into butter. He
had learned to be a useful man, not just a man of one trade. And if, when he
was done milking her, the cow was remarkably healthy with udders that gave far
more milk than normal from eating the same amount of hay, who was to say it was
Only one part of the
household did
Meanwhile, Arthur Stuart
ran such errands for the house as a sharp-witted, trusted slave boy might be
sent on. And as he went he kept his ears open. People said things in front of
slaves. English-speakers especially said things in front of slaves who seemed
to speak only Spanish, and Spanish-speakers in front of English-speaking
slaves. The French talked in front of anybody.
Barcy was an easy town
for a young half-black bilingual spy. Being far more educated and experienced
in great affairs than the children of the house of Moose and Squirrel, Arthur
Stuart was able to recognize the significance of things that would have sailed
right past them.
The tidbits he brought
home about this party or that, rebellions and plots and quarrels and
reconciliations, they added but little to what Papa Moose and Mama Squirrel
already knew about the goings-on in Barcy.
The only information
they might not have had was of a different nature: rumors and gossip about them
and their house. And this was hardly of a nature that he would be happy to bring
home to them.
All their elaborate
efforts to abide by the strict letter of the law had paid off well enough.
Nobody wasted any breath wondering whether their house was an orphanage or a
school for bastard children of mixed races, nor did anyone do more than scoff
at the idea that Mama Squirrel was the natural mother of any of the children,
let alone all of them. Nobody was much exercised about it one way or another.
The law might be filled with provisions to keep black folks ignorant and
chained, but it was only enforced when somebody cared enough to complain, and
nobody did.
Not because anybody
approved, but because they had much darker worries about the house of Moose and
Squirrel. The fact that the miracle water a few days ago had appeared in the
public fountain nearest that house had been duly noted. So had the traffic in
strangers, and nobody was fooled by the fact that it was a boardinghouse—too
many of the visitors came and went in only an hour. "How fast can a body
sleep, anyway?" said one of the skeptics. "They're spies, that's what
they are."
But spies for whom?
Some were close to the target, guessing that they were abolitionists or Quakers
or New England Puritans, here to subvert the Proper Order of Man, as slavery
was euphemistically called in pulpits throughout the slave lands. Others had
them as spies for the King or for the Lord Protector or even, in the most
fanciful version, for the evil Reds of Lolla-Wossiky across the fog-covered
river. It didn't help that Papa Moose was crippled. His strange
dipping-and-rolling walk made him all the more suspicious in their eyes.
There were more than a
few who believed like gospel the story that Moose and Squirrel trained their
houseful of children as pickpockets and cutpurses, sneakthieves and night-burglars.
They were full of talk about how there was coin and silverware and jewelry and
strange golden artifacts hidden all in the walls and crawlspaces of the house,
or under the privy, or even buried in the ground, though it would take six
kinds of fool to try to bury anything in Barcy, the land being so low and wet
that anything buried in it was likely to drift away in underground currents or
bob to the surface like the corpse of a drowned man.
Most of the stories,
though, were darker still—tales of children being taken into the house for dark
rites that required the eyes or tongues or hearts or private parts of little
children, the younger the better, and black only when white wasn't available.
With such vile sacrifices they conjured up the devil, or the gods of the
Mexica, or African gods, or ancient hobgoblins of European myth. They sent
succubi and incubi abroad in Barcy—as if it took magic to make folks in Barcy
get humpty thoughts. They cursed any citizens of Barcy as interfered with
anyone from that house, so those wandering children was best left alone—lessen
you wanted your soup to always boil over, or a plague of flies or skeeters, or
some sickness to fall upon you, or your cow to die, or your house to sink into
the ground as happened from time to time.
Most folks didn't
quite believe these tales, Arthur Stuart guessed, and them as did believe was
too scared to do anything about it, not by themselves, not in a way that their
identity might be discovered and vengeance taken. Still, it was a dangerous situation,
and even though Mama Squirrel joked about some of the rumors, Arthur Stuart
reckoned they didn't have any idea of how important their house was in the dark
mythology of Nueva Barcelona.
It was a sure thing they
never heard such talk directly. While he was still introducing himself as being
the servant of a man staying at the house of Moose and Squirrel, people would
be real cooperative but say nothing in his presence about that house. That was
no help, so he soon started telling folks the equally true story that he was
the servant of an American trader who came down the Mizzippy last week, and
then it didn't take much to get folks talking about strange things in Barcy, or
dangers to avoid. And it wasn't just slave chat. White folks told all the same
stories of Moose and Squirrel.
"Don't you think
it's dangerous?" Arthur Stuart asked
"I expect they
do, but as with many warnings and ill portents, they get used to them and stop
taking them serious till all of a sudden it's too late," said
"So you see it my
way. They gotta get out of here," said Arthur Stuart.
"Oh, sure,"
said
Arthur was annoyed
that
"I know,"
said
"Three things," said Arthur Stuart.
"I'm listening."
"First. It's about time you realized what a
brilliant asset I am on this trip."
"Shiny as a gallstone," said
"Second. There's
no chance this is what Peggy sent you for. Because if that was what she
had in mind, she would've told you. And then you could have told them that
she'd given warning, and they'd do whatever it took. As it is, they're just
gonna fight you every step of the way, since they don't think you and me is so
almighty smart that we can see how things are in Barcy better than they
can."
"Good thing,
'cause I got no plan to eat less."
"Well, it'll
still take you ten years to make up for how much I've wasted on you up to now
when you wasn't worth a hair on a pig's butt."
"So this ain't
what Peggy wants us to do," said Arthur Stuart, "and we can be pretty
sure Papa Moose and Mama Squirrel don't want us to do it. So the way I see it,
that makes it just about our number one priority."
"I'll talk to them."
"That always works."
"It's a start."
"And then you'll
sing to them? 'Cause that might do more toward getting them to move out."
"So what's the
third thing?" asked
Arthur had to think
for a second. Oh, yes. He wanted to ask
And besides, there was something else.
Wasn't Arthur supposed to be a prentice maker?
"Just my suggestion about singing to them,"
said Arthur.
"For now,"
said Arthur Stuart. "I already used up all my brains thinking up how you
ought to talk to Papa Moose and Mama Squirrel."
But there wasn't a
chance to talk to Moose and Squirrel about it, because next morning five of the
children were sick, screaming with pain, shaking with chills, burning up with
fever. By nightfall there were six more, and the first ones had yellow eyes.
There wasn't any
school now. The schoolroom became the sick ward, the benches all stacked up
against the wall. None of the other children were allowed into the room.
Instead they were sent outside to play among the skeeters. They could still
hear the screaming out there. They could hear it in their minds even when
nobody was making a sound.
Meanwhile, Papa Moose
and Mama Squirrel were up and down two flights of stairs with water, poultices,
salves, and teas. A couple of the herbs in the tea seemed to be a little help,
and of course the water helped keep the fever down. But
Of course he and
Arthur Stuart helped—chasing up and down stairs with things so Papa Moose
didn't have to, running errands in town, keeping food in the house, tending the
fire, hauling the chamber pots to and from the sickroom. Moose and Squirrel
didn't allow them to come inside, though, for fear of contagion.
That didn't stop
He also studied the
sick children, trying to find out what caused the disease. He could see the
tiny disease-fighting creatures in their blood, but he couldn't see what they
were hunting down the way he could with gangrene or some other sicknesses. So
he couldn't find any way to help them get rid of the cause of the disease.
Still, he could see that it helped to keep the fever down and the seepage of
blood under control. With
And in the healthy children,
whom he examined one by one, he found that most of them were already producing
the disease-fighters, and he took such preventive action as he could.
What interested him,
though, was the handful of children who did not get sick. Were they stronger?
Luckier? What did they have in common?
Over the days of
sickness in the house,
Meanwhile, it was
Arthur Stuart who kept his eyes open outside the house. The yellow fever was
beginning to spread through the town, but the early cases all showed up in the
area around the fountain. It was inevitable that people began to say that the
"miracle water" had brought the fever back to Barcy. Many who still
had any of it threw it out. But others were just as convinced it was the only
cure, which God had sent in advance, knowing that the yellow fever was coming
to smite the wicked.
Arthur Stuart was
glad, for the first time he could remember, that white folks around here didn't
pay all that much attention to a half-black young man carrying water with his master.
So far nobody had linked him or Alvin to the miracle water. But that didn't
mean somebody might not remember how he sat there in the plaza, waiting for his
master to come back from some Swamptown shack where Dead Mary had said her
mother might have yellow fever. No, said she did have it. The first
victim of this epidemic.
And it occurred to
Arthur that however much danger the house of Moose and Squirrel might be in,
Dead Mary would face much worse, and much quicker, now that the yellow fever
was back.
When this thought came
to him he was in the market down in the old town, choosing whatever was cheap
but still edible. He debated with himself for a moment—what was more urgent, to
get food back to
What would
Well, that made it
easy. He always went for the dramatic over the sensible—or rather, he chose
whatever would cause him the most inconvenience and danger.
Arthur had already
bought a sack of yams, and not a light one. It not only got heavier as he
walked, but it made it so he couldn't run—nothing was more sure to get him
stopped than to be a half-black boy running with a sack of something on his
buck. Everybody knew that slaves on their masters' business always moved about
as slow as they could get away with, without somebody pronouncing them dead. So
when a boy of color was running, it was sure to be a crime in progress.
So he walked, but
quickly, and followed, as best he could find it, the path he'd seen Alvin's and
Dead Mary's heartfires trace through the swamps. He knew he didn't see
heartfires anywhere near as well as
Now it took a bit of
splashing around and slapping at skeeters before he finally got to the plank
bridge leading to Dead Mary's house. He stood this side of the plank and
clapped his hands. "Hello the house!" he called. "Company!"
Which was wrong, of course—he was supposed to call out, "Alvin Smith's
servant here!" Or, if the world had not been so ugly, "Alvin Smith's
brother-in-law!" Then again, he didn't know if
And they didn't. Because no one was home.
Or if they were, they weren't answering.
He walked swiftly
across the bridge and pushed open the door, half fearing that he might find
them dead, murdered by fearful people. But he knew that couldn't be so—iffen
some mob blamed Dead Mary for the plague and wanted to kill her for it, they'd
have burned down the house around them.
The house was empty.
Cleaned out, too—or else they didn't own a blame thing. Most likely they had
realized their peril and fled. He didn't need to tell them how Dead Mary
was regarded in this town.
He shouldered his sack
of yams and retraced his route back into the city. Staying away from crowded streets
and especially from the plaza with the public fountain, he made his way back to
the house of Moose and Squirrel, scratching at skeeter bites the whole way.
He emptied the sack of
yams into the bin in the kitchen, an action which Alvin, who was stirring the
soup, greeted with a raised eyebrow. Which made Arthur Stuart feel guilty about
how few of his errands he had finished.
"What?"
asked Arthur Stuart. "It's not like I had a lot of money, and besides, I
got worried about Dead Mary and her mother, and so I went out to check on
them."
"I expect they were gone," said
"You expect right," said Arthur Stuart.
"But that's not why I raised my eyebrow at
you."
"Too lazy to wave?"
"You don't just dump out a sack of yams. They
need washing. Or peeling."
"Why should I,
when you can just talk the dirt right off the skins, or the skins right off the
yams?"
"Because knacks
weren't given to us for frivolous purposes."
"Oh, like the
time you made me work half a summer making a dugout canoe when you could have made
a canoe out of it in five minutes."
"It was good for
you."
"It was a waste
of my time," said Arthur Stuart. "And it nearly got you shot by that
bear hunter."
"Old Davy
Crockett? I ended up kind of liking that fellow."
"Peeling the yams
wouldn't stop you from healing those kids upstairs the way you been
doing."
" 'Cause it's easy for you. You do it like
breathing."
"And when you run up a hill, how easy is it to
breathe?"
"Maybe I'd know what healing was like if you ever
tried to teach me."
"You only just started hotting up metal."
"So I'm ready for
the next step. You're working so hard on healing those children, I know you
are. So tell me, show me what to do."
"How small?"
"Look at the thinnest, smallest hair on your
arm," said
Arthur Stuart looked.
"That hair is like a feather."
Arthur Stuart tried to
get his rudimentary doodlebug inside that hair, to get the feel of it like he got
the feel of iron. He could almost do it. He couldn't see the featherness of it,
but he could sense that it wasn't smooth. That was something.
"And each strand
of that feather is made of lots of tiny bits. Your whole body is made of tiny
pieces, and each one of them is alive, and there's stuff going on inside those
pieces. Stuff I don't understand yet. But I get a sense of how those pieces are
supposed to work, and I kind of... you know..."
"I know," said Arthur Stuart. "You tell
them how you want them to be."
"Or ... sort of show them."
"I can't see that small," said Arthur
Stuart.
"Bones are
easier," said
Immediately Arthur Stuart
thought of Papa Moose's foot. Was that a problem with bones? Was
"But the yellow
fever," said
Arthur Stuart grinned. "So what about yams? Think
I could get the dirt off yams?"
"Sure. By scrubbing."
"What about taking off the skins?"
"By peeling only, my friend."
"Because it's good for me," said Arthur
Stuart, and not happily.
"Because if you do it any other way, I'll just put
the skins and dirt right back on them."
Arthur Stuart had no
answer to that. He sat down and held a yam in his hand. "All right, which
is it? Peel or wash? Cause I ain't doing both."
"You asking
me?" said
"So we'll roast them," said Arthur Stuart.
"Suits me," said
And it occurred to
Arthur Stuart that
"So I'll wash
them," he said.
"And
meanwhile," said
"Who's that?"
"You," said
"I'm not sick," said Arthur Stuart.
"Yes you are," said
Arthur Stuart thought
about that for a minute. He even tried to see inside his own body but it was
all just a confused mass of strange textures to him. "Is my body going to
win?"
"Who do you think
I am, Dead Mary?"
So it was on to
snapping beans and scrubbing yams, while Arthur Stuart wondered what had made
him sick. Somebody cursed him? He walked into a house that had fever in it a
week ago? Dead Mary touched him? Yams?
Where was Dead
Mary? Hiding in the swamp? Traveling to some safe, familiar place? Or skulking
somewhere, hoping not to get killed by those who thought her knack caused the
diseases that she warned about?
Or was she already
dead? Her body burnt somewhere? Her mother too? Caught by superstitious fools
who blamed them for something they had no part in causing?
Every terrible thing
in the world was caused by a whole combination of things. But everybody wanted
to narrow it down to one cause—and not even the real one. Much better to have
one cause—one person to punish. Then the unbearable could be borne.
So why is it, Arthur
Stuart wondered, that Alvin and Margaret and I and so many other decent people
manage to bear the unbearable without having to punish anyone at all?
Though come to think
of it,
What about me, then? I
talk big, I have a mouth like no half-black boy ought to have, my birth being
so shameful, the rape of a slave woman by her master. Haven't I had unbearable
things happen? My mother died after carrying me to freedom, my adopted mother
was murdered by the catchers who came to take me back to my owner. People tried
to bar me from school even in the north. Being nothing but a third-rate
prentice maker in the shadow of the greatest maker seen in this world in many
lifetimes. So much that I've lost, including any hope of a normal life. Who'll
marry me? How will I live when I'm not
Yet I never want to
lash out and punish anybody, except with words, and even then I always pretend
that it's a joke so nobody gets mad.
Maybe that's how God
will get out of it, when he gathers us at his judgment seat and tries to
explain why he let so many awful things go on. Maybe he'll say, "Can't you
take a joke?"
More likely, though,
he'll just tell the truth. "I didn't do it," he'll say. "I'm
just the one who has to clean up your mess." Like a servant. Nobody ever
says, How can we make things easier on God? No. We just make messes and expect
he'll come around later and clean it all up.
That night in bed,
Arthur Stuart sent out his doodlebug. He searched for Papa Moose's heartfire
and found him easily enough, sleeping lightly while Mama Squirrel kept watch
over the children.
Arthur Stuart wasn't
used to examining people's bodies, and he had trouble keeping his doodlebug
inside the boundaries. But he began to get the knack of it, and soon found the
club foot. The bone was clearly different from the other tissues—and the bones
were a mess, broken into dozens of pieces. No wonder his foot was so crippled.
He might have begun to
try to put the pieces back together, but it wasn't like looking at them with
his eyes. He couldn't grasp the whole shape of each bone fragment. Besides, he
didn't know what the bones in a normal foot were supposed to look like.
He found Papa Moose's
other foot and almost groaned aloud at his own stupidity. The good foot had
just as many bones as the bad one. The club foot wasn't the way it was because
the bones were broken. And when Arthur went back and forth between them, comparing
the bones, he realized that because Papa Moose's foot had been twisted up his
whole life, none of the bones were the right shape any more to fit together
like a normal foot.
So it wouldn't be a
matter of just getting the bones back into place. Each one would have to be
reshaped. And no doubt the muscles and ligaments and tendons would all be out
of place, too, and the wrong size. And those tissues were very hard to tell
apart. It was exhausting work just trying to make sense of them. He fell asleep
before he understood much of anything.
4
La Tia
The
rumor mill went on. The yellow fever only
added to it—who's sick, who's dead, who fled the city to live on some friend's
plantation until the plague passed.
The most important
story, though, was no rumor. The army that the King had been assembling was
suddenly ordered back home. Apparently the King's generals feared the yellow
fever more than they feared the military might of
Which might have been
a mistake. The moment the threat of invasion disappeared, the Spanish
authorities in Nueva Barcelona began arresting Cavalier agents. Apparently the
Spanish had been aware of the plots all along—they heard the same rumors as
everyone else—and had only been biding their time before striking.
So it wasn't just the
yellow fever that was decimating the English-speaking population of Nueva
Barcelona. Plenty of Americans and Yankees and Englishmen were taking ship out
of the city—Americans in steamboats up the river. Yankees and Englishmen in
clippers and coastal traders heading out to sea, bound for
Cavaliers weren't
finding it any easier than the French. The Pontchartrain ferry and all the
other passages out of the city were being watched, and those who carried royal
passports from the Crown Colonies were forbidden to leave. Since the Cavaliers
were the largest single English-speaking group, this left a lot of frightened
people trapped in Nueva Barcelona as the yellow fever made its insidious way
through the population.
Wealthy Spanish
citizens headed for
The result was a city
full of fear and anger.
"Still here in
Barcy," said
"I thought you
and your expedition would be long gone."
"We almost made
it before they closed the ports," said
Cuss the King? As if
"Well, the fever
will pass," said
"We don't have to
wait for that," said
"I reckon that
gave recruitment a big boost."
"You bet,"
said
"Well, good luck
to you."
"Seeing you in
the market here, I got to say, I'd feel a lot better about this expedition
iffen you were along."
So you can find a
chance to stab me in the back and get even for my humiliating you? "I'm no
soldier," said
"I been thinking about you," said
Oh, I'm sure of that.
"I think an army as had you on their side would
have victory in the bag."
"There's an awful
lot of bloodthirsty Mexica, and only one of me. And keep in mind I'm not much
of a shot."
"You know what
I'm talking about. What if all the Mexica weapons went soft or flat-out
disappeared, as once happened with my lucky knife?"
"I'd say that was
a miracle, caused by an evil god who wanted to see slavery expanded into
Mexican lands."
"You knew
that."
"Well, there's
folks who are just agin slavery and then there's abolitionists. Sometimes you
can offer a man a good bit of gold and he don't mind so much how many slaves
another fellow owns."
"That would be
someone else," said
"They're a terrible people," said
"And that's supposed to make me want to go fight
them?"
"A man don't shrink from a fight."
"This man does," said
"The Mexica won't
stand up to men as knows how to shoot. On top of that, we're bound to have
thousands of reds from other tribes join with us to overthrow the Mexica.
They're tired of having their men sacrificed."
"But you'd restore slavery. They didn't like that
either."
"No, we wouldn't enslave the reds."
"There's lots of black former slaves in
"But they're slaves by nature."
"Come on now, this is for kids in an
orphanage," said
"I know who it's for," said the farmer,
"and the price of melons today is ten cents each."
"What, it took so much more work to raise these?
They plated with gold inside?"
"Take it or leave it."
"Nobody helpless in that house," murmured
the farmer.
"I said don't turn your back on me,"
"I'm facing you
now," said
"You don't want me as your enemy," said
"That's true," said
"Too late for that," said
That was probably a
mistake, he thought. But then, it was a mistake for
Arthur Stuart woke up
in the middle of the night with his bowels in a state. It felt sloshy, so it
wasn't something that could be relieved by the soundless passing of gas and
then pretending to be asleep if
It was about a
miserable half-hour in there, but each time he thought he was done, he'd start
to get up and his bowels would slosh again and he'd be back down on the seat,
groaning his way through another session. Each time of course, thinking he was
through, he'd wipe himself, so by the end he felt like his backside was as raw
as pounded flank steak. At least the cows are lucky enough to be dead before
they get turned into raw meat, he thought.
Finally he was able to
get up without hearing more sloshing or feeling more pressure, though that was
no guarantee he wouldn't reach the top of the three flights of stairs and have
to go clomping back down. He worried, of course, that maybe this had something
to do with yellow fever, that
Though when he thought
about it, he reckoned it probably had more to do with the street vendor who
sold him a rolled pie this afternoon that might not have been cooked as much as
it ought.
He flung open the
privy door and stepped outside.
Someone tugged at his
nightshirt. He yelped and jumped away.
"Don't be
afraid!" said Dead Mary. "I'm not a ghost! I know Africans are afraid
of ghosts."
"I'm afraid of
people grabbing at my nightshirt when I come out of the privy in the middle of
the night," said Arthur Stuart. "What are you doing here?"
"You're sick," she said.
"No joke," he agreed.
"But you will not die this time," she said.
"And just when I was beginning to wish I
could."
"So many people are going to die. And so many of
them blame me."
"I know," said Arthur Stuart. "I went out
to warn you, but you and your ma were gone."
"I saw you go
there and I thought, this boy is coming to give warning. So tonight I think,
maybe you're the one who can give us some food. We're very hungry."
"Sure, come on in
the house," said Arthur Stuart.
"No no," she
said. "It's a strange house. Very dangerous."
Arthur Stuart made a
disgusted face at her. "Yeah, so the stories they tell about you are
lies, but the stories they tell about this house are all true, is that
it?"
"The stories they
tell about me are half true," said Dead Mary. "And if the
stories about this house are half true, I won't go in, no."
"This house has
no danger for you, at least not from the folks that live there," said
Arthur Stuart. "And now I've been standing outside the privy this long,
I'm beginning to notice how bad it stinks here. So get your ma and come on
inside where the air is breathable. And make it quick or I'll be out here in
the privy again and then who's going to feed you?"
Dead Mary considered
for a moment, then picked up her skirts and scampered off into the wooded
darkness near the back of the property. Arthur Stuart took the opportunity to
move farther away from the privy and closer to the kitchen.
A few minutes later,
he had a candle lighted and Dead Mary and her mother were gobbling slightly
stale bread and bland cheese and washing it down with tepid water. Didn't
matter how it tasted, though. They were swallowing it down so fast they
probably couldn't tell bread from cheese.
"How long has it
been since you last ate?" said Arthur Stuart.
"Since we
hid," said Dead Mary. "Didn't have no food in the house though, or we
would have took it."
"All the time
flies bite me," said her mother. "I got no blood now."
She did have a few welts
from skeeter bites, now that Arthur Stuart looked at her. "How you
feeling?" he asked her.
"Very
hungry," she said. "But not sick, me. That all done. Your
master, he make me well."
"He's not my
master, he's my brother-in-law."
Dead Mary looked at
him sideways. "So
"I'm adopted," said Arthur Stuart.
"So you're free?"
"I'm no man's
slave," said Arthur Stuart. "But it's not exactly the same as being
free, not when everybody says, You're too young to do this and you're too young
to do that and you're too black to go here and you're too inexperienced to go
there."
"I'm not black," said Dead Mary, "but I
rather be a slave than what I am."
"Being French ain't so bad," said Arthur
Stuart.
"I mean one who sees who is sick."
"I know,"
said Arthur Stuart. "I was joking. Course, like
"This
"My brother-in-law," said Arthur Stuart.
"Non, non," said the mother. "How he
make me so better?"
Suddenly Arthur was
suspicious. They come in the middle of the night and ask questions about
"I expect you can
ask him yourself in the morning."
"Got to be gone
by morning," said Dead Mary. "Before light. People watch this house.
They see us, they follow us, they kill us. Hang us for witches, like in
"They haven't
done that in
"Your
As if she had read his
desire, or perhaps because she thought her mother had been too obvious, Dead
Mary said, "We go now."
"Inmediatement," echoed her mother.
"Thank you for the food," said Dead Mary.
Even as she was
thanking him, her mother was putting a couple more baguettes into her apron.
Arthur would have stopped her—that was supposed to be part of breakfast in the
morning—but he thought of them out in the swamps for days with nothing to eat
and little to drink and he held his tongue. He'd go fetch more baguettes in the
morning.
He followed them out the door.
"Non," said the mother.
"You shouldn't go with us," said Dead Mary.
"I'm not,"
said Arthur Stuart. "I got to go sit in the privy again. So you best move
fast, cause I don't want the ensuing odor to offend your delicate
sensibilities."
"What?" said Dead Mary.
"I'm gonna let fly in the privy right quick,
ma'am, so hightail it if you value your nose."
They hightailed it, and Arthur Stuart went back to
groaning over the privy pot.
It began with a few
stones thrown against the house late the next night, and a muffled shout that
no one inside understood.
Next morning, a group
of men marched back and forth in front of the house carrying a coffin, calling
out, "Why ain't nobody sick in there!"
Since Papa Moose and
Mama Squirrel were still nursing three children who had been seized by the
fever despite
It wasn't because
No longer did he
pretend to run errands or do chores. The baguettes Arthur Stuart had shared
with Dead Mary and her mother were the last he bought; and when he slept it was
because he could stay awake no longer. He dozed fitfully, waking from
nightmares in which children died under his hands. And the worst nightmare of
all, a vision of Dead Mary's mother filled with invisible disease, walking
about giving people the yellow fever just by bumping into them or speaking to
them or whispering in their ear. Tousling the head of a child, she'd move on
and the child would drop dead behind her. And each dead person would turn to
Then he'd wake up and
search out more heartfires dimmed by disease and try to repair their ravaged
bodies.
It never occurred to
him not to reach first for those nearest to where he was at the moment. But the
result was that deaths from the fever increased in direct relationship to one's
distance from the orphanage. It was as if God had put a blessing on the place
that spilled over to neighboring houses.
Or, as the marchers
outside the house were broadly hinting, it was as if the devil was protecting
his own.
That night there were
more stones, and marchers with torches, and drunks who threw bottles that
crashed. Children woke up and cried, and Papa Moose and Mama Squirrel led them
into the back rooms of the house.
Still
Arthur Stuart dared
not interrupt his work—or wake him, if by chance he was asleep. He knew that
somehow
Arthur had no power to
heal anyone. But he had learned some makering, and thought now to use it to
protect the house. It was something Squirrel said that triggered his action:
"What I'm a-feared of are the torches. What if they try to burn us
out?"
So he reached out to
the torch-bearing men and tried to get a sense of the fire. He had worked in
metal before, but little else. Wood and cloth were organic and hard to get
into, hard for him to feel and know. But soon he found that what was burning
was the oil the torches had been soaked in, and that was a fluid that made more
sense to his half-blind groping doodlebug.
He didn't know how
fire worked, so he couldn't stop the burning. But he could dissipate the fluid,
turn it into gas the way he had turned metal into liquid. And when he had
vaporized it, the torch would soon go out.
One by one, the
torches nearest the house began to go dark.
It wasn't until Papa
Moose said, "What's happening? God help us, why are the torches going
out?" that Arthur Stuart realized that he might be doing something wrong.
There was fear in Papa
Moose's voice. "The nearest torches are going out."
Arthur Stuart opened
his eyes and looked. Me had blacked out about a dozen of the torches. But now
he saw that the remaining torchbearers had backed away from the house, and the
street was now littered with the discarded sticks, scattered about like the
bones of some long-dead creature.
"If they ever
wanted proof that this house was a cursy place, this was it," said Mama
Squirrel. "Whoever came near, his torch went out."
Arthur Stuart was sick
at heart. He was about to confess what he had done when the crowd began to move
away.
"Safe for
tonight," said Papa Moose. "But they'll be back, and more of them,
what with one more miracle to report."
"Arthur
Stuart," said Mama Squirrel. "You don't think
"No ma'am,"
said Arthur Stuart.
"Let's get the
children back to bed, Mama Squirrel," said Papa Moose. "They'll be
glad to know the mob is gone."
Only after they left
the room did Arthur Stuart see through the window the dark shape of one man
lingering in the street, not particularly watching the house, but not leaving
it, either. From the way the man moved, shambling like a bear, with pent-up
energy, he thought he recognized him. Someone he had met recently. Someone on
the riverboat. Abe Lincoln? Coz?
Tentatively he reached
out to the heartfire. Not being deft, like
It was hard to pull
himself back out of the fiery heart of the man, but he knew now who it was, for
in the midst of all the turmoil, one thing stood out—a constant awareness of
the knife at his hip, as if it were the man's best and truest hand, the tool
that he relied on before all others. Jim Bowie, without doubt.
With all that malice
in him, there was no doubt Jim Bowie was there for mischief. Arthur Stuart
couldn't help but wonder if he still harbored his old grudge from the river.
But then, why didn't he remember his fear, as well?
Maybe he needed a
reminder. Arthur Stuart couldn't make the knife disappear as
What Arthur Stuart
couldn't figure out was why, as he ran,
"Healer
man!"
It was a commanding
voice, and a strange one. Whoever called him in his sleep, it was not a voice
that he had heard before. But it seemed to know him, to speak out of the center
of his own heartfire.
"Wake up,
sleeping man!"
"Wake up, man who
keeps a golden plow in the chimney!"
In a moment he was out
of bed, across the long room, standing with his hand pressed against the brick.
The golden plow was still there. But someone knew about it.
Or no. That must have
been a dream. He had fallen asleep after healing a child four streets over. The
mother had also been dying, and he meant to heal her afterward. Had he done it,
before sleep took him?
He cast about wildly,
then with more focus, searching. There was the child, a boy of perhaps five
years. But where the mother should have been, nothing. His body had failed him.
The child was alive, but an orphan now. Sick guilt stabbed at him.
"Take your gold
out of the chimney, healer man, and come down to talk to me!"
This time it could not
be a dream. So strong was the voice that he obeyed almost as if it had been his
own idea. In a moment, though, he knew that it was not.
Yet there was no
reason not to obey. Someone knew about the golden plow, and so it was not
hidden anymore. Time to get it out of the chimney and carry it with him again
in his poke.
It took time and most
of his concentration, tired as he was, grieved and guilty as he felt, to get
the bricks apart and soften the golden plow to let it fall into his hand. It
quivered there, vibrant as always, alert, yet seeming to want nothing. It made
his hand tremble as he pulled it through the gap in the bricks and brought it
close to him. His heart warmed when the plow came near. Whether it was the plow
that caused it, or the emotion of greeting a friend and traveling companion, he
didn't know.
"Come down to me,
healer man."
Who are you? he asked
silently. But there was no answer. Whoever called him out of his own heartfire
either could not hear his thoughts or did not wish to answer him.
"Come down and
break bread with me."
Bread. Something about
bread. It meant more than mere eating. She wanted more from him than to share a
meal.
She. Whoever called
him was a woman. How did he know?
With his plow in its
poke, along with his few other belongings,
"
"Where are you going?" asked Papa Moose.
"Someone's calling me," he said. "Look
after Arthur Stuart till I come back."
"Whoever's
calling you," said Squirrel, "are you sure it's not a trap? Last
night they came with torches. Some strange power put the torches out as they
came near the house, and now you can be sure the house is watched. They'd love
to lure us out."
"She's calling me
as a healer," said
Arthur Stuart appeared
in the kitchen door. "It's the woman you healed in the swamp," he
said. "She came two nights ago, with Dead Mary. I gave them bread, and
they asked if you had bought it."
"There it
is," said Squirrel. "Terrible power, what Dead Mary has."
"Knowing something
may be a terrible burden to bear, but it holds no danger to them as aren't
afraid of truth. And it's not Dead Mary calling me."
"What about her mother?" asked Arthur
Stuart.
"I don't think so," said
"Do you think it
couldn't be no come-hither, then?" asked Squirrel. "Do you think that
you're so powerful such things have no hold on you?"
"A
come-hither," said
"So you mustn't
go," said Arthur Stuart. "Good people don't use such spells to draw a
man. Or to make the awful sacrifices such a spell must take."
"I suspect that
all it took was the burning of some bread," said
"Isn't that how
everyone feels, when they've had a come-hither set on them?" asked Papa
Moose. "Don't they all think up good reasons for obeying the
summons?"
"Maybe so," said Alvin, "but I'm
going."
He was out the door.
Arthur Stuart dogged his heels.
"Go back inside, Arthur Stuart."
"No sir,"
said Arthur. "If you're going to walk into a trap, I'm going to see it, so
I can tell the story to folks later, about how even the most powerful man on
earth can be dumb as a brick sometimes."
"She needs me," said
"Like the devil needs the souls of sinners,"
said Arthur Stuart.
"She's not commanding me," said
"Don't you see,
that's how a compulsion would feel to a good man? When people need you, you
come, so when someone wants you to come, they make you think you're
needed."
"So you know it
isn't safe."
"I know that I'm
going," said
He strode on, out into
the deserted early-morning street, as Arthur Stuart trotted at his side.
"I was the one
put them torches out," said Arthur Stuart. "No doubt," said
Either one, if it gets
strong enough, will make them put the house to the torch. You probably did no
more than tip them to the side of fear. Put it out of your mind."
"You have to
sleep," said Arthur Stuart, "so put your own troubles out of your mind,
too."
"Don't talk to me
like you understand my sins."
"Don't talk to me
like you know what I do and do not understand."
"I ain't talking
about nothing. I told you not to come with me."
"It was Jim Bowie
last night," said Arthur Stuart. "Last man who stayed behind when the
mob run off."
"He invited me to
join their expedition. Told me if I wasn't their friend, I was their foe."
"So he's maybe
goading on the mob, to try to force you into joining?"
"A man like that
thinks that fear can win loyalty." "Plenty of masters with a lash who
can testify it works." "Don't win loyalty, just obedience, and only
while the lash is in the room."
They were moving out
of the city of painted buildings and into a different New Orleans, the faded
houses and shacks of the persecuted French, and then beyond them into the huts
of the free blacks and masterless slaves—a world of cheap and desperate whores,
of men who could be hired to kill for a piece of eight, and of practitioners of
dark African magics that put bits of living bodies into flames in order to
command nature to break her own laws.
The black folks' way
was as different from the knacks of white folks as was the greensong of the
reds.
"Do you feel
it?" he asked Arthur Stuart. "The power around you?"
"I smell the
stink," said the boy. "Like folks here just spill their privy pots
onto the ground."
"The soil wagons don't come here," said
"Don't feel no power, me," said Arthur
Stuart.
"And yet you're talking like the French of this
place. 'Don't feel no power ... me?' "
"That don't mean
nothing, you know I pick up what I hear."
"You're hearing
them, then. All around you."
"This be
"French slaves
run away as sure as Spanish ones, or slaves of Cavaliers."
Now black children
were coming out of the houses, their mothers after them, tired women with sad
eyes. And men who looked dangerous, they began to follow like a parade. Until
they came to a woman sitting by a cookfire. Not a fat woman, but not a thin
one, either. Voluptuous as the earth, that's what she was, but when she looked
up from the fire she smiled at
"You come to see
La Tia," she said.
A smaller woman,
French by the look of her, came forward from behind the fire. "This be the
Queen," she said. "You bow now."
"On your knees,
white man, you want to live," said the French woman sharply.
"Hush now,
Michele," said La Tia. "I don't want no kneeling from this man. I
want him to do us a miracle, he don't have to kneel to me. He come when I call
him."
"Everybody have
to come, you call them," said Michele.
"Not this
one," said La Tia. "He come, but I don't make him. All I do is make
him hear me. This one choose to come."
"What do you want?" asked
"They gonna be burning here in Barcy," said the
woman.
"You know that for sure?" asked
"I hear that. Slaves listen, slaves talk.
You know. Like in Camelot."
"I had your skin
on that bread," she said. "Most gals like me, they don't see it, so
small that skin. But I see it. I got you then. While the fire burn, I got
whatever you have in there. I see your treasure."
She could see more in
his heartfire than
"Don't you fret,
mi hijo," she said. "I ain't gonna tell. And no, I don't mean that
thing you got in your poke. That ain't your treasure. That belongs to its own
self. Your treasure is in a woman's womb, far away and safe."
To hear it in words
like that, from a stranger, stabbed him in the heart. It brought tears to his
eyes, and a weakness, almost a giddiness to his head. Without thinking, he sank
to his knees. That was his treasure. Alt the lives he had failed to save in
Barcy, they were that one life, the child who had died those years ago. And his
redemption, his only hope, his—yes, his treasure—it was the new child that was
so far away, and beyond his reach, in someone else's charge.
"Get up,"
whispered Arthur Stuart. "Don't kneel to her."
"He don't kneel
to me," said La Tia. "He kneel to his love, to the saint of love. Not
Lord Valentine, no, not him. The saint of a father's love,
"You got the
power I need," said La Tia. "Maria de los Muertos, she tell
me. You make her mother whole, she."
"You're not sick," said
"The whole of
Barcy, she be sick," said La Tia. "You live in a house about
to die from that sick. This
"What do you think I can do? I got no
control over the mob."
"You know what I want, you."
"I don't."
"You maybe don't know
you know, but you got them words burnt in your heart by your mama all them
years ago, when you little, you. 'Let my people go.' "
"I'm not Pharaoh and this ain't
"Is too
"What do you want, a plague of cockroaches? Barcy
already got that, and nobody cares."
"I want you to part the sea and let us across on
dry land in the dark of night."
"Where you send
them slaves you set free from the riverboat?"
That flat out stunned
"I didn't tell
nobody," said Arthur. "You think I'm crazy?"
"You think I need
somebody tell me?" said La Tia. "I saw it inside you, all on fire,
you. Take us across the river."
"But you ain't
talking about no
"And all the
slaves as want to go," said La Tia. "In the fog of night. You make
the fog come into Barcy from off the river. You let us all gather in the fog,
you take us across the river. You got red friends, you take us safe to the
other side."
"I can't do it.
You think I can hold back the whole Mizzippy? What do you think I am?"
"I think you a
man, he want to know why he alive," said La Tia. "He want to know
what his power be for. Now La Tia tell you, and you don't want to know after
all!"
"I'm not
Moses," said
"You want to sec
a burning bush?" asked La Tia.
"No!" said
"Most of all by you," said La Tia.
They stood there in silence for a moment.
Arthur Stuart spoke up. "Usted es tia de
quien?"
"I don't speak no
Spanish, boy," said La Tia. "They call me La Tia cause them Spanish
people can't say my Ibo name."
"We don't say her
name neither," said the smaller woman. "She be our Queen, and she
say, Let my people go, so you do it, you."
"Hush,
child," said La Tia. "You don't tell a man like this what to do. He
already want to do it. So we help him find his courage. We tell him, go to the
dock and there he find him hope this morning. There he find a brother like
Moses did, make him brave, give him trouble."
"Oh good,"
said
"Tonight at first
dark, there be fog," said La Tia. "You make fog, everybody know to
come."
"Come
where?" said
"We leave this
place one way," said La Tia, "or we leave it another, we."
As they hurried away,
with blacks watching them on either hand, Arthur Stuart asked, "She mean
what I thought she meant?"
"They're going to
leave or they're going to die trying," said
"How about a
hurricane? You done a flood to stop the slave revolt in Camelot, but I think
this time you could do it with wind and rain," said Arthur Stuart.
"You don't know
what you're asking," said
Arthur Stuart looked
around him. "Oh," he said. "I guess they're all pretty much on
low ground."
"Reckon so."
White faces watched
them from the windows of poor shacks in Frenchtown, too. La Tia's words had gone
out already. They were all looking to
Story of my life,
thought
Drop of blood in a
bucket of water.
He remembered how
Tenskwa-Tawa made a whirlwind on a lake, put his blood into the waterspout, and
saw the future in the walls of it as he and Alvin rose up in the air inside.
He remembered that it
was in the visions inside that column of swilling water that he saw the
Blood in the water,
and a whirlwind, and walls as clear and smooth as glass.
