Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III

by Orson Scott Card

  And yet, even knowing that it was the boy who was in the right, and his master in the wrong—even knowing that, he looked at that boy and felt a cold wet hatred in his heart. Hank shuddered, tried to shake it off.

  “You say you need a well,” said Hank Dowser. “You want it for drinking or for washing or for the smithy?”

  “Does it make a difference?” asked the smith.

  “Well, I think so,” said Hank. “For drinking you need pure water, and for washing you want water that got no disease in it. But for your work in the smithy, I reckon the iron don’t give no never mind whether it cools in clear or murky water, am I right?”

  “The spring up the hill is giving out, slacking off year by year,” said the smith. “I need me a well I can count on. Deep and clean and pure.”

  “You know why the stream’s going slack,” said Hank. “Everybody else is digging wells, and sucking out the water before it can seep out the spring. Your well is going to be about the last straw.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” said the smith. “But I can’t undig their wells, and I got to have my water, too. Reason I settled here was because of the stream, and now they’ve dried it up on me. I reckon I could move on, but I got me a wife and three brats up at the house, and I like it here, like it well enough. So I figure I’d rather draw water than move.”

  Hank went on down to the stand of willows by the stream, near where it came out from under an old springhouse, which had fallen into disrepair. “Yours?” asked Hank.

  “No, it belongs to old Horace Guester, him who owns the roadhouse up yonder.”

  Hank found him a thin willow wand that forked just right, and started cutting it out with his knife. “Springhouse doesn’t get much use now, I see.”

  “Stream’s dying, like I said. Half the time in summer there ain’t enough water in it to keep the cream jars cool. Springhouse ain’t no good if you can’t count on it all summer.”

  Hank made the last slice and the willow rod pulled free. He shaved the thick end to a point and whittled off all the leaf nubs, making it as smooth as ever he could. There was some dowsers who didn’t care how smooth the rod was, just broke off the leaves and left the ends all raggedy, but Hank knew that the water didn’t always want to be found, and then you needed a good smooth willow wand to find it. There was others used a clean wand, but always the same one, year after year, place after place, but that wasn’t no good neither, Hank knew, cause the wand had to be from willow or, sometimes, hickory that grew up sucking the water you were hoping to find. Them other dowsers were mountebanks, though it didn’t do no good to say so. They found water most times because in most places if you dig down far enough there’s bound to be water. But Hank did it right, Hank had the true knack. He could feel the willow wand trembling in his hands, could feel the water singing to him under the ground. He didn’t just pick the first sign of water, either. He was looking for clear water, high water, close to the surface and easy to pull. He took pride in his work.

  But it wasn’t like that prentice boy—what was his name?—Alvin. Wasn’t like him. Either a man could nail horseshoes without ever laming the horse, or he couldn’t. If he ever lamed a horse, folks thought twice before they went to that farrier again. But with a dowser, it didn’t seem to make no difference if you found water every time or not. If you called yourself a dowser and had you a forked stick, folks would pay you for dowsing wells, without bothering to find out if you had any knack for it at all.

  Thinking that, Hank wondered if maybe that was why he hated this boy so much—because the boy already had a name for his good work, while Hank got no fame at all even though he was the only true dowser likely to pass through these parts in a month of Sundays.

  Hank set down on the grassy bank of the stream and pulled off his boots. When he leaned to set the second boot on a dry rock where it wouldn’t be so like to fill up with bugs, he saw two eyes blinking in the shadows inside a thick stand of bushes. It gave him such a start, cause he thought to see a bear, and then he thought to see a Red man hankering after dowser’s scalp, even though both such was gone from these parts for years. No, it was just a little light-skinned pickaninny hiding in the bushes. The boy was a mixup, half-White, half-Black, that was plain to see once Hank got over the surprise. “What’re you looking at?” demanded Hank.

  The eyes closed and the face was gone. The bushes wiggled and whispered from something crawling fast.

  “Never you mind him,” said Makepeace Smith. “That’s just Arthur Stuart.”

