Was this some knack of hers? Alvin didn’t know, just plain couldn’t tell. He only knew that it was only during her visits that he could completely forget that he was in jail. And it dawned on him, after a week or so, that he might just be falling in love. That the feelings that he had only ever had toward Miss Larner were getting waked up, just a little, by Vilate Franker. Now wouldn’t that beat all? Miss Larner had been pretty and young, using knacks to make herself look plain and middle-aged. Now here was a woman plain and middle-aged using knacks that made other folks think she was pretty and young. How opposite could you be? But in both cases, it was the mature woman without obvious beauties that he delighted in.
And yet, even as he wondered if he was falling in love with Vilate, every now and then, in his lonely hours especially after dark, he would think of another face entirely. A young girl back in Vigor, the girl whose lies had driven him from home in the first place, the girl who claimed he had done forbidden things with her. He found himself thinking of those forbidden things, and there was a place in his heart where he wished he had done them. If he had, of course he would have married her. In fact, he would have married her before doing them, because that was right and the law and Alvin wasn’t no kind of man to do wrong by a woman or break no law if he could help it. But in his imaginings in the dark there wasn’t no law nor right and wrong neither, he just woke up sweating from a dream in which the girl wasn’t no liar after all, and then he was plain ashamed of himself, and couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him, to be falling in love with a woman of words and ideas and experience during the day, but then to be hot with passion for a stupid lying girl who just happened to be pretty and flat-out in love with him once upon a time back home.
I am an evil man, thought Alvin at times like that. Evil and unconstant. No better than them faithless fellows who can’t leave women alone no matter what. I am the kind of man that I have long despised.
Only even that wasn’t true, and Alvin knew it. Because he hadn’t done a blamed thing wrong. Hadn’t done anything. Had only imagined it. Imagined . . . and enjoyed. Was that enough to make him evil? “As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he,” said the scripture. Alvin remembered it because his mother quoted it all the time till his father barked back at her, “That’s just your way of saying that all men are devils!” and Alvin wondered if it was true—if all men had evil in their hearts, and those men as were good, maybe they were simply the ones who controlled theirselves so well they could act contrary to their heart’s desire. But if that were so, then no man was good, not one.
And didn’t the Holy Book say that, too?
No man good, not one. Not me, neither. Maybe me least of all.
And that was his life in that jail in Hatrack River. Darker and darker thoughts about his own worthiness, falling in love with two women at once, caught up in the gossip of a town where the Unmaker was surely at work, and where knacks abounded.
Calvin was pretty good with stone—he always did all right with that. Well, not always. He wasn’t born finding the natural weaknesses of stone. But after Alvin went off to be a prentice to a smith, Calvin started trying to do what he saw or heard of his big brother doing. In those days he was still hoping to show Alvin how good he was at Makering when he got back, to hear his brother say to him, “Calvin, why, you’re most as good as I am!” Which Alvin never said, nor even close to it. But it was true, at least about stone. Stone was easy, really, not like flesh and bone. Calvin could find his way into the stone, part it, shift it.
Which is what he started doing right away with the Bastille, of course. He didn’t know why the secret police had put him inside those walls, clammy and cold. It wasn’t a dungeon, not like in those stories, where the prisoner never sees any light except when a guard comes down with a torch, so he can go blind without knowing it. There was light enough, and a chair to sit on and a bed to lie on and a chamber pot that got emptied every day, once he figured out he was supposed to leave it by the door.
It was still a prison, though.
It took Calvin about five minutes to figure out that he could pretty much dissolve the whole locking mechanism, but he remembered just in time that getting out of his cell wasn’t exactly the same thing as getting out of the Bastille. He couldn’t make himself invisible, and Maker or not, a musket ball would knock him down or maim him or kill him like any other man.
He’d have to find another way out. And that meant going right through the wall, right through stone. Trouble was, he didn’t have any idea whether he was forty feet up or twenty feet under the street level. Or if the wall at the back of his cell opened on the outside or into an inner courtyard. Who might see if a gap appeared in the wall? He couldn’t just remove a stone—he had to remove it in once piece, so he could put it back after if he had to.
He waited till night, then began working on a stone block right near floor level. It was heavy, and he didn’t know of any way to make it lighter. Nor was there some subtle way to make stone move across stone. Finally he just softened the stone, plunged his fingers into it, then let it harden around his fingers, so he had a grip right in the middle of the stone block. Now, as he pulled on it, he made a thin layer of the stone turn liquid on the bottom and sides, so it was easier to pull it out, once he got it moving. It also made it silent as rock slid across rock. Except for the loud thud as the back of the stone dropped out of the hole and fell the few inches to the floor.
A breeze came through the cell, making it all the cooler. He slid the stone out of the way and then lay down and thrust his head and shoulders into the gap.