5
Crystal Ball
LONG
BEFORE HE reached the dock,
There were many that
he recognized, having been in town for so many weeks. He easily found Steve Austin
and Jim Bowie, not together at the moment, and not really much alike. He knew
But soon his
reflections on Austin and Bowie were stopped cold by a bright familiar
heartfire that was just about the last one he expected—or wanted—to find here
in Barcy.
His younger brother
Calvin.
Calvin had been the
closest companion of
What neither had
counted on was Calvin's jealousy. He, too, was a seventh son of a seventh
son—though Calvin was seventh only because the firstborn, Vigor, had died in
crossing the river Hatrack on the very day, in the very hour that
But to have a knack
that was less than
The problem was that
Calvin had never worked at his knack. He had expected to be able to do whatever
Calvin didn't have
much of an ear for argument or criticism. He couldn't bear it, and avoided it,
and so the brothers who once had been close had spent the last few years with
little contact. It didn't help that Margaret disliked Calvin. Or perhaps not that—perhaps
she merely feared him, and didn't want him to be near
And yet here Calvin
was. The coincidence was too pointed. Calvin had probably been sent here. And
the only person likely to do such a sending was Margaret. Had she decided that Calvin's
presence was actually good for
As he drew nearer to
the dock,
Before Calvin began to
be seduced by that same enemy.
So
Behind him Arthur
Stuart trotted to keep up. "What is it? What's happening?"
And then they emerged
from the street and saw the endless row of ships and riverboats tied up along
the dock, the stevedores loading and unloading, the cranes lifting and
lowering, the passengers milling about—few arriving, many leaving—the vendors
shouting and pushing, the thieves and whores skulking and strutting, and in the
midst of them all, standing alone and gnawing on a baguette, was Calvin.
He had finally reached
his adult height. Not as tall as
"What are you
doing here, you great oaf!" cried
Calvin laughed and
hugged him back. "Came to save you from some dire peril, I gather, though
your wife wasn't more specific than that."
"It's good to
have you here," said
"Oh, I know why
we're here," said Calvin. "I just don't know why Peggy sent us."
"So ... are you
going to tell me?"
"We're here
because it's time for us to get over petty jealousies and work together to
really change the world."
They hadn't been
talking for a whole minute, and already
Apparently he'd
learned it all and was ready to take his place as
And when he really
bollixed it up,
No, no, that's not fair. Give the kid a chance.
The man, I mean.
Or maybe that's what I mean.
"All right," said Calvin. "Maybe we aren't
over our petty jealousies."
"Why not think
out loud?" asked Calvin. "Then maybe I'll have a chance to think of
an idea, instead of just waiting for yours."
He said it with a
smile, but
"Where's that
French fellow you were traveling with a few years back?"
"Balzac?"
said Calvin. "Back in
"And Napoleon permits it?"
"We don't know yet. Balzac hasn't actually
published any of it."
"Is it any good?"
"You'd have to decide that for yourself,"
said Calvin.
"I don't read French," said
"Too bad," said Calvin. "That's where
all the interesting writing is going on right now."
Go ahead, thought
"Hungry?"
asked
"I ate on the
boat," said Calvin. "In fact there wasn't much else to do but eat.
Nothing but fog on the river."
"Didn't it stay
to the western shore?"
Calvin laughed.
"Every now and then I'd play around with it a little. Whip up a little
extra fog using the river water. Surround the boat in fog. I suppose we looked
strange to anybody on shore. A little cloud floating down the river with the
sound of a steam engine coming from it."
Not that
And maybe he'd get one. But not over this, and not
right now. "Sounds fun," he said.
Calvin looked at him with amusement. "I guess
you've never whipped up a little fog?"
"From time to time," said
"Some noble
cause, I'm sure," said Calvin. "So, what dire problem are you working
on saving, and what part do you think I'll play in it?"
"So, what'll it
be? Take all these boats?"
"We don't have a
lot of sailors among the French and the slaves and the free blacks and the
orphans," said
"We could
persuade the crews to stay with them."
"La Tia has some
idea of my parting the river. Like Moses and the
"And you don't
want to do that."
"Makes no
sense," said
Calvin nodded. "I
ain't too surprised, Al. I mean, everybody else has a plan, but you can see how
they're all fools and their plans are no damn good."
"They ain't
fools," said
"Oh, yeah,
Lolla-Wossiky, that old one-eyed likkered-up red."
To speak of the great
Prophet that way made
"Of course I
suppose he doesn't drink much now," said Calvin. "And didn't
you fix his eye? Course, we don't know what all he's doing on the other side of
the fog. Maybe they're brewing good old corn mash and getting drunk every
Thursday." He laughed at his own humor.
"Oh, you old
stick-in-the-mud," said Calvin. "Everything's serious with you."
Just the people that I
love, thought
Calvin nodded. "I
don't know about red knacks."
"They don't have
knacks," said
"Now, that's
plain dumb," said Calvin. "We're all human, aren't we? Reds can marry
whites, can't they? So what would their children have, half a knack? What would
half a knack look like? And they could half draw their power from nature?"
"Here I thought
you didn't know about red knacks," said Alvin, "and you turn around
and insist that their knacks are just like ours."
"Well, if you're
going to be quarrelsome," said Calvin, "I'm gonna be sorry I
came."
That would make two of
us,
"So you think you
can do this thing old Lolla-Wossiky did," said Calvin. "And then
what? You make the river solid? Like a bridge, and the rest of the water flows
under it?"
"All the other
problems are still there," said
"Where's
that?"
"Just north of
the city. A huge briny lake, but it's shallow. Good for catching shrimp and
crawfish, and there's a ferry across it, but it doesn't get used much, because
there's nothing worth going to on the other side. Most folks either take a boat
upriver or a ship downriver. But at least on the other side of Pontchartrain
there's farms and food and shelter and no angry reds wondering what we're doing
coming across into their land."
"But there's a
whole passel of angry farmers wondering why you're bringing three thousand
people, including free blacks and runaway slaves, right through their cotton
plantations," said Calvin.
Now this was an
argument worth having, thought
"Well," said
"They
might," said Calvin. "Or they might send for the King's soldiers to
come and teach you proper discipline."
"And the King's
soldiers might find us in a fog somewhere," said
"Aha," said
Calvin. "I knew that fog would turn up as your idea."
"I thought you
wanted me to include your ideas in this plan," said
"As long as you
remember they're mine," said Calvin.
"
"But I thought of
it first," said Calvin.
"Well,
"And I guess
you're gonna make me whip up all this fog while you get to do the glamorous
stuff with the water."
"I don't
know," said
Calvin laughed and shook
his head. "So you've got my part all figured out."
"Tell you
what," said
"So you don't
need me," said Calvin. "I guess Peggy was wrong again."
"There's parts of
you I need, all right," said
Calvin just laughed. "I bet the horse would like
that even less than me."
"You're right," said
"Ease up, old Al," said Calvin. "Don't
you know when a body's teasing you?"
"I reckon I
do," said
"Threatening me?" said Calvin.
"Reminding you that I don't got all the patience
in the world."
"Don't even have patience enough for me? Your
beloved little brother?"
"A man could have
eight barrels full of patience for you, Cal, and you'd just have to keep
goading him till you saw what happened when it turned out he needed nine."
"Sometimes I rile people, I admit it," said
Calvin. "But so do you."
"I reckon I do," said
"So you'll make a bridge over this Paunchy
Train?"
"I thought you spoke French."
"Paunchy Train is
supposed to be French?" Calvin laughed. "Oh ... oh, now I get
it. Pont Chartrain."
He said it with an
exaggerated French accent so his mouth looked all pursed up like he'd just et a
persimmon.
It was like the best
of the old times, tossing words back and forth. "That was the best French
accent I ever heard from a journeyman blacksmith."
"Aw shucks,
"Iffen you wash
yourself proper, I'll take you to meet Bonaparte himself," said Calvin.
"No thanks,"
said
All at once the
playfulness fled from Calvin's face and
"Oh, don't be
a..."
"Don't be a what?
What were you going to call me, big brother?"
"I met him when I
was a kid, and I didn't like him. You met him, and apparently you did. What of
it? He was here in
"Oh, just shut
up," said Calvin, and he stalked off in another direction.
Since Calvin was
perfectly capable of finding
But the truth was,
Margaret was right to
send him, and
Arthur Stuart's big
accomplishment of the day was coming up with fifteen cloth bags that the older
children could use to carry food for the journey. Papa Moose and Mama Squirrel
were supervising the loading of the bags, arguing back and forth about what
they'd need. Papa Moose was determined that they should carry spare clothing,
while Mama Squirrel wanted nothing but food.
"They'll get
hungry before they get nekkid," she said.
"But no matter
how much we carry with us, we'll run out of food soon, and if we're going to
have to forage or buy food anyway, we might as well carry spare clothing so the
children don't have to travel in rags."
"If we can afford to buy food we can afford to
buy clothes, and we'll need the food first."
"We can pick food off trees and glean it
out of fields."
"Well, if you're talking about stealing, Papa
Moose, we can take clothes off clotheslines."
"If we're lucky enough to find clothes that
fit."
"There's not a child in this house who fits the
same clothes for six months in a row."
And on and on it went.
Meanwhile, to Arthur Stuart's amusement, they were unloading each other's bags
almost as fast as they were loading their own. The children seemed to be used
to seeing this sort of thing and most of the bags were in another room, where
the children were carefully loading them with food they were carrying out of
the kitchen. Apparently they were voting with Mama Squirrel.
"Don't like none
of our clothes nohow," said one of the children to Arthur Stuart.
"Druther travel nekkid."
At that moment a cry
from the kitchen sent them all running to see.
Papa Moose lay on the
floor, doubled up, holding his crippled foot and crying out with great groans
of pain.
"What
happened?" said Arthur, amid the clamor of the children.
"I don't know, I
don't know," said Mama Squirrel.
Arthur Stuart knelt down
by Papa Moose, moving some of the children out of the way as he did. He took
the man's ankle and foot in his hands and began unwinding and unfastening the
straps that bound it in place and held on the pad at the heel. Almost at once
the groaning stopped—but not because the pain had eased, Arthur Stuart soon
realized. Papa Moose had fainted.
No one even heard the
knock at the door—if there was one. The first they knew that they had a visitor
was when he spoke.
"This is what comes of having a kitchen built
right onto the house."
Arthur Stuart looked up. It was
Calvin shook his head. "Burn himself on the
stove?"
"Don't know," said Arthur Stuart.
"Hasn't
Arthur Stuart seethed, but stuck to the subject.
"It's something with his foot."
Calvin knelt down
across from Arthur and began to examine Papa Moose. "This looks like a
club foot," said Calvin.
Arthur Stuart looked
up at Mama Squirrel, raising his eyebrows to say, Isn't it wonderful to have a
real doctor here to tell us what we already knew.
Mama Squirrel was not,
however, in the mood for sarcasm. "Who are you, sir? And get your hands
off my husband's foot."
Calvin looked up at
her and grinned. "I'm Calvin Maker, the brother of a certain journeyman
blacksmith who's been living in your house, I think."
Now that really did
make Arthur Stuart mad. Calling himself a maker, as if that was his profession,
when
But Arthur held his
tongue, since there'd be nothing gained by going to war with Calvin.
"I'm getting the
lie of the bones in his foot. The muscles have grown up all wrong around the
bones." Calvin palpated the foot some more, then pulled off the thick
stockings.
"What are you
doing?" demanded Mama Squirrel.
"I can't believe
"My husband gets
along just fine on his foot the way it is."
"Well, he'll get
along better now," said Calvin. "Got everything back in place."
He stood up and offered his hand to her. "It'll take him some getting used
to, but in a few weeks he'll be walking better than he ever has in his whole
life."
"A few
weeks?" said Mama Squirrel, ignoring his hand. "Maybe you're all
proud of your miracle working, but you might have thought to ask if this was a
convenient day to go fixing up his foot. We've got miles to walk tonight! And
for weeks to come."
"And he was going
to do that with a club foot?" said Calvin.
Arthur Stuart knew,
from the slight snideness now creeping into Calvin's tone, that he was irked by
Mama Squirrel's lack of gratitude.
"Some
folks," said Mama Squirrel, "is so proud of their knacks that it just
don't occur to them that other folks might not want them to do their public
demonstrations on them."
"Well,
then," said Calvin, "I'm pretty sure I remember how the club foot
was. I think I can put it back."
"No you
can't," said Arthur Stuart.
Calvin looked at him with
cool, amused hostility. "Oh?"
"Because his foot
had already been changed before you got here," said Arthur Stuart.
"That's what made him cry out with pain and fall down. Something
moved all the bones around while the foot was still all strapped up. And that
was a good five minutes ago."
"How
interesting," said Calvin.
"So you
see," said Arthur Stuart, "the bones the way you found them when you
knelt down here, that ain't how they was."
Calvin shook his head
sadly. "Arthur Stuart, does
"I've done no
such thing!"
"If you knew how
his foot was before, and how it was different when I got here, that says you
been doodling around in there," said Calvin. "Don't deny it, you've
always been a bad liar."
"How do you know
what I've always been."
"Oh, then I
suppose you're a good liar," said Calvin. "Not a thing I'd
have expected a body to be proud of, but there you go." Calvin went to the
door and looked out into the back yard. "Mind if I use your privy? It's a
long time since I left the riverboat as brought me here, and I could use a
pissoir."
Mama Squirrel gestured
for him to go ahead. As soon as he was gone, she knelt again beside Papa Moose.
"He did it, didn't he?" she said. "Before he even walked in the
door."
"He likes to make
grand entrances," said Arthur Stuart. "And he loves to show
"Daring to cause
my husband so much pain. Do you think we don't know what
"Calvin's never
going to admit he done it," said Arthur Stuart. "So you might as well
work on helping him learn to walk with his foot this way. Have you got the
other shoe to this pair?"
"Other shoe?
Pair?" Mama Squirrel snorted. "He's never bought a pair of
shoes in his life."
"Well, is this the only shoe he's got?"
"He has another, for Sundays."
"Let's get it on his other foot."
"They don't match."
"One shoe on and one foot bare match a good bit
worse," said Arthur Stuart.
Mama Squirrel sent a
couple of children to go look for Papa Moose's Sunday shoe. Then she turned
back to Arthur Stuart. "I don't reckon you'd know how to wake my husband
up."
"I don't mess
around inside people's heads or feet," said Arthur Stuart.
"Besides, Calvin didn't do all that good a job. It's still a mess inside
his foot, even if it is shaped mostly right on the outside. I think when Papa
Moose wakes up, there's gonna be a lot of pain."
"Best let him
sleep then," said Mama Squirrel. "I just. I... ever since I knowed
him, I never seen Papa Moose laid out like that. In all these things that've
been happening, I never been scared till this moment."
"When
"Oh, I hope so, I sure do," said Mama
Squirrel.
"We might as well get back to loading up the
pokes," said Arthur.
And in moments, the
children were back to loading up with food. The extra clothing, all unloaded now,
was left in a pile in the parlor. "For the poor," said Mama Squirrel.
Arthur wondered if she
had some definition of the word poor that didn't include her and her
huge hungry family.
Well, to put it
precisely,
It's a good thing to
be able to scare away gators, thought
Sounded to him like a
better job than his current employment, which right now looked like having the
responsibility for saving the lives of hundreds of people without a clue of how
to actually do it.
He'd poked himself a
couple of times with his knife to draw blood, which was a kind of embarrassing
thing to do in the first place. It made him feel like he was just a couple of
steps away from a Mexica sacrifice. He let the blood drip into the murky water
and then felt it dissipate and vanish.
He had done this once,
on the Yazoo Queen, but not with river water. It was with drinking
water, already pure. The blood had nowhere to go, it mixed with the water
immediately and
More blood? Open a
vein? An artery?
How about opening a
gator's artery, how about that?
No, he knew that
wouldn't do at all. The maker is the one who is part of what he makes. If there
was one thing he knew, it was that.
But he'd spent his
childhood getting nearly killed by water over and over again, till his Pa was
plumb scared to let
Stop thinking, he told
himself. This ain't science, like feeling head bumps or bleeding a patient.
This is serious, and you gotta keep your mind open in case an idea comes
along—you want there to be some room for it to fit in.
So he occupied himself
with clearing the water around him. It wasn't hard—he was good with fluids and
solids, at purifying them, asking whatever belonged there to stay, and whatever
didn't to go. The skeeter eggs, the tiny animals, the floating silt, all the
creatures large and small, and above all the salt of this briny tidewater—he
bid them find somewhere else to go, and they went, till he could look down into
the water and under the reflection of the trees spreading overhead he could see
his bare feet and the muddy bottom.
It was an interesting
thing, looking into water, seeing two levels at once—the reflection on the
surface and what was underneath it.
He remembered being
there in the midst of the whirlwind with Tenskwa-Tawa, and in the walls of
solid water he saw not just some reflection or whatever was in the water, but
also things deep in time, hidden knowledge. He was too young to make much sense
of it at the time, and he wasn't sure anymore what he actually remembered or
merely remembered that he remembered, if you know what I mean.
He could hear a kind
of wordless song, he sat so still. It wasn't in his own mind, either. It was
another song, a familiar one, the song that he had heard so many times in his
life as he ran like wind through the woods. The greensong of the life around
him, of the trees and moss, the birds and gators and fish and snakes, and the
tiny lives and the momentary lives, all of them making a kind of deep harmony
together that became a part of him so that he could hear himself as nothing
more than a small part of that song.
And as he listened to
the greensong and as he looked down into the water, another drop of blood fell
from his hand and began to spread.
Only this time he let
his doodlebug spread out with his blood, following that familiar liquid,
keeping it warm, letting it bind with the water as if it was all part of the
same music. There were no boundaries to contain it, but he held on to the
blood, kept it as a part of himself instead of something lost, as if his heart
were still pushing it through his veins.
Instead of having
outside boundaries imposed on the blood, he set his own limits to its flow.
This far, he told his blood, and no farther. And because it was still a part of
himself, it obeyed.
At the limits the
blood began to form a wall, become solid, become like a very thin sheet of
glass. Then, working inward, the blood formed itself into a latticework that
drew the water around it into complicated whorls that never ceased moving, but
also never left their orbit around the impossibly thin strands of blood.
The water moved faster
and faster, a thousand million tiny whirlwinds around the calm threads, and
Alvin reached down with his hands on both sides of the sphere of solidified
water and lifted it out of the clear water of Lake Pontchartrain.
It was heavy—it took
all his strength to lift it, and he wished he hadn't made it so large. It was
far heavier than the plowshare he carried in his poke. But it was also
strangely inert. Even though he knew the motion of water inside the sphere was
incessant, to his hands it felt as still as stone. And as he looked into it, he
saw everything at once.
He saw his own labor
to be born, straining to emerge into the world, his mother's wombwalls pressing
against him as he pushed back; he heard her cries and saw her surrounded by the
canvas walls of a covered wagon that rocked and slid and pitched and yawed in
the current of a river gone to flood. And now he was outside that wagon and he
saw a great fallen tree floating like a battering ram straight at the wagon,
straight at him, this passionate angry hopeful unborn infant, and then heard a
great loud cry and saw a man leap onto the tree and roll it over, over, so it
struck only a glancing blow against the wagon and careened off into the
rainstorm....
And now he saw a young
girl reach out to the face of a just-born infant who had not yet drawn breath
because a caul of flesh covered his whole face like a terrible mask. She pulled
the caul back and air rushed into the baby's mouth and he began to cry. The
girl put the caul away as tenderly as if it were the heart of a Mexica
sacrifice, and he felt how the baby and the caul remained connected, and he
knew that this was Little Peggy, the child five years old when he was born, who
was now his wife, with almost nothing of that ancient, dried-up caul left in
her keeping, because she had rubbed bits of it between her fingers and turned
each bit to dust in order to draw the power of Alvin's own knack out of it, to
use it to save his life.
But now, he thought.
What about now?
Whether the heavy
sphere responded to his question or simply showed him the desire of his heart,
he saw himself kneeling in the water at the shore of Pontchartrain, dripping
blood heavily into the inland sea, and watching as a crystal path hurtled
forward across the lake, six feet wide, as thin as the skiff of ice on a basin left
in the window on the night of the first freeze of autumn. And in ones and twos
the people began to step out onto this crystal bridge and walk along with the
surface of the water holding them up, a dozen, scores, hundreds of them, a
great long chain of people. But then he realized that the line was slowing
down, stopping, jostling, as more and more of them looked down into the crystal
at their feet and began to see the way Alvin was seeing now.
They would not go
forward, so captured were they by the crystal visions in the water. They took
too long, too many minutes, as the blood continued to flow out of him.
And then all of a
sudden in the glass he saw himself faint and fall onto the bridge and at once it
began to break up and crumble and all the people fell into the water and
screamed and splashed and...
He thought at first
that it had dissolved instantly upon breaking the surface, but when he reached
down into the water at his feet, there it was.
He picked it back up
again.
I thought the things
the crystal water showed me would be true, he thought. But that can't be true.
Margaret wouldn't have sent me here to them if I didn't have the strength in me
to make this bridge hold until the last soul had crossed over.
He looked at the ball
of crystal he held in his hands. I can't leave this thing here, he thought. But
I can't take it with me, either. It's too heavy, not with the plow, not with
all I've got to do.
"I will carry it,
me," said a soft voice behind him.
He saw her reflection
in the face of the crystal, and to his surprise the round surface did not
distort her image.
He wasn't seeing her on
the crystal, he was seeing her in it, and all at once he knew far
more about her than he had ever thought he could know about a person.
"You're not French," he said. "You and your mother are Portugee.
She has a knack with sharks. They took her on voyage after voyage because of
it, to keep the sea monsters at bay, only one of them used her for something
else and she got pregnant with you and so she threw herself from the ship and
rode the back of a shark to shore and gave birth to you at the very mouth of
the river."
"She never told
me, her," said Dead Mary. "Might be so, might not."
"I can bear any
burden," she said, "if I take it freely." And it was true.
Though she staggered a little from the weight, she held the ball to her and
didn't let it fall.
"Don't look in
it," said
"It's in front of
my face," she said. "How can I not look?" And yet she didn't
look. She closed her eyes tightly. "Bad enough to know what I already know
about people," she said. "I don't want to know all this else."
"No," said
Dead Mary. "You need all the strength you have for tonight's work."
All the children were
sitting on the floor in every room on the main floor. The older ones all had a
poke to carry, stuffed with every scrap of food in the house. Arthur Stuart
admired how they all obeyed Mama Squirrel, without all that much fussing from
her or from them.
What he didn't know
was what they were going to do about Papa Moose. He lay on the kitchen floor,
wide awake now, but with his eyes tight shut, saying nothing, making no groan,
showing no wince, but still a streak of tears ran from both eyes down into his
hair and ears. Arthur Stuart longed to help him, knew that all the little bones
were shaped wrong and didn't fit, pinching here and there, the ligaments and
tendons sometimes too short, sometimes too long for the place they were
supposed to be. What he didn't know was how to get them to change into
something closer to what was right.
The kitchen door
opened and
Before Arthur Stuart
could wonder what he'd done with his shirt, Dead Mary came in behind him carrying
something with
Calvin hadn't bothered
them a bit after causing Papa Moose all this pain. But now that
Arthur Stuart didn't
bother to answer, knowing that
"Then wait,"
said Mama Squirrel hotly. "You think he ain't man enough to bear it? Oh,
he can. I'll carry him if I have to, me and some of the bigger boys. My Moose,
he don't want to cost us what we can't afford to pay. He'd die for these
children, Alvin, you know he would."
They all knew he
would.
"But I need him
walking," said
Arthur Stuart tried so
hard to keep up with what
No, it wasn't a cry.
It was a great sigh of relief, so sharp and sudden that it sounded like a
shout.
"God bless you
sir," said Mama Squirrel.
Papa Moose stood up
and promptly fell back down the moment he tried to take a step.
"I don't know how
it's done," he said. "I can't walk on these two feet. My right leg
feels too long."
"Lean on me," said Mama Squirrel. He did,
and managed to stand.
"Go to Frenchman's Dock," said
"Me too?" asked Dead Mary.
"Go to your
mother and arrange a wheelbarrow from among the French, to tote that thing. I
got another shirt."
"Me?" asked
Arthur Stuart.
"To La Tia, and
tell her to get all them as is going down to Frenchman's Dock at
nightfall."
When all were gone, it
left only Alvin and Calvin there in the house of Moose and Squirrel, which was,
after all, just a big old empty house when it didn't have all them children in
it.
"I suppose I've
done a dozen things wrong," said Calvin with a crooked grin.
"I need a fog
from you," said
"I don't know
where that is," said Calvin.
"Don't
matter," said
He didn't say: For once.
"I can do that," said Calvin.
"I'm glad Margaret sent you," said
Arthur Stuart stood
outside the kitchen door until he heard those words. He could hardly believe
that
There was only one
meaning Arthur Stuart could get from it.
Burning with
resentment at Calvin, at the way a real brother could instantly supplant a
half-black oughta-be-a-slave step-brother-in-law in
6
Exodus
Calvin
stood on the levee that kept the Mizzippy
from pouring over its banks to flood the city of
It had been a sultry,
hazy day. Already everything got blurry only a mile off. The air was so wet
that sweat could hardly evaporate. It ran down Calvin's neck and back and legs,
and when he mopped his brow with a handkerchief, it came away dripping wet.
Nobody'd mind if he
cooled things off a little.
Around him the air
suddenly gave up some of its heat, sending it upward. The moment the air cooled
just a couple of degrees, the water vapor began to condense a little, just
enough to form a cloud, not enough to make rain or dew. It wasn't easy to
maintain the temperature at just that point, and Calvin had to jostle the
temperature up and down a little till he got it right.
But once the fog was
nicely formed, he began to reach out farther and farther, cooling the air,
condensing the invisible humidity into visible fog.
He turned a slow
circle, watching as his fog spread out over the city. This was power—to change
the look of the world, to blind the eyes of men and women, to block the light
and heat of the sun, to allow slaves and oppressed people to sneak to freedom.
Poor
It was like being
rich, but spending money like a poor man. That was
So I'll help you,
Alvin, because I can and because I love you and because I don't mind being part
of your noble causes when it suits me. But I make up my own mind on all things.
Collect your disciples and try to teach them some clumsy imitation of makery,
like that sad boy Arthur Stuart, whose true knack you stole from him. But don't
ever count me as one of your disciples. I spent too many years of my
life worshiping you and tagging along behind you and begging for your attention
and your love and your respect. Those were my childhood days. I'm a man now,
and I've held my own with a great emperor and I've slain an evil man that you
hadn't the courage to kill,
It's not enough to
have power,
Street after street,
the fog crept through the city, dimming the light of the setting sun and hiding
passersby.
Slaves felt the cool
clammy fog pass around them, or looked out windows and watched as buildings
across the street disappeared, and they thought, Today we cross over
In Frenchtown the
children and grandchildren of the founders of this place, whose city had been
stolen from them, looked out of their shanties and thought, You can't keep us
here no more, Conquistadores. You can take our city, but that's only land. You
can't hold onto us when we've a mind to go.
In Swamptown, the
poorest of the poor—free blacks and down-and-out whites—saw the fog and
gathered up their few possessions for the journey ahead. La Tia, Dead Mary,
some sorcerer from up north, they didn't care whom they were following. It
couldn't help but be better than here.
But in the rest of the
city, in fine houses and the humbler homes of the working class, in hotels and
whorehouses and along the dock, where people already cowered in fear of the
yellow fever, afraid to go out into the streets—they saw the fog roll through
and it looked like a biblical plague to them. I'm not going out in that
weather, they thought. I'll send a slave out on my errands. I'll leave the
streets to the poor and those whose business is so pressing they'd risk death
to carry on with it.
Only in the taverns,
where drink brought a few hours of courage and uncontained passion, did the
fear burn into hatred. Someone brought this yellow fever on us. It was them
French witches, that Dead Mary and her mother, didn't Dead Mary claim the
plague for her mother first?
It was those wicked
race-mixing abolitionists Moose and Squirrel, they're the ones brought this
down on us, cursing the city because they hate us for keeping black folk in the
place where God meant them to be. You want proof? All around that house folks
is dying of the fever, but not a soul in that crowded house is sick, not a body
has been brought out.
"Not Moose and
Squirrel, no sir," said a powerful-looking man who carried a knife at his
hip the way other men might carry a pistol. "Their house, but it's a
traveling man staying there, him and his half-black catamite he uses like a
witch does a cat. His name is
They listened
spellbound to the man. They itched for action, these men. They had come to
Barcy to take part in a war, but the dread of fever had sent the King's army
back into their holes, and here they were with nothing to do. Their fingers
flexed into fists. The drink burned in them. They could do with a good hanging.
Take a man and his slave boy and drag them to a tree or lamppost and hoist them
up and watch them clutch and twitch and pee themselves while they strangled on
the end of a rope. That was a good use of this foggy night. There'd be no
witnesses, and maybe it would stop the fever, and even if it didn't, a hanging
was still a good idea now and then, just to get your blood up, and none of this
nonsense about an innocent man. Wasn't nobody in this world hadn't earned
hanging five times over, if their hearts were only known.
Out of the tavern and
into the street they staggered and lurched, shouting threats and brags. A few carried
torches against the fog and night as darkness fell over the city, and as they
moved near the waterfront, they were joined by the drunk, the angry, the
fearful, and the merely curious from other taverns. Where are you going? Off to
hang us a traveling wizard and his boy.
The slaves skulking
through the streets dodged into alleys or into the shadows of doorways as the
mob passed. But they weren't looking to hang the first black man they found.
They had a specific man in mind tonight, thanks to that man with the big knife
at his belt. They'd find him at the house of Moose and Squirrel—who probably
needed hanging too, there being no shortage of rope in Barcy.
Arthur Stuart saw at
once that the name "Frenchman's Dock" was meant as a cruel irony.
Compared to the miles-long dock along the Mizzippy, this shabby jetty on
There was no room on
that busy wharf for fifty children, so Moose and Squirrel kept their family
loitering back around the fish houses, trying to stay out of the way. Many of
the shrimpers had already heard what was happening tonight. Either they'd come
along or not, but there was no debating or discussing it. Everyone stepped
around the children and made no comment about their presence there. Even if
they wouldn't follow Dead Mary out of the city, they wouldn't dare stand in her
way, either.
Blacks began arriving,
too, staying even farther out of the way. Like the children, they carried bags
and sacks, but it was a sad thing to see how little they had, considering that
most of them were carrying all they owned in the world. The blacks who did get
in some shrimper's path were met with a growl or a bark to get out of the way;
it was clear that even among the oppressed French, blacks had a lower status
still.
Flies hovered and
swarmed everywhere, there being plenty to feast on for them amid the shrimp
offal discarded all along the shore. Skeeters, too, and Arthur Stuart could
imagine that with all the people gathering here those little bloodsuckers would
probably drink their fill till they bloated up and exploded. He could imagine
the sound of it, like distant gunfire, the pop pop pop of busted skeeters.
Only he didn't want
them sucking blood out of these children.
He tried to get his
doodlebug inside a skeeter, but it wouldn't hold still. And besides, he wasn't
looking to perform surgery on it, he wanted to talk to it the way
A couple of boats ran
into each other in the fog, and there was much shouting and cursing. It was
silly, Arthur Stuart thought, to put up with fog here, where it wasn't needed.
And fog was more like metal or water, he could get inside it and work with it.
Arthur Stuart stirred up a little air, drawing a little breeze in from the
lake, blowing the fog back toward the city where it was needed.
Arthur was pleased
that it didn't take long for the air to clear. The sunset now blazed red in the
west, while the fog hung thickly only a street or two back from the water. The
shrimpers quickly got their boats tied up and their catch loaded off and
dragged into the fish houses. Then they disappeared into the streets, some of
them with shrimp carts to sell the catch, the others probably heading for their
families, to bring them to Frenchman's Dock for the escape.
There being no more
need for clear vision now, Arthur Stuart let the breeze die down, and the fog
drifted back out over the water a little. Stillness came with it, a heavy
silence in which footfalls were muffled and voices became whispers.
As it became fully
dark, Arthur began to worry about folk losing their way, or somebody stumbling
into the water, so he woke up the breeze again to clear the air near the shore.
In the distance, he could hear shouting, and after a while, he realized that it
was probably the noise of a mob moving through the streets of Barcy. He worried
about folks who was trying to make their way through the streets, but the fog
was the best help they could get, and there wasn't nothing Arthur Stuart could
think of to add to it.
As the fog cleared and
the faint light of the stars and a sliver of moon illuminated the shore, Arthur
Stuart realized that the man sitting crosslegged in the shallow water was
At once Arthur strode
forward, but said nothing, because
Blood began to flow
out in a slow trickle into the water.
Almost by habit now, Arthur
Stuart tracked the blood in the water, feeling its dissipation. But then it
stopped dissolving, and instead began to form a rigid structure, gathering
water around a delicate latticework, thickening and hardening the water into
something not at all like ice, and very much like thin, delicate glass.
The area of hardened
water extended to about six feet on either side of
"Can you see it, Arthur Stuart?" whispered
"Yes."
"And on the other end, do you think you can
anchor it there and hold it firm?"
"I can try."
"It's taking more
blood than I hoped," said
"Now?" said
Arthur Stuart.
"If we're going
to get all these people to walk across in one night, I think now's a good time
to start."
Arthur Stuart turned
around and beckoned to Moose and Squirrel. They didn't see him. So he called
out, but not loudly. "Papa Moose! Mama Squirrel! Can you bring the
children?"
With Papa Moose
leaning on Mama Squirrel and one of the older boys, they came down to the
water's edge. When they arrived, Arthur Stuart stepped out onto the crystal.
To the others it
seemed that he stood on water. They gasped, and one of the children began to
cry.
"Come
closer," said Arthur Stuart. "See? It's smooth where it's safe to
walk. It's not water any more. It's crystal, and you can walk on it. But stay
to the middle. Hold hands, stay together. If someone falls in, pull him back
up. It's strong enough to hold you, see?"
Arthur looked straight
down into the crystal as he stomped his foot a couple of times.
What he saw there made
him freeze.
It was his mother,
flying, a newborn baby strapped in front of her. Flying over the trees, heading
north, to freedom.
And suddenly she could
fly no farther. Exhausted, she tumbled to the earth and lay there weeping. She
would kill the baby now, Arthur Stuart realized. Rather than let it be taken
back into slavery, she'd kill the baby and herself.
"No," he
murmured.
"Arthur
Stuart," said
Arthur tore himself
away and was surprised to find Moose and Squirrel and their family all watching
him, wide-eyed.
"Nobody look down
into the bridge," said Arthur Stuart. "You'll think you're seeing
things, but they're not really there. It's not a thing to look at, it's a thing
to walk on."
"I can't see the
edges," said Mama Squirrel. "The children can't swim."
"They won't have
to," said Arthur Stuart. "Let's get the little ones in between the
older ones. Everybody hold hands."
"The youngest
can't walk so far," said Papa Moose.
Someone pushed her way
through the family to the water's edge. La Tia. "Don't you fret about
that. Got plenty of strong arms here to carry them as can't walk." She
called out several names, and strong young men and women stepped forward, most
of them black, but some French or of other European nations. "It's all
right, babies," La Tia said to the children. "You let these big folk
carry you, you be all right. You tell them be happy," she said to Mama
Squirrel.
"It's all
right," said Squirrel. "These are our friends now, they're going to
take us out across this bridge
Some of the children
whimpered and a few cried outright, but they hung on all the same, doing their
best to obey despite their fear. Arthur Stuart walked farther out onto the
bridge, taking care to stay right in the middle. The worst thing he could do
would be to stumble off the edge. They'd all be terrified then. "Come to
me," he said. "We have to move quick, once we get started."
"I stay right
here," said La Tia, "I keep it all moving, I make everybody help each
other. You go, you. We follow."
Arthur turned around
and walked a good twenty paces out onto the bridge. Then he stopped and turned
around. Several of the older children were following him tentatively. He strode
back to them and took the leading child by the hand. "All hold
hands," he said. "Stay right in line. It's a long walk, but you can
do it."
"Listen to the
music," said
Arthur Stuart knew the
greensong well, though he could never find it on his own. As soon as
In the darkness, he
couldn't see the bridge stretching out before him—his eyes told him only that
he was walking out into the middle of a trackless lake. But his doodlebug felt
the bridge as clear as day, reaching on and on, out and out, and he walked with
confidence.
At first he couldn't
stop his mind from fretting about all that could go wrong. Somebody falling
off. Losing the way somehow. Getting to the end of the bridge and finding that
it didn't quite reach the other shore. Or having the bridge get softer and
wetter the farther it got from
But the rhythm of the
step, step, step and the sound of the lapping water and the calls of birds
began to still that relentless fretting. It was the familiar rhythm of the
greensong. He let it come over him like a trance. His legs began to move, it
seemed, of themselves, so he no longer thought about walking or even moving, he
simply flowed forward as if he were a part of the bridge, as if he himself were
a breeze on the night air. The bridge was alive under him. The bridge was part
of
He only sometimes
noticed that he himself was singing. Not just humming, but singing aloud, a
strange song that he had always known but had never noticed before. The child
behind him picked up the melody and murmured it along with him, and the child
behind her, until Arthur Stuart could hear that many voices carried the song.
No one was crying or whimpering now. He could hear adult voices farther back.
But all of them were faint, only threads amid the fabric of the great wide song
that Arthur heard from the wind and the waves and the fish under the water and
the birds in the sky and from animals waiting for them on the other side and
from all the people on the bridge, a half mile of them, a mile of them.
Faster and faster
Arthur Stuart walked without realizing he was speeding up, but the children did
not complain. Their legs carried them as fast as they needed to go. And the
adults carrying children found that the little ones did not grow heavy. The
babies fell asleep clinging to their bearers, their breath whispering in rhythm
with the song. On and on they strode, the far shore coming no nearer, it
seemed.
And as they were all caught
up in the greensong, it seemed that the bridge turned into light. They could
all see the edges of it now, and could feel how the greensong throbbed within
it. Each footfall on the crystal bridge caused the song to surge a little
stronger for a moment and made the bridge glow a little more clearly in the
night. And Arthur Stuart realized that they were becoming part of the bridge,
their steps strengthening it, thickening it, making it stronger for those
coming after. And since the bridge was part of Alvin himself, they also
strengthened him, or at least made it so the creation of the bridge drained him
less than it might have.
Arthur could feel
It seemed to be
forever, that crossing. And then, suddenly, there was land ahead of him, and it
felt as if it had taken no time at all.
He reached forward
with his doodlebug and saw that the bridge did not reach the land yet. So,
without slowing down his stride, Arthur Stuart sent his doodlebug leaping
beyond the end of the bridge to find where the rim of the water lapped the mud
and he said to the bridge—to
The bridge leapt
forward. It was what
Arthur Stuart did not
speed up, though he wanted to run the last few hundred yards. There were people
behind him, hands linked. So he kept the same pace, right to the end, and then
drew the child behind him up onto the shore.
He continued to lead
her into the trees, talking to her as he went. "We'll go up into the
trees," he said to her. "The others will follow. Keep moving, move in
and off to the right, so there's room for everyone else. Keep holding hands,
all of you!"
Then he let go of her.
As he did, the greensong let go of him.
He staggered, almost fell.
He stood there gasping for a moment in the unwelcome
silence.
The line of people on
the bridge stretched out for miles, he could see, and all of them moving
swiftly, faster than he would have thought possible. Even Papa Moose now strode
easily, boldly, no one helping him.
He saw how Moose and
Squirrel, too, stumbled when they let go of the line. But they immediately took
charge of the children, not forgetting their responsibility.
Nor will I forget
mine, thought Arthur Stuart. He scanned the nearby area for the heartfires of
small creatures. Unlike the skeeters, he easily found the snakes and, not so
easily, awoke them and sent them slithering away. Danger here, he told them
silently. Go away, be safe. Sluggishly they obeyed him. It exhilarated him. He
suspected that some part of
Will we all be makers,
having crossed this bridge?
Here and there he
caused water to drain away from a bog, so that the land where the people would
have to stand was all firm. And from time to time he reached back out across
the water, following the bridge with his doodlebug, trying to see how
It was his job to make
sure there was room for them all, enough firm, safe ground that they could
gather.
Many of them sat down,
then lay down, and with the echoes of the greensong still singing in their
hearts, they dozed in the faint moonlight, their dreams infused with the music
of life.