  Arthur Stuart! Not a soul in New England or the United States but knew that name as sure as if they lived in the Crown Colonies. “Then you’ll be glad to hear that I’m the Lord Protector,” said Hank Dowser. “Cause if the King be that partickler shade of skin, I got some news that’ll get me three free dinners a day in any town in Hio and Suskwahenny till the day I die.”

  Makepeace laughed brisk at that idea. “No, that’s Horace Guester’s joke, naming him that way. Horace and Old Peg Guester, they’re raising that boy, seeing how his natural ma’s too poor to raise him. Course I don’t think that’s the whole reason. Him being so light-skinned, her husband, Mock Berry, you can’t blame him if he don’t like seeing that child eat at table with his coal-black children.”

  Hank Dowser started pulling off his stockings. “You don’t suppose old Horace Guester took him in on account of he’s the party responsible for causing the boy’s skin to be so light.”

  “Hush your mouth with a pumpkin, Hank, before you say such a thing,” said Makepeace. “Horace ain’t that kind of a man.”

  “You’d be surprised who I’ve known turn out to be that kind of a man,” said Hank. “Though I don’t think it of Horace Guester, mind.”

  “Do you think Old Peg Guester’d let a half-Black bastard son of her husband into the house?”

  “What if she didn’t know?”

  “She’d know. Her daughter Peggy used to be torch here in Hatrack River. And everybody knowed that Little Peggy Guester never told a lie.”

  “I used to hear tell about the Hatrack River torch, afore I ever come here. How come I never seen her?”

  “She’s gone, that’s why,” said Makepeace. “Left three years ago. Just run off. You’d be wise never to ask about her up to Guester’s roadhouse. They’re a mite ticklish on the subject.”

  Barefoot now, Hank Dowser stood up on the bank of the stream. He happened to glance up, and there off in the trees, just a-watching him, stood that Arthur Stuart boy again. Well, what harm could a little pickaninny do? Not a bit.

  Hank stepped into the stream and let the ice-cold water pour over his feet. He spoke silently to the water: I don’t mean to block your flow, or slack you down even further. The well I dig ain’t meant to do you no harm. It’s like giving you another place to flow through, like giving you another face, more hands, another eye. So don’t you hide from me, Water. Show me where you’re rising up, pushing to reach the sky, and I’ll tell them to dig there, and set you free to wash over the earth, you just see if I don’t.

  “This water pure enough?” Hank asked the smith.

  “Pure as it can be,” said Makepeace. “Never heard of nobody taking sick from it.”

  Hank dipped the sharp end of the wand into the water, upstream of his feet. Taste it, he told the wand. Catch the flavor of it, and remember, and find me more just this sweet.

  The wand started to buck in his hands. It was ready. He lifted it from the stream; it settled down, calmer, but still shaking just the least bit, to let him know it was alive, alive and searching.

  Now there was no more talking, no more thinking. Hank just walked, eyes near closed because he didn’t want his vision to distract from the tingling in his hands. The wand never led him astray; to look where he was going would be as much as to admit the wand had no power to find.

  It took near half an hour. Oh, he found a few places right off, but not good enough, not for Hank Dowser. He could tell by how sharp the wand bucked and d
ropped whether the water was close enough to the surface to do much good. He was so good at it now that most folks couldn’t make no difference between him and a doodlebug, which was about as fine a knack as a dowser could ever have. And since doodlebugs were right scarce, mostly being found among seventh sons or thirteenth children. Hank never wished anymore that he was a doodlebug instead of just a dowser, or not often, anyway.

  The wand dropped so hard it buried itself three inches deep in the earth. Couldn’t do much better than that. Hank smiled and opened his eyes. He wasn’t thirty feet back of the smithy. Couldn’t have found a better spot with his eyes open. No doodlebug could’ve done a nicer job.

  The smith thought so, too. “Why, if you’d asked me where I wished the well would be, this is the spot I’d pick.”

  Hank nodded, accepting the praise without a smile, his eyes half-closed, his whole body still a-tingle with the strength of the water’s call to him. “I don’t want to lift this wand,” said Hank, “till you’ve dug a trench all round this spot to mark it off.”

  “Fetch a spade!” cried the smith.

