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 Alvin want the most in his heart.”
“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 Alvin with a son. That what he want most.”
“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.”
“Alvin knelt by the grave of his firstborn,” said Tenskwa-Tawa. “The child came too early to live. Don’t meddle this time.”
“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 Alvin made me free, and Alvin let me see. I never set him free. I never gave him sight. He is in the world to bless us, not the other way.”
“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 Vigor Church. Not that she owned that much—packing was the least of it. But she had letters to write. People to summon from here and there. Those who should know that Alvin was going to build the City of Makers now. People who should come and take their place beside him, if they wanted, if they could get away.
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 Alvin’s futures. There were great gaps. So even though the child had nothing like Alvin’s gifts, it was caught up in the same mystery, the same defiance of the laws of cause and effect. She did not know with any kind of certainty what would happen to the child if she stayed or went. But she knew that Alvin needed her in Noisy River, and on the far side of the fog, she saw a few paths that had her holding a baby in her arms, standing with Alvin on a bluff overlooking a fogbound river. Those were the only paths where she saw herself holding that baby. So she was going to Vigor Church, to Alvin’s family, to invite them—and any others from the school of the makers—to come to Noisy River to help Alvin build the Crystal City. And with them traveling with her, she would go the rest of the w
ay well accompanied.
Alvin’s brother Measure was the one in the world most like him. Not in power—though Measure was a good student of makery, within his limits. He was like Alvin in goodness. Perhaps he was Alvin’s better in compassion and patience. And far Alvin’s better in judgment about other people’s character. Let Measure stand beside Alvin, and Alvin would never lack for wisdom. Who could know better than I that foreknowledge is a poor chooser, for it gives too great a weight to fear. While a generous heart will make choices that, at the very worst, do not poison the heart of the chooser.
Perhaps that was why she was sure she had to go to Vigor Church and on to where Alvin was. Because fear told her to stay, but hope told her to go. Her hope of being a good wife to Alvin and a good mother to her baby. A good mother being, at the very least, one that gave birth to a living child. As a woman who had given birth to a child too soon born to live, surely she should be a one fit to make such judgment.
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 Alvin’s life—because my mother willed it so.
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 Alvin give this second child to me, and if I lose this one, too, how can I try yet again? It isn’t in me. I can’t do it.
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 Alvin insisted that they would come by boat, by raft, by canoe, by something that floated by itself.
“That’ll take weeks,” Verily told him.
“I know,” said Alvin.
“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 Lincoln, working on the charter.”
“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 Mexico yet and besides, he’s too young to be telling folks where to build their houses and where to farm. La Tia’s no town-builder. Mike Fink? Rien? Who can I trust?”
“You can trust yourself,” said Verily.
“I can’t,” said Alvin. “It’s not my job.”
“It’s your city.”
“Not today,” said Alvin. “I have no city today. The baby’s making ready to be born.”
It took Verily a moment to register what baby he was talking about. “Now?”
“Soon,” said Alvin. “Do you think I care about a single one of these six thousand souls, when my baby’s going to die?”
Verily looked as if he had been slapped.
“Die,” he said. “And you, who’ve healed so many…”
“Many but not all,” said Alvin. “The first one died. This one isn’t quite so early, but…”
“But you’ll try.”
“I’ll do what I do,” said Alvin. “You get the city started, Verily. It’s as much yours as mine. You held onto the plow as much as I did.”
The truth of that sank in and Verily nodded gravely. “So I did.” He turned and left.
Alvin sat alone on the stone outcropping just above the spring. He reached down and filled his hands with water. He lifted the water to his face and started to drink, but then splashed it onto his skin and wept into his hands.
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 en
ough, 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 Alvin thought that the heart had stopped. But no, it was beating very, very slowly, and he worked with feverish intensity, wishing he could slather on the mature tissue the way a painter slaps whitewash on a wall instead of doing it the way he had to do it, like a tatter making knot, knot, knot, and only gradually turning it into lace.
“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 Alvin could fix the problem, yes, if Alvin was watching he could…
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 Crystal City: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume VI Page 31