Calvin couldn't help
being curious. And it's not as if he had to stay on the levee to keep the fog
in place.
In fact, the fog could
pretty much look after itself, at this point. And with all the angry,
frightened heartfires flowing through the streets of Barcy, Calvin couldn't see
any particular reason to stay by himself. Who knew what mischief these mobs
might be up to? And since he was a maker, wasn't it his job to keep such
mischief from happening?
One mob was moving
through Frenchtown, getting more and more furious as they found house after
house empty. Another mob, consisting mostly of dockside drunks, was looking for
slaves to throw into the water. Finding none, they started throwing in whatever
passersby spoke English with a foreign accent or not at all. Which wasn't too
logical, seeing how this wasn't even an American city.
All Calvin could see
of this was the anger in the heartfires and, of course, the panic in those
being tossed into the river.
The angriest mob, and
the one moving with the most sense of purpose, was moving directly toward the
orphanage where Alvin had been unable to resist showing off by one-upping Calvin's
fixing of the man's foot. What was the big deal, Calvin wanted to know. When
was he supposed to have learned anatomy? Of course,
So let him sit there by
that briny lake and flow his heartfire out as a bridge for the scum of the
earth to walk on. Wasn't that just like
Calvin jogged easily
along the foggy streets—sober, decent folk were all indoors, fearful of the
sudden fog and the sound of distant shouting. There were soldiers marching,
too. The Spanish were ostensibly looking for a riot to quell, but the officers
carefully found the quietest streets, since there was neither honor nor safety
in confronting a mob. If you shoot, it's a massacre; if you don't shoot, you're
likely to get a brick in the head.
So it wasn't hard to
avoid the soldiers, and soon Calvin found himself on the fringes of the mob
just when it reached the house of Moose and Squirrel. He wasn't that interested
in most of the people—a mob was a mob, and all the faces were as ugly and
stupid as always when people turn their decision-making over to someone else.
Brutal puppets, that's all they were. What Calvin wanted was the hot, dark
heartfire that was leading them and goading them on.
Glass was shattering
as bricks and stones went through the windows of the house. Several men with
torches were trying to set the house on fire, but the air was so moist and
heavy that it wasn't working.
The leader, who
carried a big heavy knife at his hip, was taunting the would-be firestarters.
"Y'all never set a fire before? Babies burn theirselves up all the time,
but you can't even get a dry wooden house to burn!"
Calvin sidled up.
"Reckon sometimes you gotta do a thing yourself."
The man turned to him
and sneered. "And have the Spanish find some informant to testify against
me? No thanks."
"I didn't mean
you." said Calvin. He reached out and pointed toward the roof. While he
was pointing, he hotted up the wood just under the peak of the gable, so sudden
and hot that it burst into flames.
A cheer went up from
the crowd, everyone being too drunk, apparently, to notice that the fire had
started about as far as possible from where the torchwielders were doing such a
pathetic job. But the mob's leader wasn't drunk, and that's the only person
Calvin was looking to impress.
"You know
something?" said the man with the big knife. "I think you look a
powerful lot like a certain thief and fraud name of Alvin Smith as was living
in that boardinghouse only this morning."
"You're speaking
of my beloved brother, sir," said Calvin. "Nobody gets to call him
names but me."
"Beg your pardon,
sir," said the man. "I'm Jim Bowie, at your service. And if I'm not
wrong, you just proved to me that
"Don't get no
ideas about siccing this mob on me," said Calvin. "My brother plain
hates to kill folks, but I got no such compunction. You turn the mob on me, and
they'll all blow to bits as if they'd swallowed a keg of gunpowder. You
first."
"What's to stop
me from killing you right here?" said the man. And then, suddenly, he got
a panicked look on his face. "No, I was just joking, don't do nothing to
my knife."
Calvin laughed in his
face. "Want to see the house go up real spectacular?"
"You're the
artist," said the man.
Calvin found his way
into the structure of the house, the thick heavy beams and posts that formed
its skeleton. He hotted them up all at once—and so hot did he make them that
they didn't so much burn as melt. The outer layer of each piece of wood burnt
so fast that as the ashes peeled away it looked as if somebody had just flumped
a busted pillow on the ground and released a hundred thousand feathers all at
once.
The house collapsed,
sending up such a cloud of smoke and ash and hot, searing air that it burned
the hair and eyebrows and eyelashes right off the men in the front row. Their
skin was also burned, and some were blinded, but Calvin didn't feel any
particular pity. They deserved it, didn't they? They were a murderous,
house-burning mob, weren't they? The ones who was blind now, they'd never join
a mob again, so Calvin had flat cured them of their violence.
"You look to be a useful man to have as a
friend," said the man with the knife.
"How would you know?" said Calvin. "You
haven't seen me with any of my friends."
The man stuck out his hand. "Jim Bowie, sir, and I'd
like to be your friend."
"Sir, I don't
reckon you have many friends in this world, and neither do I. So let's not
pretend to love each other. You have something you want to use me for, and I'm
perfectly willing to consider being used if you can let me see what's to gain
from it, and why it's a good and noble undertaking."
"They ain't no
good and noble undertakings. Everybody I know of gets undertaken has to be dead
first and doesn't seem to enjoy it."
"What do you want from me, Mr. Bowie?"
"Your
company," said
"Al ain't afraid
of anything," said Calvin.
"Anybody isn't
scared of the Mexica might as well shoot out his own brains, cause they ain't
worth keeping."
"The
Mexica?"
"Some of us think
it's time civilization came back to
Civilization ... like
this? Calvin watched the remaining mobbers cavorting and gamboling in front of
the hot glowing embers and laughed.
"A mob's a mob," said
"No doubt they do," said Calvin. "But
why is it your job?"
"I got tired of waiting on God."
Calvin grinned at him. "Maybe we got something to
talk about. I never been to
"Sun coming," said a woman's voice.
La Tia, that's who it was.
"Everybody already pass over," said another
woman. Dead Mary's mother.
"What's your name?"
"Rien," she said.
Dead Mary reached out
and took his bleeding hands in hers. "Get up, you wizard you. Get up and
cross over the bridge of your blood."
He tried to rise, with
her helping, but at once he felt faint and his legs gave way under him. He fell
face forward onto his hands and even his elbows buckled, and his face struck
the surface of the crystal bridge. The heavy weight of the plow made the poke
slide off his shoulder. It made the whole bridge shimmer with life, and
At once the bridge
began to give way under him.
"No!" cried
La Tia. "Hold up that bridge! You can't sleep now!" She reached down
and lifted the poke from the surface of the bridge. At once the shimmering stopped,
and
"The army coming,
boy!" La Tia said. "They know they slaves gone now, morning coming
and nobody doing they chores. This ain't no drunken mob today, no. This be
soldiers, and we got to cross over!"
It wasn't just her
words filling him with strength, though. He could feel the power of charms she
bore. He always saw the small magics of spells and hexes and could stop them if
he wanted, so he had gotten used to the idea that they had no effect on him.
But now he was
grateful for the strength that flowed into him as she draped a charm around his
neck.
"I have to stay
here," he said softly, "or the bridge won't hold."
"You had to stay
here to make the bridge," said La Tia. "But don't you feel your
brother put in his blood from the other side?"
La Tia and Dead Mary's
mother—Rien, was it?—supported him on either side, while Dead Mary pushed her
wheelbarrow out onto the bridge to lead the way. Already the last of the people
was out of sight in the fog. But the fog was thinning, and the first rays of
dawn were lighting the eastern sky. Arthur Stuart might still be on the job,
but Calvin wasn't.
Behind them Michele,
La Tia's friend and doorkeeper, was laying down charms on the bridge. They did
not cause the shimmer that the plow had brought. Rather they felt like salt
dropped on ice.
"That
burns," said
"Got to keep them
enemies back," said La Tia. "They my fear and fire charms she laying
down."
"This bridge was
made to welcome people. The crystal is meant to open their eyes. You can't put
darkness and fear onto it and hope to have it stay."
"You know what
you know," said La Tia. "You do a thing I never see, so while I stand
on your blood, I do what you say." She called back over her shoulder.
"Michele, you pick up all this stuff, you, you make it a ring on the
shore, hold them back a little!"
Michele ran back to
land and laid the charms in a great semicircle to keep the soldiers at bay as
long as possible.
"To them it be
like a fire," said La Tia. "Hate and fear, they make it into a
fire."
Blood still dripped
from
"So this thing
you make, it don't stay made?" said Dead Mary.
"First time I
done it," said
"Stop making him
talk," said Rien. "You keep pushing, Marie, you keep showing us the
way."
"I know the way," said
"But what happen to us when you faint, yes?
What?"
They weren't all that
far when they heard Michele run up from behind. "Soldiers come, and a lot
of other men, very angry. The fire hold them back for now, but they got their
own peeps and slinks and they get through soon. We got to run."
"I can't,"
said
But even as he said
it, he heard the greensong that had helped the others cross so quickly, and now
that he wasn't concentrating on holding the bridge alone, he could let it into
him, let it strengthen and heal him a little. He hushed them. "Hear
that?" he said. "Can you hear?"
And after a while,
yes, they could. They stopped talking then, and
It was good that they
did, because
It weakened him and
slowed him down, just a little at first, but more and more as they drew nearer.
Hundreds of them, carrying muskets. At the far end of the bridge, someone was
trying to get a horse out onto the crystal—a horse pulling a light piece of
field artillery.
"I can't hold
that up," gasped
"Almost
there," called Dead Mary. "I can see the shore!" She started to
run.
But there was no fog
on this side of Pontchartrain, so seeing the campfires on the far shore did not
mean they were truly almost there.
Just when it seemed
that the bridge was lengthening infinitely before them, they closed the last
hundred, the last fifty, the last dozen steps and staggered onto the shore.
Dead Mary had set down her barrow on the bank and now hovered around, eager to
help.
There lay Arthur
Stuart, prostrate in the sand, Papa Moose and Mama Squirrel kneeling beside
him, their hands on him, Papa Moose praying, Mama Squirrel singing the first
words Alvin had ever heard anyone put to the greensong, words about sap and
leaves, flowers and insects, fish and birds and, yes, squirrels all climbing
along in the nets of God.
Arthur Stuart's hands
were extended, his wrists bleeding onto the bridge, and his fingers digging
down into the face of the crystal. He shouldn't have been able to do that, to
push his skin and bone into
Arthur seemed not to
hear him, so deep was he in his trance of concentration.
"Pull his hands
out of the bridge,"
But Moose and Squirrel
couldn't do it, and La Tia and Dead Mary couldn't do it, and Alvin whispered
into his ear, "They're coming and we can't bear them up, the bridge can't
hold such a harsh load, you got to let go, Arthur Stuart, I can't hold it any
longer and if you try to hold alone it'll kill you."
Arthur Stuart finally
managed to make an answer, barely audible. "They'll die."
"I reckon
so," said
"They're just soldiers," said Arthur Stuart.
"And sometimes good men die in a bad cause, when
it comes to war."
Arthur Stuart wept. "If I let go I'm killing
them."
"They chose to
come up on a bridge that was built for freedom, with slavery and killing in
their hearts."
"Bear them up,
"I'll do my best," said
With a final cry of
anguish Arthur Stuart tore his blood-covered hands out of the crystal.
It lingered for a long
moment, held by the blood alone.
And then the bridge
was gone.
"Bear them up in
the water!" cried Arthur Stuart. And then he fell into something between a
faint and a deep sleep.
Papa Moose and Mama
Squirrel drew him back from the water's edge and bandaged his wounds, while
Dead Mary and her mother did the same for
La Tia grasped what he
was doing and stepped to the water's edge, where the bridge had once been. She
reared her head back and pinched a powder into her open mouth. Then she looked
out over the water and cried out in a voice that could be heard for miles
across the lake, a voice as loud as thunder, a voice that made wide ripples
race forward across the water.
"Drop your guns,
you! Try to swim! Take off your boots! Swim back!"
All heard, and most
heeded, and they lived. Three hundred soldiers went out onto that bridge that
morning, along with one horse hitched to a fieldpiece. The horse had no way to
save itself, but it took
Only then, with the
last of their enemies safe who was willing to be saved,
The north shore teemed
with thousands of people, of every age and color and several languages. They
desperately needed someone to tell them what to do, and where to go if they
were to find drinkable water and food to eat. But not one of them proposed
awakening Alvin or Arthur Stuart. The man and boy who made a crystal bridge out
of blood and water—such power struck them all with awe, and they would not
dare.
Back in Barcy, Calvin
saw what was happening with
I could kill him right
now. Just open up a hole in his heart and till his lungs with blood and he'd be
dead before anyone else realized what was happening and no one would know it
was me, or if they did, they'd never prove it.
But I won't kill him
today, thought Calvin. I'll never kill him. Even though he kills me all the
time, with his judgments and condemnations, his condescensions and his lessons
and his utter ignorance of who I am. Because I'm not like
He refrains from
purposely killing people because he thinks it's wrong, under some arbitrary
law. While I refrain from killing people, not out of obedience, but of my own
free will, because I'm merciful to those who hurt me and despitefully use me.
Who's the Pharisee
here? And who's the one like Jesus? Even though nobody else will ever see it
that way, that's the truth, as God is my witness.
7
Errand Boy
Verily
Cooper awoke in the old roadhouse in the
town of
It was that prenticeship
that brought Verily Cooper there. The old smith had died a while ago, and since
his wife had died before him, their children were now in possession of a will
that gave them "one plow of pure gold, stolen by a prentice named Alvin,
son of Alvin Miller of
If only the plow
didn't exist.
But it did exist, and
the smith had never owned it.
It would be an
open-and-shut case, if not for the local prejudice that for many years had made
And that's why Verily
Cooper, attorney-at-law, was here once again to plead
Not fair, not right.
Judge not, lest somebody think you're jealous of
It was full dark
outside. Why in the world had he woken up now? He didn't particularly need to
micturate. There must have been some kind of noise. Some drunk refusing to
leave the roadhouse at closing time?
No. Now he heard a stamping
of horses and the voice of the stableman as he led a team off to be walked and
watered and fed and stabled for the night. It was rare for the coach to push on
in the darkness. But when Verily stepped to the window and opened it, sure
enough, there it was, lanterns blazing—enough of them that from a distance it
might be mistaken for a forest fire.
Curiosity would never
let him go to sleep without finding out who had arrived at such an untimely
hour.
He was not altogether
surprised to find, sitting at the kitchen table,
"You," she
said.
"And I'm
delighted to see you, as well, Goody Smith." If she was going to be rude
to him, he could reply by giving her the "courtesy" of calling her by
her husband's name instead of her own.
She squinted her eyes
at him. "I'm tired and I was surprised to see you up, but you have my
apology, Mr. Cooper. Please accept it."
"I do, Mistress
Larner, and you have mine as well."
"Nothing to
apologize for," she said. "I haven't been a teacher in years, so I
hardly deserve the name Larner any more. And I'm proud to have my husband's
occupation as my title, since his work is all the work that's left to me."
Old Horace walked up
behind her and rubbed her shoulders. "You're tired, Little Peggy. Save
conversation till morning."
"He might as well
know it now. I expected not to see him till morning, but as long as I've woken
him, I might as well ruin the rest of his night."
Of course she had
known he was in
"What is it you want me to know?" said
Verily.
"
"
"Something more
urgent than this."
"Then send
somebody else," said Verily. "If I don't settle this business with
the will and the plow right now, it's going to come back to haunt him."
"Right now,"
said Margaret, "he's got about live thousand people who have just escaped
from Nueva Barcelona. More than half are runaway slaves or free blacks, and
most of the rest are despised French folk, so you can imagine how eager the
Spanish are to have them back under their thumb."
"So I'm going to
do what, recruit an army and we'll all fly down there like passenger pigeons to
save them just in the nick of time?"
Horace Guester clucked his tongue. "It's not
impossible, you know."
"It is to me," said Verily. "That's not
my knack."
"Your knack," said Margaret, "is making
things fit together."
"Sometimes."
"
"I assume you've
got a place in mind."
"
"And he has
land?"
"He's well-liked
in his part of the country. He can help you find some land."
"Free of charge,
I hope," said Verily. "My practice hasn't been such as to make me a
wealthy man. I keep working pro bono for my friends."
"I don't know how
it will be paid for," said Margaret. "I only know that if you don't
go to see Mr. Lincoln, there are few paths that lead anywhere but to disaster
for Alvin and the people in his care. But if you do go..."
"Let me
guess—there might be some path that leads to safety."
"First things
first," said Margaret. "He needs a place that will take in these
homeless folk and board them and bed them for a time. There's no place in the
slave lands that will have them, that's certain."
Verily sat down at the
table and leaned his chin on his hands and stared into her eyes. "I'd
rather stay here and get
She sighed and stared
into her bowl. "Mr. Cooper, I have spent five years of my life trying to
persuade people to do the things that would avoid a terrible, bloody war. With
all my years of talking, do you know what I accomplished?"
"We ain't had a
war yet," said Verily.
"I postponed the
war by a year or two, maybe three," she said. "And do you know how I
did that?"
"How?"
"By sending my husband to Nueva Barcelona."
"He put off a war?"
"Without knowing
what he did, yes, the war was delayed. Because of an outbreak of yellow fever.
But then he went on and did this—this impossible escape. This rescue, this
liberation of slaves."
Horace chuckled.
"Sounds like he finally got him the spirit of abolition."
"He's always had
the wish for it," said Margaret. "Why did he have to pick now to find
the will? This escape of slaves—it will lead to war as surely as ever."
"So he eliminated
one cause of war, and then brought about another," said Verily.
Margaret nodded and took
a bite of soup. "This is very good, Papa."
"Forgive me for
thinking like a lawyer," said Verily Cooper, "but why didn't you
foresee this before you sent him down?"
She was chewing, so
Old Horace answered. "She can't see that clear when it comes to
Horace was joking, and
so he laughed, but Margaret didn't take it as a joke. Verily saw her tears drop
into the stew.
"Ho, now,"
he said, "that's already salted well enough, I can swear to that, I had
some for supper."
"Father is right,"
she said. "Oh, poor
Verily had actually
had that thought occur to him several times in the past, and since he knew she
could see into his heartfire, he didn't bother trying to lie and reassure her.
"Maybe so," he said, "but as you already know,
She placed her hand on
his and gave him a weak smile. "You have a lawyer's way with words,"
she said.
"What I said is
true," said Verily. "
"How he feels
about me," she said, and shuddered. "What if he finds out that I sent
him to Nueva Barcelona knowing that by going there, he'd cause the deaths of
hundreds of souls?"
"Why does he have to find out?" said Verily.
But he knew the answer already.
"He'll ask me," said Margaret. "And
I'll tell him."
"He caused the plague of yellow fever, is that
it?"
"Not on purpose, but yes."
"And you knew he would."
"It was the only
thing that would stop the war that the King already planned. His invasion of
Nueva Barcelona would have forced the
"So at the cost
of those who die of the fever," said Verily, "you saved the lives of
all who would have died in the war."
She shook her head.
"I thought it would. But
"But you delayed it a few more years," said
Verily.
"What good is that?"
"It's two or
three more years of life. Of loving and marrying and having babies. Of buying
and selling, of plowing and planting and harvesting, of moving and settling. It
will be a different world in two or three years, and those who die in the war
will have had that much more life. It's not a small thing, those years."
"Maybe you're
right," said Margaret. "But that won't keep
"Hush now,"
said Horace. "He's not going to hate you."
But Verily wasn't
sure.
She shook her head.
"Because every path that included me telling him led to him doing
something else to prevent the war—and all those things would have failed, and
most of those paths ended with him dead."
She burst into tears.
"I know too much! Oh! God help me, I'm so tired of knowing so much!"
Horace was sitting
beside her in a moment, his arm around her shoulder. He looked at Verily, who
was about to try to offer comfort. "She's tired, and you were wakened out
of your sleep," said Horace. "Go to bed, as she will too. Tomorrow is
time enough for talk."
As usual, Horace knew
just the right thing for everyone to do to be content. Verily got up from the
table. "I'll go and do what you asked," he said to Margaret.
"You can count on me to help find a place for
She nodded slightly,
her face still hidden in her hands.
That was all the
good-night he was going to get, and so he headed back along the hall toward his
room. At first he was filled with irritation at having to set aside his plan to
free
In the morning, he
didn't see Margaret after all. There was a note waiting for him on the floor of
his room, giving the name of Abraham Lincoln's town and how to get there.
At breakfast the old
innkeeper looked grave. "I'm worried about the baby," said Horace.
"She started throwing up last night. She's worn herself out and she's sick
as a dog. She's asleep now, but if she loses this baby too, I swear I don't
know but what she'll lose her mind."
"So I should go on without talking to her?"
"Everything you need to know is on that
paper."
"I doubt that," said Verily.
"All right
then," said Horace with a wan smile. "Everything she thinks you
need to know."
Verily Cooper matched
his smile, then went back to his room to get his things together for the long
westward ride. If he'd only stayed in
Then again, that might
be as good a description of what life was supposed to be as anyone ever thought
of. The only real destination was death, and our lives consisted of finding the
most circuitous and pleasant path to get there.
He was on horseback
and on his way hours before
He thought, as he
rode, about how Alvin and Margaret were the two most powerful, gifted, blessed
people on this continent, without question, and yet Margaret was desperately
sad and frightened all the time, and Alvin wandered about half-lost and
melancholy, and not for the first time Verily thought it was a good thing to be
a man of relatively ordinary gifts.
8
Plans
Nueva
Barcelona finally had something to take
the people's minds off the yellow fever. Folks were still dying from it, and
you can bet their families weren't losing track of the fever's vicious progress
through the city, but a whole bunch of men who had felt completely helpless in
the face of the epidemic were now given a task that would cover them with honor
for doing what they'd been longing to do since the first outbreak of the
plague:
Get out of town.
It was the first move
that the rich made, whenever the fever struck—they packed up their families and
went to the plantation in the country. But regular folks didn't have that
option, and rather despised the rich because they did. No, real men
stuck around. They couldn't afford to get their families out of the city, so
they had to stay with them and risk watching their wives and children get sick
and die. Not to mention the risk of dying themselves. Not much of a way to die,
moaning with fever till you became one of those corpses the body wagons picked
up on their sad passage through the streets.
So when word spread
that Gobernador Anselmo Arellano was calling for volunteers to go upriver and
bring home all the runaway slaves—and kill the white renegades who had helped
them—well, there was no shortage of volunteers. Especially among that element
of the city that was commonly known as "drunk and disorderly."
Not everybody thought
them particularly brave or honorable. Few whores, for instance, gave them their
fifteen minutes free just because "I'm a soldier and I might die."
Nobody knew better than prostitutes just how few men were more than talk. This
wasn't an army that was likely to stand up long if they got any resistance.
Hanging helpless, unarmed French folk, that was all they'd be good for, and
then only if the French didn't do anything dangerous, like slapping them or
throwing rocks.
That's what Calvin was
hearing in the taverns along the dock as the "soldiers" assembled for
shipment upriver. The commander was the governor's son, Colonel Adan, who, as
longtime head of the Nueva Barcelona garrison, was grudgingly appreciated for
being less brutal than he could have been. But Calvin could easily imagine the
despair the poor colonel must have felt upon seeing this sorry lot that had
assembled to take ship.
Yet maybe they weren't
so sorry. Most of them were drunk—but tomorrow they wouldn't be, and they might
look like better soldiers by then. And it wasn't as if the enemy would be hard
to find. Five thousand slaves and French people, moving at the pace of the
slowest child—it wasn't going to be hard to locate them, was it? And what kind
of fight could they put up? Oh, Colonel Adan probably felt just fine about
things.
He might feel
differently if he actually believed those ludicrous reports about a bridge made
out of clear water that disappeared when his soldiers were out on it, causing a
score of deaths and a lot of splashing and spluttering. Perhaps he was so used
to pathetic excuses from his men for their failures that it never occurred to
him that this one might be true.
What will
Well, whatever he
does, I won't be there to help.
Though Calvin was not
against helping if it didn't put him out of his way. That's why he had searched
out Jim Bowie this morning and arranged with him to lead Calvin to Steve Austin.
They met in a saloon two streets back from the water, which meant it was
relatively quiet, with no jostling. There were a few other men there, though
none that Calvin cared much about. Either he'd get to know them later or he
wouldn't. Right now all that mattered was
Calvin only shook his head.
"I'd give him a listen, Steve," said
"Colonel Adan's
little slave-catching venture is doomed," said Calvin. "Don't be with
them when they go down in flames."
"Doomed? By what
army?"
In answer, Calvin
simply softened the metal in their mugs until they collapsed, covering the
table with ale and cold soft metal. With not a little of it flowing onto their
laps.
All the men sprang up
from the table and began brushing ale off their laps. Calvin avoided smiling,
even though they all looked like they'd peed in their trousers. He waited while
"What did you do?"
"Not much," said Calvin. "For a maker,
anyway."
Another man muttered, "Ain't no makers."
"And your ale is
still in your cup," said Calvin cheerfully. "I ain't much of a maker.
But my brother Alvin, he's a first-rater."
"And he's with
them," said Jim Bowie. "Tried to get him to join up with us, but he
wouldn't do it."
"When Colonel
Adan's army finds those runaways," said Calvin, "if he finds
them, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if all their weapons turn into pools of
metal on the ground."
"Or plumb
disappear," said
Calvin grinned.
Soon they were all
seated at the new table—except for a couple of Austin's men who found urgent
business to attend to in some place where somebody wasn't melting metal cups
just by thinking about it.
"Mr. Austin, do
you think I could be useful on your expedition to
"I do," said
"And I've got me
a hankering to see what that tribe is like. My brother, see, he thinks he knows
all about reds. But his reds is all peaceful like. I want to meet some
of them Mexica, the ones who tear the beating heart out of their
sacrifices."
"Will it satisfy
you if you see some of them dead? 'Cause we ain't going there to meet them,
we're going there to kill them."
"All of
them?" said Calvin. "Oh my."
"Well, no,"
said
"I'll tell you
what," said Calvin. "I'll go with you to the end of your expedition,
and help you all I can. Provided that you leave for
"Not dictating a
thing," said Calvin. "Just telling you that any expedition to
"Why are you so
all-fired eager to keep us from helping catch them runaways?"
"Well, first, my
brother's with them, like I said. Since your men are probably the most
dangerous in Barcy right now, I'm making my brother a little bit safer by
keeping you all out of it."
"That's what I
figured," said
"Second reason is
more important," said Calvin. "If you go upriver with Colonel Adan,
your men will get just as messed up as anybody else. My guess is that once
"I don't know if
your brother's all that dangerous."
Calvin got up, leaned
over to their first table, and brought back a congealed swatch of metal that
had once been a mug. "Can you just keep this in mind for a little while,
so I don't have to melt any more of them?"
"All right,"
said
"And the third
reason is, I don't like sitting around waiting. If the expedition starts
tomorrow, I'll be with it. If it doesn't, I'll get bored and go off and find
something entertaining to do."
"Good," said Calvin.
"But you still
didn't answer my question about how do we know you'll actually be there
tomorrow."
"I gave you my
word," said Calvin. "You can't make me go if I don't want to, but I
tell you that I want to, and so I will. You get no better guarantee than that.
You don't have to trust me. You can do what you want."
"How do I know I
won't have nothing but trouble from you along the way, trying to run
everything? The way you're bossing me around now?"
Calvin rose from his
chair. "I can see, gentlemen, that some of you are more interested in
being the big boss than in overcoming whatever powers these Mexica get from all
the blood they spill. I apologize for wasting your time. I hear that the Mexica
castrate the big boss before they cut out his heart. It's an honor you're
welcome to."
He started for the door.
Calvin didn't
hesitate. He just kept on walking. Out into the street. And still no one ran
after him. Well, doggone it.
No, there was somebody.
Jim Bowie—Calvin recognized his heartfire. And he was stopping and throwing a—
Calvin ducked down and
to the left.
A big heavy knife
quivered from the wooden wall right where Calvin's head used to be.
Calvin leapt up,
furious. In a moment, Jim Bowie was there, grinning. Calvin ripped out a long
string of French profanities—eloquent enough that a couple of people nearby,
who spoke French, looked at him with candid admiration.
"What's got your
dander up, Mr. Maker?" said Jim Bowie. "Of course I aimed right at
your head. Your brother would have made my knife vanish in midair."
"I have more
respect for cutlery," said Calvin. Though truth to tell, he could no more make
a knife disappear in mid flight than he could stop the world from spinning. He
could work with mugs because they mostly sat on the table, very very still.
"The way I see
it," said
"I'm not
mad," said Calvin.
"Glad to hear
it," said
Calvin wanted to blast
him into pieces on the spot. But he had his own rules, even if they weren't
So Calvin only nodded
and walked on toward the dock. "Well," said Calvin, "I reckon
that's a wise choice. You run on back to Steve Austin and tell him I said good
luck."
"That fog
yesterday," said Calvin. "That was mine."
"Easy enough to
claim you caused the weather. Me, I've been running winter ever since my old
pap left me the job in his will."
In reply, Calvin
cooled the air right around them. "I think we got us a fog starting up
right here, right now."
And sure enough, the
moisture in the air began to condense until
"All right,"
said
"My knack isn't
fog-making," said Calvin. "Or weather, or any other one thing."
A fish flopped up out
of the water onto the dock. And another. And a couple more. And pretty soon
there were scores of fish flopping around on the wooden planks right among the passersby.
Naturally, some of the fishermen on the dock started picking them up—some to
throw the fish back, others to try to keep them to sell. An argument
immediately sprang up. "Those fish must be sick, you can't sell
them!" To which the reply came, "He don't feel sick to me, a
fish this strong!" Whereupon the fish flapped out of the man's arms and
back into the water.
"If you ever need
fish," said Calvin.
"Oh, yeah,
sure," said
For a moment Calvin
wanted to slap him. Couldn't he recognize a miracle when he saw one? He would
have made a perfect Israelite, complaining at Moses because all they had was
manna and no meat.
Then
"So I pass your test?" said Calvin, letting
a little pissed-offedness seep into his voice.
"Sure enough," said
"But do you pass mine?"
No sooner had Calvin
said this than he felt a knife blade poking into his belly. He hadn't seen it
coming, not in
"If I wanted you dead," said
"I reckon you got a knack a man can
respect," said Calvin.
"Oh, that ain't my knack," said
But when he got up, he
found that he was surrounded by duties impossible to avoid. Things he had to do
before he could even void his bladder. Only his mind wasn't clear, and his eyes
were still bleary with sleep, and as people bombarded him with questions he
found that he couldn't bring himself to care about the answers.
"I don't
know," he said to the woman demanding to know where they were supposed to
find breakfast in this godforsaken place.
"I don't
know," he said to the man who tremulously asked, in broken English,
whether more soldiers would come in boats.
And when Papa Moose
came to him and asked if he thought there was fever on this side of the lake,
Alvin barked his "I don't know" so loudly that Papa Moose visibly
recoiled.
Arthur Stuart was
lying nearby, looking like a gator sunning itself on the shore of the lake. Or
a dead man.
Arthur was all right.
Just tired. At least as worn out as
"Let this man
be," said La Tia. "You see he bone tired, him?"
"I got to pee," he said softly.
"We set folks to digging latrines," she
said. "We got one not far off, you just lean on me."
"Thank you," he said.
She led him along a
short path through the underbrush till he came to a reeking pit with a plank
across it. "I think this wouldn't be hard to find in the dark," he
said.
"Bodies got to do
what bodies got to do," she said. "I leave you alone now."
She did, and he did
all his business. A lot of leaves had been piled up for wiping, and a couple of
buckets of water for washing, and he had to admit he felt better. A little more
awake. A little more vigorous. And hungry.
When he came back to
the shore, he saw that La Tia was doing a good job of keeping folks calm. She
had a line of people waiting to talk to her, but she answered them all with
patience. But it's not like she had a plan, nor was she organizing things for
the journey ahead. Nor did it seem that anybody was working on the problem of
food.
Mama Squirrel and Papa
Moose were not too far off.
"I'm too big to
be leaning on you," said
"You already did,
and I was strong enough," she said.
"I'm feeling
better." But then he did lean on her, because his balance wasn't all that
good yet, and the sand on the shore was irregular and treacherous, the damp
grass just inland of it slippery and creased with ditches and rivulets.
"Thank you," he told her again. Though he still tried not to put any
weight on her.
Papa Moose strode up
to him—strode, his legs showing no sign of his old limp. "I'm sorry I
plagued you the moment you woke up," said Papa Moose.
"I'm glad to see
you're doing better your own self," said
Papa Moose embraced
him. "It's a blessing from God, but I still thank the hands that did God's
work on me."
"For the
children," she said defensively.
"I know it's for
the children," said
Mama Squirrel weighed
this. He could see that it plain hurt her even to think of sharing away what
her children would need. But she also knew that it would hurt to see other
children starve, when hers had plenty. "All right, we'll share it out with
children. Bread and cheese, anyway. Nothing we can do with raw potatoes and
uncooked grain right now."
"Good
thinking," said
"You dreaming,
you think they all line up quietly," said Dead Mary.
"But if we ask,
some will," said
"Asking is
easy," said Dead Mary. She took off at a trot, holding up her skirt to hop
over obstructions on the way.
People were pretty
orderly in line, after all—but those adults that had no children were getting loud
and angry. As
"Thank you for
your patience,"
A stout black woman
called out, "Starving to death don't look like freedom to me!"
"You got a few
good hours of life left in you," called
Soon he was with La
Tia again, and Dead Mary and her mother. "We need to organize," he
said. "Divide people up into groups and pick leaders."
"Good idea,"
said La Tia. Then she waited for more.
"But I don't know
any of these folks," said
"They don't like
me," said Dead Mary.
"But they know
you," said
"You get mighty
hungry, maybe, you," said La Tia.
It took longer than
The way things worked
out, that gave them ten leaders of a hundred households that sat down on the
People fancied titles,
"Reckon that makes you 'general,' " said
Arthur Stuart.
"It makes me '
"I be general," said La Tia.
"Not this boy. Who gonna follow this boy, him?"
"You will," said
La Tia wanted to
answer him sharply, but she held her tongue and listened while
"We got no place
to go," said
"By sea,"
said Dead Mary. "We need boats."
"Boats do us no
good without willing crews," said
"Where we go,
then?" asked La Tia.
"Well, General La
Tia," said
"Don't take us to
red land!" said Rien.
"We can't stay
there," said
"But I don't know
the way."
"Go north for a
while, and then find a road that leads west to the Mizzippy," said
"But what if an
army comes?" said Dead Mary. "We got no fighters here, except maybe a
few of the French men. We got no guns."
"That's why
General La Tia has to consult with Arthur Stuart here."
"I don't got any
guns," said Arthur.
"But you know
what to do with any guns that are raised against us," said
"No," said
La Tia. "I can do that. I know how to do that, you can't lay so much on
that boy, him."
Arthur nodded
gratefully. "Watching heartfires ain't as easy for me as for you, Alvin.
And making fog—that's what Calvin done, not me."
"But it's not
hard," said
"Heck,
Everybody laughed at
that, but in truth they were all frightened—of the dangers on the road, but,
even more, of their own inexperience. It wasn't the blind leading the blind,
really. More like the clumsy leading the clumsy.
"And one more
thing," said
"How we gonna
throw out this angry hitting man?" said La Tia. "Who gonna do
that?"
"The general will
ask some strong men to put the offender out of the camp," said
"What if he got
family, him?"
Arthur snorted softly.
"Arthur
knows," said
"That why you
going?" asked La Tia.
"That's
right," said
He stared her down.
When she looked away, it occurred to him that maybe that didn't happen to her
very often. Giving way like that.
"When you
leaving?" asked one of the colonels.
"Not till we've
had our first meal," said
Margaret walked up the
stairs into the attic room where she had slept as a child. It was a storeroom
now. Father kept a room on the main floor for her, when she visited. She had
tried to get him to rent it out like any other room in the roadhouse, but he
wouldn't do it. "If other people pay to sleep in it," he said,
"it ain't your room."
It was the room where
Peggy—"Little
Peggy" then, since her mother was alive, and doing the midwifery—had a job
to do. She rushed to the woman lying on the bed and laid hands on her womb. She
saw so many things in that moment. How the child was lying in the womb. How the
mother was clamped down and couldn't open up to let the child out. Her mother
had done a spell with a ring of keys then, and the womb opened, and out came
the baby.
She had never seen a
baby whose heartfire told such a dire story. The brightest heartfire she had
ever seen—but when she cast her eyes into the paths of his future, there were
none at all. No paths. No future. This child was going to die, and before he
ever made a single choice.
Except... there was
one thing she could do. One tiny dim pathway leading out of all the dark
futures, but that one opened out into hundreds, into thousands of glorious
futures. And in that one narrow gate, the one that led to everything for this
child, she saw herself, Little Peggy Guester, five years old, reach out and
take a caul of flesh from the baby's face. So she did it, and all the deaths
fell away, and all the lives became possible.
I gave him life. In
that room.
But just the once. She
took the caul and saved it, and later brought it up here into the attic, to her
room, and hid it in a box. And as the baby grew up into a little boy, and then
a bigger boy, she used tiny pinches of the caul to access his own knack, which
he was too young and inexperienced to understand.
Not that Peggy knew
much better. She learned as she went. Learned to do her work of saving his
life. For when she removed the caul from his face, thousands of bright futures
opened up for him. But on every one of those paths, he died young. And each
time she saved him from one of those deaths, another death opened up for him
farther down the road.
Alvin the miller's son
had an enemy.
But he also had a
friend who watched over him. And gradually, as more and more paths showed him
reaching adulthood, she began to see something else. A prim and austere woman,
a schoolteacher, who loved him and married him and kept him safe.
There in that attic
room, holding one of the last shreds of the caul in her hand, she realized that
the prim, austere schoolteacher was herself.
I do love him, she
thought. And I'm his wife. I have his baby inside me.
But I can't keep him
safe.
In fact, I harm him as
much as anyone now. I have no more of his caul. And it wouldn't matter if I
did. He deeply understands his knack. He knows more about the way the whole
universe works than I ever will; even when I look inside him, I can't
understand what and how he sees.
So instead of watching
over him, I use him. I found my own purpose in life, to fight slavery but also
prevent the terrible war that I see in everyone's heartfire. I have gone
everywhere and done everything, while he floundered, unsure of what he ought to
do.
And why was he unsure?
Because I have never told him.
I know the great work
he is supposed to do. But I can't tell him, because once he sets his foot on
that road, there is no saving him. He will die, and die brutally, at the hands
of men who hate him, betrayed by some that he loved. A bitter, sad death, with
his great work unfinished. And without her even there beside him. In some paths
he is alone; in others, he has friends with him. Some of those friends die,
some live. But none can save him. In fact, it's his death that saves them.
But why? Why should he
die? This is a man who could stop bullets by melting them in the air. He could
simply walk through a wall and leave the room where they corner him. He could
drop them all through the floor. He could blind them all, or fill them with
unreasoning panic to make them run away.
And yet on every path,
he does none of those things. He accepts the death they bring him. And I can't
bear it. How could
She knelt in the
little attic window where, as a five-year old, she had stood to watch Alvin's
family ride away into the west, to the place where they built a mill that
became the foundation of the town of Vigor Church. And she realized: If
A man with a wife and
children doesn't want to die. Not if he loves them, and they love him. Not if
he has hope for the future. If I just love him enough, I could save him. I've
always known that.
Yet what have I done?
I sent him to Nueva Barcelona. Knowing that if he went, he would indirectly
cause the deaths of hundreds of people. Save thousands, yes, but hundreds would
still be felled, and it won't help that it was my responsibility. In fact, it
will hurt. Because he'll cease to trust me. He'll think I love something else
more than him. That I will expend his trust in a greater cause.
But it isn't true,
I just didn't love you
the way you wanted to be loved. I loved you like that little five-year-old
girl, keeping you safe. Helping turn you away from terrible futures. Giving you
the freedom to make all the good choices you've made as a grown man.
And then taking away
your freedom by not telling you all that I knew about the consequences of your
actions. She could hear him telling her: A man isn't free if he doesn't know
all that could be known about his choice.
But if I told you,
Instead you've turned
it into something wonderful. I didn't see these paths. When you use your power
you always open doors into the future that didn't exist before. So I didn't see
that bridge you made across the water, I didn't see these five thousand heartfires
you brought with you out of the city and into the wilderness. So it worked out
well, don't you see?
