Alvin Jorneyman ttoam-4

by Orson Scott Card

  Anybody strong enough might take it away by brute force, for instance. Anybody cruel enough might kill Alvin and take it from the corpse. Anybody sneaky enough could take it out of Alvin's room as he slept. Anybody rich enough could hire lawyers to prove something against Alvin in court and take it away by force of law. All kinds of ways to get that plow, if you want it bad enough.

  But Vilate would never stoop to coercion. She wouldn't even want that golden plow, if it existed, unless Alvin gave it to her of his own free will. As a gift. A love-gift, perhaps. Or… well, she'd settle for a guilt gift, if it came to that. He looked like a man of honor, but the way he was staring at her… well, she knew that look. The man was smitten. The man was hers, if she wanted him.

  Play this right, Vilate, she told herself. Set the stage. Make him come after you. Let no one say you set your cap for him.

  Her best friend was waiting for her in the kitchen shed back of the post office when she got there. “So what do you think of that Alvin?” she asked, before Vilate evert had time to greet her.

  “Trust you to get the news before I can tell you myself.” Vilate set to work stoking up the fine cast-iron stove with a bread oven in it that made her the envy of the women in Hatrack River.

  “Five people saw you on the roadhouse porch greeting him, Vilate, and the word reached me before your foot touched the street, I'm sure.”

  “Then those are idle people, I'd say, and the devil has them.”

  “No doubt you'd know– I'm sure the devil gives you a new list every time he makes another recruit.”

  “Of course he does. Why, everyone knows the devil lives right here in my fancy oven.” Vilate cackled with glee.

  “So…” said her best friend impatiently. “What do you think of him?”

  “I don't think he's that much,” said Vilate. “Workingman's arms, of course, and tanned like any low-class boy. His talk is rather coarse and country-like. I wonder if he can even read.”

  “Oh, he can read all right. Teacher lady taught him when he lived here.”

  “Oh, yes, the fabled Miss Larner who was so clever she got her prize student to win a spelling bee, which caused the slave finders to get wind of a half-Black boy and ended up killing Horace Guester's wife, Miss Larner's own mother. A most unnatural woman.”

  “You do find a way to make the story sound right ugly,” said her friend.

  “Is there a pretty version of it?”

  “A sweet love story. Teacher tries to transform the life of a half-Black boy and his rough-hewn friend, a prentice smith. She falls in love with the smith boy, and turns the half-Black lad into a champion speller. Then the forces of evil take notice–”

  “Or God decides to strike down her pride!”

  “I do think you're jealous of her, Vilate. I do think that.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Because she won the heart of Alvin Smith, and maybe she still owns it.”

  “Far as I can tell, his heart's still beating in his own chest.”

  “And is the gold still shining in his croker sack?”

  “You talk sweet about Miss Larner, but you alway's assume I have the worst motives.” Vilate had the stove going nicely now, and put on a teapot to boil as she began cutting string beans and dropping them in a pan of Water.

  “Because I know you so well, Vilate.”

  “You think you know me, but I'm full of surprises.”

  “Don't you drop your teeth at me, you despicable creature.”

  “They dropped by themselves,” said Vilate. “I never do it on purpose.”

  “You're such a liar.”

  “But I'm a beautiful liar, don't you think?” She flashed her best smile at her friend.

  “I don't understand what men see in women anyway,” her friend answered. “Hexes or no hexes, as long as a woman has her clothes on a man can't see what he's interested in anyhow.”

  “I don't know about all men,” said Vilate. “I think some men love me for my character.”

  “A character of sterling silver, no doubt– never mind a little tarnish, you can wipe that off with a little polish.”

  “And some men love me for my wit and charm.”

  “Yes, I'm sure they do– if they've been living in a cave for forty years and haven't seen a civilized woman in all that time.”

  “You can tease me all you want, but I know you're jealous of me, because Alvin Smith is already falling in love with me, the poor hopeless boy, while he'll never give a look at you, not a single look. Eat your heart out, dear.”

  Her best friend just sat there with a grumpy face. Vilate had really hit home with that last one. The teapot sang. As always, Vilate set out two teacups. But, as always, her best friend sniffed the tea but never drank it. Well, so what? Vilate never failed in her courtesy, and that's what mattered.