  Prentice Alvin jogged off in search of the tool. Hank noticed Arthur Stuart toddling after, running full tilt on them short legs so awkward he was bound to fall. And fall he did, flat down on his face in the grass, moving so fast he slid a yard at least. and came up soaking wet with dew. Didn’t pause him none. Just waddled on around the smithy building where Prentice Alvin went.

  Hank turned back to Makepeace Smith and kicked at the soil just underfoot. “I can’t be sure, not being a doodlebug,” said Hank, as modest as he could manage, “but I’d say you won’t have to dig ten feet till you strike water here. It’s fresh and lively as I ever seen.”

  “No skin off my nose either way,” said Makepeace. “I don’t aim to dig it.”

  “That prentice of yours looks strong enough to dig it hisself, if he doesn’t lazy off and sleep when your back is turned.”

  “He ain’t the lazying kind,” said Makepeace. “You’ll be staying the night at the roadhouse, I reckon.”

  “I reckon not,” said Hank. “I got some folks about six mile west who want me to find them some dry ground to dig a good deep cellar.”

  “Ain’t that kind of anti-dowsing?”

  “It is, Makepeace, and it’s a whole lot harder, too, in wettish country like this.”

  “Well, come back this way, then,” said Makepeace, “and I’ll save you a sip of the first water pulled up from your well.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Hank, “and gladly.” That was an honor he wasn’t often offered, that first sip from a well. There was power in that, but only if it was freely given, and Hank couldn’t keep from smiling now. “I’ll be back in a couple of days, sure as shooting.”

  The prentice boy come back with the spade and set right to digging. Just a shallow trench, but Hank noticed that the boy squared it off without measuring, each side of the hole equal, and as near as Hank could guess, it was true to the compass points as well. Standing there with the wand still rooted into the ground, Hank felt a sudden sickness in his stomach, having the boy so close. Only it wasn’t the kind of sickness where you hanker to chuck up what you ate for breakfast. It was the kind of sickness that turns to pain, the sickness that turns to violence; Hank felt himself yearning to snatch the spade out of the boy’s hands and smack him across the head with the sharp side of the blade.

  Till finally it dawned on him, standing there with the wand a-trembling in his hand. It wasn’t Hank who hated this boy, no sir. It was the water that Hank served so well, the water that wanted this boy dead.

  The moment that thought entered Hank’s head, he fought it down, swallowed back the sickness inside him. It was the plain craziest idea that ever entered his head. Water was water. All it wanted was to come up out of the ground or down out of the clouds and race over the face of the earth. It didn’t have no malice in it. No desire to kill. And anyway, Hank Dowser was a Christian, and a Baptist to boot—a natural dowser’s religion if there ever was one. When he put folks under the water, it was to baptize them and bring them to Jesus, not to drownd them. Hank didn’t have murder in his heart, he had his Savior there, teaching him to love his enemies, teaching him that even to hate a man was like murder.

  Hank said a silent prayer to Jesus to take this rage out of his heart and make him stop wishing for this innocent boy’s death.

  As if in answer, the wand leapt right out of the ground, flew clear out of his hands and landed in the bushes most of two rods off.

  That never happened to Hank in all his days of dowsing. A wand taking off like that! Why. it was as if the water had spurned him as sharp as a fine lady spurns a cussing man.

  “Trench is all dug,” said the boy.

  Hank looked sharp at him, to see if he noticed anything funny about the way the wand took off like that. But the boy wasn’t even looking at him. Just looking at the ground inside the square he’d just ditched off.

  “Good work,” said Hank. He tried not to let his voice show the loathing that he felt.

  “Won’t do no good to dig here,” said the boy.

  Hank couldn’t hardly believe his ears. Bad enough the boy sassing his own master, in the trade he knew, but what in tarnation did this boy know about dowsing?

  “What did you say, boy?” asked Hank.

  The boy must have seen the menace in Hank’s face, or caught the tone of fury in his voice, because he backed right down. “Nothing, sir,” he said. “None of my business anyhow.”