Except that he'll say,
"If my power opens doors to paths you didn't see, why didn't you trust me
to find my own way in Barcy?"
Or maybe he won't say
it. There are paths where he doesn't say that.
She reached down and
laid her hands on her own belly, above the womb where her baby's heart was
beating. A healthy baby, with a heartfire as bright and strong as she could
have reasonably hoped for.
But nothing like
Which is all she could
have hoped for. An ordinary child— talented in this, having a knack with that,
but all within the realms of the expected. This little boy will have no enemy
pursuing him every day of his life. And instead of watching him every waking
minute as I watched
God and Alvin willing,
that is. Because he may never come to me again. When he knows how I used him,
how I deceived him, what I caused him, unknowingly, to do. How I did not trust
him to make his own choices.
She sat down with her
back to the window and cried softly into her apron.
And as she wept, she
wondered: Did my mother weep like this, when my two older sisters died, each
one just a baby? No, I know what those tears are like. Even though my first
baby didn't live long enough for me to get to know him, I laid that little body
in the ground and I know at least something of what she went through, laying
her babies in their graves.
Nor do I weep the way
my mother would have wept, if she had known about my father and his love
for Mistress Modesty. I kept that secret from her because I saw the terrible
consequences of her learning the truth, how it would destroy them both.
No, the way I weep now
is the way my father would have wept, if he had known that his betrayal of my
mother was sure to be discovered, and he could do nothing to prevent it. My sin
was not adultery, to be sure. I've been faithful to
Bitter tears of
anticipated shame.
And with that thought,
the tears dried up. I weep for myself. It's myself I'm pitying here.
Well, I won't do it.
I'll bear the consequences of what I did. And I'll try to make the best of what
is left between us. And maybe this baby will heal us.
Maybe.
She hated all the maybes.
For on this matter, as so many others, the fog that blocked so many of
All her hopes were in
the hidden parts of his heartfire. Because the paths that were not hidden gave
her no cause for hope. There'd be no happiness for her on any of those roads.
Because a life without
Calvin stood on the
dock and watched the riverboats pull out, one by one. Colonel Adan had done his
planning well. The steamboats pulled out on schedule, and there was no danger
of collision.
Unfortunately, there
were also men determined to get out of this city whether they were part of the
official expedition or not. So in the midst of the attempt to order the
steamboats into a convoy for the passage upstream, two big rowboats swung out
into the river, with six men pulling at the oars of each and another dozen or
so under arms, many of them foolishly standing up and huzzahing their own
bravado.
Calvin laughed aloud
to see them. What fools. So eager for death, and so sure to find it.
Sooner, in fact, than
Calvin himself anticipated. Though in retrospect, it seemed almost inevitable.
Too much order always seemed to bore God or Fate or
Sure enough, one of
the rowboats, with its pilot yelling for a steamboat to get out of the way,
tried to insert itself between the big riverboats. But steamboats don't stop
quickly, and half-drunken rowers don't maneuver well when they try to cross the
wake of a steamboat. The captain of the steamboat saw the danger, and some of
the Spanish soldiers on board fired at the rowers.
That provoked the
armed men in the other rowboat to stand up and fire a volley at the Spanish
soldiers. Not a shot hit home, for the obvious reason that so many muskets
firing in the same direction at once had such a recoil that the boat rocked
over and capsized. Some of the men came up sputtering. Some came up screaming.
Some didn't come up—apparently unable to remove their boots in the water or get
rid of all the lead balls they carried in their ammunition pouches.
How short life is for
fools, thought Calvin. They go out on the water with no thought about how to
get ashore if the boat should fail them.
Meanwhile, panicked at
the warning shots the Spanish had fired, and some of them thinking that a
Spanish cannonball had sunk the other rowboat, the rowers on the first boat
tried to change direction. Trouble was, they hadn't agreed on which direction
to change to, and so the oars interfered with each other and the rowboat was
swept by the current right back into the bows of the big riverboat.
The collision broke
half the oars and turned some of them into spears that pierced the bodies of
their erstwhile masters. Some of the men jumped into the water; those that
didn't were borne under when the steamboat pushed the rowboat over.
It was bedlam on the
docks, with some people trying to help the swimmers ashore, and a couple even
diving in to help save some of the drowning men. Smaller rowboats quickly put
out to help with the rescue. But most of the people were laughing and hooting
and catcalling, having a grand old time at the expense of those fools. And
while he didn't do any of the catcalling, Calvin had to admit he was one of the
laughers.
But even if Calvin had
been able to think of something like that quick enough, and even if he had
enough control to do anything useful at such a distance, he wouldn't have
tried. The world was no poorer for the loss of a few such fools. Indeed, it was
downright generous of these "brave" drunk nitwits to improve the
breeding population of Barcy by removing themselves from it.
All fools on the river
today, thought Calvin. Because the ones following such careful plans were going
to end up looking just as stupid as these clowns, when
Which was probably
about how the expedition to
But not Calvin. He
might go along with the plans of fools as long as they looked useful, or at
least entertaining. But he would never turn his life over to someone else's
plan. His own plans were the only plans he ever followed.
Not like
9
Expeditions
It
took some doing, but they found the
nicest dresses in the whole company that would fit them, and decked out Dead
Mary and her mother, Rien, so they could pass for slaveowners. Slightly shabby,
perhaps, but it wasn't completely impossible that they would have a mammy slave
like La Tia seemed to be and a sturdy young man like Arthur Stuart.
It's not like
strangers would be rare in this country, either. Ten years ago the only white
folks here was trappers or fugitives. But when most of the reds who didn't want
to live white crossed over the Mizzippy, it opened up this land to settlement.
Around here, if your house had been standing for five years, you were an
old-timer. So nobody'd be too surprised to see two ladies of a family they
didn't know—or so they hoped.
I'm a white man, and
not a word I say would be useful to you after. I'll be watching in case anything
goes wrong, but you've got to do it yourselves."
La Tia and Arthur
Stuart waited just off the porch as Dead Mary and Rien stepped up to clap hands
and call someone to the door. Soon it was opened by an elderly black man.
"Good
evening," he said gravely.
"Good
evening," said Dead Mary. She was doing the talking because her French
accent was not so pronounced as Rien's. And because she could do a better job
of faking high-class conversation. "Sir, my mother and I would like to
speak to the master of the house, if we may."
"Master of the
house away," said the old man. "Mistress of the house poorly. But the
young master, he here."
"Could you fetch
him for us, then?"
"Would you like
to come and rest inside, where it's shady?" asked the old man.
"No thank
you," said Mary. She had no intention of getting out of sight of Arthur
Stuart or La Tia.
Soon the old man
returned, and brought with him a young man who could not have been much over
fourteen years old. Behind him hovered a white man of middle age. Not the
master of the house, and not a slave, so who was he?
Mary addressed the
young man. "My name is Marie Moore," she said. They had agreed an
English last name would be better for her, suggesting that her father had
simply married a Frenchwoman. "My mother is shy about speaking
English."
It was the middle-aged man who leapt to answer.
"Parleyvous francais, madame?"
"Mr. Tutor," said the boy, "they come
to see me."
"Came, young
master," said Mr. Tutor.
"This is not my
lesson right this very moment, if you please." So the boy was faking being
high class just as much as Mary. He turned back to her with an irked look on
his face, but quickly changed it to an expression of dignity. "What do you
wish? If you wish to have water or a bite to eat, the kitchen's around
back."
This was not a good
sign, that he was treating them like beggars, when he should take them for
slave-owning gentry like himself.
Fortunately, Mr. Tutor
saw the gaffe at once. "Young master, you can't ask ladies to go around
back as if they were servants or beggars!" To Mary and Rien he said,
"Please excuse his lapse. He has never met a visitor at the door before,
and so—"
"They're not
ladies," said the boy. "Look at their dresses. I've seen better
dresses on slaves."
"Master Roy, you
are being impolite, I fear."
"Mr. Tutor, you
forget your place," said
Mary smiled and put on
her archest high-class voice. "There's danger about, and yet you do not
invite two ladies inside because our dresses are not new enough to suit you.
Your mother will be pleased when all the neighbor ladies hear how we were
turned away at your door because the young master of the house was so
proud." She turned her back on him and started down the stairs. "Come
along, Mother, this is not a polite house."
"Young master!" said Mr. Tutor, in great distress.
"You always think
I do wrong, but I tell you I know they're a bunch of liars, it's my knack."
Mary turned around.
"You say that you have a knack for discerning a lie?"
"I always
know," said
"You must be
quite a help to your father," said Mary.
"I am," said
the boy proudly.
"But not all lies
are alike. My mother and I have fallen on hard times, but we still pretend to
be ladies of substance because that allows us to uphold our dignity. But I would
be surprised if we were the first ladies to come to this house planning to
deceive you about our rank in the world."
The boy grinned
sheepishly. "Well, you got that aright. When her friends come to call, the
lies come thicker and faster than hail in a storm."
"Sometimes you
should let a harmless lie stand, sir, without naming it so, for the sake of
good manners."
"I could not have
said that better," said Mr. Tutor. "The young master is still so young."
"They can see that
I'm young," said
"Lemonade would
be lovely," said Mary. "But before we accept your kind invitation, we
heard that your name is
"Why, we took our
name from what we grow. Roy Cottoner, and my father is Abner Cottoner, after
some general in the Bible."
"And in French," said Mary, "your first name means 'king.' "
"I know
that," said
They followed him into
the house. Mary had no idea if they were doing things properly—should Mother go
first, or should she?—but they figured Roy wouldn't know, and besides, they
were already tagged as impostors, so it wouldn't hurt if they got a few things
wrong.
"Master Cottoner," said Mary.
"Our servants are thirsty. Is there..."
He laughed. "Oh,
them. Old Bart, our houseboy, he'll show them around back to the cistern."
Sure enough, the
elderly black man was already closing the front door behind him as he headed
out to where Arthur Stuart and La Tia were waiting. Mary wished she had more
confidence in Arthur Stuart's knack. But
Mr. Tutor looked
mortally offended. "I am not a servant in this house, sir."
"Well what do you
think, I should go tell them myself?"
Mary suspected, from
what she knew of manners, that that was indeed what he ought to do, but Mr.
Tutor merely narrowed his eyes and went off to obey. Mary was just as happy to
have him out of the room.
She watched as
"Master
Cottoner," said Mary. "We have, as you guessed, come to ask for
aid."
"Father isn't
here," said
"It happens that
we don't need money. What we need is permission to bring a large group of
people onto your land, and feed them from your larder, and let them sleep the
night."
"We are
indeed," said Mary. "There are five thousand of us, and we'd rather
have your help offered freely. But if we have to, we'll just take what we need.
We have hundreds of hungry children among us, and we don't mean for them to go
hungry."
"You get out of
my house," said
For the first time,
Mother spoke. "You are young," she said. "But it is the essence
of dignity to pretend to desire what you cannot prevent."
"My father'll
shoot you down like dogs when he gets home."
"
"They're a bunch
of runaways from Barcy, Mama! They're threatening to take food and such from
us."
"That's no reason
not to be polite," said the woman. "I am Ruth Cottoner, mistress of
this house. Please forgive my ill-mannered son."
"You shouldn't
apologize for me, Mama, not to thieves and liars!"
"If I weren't so
ill, I'd have reared him better," said Ruth sadly.
Then she pulled up a
musket that she had been holding behind her leg. She aimed it straight at Rien
and before Mary could even scream, she pulled the trigger.
The gunpowder fizzled
and sparked, and a double handful of smallshot dribbled out the end of the
barrel.
"How odd,"
said Ruth. "My husband said it was loaded and ready to fire."
Arthur Stuart appeared
behind her. "It was," he said. "But sometimes guns just don't do
what you tell them."
She turned around to
face him, and now for the first time there was fear on her face. "Whose
slave are you! What are you doing in my house!"
"I'm no man's
slave," said Arthur Stuart, "nor any woman's neither. I'm just a
fellow who doesn't take kindly to folks pointing muskets at my friends."
La Tia appeared behind
him. "Ma'am," she said, "you lay down that foolish gun and
sit." La Tia was carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and six
glasses. "We gonna have a talk, us."
"You leave my
mother alone!" shouted
"You will die for laying a hand on my son,"
said Ruth.
"We'll all die someday," said Arthur Stuart.
"Now you heard the lady. Set."
"You have invaded my home."
"This ain't no
home," said Arthur Stuart. "This is a prison, where sixty black
people are held captive against their will. You are one of the captors, and for
this crime you surely deserve terrible punishment, ma'am. But we ain't here to
punish nobody, so maybe you best be keeping your thoughts of punishing us to
yourself. Now set."
She sat. Arthur
propelled
La Tia put the tray on
the small serving table and began to fill the glasses with lemonade. "Just
so you know," said La Tia, "we notice that some fool has lock all the
black folk into their cabins. In the heat of the day, that be so mean to
do."
"So I let them
all out," said Arthur. "They're drinking their fill at the pump right
now, but pretty soon they'll be helping our company find places to camp on your
lawns and in your barns, and setting out a supper to feed five thousand. It's
like being in the Bible, don't you think?"
"We don't have food enough for so many!"
said Ruth.
"If you don't, we'll impose on the hospitality of
some of your neighbors."
"My husband will be back any time! Very
soon!"
"We'll be
watching for him," said Arthur. "I don't think you need to fret—we
won't let him accidentally hurt somebody."
Mary couldn't help but
admire how cool he was, as if he was enjoying this. And yet there was no malice
in it.
"He'll raise the county
and have you all hanged!" said
"Even the women
and children?" asked Arthur Stuart mildly. "That's a dangerous
precedent. Fortunately, we aren't killers, so we won't hang you."
"I bet Mr.
Tutor's already run for help," said
"I take it Mr.
Tutor is that soft-bodied white man who has read more books than he
understood."
"He's standing
out in the yard with his pants down around his ankles, while some of the
illiterate black folks are reading to him from the Bible. It seems they heard
him make a big deal about how black folks couldn't be taught to read because
their brains wasn't big enough or they got baked in the sun or some such
theory, and they're proving him wrong at this moment."
"You were busy
out there," said Rien.
"I'm a sick and
dying woman," said Ruth. "It's cruel of you to do this to me in the
last weeks of my life."
Arthur looked at her
and smiled. "And how many weeks of freedom were you going to give any of
your slaves, before they died?"
"We treat our
servants well, thank you!" said Ruth.
As if in answer to
her, Old Bart came into the room. He didn't walk slowly now. His stride was
bold and quick, and he walked up to Ruth and spat in her lap. At once
"No!" cried
Mary, and her mother also cried out, "Non!"
"We don't hit
nobody," said La Tia softly. "And no spitting, neither."
Old Bart turned to
her. "The folks out back, they all wanted to do it, but I said, Let me do
it just the once for all of us. And they chose me for the job. You know this
boy already done had his way with two of the girls, and one of them not even
got her womanlies yet."
"That's a lie!" shouted
"My son is not capable of—"
"Don't you try to
tell black folks what white folks is capable of," said Arthur Stuart.
"But we're done with all that now. We ain't come here, sir, to bring
vengeance or justice. Just freedom."
"You bring me freedom,
and then say I can't use it?" said Old Bart.
"I know what you
doing," said La Tia. "You a house slave, you try make them field
slave forget you sleep indoors on a bed, you."
Old Bart glared at
her. "Every day I got them treating me like dirt, they in my face all the
time, you think a indoor bed make up for that? I hate them more than
anybody. Me slapping him stead of killing him, that what mercy look
like."
Arthur Stuart nodded.
"I got respect for your feelings, sir. But right now I don't care about
justice nor mercy neither. I care about getting five thousand people safe to
the Mizzippy.
And I don't need to
have the whole country stirred up by a bunch of stories about slaves slapping
the children of their former masters."
"They ain't gonna
tell no slapping story," said Old Bart. "They gonna tell that we killed
this white boy and raped that white woman, and cut that stupid
teacher all up. So as long as they gonna tell it, why not do a little of
it?"
Ruth gasped.
"You already done
all you gonna do," said Arthur Stuart. "I told you why. So if you
raise a hand against anybody else while we're here, sir, I'll have to stop
you."
Old Bart smiled
patronizingly at Arthur Stuart. "I'd like to see you try."
"No you
wouldn't," said Arthur.
Mary tried to defuse the
situation. She rose from her chair and approached Ruth Cottoner. "Please
give me your hand," she said.
"Don't touch
me!" cried Ruth. "I won't give my hand to an invader and a
looter!"
"I know something
about disease," said Mary. "I know more than your doctor."
"In Barcy,"
said Arthur Stuart, "everybody came to her to know if they was gonna get
better when they was sick."
"I'll do no
harm," said Mary. "And I'll tell you the truth of what I see. Your
son will know if I'm lying."
Slowly the woman
raised her hand and put it in Mary's.
Mary felt the woman's
body as if it became part of her own, and at once knew where the cancer was.
Centered in her womb, but spread out, too, eating away at her inside.
"It's bad," she said. "It started in your womb, but it's everywhere
now. The pain must be terrible."
Ruth closed her eyes.
"Mama," said
Mary turned to Arthur Stuart. "Can you ...?"
"Not me," said Arthur Stuart. "It's too
much for me."
"But
"You can ask
him," said Arthur Stuart. "It might be too much for him, too, you
know. He ain't no miracle worker."
"You have some
kind of healer with you?" said Ruth bitterly. "I've had healers come
before, the charlatans."
"He ain't mostly
a healer," said Arthur Stuart. "He only does it kind of, you know,
when he runs into somebody who needs it."
Mary let go of the
woman's hand and walked to the window. Already the people were walking onto the
land in their groups of ten households and fifty households. Blacks from the
plantation were guiding them to various buildings and sheds, and there were
noises of pots and pans, of chopping and chattering coming from the kitchen.
Among the swarming
people, it was easy to pick out
Verily Cooper's thighs
always got sore when he rode. Sore on the outside, and sore in the muscles as well.
There were people who throve on riding, hour after hour. Verily wasn't one of
them. And he shouldn't have to be. Lawyers prospered, didn't they? Lawyers rode
in carriages. On trains.
Riding a horse you had
to think all the time, and work, too. The horse didn't do it all, not by any
means. You always had to be alert, or the horse would sense that no one was in
control and you'd find yourself following a route to whatever the horse
happened to smell that seemed interesting.
And then there was the
chafing. The only way to keep the saddle from chafing the insides of your
thighs was to stand in the stirrups a little, hold yourself steady. But that
was tiring on the muscles of your legs. Maybe with time he'd develop more
strength and endurance, but most days he didn't take such long rides on
horseback. So it was raise yourself in the stirrups until your thighs ached,
and then sit and let your thighs chafe.
Either way your legs
burned.
Why should I do this for
He was ashamed of
himself for thinking such disloyal thoughts, but he couldn't help what entered
his head, could he? For a while he'd been a friend and traveling companion to
He could set a broken
bone—which wasn't a bad knack to have—but he couldn't heal an open wound. He
could make a barrel fit so tight it would never leak, but he couldn't open a
steel lock by melting the metal. And when
Yet
And not making much
money at lawyering.
I'm a good lawyer, Verily
told himself. I'm as good at law as I am at coopery. Maybe better. But I'll
never plead before the Supreme Court or the King's Bench or any other lofty
venue. I'll never have a case that makes me famous—except defending
And here his attention
had wandered again, and the horse was not on the main trail. Where am I this
time? Will I have to backtrack?
Just ahead the road he
was on crossed a little stream. Only instead of a ford, as most such roads
would have, there was a stout bridge—a covered one, too—only ten feet long, but
well above the water, and showing no signs of weakening even though as Verily
knew, all the covered bridges on this road had been built by Alvin's father and
older brothers, so no other travelers would lose a beloved son and brother
because some insignificant river like the Hatrack happened to be in flood on
the very day they had to cross.
So the horse had taken
a turn somewhere and now they were headed, not direct west to
What I need is to find
a lawyer in
I'll take a look at
And I won't go through
He turned his horse
and did not go far before he found the fork in the road where the horse had
taken the wrong turning. No, be honest, he told himself. Where you took
the wrong turning, hoping to flee like Jonah from your duty.
Arthur Stuart watched
So when
Then
In answer, she placed
her hands in his. And there, sitting in the parlor, with all the noise of the
business of camp outside, and some of it inside, too, as people bounded in from
time to time, demanding a decision from La Tia or Rien, Alvin set to work
changing her inside.
Arthur Stuart tried to
follow along, and this time
But some things he could
see. How, when
"I feel sick," she murmured.
"But not in pain,"
"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
She shook her head. "The pain's gone, that's
all."
"Well, that's something, ain't it?" said
She began to weep.
At once
"She's crying in relief," said Arthur
Stuart.
"No she's not," said
"You hurt her!" said
"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
"You can't come back here," she said.
"Damn right he can't," said
"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
"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
"For a few hours,
maybe," she said.
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.
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
It was no riverboat
they boarded for the
Calvin's respect grew
for Sieve Austin's ability to get things done. Naturally, there were plenty of
people willing to put up money to conquer
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
Not that Calvin didn't
know it all along.
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.
Around him the other
soldiers of the expedition were laughing and joking and boasting about what
they'd do in
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,"
"It's weather"
said Arthur Stuart. "I'm making weather."
"You're making a
fence around some people who need protection," said
"I'm not gonna
start no storm," Arthur Stuart said scornfully. "You know me all
these years, and you think I'm Calvin?"
"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?"
And then it was time for
"You have to sleep," said Dead Mary to him.
"Don't go till morning."
"Night time's the best for me," said
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
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
Then again, for all
Arthur Stuart knew, women were always falling in love with
But this time
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
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
It's not like
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
Good thing
And the last thing
So when it came time
for
Only Arthur Stuart,
and he didn't run up to
When he looked away
from where
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
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 keep 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.
"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.
"I got to learn
them first," said Arthur. "It's not like I already got all possible languages
inside my head."
She laughed lightly.
"What is it like, traveling with him all the time?"
"Like being with
your brother-in-law who sometimes treats you like a kid and sometimes treats
you like a person."
She smiled and shook
her head. "It must be wonderful, to see him do these noble things."
"He usually does
no more than one noble deed afore dinner, and then he's done for the day."
"You're teasing
me," she said.
"You want to know
what it's like?" said Arthur Stuart. "Just ask your ma how thrilling
it is every time she sees you find out whether somebody's sick, and whether
they'll die of it."
"How could you ever get used to something like
this?"
"I'm not trying to get used to it," said
Arthur. "I'm trying to learn to do it."
"Why? Why do you need to know, when he can
do it so much better?"
Didn't she have any
idea how hurtful it was to say such a thing? "Well, it's a good thing I
did learn something, don't you think?" he said. "Or we'd have to have
a bunch of watchmen out tonight, and in this group, how many reliable guards do
you think we'd find?"
"So you really made the fog? He didn't do
it?"
"He started it, to show me how. I made the
rest."
"And you can do it tomorrow?"
"I hope so,"
said Arthur Stuart, " 'cause we got to leave this fog behind. If we stayed
a second night here, this plantation wouldn't have anything left to eat and the
Cottoners would starve."
"They won't
starve—they don't have all those slaves to feed now, remember?" She lay
back on the grass. "If I could travel with him, I would be happy every
minute of every day."
"Don't work that
way for me," said Arthur Stuart. "About every other day, I stub my
toe or eat something that makes me queasy. Otherwise, though, it's pretty much
ecstasy."
"Why do you tease me? All I'm doing is telling
you what's in my heart."
"He's a married man," said Arthur Stuart.
"And his wife is my sister."
"Don't be jealous for your sister," said
Dead Mary. "I don't love him that way."
Yes you do, thought Arthur Stuart. "Glad to hear
it," he said.
"Can you help me?" she said.
"Help you what?"
"This globe of crystal water he made, that I've
been carrying with me—"
"As I recall, you
had a couple of boys who were sweet on you pushing that wheelbarrow most of the
day."
She waved his tease
away. "I look in it and what I see frightens me."
"What do you
see?"
"All the deaths
in the world," she said. "So many I can't even tell who is doing the
dying."
Arthur Stuart
shuddered. "I don't know how the thing works. Maybe you only see what
you've been trained to see. You already know how to see death, so that's what
you see."
She nodded. "That makes sense. I was going to ask
you what you see."
"My mother," said Arthur Stuart.
"Flying. Carrying me to freedom."
"So you were born in slavery."
"My mother spent all her strength and died of it,
getting me away."
"How brave of her. How sad for you."
"I had family. A
couple of families. A black one, the
"And all before you were twenty."
"I don't reckon we're done yet," said Arthur
Stuart.
"So you can tease me, but I can't tease
you?"
"I didn't know you were teasing."
"So you don't speak all the
languages." She laughed at him.
"If you don't mind, maybe it's time for
sleep."
"Don't be mad at
me, Prentice Maker. We have a lot of work to do together. We should be
friends."
"We are," said Arthur Stuart. "If you
want to be."
"I do."
He thought, but did not say: Just so you can use me to
stay close to
"Do you?" she said.
Does it matter what I
want? "Of course," he said. "This is all going to work better if
we're friends."
"And someday
you'll help me understand what I see in
"I don't even
understand what I see in my soup," said Arthur Stuart. "But I'll
try."
She rolled onto one
arm and leaned toward him and kissed his forehead. "I will sleep better knowing
you're my friend and I can learn from you."
Then she got up and
left.
You might sleep
better, thought Arthur Stuart, but I won't.
10
Mizzippy
Leaving Arthur in
charge of all the makery that this exodus required was dangerous, not because
there was any ill will in the young man, but because there was simply so much
he didn't know. Not just about makery, either, but about life, about what the
consequences of each action were likely to be. Not that
Worse, the actual
authority in the camp was held by La Tia, and—to a lesser extent—by Dead Mary
and her mother. La Tia he had only met the day before the crossing of the lake.
She was a woman who was used to being more powerful than anyone around her—how
would she deal with Arthur Stuart when
And Dead Mary. It was
obvious she was enamored of Arthur Stuart—the way she watched him, enjoyed his
company, laughed at his wit. Of course the boy would never see that, he wasn't
used to the company of women, and since Dead Mary wasn't a flirt or a tart, the
signs would be hard for him to recognize, being so inexperienced. But what if,
in
He also had misgivings
about bringing along the slaves from the plantations where they stopped along
the way. But as La Tia said, when he suggested they might not want to swell
their numbers: "This a march of freedom, man! Who you gonna leave behind?
These folk need less freedom? Why we the chosen ones? They as much Israelites
as us!"
Israelites. Of course
everybody was comparing this to the exodus from
But not all. There was
a lot of anger in this group. A lot of people who had come to hate all
authority, and not just that of the Spanish or the slaveowners. The anger in
Old Bart, the butler in the Cottoner house—there was so much fury in his heart,
But then they'd come
to a new plantation where slaves had suffered worse than they did on the
Cottoner place, and Old Bart's anger would rekindle, and the others from his
old plantation would see the fire in him and it would stir it up in them, too.
That was just human nature, and it made the situation dangerous.
How many others were
there, with bits of authority like Old Bart's? Not to mention the ones that
would like to make trouble just because they liked stirring things up. It's not
like they'd get to say, at each plantation, We're gonna free all of you what's
nice and forgiving, anybody who's got any nastiness in them, or is too angry to
act peaceful, you're gonna stay here under the lash.
Like Moses, they'd
take everybody that had been in bondage. And like Moses, they couldn't guess if
some of them might find some way of making a golden calf that would destroy the
exodus before they got to the promised land.
Promised land. That
was the biggest worry. Where in the world was he going to take them? Where was
the land of milk and honey? It's not as if the Lord had appeared to
And yet he was the
only angel
Oh, there had been
miracles enough in
With all this running
through his mind, over and over again, reaching no conclusion, he soon found
that his legs were tired and his feet were sore—something that hadn't happened
to him while running since Ta-Kumsaw had first taught him to hear the greensong
and let it fill him with the strength of all the life around him.
This won't do, he realized.
If I run like a normal man, I'll cover ground so slowly it will be more than
one night before I reach the river. I have to shut all this out of my mind and
let the song have me.
So he did the only
thing he could think of that would shut all else out of his mind.
He reached out,
searching for Margaret's heartfire, which he always knew as well as a man might
know his own self. There she was . .. and there, just under her own heartfire,
was that glowing spark of the baby that they had made together.
Exploring this new
life, this manling-to-be, all other worries left Alvin and then the greensong
came to him, and his son was part of it, that beating heart was part of the
rhythm of the trees and small animals and grass and, yes, even the slave-grown
cotton, all of it alive. The birds overhead, the insects crawling in and on the
earth, the flies and skeeters, they were all part of the music. The gators in
the banks of languid rivers and stagnant pools, the deer that still browsed in
the stands of wood that had not yet made way for the cotton fields, the small
herbs with healing and poison in them, the fish in the water, and the hum, hum,
hum of sleeping people who, in the nighttime, became part of the world again
instead of fighting against it the way most folks did the livelong day.
So it was that he was
not tired, not sore, but alert and filled with vigor and well-being when he
reached the shores of the Mizzippy. He had crossed many a wagon track but
nothing so fine as to be called a road, for in these parts the best road was
the water, and the greatest highway of all was the Mizzippy.
Though it was night,
there were stars enough, and a sliver of moon.
There was no doubt
that Tenskwa-Tawa knew
It wasn't something
Or not. After all,
it's not as if Tenskwa-Tawa came and went at
But if Tenskwa-Tawa
didn't come at all, what would that mean? That his answer was no? That he would
not let these five thousand children of Israel—or at least children of God, or
maybe Tenskwa-Tawa saw them as nothing more than the children of their
powerless parents, but human beings all the same—was it possible he would not
let them pass? What would
He looked toward his
left, not with his eyes, but searching for the heartfires of the northbound expedition
that had left Barcy that afternoon to bring these runaway slaves back home.
Good—they hadn't made much progress on the first day, and were still far off.
There was a lot of anger and discomfort in the group, too, as drunks vomited
and former drunks suffered from headaches and men who wished they were drunk
grumbled at the tedium of the journey and the poor quality of the pleasures
aboard a military boat.
Even farther was the
ship that carried Calvin. Plenty of anger on that ship, too—but of a different
kind, a sort of bitter sense of entitlements long delayed. Calvin had found a
like-minded bunch, people who felt the world owed them something and was slow
to pay up. Were they really going to
Mostly, though,
Building a bridge for
just himself didn't seem to have much point to it. But it was a long swim, and
a hard one to do wearing all his clothes and carrying a golden plow—which would
make a pretty good anchor but a mighty poor raft.
So he began to make
his way up the river. The trouble was that close to the water, all was a tangle
of trees and brush, while farther back, he couldn't see whether there was any
boat tied up. This wasn't hospitable country for farming or fishing, and it was
doubtful anybody lived too close. And there were gators—he could see their
heartfires, dimmed a bit by sleep, except the hungry ones. Wouldn't they just
like a piece of manflesh to digest as they lay on the riverbank through the
heat of the day tomorrow.
Don't wake up for me,
he murmured to a nearby wakeful gator. Keep your place, I'm not for you
today.
Finally he realized
there was going to be no boat unless he made one.
So he found a dead,
half-fallen tree—no shortage of those in this untended land—and got it to let
go of its roots' last hold in the earth. With a great splash it fell into the
water, and after a short while,
Mounting it was a bit
of a trouble, since it was inclined to roll, and it occurred to
But thinking about the
past reminded him of all those years of childhood, when it seemed that every
bad accident that befell him was related somehow to water. His father had
remarked upon it, and not as some kind of superstition about coincidence,
either. Water was out to get him, that's what Alvin Senior said.
And it wasn't
altogether false. No, the water itself had no will or wish to harm him or
anything. But water naturally tore and rusted and eroded and melted and mudded
up everything it passed over or under or through. It was a natural tool of the
Unmaker.
At the thought of his
ancient enemy, who had so often brought him to the edge of death, he got that
old feeling from his childhood. The sense that something was watching him from
just out of sight, just on the edge of vision. But when he turned his head, the
watcher seemed to flee to where the new edge of his vision was. Nothing was
ever there. But that was the problem—the Unmaker was nothing, or at
least was a lover of nothing, and wished to make everything into nothing, and
would not rest until it all was broken down and swept away and gone.
Or maybe he doesn't
hate me. Maybe he's a wild creature, hungry all the time, and I simply smell like
his prey. No malice in it. Wasn't tearing down just a part of building up? All
part of the same great flow of nature. Why should he be the enemy of the
Unmaker, when really they worked together, the maker and unmaker, the maker
making things out of the rubble of whatever the unmaker tore down.
There was a heartfire
near him. A hungry one indeed. That gator that he had told to stay away.
Apparently it changed its mind, what with
He fought to keep his
body's reflexes from taking over— flailing arms all panicking to try to swim up
for air wouldn't do him much good with a gator holding onto one leg.
The gator jerked its head
this way and that, and
Only the gator had no
interest in his story. What
And he could feel
other heartfires coming. More gators, drawn by the thrashing in the water.
Why wouldn't this gator respond?
Because you're in the water, fool.
No, I've been in water a thousand times with no danger,
and—
No time to settle this now. If I can't do it by
persuasion, I'll do it another way.
Didn't matter. The
gator didn't care.
And now
Another jerk.
The pain was terrible,
but
With one end of the
living plow between its teeth, the gator tried to snap at it. That meant
releasing its grip on
The other gators were
getting close.
The gator was still
trying to gnaw at the plow, and each time it bit down,
In that moment the
gator made its move, to try to get away with the plow in its mouth. But
That did bother the
gator. The plow was too big for its jaws to close with the plow between them,
and with
A long time,
After a while, he realized that the gator was no
longer thrashing.
Still he held on.
Yes, there it was. One last twitch, one feeble attempt
to rise to the surface and breathe.
And in that moment,
The other gators leapt upon the weakened one and
dragged it under the water.
No! shouted
They obeyed.
And as they swam away,
Alvin thought, for just a moment, that swimming alongside them was a reptilian
creature that was not a gator at all, but rather a fiery salamander, its glow
damped by the murky water of the Mizzippy.
Was that what Thrower
saw in his church, when Armor-of-God saw him cower in terror at whatever was
circling the walls? Or was it just a trick of my eyes because the pain is ...
so ... bad.
And then he realized
that even this would be a victory for the Unmaker. He didn't want me to cross
that river. Therefore I must cross, and without delay, or he still wins.
With the water to help
bear the agonizing weight of his disjointed leg,
Ahead of him the wall
of fog waited. It was safety. If
The fog closed around
him. And with the wave of relief that swept over him, he finally slipped into
unconsciousness.
He woke to find a
black man bending over him.
The man spoke in a
language that
Or maybe somebody on the river found him and brought
him to the other shore.
It was hard to care.
The man's voice became
more urgent. And then his meaning became very clear as large, strong hands
pulled on his injured leg and another pair of hands shoved at his upper thigh,
scraping bone on bone in a blinding flash of agony. It didn't work, the bone
wouldn't go back into the socket, and as they let his leg slide back into its
out-of-joint position the pain became too great and
He woke again, perhaps
only moments later, and again the man spoke and gestured and
But if they understood
his words or his gesture, they gave no sign. He saw now that there were several
of them, and they were determined to get his hip back together, and nothing he
said was going to stop him.
So, with desperate
hurry, he scanned through his own body, finding the ligaments that were
blocking the way, and this time when they pulled and pushed,
When he awoke he was
in a different place, indoors, and no one was with him, though he heard voices
in a strange language—not the same language—outside.
Outside what?
Open your eyes, fool, and see where you are.
A cabin. An old one,
in need of fresh mud to chink the holes in the walls. Long out of use, apparently.
The door opened. A
different black man entered. And now
But
"I am learn
English," said the man.
That's right, the slaves
on the boat spoke little English. Some spoke Spanish, and most spoke the
language of the Mexica, but both those languages were a mystery to him.
"You were on the
The man looked baffled.
"Riverboat," said
The man nodded happily. "You on boat! You put
I... we... off boat!"
"Yes," said
The man threw himself
to his knees beside
The man again looked
baffled. Apparently
"Sleep sleep," said the man.
"No, I've had enough sleep," said
"Sleep sleep!" insisted the man.
How could Alvin
explain to him that while they'd been talking and hugging, Alvin had checked
over his leg, found all the injuries—the sore spots in the joint, the places
where the gator's teeth had torn the skin—and fixed them?
All he could do was
raise the leg that had been dislocated and show that it could be moved freely.
The man looked at him in surprise, and tried to get him to lay his leg down,
but
The man suddenly
laughed and tugged at the blanket still covering
"Where are my clothes?"
In reply the man
darted for the door and pushed on out into daylight.
He cast about him with
his doodlebug, looking for the warm glow of it. But it wasn't like a heartfire,
a bright spark in a twinkling sea. The plow was living gold, yes, but gold all
the same, with no one place in it that held the fire of life. If
Finally he pulled up
the blanket and wrapped it as a skirt around his waist. They may not believe he
could heal so fast, but he wasn't going to let their caution or his modesty
keep him from finding what was lost.
He stepped out into
bright daylight—morning light, so maybe he hadn't slept all that long. If it
was morning of the same day. Why should he have slept longer? He'd been
perfectly refreshed by the greensong just prior to his fight with the gator.
And the fight hadn't lasted all that long. A few thrashes and it was done. Why
had it worn him out so bad in the first place? Apart from the pain and loss of
blood and the energy it took to help them put his hip back in place, it
shouldn't have taken that much out of him. No, this had to be the same morning.
He hadn't lost a day.
He was noticed very
quickly, and black men came rushing to him. These had to be the men that he and
Arthur Stuart had freed from slavery aboard the Yazoo Queen—the men that
Steve Austin had been planning to use as interpreters and guides in Mexico,
since they had once been slaves there. So they had no reason to do him harm.
"My poke,"
he said. "A homespun sack, I wore it slung over my shoulder, it was
heavy." He pantomimed putting it on and taking it off.
At once they
understood him. "Gold spirit!" cried the one who had talked to him
just moments before in the house. "Gold she fly!" He ran a few steps,
then beckoned for
He found the plow, out
of the poke, floating in the air about a yard above the ground. Three black men
sat forming a perfect triangle, looking up at the plow, each with one hand
extended toward it.
"No take,"
said the guide. "She no let."
Except
With lots of smiles
and bobbing heads, he found himself being dressed—they actually tried to lift
up both his legs at the same time to put them into his trouser legs.
"No!" he
said firmly. "I been dressing myself since I was little." He
carefully set the plow down in the damp grass. Must have been a heavy dew. Or
it rained in the night. Anyway, the moment he set it down, they rushed forward,
reaching for the plow, causing it to rise into the air.
"Gold she
fly!" the guide admonished him.
"It's a
plow," said
Dressed, holding the
poke in his hand,
The men sighed to see
it.
And then another black
man approached, carefully holding something on a mat of leaves. It shimmered in
the bright sun like crystal, and
"Now," said
"Profeta
Roja," said one of the men. "Ten-si-ki-wa Ta-wa." The way he
pronounced it sounded more like the way reds said the Prophet's name. Well,
speaking other languages wasn't
"Ten-sa-ka-wa
Ta-wa," he muttered.
One of the men tried
to correct him, but
"We stay,"
said the guide. "Wait-for."
So Tenskwa-Tawa was
coming. Well,
There was food at
After the meal,
He found that they
were on a wide, flat island near the right bank of the Mizzippy. The fog, which
was on their side of the river, ended at the shoreline, sharp as butter cut
with a knife. And canoes were drawn up on the shore of the river channel that
separated the island from the main shore. So these men weren't prisoners here.
Tenskwa-Tawa arrived
that afternoon with a great deal of to-do. All of a sudden a whole passel of
reds started hooting and hollering like they was going to war—Alvin had heard
that sound before, when he was taken captive by warriors, before the Mizzippy
was set as a dividing line. It was a terrible sound, and for a moment he
wondered whether the reds on this shore had been using their years of peace to
prepare for bloody war. But then he realized that the hooting and ululating was
the red equivalent of yee-haw, hosanna, huzzah, hallelujah, and hip-hip-hooray.
Tenskwa-Tawa emerged
from the woods on the far shore of the channel, and the reds surrounded him and
led him down to a large canoe. They carried him so he wouldn't even get his
feet wet and set him in the canoe, then leapt in and paddled furiously so he
shot across the water like a skipped stone. Then he was lifted up again and
carried to shore and set down right in front of
So there was
"Is this what it
looks like," said
"No," said Tenskwa-Tawa.