He was maybe twelve feet above the ground and directly over the head of a group of a dozen soldiers marching from somewhere to somewhere. Fortunately, they didn’t look up. But that didn’t keep Calvin’s heart from beating halfway out of his chest. Once they were past, though, he figured he could go feetfirst through the hole and drop safely down to the ground and just walk away into the streets of Paris. Let them wonder how he got a stone out of the wall. That’d teach them to lock up folks who heal beggars.
He was all set to go, his feet already going into the hole, when it suddenly dawned on him that escaping was about as dumb a thing as he could do. Wasn’t he here to see the Emperor? If he became a fugitive, that wasn’t going to be too helpful Bonaparte had powers that even Alvin didn’t know about. Calvin had to learn them, if he could. The smart thing to do was sit tight here and see if somehow, someone in the chain of command might realize that a fellow who could heal beggars might be able to help with Bonaparte’s famous gout.
So he got his back into it and hefted the stone back up into the gap and shoved it into place. He left the finger holes in it—it was dark at the back of the cell and besides, maybe if they noticed those holes in the stone they’d have more respect for his powers.
Or maybe not. How could he know? Everything was out of his control now. He hated that. But if you want to get something, you got to put yourself in the way of getting it.
Now that he wasn’t trying to escape—but knew that he could if he wanted to—Calvin spent the days and nights lying on his cot or pacing his cell. Calvin wasn’t good at being alone. He’d learned that on his trek through the woods after leaving Vigor. Alvin might be happy running along like a Red, but Calvin soon abandoned the forest tracks and got him on a road and hitched a ride on a farmer’s wagon and then another and another, making friends and talking for company the whole way.
Now here he was stuck again, and even if the guards had been willing to talk to him, he didn’t know the language. It hadn’t bothered him that much when he was free to walk the streets of Paris and feel himself surrounded by the bustle of busy city life. Here, though, his inability to so much as ask a guard what day it was . . . it made him feel crippled.
Finally he began to amuse himself with mischief. It was no trouble at all to get his doodle bug inside the lock mechanism and ruin the guard’s key by softening it when he inserted it. When the guard took the key back out,
it had no teeth and the door was still locked. Angry, the guard stalked off to get another key. This time Calvin let him open the door without a problem—but what was it that made the first key lose its teeth?
And it wasn’t just his own lock. He began to search far and wide with his doodle bug until he located the other occupied cells. He played games with their locks, too, including fusing a couple of them shut so no key could open them, and ruining a couple of others so they couldn’t be locked at all. The shouting, the stomping, the running, it kept Calvin greatly entertained, especially as he imagined what the guards must be thinking. Ghosts? Spies? Who could be doing these strange things with the locks in the Bastille?
He also learned a few things. Back in Vigor, whenever he sat down for long he’d either get impatient and get up and move again, or he’d start thinking about Alvin and get all angry. Either way, he didn’t spend all that much time testing the limits of his powers, not since Alvin came home. Now, though, he found that he could send his doodle bug right far, and into places that he’d never seen with his own eyes. He began to get used to moving his bug through the stone, feeling the different textures of it, sensing the wooden frames to the heavy doors, the metal hinges and locks. Damn, but he was good at this!
And he explored his own body with that doodle bug, and the bodies of the other prisoners, trying to find what it was that Alvin saw, trying to see deep. He experimented a little on the other prisoners’ bodies, too, making changes in their legs the way he’d have to change Bonaparte’s leg. Not that any of them had gout, of course—that was a rich man’s disease, and nobody in prison was rich, even if they had money on the outside. Still, he could get a mental chart of what a more-or-less healthy leg looked like, on the inside. Get some idea of what he needed to do to get the Emperor’s leg back in good shape.
Truth to tell, though, he didn’t understand much more about legs after a week of this than he did at the beginning.
A week. A week and a half. Every day, more and more often, he’d walk to the wall, squat down, and put his fingers into those finger holes. He’d pull the stone a little bit, or maybe sometimes more, and once or twice all the way out of the wall, wanting to slide through the hole and walk away to freedom. Always, after a little thought, he put it back. But it took more thought every day. And the longing to be gone got stronger and stronger.
It was a blame fool plan anyway, like all his plans, when you came right down to it. Calvin was a fool to think they’d let some unknown American boy have access to the Emperor. He had the stone out of the wall for what he thought might well be the last time, when he heard the steps in the corridor. Nobody ever came along here this late at night! No time to get the stone back in place, either. So . . . was it go, or stay? They’d see the stone out of the wall no matter what he did. So did he want to face the consequences, which might include seeing the Emperor, but might just as easy mean facing the guillotine; or did he duck through the hole and get out into the street before they got the door open?
Little Napoleon grumbled to himself. All these days, the Emperor could have asked about the American healer any time. But no, it had to be in the middle of the night, it had to be tonight, when Little Napoleon had reserved the best box for the opening of a new opera by some Italian, what’s-his-name. He wanted to tell the Emperor that tonight was not convenient, he should find another toady to do his bidding. But then the Emperor smiled at him and suggested that he had others who could do such a menial job, and he shouldn’t waste his nephew’s time on such unimportant matters . . . and what could Little Napoleon do? He couldn’t let the Emperor realize that he could be replaced by some flunky. No, he insisted, No, Uncle, I’ll go myself, it’ll be my pleasure.