  “Makepeace is going to take him to court.”

  “Ha,” said Vilate. “You heard that already, too?”

  “Oh, no. I don't know if Makepeace Smith even knows his old prentice is back in town– though you can bet that if the word reached me that fast, it got to him in half the time! I just know that Makepeace has been bragging so much on how Alvin robbed him that if he don't serve papers on the boy, everybody's going to know it was just empty talk. So he's got to bring the boy to trial, don't you see?”

  Vilate smiled a little smile to herself.

  “Already planning what you're going to bring to him in jail?” asked her friend.

  “Or something,” said Vilate.

  * * *

  Alvin woke from his nap to find Arthur Stuart gone and the room half-dark. The traveling must have taken more out of him than he thought, to make him sleep the afternoon away.

  A knock on the door. “Open up, now, Alvin,” said Horace. “The sheriff's just doing his job, he tells me, but there's no way out of it.”

  So it must have been a knock on the door that woke him in the first place. Alvin swung his legs off the bed and took the single step that got him to the door. “It wasn't barred,” he said as he opened it. “You only had to give it a push.”

  Sheriff Po Doggly looked downright sheepish. “Oh, it's just Makepeace Smith, Alvin. Everybody knows he's talking through his hat, but he's gone and got a warrant on you, to charge you with stealing his treasure trove.”

  “Treasure?” asked Alvin. “I never heard of no treasure.”

  “Claims you dug up the gold digging a well for him, and moved the well so nobody'd know–”

  “I moved the well cause I struck solid stone,” said Alvin. “If I found gold, why would that make me move the well? That don't even make sense.”

  “And that's what you'll say in court, and the jury will believe you just fine,” said Sheriff Doggly. “Everybody knows Makepeace is just talking through his hat.”

  Alvin sighed. He'd heard the rumors flying hither and yon about the golden plow and how it was stolen from a blacksmith that Alvin prenticed with, but he never thought Makepeace would have the face to take it to court, where he'd be proved a liar for sure. “I give you my word I won't leave town till this is settled,” said Alvin. “But I've got Arthur Stuart to look after, and it'd be right inconvenient if you locked me up.”

  “Vell, now, that's fine,” said Doggly. “The warrant says you have a choice. Either you surrender the plow to me for safekeeping till the trial, or you sit in jail with the plow.”

  “So the plow is the only bail I can pay, is that it?” asked Alvin.

  “Reckon that's the long and short of it.”

  “Horace, I reckon you'll have to look after the boy,” said Alvin to the innkeeper. “I didn't bring him here to put him back in your charge, but you can see I got small choice.”

  “Well, you could put the plow in Po's keeping,” said Horace. “Not that I mind keeping the boy.”

  “No offense, Sheriff, but you wouldn't keep the plow safe a single night,” said Alvin, smiling wanly.

  “Reckon I could do just fine,” said Po, looking
a mite offended. “I mean, even if I lock you up, you don't think I'd let you keep the plow in the cell with you, do you?”

  “Reckon you will,” said Alvin mildly.

  “Reckon not,” said Po.

  “Reckon you think you could keep it safe,” said Alvin. “But what you don't know is how to keep folks safe from the plow.”

  “So you admit you have it.”

  “It was my journeypiece,” said Alvin. “There are witnesses of that. This whole charge is nonsense, and you and everybody else knows it. But what'll the charge be if I give you this plow and somebody opens the sack and gets struck blind? What's the charge then?”

  “Blind?” asked Po Doggly, glancing at Horace, as if his old friend the innkeeper could tell him whether he was having his leg pulled.

  “You think you can tell your boys not to look in the sack, and that's going to be enough?” said Alvin. “You think they won't just try to take a peek?”

  “Blind, eh?” said Po.

  Alvin picked up the sack from where it had lain beside him on the bed. “And who's going to carry the plow, Po?”

  Sheriff Doggly reached out to take it, but no sooner had his hands closed around the sack than he felt the hard metal inside shift and dance under his hands, sliding away from him. “Stop doing that, Alvin!” he demanded.