  Such was Hank’s built-up anger, though, that he wasn’t letting the boy off so easy. “You think you can do my job too, is that it? Maybe your master lets you think you’re as good as he is cause you got your knack with hooves, but let me tell you, boy, I am a true dowser and my wand tells me there’s water here!”

  “That’s right,” said the boy. He spoke mildly, so that Hank didn’t really notice that the boy had four inches on him in height and probably more than that in reach. Prentice Alvin wasn’t so big you’d call him a giant, but you wouldn’t call him no dwarf, neither.

  “That’s right? It ain’t for you to say right or wrong to what my wand tells me!”

  “I know it, sir, I was out of turn.”

  The smith came back with a wheelbarrow, a pick, and two stout iron levers. “What’s all this?” he asked.

  “Your boy here got smart with me,” said Hank. He knew as he said it that it wasn’t quite fair—the boy had already apologized, hadn’t he?

  Now at last Makepeace’s hand lashed out and caught the boy a blow like a bear’s paw alongside his head. Alvin staggered under the cuffing, but he didn’t fall. “I’m sorry, sir,” said Alvin.

  “He said there wasn’t no water here, where I said the well should be.” Hank just couldn’t stop himself. “I had respect for his knack. You’d think he’d have respect for mine.”

  “Knack or no knack,” said the smith, “he’ll have respect for my customers or he’ll learn how long it takes to be a smith, oh sir! he’ll learn.”

  Now the smith had one of the heavy iron levers in his hand, as if he meant to cane the boy across the back with it. That would be sheer murder, and Hank hadn’t the heart for it. He held out his hand and caught the end of the lever. “No, Makepeace, wait, it’s all right. He did tell me he was sorry.”

  “And is that enough for you?”

  “That and knowing you’ll listen to me and not to him,” said Hank. “I’m not so old I’m ready to hear boys with hoof-knacks tell me I can’t dowse no more.”

  “Oh, the well’s going to be dug right here, you can bet your life. And this boy’s going to dig it all himself, and not have a bite to eat until he strikes water.”

  Hank smiled. “Well, then, he’ll be glad to discover that I know what I’m doing—he won’t have to dig far, that’s for sure.”

  Makepeace rounded on the boy, who now stood a few yards off, his hands slack at his side, showing no anger on his face, nothing at all, really. “I’
m going to escort Mr. Dowser back to his new-shod mare, Alvin. And this is the last I want to see of you until you can bring me a bucket of clean water from this well. You won’t eat a bite or have a sip of water until you drink it from here!”

  “Oh, now,” said Hank, “have a heart. You know it takes a couple of days sometimes for the dirt to settle out of a new well.”

  “Bring me a bucket of water from the new well, anyway,” said Makepeace. “Even if you work all night.”

  They headed back for the smithy then, to the corral where Picklewing waited. There was some chat, some work at saddling up, and then Hank Dowser was on his way, his nag riding smoother and easier under him, just as happy as a clam. He could see the boy working as he rode off. There wasn’t no flurry of dirt, just methodical lifting and dumping, lifting and dumping. The boy didn’t seem to stop to rest, either. There wasn’t a single break in the sound of his labor as Hank rode off. The shuck sound of the spade dipping into the soil, then the swish-thump as the dirt slid off onto the pile.

  Hank didn’t calm down his anger till he couldn’t hear a sound of the boy, or even remember what the sound was like. Whatever power Hank had as a dowser, this boy was the enemy of his knack, that much Hank knew. He had thought his rage was unreasonable before, but now that the boy had spoke up, Hank knew he had been right all along. The boy thought he was a master of water, maybe even a doodlebug, and that made him Hank’s enemy.

  Jesus said to give your enemy your own cloak, to turn the other cheek—but what about when your enemy aims to take away your livelihood, what then? Do you let him ruin you? Not this Christian, thought Hank. I learned that boy something this time, and if it doesn’t take, I’ll learn him more later.

  6

  Masquerade

  PEGGY WASN’T THE belle of the Governor’s Ball, but that was fine with her. Mistress Modesty had long since taught her that it was a mistake for women to compete with each other. “There is no single prize to be won, which, if one woman attains it, must remain out of reach for all the others.”