“I just hope he can do what you promised,” Bonaparte said.
The bastard was playing with him, that was the truth. He knew as well as Little Napoleon did that there was no promise of anything, just a report. But if it pleased the Emperor to make his nephew sweat with fear that maybe he’d be made a fool of, well, Emperors were allowed to toy with other people’s feelings.
The guard made a great noise about marching down the stone corridor and fumbling a long time with the keys.
“What, fool, are you giving the prisoner time to stop digging his tunnel and hide the evidence?”
“There be no tunnels from this floor, my lord,” the turnkey said.
“I know that, fool. But what’s all the fumble with the keys?”
“Most of them are new, my lord, and I don’t recognize which one opens which door, not as easy as I used to.”
“Then get the old keys and don’t waste my time!”
“The old keys been stripped, or the locks was broken, my lord. It’s been crazy, you wouldn’t believe it.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Little Napoleon grumpily. But he did, really—he had heard something about some sabotage or some kind of rare lock rust or something in the Bastille.
The key finally slid into the lock, and the door creaked open. The turnkey stepped in and shone his lantern about, to make sure the prisoner was in his place and not poised to jump him and take the keys. No, this one, the American boy, he was sitting far from the door, leaning against the opposite wall.
Sitting on what? The turnkey took a step or two closer, held the lantern higher.
“Mon dieu,” murmured Little Napoleon.
The American was sitting on a large stone block from the wall, with a gap that led right out to the street. No man could have lifted such a block out of the wall with his bare hands—how could he even get hold of it? But having moved it somehow, what did this American fool do but sit down and wait! Why didn’t he escape?
The American grinned at him, then stood up, still smiling, still looking at Little Napoleon—and then plunged his hands into the stone right up to his elbows, as easy as if the stone had been a water basin.
The turnkey screeched and ran for the door.
The American pulled his hands back out of the stone—except that one of them was in a fist now. He held out the stone to Little Napoleon, who took it, hefted it. It was stone, as hard as ever—but it was shaped with the print of the inside of a man’s palms and fingers. Somehow this fellow could reach into solid rock and grab a lump of stone as if it were clay.
Little Napoleon reached into his memory and pulled out some English from his days in school. “What are your name?” he asked.
“Calvin Maker,” said the American.
“Speak you the French?”
“Not a word,” said Calvin Maker.
“Go avec me,” said Little Napoleon. “Avec . . .
“With,” said the boy helpfully. “Go with you.”
“Oui. Yes.”
The Emperor had finally asked for the boy. But now Little Napoleon had serious misgivings. There was nothing about the healing of beggars to suggest the boy might have power over solid stone. What if this Calvin Maker did something to embarrass him? What if—it was beyond imagining, but he had to imagine it—what if he killed Uncle Napoleon?
But the Emperor had asked for him. There was no undoing that. What was he going to do, go tell Uncle that the boy he’d brought to heal his gout just might decide to plunge his hands into the floor and pull up a lump of marble and brain him with it? That would be political suicide. He’d be living on Corsica tending sheep in no time. If he didn’t get to watch the world tumble head over heels as his head rolled down into the basket from the guillotine.
“Go go go,” said Little Napoleon. “Wiss me.”
The turnkey was huddled in a far corner of the corridor. Little Napoleon aimed a kick in his direction. The man was so far gone that he didn’t even dodge. The kick landed squarely, and with a whimper the turnkey rolled over like a cabbage.
The American boy laughed out loud. Little Napoleon didn’t like his laugh. He toyed with the idea of drawing his knife and killing the boy on the spot. But the explanation to the Emperor would be dangerous. “So you tried for weeks to get me to see
him, and he was an assassin all along?” No, whatever happened, the American would see the Emperor.
Calvin Maker would see Napoleon Bonaparte . . . while Little Napoleon would see if God would answer a most fervent prayer.
12
Lawyers
“You know the miller’s boy, Alvin, is in jail up in Hatrack River.” The stranger leaned on the counter and smiled.
“I reckon we heard about it,” said Armor-of-God Weaver.
“I’m here to help get the truth about Alvin, so the jury can make the right judgment up in Hatrack. They don’t know Alvin as well as folks around here are bound to. I just need to get some affidavits about his character.” The stranger smiled again.
Armor-of-God nodded. “I reckon this is the place for affidavits, if the truth about Alvin is what you’re after.”
“That I am. I take it you know the young man yourself?”
“Well enough.” Armor-of-God figured if he was going to find out what this fellow was doing, it was best not to say he was married to Alvin’s sister. “But I reckon you don’t know what you’re getting into up here, friend. You’ll get more than the affidavits you’re after.”
“Oh, I’ve heard tell about the massacre at Tippy-Canoe, and the curse that folks here are under. I’m a lawyer. I’m used to hearing grim stories from people I’m defending.”
Alvin Journeyman: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume IV Page 18