"Not enough guns, not enough clothes."
Which was true. Though
compared to the black men, the reds looked like they was pretty bundled up,
since there were whole stretches of their bodies here and there covered with
deerskin or cloth. If I dressed like that, thought
"I'm glad you
came," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "I also wanted to talk to you."
"About these
fellows?" asked
"Them? They're no
bother. As long as they sleep on this island, they move freely on the shore.
That's where their farms are. We'll be sorry to see them go, when you take
them."
"I didn't have no
plans to take them," said
"But they're
determined to become soldiers to fight for you and kill all your enemies.
That's why they have to sleep on this island. Because they refuse to give up
war."
Tenskwa-Tawa barked out a laugh.
"I mean, none that warriors can fight."
"It's so
strange," said Tenskwa-Tawa, "hearing black men speak a red language
like they were born to it. The language they speak is not all that different
from Navaho, which I had to learn because that tribe was less inclined to give
up war than most. It seemed they hadn't quite finished exterminating the Hopi
and didn't want to give up killing till the job was done."
"So it hasn't
been easy, getting all the reds to take the oath against war."
"No," said
Tenskwa-Tawa. "Nor to get the young men to join the oath when they come of
age. There's still a lot of playing at war among the young, and if you try to
stop it, they just sneak off and do it. I think we've been breeding our boys
for war for too many generations for it to disappear from our hearts overnight.
Right now the peace holds, because there are enough adults who remember all the
killing—and how badly we were defeated, time after time. But there are always
those who want to go across the river and fight to take our lands back and
drive all the white devils into the sea."
"There are plenty
of white folks as dream of getting through the fog and taking possession of
these lands, too," said
"Including your
brother," said Tenskwa-Tawa.
"That's the
one," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "It's what I wanted to talk to you
about."
He turned to the reds
who were with him and spoke a few words, then spoke in a different language to
the blacks.
"Don't tell me
them cards is printed on your side of the river," said
"Those black
fellows you sent me had them," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "They play betting
games, but their money is pebbles. Whoever wins the most struts for an hour,
but the next time they play, they all start even again."
"Sounds
civilized."
"On the
contrary," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "It sounds like childish savages."
His grin had a bit of
old pain in it, but
"Whereupon we red
devils would kill most of you and torture the rest to death because of the
power that we could draw from the pain." He held up a hand. "This is
what I wanted to talk to you about. Until your brother sailed for
"So he really has
joined up with them fools," said
"The Mexica have
been a problem for us. There's a wide desert between our lands and theirs, but
it's not as clear a wall as this river. There are plenty of tribes that live in
those dry lands, and plenty of trade and travel back and forth, and stories
about how the Mexica rose up against the Spanish and drove them out, except the
five thousand they kept for sacrifice, one a day, his heart ripped out of his
living body."
"Doesn't sound
like your kind of people," said
"They live a
different way. We remember well when their ancestors came down from the north,
a fierce people who spoke a language different from all others. The Navaho were
the last wave, the Mexica the first, but they did not trust in the greensong.
They took their powers from the pain and blood of their enemies. It's a way of
power that was practiced among our peoples, too. The Irrakwa league was
notorious for it, and you had a run-in, I think, with others who loved
bloodshed and torture. But always we could set it aside and get back into the
music of the living land. These reds can't, or don't try, which amounts to the
same. And they scoff at my teaching of peace and send threatening embassies
demanding that we supply them with white men to sacrifice or they'll come and
take captives from our people."
"Have they done
it yet?"
"All threats, but
we hear from other tribes farther south that once that threat is given, it's
only a matter of time before it's carried out."
"So what are you
going to do?"
"Not a fog,"
said Tenskwa-Tawa wryly. "Not enough moisture in that high desert air, and
besides, they'd just torture somebody and draw power from his pain, enough to
dispel whatever I put in their way."
"So ... if that ain't
your plan..."
"We live in
harmony with the earth," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "They soak their earth in
blood. We believe that with a little encouragement, we can waken the giant that
sleeps under their great city of
Tenskwa-Tawa looked
pained. "Their city is built right on top of an upwelling of hot flowing
rock. It hasn't broken through in many years, but it's growing restless, with
all the killing."
"You're talking about a volcano."
"I am," said the prophet.
"You're going to do to them what was done to
"The earth is going to do it."
"Ain't that kind of like war?" asked
Tenskwa-Tawa sighed.
"None of us will raise a weapon and strike down a man. And we've sent them
due warning that their city will be covered with fire if they don't stop their
evil sacrificing of human beings and set free all the tribes they rule over by
fear and force."
"So this is how
you wage war now," said
"Yes," said
Tenskwa-Tawa. "We'd be at peace with every people on earth, if they'd let
us. As long as we don't come to love war, or to use it in order to rule over
others, then we are still a peaceful people."
"So I take it the Navaho weren't just persuaded
to take the oath of peace."
"They had a long period of drought, where the
only rain that fell was on Hopi fields."
"I reckon that got the message to them."
"
"No sir,"
said
"Because we bore the slaughter of our friends and
loved ones at Tippy-Canoe."
"Yes. You let them slaughter you till they grew
sick of murder."
"But what should we do with people who never grow
sick of it?" asked Tenskwa-Tawa.
"So white folks ain't all bad, is what you're
saying."
"The gods of the
Mexica are thirsty for blood and hungry for pain. White folks generally want to
get rich and be left alone. While they're killing you, the motive doesn't make
that much difference. But most white people don't think of war and slaughter as
the goal—just the means."
"Well, don't that
just put us in a special place in hell."
"
"And you needed
to tell me because Calvin is headed right into it."
"It would grieve
me to cause the death of your own brother."
"Trouble
is," said
"I didn't think
it would be easy. I only knew that you would not forgive me if I didn't warn
you and give you a chance to try."
"With the Unmaker
dropping roof beams on your head and sending preachers to bleed you to death
under the guise of surgery?"
"At least then it
was only me I was trying to save. I can't go follow Calvin to
Tenskwa-Tawa motioned
with his arm to indicate the island where they were sitting. "If you think
you can fit five thousand here, you're welcome to it. But only the runaway
slaves. My people wouldn't bear it to have these white Frenchmen you speak of
living on our land."
"No," said
"
"We got some of
them, too," said
"Good," said
Tenskwa-Tawa. "Because it would be beyond my power to persuade the nations
to let you."
"What we need," said
"To where?"
"North. Along the
edge of the river. North till we're across the river from the
"Five thousand people," said Tenskwa-Tawa.
"Eating what?"
"Five thousand people leave a scar on the land
when they pass through."
"It's harvest
season," said
"It would take a
great amount of effort," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "We aren't like you. We don't
grow the food here and then carry it on wagons or trains or barges to sell it
there.
Each village grows its
own food, and only when famine strikes in one place is food brought from
another."
"Well, wouldn't
you say that five thousand people with no land or food is kind of a walking
famine?"
Tenskwa-Tawa shook his
head. "You're asking something very hard. And not just for those reasons.
What does it tell all the whites of the
"I didn't think of that."
"We'll have them trying to cross into our land by
the boatload."
"But they won't make it."
"The fog is
fog," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "We instill it with fear, yes, but those
with enough greed or rage can overcome that fear. A few try every year, and of
those few, now and then a man makes it over."
"What do you do
with them?" asked
"They wear
hobbles and work with the women until they find it in their hearts to take the
oath of peace and live among us."
"Or what, you send them back?"
"We never let anyone go back."
"Except me."
"And these
twenty-five black men. You can take them with you whenever you want. Because
they won't tell tales of this paradise just waiting for the right army to come
and drive out the heathen, unarmed savages."
"So maybe we got
to make the crossing so spectacular that nobody thinks they could do it in a
boat."
Tenskwa-Tawa laughed.
"Oh,
"You've put on a
couple of spectacles in your day, old friend."
"I suppose if it
looks like a miracle, the United States Army and the Royal Army won't think
they can do the same. The only flaw in your idea,
"Once I took down
the bridge," said
Tenskwa-Tawa shook his
head. "I have a war on my hands with the Mexica, and now I have to help
you pull off a miraculous crossing of the Mizzippy, putting the great peaceful
nation at risk."
"Hey, that goes
both ways," said
"Isn't it good we like each other so much,"
said Tenskwa-Tawa.
"You taught me everything I know," said
"But not everything I know."
"And I gave you back your eye."
"And healed my heart," said Tenskwa-Tawa.
"But you're a lot of bother all the same."
11
Flood
After
the second night, word went on ahead of
them and it got harder. Mistress Cottoner didn't talk, La Tia said so, but her
son did. And the people at the second house, Arthur Stuart had to use makery to
seal the doors and windows of a room in their house so they couldn't get out,
because they wouldn't calm down, they kept screaming, It's our life you're
taking, you're making us poor, you have no right, these slaves are ours, until
Marie wanted to fill their mouths with cotton, all the cotton that had ever
been picked by their slaves, just stuff it down their mouths until they were as
fat and soft as the huge pillows they slept on while their slaves slept on hard
boards and straw in filthy rat-infested cabins.
As filthy and
rat-infested as the cabin her mother had made her grow up in back in Swamptown.
Only her mother wasn't a slave. We're finer people than these scum, her mother
would say. We're Portuguese royalty, only Napoleon drove us out and forced us
into exile in Nouveau Orleans and then he sold it to the Spanish so that we could
never go home. Because you are the granddaughter of a duke, and he was the son
of a king, and you should be married to at least a count, so you must learn
fine manners and speak French and English very well and learn how to curtsey and
stand straight and...
And then Marie got old
enough to understand that not everybody could see into people's bodies and feel
whether they were sick and whether they would die of it. And all of a sudden
her mother's story changed. Your father was a great wizard, she said. A maker,
they call such a man here. Facteur. Createur. He could carve a bird out of wood
and breathe on it and it would fly away. And you have some of his gift, and
some of mine, because my talent is love, I love people, my dear Marie, you have
that love and it lets you see inside their hearts, and the power from your
father lets you see their death because that is the ultimate power, to stare
death in the face and be unafraid.
Her mother, such a
storyteller. That was when Marie knew that her mother's stories were all lies.
In
But she pretended to
believe her mother's stories because it made her mother happy to tell them. And
Marie was actually relieved, because she had always been afraid that someday
Napoleon would fall from power or die, and the Portuguese royal family would be
restored to the throne and they'd come looking for them and find them and it
would be fine for Mother, she could go back to being what she was raised to be,
but Marie wasn't good at curtseying and her French was not elegant and fine and
she was dirty and always covered in skeeter bites and they would despise her
and mock her in the royal court, just like they did here on the streets of
Barcy. Only it would be worse, because it would be fine ladies and gentlemen
doing it. So she hated the idea of being royalty. It was better just to be the
daughter of a cheap Portuguese whore in Nueva Barcelona.
But now, far from
being the most despised people in Barcy, they were actually important. Because
Alvin and Arthur Stuart and La Tia treated them with respect, because they were
the ones who went to the doors of the houses, everyone looked up to them. They
got to wear fine clothes and act like royalty, and even though it didn't really
fool people because the clothes weren't fine enough, it was still fun to
pretend that Mother's story had been a little bit true after all.
The third day, though,
as they approached the house La Tia said, "This house is not good. Pass it
by." And they would have done it, but then three men came out on the porch
with muskets and aimed them and demanded that they surrender.
So Arthur Stuart—such
a clever boy, bless him—made the ends of all three of their muskets go soft and
droop, so they couldn't shoot anymore. The men threw them down and drew swords
and began to run at them, and Arthur Stuart made the swords soft too, like
willow wands, and La Tia laughed and laughed.
But there was no
pretending this time. The people of this house, of the whole neighborhood, had
heard of the huge army of runaway slaves who captured plantations and raped the
women and killed the men and let the slaves burn everything to the ground. Of
course it wasn't true, not a bit of it— except for the part about how two
French women would come to the door and get themselves invited inside, and
while they were in there the two slaves that traveled with them, a mammy slave
and a young buck, would go provoke a rebellion among the slaves of the
plantation and then it was all murder and rape and burning.
There'd be no more
deception at the door. Every house would be more like a military campaign from
then on.
So that third night,
with all the white men tied up in the barn and all the white women locked in
the upstairs of the house and not a slave to be found because they had all been
sent away, La Tia and Arthur Stuart and Mother and Marie met with the council
of colonels to decide what to do.
"If we could hear
the greensong," said Arthur Stuart, "we could travel by night and not
get hungry—like we did crossing Pontchartrain."
"I don't remember no greensong," said La
Tia.
"Yes you do," said Arthur Stuart. "Only
you didn't know that's what you were hearing."
"What be in this song?" said La Tia.
"What make it green?"
"It's the song of
the life around you. Not the human life, that's just noise, most of the time.
Not machines, either. But the music of the trees and the wind and the heat of
the sun, the music of fish and birds and bugs and bees. All the life of the
world around you, and you let yourself be part of the song. I can't do it
alone, but when I'm with
It was lovely to hear
him talk about it, his face so lighted up like it got. This young half-black
man, he loved his friend, his brother-in-law Alvin, even more than Marie did.
Oh, to hold
But La Tia, she didn't
get dreamy hearing it. She was making a list. "Fish, birds, trees,"
she said when Arthur Stuart was done. "You don't get hungry, you don't get
thirsty. Wind. And bugs, yes? Heat of the sun. What else? Anything?"
"You think you
can make a charm that does the same thing?"
"I give it a
try," said La Tia. "Best I can do." She grinned wickedly.
"This my 'knack,' boy."
She immediately sent
her friend Michele and a half dozen others who had obviously run her errands
before, looking for the things she needed. Feather of a bird, fin of a
fish—that was the hardest one—a living beetle, leaves of a tree. A pinch of
dirt, a drop of water, ash from a fire, and when it was all in a little sachet
she would blow into it and then seal it closed with the hair of a long-haired
woman, who happened to be Marie herself.
By morning she had
made a sachet for Arthur Stuart and one for herself, and sachets for each of
the colonels. "Now we see if we hear this greensong as we walk," she
said.
"What about
me?" asked Marie. "And my mother?"
"You hold my
hand," said La Tia. "Your mama, she hold Arthur hand. I do it other
way, but you get thinking about love, you."
Arthur looked at her
and raised his eyebrows as if the idea were ridiculous. Ignorant boy.
She held La Tia's hand
and Arthur held Mother's hand and they started walking and ... nothing
happened. It was nothing like what she had felt crossing the bridge.
"I guess we just
need
La Tia groaned loudly
and smacked him softly on the forehead. "You silly boy, why you no tell La
Tia this be red man thing, this greensong? Get the colonels, all they, bring
they sachet to me."
Soon the march was
again halted and the colonels were gathered while the people mumbled and
murmured about another delay in their journey.
One by one, La Tia
opened each person's sachet and said, "All right, you. One drop of you
blood, right now."
Well, how many people
could do that without an argument? But Arthur Stuart, he came up and he
said, "I can let a drop of your blood go from your finger, and it won't
hurt, but only if you say yes." Well of course they all said yes, and sure
enough, Arthur held their hand and closed his eyes and thought real hard and
one single drop came out from under their fingernail and dropped into the sachet.
Once again La Tia blew
into the sachet and closed it, but this time she added a blade of grass to the
strand of Marie's hair to tie the top. "Now maybe," said La Tia.
And this time as they
walked, the charm seemed to have some effect. Marie couldn't be sure she was
actually responding to the greensong—she hadn't heard it, really, crossing the
bridge. It had been more like a sort of intensity inside her as she pushed the
wheelbarrow, so that her hands never got sore from the chafing of the handles,
and her back never got weary, she just stepped on and on.
Well, something like
that began to happen now. She had long since given up the wheelbarrow, and she
and her mother had taken turns carrying the ball of bloodwater
But she did get hungry
and hot and thirsty during the day. Yet she didn't mind being hungry and
thirsty and hot. And her feet always seemed to find the right place to step.
The only person it
didn't work for was Arthur Stuart, until he finally took off the sachet and
gave it to Mother. "I reckon while I'm spending all my thinking on making
this fog stay ahead of us and behind us, and watching for heartfires of them as
might mean us harm, this charm just don't affect me."
"Too bad for you,
child," said La Tia. "Keep doing what you doing, we all pray for
you."
Arthur Stuart tipped
his hat to her and grinned and then strode on ahead.
Marie wanted to run to
him and hold his hand and walk with him. But that was foolishness. For one
thing, she needed the sachet to help her. For another thing, he needed
to keep his mind on his work. And for a third thing, he probably wouldn't want
her to.
As for the rest of the
people, the sachets seemed to help. Little children kept up better. Adults who
carried babies didn't get so tired. There weren't people constantly dropping
out to rest and then losing their place in the company. So even though nobody
walked faster than before, they actually made far more progress during the day.
They also waited until
later to pick a plantation to be their host for the evening. "We've gone
so far," said Arthur Stuart, "maybe the people here will think
they're safe and not be looking out for us."
"You think I gonna walk up to no house?"
said La Tia. "Wake up from you dream, you."
"What else can we do?" said Arthur Stuart.
"Kill them in their houses."
They all turned at the
voice. It was Old Bart, the butler from the Cottoner house. "You heard me.
You got this knack, boy. Use it. Reach into they hearts and stop them from
beating no more."
"That would be
murder," said Arthur Stuart.
"It ain't
murder," said Old Bart. "It's war, and they be winning it, less you
do what soldiers do, and kill them as would kill you."
"Not here,"
said Arthur Stuart. "Not today."
"You kill them, we
win," insisted Old Bart. "Nothing but what they deserve, what
they done to us."
"You dead?"
asked La Tia. "Your heart stop beating?"
Old Bart whirled on
her. "Don't you tell me how angry to be. I was dead inside for all them
years, me a man, and couldn't act like one."
"Funny way to be
dead, you got. Stand there talking. Bet you piss three time a day, too, you!
How many dead man do that?"
Old Bart probably had
an answer for that, but the laughter of those nearby convinced him that this
wasn't the day to argue with her. But Marie saw that he hadn't changed his
mind. Just changed his mind about talking about it.
"Kill them in
they house," La Tia went on scornfully. "We want food. We want a
place to sleep. Kill somebody for that in they own house?"
Arthur Stuart shook
his head. "If I was in his place, I think I might feel the same."
"You men,"
said La Tia. "Killing just a thing you do."
"You know that
ain't so," said Arthur Stuart. "But when it needs doing, I bet you
glad you got somebody to do it."
This had gone far
enough. "I know," said Marie. "I go alone."
"No!" her
mother cried.
"They look for
two women with two slaves. I go alone, and Arthur Stuart and La Tia, they come
another way. Arthur, you look out for me, won't you?"
"I will," he
said.
"I just go and
explain to them. We only want food and a place to sleep. Only ... maybe you
show power to them, while I'm talking. Put fog at every window. Show them it's
better just to let us stay one night and go away."
They thought about it,
and Arthur only improved on it a little. "All the windows but one,"
he said. "Clear sky through one window."
"Then we better
do it before the sun goes all the way down," said Marie.
Only after everyone
agreed and they headed for the house they had chosen did Marie start to realize
what she had just done. What if they had shotguns this time? How fast
was Arthur Stuart?
Just before they got
within sight of the house, Arthur stopped them. "There's four grown men in
this house, and six women. And no shortage of guns. And no children."
That was a bad sign,
Marie knew. The children most likely had been sent away.
"Good sign,"
said La Tia. "They don't sent away the women. They don't think we come
tonight."
"Fog as soon as I
get inside," Marie reminded Arthur Stuart.
He squeezed her hand.
"Count on me," he said.
Then he let go and she
walked alone down the road and turned up the long drive to the house.
Long before she got to
the house she had been spotted and three men were on the porch, holding
muskets.
"You crazy,
girl?" said the oldest of them. "Don't you know there's an army of
raping and pillaging runaways coming this way?"
"My papa's wagon
overturned up the road, I need help."
"Your papa's out
of luck," said the biggest of the men. "We, ain't leaving this porch
for nobody."
"But he's hurt, when he try to stand up, he falls
down."
"What's that accent?" said the youngest man.
"You French?"
"My parents are from Nueva Barcelona," she
said.
"Being a Frenchwoman in these parts ain't such a
good idea this week."
She smiled at them.
"Can I change who I am? Oh, you must help me. At least send a couple of
servants with me to help right the wagon and bring my father here, can't you do
that?"
"Slaves are all
locked up, ready to be marched away in the morning, and we ain't letting any of
them out on the road, neither," said the big man.
"Then I see that
It sort of made sense
that when she seemed willing to leave, that was what convinced them.
"Ain't never turned folks in trouble away from my house before," said
the old man.
"Ain't never been
no slave revolt, neither," said the big man.
"But even during
a time of slave revolt," said the young man, "wagons can still
overturn and honest men can still be hurt and need help."
Marie didn't like
lying to these men. The old man wanted to be kind, and the young man wanted to
trust her. The big man was doing no worse than looking after his people. And
since his suspicions were all completely justified, it hardly seemed fair that
he was the one made to seem uncharitable. Well, it would all be clear soon
enough. She hoped that this one bad experience would not put them off helping
their neighbor in the future. It would be a shame if their journey did nothing
but make the world worse.
"Come back,"
shouted the old man.
"No, stay
there!" shouted the big man. "We'll go with you." And he and the
young man bounded down from the porch and started trotting toward her.
This was not the plan.
What would she do with them out here? "But we need to bring him
water."
"Plenty of time
for that when we've got him to the house."
Now they were beside
her, and there was nothing she could do but lead them down the drive.
Suddenly a fog came
up. Out of nowhere, and then there was a chill in the air and a fog so thick
she couldn't even see the men beside her.
"What the
hell," said the big man.
"I can't see my
feet on the drive," said the young man.
Marie, however, said
nothing, for the moment the fog came in, she turned around and started walking back
toward the house.
In a moment she was
out of the fog. She did not glance back to see what it looked like, to have a
single thick cloud— she wondered if it was like the Bible story, a pillar of
smoke.
The old man wasn't on
the porch.
And then, as she got
closer, there he was, with a musket in his hands. "I know devil's work
when I see it, you witch!" he shouted.
He fired the musket.
It was pointed right
at her. And the barrel was not soft. She thought she must surely die on
this spot.
But when the noise of
the gunshot died down, she felt nothing, and kept walking toward the porch.
That was when the lead
bullet popped out of the barrel of the musket and went maybe two yards and
plunked on the ground. It made a pool of lead there, flat as a silver dollar.
"I'm no
witch," she said. "And you are a kind and good man. Do you think
anybody will hurt you or the people you love? Nobody will hurt anybody."
From inside the fog
came shouts. "Who's shooting! Where's the house?"
Now she did look back.
Two thick clouds barely taller than a man were moving swiftly across the lawns,
but neither one was headed for the porch, and neither one was holding a
straight course, either.
"We heard what
you done in those other places, you liar!" shouted the old man.
"You heard
lies," she said. "Think about it. If we killed everybody, who would
tell you there was two French women and two slaves that came to the door?
That's what you were watching for, no?"
The old man was no
fool. He could listen pretty well.
"We want
food," she said. "And we will have food from this house. You
have plenty, but we don't take all. Your neighbors will help you replenish the
lack. And you won't need as much food, anyway."
"Because you're
gonna take all our slaves, is that it?"
"Take them?"
said Marie. "We can't take them. What would we do, put them in our
apron pockets? We let them travel with us if they choose to. If they choose to
stay with you, then they can stay. They do what they want, like the children of
God that they are."
"Abolitionist
bastards," said the old man.
"Abolitionists,
yes. In my case, also a bastard." She deliberately pronounced the word
with a thick French accent. "And you, a man who knows to be kind to
strangers, but keeps human beings as property. Even as you do it to the least
of these, my brethren."
"Don't quote
scripture to me," said the old man. "Steal from us if you want, but
don't pretend to be holy when you do it."
She was standing on
the porch now, facing the old man. She heard the door swing open behind her. She
heard the click of a hammer striking the Hint. She heard the sizzle of the
gunpowder in the pan.
And then the plop of the bullet hitting the porch.
"Damn," said a woman's voice.
"You would have murdered me," said Marie
without turning around.
"We shoot trespassers around here."
"We don't hurt
personne, but you with murder in your heart," said Marie, and she turned
to face the woman. "What is your food, that you could shoot a woman in the
back for asking you to share it?" She reached out a hand toward the
trembling woman, who cowered against the door. She touched the woman's
shoulder. "You have your health," said Marie. "That's good.
Treasure it, to be so strong, no disease in you. Live a long life."
Then she turned to the
old man and reached out to him. Took his bare hand in hers. "Oh, you're a
strong man," she said. "But you're short of breath, yes?"
"I'm an old
man," he said. "Ain't hard to guess I'm short of breath."
"And you have
pains in your chest. You try to ignore them, yes? But they come again in a few
months, and then a few months. Put your house in order, say your good-byes, you
good man. You will see God in only a few weeks time."
He looked her hard in
the eyes. "Why you cursing me?" he said. "What did I ever do to
you?"
"I'm not cursing
you," she said. "I have no such power, to kill or not kill. I only
touch a person and I know if they are sick and if they will die of it. You are
sick. You will die of it. In your sleep. But I know you are a generous man, and
many will mourn your death, and your family will remember you with love."
Tears filled the old
man's eyes. "What kind of thief are you?"
"A hungry
one," she said, "or otherwise I would not steal, not me, not any of
us."
The old man turned and
looked down onto the lawn. Marie assumed he was looking at the other two men,
or at the clouds that enclosed them, but no. While they were talking, Arthur
and La Tia and Mother must have opened the slaves' quarters and now the house
was surrounded by black men and women and children. The clouds no longer
surrounded the two white men. Unarmed, they were standing inside the circle.
Arthur Stuart stepped
forward and held out his hand. As if he expected a white slaveowner to shake
with a black man. "My name is Arthur Stuart," he said.
The old man hooted.
"You trying to tell us you're the King?"
Arthur shrugged.
"I was telling you my name. I'm also telling you that none of the guns in
that house is gonna work, and the man waiting just inside the door with a big
old piece of boardwood to bat me or Marie in the head, he might as well put it
down, because it won't hurt nobody any more than getting hit with a piece of
paper or a dry sponge."
Marie heard somebody
inside the house utter a curse, and a thick heavy piece of wood was flung out
the door onto the lawn.
"Please let us
come inside," she said. "My mother and my friends and I. Let us sit
down and talk about how to do this without hurting anyone and without leaving
you with nothing."
"I know the best
way," said the old man. "Just go away and leave us be."
"We have to go
somewhere," said Marie. "We have to eat something. We have to sleep
the night."
"But why
us?" he said.
"Why not
you?" she answered. "God will bless you ten times for what you share
with us today."
"If I'm going to
die as soon as you say, let me leave a good place to my sons and
daughters."
"Without
slaves," said Marie, "this will finally be a good place."
Later, with the family
not locked up, and everyone safely fed and sleeping, Marie had a chance
to talk with Arthur Stuart. "Thank you for giving me the fog when I needed
it, instead of waiting till I was in the house."
"Can't expect
plans to work out when other people don't know their part," he said with a
grin. "You done great, though."
She smiled back at
him. She had done a good job. But she had never before known what it
felt like to be told so. Not till this trip. Not till Alvin and Arthur
Stuart. Oh, they had such powers, such knacks. But the one that impressed her
the most was the power to fill her heart the way their kind words did.
A group of reds took
But a lone white man,
dressed like what he was, a journeyman blacksmith, and carrying a heavy poke
slung on his shoulder, nobody paid no mind to him.
Besides, there was
bigger news afoot. The governor's expedition had just arrived, and suddenly Red
Stick was swollen with hundreds of bored militiamen, some of whom had lost
their enthusiasm for slogging through back country and fighting runaway slaves.
In fact, their enthusiasm waned in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol
in their blood, and Colonel Adan wasn't such a disciplinarian that he didn't
see the wisdom of keeping these men just a little likkered up. So they were in
the saloons, with Spanish soldiers attempting to enforce a two-drink limit so
they weren't too drunk to march. Nobody was looking to see the leader of the
very group they came to destroy walking all by himself through the streets of
town.
It wasn't much trouble
for
Fighting the Unmaker
in gator form had taken a lot of the combativeness out of
So he went into a
saloon and leaned against the bar right by the Spanish officer who was
supervising. "So you know where them runaways actually is?" he
asked.
"They don't tell
me," said the officer, his English thickly accented.
"Well, the thing
is, I think I know," said
The officer looked at
him coldly. "What do we care for this rumor?"
"Don't that all
depend on who's doing the gossiping? I mean, any of these drunks in here, they
can tell you the runaways is on the moon for all it matters, 'cause they don't
know squat. Me, though, I got my rumor from a couple of reds who was smuggling
furs across the river upstream, and they said they seen a bunch of free
blacks not far inland."
The officer still
looked scornful. "Smuggling furs? And they did not kill you?"
"Well, maybe they
would have, except there was only two of them, and I'm not a little fellow, and
besides, they wanted me to tell you what they seen."
"And why would
they care?"
"Because if them
runaways is heading for the river, it might be they got it in their heads to cross
it, like they crossed
"So you are,
what... a messenger?"
The officer reached
out and seized
"I think you need
to come outside and tell me a little more," said the officer.
"And while you're
out there, you can bet these men will all get two more cups and then
they'll be pissing and puking the whole way upriver."
"Come with
me."
Outside the saloon,
the officer had the soldiers hold
"I told you before, that's what I don't want
to do."
"If you do not lie, then he must know this."
"I ain't lying,
and I can't think why them reds would lie, but I'll tell you where they said. You
go around this first big bight in the river, and then take the second big
curve, and where it comes east again, that's the place."
"Telling me is a
waste of time," said the officer.
"But you're the
only one that's gonna get told," said
The officer stepped back and drew his sword.
"No no," said
In answer, the officer slashed with his sword.
The officer cried out
as if it had been his arm, not his sword, that was broke in two.
Arthur Stuart woke up
from someone shaking him. "Who's—"
"Shh, don't wake
the others yet."
It was
"What part of
shhhh didn't you get?"
"There's nobody nearby," said Arthur. But he
talked softer, all the same.
"You think," said
"She wasn't when I went to sleep,"
said Arthur Stuart.
But by now they were both up and walking away into the
fog surrounding the camp.
"I just come from
Colonel Adan's army," said
"We crossing
over?"
"Tenskwa-Tawa is
granting us right to pass through, and they'll help us get food and shelter
without having to take over any more plantations."
"Good," said
Arthur Stuart. "I'm sick of it already, folks being so scared of us."
"Guess you're not
a natural bully," said
"Well, it's
worked out pretty good so far. Dead Mary's a natural liar, and I'm good at
fogging folks and bending musket barrels."
"And La Tia has
made some charms," said
"They seemed to help.
Not like having you march with us."
"Well, I'm here
to march with you now. I don't want another stop. I want to get there first.
And that means we need to wake everybody now and get moving."
"In the
dark?"
"We'll see if
it's still dark by the time you get them going."
It took less than an
hour to get under way, but that was mostly 'cause
Oh, there was plenty
of grumbling and some out-and-out surliness, but the past couple of days'
marching, with La Tia's charms giving them some good help, had left them
feeling hale and ready even with only half a night's sleep.
And now, with
Before dawn everybody
was running along—the adults jogging, the children running full tilt, but
everyone keeping up and nobody tired. In the dark they'd run without a soul
tripping over a root or straying from the group. Because in the greensong, you
always know exactly where you are and where everything else is because it's all
part of you and you're part of it.
They ran all morning.
They ran all afternoon. They did not stop to eat or drink. They splashed through
streams, barely pausing to lift the children who weren't tall enough to ford
them. Six thousand people now, with all the slaves at each plantation who had
shucked off their bondage to join them. Moving through the woods without need
for trail or trace.
The last red of the
sunset was just fading from the sky when they came to a low bluff overlooking
an eastward curve of the Mizzippy and saw it, more than a mile wide, streaked
with red from the sunset.
"We cross in the
morning?" asked Arthur Stuart.
"We cross as soon
as every last soul is up here on this bluff," said
They had spread out a
bit during the long day's run, so it was full dark and then some when the
colonels reported that everyone was accounted for.
Once again
Then
On the far side of the
river, the fog cleared and another torch could be seen, just a wink of light.
"Who's on the other side?" asked Arthur
Stuart.
"Tenskwa-Tawa," said
"Well," said Arthur Stuart, "I say, dam
the Mizzippy all to hell!"
It looked as if the
water leaped right back up into his hand, but it wasn't water, no sir, it was
the crystal again, and as
On the upstream side
of the dam, though, the water had risen, and Arthur expected it would start to
flow over the top any second. But it didn't. Because, he realized, upstream of
the bluff it had spilled over the banks and was flooding the land on the white
man's side of the river.
Now Arthur Stuart knew
why this spot had been chosen. The bluffs on the other side were higher and
extended farther upstream. There'd be no flood on the red side of the river.
"I got a job for you," said
"I'm game, if it's something I can handle."
"Colonel Adan is coming
up the river with a couple of his boats. He's also sent another bunch of
soldiers around by land. Well, those boys are gonna be scrambling to climb
trees and find high ground for the next while, but what I worry about is the
men on them boats."
"Won't they be
left high and dry with the river dammed like this?" said Arthur Stuart.
"They will. But
they'll be mighty tempted to get out of them boats and come upstream on foot.
And when we let go of this dam, they'll all be drowned."
"Like Pharaoh's
chariots."
"I don't want any
more dead men on account of this trek," said
"I'll keep 'em in the boats," said Arthur
Stuart.
"I was just asking you to give them advice."
"I'll give them such strong advice everybody
takes it."
"Well, on your
way to showing off for a bunch of men armed with muskets and artillery,"
said
And indeed it was
sloppy going for the first few people to try going down the bank into the empty
river bottom. But Arthur Stuart had learned enough these past days that it
wasn't hard for him to evaporate the water in the top layer of mud, making a
hard-surfaced dirt road about fifty feet wide— broad enough for a lot of people
to cross at once. This would go a lot faster than crossing Pontchartrain.
When La Tia saw what
Arthur had done, she let out a whoop of delight and called out, "Everybody
move quick! Quick as frogs!" And she began to jog over the new road.
Arthur took only a
moment to look at the dam itself. Being such pure crystal, however, it didn't
look like any kind of dam. It just looked as if the water simply stopped. Even
in the dark, he could see shapes moving in the water. At first he thought it
was fish, but then he realized that it was too dark to see anything like that
in the water. No, what he was seeing was in the crystal. The same kind
of visions that had been so disturbing and hypnotic as people crossed over the
bridge at Pontchartrain.
"Don't look at
the dam!" shouted
Which made everybody
look, of course. Look once, and then look away, because there was La Tia and
Moose and Squirrel and Dead Mary and Rien, urging them on, hurrying them,
hundreds and hundreds of them crossing the river bottom on Arthur's road.
Arthur took off at a
jog downriver, not running too fast because he had to dry a path before him or
he'd sink. All it took was rounding one bend in the river, and there were the
two big riverboats, looking pretty forlorn as they rested right on the bottom.
Already dozens of men
were out of the boats, slogging along in thick mud.
"Get back in the
boats!" Arthur Stuart shouted.
The men heard him, and
some of them stopped and looked around to try to find which bank the voice was
coming from.
"Vuelvan-se en
los nбvios!" he shouted again, jogging nearer.
Arthur Stuart wasn't
careless. He was just starting to scan the boat for weaponry when he heard a
shout of "Atiren!" and saw the flashes of a half dozen muskets on
board the first boat. Wasn't he out of range?
Well, he was and he
wasn't. The musket balls went far enough, but they had slowed considerably, and
the one that hit him didn't go into him all that terribly far. But the spot did
happen to be right in the belly, just above his navel, and it hurt worse than
the worst stomach ache of his life.
He doubled over and
fell to the ground. Careless, foolish ... he cursed himself even as he cried
from the pain of it.
But pain or not, he
had a mission to perform. Trouble was, with his stomach muscles torn like that,
he couldn't work up the strength to shout. Well, he had known persuasion wasn't
going to do it, and he already had a plan. When they'd been running with the
greensong toward the river, Arthur Stuart had heard and felt and finally seen
the heartfires of hundreds and hundreds of gators that lived in the river and
its tributaries in this region.
It wasn't hard to call
to them. Come to the boats, he told them. Plenty to eat in the boats.
And they came. Whatever
they might have thought in their tiny gator brains about the river suddenly
disappearing like it did, they understood a supper call.
Trouble was, they had
no idea what a "boat" was. They just knew they were getting called and
had a vague notion of where the call was coming from and pretty soon they were
all headed right for Arthur Stuart. And since he was giving off the smell of
blood and looking for all the world like a wounded animal— not unnatural,
considering he was wounded—he couldn't blame the gators for thinking he
was the meal they'd been promised.
This is about as dumb
a way to die as I ever heard of, thought Arthur Stuart. I called the gators down
on my own self. Good thing I died before I ever fathered children, because this
much stupidity should not survive into the next generation.
And then the gators
suddenly turned, all of them at once, and headed downstream toward the boats.
They walked right past Arthur Stuart, ignoring him like he was a stump. And
while they padded by on their vicious-looking gator feet, he felt something
going on inside his stomach. He opened his shirt and looked down at his wound,
just in time to see the lead ball nose out like a gopher and plop onto the dirt
at his feet.
And as he watched, the
blood stopped flowing out of his wound and the skin closed up and it didn't
hurt anymore and he thought, Good thing
The gators were
rushing toward the boat, but in the darkness it was plain some of the men
hadn't realized what was headed their way. "Gators!" he shouted.
"Get back in the boats!"
His alarm made them
look again, and some of the men nearest to him got a look at what was coming.
Now, a man can outrun a gator on dry land, but not in thick mud, so
Arthur Stuart figured his contribution would be to dry the river bottom around
the boats. But it was awfully far away from him and he couldn't be too precise.
Still, it seemed to help, and he was relieved that all the men got back to the
boats in time. The men onboard the boats reached down and helped haul them up,
and the last few had gator jaws gaping wide right under them as they rose into
the air, but not so much as a foot was lost, and only a few empty boots.
The gators remained in
place, snapping and climbing over each other, trying to get up on deck. Arthur
Stuart didn't think it was fair that the gators should get killed just because
he told them there was food to be had. Besides, he had something against the
muskets on board those boats. So he sauntered closer to the boats and used his
doodlebug to find the guns and bend their barrels as fast as he could. They
were bound to try the cannons next, but they were so thick-barreled that he
found it was easier to melt the fronts just enough to narrow the bore, keeping
the gunners from ramming the shot down.
So the men were
fighting off the gators using their muskets as clubs. Which struck Arthur
Stuart as more of an even match.
With that, he headed
back upriver toward the dam, following his own trail of dry ground.
By the time he got
back, most of the people were already across. Running twenty or thirty abreast,
with the greensong still lingering in their ears, they all ran or jogged
across, and kept moving on the other side to clear the way for the ones
following after. Arthur went around the flow of people and up onto the bank and
in no time he was standing beside
"Thanks for
taking that ball out of my gut," he said.
"Next time try
something more subtle than standing out in the open and yelling," said
"And thanks for getting
the gators to turn away from me."
"I figgered you
didn't really want them coming to you," said
"It wasn't a
lie," said Arthur Stuart. "Plenty of meat on that boat."
"Only a couple of
gators have got over the side since you started running back," said Alvin,
"and the soldiers managed to throw them back. But I reckon they'll be glad
enough when the water starts to flow again."
"Which is
when?" said Arthur Stuart.
"Well, I don't
see any heartfires up here on the bank aside from yours and mine," said
"Wherever I
am!" said Arthur Stuart. But when he turned, he saw Dead Mary was indeed
clambering back up onto the bank. "Everybody's gone," she said.
"Well, I'll just
sit tight here till they all get up on the other bank," said
"But I can't
leave you here alone!" said Arthur Stuart.
"And I can't
worry about you when it's time to take down this dam," said
"I guess I might
as well obey the fellow just saved my life," said Arthur Stuart.
"Double-saved
it," said
Arthur Stuart took
Dead Mary by the hand and they skittered clown the bank and ran across in front
of the dam. They moved fast enough that they weren't far behind the last of the
people, and all the way as they ran Arthur Stuart looked for the heartfires of
any that might have strayed. But the captains and majors and colonels had all
done their job, and not one soul had been left behind.
Papa Moose extended a
hand to help Dead Mary up, and La Tia laughed in delight as Arthur Stuart
flat-out ran right up the steep embankment without looking for the more gentle
slope that most folks had used.