  “I'm just holding the top of the sack,” said Alvin. “What shelf you going to keep this on?”

  “Oh, shut up, boy,” said Doggly. “I'll let you keep it in the cell. But if you plonk somebody over the head with that thing and make an escape, I'll find you and the charge won't be no silly tale from Makepeace Smith, I promise you.”

  Alvin shook his head and smiled.

  Horace laughed out loud. “Po, if Al wanted to escape from your jail, he wouldn't have to do no head plonking.”

  “I'm just telling you, Al,” said the sheriff. “Don't push your luck with me. There's a outstanding extradition order from Appalachee about standing trial for the death of a certain dead Slave Finder.”

  Suddenly Horace's genial manner changed, and in a quick movement he had the sheriff pressed into the doorjamb so tight it looked like it might make a permanent difference in his posture. “Po,” said Horace, “you been my dearest friend for many a year. We done in the dark of night what would get us kilt for doing in daylight, and trusted each other's life through it all. If you ever bring a charge or even try to extradite this boy for killing the Slave Finder who killed my Margaret in my own house, I will do a little justice on you with my own two hands.”

  Po Doggly squinted and looked the innkeeper in the eye. “Is that a threat, Horace? You want me to break my oath of office for you?”

  “How can it be a threat?” said Horace. “You know I meant it in the nicest possible way.”

  “Just come along to jail, Alvin,” said Doggly. “I reckon if the town ladies don't have meals for you, Horace here will bring you roadhouse stew every night.”

  “I keep the plow?” asked Alvin.

  “I ain't coming near that thing,” said the sheriff. “If it's a plow. If it's gold.” Doggly gestured him to pass through the door and come into the hall. Alvin complied. The sheriff followed him down the narrow hall to the common room, where about two dozen people were standing around waiting to see what the sheriff had been after. “Alvin, nice to see you,” several of them greeted him. They looked kind of embarrassed, seeing how Alvin was in custody.

  “Not much of a welcome, is it?” said Ruthie Baker, her face grim. “I swear, that Makepeace Smith has bit himself a tough piece of gristle with this mischief.”

  “Just bring me some of them snickerdoodles in jail,” said Alvin. “I been hankering for them the whole way here.”

  “You can bet the ladies'll be quarreling all day about who's to feed you,” said Ruth. “I just wish dear old Peg had been here to greet you.” And she burst into quick, sentimental tears. “Oh, I wish I didn't cry so easy!”

  Alvin gave her a quick hug, then looked at the sheriff. “She ain't passing me no file to saw the bars with,” he said. “So is it all right if I…”

  “Oh, shut up, Alvin,” said Sheriff Doggly. “Why the hell did you even come back here?”

  At that moment the door swung open and Makepeace Smith himself strode in. “There he is! The thief has been apprehended at last! Sheriff, make him give me my plow!”

  Po Doggly looked him in the eye. Makepeace was a big man, with massive arms and legs like tree trunks, but when the sheriff faced him Makepeace wilted like a flower. “Makepeace, you get out of my way right now.”

  “I want my plow!” Makepeace insisted– but he backed out the door.

  “It ain't your plow till the court says it's your plow, if it ever does,” said the sheriff.

  Horace Guester chimed in. “It ain't your plow till you show you know how to make one just like it.”

  But Alvin himself said nothing to Makepeace. He just walked on out of the roadhouse, pausing in the doorway only to tell Horace, “You let Arthur Stuart visit me all he wants, you hear?”

  “He'll want to sleep right in the cell with you, Alvin, you know that!”

  Alvin laughed. “I bet he can fit right through the bars, he's so skinny.”

  “I made those bars!” Makepeace Smith shouted. “And they're too close together for anyone to fit through!”

  Ruth Baker shouted back, just as loudly. “Well, if you made those bars, little Arthur can no doubt bend them out of the way!”

  “Come on now, folks,” Sheriff Doggly said. “I'm just making a little arrest here, so stand clear and let me bring the prisoner on through. While you, Makepeace, are exactly three words away from being arrested your own self for obstructing justice and disturbing the peace.”