There at the head of
the bluff stood Tenskwa-Tawa. It was Arthur Stuart's first sight of him, and
his first thought was, he doesn't look like all that much. And his second
thought was, he looks like a mighty angel standing there holding back the river
with a sheet of crystal partly made from the blood of his own hand.
Tenskwa-Tawa waved the
torch he held in his other hand. Then, when he saw that
On the far bank,
Arthur Stuart could not see with his eyes, but he could follow
He pulled the dam away
from the far bank, and the water burst through behind him.
"Throw it to
me!" cried Tenskwa-Tawa.
Whether
Arthur Stuart let
himself take one look downriver. Again with his doodlebug rather than with his
eyes, he saw the first fingers of water flow around the boats, lifting them,
starting them moving downstream. But the water came faster and faster, and the
boats began to spin in the eddying flood as they hurtled away, completely out
of control.
La Tia was the only
person bold enough at that moment to walk up to men who had just made such a
miracle and say, "What you doing acting like little boys? We give merci
beau-coup to God, us."
"Maybe you
Christians right about God," said La Tia, "maybe me right, maybe him
right, maybe nobody know nothing, but God, he take the merci beaucoup all the
same."
She had seen
Tenskwa-Tawa before, standing there holding the dam as everyone climbed the
riverbank, but apparently she hadn't had a good look at him. Because now, as he
sprang to his feet—far more energetically than his years should have allowed—a
look of recognition came to her. "You," she said.
Tenskwa-Tawa nodded. "Me," he said.
"I see you in the ball," she said.
"What ball?" asked
"The ball you
make, the ball she carry." La Tia pointed toward Dead Mary, who did indeed
have a burden slung over her shoulders. "I see him all the time in that
thing. He talking to me."
Tenskwa-Tawa nodded.
"And I thank you for helping," he said. "I didn't know you were
with this company."
"I didn't know you the Red Prophet."
"So you two met?" asked
"He been hotting
up under the earth, far away," said La Tia. "He ask my help, wake up
the earth there. Help the hot stuff find a way up. I think I figure out
how."
"Then I'm as glad to see you here in the flesh as
a man can be," said Tenskwa-Tawa.
"Many a man be glad to see my flesh," said
La Tia, "but it don't do them no good."
Tenskwa-Tawa smiled, which for him was like a gale of
laughter.
And Arthur Stuart
thought, not for the first time, that these really powerful people were like a
little club, they all knew each other and people like him were always having to
stand just outside.
12
Springfield
Verily
Cooper's knack wasn't just fitting barrel
staves together to make a tight keg. He could see how most things were supposed
to fit, and where the irregularities were that made it so they didn't. Most
things—and most people. He could see who was friends and who was enemies, where
pride or envy made a rift that few could see. The difference was that when two
barrel staves didn't fit, he could get inside them and almost without
thinking—and certainly without effort— change them till they did fit.
It wasn't quite so
easy with people. You had to talk them round, or figure out a way to change
what they wanted or what they believed about the world. Still, it was a good
knack for a lawyer to have. He could size people up pretty readily, not as
individuals, but how they fit together as families and communities.
Riding into the town
of
The people that he met
stopped and looked at him—what could a stranger expect, here on the frontier?
Or at least what passed for frontier now. With the Mizzippy closed to white
settlement, the land here was filling up fast. Verily saw the signs of it every
time he traveled through this part of the west. And Springfield was a pretty
lively place—lots of buildings that looked new, and some being built on the
outskirts of town, not to mention the normal number of temporary shanties folks
threw up for summer till they had more time to build something just before the
weather got cold.
But these folks didn't
just stop and look at him—they smiled, or waved, or even called out a
"howdy do" or a "good afternoon" or a "welcome
stranger." Little kids would follow along after him and while they were
normal children—that is, a few of them could not resist throwing clods of dirt
at his horse or his clothes (depending on whether Verily figured they hit their
target or missed it)—none of them threw rocks or mud, so there wasn't any
meanness in it.
The town center was a
nice one, too. There was a town square with a courthouse in it, and a church
facing it in each direction. Verily wasn't a bit surprised that the Baptists
had to face the back of the courthouse, while the Episcopalians got the front
view. The Presbyterians had the north side and the Lutherans had the south. And
if Catholics or Puritans or Quakers showed up, they'd probably have to build
their churches outside the town. Verily enjoyed the cheerful hypocrisy of
American freedom of religion. No church got to be the established one, but you
sure knew which ones were way more disestablished than others.
It was the courthouse,
though, where Verily figured he'd have the best luck finding out the
whereabouts of Abraham Lincoln, erstwhile storekeeper and river trader.
The clerk knew a lawyer when he saw one, and greeted
Verily with an alert smile.
"I was hoping you could help me locate a citizen
of this town," said Verily.
"Serving papers on somebody?" asked the
clerk cheerfully.
So much for thinking I
look like a lawyer, thought Verily. "No sir," said Verily. "Just
a conversation with a friend of a friend."
"Then that ain't
legal business, is it?"
Verily almost laughed.
He knew what type of fellow this was right off. The kind who had memorized the
rule book and knew his list of duties and took pleasure in refusing to do
anything that wasn't on the list.
"You know,"
said Verily, "it's not. And I've got no business wasting your time. So
what I'll do is, I'll remain here in this public space where any citizen of the
United States is permitted to be, and I'll greet every person who enters this
courthouse and ask them to help me locate this citizen. And when they
ask me why I don't just ask the clerk at the desk, I'll tell them that I
wouldn't want to waste that busy gentleman's time."
The man's smile got a
little frosty. "Are you threatening me?"
"Threatening you
with what?" said Verily. "I'm determined to locate a citizen of this
fair town for reasons that are between me and him and a mutual friend, doing no
harm to him or anyone else. And since this building is at the very center of
town—a fine building it is, too, I might add, as good a courthouse as I've seen
in any county seat of comparable size in Hio or Wobbish or New England, for
that matter—I can think of no likelier place to encounter someone who can help
me find Mr. Abraham Lincoln."
There. He'd got the name
out. Now to see if the man could resist the temptation to show off what he
knew.
He could not. "Old Abe? Well, now, why didn't you
say it was Old Abe from the start?"
"Old? The man I'm looking for can't be thirty
yet."
"Well, that's him, then. Tall and lanky, ugly as
sin but sweet as sugar pie?"
"I've heard
rumors about his height," said Verily, "but the rest of your
description awaits personal verification."
"Well he'll be in
the general store, now that he's out of the store business himself. Or in Hiram's
tavern. But you know what? Just go out on the street and listen for laughter,
follow the sound of it, and wherever it's coming from, there's Abe Lincoln,
cause either he's causing the laughter or doing the laughing himself."
"Why thank you,
sir," said Verily. "But now I fear I've taken too much of your time,
and not on proper legal business at all, so I'll step on out of here before I
get you in some kind of trouble."
"Oh, no
trouble," said the clerk. "Any friend of Abe's is a friend of
everybody's."
Verily bade him
farewell and stepped back out into the afternoon sunshine.
Abe Lincoln sounds for
all the world like the town drunk— or a ne'er-do-well, in any case. Failed at a
store. No job to do so he can be found in a tavern or a general store. And this
is the one I've been sent to find?
Though a drunk or
ne'er-do-well would probably not get such a warm description from someone as
precise and well ordered as that clerk.
To his surprise, when
he stopped two men coming out of a barber shop—sporting that new clean-shaven
look that required a man to spend ten cents a day getting his beard removed—and
asked them if they knew the current whereabouts of Abraham Lincoln, they both
held up a hand to hush him, listened, and sure enough, the sound of a distant
gale of laughter could be heard.
"Sounds like he's
over at Cheaper's store," said one man.
"Just straight on
down the street," said the other, "kitty-corner from here."
So Verily followed the
sound of laughter and sure enough, when he walked into the cool darkness of the
store's interior, there were a half a dozen men and a couple of ladies, sitting
here and there, while leaning up against the wall was about the ugliest man
Verily Cooper had ever seen, who wasn't actually injured in some way. Tall,
though, just like they said, a giraffe among men.
Now Verily hardly knew
what the story was about, and he certainly did not know this Coz fellow Abe was
talking about. But when the people in that store laughed—which they did about
every six words, on average—he couldn't help but join in. It wasn't just what
Lincoln said, it was how he said it, such a dry manner, and willing to make
himself the fool of the story, but a fool with a sort of deeper wit about him.
What was most
interesting to Verily, though, was the way
It went way beyond
being likable. Verily had met a few who had something of a knack for that—you
find them rather thick on the ground in the lawyering profession—and he found
that no matter how good their knack was, when you weren't with them, you were
really angry at being taken in, and even when you were in that spell, some of
that anger remained with you. Verily would sense it, but it wasn't there. No,
these people weren't being hoodwinked, and
It didn't take Verily
Cooper much time to notice all this—it was his knack, after all. The
story continued and
"Now Coz, he
thinks about this—so he's holding really still, because you know when Coz is
thinking, it kind of uses up his whole body, unless he has gas—and finally he
says to me, Abe, I used to think that way myself, only I found that no matter
what you call it, you got to put your legs into the top of your
trousers first."
It took some of them a
couple of moments to get the joke, but the thing is, they all knew they
were going to get it and that the joke wasn't meant to exclude them. Verily
found himself liking
"But here we are
ignoring our visitor," said
"Or stabled my
horse," said Verily. "But I have urgent business that couldn't wait
for such niceties."
"And yet you came
to Cheaper's and listened to my story about Coz and me on the river. You must
come from a town even smaller than
"No sir,"
said Verily Cooper. "Because you're Abraham Lincoln, and my business is to
talk to you."
"Please don't
tell me I've got another creditor I didn't know about."
There was still
laughter from the others, but it was rueful— and a bit wary. They didn't want
ill things to happen to Mr. Lincoln.
In fact, one of the
ladies spoke up. "If your client thinks that Mr. Lincoln won't pay his debts,
he can rest assured, Old Abe never leaves a debt unpaid."
"Which I mostly
accomplish by never borrowing," said
"Never borrowing
for yourself, you mean," said the lady. A lady considerably older
than
"Mr. Lincoln, my
name is Verily Cooper, and we have a friend in common—Alvin Smith, whom I
believe you met on a trip down the Mizzippy not more than a couple of weeks
ago."
"A good
man," said
"What," said
one of the men. "No story about this Smith fellow?"
"I was raised to
be a cooper," said Verily, "and when the lawyering business is slow,
I can always support myself by making a keg or two."
"Whereas my
family could never get over the shire they came from back in
"I am, but a
citizen of this country now," said Verily. "We're none of us very far
from the boats that brought our people over."
"Well, I'm eager
to talk to you," said
Verily could, and did.
In fact, he used the half hour to get his horse stabled and fed, and when he
returned, there were no customers in the shop.
"Mr.
Cooper," he said, "there ain't been time for good news to get
from Barcy to here, but I heard some bad stories about yellow fever breaking
out there. I hope you're not here to tell me that Alvin or his young friend
with the royal name has took sick."
"Best of health,
as far as I know," said Verily.
"Also there's a
strange tale came upriver on a steamboat and got included in the daily lie
collection known as the
"And you guessed
that
"I hoped,"
said
"I came here
because he needs some help, and you're the only person we could think of who
might be able to handle it."
"Well, I'll help
him if I can. I owe him something, you know."
"That's not why
we're asking," said Verily. "This isn't a debt, because whatever you
think you might owe him, what he's asking is way bigger."
"What could be
bigger than saving my life?"
"The lives of
five or six thousand French folks and former slaves, who have no place of
safety to which they can repair in their time of trouble."
"I can put up
three of them in my room over the tavern, but not one more, and that's if they
don't mind getting stepped on if somebody has to get up in the night to use the
privy."
"They're coming
up the river and they need a place that will take them in and protect them.
"Highly thought
of among abolitionists," said
"Margaret is, as
you may also have heard, a torch."
"That doesn't get
mentioned even in the pro-slavery press, and you'd think they'd make a big deal
of it."
"She retired from
the public use of her knack," said Verily. "But she still sees what she
sees, and what she saw was this: The only way this expedition of runaway slaves
and Frenchmen is going to find any peace or safety is with your help."
"You won't do
it?"
"Oh, I'll do
whatever I can. But you got to understand something. Everything I turn my hand
to fails. I mean everything. I think I've got a knack for failure, because I
manage it no matter what I undertake to do."
"I don't know," said Verily. "You tell
a good story."
"Well, that's not something a man can make a
living at."
"I do," said Verily.
"Telling stories? Forgive me for saying it, but
you don't look like the humorous type."
"I didn't say my
stories were funny, but it wouldn't hurt a bit in my profession if I had a
little more humor from time to time."
"You're saying
that lawyers are storytellers?"
"That's our main
job. We take a set of facts, and we tell a story that includes them all and
doesn't leave out or contradict a one of them. The other fellow's lawyer then
takes the same facts and tells a different story. And the jury believes one
story or they believe the other."
"Do you really
believe that's all you do?" asked Verily.
"I think the
evidence of your own eyes should confirm that story, sir," said
"My eyes see what
your eyes can't," said Verily Cooper. "This town is a happy place—one
of the happiest towns, house for house and man for man, that I've ever
seen."
"It's a good
place to live, and it's good neighbors make it that way, I always say,"
said
"A town's like a
living thing," said Verily. "It all fits together like a body—not an
attractive body, because there's a head of this and a head of that, and all
kinds of arms and legs and fingers, but you get my analogy, I'm sure."
"Everybody's got
his place," said
"Ah, but most
towns have people who can't find their place, or aren't happy with it, or are
trying to take a place that they're not suited for, or hurt somebody who
belongs there just as much as they do. But from the feel of this town I'd say
there's not too much of that."
"We got our
skunks, like any other town. When they get their tail up, folks know to duck
for cover."
"This town has a heart," said Verily.
"I'm glad you could see that," said
"And the heart is you."
Verily just smiled.
"Mr. Lincoln, I think if you set yourself to figuring out where these five
or six thousand souls might find refuge, you'd not only come up with a good
answer, but you'd be the very man best suited to persuading folks to let them
go there."
"But how are you at
pleading for the downtrodden? Especially when every word you'd say about them
would be true?"
"In case you
haven't noticed, Mr. Cooper, the downtrodden get less popular as their numbers
increase. A man approached by one beggar is likely to give him a penny. A man
approached by five beggars in one day won't give a thing to the last one. And a
man approached by five beggars at once will run away and claim he was being
robbed."
"Which is why we
need to have a refuge for these folks before anybody can see with their own
eyes how many they are."
"Oh, I know how
many five thousand is. It's about four times the population of
"So there's not
room for them here," said Verily.
"Or any other
town along the Mizzippy. And I reckon if they're being carried on boats up the
river, you'll want a place for them that's near a landing."
"Not on
boats," said Verily.
"Walking? If they
can make their way to
"They're not
walking up the east bank of the river."
"Pass through,
but not linger."
"No, I reckon
not," said
"Mr.
Lincoln," said Verily, "I know you don't think you can do the job,
but Margaret Larner thinks you can, and from what I've seen of you, I think you
can, and all that is lacking at the moment is your agreement to try."
"Knowing that I'm likely to fail," said
"I can't fail worse with your help than
I'm bound to fail without it," said Verily.
"You know that Coz will want to help, and he's even
more of a blockhead than I am."
"I'd be happy to
have the help of Coz, whoever that might be, as long as I can rely on
you."
"I'll tell you what," said
"There's something you want in return?"
"Oh, I'll do it
anyway," said
"You don't talk
law," said Verily Cooper, "you read law."
"You read law
after you've decided that a lawyer's what you want to be," said
"I don't think
you'll spend your whole life doing any one thing," said Verily.
"I don't think that's in you, if I know anything about a man. But I think
if you set your mind to lawyering, you'd be a good one. And not least because
there's no chance under heaven that you will ever, for a single moment, look
like a lawyer."
"You don't think
that's a drawback?"
"I think that for
a long while, every lawyer who comes up against you in court will think you're a
country bumpkin and he won't have to work at all to beat you."
"But I am a
country bumpkin."
"And I'm a
kegmaker. A kegmaker who wins most of his cases in court."
"You can't help
what other people choose to believe about you, before they have all the
evidence in hand."
"Splitting them up
might be necessary," said Verily. "But it might also be dangerous.
You know there'll be slave catchers here as soon as it becomes known where they
are."
"So you need them
all to be in a place where slave catchers won't be able to cart them all back
south one at a time."
"A place that
will afford protection, yes," said Verily.
"A completely
abolitionist county, then, is what you need. With its own judge, not a circuit
rider, so you know how he's going to rule on every slavery issue."
"A strong
enthusiasm for habeus corpus would be an advantage, yes."
"A county where
every justice of the peace can be relied on not to cooperate with the
catchers."
"Is there such a county?" asked Verily.
"Not yet," said Lincoln, and he grinned.
13
It
was all as well planned as a church
party, and Arthur Stuart plain admired how they done it. All the stories about
reds that folks told these days was about savages living a natural life picking
fruit off the trees and calling to deer and they'd come right up and the red
man would clunk them on the head. Or else stories about savages murdering and
raping and scalping and capturing white folks and keeping them as slaves till
they got away or till some soldiers find them and they refuse to go home. Or
about how if you give a red man likker he'll get as drunk as a skunk in five
minutes flat and spend the rest of his life devoted to getting more.
Of course, Arthur
Stuart knew in the back of his mind that this sort of thing couldn't be the
complete story.
And Arthur had seen
plenty of red men, from time to time—but they were Irrakwa or Cherriky and they
wore business suits just like everybody else and stood for Congress and
supervised railroad construction and ran banks and did all kinds of other jobs
so there wasn't no difference between them and white folks except the color of
their skin and how fat they got when they grew up, because some of them reds
could get huge.
Arthur Stuart figured
what
But when you thought
about the red men living out beyond the Mizzippy, you sort of thought they'd be
living the old way, hunting and fishing and living in wigwams. So it plain
irritated Arthur Stuart at first to find out that they built log cabins and
laid out their towns in streets, and that they planted acre after acre in maize
and beans.
"This don't feel
like no greensong to me," Arthur Stuart said to Dead Mary. "This just
feels like a town."
Dead Mary laughed at
him for that. "Why shouldn't red folk have towns? Big cities, too? You
think only white people know what a city is?"
And when it came to
feeding all these six thousand runaways, why, the red men was as organized as a
church picnic. There was fifty tables set up, and each colonel and major would
bring their fifty households and they'd pass along the tables and pile up food
on baskets and carry them off to the pastures that had been designated as their
campsites and it was so smooth that everybody got their breakfast before the
sun even got hot. And all the while, there was red women hauling more food to
the tables—corn bread and flat bread and bean mash and cider and apples and
pawpaws and big bunches of grapes.
The grapes he just had
to ask about. "Iffen red folks got grapes, how come they didn't invent
wine?"
"They didn't have
grapes,"
"So what are they
doing, making wine now?"
"Their cider and
their wine have so little alcohol that you'd have to pee it all out long before
you got drunk," said
"Hard to think of
that man being slave to anything," said Arthur Stuart.
"But he
was," said
"So red folks got
books?"
"He gets them
from our side of the Mizzippy," said
All that morning,
Tenskwa-Tawa was holed up with La Tia and about a dozen old red men and women,
and when Arthur asked what they were doing.
But at noon—when they
started in on yet another meal, this time with meat in it—mostly smoked turkey,
which the reds seemed to herd like sheep—Alvin was invited in to the big hall
where the red council and La Tia were meeting, and in a few minutes he came back
out and fetched Arthur Stuart inside.
It was a cool, dark
place, with a fire in the middle and a hole in the roof, even though the reds
knew perfectly well how to make a chimney, as every cabin in town proved. So it
must have something to do with keeping up the old ways. The reds sat right on
the ground, on blankets, but they had a chair for La Tia, just like the one she
sat in back in Barcy. So she was the tallest thing in the room, like one lone
pine standing up in the middle of a stand of beeches.
"Sit with us,
Arthur Stuart," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "We have a mission for you, if
you're willing."
This was about the
last thing Arthur Stuart expected. A mission for him? He'd expected to follow
along with
"I'll do my
part," said Arthur Stuart, "but you do know that I'm not a maker, I
hope."
"It's not makery
they need you for," said
That made no sense to
Arthur Stuart, but he was willing to listen—no, he was eager to hear what it
was that they actually needed him for, himself.
Tenskwa-Tawa laid out
for him what was going on in
"Or both,"
said La Tia. "Some men has to die two times to get the point."
"So we need you
for two things," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "You have to go warn the white
men and help them get out, if they're willing."
Arthur Stuart laughed.
"You gonna send a half-black boy my age to warn white men to get
out?"
"My brother Calvin's with them," said
"But he don't like me."
"But he'll know
you came from me," said
"So this is about
saving Calvin's life," said Arthur Stuart dubiously. He knew perfectly
well that his sister Margaret had no high opinion of Calvin and Arthur Stuart
kind of suspected that if Calvin died it might ease her mind. But
"And all the others," said
"But how am I going to get there in time to warn
them?"
"Two things," said
"But it's desert between here and there."
"The greensong doesn't
depend on the color green, really," said
"But I can't do
the greensong alone."
La Tia spoke up.
"I give you a charm like I made before, only better."
"And I'll run
with you the first hour or so, to get you started. Arthur Stuart, you've passed
the threshold, don't you realize it? You're the first one to do it, but you're
a man who wasn't born to be a maker, but he's learned makery all the
same."
"Not as good as
you. Nowhere near."
"Maybe not,"
said
"And somehow I'll find the way?"
"The closer you get to
"And if somebody decides my heart would make a
dandy sacrifice?"
"Then you'll use
the powers you've learned to get away. I don't just want you to deliver the
message, I want you to come back safe and sound."
"Oh," said
Arthur Stuart, realizing. "You want me to bring these white men with
me."
"I want you to
bring them as far as it takes to make them safe," said
"I don't think a
soul's gonna listen to me," said Arthur Stuart. "When did Calvin ever
listen to you?"
"Calvin will do
what he wants," said
"I just hope I get there before the volcano
blows," said Arthur Stuart. "What if I get lost?"
"Don't you worry," said La Tia. "You be
carrying the volcano with you."
The other part of the errand? "How can I do that?"
Tenskwa-Tawa answered.
"We have awakened the giant under the earth," he said. "It flows
now hotter and hotter. But what we couldn't do was control the moment when it erupted.
Or where. But La Tia, she knows the old African ways of calling to the earth.
She's made two charms. They won't work until they're burned. But where they're
burned, and what you say when you burn them, you'll have to memorize that and
teach it to my people who are there."
"Why two
charms?" asked Arthur.
"The one she call
smoke from the ground," said La Tia. "The other one, she call the hot
red blood out of the earth."
"My people,"
said Tenskwa-Tawa, "will tell the Mexica people what day the smoke will
first appear, and when it happens, they'll believe. We want to give them plenty
of time to leave. The idea isn't to kill Mexicas. The idea is to show them that
a greater power rejects their lies about what God wants them to do."
"We're trying to break the power of the priests
who sacrifice human beings," said
"Three days after the first charm," said
Tenskwa-Tawa, "they'll use the second one."
"And the volcano blows up."
"We don't know
how bad it will be," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "We can't control what the
giant does, once it's awake."
"What about the reds who work the charm?"
asked Arthur Stuart.
"We hope that they'll get away in time,"
said Tenskwa-Tawa.
"I don't know how fast she work," said La
Tia. "I never make this kind before."
"How do you know it'll work at all, then?"
said Arthur Stuart.
It seemed a practical
question to him, but La Tia shot him a glare. "I be La Tia, me," she
said. "Other people charms, they maybe don't work."
Arthur Stuart grinned
at her. "I hope I grow up to be perfect like you."
She apparently didn't
detect the irony in his words. "You be so lucky," she said.
Arthur Stuart spent
the next hour studying the charm to learn how it was put together—"in case
she come apart on the road," La Tia said—and learning the words and the motions.
"What if I don't
do it exactly right?" said Arthur Stuart. "What if I forget some bit?
Will it just work a little slower, or will it not work at all?"
La Tia glared at him
again. "Don't forget any. Then we never find out how much she go wrong
when stupid boy forget."
So even after she was
satisfied that he knew what to do, Arthur Stuart went off by himself, to a
stand of trees near the river, to go through it all again.
That's where he was
when Dead Mary found him. But he was asleep by then, exhausted from all that
he'd been doing for days. The greensong helped him and everyone else stay
vigorous all through the night and into the morning, but the need for sleep had
caught up with him and there was no denying it.
Arthur Stuart felt a
hand on his shoulder and sat bolt upright. He was confused to see that it was
Dead Mary who was kneeling beside him, because she had also been in his dream.
"
Arthur shook his head. "That's all right," he
said. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."
"What's that you were lying on?"
Arthur Stuart looked
down and was horrified to see that he had rolled over on the smaller charm and
bent it. He said a swear word, apologized for it, and when Dead Mary said it
was all right, he thanked her and said it again. "She's gonna kill me if I
don't get this back together right."
"La Tia?"
said Dead Mary. "Sometimes I think she might kill someone for practice.
The power she has!"
"I'm just glad she's on our side," said
Arthur Stuart.
"She is for now."
"Same could be
said for you," said Arthur. "When we get to safety, what then? Where
will everybody go?"
"Where can we
go?" said Dead Mary. "All these runaway slaves, where will they be
safe? And my people, the French— we don't speak the way they do in
"
"Then maybe we wander."
Oh right,
She looked at him like he was crazy. "I know
that, ignorant boy."
"Is that what I am?"
"When you talk
like that, yes," said Mary. "You think I want a husband? You
think all women, they want a man for a husband or not at all?"
"Well, you ain't got
a husband," said Arthur Stuart.
"And when I want
one," she answered, "I will tell him and it will be none of your
business."
So much for Arthur
Stuart's dream. "It's none of my business now." He looked at the
small charm from every angle. There was nothing wrong with it that he could
see, and yet it still didn't feel quite right.
"Was this
supposed to be part of it?" said Mary. She held up a grain of dried
maize—a red one.
"Yes, yes, thank
you." He inserted it into its place between two pieces of birchbark.
"It's hard to remember what you're not seeing. I'm going to mess
this up, I just know it. This is important, and they're crazy to send an
ignorant boy to do it."
She laid a reassuring
hand on his shoulder. "You are not really an ignorant boy," she said.
"No, you had it
right."
"You are an
ignorant boy when you try to guess what a woman is thinking," said Mary.
"But you are not an ignorant boy when it comes to doing a man's
work."
"I guess then I'm
an ignorant man" he grumbled, but he liked having her touch his
shoulder, even if she was sweet on a married man.
"I saw you in the
crystal ball," she said. "I saw you running and running. Through
desert, up a mountain. To a great valley surrounded by tall mountains, with a
lake in the middle, and a city on the lake. I saw you run to the middle and
light a fire and it turned all the mountains into great chimneys giving off
smoke, and then the earth began to shake and the mountains began to
bleed."
"Well, the plan
is for me not to be there by the time that stuff happens."
"The ball does
not show what will actually happen," said Mary. "It shows the meaning
of what might happen. But you will run, yes? And thousands of people
will be saved from the fire."
"A fire that
wouldn't happen except for this." He held up the bigger charm. "You
want to know how scary La Tia is?"
"I have seen my
mother ride the back of a shark," said Dead Mary. "I have seen her
swim with sharks, and play with them like puppies. I am not afraid of La
Tia."
"Why are some
people so powerful, and other people barely got a knack at all?" asked
Arthur Stuart.
"Why can I see
sickness and death, and do nothing about it?" asked Mary. "Why can
you speak any language you want, but you don't know what to say? To have a
knack is a burden; not to have a knack is a burden; God only cares to see what
we do with the burden we have."
"So now you're
speaking for God?"
"I'm speaking the
truth," said Mary, "and you know it." She got up. "
"I
remember," said Arthur Stuart. "But I wasn't coming back till I got
this fixed."
"I know,"
she said. "But now it's fixed, and here we are. What are you waiting for,
Arthur Stuart?"
"We was talking
is all," he said.
Then, to his surprise,
she put her hands on his shoulders, leaned up, and kissed him right on the
mouth. "You were waiting for that," she said.
"Reckon I was," he said. "Was I waiting
for maybe two of them?"
She kissed him again.
"So you're telling me you're not sweet on
She laughed. "I
want him to teach me everything he knows," she said. "But you—I want
to teach you everything I know."
Then she ran off ahead
of him, toward the red city.
When Arthur Stuart got
back to camp, La Tia immediately demanded to see the charms, and though she
clucked and straightened a little here and there, she did it as much on the one
he had not crushed as on the one he had, so he figured she was just
fussing and he had done OK at putting it back together.
"You're going to
get me started," said Arthur Stuart, "but I'm gonna have to stop
along the way, if only to ask directions, and then how will I get started
again?"
"You can stop
without losing the greensong," said
"I'll keep that
in mind."
"It's one of the
things that makes it hard for me," said
"Engineers only
get to go where the tracks have been laid," said Arthur Stuart.
"There you have
it," said
"That's why you
should be making this trip, not me," said Arthur Stuart. "I'm gonna
mess this up, and folks are gonna wish it had been you all along."
"Nobody wished it
had been me leading that exodus across the delta lands."
"I did."
"You'll do
fine," said
They began to run, and
soon Arthur Stuart was caught up in the greensong, stronger than he'd ever
heard it before. The red farmland wasn't like white men's farms. The maize and
the beans grew right up together, all mixed in, and there were other plants and
lots of animals living in it, so the song didn't go silent where the ground had
been plowed and planted. Maybe there was a way that machines could be made
harmonious with the earth the way these farms were. Then
After a while Arthur Stuart
noticed that
It occurred to him
that he might move even faster, and then he did. Faster yet, and now he fairly
flew. But his feet always found just the right place to step, and when he leapt
he cleared every hurdle, and every breath he took in was filled with pleasure,
and every breath he let out was a whispery song of joy.
14
Plow
"Why won't you look in the crystal ball,
"Nothing there that I want to see," said
"We look into it and see important things,"
she said.
"But you can't trust it, can you?" said
"It gives us an idea of what's coming."
"No it
doesn't," said
"For someone who refuses to look," said Dead
Mary, "you know a lot about it."
"I don't like what I see there."
"Neither do I," said Dead Mary. "But I
think that is not why you refuse to look."
"Oh?"
"I think you do
not look because it is your wife who sees the future, not you. And if you ever
looked into the ball, then you would not need her any more."
"I think you're
talking about things you don't know anything about," said Alvin, and he
turned away to leave.
"I also don't
like what I don't see," said Dead Mary.
"A good husband for
me, for one thing," she said. "Or children. Or a happy life. Isn't
that what crystal balls are supposed to show?"
"It ain't no
carnival fortune telling ball."
"No, it's made of
water from the swamps of Nueva Barcelona," said Dead Mary. "And it
shows me that you love your wife and will never leave her."
He turned around to
face her again. "Does it show you that it's wrong of you to toy with
Arthur Stuart and lead him to think you're in love with him?"
"It is not wrong," said Dead Mary, "if
it's true."
"True that you're toying with him? Or true that
you're in love with him?"
"True that I am drawn to him. That I like him.
That I wanted to kiss him before he left."
"Why?"
"Because he's a good boy and he shouldn't die
Without ever being kissed."
"The crystal ball showed you he was going to die,
is that it?"
"Isn't he?"
"The ball tells
back to you what you already believe," said
"Let me tell you
what the ball shows me," said Dead Mary. "A city on a hill over
a river, and in the center of the city, a great palace of crystal, like the
ball, water standing up and shining in the sunlight so you cannot bear to look
on it."
"Just one
building made of crystal," said
She nodded. "And
the name of the city is The City of Makers, and The City Beautiful, and
"That's a lot of names for one dream."
"This is where you are leading us, isn't
it?" said Dead Mary.
"So maybe the ball doesn't show you only
your own dream," he said.
"Whose dream did I see, then?"
"Mine."
"Let me tell you
something, Monsieur Maker," said Dead Mary. "These people don't need
some fancy building made of crystal. All they need is some good land where they
can set a plow, and build a house, and raise a family, and they'll do just
fine."
In
When Verily Cooper met
up with Abe Lincoln in Cheaper's store at
"Out of your territory, aren't you?" asked
Verily.
"I'm on duty, as a matter of fact," said the
clerk.
"Then your list of duties is longer than I
thought," said Verily.
The clerk walked up to him and handed him a folded and
sealed paper. "That's for you."
Verily glanced at it. "No it's not," he
said.
"Are you or are
you not the attorney for one Alvin Smith also known as Alvin Miller, Jr., of
"I am," said
Verily Cooper.
"Then in that
capacity papers to be served on Mr. Smith can be served on you."
"But," said
Verily, touching the man on the shoulder to suggest that he should not rush out
of the store as he seemed to be in quite a hurry to do. "But, we are not
in the state of Hio, where I am licensed to practice law, or the state of
Wobbish, where I am licensed to practice law. In those states, I am indeed Mr.
Smith's attorney. But in the state of
He handed them back to the clerk.
The clerk glared at him. "I think that's pure
horse piss, sir."
"Are you a lawyer?" asked Verily Cooper.
"Apparently you aren't either, in this
state," said the clerk.
"If you're not a lawyer, sir, then you should not
be offering a legal opinion."
"When did I do that?"
"When you said
that what I said was pure horse piss. It would take a lawyer to offer an opinion
on the degree of purity of any particular sample of horse piss. Or are we to
assume you are practicing law without having been accepted at the bar in the
state of
"Did you come
here just to make my life a living hell?" asked the clerk.
"It's you or
me," said Verily. "But let me tell you something that it was my
pleasure once to say to the Lord Protector and all his legal officers in
"What's that?"
"Good-bye."
Verily clapped his hat on his head and strode out the
door into the street.
The clerk stomped out
immediately after him, and kept on stomping, which raised something of a dust
cloud behind him, the day being quite dry and hot.
Then Abe Lincoln
sauntered out, followed by his faithful companion, Coz. "What do you think,
Coz? I think we got to agree that was sharp lawyering. But then again, any time
a lawyer says he ain't a lawyer, isn't that some kind of improvement to the
general condition of humanity?"
Coz grinned and then
spat into the dirt, which made a little ball of mud that actually rolled a few
inches before it settled down and disappeared. "But we like Mr.
Cooper," said Coz. "He's a good lawyer."
"He's a good man,"
said Abe. "And he's a good lawyer. But is it possible for him
to be both at the same time?"
"You keep this up," said Verily, "and I
won't teach you any more about lawyering."
"I think Abe is already a fine lawyer," said
Coz.
"What do you mean?" said Verily.
"Well, look at
you," said Coz. "You're just walking around, right? And nobody's
paying you, right?"
"Right," said Verily.
"That's what Abe does most of the time."
"You know I'm a
hardworking man, Coz," said Abe. "I split half the fence rails in
"Aw, come on,
Abe," said Coz. "Can't you let another man have his joke?"
"Just wouldn't
want Mr. Cooper to think I was a lazy man."
Since Verily had spent
the last few days trying to keep up with the long-legged, fast-walking Mr.
Lincoln, he really hadn't got the impression of laziness from him.
Today, though, they
were not walking. At
"We're poor men," said Abe.
"I'm poorer," said Coz.
"Because you spend every dime you make on riotous
living."
"A man in love is inclined to buy gifts for his
lady."
"And drinks."
"She was thirsty."
"And then she was
unconscious," said Abe. "And then you paid for a room in the tavern
for her to sleep it off, hoping no doubt that her gratitude in the morning
would be greater than her headache, only in the morning..."
"My love life ain't none of Mr. Cooper's
business."
"Your love life is imaginary, except for the
amount of money you lose at it," said Abe.
And so it went all the way from
They left the
cornfields behind them after a couple of hours and forded
They reached a
tree-covered bluff overlooking the great river just before dark. There wasn't
much to see. A lot of trees below them, and beyond the trees, a glimpse of the river
reflected scattered moonlight. And then the fog that obscured all vision of the
land on the other side.
"Here's where we spend the night," said
"And eat supper, I hope," said Coz.
"Supper?" said Verily.
Abe looked at him sharply. "I said we'd need
provisions."
"You didn't say we'd need food," said
Verily.
"Well I'm blamed if provisions don't mean food!"
said Abe, sounding a little cross.
"If you meant food," said Verily, "you
should have said food."
"If you think I'm
going to hunt for rabbit this time of night on an empty stomach, you're
looney," said Coz.
"Myself,"
said Abe, "I'm thinking of maybe turning cannibal."
Verily grinned.
"Now I know why you brought Coz along."
Coz put his hands on
his hips and glared at them both by turns. "Now see here, there ain't
nobody going to eat nobody, least of all me. I may look stout, but I assure you
it's all fat, every bit of it, not a scrap of muscle on me, so if you tried to
fry me up like bacon you'd end up gagging on account of there being no lean in
it."
Verily sighed. "It's hard to play a joke on men
who refuse to notice the jest."
"We were joking back," said Coz. "We
knowed you had food all along."
"Oh, no, I don't have food," said Verily.
"The joke was the part about eating you."
They both uttered
disgusted noises and then Verily laughed. "All right, then, I suppose I
might have something left over from my journey here in my saddlebags."
He was getting the
waybread and corned beef out of the saddlebag when Abe said, "You know,
I'm a mite uncomfortable that the campfire that was going down by the river
when we got here has since been put right out."
"Maybe they got done eating," said Coz.
"I didn't see a campfire," said Verily.
"Maybe they don't want a fire 'cause it's a hot
night," said Coz.
"Or maybe they
took note of some travelers on horseback coming out of the wood at the crown of
this bluff and decided that we looked like easy folk to rob."
A powerful voice came
from the brush off behind the horses. "Fine time to think of that, sir."
And out from the bushes stepped a big man, who looked like he'd been in a lot
of fights but hadn't lost any of them. And he had pistols and knives all over
him, it seemed, with a cocked musket in his hands.
It was the first time
Verily had seen Abe Lincoln look scared. "If you were hoping to rob
somebody easy," said Abe, "you're half right. We'll be easy, only we
ain't got nothing to steal."
"Speak for
yourself, Abe," said Coz. "I bet Mr. Cooper's got everything he owns
on that horse."
Abe gave Coz a shove.
"Well, ain't that a fine thing, drawing this man's attention to our friend
Mr. Cooper!"
"Well Mr. Cooper was planning to fry me up
like bacon!" said Coz, shoving Abe back.
"That was a joke, Coz," said Abe, shoving
him harder.
"He says now," said Coz, shoving Abe back,
even harder.
But when Abe flung
himself forward to shove again, it wasn't Coz he shoved. He took a flying leap
at the stranger and down they tumbled into the bushes.
"Don't you worry,
none, Mr. Cooper," said Coz. "Abe's a pretty bad fighter, but he puts
his whole self into it and he don't give up early."
"Verily!"
called the big man from the bushes. His voice sounded like somebody was
pounding on his chest.
"He knows your
name?" said Coz.
"Verily, are you
going to say something, or am I going to have to kill your big ugly
friend!"
"He oughtn't to call Abe ugly like that,"
said Coz.
"Abe," said Verily, "this man is not
here to rob us."
The fight quieted down. "You know each
other," said Abe.
"Abe Lincoln, meet Mike Fink. Mike Fink, vice
versa."
"Leave off that
legal talk, Mr. Cooper," said Mike. "It just riles me up and then I
have to kill somebody."
"Well, don't kill
Mr. Lincoln," said Verily. "He hasn't yet told me why he brought me
to this godforsaken spot."
"I don't know
either," said Mike, "but this is where Peggy said you'd be on this
very evening, so this is where I came to meet you."
"Don't tell me
you rowed upstream the whole way from
"I'd never tell
such a lie," said Mike Fink, "but it's kind of flattering you'd think
it was a possibility. Also kind of stupid, since half the journey would have
been down the Hio, which ain't upstream."
"Ah. You didn't
start in
"
"My butt says it
was far enough," said Coz. "They made me ride the uncomfortable
horse."
"Any horse with
you on it's gonna be uncomfortable," said Abe.
"So Peggy knew
that we'd be here," said Verily.
"Who is this
Peggy," said Abe, "and how did she supposedly know days ago a thing I
didn't find out about till yesterday?"
"A man who fights
like a big-armed baby oughtn't to imply that a man that just whupped him is a
liar," said Mike.
"Didn't accuse a
soul," said Abe. "I asked a question."
"Peggy is
Margaret Larner," said Verily. "
"She didn't
happen to say," said Abe, "whether the plan that brought us here is a
good idea."
"I'm not here for
you," said Mike. "No offense. Nor for Verily Cooper, neither."
"Well I sure hope
you ain't here for me," said Coz, "cause I peed my pants just looking
at you, and if you rassle me it'll get all over you."
"I appreciate the
warning," said Mike. "But I'm here for
"I thought Peggy
sent you," said Verily.
"Peggy sent
me," said Mike, "to meet
Coz was delighted.
"
"That makes this
a right propitious spot," said Abe.
"No it
doesn't," said Verily. "Margaret wouldn't have sent Mike Fink unless
"What Peggy says
is, when neither Alvin nor his lawyer showed up in court, the judge put out a
summer judgment against
"Let me guess," said Verily. "Is there
a reward?"
"Somebody put up five hundred dollars," said
Mike.
"And you're here to help
"I'm here to take
anybody who tries to earn that reward and grind him into flour and bake him
like bread."
"We ain't looking to do that," said Coz.
"Five hundred dollars is a lot of money,"
said Abe.
Mike took a step toward Abe—who, to his credit, did
not flinch.
"Calm down,
Mike," said Verily. "Abe Lincoln is a man who likes his joke. He's a
trusted friend of Al's."
"Ain't trusted by
me" said Mike.
"My question
is," said Coz, "if he's got you willing to protect him, how come he
runs around all the time with that scrawny brother-in-law of his?"
"He don't need me
to protect him from the kind of danger you meet on the road," said Mike.
"He can defend himself just fine against that. It's when they come to him
with legal papers and he gets all honorable and starts believing that he should
let them haul him off to jail and then he stays there even though we
know there ain't no jail can hold him—that's when he needs me. Because I
don't mind beating in the face of a man who's just doing his job."
"Or biting off his ear," added Coz,
hopefully.
"Gave up ear-biting long ago," said Mike.
"And eye-gouging.
"Made you?"
asked Abe.
Mike looked embarrassed.
"He's a blacksmith, don't you know. Look at them shoulders he's got. Not
to mention that he could just look at my leg and break it."
"I think the
fight, which is legendary, was equally unfair on both sides," said Verily.
"Oh, that's
so," said Mike. "I wasn't accusing
"Ha ha,"
said Coz lamely. "You're such a joker, you are."
"When's
"Well, you know
how Peggy gets kind of vague when it comes to
"Came by
train," said Verily. "Would've been nice if I could've done
that."
"So I wondered if
you folks already et," said Mike. "Because I just couldn't see no
point in hotting up a pot just for me, and I also didn't much care to eat my beans
cold."
Soon they had a fire
going right on the bluff, with two pots beside it, one full of stew, the other
full of water, waiting to come to a boil.
"I reckon we're
putting this fire right out in the open like this," said Abe, "so
anybody seeking a reward won't waste time tripping over foxes and beavers in
the dark."
"
It wasn't that Mike
Fink was completely incautious, though. He volunteered for the first watch of
the night, and warned Verily that he was next.
So it was that a
groggy Verily Cooper was the one leaning against a tree looking out over the
river when suddenly there was a man standing beside him. "River's
beautiful at night," said
Verily didn't even bat an eye. "Someday I'd like
to see it with no fog."
"Someday," said
"Glad to see you," said Verily.
"Glad to be seen."
"Where's your company of five thousand?"
"Six thousand
now. They're coming north. I ran on ahead to meet you and see if you're doing
what I hope you're doing."
"Finding a place for your people to come."
"Have you? Found a place?"
"Abe Lincoln and
I have been up and down, here and there," said Verily. "There are
abolitionist towns that'll take a hundred or so. But I don't think there are
sixty such towns in the whole state."
"Bad news,"
said
"So tell me some
good news,
"Before I
do," said Verily, "tell me this. Did you come here tonight because
this is the right place for us to be?"
"I came here
tonight because tomorrow I need you to make the handles for my plow."
When Dead Mary told
All he had ever seen
or thought of was the part of it that was made of crystal, the part of it that
would be filled with dreams and visions like the ball, like the bridge, like
the dam. And he had always thought that to live in such a place, all the citizens
would have to be makers, like him. That's why he had been teaching them, or
trying to teach them, all these eager people who simply couldn't do it. All had
accomplished something, some slight increase of awareness or ability. Verily
Cooper, of course, already had something of makery in his knack, and Calvin was
a maker, after his fashion. And Arthur Stuart—now, he was a marvel,
all these years and suddenly he makes his breakthrough and he sees it. But
that's what, four people? And Calvin none too reliable. You don't make a
But that's why Dead
Mary's vision of the
It's a city of makers,
not because everyone in it is a Maker, but because the whole city cooperates in
making the Making possible, and the whole city participates in the good thing
that they have made.
So obvious now. Who is
the builder of a great cathedral? The architect can truly say, I built this,
even though he never lifts a stone. The stonecutters can say, I built this,
even though it was not their hands that put the stones in place. The masons,
the glassmakers, the carpenters, the weavers of rugs, they are all part of the
building of it. And the bishop who caused them to build it, and the rich people
who donated the money, and the women who brought the food to the workers, and
the farmers who grew the food they serve, all the people of the city caused that
building to exist. And fifty years later, when all the people whose hands did
the work, they're all dead now, or old and doddering, their grandchildren can
walk inside that building and say, "This is our cathedral, we built
this," because it was the city that built the building, and the city that
goes inside to use it, and each new generation that keeps the city alive, and
walks into the building with veneration and pride, the cathedral is theirs as
much as anyone's.
I can still teach makery
to those who want to learn, thought
And since everyone
will have contributed in one way or another to the crystal edifice, then they
are part of it, aren't they? Part of the
Which means the
Through the morning he
watched and then tried not to watch and then watched again, as Verily Cooper
stroked the wood and with his bare hands made it into what it needed to be.
Verily did not set a tool to the wood. Nor did he choose a fallen log or fell a
tree. He found two saplings that were of a size, and stroked them until they
separated from the tree. He didn't exactly knead the wood like clay, but the
effect was the same. Bark stripped away from the living wood, and the wood
shaped itself, bent itself until each of the saplings was now the shape of a
plow handle.
Abe and Coz and Mike
watched too, for a while. In awe, at first. But miraculous as it might seem, it
was a slow and repetitive process, and after a while they wandered off to do
other things—survey the area, Abe said.
So it was that when
Verily was done, it was just him and Alvin there. The two saplings were now
joined at the base as completely as if they had grown that way.
"Time to take that plow out of the sack,"
said Verily.
"The wood is still alive," said
"I know," said Verily.
"Have you made anything out of living wood
before?" asked
"No," said Verily.
"Then how did you know how?"
"You asked me to
do it, and I didn't have any tools," said Verily. "But all this work
you've had me doing, learning how to actually see and understand what was going
on inside the wood when I made barrel staves and hooped them—well, Al, did you
think I wouldn't learn anything!"
"So let's see if
it'll fit."
"Gold is
soft," said Verily. "It'll wear away quickly in hard ground, won't
it?"
"A living plow
don't fit into the world the way ordinary ones do, and I expect it'll be as
hard as I need it to be."
Verily laughed.
"I'll hold the handles in place, and you work it out from there."
Leaping together,
joining, the plowshare sliding into exactly the right spot, the wood flexing a
bit to let it in, then closing back down over it, so it looked as if the
handles had been carved from a tree that had the golden plow already embedded
inside it.
Neither of them had a
chance to marvel and admire, though, for the moment the plow leapt into place,
there came such a music as Alvin had never heard before. It was the greensong—the
song of the living wood, the living world, he recognized it, and felt how the
handles vibrated with it. And yet it was another music, too. The music of
worked metal, of machinery, of tools made to fit human needs and to do human
work. It was the beating throb of the engine in a steamboat, and hissing and
spitting of a locomotive, the whine of spinning wheels, the clatter and clump
of power looms. Only instead of the cacophony of the factory, it all blended
together into a single powerful song, and to
Even then, he scarcely
had time to realize what the music was before the plow started bucking and
bouncing. It was clear that it no longer intended to be still, and Verily, far
from controlling it, was barely able to hang on as the plow lurched forward—no
ox or horse pulling it, nothing at all but its own will. It skipped a few feet
and then dug into the thatch of the meadowgrass, cut through it like a hot
knife through butter, then raced forward, Verily hanging on for dear life,
running and twisting to keep up with it.
Whatever else this
plow might want, it had no respect for the idea that the best furrow is a
straight one. It twisted and turned all around the meadow, as if it were a
dowser's stick searching for water.
Which, when
"I can't hold on
any longer!" cried Verily, and he fell to the ground as the plow lurched
forward another yard and then ... stopped.
The plow just stood there in the ground, unmoving.
Alvin ran over as Verily got up off the ground.
Gingerly, Verily
reached a hand out to it. The moment his skin touched it, the plow bucked again
and moved forward.
"I have an idea," said Alvin. "You take
the right handle, I'll take the left."
"Both at once," said Verily.
"One," said Alvin. And Verily joined in on
"two" and "three."
"Wait a minute," said Verily. "How high
are we counting?"
"I was thinking of three, but looks like that
won't be it after all."
"When we say three, or when we would have
said four?"
"When we say three, we should be grabbing right
then," said Alvin.
One.
Two.
And away they went.
Only this time there
was no bucking. The plow moved, all right, cutting deep into the ground and
turning up the soil just like a plow should do. But its path was no longer so
crooked.
And its purpose seemed
to be to get out of the meadow, move through the trees, and climb back up onto
the bluff.
It was steep
going—this wasn't all that gentle a slope— and there were low branches that
looked like they were designed to take the head right off anyone foolish enough
to be hanging on behind a living plow.
But the greensong in
the music of the plow was powerful, and the branches seemed to rise up or bend back,
and neither Alvin nor Verily suffered so much as a scrape or scratch or bump.
Nor did they get weary as they ran up the hill behind the plow.
When it reached the
top, the plow turned a little and ran across the face of the bluff. That was
when Alvin became vaguely aware of the voices of Mike and Abe and Coz,
somewhere in the distance, whooping and hollering like little boys. But there
was no waiting for them to catch up. For the plow was zeroing in on its
destination and speeding up as it grew closer.
Closer to a stony
outcropping some twenty yards back from the front of the bluff, a spot where no
trees grew because the stone continued under the meadow, leaving too little
soil for any tree to root deep enough to withstand a storm.
They headed straight for
the bare rock in the middle of the clearing, and Alvin was not altogether
surprised when the plow cut right through the stone without so much as a
stutter. It cut a furrow into the rock just as it had with the soil, only where
the soil behind the plow had been loose and warm, the upturned stone hardened
in place, like a sculpture of a furrow.
And when the plow got
to a spot where a puddle of water had formed in a depression in the stone, it
went straight to the middle of the puddle and stopped.
The water drained down
the furrow the plow had made. A thin stream of pure water being guided by the
stone furrow, and then the furrow in the soil, to the edge of the bluff and
along it down to the meadow where Verily had made the handles.
The plow did not move.
Alvin and Verily took their hands from the handles.
The music faded.
"I think we're done here," said Alvin.
"What is it we did?" said Verily.
"We found the spot for the Crystal City,"
said Alvin.
"Is that what we've been looking for?" asked
Verily.
"I think it's what this plow has been looking for
since it was first made."
Alvin knelt beside the
plow that he had carried for so long. All these years of toting it, and now its
work was done, and wild and joyful as the trip up the hill was, it hadn't taken
long. Just a few minutes. But when Alvin reached out and touched a finger to
the golden face of the plow, the thing quivered, and the handle came loose and
fell away. Fell to the ground.
Verily picked it up. "Still alive," he said.
"But no longer part of the plow."
The music was gone,
too. The greensong still lingered, as it always did in Alvin's mind. But the
music of machinery was completely still.
Alvin tugged on the
plow and it slid easily out of the stone. He put it back in the poke. It still
quivered with life, no more nor less than it always had. As if it had no memory
of what it had just done.
They all drank from
the spring that now welled up from the end of the furrow. The water was sweet
and clean. "We could keg this up and sell it for wine," said Abe,
"and nobody'd say we cheated them."
"But we
won't," said Verily.
Abe gave him an
I'm-not-an-idiot look. "So you reckon this plow of yours has picked this
spot for your city."
"Might be,"
said Alvin. "If we can figure out who owns the land and figure out a way
to buy it."
"Well, you're in
luck," said Abe. "It's why I brought you here. This is part of what
the Noisy River government calls River County. It's the wild land along the Mizzippy
between Moline and Cairo. There's an old law from territory days that offers to
make a county out of any part of River County that can prove it has two
thousand settlers and at least one town of three hundred people."
"A county?" asked Verily.
"A county," said Abe.
"But a county has the right to elect its own
judges," said Verily.
"And its own sheriff," said Abe.
"So when somebody
comes into Furrowspring County with a warrant from some court in Hio,"
said Verily, "the Furrowspring County court can vacate the warrant."
"That's how I
figured it," said Abe.
"You were really
listening when I explained about the law."
"And I remember
my old dad trying to farm boggy land along the Hio, and somebody come along and
told him all about River County, and how the land was there for the taking if
just two thousand folks would join up and go, and Dad said he had a hard enough
time farming a swamp, the last thing he needed was fog on top of it."
"If we have our
own county," said Alvin, "then we can build a city here, and populate
it with black people and French people and anybody else we want to invite, and
nobody can stop us."
"Well," said
Abe, "it's not that simple."
"You mean there's
some law against folks moving in here?"
"There is against
runaway slaves," said Abe, "but I think we got that solved, since the
same judge can vacate a lot of other orders, and the same sheriff can run any
slave-catchers out of town or at least make it real hard to find any former
slaves. Hut what I was getting at was, anybody can move in. Not just
folks that you invite."
"Well, we invite
everybody," said Alvin.
Abe laughed.
"Well, shoot, word gets out about this golden plow that cut right through
stone and brought water out of the rock like Moses, and your six thousand won't
be but a drop in the bucket for all the thousands of gold hunters and miracle
seekers who'll be tramping all up and down this country. And I reckon they'll
be the ones electing the sheriff and the judge and maybe somebody'll get
that reward after all."
"I see," said Alvin. "It ain't all that
easy after all."
"If I kill you all," said Mike, "won't
be nobody to tell about this place."
"Except you," said Alvin.
"Well, I didn't say it was a perfect plan."
"What we
need," said Verily, "is a charter from the state. Granting us the
boundaries that we want for our county, and then we got to make sure we control
all the land so it only gets sold to people we choose. People who are with us
and won't cause trouble."
"People who are
willing to help build this place as a city of makers," said Alvin.
"I know how to
write such a charter," said Verily. "But I don't know that I'll be
able to find my way around the state government."
"Well don't look
at me," said Abe. "I'm no politician."
"But you're from
around here," said Verily. "You don't talk like a highfalutin
Englishman. And you have a way of making people like you."
"So do you," said Abe.
"You know everybody hates him," said Coz.
"Well, yes,"
said Abe, "but only because they know Englishmen are smarter than other folks
and they resent it."
"Will you help me get that charter for
Furrowspring County?" said Verily.
"I notice you took it upon yourself to name the
place," said Abe.
"Do you have a better one?" said Verily.
"I was partial to Lincoln County," said Abe.
"How about Lincoln-Fink County?" suggested
Mike.
"Now that's pure vanity," said Abe.
"Naming the county after yourself."
"What were you doing?"
"Naming it for the county in England, of
course," said Abe.
"Furrowspring it
is, then," said Alvin. "The voting is unanimous." He turned to
Abe. "But in the meantime, settlers can come freely into River County
lands, right? And farm and build wherever they want?"
"That's the
law," said Abe. "Don't need permission. As long as you don't step on
somebody else's farm, and I don't see any around here."
"You know,"
said Alvin, "I was wondering why there wasn't at least one or two
farmsteads, belonging to the kind of folks who think six houses make a city too
big to enjoy living in."
"Maybe because
this is land meant for something better than a stumpy little farm," said
Verily.
"And who's doing
the meaning?" asked Alvin.
"Maybe the stone
itself was ambitious," said Verily. "Or maybe it was the water,
begging to be let out from under the rock."
"Or the sun that
wanted this patch to have no trees to make shade," said Alvin. "Or
the wind, needing a little meadow to blow across. Gentlemen, I don't think any
of the elements have a plan."
"The plow did," said Verily.
Alvin had to concede the point.
They put the plow
handles on the back of one of Verily's steeds and instead of anyone riding they
led the three horses back to Springfield together. They moved with the
greensong, all of them, and got there in only an hour of steady running, and
the horses weren't lathered or winded, and the men weren't hungry or tired, and
as for thirsty, they had all drunk from that clear spring, and they were loath
to taste any other water, because they knew it would taste like tin or mud or
nothing at all, instead of sweet, the way they knew now water ought to be.
15
It
was such a lovely ride from the coast to
"You are not safe to go outside," said the
door warden.
"We're going," said Steve Austin. "Out
of the way."
"I will not let you go. White people die out
there, give bad name to
"No, no,"
said Calvin impatiently. "What did you bring me for, anyway, if you're
just going to go shooting people. What if we need to get back here and thanks
to you they shoot us on sight?"
"When we come back we'll be the rulers of
"Fine," said Calvin. "But let me do
this."
So he dissolved the
linchpins in the hinges and then, with a gentle nudge, made sure the gates fell
outward instead of inward.
The door warden—with
no more door to ward—shrugged and turned away. And out they rode, a hundred
heavily armed white men, to take on the Mexica.
Almost at once they
were confronted by Mexica soldiers. These were not the club-wielding warriors
that Cortez had faced three centuries before. They were mounted and carried new-model
muskets that had probably been bought from the
"Patience,"
said Calvin to
Calvin was ready. He
knew how
"Don't shoot," said Calvin.
"But they're about to lay a volley into us,"
said
"They only think they are," said Calvin.
The Mexica captain
gave the command, and the soldiers pulled the triggers of their muskets.
Whereupon every single
one of them exploded, killing or blinding almost all of them, and blowing the
heads right off more than a few.
The Mexica captain was
left standing there with his ceremonial obsidian-edged sword and only a few of
his men still alive enough to writhe on the ground moaning or screaming in
agony.
"Shoot him!"
cried
"No!" cried
Calvin. "Let him go! You want somebody to tell the story of this, don't
you?"
Calvin had thought
he'd have to do several more demonstrations, but it all went better than he'd
hoped. The first city they came to, the alcalde came out to them and insisted
that the people of this place were not Mexica and begged the mighty priest they
had with them not to harm them.
So when they came to
the next city, they weren't just a hundred white men, they had a brightly costumed
troupe of reds with them, singing and chanting. Again the alcalde came out and
begged them to pass on through, giving them food and water and another five
hundred men to accompany them. Calvin was getting a little frustrated, so this
time he crumbled part of the stone wall of the city so there'd be more to the
story. The alcalde fell to his knees and offered them anything they wanted, but
"What did you do that for when they'd already
surrendered?" said
"They've got to see that we come with
power," said Calvin.
"Well, what you showed them was that we come to
tear stuff down."
"I'll find something better to do next
time," said Calvin. "Nondestructive."
"Thank you kindly," said
So it went all the way
up to the high Mexican plateau and through villages and cities, and by the time
they got within sight of the great volcanic mountains that ringed Mexico City,
they had at least fifteen thousand reds with them, a mighty army indeed,
marching ahead of them and behind them and singing and chanting and dancing at
every opportunity.
It was a glorious
entrance they made into the
"All run away, if
they've got any brains," said
Jim Bowie was riding
close by, and he seconded Calvin. "This is all too easy," he said.
"I don't like it."
"We raised up the
conquered people against the oppressor. The Mexica soldiers aren't going to
waste their lives resisting the irresistible."
"There's a trap
waiting for us here," said
So while
Not until they
actually reached the long causeway that led to the ceremonial city in the
middle of the lake did they finally see any kind of Mexica opposition. And
while there was plenty of pomp and color, lots of flags and feathers, there
weren't many that looked like soldiers. In fact, there weren't many of
anything—maybe three hundred men in the whole group that came down the causeway
to meet them.
"Do they think
this is going to be a picnic?" asked
"How many men do
you think it takes to surrender to us?" said
"We demand that
you surrender!" shouted
He turned to look for
an interpreter, but apparently they hadn't kept up when the white men had
ridden forward. No, there was one, and
But before the
interpreter could go forward with the message, a befeathered Mexica standing on
a huge litter borne by a dozen men began to speak.
"What's he
saying?" asked
The interpreter
listened. "He is the high priest and he thanks the people of... all these
tribes ... for bringing so many fine sacrifices for the god."
"Yes," said the interpreter.
"What a fool," said
"There's a fool all right," said
All at once, the reds
who were surrounding them gave a great shout and dragged the white men off
their horses.
Calvin woke up in
pain, and not just from his head, which was throbbing. He was also tightly
trussed, and lying on a stone floor. He was also blindfolded.
He could make his
bonds break apart, but he figured he ought to find out first where he was and
what was going on. So with his doodlebug he worked on the threads of the
blindfold and soon he had an opening he could see through. He was lying on the
floor of a large dimly lighted room—a Catholic church of some kind, from the
look of it, but not one that was used much. A couple of statues of saints stood
against one wall, and there was an altar near the front, but everything looked
shabby and dusty.
All the white men were
sitting or lying on the floor, and at the doors stood heavily armed Mexica
soldiers.
Calvin sent his
doodlebug to see behind him, and sure enough, there were four soldiers standing
over him. He was the only one of the white men with a special guard. Which
meant the Mexica knew he was the powerful one. He was surprised they hadn't
just killed him outright—but no, he was the prize, he was the one they'd be
proudest to sacrifice.
Ain't gonna happen, he
told himself.
He continued to lie
still, checking the condition of the other men. It might still be possible to
bring this thing off and snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.
Then a door opened, putting
a wedge of light into the room, and four women came in, carrying golden cups.
They began offering drinks to the men, who took them eagerly, some of them even
thanking the women. Calvin almost called out to warn them that the drink was
drugged, but decided it was better to deal with it himself. One by one he went
into the cups and separated the water from the drug, making it sink to the
bottom of the cups and stay there, under the pure water. Except for the first
few who had drunk, none of the others were getting any of the drug at all.
So when they got to
him, Calvin offered no resistance. He pretended to be groggy—which wasn't hard,
with his head hurting so bad. Pain shot through his head when he sat up, and he
wished he'd paid more attention when
They put the cup to
his lip and he drank eagerly.
No doubt they'd become
complacent soon, thinking that even the great white wizard was under control.
Except, of course,
only the first few men were acting drugged. The women were beginning to
be confused, talking to each other, probably wondering why most of the men were
still awake.
So Calvin put them to
sleep, one by one, until they all lay unconscious on the floor. That was what
the women wanted, and out they went. Out, too, went the Mexica soldiers, even
the ones guarding Calvin.
As soon as they were
gone, Calvin woke all the ones he had put to sleep. The drugged ones, though,
were another matter. It was simple to separate the drug from the water in the
cups, but impossible to do anything of the kind when the drug was already in
somebody's blood. So they slept on while the others sat up and looked around.
"Talk
softly," said Calvin. "There are still guards outside the door, and
we don't want them to hear us."
"You bastard," said a man.
"Don't tell us what to do."
But they talked softly.
"Are you so
stupid you blame me for this?" said Calvin. "I never claimed
to be a mind reader. How should I know we were prisoners the whole way here?
Did any of you guess it?"
No one had an answer
to that.
"But I'm the
reason the poison didn't work on you, once I realized the water was drugged. So
don't get pissed at me, let's plan how to get out of here."
"Better plan
fast," said
"I'm hurt,"
said Calvin. "I would have thought they'd save me for last."
"They're not
stupid," said
"Won't
happen," said Calvin.
"The way we
figure it," said
"Good plan,"
said Calvin. "Of course, without me you won't know where your weapons are
stored. You won't know how to get out of this room without getting caught. I
think a few of you might make it as much as a hundred yards from this
place."
They were thinking
about this when suddenly the ground shook under them. At once, from the city
outside this building, they could hear screaming and shouting.
Calvin broke open his
bonds and stood up. None of the others were tied, so they also stood. But the
windows were too high in the walls to see through.
The ground shook again.
"I think we ought to lie down again," said
"They aren't going to," said Calvin.
"How do you know?"
"Because the guards at the door just ran
away."
The door opened.
"Get ready to
go," said the young man. "We got about a day to get out of the city
before
"Before
what?" asked a man.
"
"Who's
'we'?" asked
"My guess is it's
my brother Alvin doing all this," said Calvin. "Cause this is his
brother-in-law, Arthur Stuart."
At once there were cries of protest.
"Your brother is married to a black woman?"
"Somebody named him for the King?"
"We're supposed to listen to a slave tell us what
to do?"
But Arthur Stuart's
voice cut through the noise. "It's not
"So what are you doing here?" asked
Calvin.
"Saving you," said Arthur Stuart. "And
anybody else who wants to come with us."
"I don't need you to save me," said Calvin
contemptuously.
"I know you don't
need me to get you out of this old church," said Arthur Stuart. "But
how are you going to get out of the city? I speak Spanish, which most of the
folks here speak well enough, and I also picked up quite a bit of
Nahuatl—that's the Mexica language. Any of you know how to ask for
directions or food? And good luck finding your way out of this valley with all
the panicky people filling the roads. Plus I reckon a lot of folks'll think you
brought this down on their heads, and they won't be too glad to see you."
"But why should
we leave at all?" said Calvin.
"So you don't get
burnt to a crisp and covered over with lava," said Arthur Stuart.
"This don't take no Aristotle to figure out, Calvin."
"Don't you talk
to a white man that way!" shouted a man, and a couple of others got up to
do him some kind of violence.
And Calvin was
perfectly willing to let them get started. Arthur Stuart needed to learn who
was in charge here, and how to show proper respect.
But the men never
reached Arthur. Instead, they started sliding and tripping over themselves just
as if the floor was suddenly smooth marble covered in butter, and after a
minute it became clear that anybody as started after Arthur Stuart would end up
on his butt.
The boy had really
learned some makery—but not as much as he probably thought. Calvin toyed with
the idea of having an all-out wizard's war with him right here on the spot, to
show him just how far he had to go—but what would be the point? There was no
time to waste.
"Forget
him," said Calvin. "He came to save us, so great, anybody who wants
to run away, go with him, right now. He's not much of a maker but he's got a
knack with languages and maybe he can get you to safety. But me, I think we can
turn this to our advantage. We came here to rule over
"What does Steve
say?" asked a man.
It was only then that
they all realized that
"You know what
he'd say," said Calvin. "He didn't come here to quit. He didn't come
here so he could run away after a black boy who thinks he's hot stuff cause he
can make a floor slippery. We came here to take over an empire and I aim to do
it."
"Everybody
already knows it's Tenskwa-Tawa's doing," said Arthur Stuart. "His
people are already here, they said when the smoke would start coming, and it
came when they said."
"But Tenskwa-Tawa
ain't going to come down here and rule over
"Anybody who
wants to get out of this valley alive, come with me now," said Arthur
Stuart.
"I'd rather die
than trust a slave for anything!" shouted one of the men he had put on the
floor.
"That's the
choice," said Arthur Stuart.
The ground trembled
again, and then again, and a third shock was so strong that several of the men
fell down.
"You're not doing
that, are you?"
"I can do it
whenever I want," said Calvin.
"You're such a
humbug," said Arthur Stuart. "It took a council of shamans a year to
get this volcano at the point of eruption. Even
"Maybe there's
things I can do that 'even
Arthur Stuart turned
to the rest of the men. "How fast can any of you run? How far do you think
you'll get? When
A few of the men were
wavering. "We can't take over
"We can do it
from outside this valley."
Calvin laughed.
"You saw what I did back in True Cross, didn't you? Have you forgotten who
and what I am? This boy is no wizard, he's nothing, my brother keeps him like a
pet, to do tricks." And with those words, Calvin made the door behind Arthur
Stuart fly from its hinges and burst outward onto the street. And then he made
a wind that picked up Arthur Stuart and flung him through the door.
"Anybody who
wants to," said Calvin, "is free to follow him. Seeing how he has so
much power."
Arthur Stuart appeared
in the door. "I never claimed to be more powerful than Calvin. But all his
power doesn't give him a single word of Spanish or Nahuatl. And he knows
nothing about the red man's way of running faster than a man can run. Come with
me if you want to live. I can get you back to True Cross, and from there you
can get safely home. Look at him! He doesn't care about you!"
"All I care
about," said Calvin, "is the lives of these men." Now he started
talking to the men directly. "You trusted in me and I will give you what I
promised—
Jim Bowie strode toward Arthur Stuart. "I know
this boy," he said. "I'm going with him."
Calvin didn't like that.
"So it turns out Steve Austin couldn't rely on
you after all," said Calvin.
"He's
asleep," said
"Yes," said Calvin, "who are the
cowards who refuse the chance to rule an empire?"
"Now," said Arthur Stuart. "No second
chances. Come now, if you're coming with me."
About a dozen men got up and came over to join, not
Arthur Stuart, but Jim Bowie.
"What about the ones they poisoned?" asked
one man.
"Their bad luck," said
But Arthur Stuart
looked at the men near the door, the ones who drank first and were drugged. And
as he gazed at them, one by one, they woke up.
Calvin was mortified.
This stupid knackless boy had somehow learned how to counter the poison in
their blood. And now he had to show off and rub Calvin's face in it. Didn't he
know that Calvin could have learned how to do anything if he had wanted to? But
why should Calvin bother learning how to wake up men who were stupid enough to
get themselves drugged?
In the end, though,
not one of the drugged ones decided to go; in fact, one of them was able to
persuade his brother not to leave with Arthur Stuart and Jim Bowie. So when the
boy left, he had ten men with him. The others all stayed in the church. With
Calvin.
"Now all we've
got to do," said Calvin, "is find out where they took our
weapons."
"How you gonna do
that?"
"By watching
where that boy goes. Do you think
Several of the men
laughed.
And sure enough, as
Calvin kept track of
"It's only one street over, just outside the
walls of this church," said Calvin.
"Then let's go," said Steve Austin.
"But let's get organized first."
"Let's get armed first," said Calvin.
"Doesn't do any good to have guns if we don't
have a plan!" said
Ten minutes later they
were still talking when the Mexica soldiers poured in through the open door.
"Fools!" shouted Calvin. "I told you to
go!"
Two of the Mexica aimed their muskets at Calvin and
fired.
Their guns blew up in their faces.
But the others were bringing their weapons to bear too
fast for Calvin to plug them all.
So he did the only sensible thing. He stepped backward
through the wall.
He'd done it before,
back when Napoleon had him imprisoned in
And there stood Calvin
on the outside of the church.
Where was Arthur
Stuart? Calvin found the boy's heartfire, though it took some hard searching,
and he was at the limit of Calvin's range. Well, the boy said he knew how to
get out of the city, and that's what Calvin needed, now that these fools had
wasted the opportunity Calvin gave them. They didn't deserve to live.
He took off at a run.
He had to pass near where the Mexica were dragging the white men out of the
front of the church, but he didn't even have to make up some kind of fog—nobody
saw him.
And why should they
even be looking? With him gone, there was nothing these unarmed men could do.
And waiting for them there in the plaza in front of the church was that same
high priest who had met them on the causeway. One by one the men were dragged
to him and thrown onto a wooden altar that had been placed in the square. Two
priests cut their clothing open and laid bare their chests, and Calvin could
hear the screaming as one by one they had their hearts torn from them and held
up as an offering to whatever god the Mexica thought might prevent the eruption
of Popocatepetl.
What a stupid end to
Steve Austin's dream. But that's all the man was, a dreamer, a planner. Even
now, when he could have turned this all to victory, he chose planning instead
of action and now he'll die for it and ain't that just too bad.
Calvin turned his
attention to the streets of the city. There were people running every which
way, and with Arthur Stuart so far away, it was all Calvin could do to keep track
of where he was. Nor did he know which of these labyrinthine streets would take
him there, so there was always the danger that Calvin would guess wrong and
make a turn that took him out of range.
Instead, though, he
was lucky and chose right every time, or at least right enough, and instead of
getting weaker, his vision of Arthur Stuart's heartfire got stronger. He was
gaining on them.
When they reached the
wall of the city, they stopped, and Calvin's running was now pure gain. Arthur
Stuart was opening a gap in the wall, and in his clumsy way he was making it
take ten times longer than it needed to. Well, good for me, thought Calvin. And
he got there just as the last of them was passing through an opening in the
wall. Calvin ran straight up to it and plunged through.
Outside the wall at
this spot was an orchard, and Arthur Stuart and Bowie and the others were
running through it. But running oddly—they were all holding hands, for heaven's
sake, which was about as stupid a thing as Calvin could imagine. Nobody made
his best speed holding hands.
Only they were running
awfully fast. No one tripped. No one stumbled. And they gained speed and kept
speeding up and no matter how hard Calvin ran, he couldn't catch up. Nor did
the ground prove as smooth for him as it had for them. Branches whipped his
face and he stumbled over a root and fell and by the time he got up, they were
out of sight. And when he looked for Arthur Stuart's heartfire, he couldn't
find it. Couldn't find any of them. It was like they had ceased to exist. There
was only the trees and the birds and the insects, and the distant sound of
shouting from the city and the roads.
Calvin stopped and
looked back. The ground outside the city had sloped up enough, and he had run
far enough, that he could see over the walls, though not down into the streets.
Somewhere back there most of the men he had journeyed with were having their
hearts ripped out, while in the other direction Arthur Stuart had run off with
the ten best of them—the ones who were smart enough to act instead of plan. Why
do I always get stuck with the fools on my side? thought Calvin.
Beyond the city,
Popocatepetl spewed thick plumes of white ash into the air. And now it was
beginning to fall onto the city like hot grey snow. It got into his lungs
almost at once, and it felt like it was burning him. So Calvin turned his
attention to keeping the air in front of his face clear of ash, as he began to
jog on in the direction that he had last seen Arthur Stuart's group going.
He ran and jogged and,
when he was too tired to do more, he walked and staggered and never once caught
a glimpse of Arthur Stuart's group or saw any sign of what path they took. But
he climbed ever higher up the slopes of the valley into the hills, and when
darkness came he found an adobe house with nobody home. He sealed it to keep
ash from seeping in, except for a few airholes through the thick walls. Then he
fell onto cornstalk mat on the floor and slept.
When he woke it was
still night. Except it wasn't. The sun was up—but it was only a dim red
disk in the ashes that filled the air. Morning. How long till the eruption?
What time of day had it been when the smoke first started?
Doesn't matter. Can't
control that. Keep walking. There was no running in him today, especially since
his path led inexorably uphill, and the ground kept shaking so much that if
he'd been running he would have fallen down.
He was still far from
the crest when the volcano blew up. He only had time enough to burrow his way
into an outcropping of rock, which took the brunt of the shockwave. It struck
with such force that the rock he was hiding in would have given way and
crumbled and collapsed into the valley, but Calvin held it firm, kept all but a
few shards and slivers of rock in place. And when the hot fiery air blew past,
incinerating all life in its path, Calvin kept a bubble of air around him cool
enough to bear, and so he did not die.
And when the shock
wave passed, he stepped out into the burning world, keeping that cool bubble
around him, and turned back to see lava pouring down the slopes of the mountain
like a flood from a burst dam. Only it wasn't heading toward the city, because
there was no city. Every building had been blown flat by the blast. Only a few
stone structures stood, and then only in ruins, most of the walls having been
broken down. There was not a sign of life. And the lake was boiling.
Calvin wondered, for a
moment, whether any of the men of Austin's expedition had lived long enough to
be killed by the eruption. Probably not. Who was to say which was the better
way to die? There was no good way to die. And Calvin had come this close.
But close to death was
still not death.
Cooling the ground
under his feet so his shoes didn't burn, he slowly made his way up the slope until,
before nightfall, he reached the crest and started down the unburnt side. Ash
had fallen here, too, but this land had been sheltered from the blast, and he
could eat the fruit from the trees, as long as he got the ash off it first. The
fruit was partly cooked—the ash had been that warm when it fell—but to Calvin
it tasted like the nectar of the gods.
I have been spared
alive yet again. My work is not yet done in the world.
Might as well head
north and see what Alvin's doing. Maybe it's time I started learning some of
the stuff he taught to Arthur Stuart. Anything that half-black boy can learn, I
can learn, and ten times better.
16
Labor
Tenskwa-Tawa
watched from the trees as Dead Mary,
Rien, and La Tia uncovered the crystal ball.
"We got to do something good for Alvin, all he do
for us," said La Tia.
"Maybe we should ask him what he wants,"
said Dead Mary.
"He not here," said La Tia.
"Men never know
what they want," said Rien. "They think they want one thing, then
they get it, then they don't want it."
"Your life story,
Mother?" asked Dead Mary.
"I name her Marie
d'Espoir," said Rien to La Tia. "Marie of hope. But maybe Marie de la
Morte is the right name. She the death of me, La Tia."
"I don't think
so," said La Tia. "I think men be the death of you, and that don't
come from the crystal ball, no."
"I'm too old for
men," said Rien.
"But they never
too old for you, Caterina," said La Tia. "Now we look to see what
"Can you command it to show what you want?"
asked Dead Mary.
"It always show me the right thing," said La
Tia.
"But I would still find a way to do the
wrong thing," said Dead Mary.
"You see?" said Rien. "My fille n'a pas
d'espoir."
"I have hope, Mother," said Dead Mary.
"But I have experience too."
"Look," said La Tia. "Do you see what I
see?"
"We never do," said Dead Mary.
"I see
"I see him with a woman," said Rien.
"That is what he miss the most."
"I see him kneeling by a child's grave,"
said Dead Mary. "That is what he fears the most."
"I can make a charm for this," said La Tia.
Tenskwa-Tawa stepped out from the tree. "Don't
make a charm for him, La Tia."
"I knew you was there, Red Prophet."
"I knew you
knew," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "That crystal shows you want you want
to see, not always the truth."
"But the truth
what I want to see," said La Tia.
"Everybody thinks
they want to see the truth," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "That's one of the
lies we tell ourselves."
"Him heart more
dark than Dead Mary, him."
"
"Give him the woman he love," said Rien.
"I know you have the charm for this."
"He has the woman he loves," said
Tenskwa-Tawa. "She's carrying his child right now."
"Give him the power to keep the child from dying,"
said Dead Mary.
"He has the
power," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "He figured out what the baby needed. He
just couldn't do it fast enough. The baby suffocated before he could get its
little lungs to breathe."
"Ah," said La Tia. "Time what he need.
Time."
"You have a charm for this?" said Rien.
"I got to think," said La Tia.
"Leave him
alone," said Tenskwa-Tawa. "Let his life be what it is. Let it be
what he makes of it."
"Did he leave our
lives as they were?" said Dead Mary. "Or did he heal my mother?"
"He heal me
better than I was before," said Rien. "I had the Italian disease,
long time, long before the yellow fever, but he fix that too."
"Did he leave
black people in chains, him?" asked La Tia.
"But he knew
what he was doing," said Tenskwa-Tawa.
La Tia reared back and
roared with laughter. "Him! He don't know what he do! He do the best thing
he think of, and when that go wrong he do the best thing he can think of then.
Like all us, him!"
Tenskwa-Tawa shook his
head. "Don't meddle with his baby or his wife," he said. "Don't
do it."
"The Red Prophet
command the Black Queen?" said La Tia.
"Lolla-Wossiky
was a slave to hate, and blind with rage, and
"You do what you
think with him," said La Tia. "I gonna bless him back, me."
Margaret spent all day
preparing for her journey to
And then there was the
carriage to arrange. She had seen many paths in which the journey was too much
for her, and caused the baby to come early. This baby must not come early
again. Already it had lasted longer in the womb than their firstborn, but not
long enough. If he was born on this journey the child would die.
So she hired the
finest carriage in town, the one belonging to the young doctor. He tried to
refuse, telling her that any carriage was out of the question in her condition.
"Stay here and have this baby," he said. "To travel now would
only endanger you and the child. Do you think you're made of iron?"