  “Arrest me!” cried Makepeace.

  “Now you're just one word away,” said Sheriff Doggly. “Come on, any word will do. Say it. Let me lock you up, Makepeace. You know I'm dying to.”

  Makepeace knew he was. He clamped his mouth shut and took a few steps away from the roadhouse porch. But then he turned to watch, and let himself smile as he saw Alvin getting led away down the street toward the courthouse, and the jail out back.

  Chapter 11 – Jail

  Calvin's French was awful– but that was hardly his worry. Talking he had done in England, and plenty of it, until he learned to imitate the cultured accents of a refined gentleman. But here in Paris, talking was useless– harmful, even. One did not become a figure of myth and rumor by chatting. That's one thing Calvin had learned from Alvin, all right, even though Alvin never meant to teach it. Alvin never tooted his own horn. So every Tom, Dick, and Sally tooted it for him. And the quieter he got, the more they bragged about him. That was what Calvin did from the moment he arrived in Paris, kept his silence as he went about healing people.

  He had been working on healing– like Taleswapper said, that was a knack people would appreciate a lot more than a knack for killing bugs. No way could Calvin do the subtle things that Alvin talked about, seeing the tiny creatures that spread disease, understanding the workings of the little bits of life out of which human bodies were built. But there were things within Calvin's grasp. Gross things, like bringing the edges of open wounds together and getting the skin to scar over– Calvin didn't rightly understand how he did it, but he could sort of squinch it together in his mind and the scarstuff would grow.

  Getting skin to split, too, letting the nasty fluids spew out– that was impressive indeed, especially when Calvin did it with beggars on the city streets. Of course, a lot of the beggars had phony wounds. Calvin could hardly heal those, and he wouldn't make himself many friends by making the painted scars slide off beggars' faces. But the real ones– he could help some of them, and when he did, he was careful to make sure plenty of people could see exactly what happened. Could see the healing, but could not hear him brag or boast, or even promise in advance what would happen. He would make a great show of it, standing in front of the beggar, ignoring the open hand or th
e proffered cup, looking down instead at the wound, the sore, the swelling. Finally the beggar would fall silent, and so would the onlookers, their attention at last riveted on the spot that Calvin so intently watched. By then, of course, Calvin had the wound clearly in mind, had explored it with his doodling bug, had thought through what he was going to do. So in that exact moment of silence he reached out with his bug and gave the new shape to the skin. The flesh opened or the wound closed, whatever was needed.

  The onlookers gasped, then murmured, then chattered. And just when someone was about to engage him in conversation, Calvin turned and walked away, shaking his head and refusing to speak.

  The silence was far more powerful than any explanation. Rumors of him spread quickly, he knew, for in the cafe where he supped (but did no healing) he heard people speaking of the mysterious silent healer, who went about doing good as Jesus did.

  What Calvin hoped would not get spread about was the fact. that he wasn't exactly healing people, except by chance. Alvin could get into the deep hidden secrets of the body and do real healing, but Calvin couldn't see that small. So the wound might drain and close, but if there was a deep infection it would come right back. Still, some of them might be healed, for all he knew. Not that it would really help them– how would they beg, without a wound? If they were smart, they'd get away from him before he could take away the coin they used to buy compassion. But no, the ones with real injury wanted to be healed more than they wanted to eat. Pain and suffering did that to people. They could be wise and careful when they felt fine. Add a little pain to the mix, though, and all they wanted was whatever would make the pain go away.

  It took a surprisingly long time before one of the Emperor's secret police came to see him. Oh, a gendarme or two had witnessed what he did, but since he touched no one and said nothing, they also did nothing, said nothing to him. And soldiers– they were beginning to seek him out, since so many veterans had injuries from their days in service, and half the cripples Calvin helped had old companions from the battle lines they went to see, to show the healing miracle that Calvin had brought them. But no one with the furtive wariness of the secret police was ever in the crowd, not for three long weeks– weeks in which Calvin had to keep moving his operation from one part of the city to another, lest someone he had already healed come back to him for a second treatment. What good would all this effort do if the rumor began to get about that the ones he healed didn't stay healed?