No, she had no such
fancy. Nor did her torchsight show her everything clearly. The futures of this
child were as foggy and confused, almost, as
Perhaps that was why
she was sure she had to go to
So she spent her day
cushioning the carriage while workmen resprung it. Choosing a team of horses
that would pull evenly and not run faster than she could bear. Packing her few
things, writing her letters. Until at the end of the day she was ready to drop
with exhaustion. Which was good, she would sleep without fretting, she would
rise early and refreshed and set out to meet her husband and put a baby in his
arms.
She was just
undressing for bed when the first labor pain came.
"No," she
cried softly. "Oh, please, God, no, not yet, not now." She laid her
hands upon her own womb and saw that the baby was indeed coming. He faced in
the right direction, all was well with him, but she saw no future for him. He
was going to be born, like his brother, only to die.
"No," she
whispered.
She walked to the door
of her room. "Papa," she called.
Horace Guester was
serving the last round of drinks to the night's customers. But he had an
innkeeper's ears, to hear all needs and wishes, and in a few moments he came.
"The baby is coming," she said.
"I'll fetch the midwife," he said.
"It's too early," said Margaret. "The
birth will be easy, but the baby will die."
Tears came to her
father's eyes. "Ah, Peggy, I know what it cost your mother, those two tiny
graves on the hill behind the house. I never wished for you to have two of your
own."
"Nor I," she
said.
"But I should
fetch her anyway," said Father. "You shouldn't be alone at such a
time, and it's not fitting for a father to see his daughter in labor."
"Yes, fetch
her," said Margaret.
"But not in
here," said Father. "You shouldn't do this in the room where the
baby's father was born."
"There's no
better place," said Margaret. "It's a room where hope once triumphed
over despair."
"Have hope then,
my little Peggy." Father kissed her cheek and hastened away.
My little Peggy, he
had called her. In this room, that's who I am. Peggy. My mother's name. Where
is she now, that fierce, wise, powerful woman? Too strong for me, she was, or
anyone else in this place, I see that now. Too strong for her husband, a woman
of such will that even fate would not defy her. Perhaps that's why I was able
to see the way to save baby
Perhaps it was losing
two babies against her will made her so indomitable.
Or perhaps she simply
imprinted her own life on mine so indelibly that I, too, must bury my first two
babies before giving birth to a child who might live.
Tears flowed down her
cheeks. I can't go through this again. I'm not as strong as Mother. It will not
make me stronger. It took all my courage just to let
The midwife found her
weeping on the bed. "Aw, Mistress Larner, what have you done? Stained the
bedclothes, and your own fine underthings as well, couldn't you have taken them
off? What a waste, what a waste."
"What do I care
about my clothing," said Margaret savagely. "My baby is going
to die."
"What! How can you—"
But the midwife knew exactly how Margaret Larner could say such a thing, and so
she fell silent.
"Grieving on your
own childbed," grumbled the woman, "grieving for the baby before it's
had a chance to live, it's not right."
"I wish I didn't
know," said Margaret. "Oh, please God, make me wrong!"
And with a single
push, the baby, small and thin, slipped out into the midwife's waiting hands.
The emptiness in her
own body hurt more than the pains of labor. "No!" cried Margaret.
"Don't cut the cord! Don't tie it off, no!"
"But the baby needs to—"
"As long as the
cord is still connected to my body then he isn't dead!"
They were starting to
cross over the river now, but not with any spectacular show. The people might have
expected otherwise, but
"That'll take weeks," Verily told him.
"I know," said
"Then why—"
"The first to come
will fell logs and make shelters. A place for the children when they cross over
the river. Six thousand souls, all in a place where there's nothing standing,
nothing cleared? It's not too heavy a burden on Tenskwa-Tawa's people, to keep
most of them on his side of the river for a while. They can spare the food—and
the time. And on our side, well, Verily, you're the man who knows how things
should fit together."
"But I should be
with
"Who will I put
in charge, if not you, Verily? You drew up the plat of the city. Who else knows
it the way you do? Arthur Stuart isn't back from
"You can trust yourself," said Verily.
"I can't," said
"It's your city."
"Not today," said
It took Verily a moment to register what baby he was
talking about. "Now?"
"Soon," said
Verily looked as if he had been slapped.
"Die," he said. "And you, who've healed
so many..."
"Many but not all," said
"But you'll try."
"I'll do what I
do," said
The truth of that sank
in and Verily nodded gravely. "So I did." He turned and left.
And then, in the
far-off place where his attention really lay, in the very room where he himself
had come out of his mother's womb, his wife gave a mighty push and all at once
the baby was out in the open air and there was no more time for grief because
even though he knew he could not save the baby, he had to try.
This time, at least,
there was no fumbling and searching. He knew exactly what was wrong—the lungs,
not yet fully formed inside, the tiny structures not yet ready to filter the
air through into the blood. The tissue was a little better formed this time;
some air was passing. And for some reason the baby's umbilical cord had not yet
been tied off. The placenta would soon detach itself from the wall of the womb,
but for the moment, there was still air passing into the baby's blood. So there
was a little time. Not enough, it would take hours and hours to prepare the
lungs, and the placenta could not last that long.
But he did not brood
on what he could not do. Instead he simply did it, told each tiny part of the
lung what to do, helped it do it, and then the next part, and the next, each
time a little easier because the tissues could more easily change when they
were adjacent to tissue that had already matured enough to transform the air
into what the blood needed it to be.
It was almost as if
the baby's very heart slowed down— indeed, for a moment
"I've got to tie
this cord," said the midwife. "You know your business, I'm sure, but
I know mine, and you don't wait for the afterbirth to come out of itself!"
"Look how he
breathes in the air," said Margaret. "Look, almost as if he had a
hope of life."
And then, as she
watched his quick breathing, as she felt his rapid heartbeat, she began to see
paths emerging out of darkness. He would not die. He would live. Mentally
damaged from the lack of air at the time of his birth, but alive. She was not
afraid of such damage—maybe
More paths opened, and
more and more, and now there were a few where the baby was not damaged, where
it would learn to walk like any other child, and talk, and...
And now all paths were
open, like a normal life, except that there was something that she needed to
do.
"Cut the
cord," she said. "He can breathe on his own now."
"About
time," said the midwife. She strung a thread around the cord and tied it
tight, then another about two inches away, and then passed a sharp knife under
the cord between the knots and pulled upward.
The afterbirth slid
out onto the clean rags covering the bed.
The baby cried, a
whimpering sound, not the lusty cry of a full-term baby, and the poor lad was
still as scrawny as could be, but he could breathe, and now almost every path
in the child's life showed him in his father's arms, as the three of them,
father, mother, and son, stood on the bluff overlooking the river.
The sound of an axe
chopping against wood rang out and
He got up from the
stone, his body stiff from resting in one position for so long. He walked to
the edge of the bluff, expecting to see many trees fallen.
Instead, there was
Verily making his way down the hill. What had he been doing, coming up and
checking on
What had Verily been
doing all day, while
Only as he was about
to cry out to Verily impatiently did
It was still morning.
Early morning. Only minutes after Verily had left
"Verily!" he called. "Wait!"
Verily turned and watched as
"What is it?" said Verily.
"How long ago did we talk?"
Verily looked at him as if he were crazy. "Three
minutes."
"I did it," said
"Did what?"
"The baby's born. He can breathe, He's
alive."
Only then did Verily understand. "Thank God,
Alvin."
"I do," said
Then he burst into tears and wept in the arms of his
friend.
17
Foundation
"Like a
tick," said Margaret. "Can't pry him loose till he's full."
"He's getting
strong, don't you think?
"Getting some
muscle on him," said Margaret. "But I don't think he'll ever be one
of those fat little babies."
"That's
fine," said
"You'll raise him
whatever he is," said Margaret. "And if anyone's likely to spoil him,
it's you."
"That's my plan,
more or less," said
"Don't want him to
be spoiled, but you plan to spoil him."
"Can't help it.
Only way to save this boy is to have another child to divide up my
doting."
"I'll do my
best," said Margaret.
"Do you mind, not
traveling now, not being in the world of affairs?"
"I don't look beyond
this town now," said Margaret. "I try to forget that the world
outside is maneuvering itself toward war. I pretend that somehow it will stay
beyond the borders of our little county."
"Not so little. Very and Abe got us good
boundaries. Lots of room to grow."
"I'm more concerned about how much our people
grow inside them."
"Can't make them," said
"I know."
Vigor was done with
breakfast, and now
"Mayor of the
fastest-growing city in
"I'm fixing your breakfast, and that's all
the difference."
"My but we're in love," said Margaret.
Old pain and ancient loneliness hung in the air
between them.
"
"I know," said
"And sometimes what was best was not to tell you
all that I knew."
"You never would
have gone to Barcy," she said. "We never would have had all these
people, the core of this City of
"Might have gone to Barcy all the same,"
said
"But you would never have gone near Rien."
"You sure that saving her was what spread the
fever?"
"In all the paths
where you never met her, she died without a single other soul catching the
disease."
"Yes, I can see
that all those lessons I gave you have paid off. I can't take you out in
company."
"Guess we'll just have to stay in."
"You'll never listen to me again, will you?"
she said.
"I'm listening right now."
"But you'll never do something just because I tell
you that you ought to."
"Have you
changed?" asked
"I've already
promised a dozen times over."
"But I don't
believe you," said
"You're not the most important thing in the world
to me now, you know," said Margaret.
"Am so," said
"The baby is."
"The baby's just little and he can't get into
much trouble yet."
"You
did."
"You got the
habit of looking out for me too deep set. I can't trust you to let me decide
for myself."
"Yes you can," said Margaret. "Besides,
you don't need me to tell you everything now."
"I can't control what the crystal ball shows me.
It's not like your knack."
"It's better."
"I think the blood and water make more of a
mirror than a window."
"I think it shows
good people how to do good, and bad people how to do bad. You won't come asking
me what to do, when you can see what's good and right in the walls of the house
you're building."
"Don't know if we
should rightly call it a house," said
"It's not a
chapel—nobody's going to preach."
"A factory,
maybe," said
"Then it's a house after all," said
Margaret. "And I was right."
"Didn't say you weren't right," said
"You'd rather have chosen wrong, knowing, than
chosen right, not knowing."
"Well, when you put it that way, it makes me
sound like a dunce on purpose."
"Indeedy," said Margaret.
"Do I have to be
mayor?" said
"They all look to
you, anyway, whether you have the title or not. You're the one who looks out
for them, who watches the borders. You're the one who causes the slave-catchers
who come near here to keep losing their way. You're the one who figured out
that draining the swamp would stop the malaria."
"It was Measure who suggested it," said
"You're the one who watches over everybody like a
mother hen."
"Then let me run for mother hen."
"
"Didn't think of
someone else having to do it," said
"I know you
didn't," said Margaret primly. "Because you're still a hopelessly
ignorant journeyman smith."
"I am, you know," said
"You know I was teasing," said Margaret.
"But I am,"
said
"You can make many a good person better."
"Can't," said
"Well, of course, but you help."
"I'm trying to
knit everybody together as one people, and I don't think it can be done. Now
that the journey's over, the French folks suddenly don't want much to do with
the former slaves. And the former house slaves lord it over the former field
slaves, and the blacks who were already free in Barcy lord it over all of them,
and the ones who still remember
"The queens, more
likely," said Margaret.
"And then there's
all the folks who've been close to me for years, they come here and think they
know everything, but they weren't on the journey, they didn't cross over Pontchartrain
on that crystal bridge, they didn't camp in a circle of fog, they didn't run
before the face of the Mizzippy dam, they didn't live being fed by reds on the
far side of the river. You see? They think they're closest to me, but they went
down a different road and there's nothing but divisions among the people and I
can't make it right. Even Verily can't do more than patch up some of the tears
in the fabric here and there, and that's his knack!"
"Give it time."
"Will it last, Margaret?" asked
"I haven't looked," said Margaret.
"And you expect me to believe you?"
"I can't always see, when it comes to you and
your works."
"You've looked, and you've seen. You just don't
want to tell me."
A single tear spilled
over one eyelid, and Margaret looked away. "Some of the things you're
building will outlast you."
"Which ones?"
"Arthur Stuart," said Margaret. "You're
building him, and you've done a fine job."
"He builds himself."
"
"Is Arthur Stuart
the only thing I've created that outlasts me?"
She shook her head.
"I see now that you were right. I can't keep my promise. I can't tell you
everything." She faced him, and now her cheeks were striped with tears,
and her eyes were full of longing and regret. "But not because I'm trying
to manipulate you or control you or get you to do something you wouldn't
otherwise do, I promise that, and I'm keeping that promise."
"So why won't you
tell me?"
"Because I hate
knowing the future," said Margaret. "It robs the present of its joy.
And I won't make you live the way I do, seeing the end of everything when it's
still young and hopeful to everyone else."
"So the city
fails."
"Your life,"
said Margaret, "is a life of great accomplishments, and the best things
you make will last for as many lifetimes as I can see." Then she raised
the baby higher in her arms, and though little Vigor was sleeping, she buried
her face in the blanket he was wrapped in and wept.
"No you're not," she said, her voice muffled
by the baby, by weeping.
"Am so."
"You're the husband I want."
"Your bad judgment."
"I know."
"You tell me what I need to know to be a good
man," said
"But you are one, always, whether I tell you
anything or not."
"You tell me that
much, and I won't ask for more." He kissed her. "And I'm sorry that
you carry the burden that you do."
"I'm not sorry
for it," she said. "It's who I am. But I wouldn't wish it on anyone
else, that's all."
Arthur Stuart watched
the men digging the foundation of the observatory—for so Verily insisted on
calling it, and Arthur liked the name. They dug deep to bedrock all the way
around the outcropping of stone where the water came out. That would not be
touched—it would remain inside, forever pouring its water out to flow in a
clear, cold stream down the bluff and into the Mizzippy. It was the dry season
now and other streams had slackened or gone dry, but this one flowed exactly as
it had all summer.
The men digging the
foundation trench—did they know that
It was one of the
perverse things
But now Arthur was
beginning to see what
These men who were putting
in their day, digging the foundation, they couldn't drip their blood into the
Mizzippy and come up with blocks of visionary crystal. But they could dig into
the earth, so when the finished observatory rose into the sky and people went
inside to see what they could see, to learn what they might be, these men would
be able to say, that building stands on the foundation I dug. I helped make
that miraculous place. It has my sweat in it, along with Alvin Maker's blood.
There was a man
standing on the far side of the cleared land, watching, not the diggers, but
Arthur Stuart. It took a moment for Arthur to realize who it was.
"Taleswapper!"
he cried, and he ran full tilt right toward him, leaping over the trench just
as a man was about to pitch a spadeful of earth, earning Arthur an irritated
curse as the man had to stop himself in midswing and spill half the dirt back
into the hole. "Taleswapper, I thought that you were dead!"
Taleswapper greeted
him with an embrace, and his arms were stronger than Arthur had feared, but
feeble indeed compared to what they had been, years before, when last they met.
"You'll know when
I'm dead," said Taleswapper. "Because suddenly all the jokes will run
dry and all the gossip will go silent and people will just sit and look glum
because they got no tales to tell."
"I reckon you
heard what we were doing here and had to come and add it to your book."
"I don't think
so," said Taleswapper. "I filled it already." He slid a thick
volume from inside his deerskin jacket. "Every page in it, full, and I
even added a few scraps to make more pages than the blamed thing had. No, I
think I'm here because what you're building, it'll take the place of books like
mine."
"I hope
not," said Arthur Stuart. "I hope never."
"Well, we'll
see," said Taleswapper. "You've grown a lot taller, but not a whit
smarter, as far as I can see."
"Can't see smart," said Arthur Stuart.
"I can," said Taleswapper.
"Come on,
then," said Arthur Stuart. "Even I'm smart enough to know
"Forthwith?" asked Taleswapper.
"Abe Lincoln is reading law with Verily Cooper,
and they let me listen in."
"I'd rather you kept on speaking English like the
rest of us."
"Law is the biggest
mishmash of languages. Two kinds of Latin, two kinds of French, and three kinds
of English all made into a soup that nobody can understand except a
lawyer."
"That's what it's
for," said Taleswapper. "It's how lawyers make sure they'll always
have work, cause nobody can understand what they wrote down except another
lawyer."
Arthur led him down
off the bluff to the flatland leading to the river. The trees were mostly gone
from this area, cut down and turned into cabins and fence rails. "Eight
thousand people living here now," said Arthur.
"Still more than
half of them runaway slaves, though, right?" said Taleswapper. "And
therefore subject to being taken back south?"
"All citizens here,"
said Arthur Stuart. "Ain't no catcher been able to claim a soul yet."
"Word outside is
that Furrowspring County is in virtual rebellion against the laws of the United
States, refusing to accept the Supreme Court ruling that slaveowners can
recover their escaped property."
"I reckon so,"
said Arthur Stuart proudly.
"There's war
fever, and those as want to prevent the war, they might decide to sacrifice
this town."
"As if they
could," said Arthur Stuart. "With
Taleswapper only shook
his head.
They found
"Reckon so,"
said Taleswapper. "But I got sense enough not to stand up to my neck in
mud."
"This ain't just
ordinary mud," said
"Well, that's a
recommendation for it. Make a cup out of such clay and it'll suck the tea right
out of your mouth, is that the way of it?"
Alvin and all the men
laughed. "Make a jar from it and it'll collect water from dry air."
"So you carry a
bit of the Mizzippy with you even into dry land," said Taleswapper.
"Why, with advertising like that, I reckon you could sell such jars for a
dollar each and make fifty bucks in every town, as long as you hightailed it
out before they found out the jars don't work."
"They'd work if
"Well, if you're
gonna waste time cheering a man covered in mud, I reckon I'll leave you to your
own work and go show my good friend just what a perfect baby looks like."
"Show him your
son, too, while you're at it!" shouted one of the workers, which was good
for another laugh and another cheer for
They passed Measure,
who was leading a team of men and horses doing stump removal. Arthur Stuart
knew perfectly well that Measure was using as much makery as he had mastered to
help free up the roots from the deep soil. But since there was still plenty of
hard work for the men and teams to do, Alvin didn't say anything about it to
him, and Arthur Stuart figured that as long as Measure kept his makery secret,
nobody would give him the credit for how fast the clearing of the land was
going.
But Measure left the
work and came along. And when they got to
"I can't stay in
this room," said Taleswapper. "So many glorious women, I have no
choice but to be in love with all of you at once. It'll tear me apart."
"Live with
it," said Peggy dryly. "I think you know them all."
"Them as I don't
know, I hope I soon will," said Tale-swapper. "If I don't die in the
next few minutes from pure happiness."
"That man talk some," said La Tia
appreciatively.
"I didn't know there was a meeting," said
"You wasn't invite," said La Tia. "My
meeting. But you welcome a stay."
"What's the topic?" asked
"The name of that
thing what you build," said La Tia. "I don't like what Verily call
it, me."
Peggy laughed.
"Nobody likes what anybody calls it," she said. "But La Tia was
reading in the Bible and she has a name."
"You lead us out
like Moses," said La Tia. "And Arthur Stuart, he lead us like Joshua
when you gone. Not like Aaron, no! We got no golden calf! But we the book of
Exodus, us. So this thing you build, I find out in the Bible, she a tabernacle."
"Oui!" cried
Rien. "Only instead of you go and a priest pretend to be God, we go inside
and find out where he live in our heart!"
"For a building
that don't exist yet, everybody's got a good idea of how it's gonna work,"
said
But of course they
did.
"In the
Bible," said Marie d'Espoir, "the tabernacle was a place where only
the priest could go. He'd come out and tell everyone what he saw. But our
tabernacle, everybody's the priest, everybody can go inside, man and woman, to
see what they see and hear what they hear."
"It suits me
fine," said
"I like it,"
said La Tia. "But I don't can say it, me."
That issue decided,
the women went on talking about which families didn't have clothes enough for
their children, and which houses weren't big enough or warm enough, and who was
sick and needed help. It was a good work they were doing, but the men weren't
needed in the discussion and soon Arthur Stuart found himself outside. But not
with Alvin and Taleswapper—they were off looking at the big house where Papa
Moose's and Mama Squirrel's family were living even as the house was still
being built. "Fifty-seven children," said Taleswapper. "And all
of them born to this Mama Squirrel herself."
"We have the legal
documentation," said
"A remarkable
pregnancy," said Taleswapper. "And such a small woman, she seemed,
from what I saw of her."
Arthur Stuart stood
outside the house and looked up at the bluff. The house was well placed. At the
back door, you could look out onto the river and see any boat that might tie up
at the new dock. And out the front door, you could see where the ... tabernacle
would stand, and even now you could see the two rows of stacked up crystal
blocks waiting to be laid in place.
He felt a hand on his shoulder.
He jumped. "Marie," he said. "You
startled me."
"I meant to," she said. "All your
makery, but you still don't notice a woman at all."
"Oh, I notice you," said Arthur Stuart.
"I know,"
said Marie, "You notice me all the time. You make sure you know exactly
where I am, so you can always be somewhere else."
"Oh, I don't think that's what I'm..."
But it was what he was doing. He just hadn't
realized it.
"You afraid I kiss you again?" asked Marie.
"I didn't mind it, you know," he said.
"Or you afraid I won't?"
"I can live without it, if that's how you want
it."
"Ignorant boy," she said. "You are
supposed to say, I can't live without your kisses."
"But I can," said Arthur Stuart.
"All right,"
said Marie. She playfully slapped his shoulder as if brushing dust from it.
Then she started to walk back to the house.
"But I don't want
to," said Arthur Stuart.
He wasn't quite sure
where he had found the courage to say it. Except maybe the fact that it was
true, that he hardly went an hour without thinking about her and wondering
whether she had kissed him to tease him or whether it meant something and how
would he go about finding out. And so the words just spilled out of him.
She turned around and
came back to him. "How much do you not want to live without my
kisses?"
He gathered her into
his arms and kissed her, with perhaps more fervor than skill, but she didn't
seem disposed to criticize. "Enough to do that in front of God and everybody,"
he said.
"Ah, look what you've done now," said Marie.
"What?"
"You kiss me so hard, now I'm going to have a
baby."
It took him a moment
to realize that she was joking, but in the meantime he'd been standing there with
such a stupid look on his face that no wonder she laughed at him. "Why are
you always so serious?" she said.
"Because when I kiss you," he said,
"it's not a game to me."
"Life is a game," she said. "But you
and me, I think we can win it together."
"You proposing something?" asked Arthur
Stuart.
"Maybe," she said.
"Like marriage?" asked Arthur Stuart.
"Maybe a man should propose such a thing."
"And if I did, would you say yes?"
"I will say yes," said Marie, "as soon
as Purity says yes to Verily Cooper."
"But he ain't asked her," said Arthur
Stuart.
Marie laughed gaily and darted back into the cabin.
Leaving Arthur Stuart
convinced that something really deep was going on between him and Marie
d'Espoir, and he didn't have the least idea what it was.
He turned around and
looked back at the rows of crystal blocks up on the bluff, and saw two men
standing between them, looking into the walls. He knew them at once, without
even sending his doodlebug out to confirm their identity. Jim Bowie and Calvin
Miller.
"
Arthur Stuart ducked
inside the cabin again. "Peggy," he said, and beckoned.
"No, don't do
that way," said La Tia. "You take her, all we talk about is why she
go. Take us all!"
"Calvin's
back," said Arthur Stuart. "And the man that's with him, he's a
killer. I knew him on the river and in
The women started out
of the house behind him, but Arthur Stuart didn't wait for them. He ran up the
bluff and arrived just as
"Calvin,"
said
"Could you lend a
hand here?" said Calvin. "Seems old Jim Bowie here just can't tear
himself away from whatever he's seeing in these mirrors of yours."
"He's seeing
himself," said Alvin. "Like you did."
"I think he's
seeing more than that," said Calvin. "Though I can't think
what."
Was it possible that Calvin
saw nothing but his own reflection, as simple as a mirror, when he looked into
these walls? Arthur Stuart thought it might just be possible—Calvin wasn't
known for being a deep thinker, and maybe the walls had no more depth than the
person looking into them. But it was more likely that Calvin saw the same kinds
of visions as everyone else, but just couldn't bring himself to tell the truth
about it, any more than he could tell the truth about much of anything else.
Alvin walked between the
blocks, and when he reached Jim Bowie, put a hand on his shoulder. Immediately
Bowie looked at him, grinned. "Why, I was seeing you in there, and seeing
you out here, it's like the same vision. With just one tiny difference."
"I don't want to
hear about it," said Alvin. "Come on out of here, both of you."
He began to lead them along.
"The difference
was, in the wall there I saw you full of bulletholes," said Jim Bowie.
"But how could a thing like that happen? Imagine the bullet that could hit
you!"
"Just wishful thinking on your part," said
Alvin.
"Bulletholes!" said Calvin. "What a
cheerful mural to put on public display, Alvin."
They reached the end of the corridor where Arthur
Stuart was waiting.
"Howdy, Calvin," said Arthur. "I see
you made it out of Mexico City after all."
"No thanks to you," said Calvin.
"Leaving me there to die like the others."
Arthur didn't bother
to argue. He knew Alvin already knew the truth, and would not be inclined to
believe Calvin's version, which was naturally designed to pick a fight between
Alvin and Arthur Stuart.
"I know Alvin's
glad you lived," said Arthur Stuart. No need to say that Alvin was about
the only one, apart from their mother and father.
"And I've
forgiven Jim here for leaving me to have my heart ripped out."
Jim Bowie didn't rise
to the bait, either. His attention was directed entirely toward Alvin.
"Calvin told me what you're building here," said Bowie. "I want
to be part of it."
"Yes," said
Calvin. "If it's a city of makers, how could you think to do it without
the only other living maker." He grinned at Arthur.
"We're all makers
here," said Alvin, ignoring the fact that Calvin already knew how
offensive his words were. "Come on along, my house is just down
here."
They met the women on
the way, and Alvin introduced everybody to everybody. Jim Bowie was, to
Arthur's surprise, quite a charmer, able to put on elegant Camelot manners when
there was someone to impress. Calvin was his normal saucy self—but Rien seemed
to enjoy his banter, much to Arthur's disgust, and when Calvin showered
flattery on Marie d'Espoir, Arthur Stuart thought about causing him a subtle
but permanent internal injury—but of course did nothing at all. You don't start
a duel with a maker who has more power and fewer scruples than you.
They got to the house
and Alvin invited them inside to sit down. The furniture, except for Peggy's
rocking chair, was all rough-hewn benches and stools, but they were good enough
to sit on—and Arthur had heard Peggy say that she didn't wish for more comfortable
furniture, because if the chairs were softer, company would be inclined to stay
longer.
Calvin seemed to want
to talk about his narrow escape from Mexico City, but since Tenskwa-Tawa had
already told Alvin and Arthur Stuart all about it as soon as Arthur got back
from his mission there, they were not inclined to hear a version of the story
that made Calvin out to be something of a hero. "I'm glad you got out all
right," said Alvin—and meant it, which was more than Arthur Stuart could
say for himself. "And Jim, I think you know that your going along with
Arthur Stuart here probably saved the lives of all the other men who went with
you, since they might not have gone if you had refused."
"I don't plan to
die for any cause," said Jim Bowie. "Nor any man, excepting only
myself. I know that ain't noble, but it prolongs my days, which is philosophy
enough for me."
He expected, Arthur
thought, a bit more amusement or admiration for his attitude—but this wasn't a
saloon, and nobody here was drunk, and so it rang a little hollow. There were
people here who would die for a cause, or for someone else's sake.
It was Peggy, bless
her heart, who came right to the point. "So where will you go now,
Calvin?"
"Go?" said
Calvin. "Why, this is the city of makers, and here I am. I had some
experiences—I was just about to get to them, but I know when it's not time for
a tale—I had some experiences that made me realize how much I wished I'd paid
more attention to Alvin back when he was trying to teach me stuff. I'm an
impatient pupil, I reckon, so no wonder he kicked me out of school!"
Even this was a lie,
and everyone there knew it, and it occurred to Arthur Stuart once again that
Calvin seemed to lie just because he liked the sound of it, and not to be
believed.
"I'm glad to have
you," said Alvin. "Whatever you're willing to learn, I'll be happy to
teach, if I know it, or someone else will, if it's something they know better
than me."
"That's a short list," said Calvin, chuckling. It should
have been a compliment to the breadth of Alvin's knack—but it came out sounding
as if it were an accusation of vanity.
Arthur didn't have to
be told that his sister was furious that Calvin was staying and Alvin was
welcoming him. He knew Peggy thought that Calvin would one day cause his
brother's death. But she said nothing about that, and instead turned to Jim
Bowie. "And you, sir? Whither now?"
"I reckon I'll
stay, too," said Bowie. "I liked what I saw up there. Well, no, not
what I saw in the glass—don't misunderstand me, Alvin—but the manner of seeing.
What an achievement! There's kings and queens would give up their kingdoms for
an hour in that place."
"I'm
afraid," said Alvin, "that you won't be welcome inside when the
tabernacle is built."
Bowie's expression
darkened. "Why, I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "Might I ask
why?"
"There's some as
finds the future in there," said Alvin. "But a man who kills his
enemies shouldn't have access to a place that might show him where his future
victims might be."
Bowie barked out a laugh.
"Oh, I'm too much of a killer for your tabernacle, is that it? Well,
here's a thought. Everybody here who has ever killed a man in anger, stand up
with me!" Bowie rose to his feet and looked around. "What, am I the
only one?" Then he grinned at Alvin. "Am I?"
Reluctantly, Alvin
rose to his feet.
"Ah," said
Bowie. "Glad to know you admit it. I saw it in you from the start. You've
killed, and killed with relish. You enjoyed it."
"He killed the
man who killed my mother!" cried Peggy.
"And he enjoyed
it," Bowie said again. "But it's your place for visions, Al, I won't
dispute you about it. You can invite whoever you please. But that only applies
to the building, Al. This is a free country, and a citizen of it can move to
any town or county and take up residence and there ain't a soul can stop him.
Am I right?"
"I thought you
were a subject of the King, from the Crown Colonies," said Peggy.
"You know that an
Englishman has only to cross the border and he's a citizen of the U.S.A.,"
said Bowie. "But I've gone them one better, and taken the oath just like a
... Frenchman."
He grinned at Rien.
"I think I know you, ma'am," he said to her.
She looked at him with
eyes like stones.
"I'll be your
neighbor like it or not," said Bowie. "But I hope you like it,
because I intend to be a peaceable citizen and make a lot of friends. Why, I
might even run for office. I have a bent for politics, having once made a try
at being emperor of Mexico."
"As you
said," Alvin answered quietly. "It's a free country."
"I will admit I thought
I'd get a warmer welcome from old friends." He grinned at Arthur Stuart.
"This lad saved my life in Mexico. Even though he surely would rather not
have done it. I'll never forget that."
Arthur Stuart nodded.
He knew which part Bowie would never forget.
"Well," said
Bowie. "The good cheer and bonhomie in this room is just too much for me.
I'll have to find a place where I find less cheer and more alcohol, if you
catch my drift. I hear it may take going into Warsaw County to get that particular
thirst satisfied. But I'll be back to build me a cabin on some plot of land.
Good day to you all."
Bowie got up and left
the cabin.
"An obnoxious
fellow," said Calvin loudly—Bowie could certainly hear him, even outside
the door. "I don't know how I managed the journey from Barcy to here
without quarreling with him. Maybe it was his big knife that kept the
peace." Calvin had a remarkable ability to laugh at his own jokes with
such gusto that one could miss the fact that he was the only one laughing.
Calvin turned to
Arthur Stuart. "Of course, I could have got here sooner if somebody had
bothered to take me along the way you did with Jim and his crew. He says you
were able to make them run like they were flying, as if the ground rose up to
meet their feet and trees got right out of their way.
But I suppose I'm not
worthy of such transportation."
"I offered to let
you come along," said Arthur Stuart—and then immediately regretted it.
Arguing with Calvin's lies just made him more enthusiastic.
"If you'd told me
about this—greensong, was it?—I'd have come with you in a second. But to come
along just because the Red Prophet was making threats—well, I reckon he wanted
to conquer Mexico as bad as we did, and he got there first. Now he's got the
empire, and I'm just an ordinary fellow—well, as ordinary as a maker can ever
be. You, Alvin, you pretend to be ordinary, don't you? But you always manage to
let people see a bit of what you can do. I understand! You want to be thought
modest, but at the same time, nobody thinks a man's modest unless they know
what great things he's being modest about, eh?" He laughed and laughed at
that one.
The baby was fussy
tonight, and since Margaret had already fed him and Alvin had changed his
diaper, there was nothing for it but to carry him around and sing to him. Alvin
had long since learned that it was his voice that Vigor wanted— something about
the deep male tones vibrating in Alvin's chest, right next to the baby's head.
So he let Margaret go back to sleep and walked outside in the air of a warm
September evening.
He expected to be the
only person abroad in the night, except for the night watchmen with their
lanterns, and they'd be more on the outskirts of town, one along the river and
the other along the edge of the bluff. But to Alvin's surprise, someone else
soon fell into step beside him. His brother, Measure.
"Evening, Al," said Measure.
"Evening yourself," said Alvin. "Baby
was fussy."
"I was the fussy one in my house. 1 sent myself out
so I wouldn't cause any trouble."
"Calvin's staying with you, then?"
"I never could
figure out why Ma and Pa felt the need to have the one more child. Not like
there was a shortage."
"They didn't know
what he'd be," said Alvin. "There's never too many children in the
house, Measure. But you're not responsible for what they want, only for what
you teach them."
"Alvin, I'm afraid," said Measure.
"Big man like you," said Alvin. "That's
just silly."
"What we're doing
here, it's wonderful. But how folks hate us and fear us and talk against us,
that's pretty fierce. The law's against us—oh, I know, that charter is mighty
fine, but it'll never stand up, not with us resisting the fugitive slave law.
And with Calvin here—I don't know how, but he's going to cause trouble."
"It's the
Unmaker," said Alvin. "It always is. No matter how fast you build
things up, he's there, trying to tear it down even faster."
"Then he's bound
to win, isn't he?"
"That's the funny
thing," said Alvin. "All my life, I've seen that all I can build is
just a little bit, and he tears down so much. And yet... things keep getting
built, don't they? Good things. And I finally realized, here in this town,
watching all these people—the reason the Unmaker is gonna lose, in the long
run, isn't because somebody like me or you does some big heroic deed and knocks
him for a loop. It'll be because of all these people, hundreds of them,
thousands of them, each building something in his own way—a family, a marriage,
a house, a farm, a sturdy machine, a tabernacle, a classroom full of students
just a little wiser than they were. Something. And after a while, you come to
realize that all those somethings, they add up to everything, and all the
Unmaker's nothings, you put them all together and they're still nothing. You
see what I mean?"
"You must be
smarter than Plato," said Measure, "because I can understand him."
"Oh, you
understood me," said Alvin. "The question is, when we go down this
dangerous road, with so many hands against us, will you be there with me,
Measure? Will you stand beside me?"
"I will, to the
end," said Measure. "And not just because you saved my life that
time, you know."
"Oh, that wasn't
much. You were trying to save mine, as I recall, so it was a fair trade on the
spot."
"That's how I see
it," said Measure.
"So why will you
stand beside me? Because you love me so much?" He said it jokingly, but he
thought that it was true.
"No," said
Measure. "I love all my brothers, you know. Even Calvin."
"Why, then?"
"Because the
things you make, I want them to be made. You see? I love the work. I want it to
be."
"And you're
willing to pay for it, right along with me?"
"You'll
see," said Measure.
They stood facing the
rows of crystal blocks, ready to become the gleaming tabernacle of the Crystal
City. The baby was asleep. But Alvin tilted him up anyway, just enough that his
little sleeping face was pointed toward the blocks. "Look at this
place," he said to Vigor—and to Measure, too. "I didn't choose this
place. I didn't choose my life, or the powers I have, or even most of the
things that have happened to me. But for all the things that have been forced
on me, I'm still a free man. And you know why? Because I choose them anyway.
What was forced on me, I choose just the same." He turned and faced Measure.
"Like you, Measure. I choose to be a maker, because I love the
making."
Acknowledgments
So much of what a novelist does is made up
at the moment of composition—details of milieu and character, questions that
need to be answered, a secondary character's hopes and fears—that it is
impossible, over the years between volumes of an ongoing series like this, to
remember everything. As a result, there are contradictions between volumes (or
even within a volume), threads that are left dangling, questions that remain
unanswered.
Unless the novelist is
fortunate enough to have a group of readers who are willing to collaborate by
checking the current composition against what went before. In the online
community that has formed at our Hatrack River Web site (http:// www.hatrack.com) there were several
generous and careful readers who volunteered to vet this manuscript for just
such problems.
Undoubtedly there are still
problems remaining. During my years as a professional proofreader and copy
editor I learned that no matter how careful you are and no matter how many
proofreaders and editors go over it, in a work of any length some problems will
always get through. The errors that remain are entirely my fault, but the
errors you don't see were corrected because of the work of Michael Sloan
("Papa Moose" on Hatrack), Noah Siegel ("Calvin Maker"),
Adam Spieckermann, Anna Jo Isabell ("BannaOj"), "Kayla,"
and the most dedicated of all, Andy Wahr ("Hobbes").
In addition, Michael
Sloan won a trivia contest at EnderCon in July of 2002, and the prize was to
have a character named after you in a future book of mine. My intention—which
everyone understood—was that this would be a "cameo," a momentary
appearance of a character with the contest winner's name. But it happened that
Michael Sloan wrote a fascinating autobiographical note as his "thousandth
post" on the Hatrack River forum that triggered some interesting
possibilities in my mind, and as a result the character named for
him—"Papa Moose," his online identity at Hatrack—became considerably
more important in the story than either he or I had expected. Since his wife
has long been nicknamed Squirrel, as a reference by the two of them to the
famous moose and squirrel of television cartoon fame, I naturally gave that
name to the character's wife. So the characters of Papa Moose and Mama Squirrel
in this book are named, not for Rocket J. Squirrel and Bullwinkle Moose, but
for two longtime readers of my work and contributors to the life of the
Oh, all right, I admit
that I enjoyed having Rocky and Bullwinkle references in the book. If I could
have George Washington beheaded in the first volume and have
Roland Brown read the
novel just after it was finished, and offered wise suggestions on the character
of Old Bart and several other points, which I gratefully accepted.
My editor, Beth
Meacham, and my publisher, Tom Doherty, deserve great thanks for their patience
with my unpredictable delivery dates and for the wonderful things they do for
and with my books after I turn them in. It was because Tom and Beth took a
chance on this strange American fantasy series back in 1983—based on, of all
things, an epic poem I wrote— that I was able to leave fulltime employment for
the second time and return to the freelance writing life for the past twenty
years.
Barbara Bova, my agent
since 1978, has watched over my career assiduously, and she and her husband,
Ben Bova—the Analog editor who discovered me back in 1976—have been dear
friends all this time. This book, like all my others, exists because Barbara
won for me a place in the commerce of books that allows me time enough to
write.
Family members and
friends have also read this book, chapter by chapter, as I wrote it, catching
errors, reminding me of questions still unanswered, and making occasional
suggestions that opened doors to my imagination. Erin and Phillip Absher,
Kathryn H. Kidd, and my son Geoffrey were all of great help to me.
My wife, Kristine,
remains my first reader, the one who receives my pages at her bedside when I
finally crawl downstairs at three or five or seven a.m. after yet another late-night writing session. She also
tends to the family and business matters that would, if I had to attend to
them, seriously interfere with my ability to concentrate on my writing. The
most important work of my life has been and continues to be my family, and she
is my collaborator and partner in every aspect of that oeuvre.
And to Zina, our
nine-year-old, my thanks for her patience with a father who vanishes for hours
and days at a time, only to emerge with books she does not yet enjoy reading.
So I'll leave her to the pleasures of Lemony Snicket, Harry Potter, Avalon, and
the many other books that accompany her throughout her life, hoping someday to
earn a place on that illustrious list.
I began writing this
book on my laptop while my daughter Emily drove along I-40 toward
The Tales of Alvin
Maker "With delicacy and insight, incorporating folk tales and folk magic
with mountain lore and other authentic details, Orson Scott Card has evoked a
vision of America as it might have been."
—
In this world where
"knacks" abound,
But Nueva Barcelona is
about to experience a plague, and
ORSON SCOTT CARD is
the author of the international
bestsellers Ender's Shadow, Shadow of the Hegemon, Shadow Puppets, and
of the beloved science fiction classic, Ender's Game. The Crystal City is
the sixth volume of his remarkable fantasy series, The Tales of Alvin Maker. He
lives in
(support [a t] reallib.org)