One way or the other, though, it was plain that Hatrack River was more than just the town where Alvin happened to be in jail right now. It was a place where people of hidden powers congregated in goodly numbers. Just as Verily Cooper had crossed the sea to meet Alvin, perhaps unwittingly all these others had also crossed sea or mountains or vast reaches of prairie and forest to find the place where the Maker Made his golden plow. And now these eight had handled the plow, had seen it move, knew it was alive. What did it mean to them?
For Peggy, to wonder was to find out: She looked at their heartfires and found something startling. On past examination, none of them had shown paths in their future that were closely tied to Alvin’s. But now she found that their lives were bound up in his. All of them showed many paths into the future that led to a crystal city by the banks of a river.
For the first time, the Crystal City of Alvin’s vision in the tornado was showing up in someone else’s future.
She almost fainted from the relief of it. It wasn’t just a formless dream in Alvin’s heart, with no path guiding her as to how he would get there. It could be a reality, and if it was, all of these eight souls would be a part of it.
Why? Just because they had touched the living plow? Was that what the thing was? A tool to turn people into citizens of the Crystal City?
No, not that. No, it would hardly be the free place Alvin dreamed of, if folks were forced to be citizens because of touching some powerful object. Rather the plow opened up a door in their lives so they could enter into the future they most longed for. A place, a time where their knacks could be brought to full fruition, where they could be part of something larger than any of them were capable of creating on their own.
She had to tell Alvin. Had to let him know that after all that trying in Vigor Church to teach those of feeble knack how to do what they could not really do, or not easily, here in his true birthplace his citizens were already assembling, those who had the natural gifts and inclinations that would make them co-Makers with him.
Another thought struck her, and she began to look into the heartfires of the jurors. Another group of citizens, randomly chosen—and again, while not all had spectacular knacks, they were all people whose knacks defined them, people who might well have been searching for what their gifts might mean, what they were for. People who, consciously or not, might well have found themselves gravitating toward the place where a Maker had been born. A place where iron was turned to gold, where a mixup boy had been changed so a cachet no longer named him as a slave. A place where people with knacks and talents and dreams might find purpose, might build something together, might become Makers.
Did they know how much they needed Alvin? How much their hopes and dreams depended on him? Of course not. They were jurors, trying to stay impartial. Trying to judge according to the law. And that was good. That was a kind of Making, too—keeping to the law even when it hurt your heart to do it. Maintaining good order in the community. If they showed favoritism to one person just because they admired him or needed him or liked him or even loved him, that would be the undoing of justice, and if justice were ever undone, were ever openly disdained, then that would be the end of good order. To corrupt justice was the Unmaker’s trick. Verily Cooper would have to prove his case, or at least disprove Makepeace Smith’s assertions; he would have to make it possible for the jury to acquit.
But if they did acquit, then the paths that opened in their heartfire were like the paths of the witnesses: They would be with Alvin one day, building great towers of shimmering crystal rising into the sky, catching light and turning it into truth the way it had happened when Tenskwa-Tawa took Alvin up into the waterspout.
Should I tell Alvin that his fellow-Makers are here around him in this courtroom? Would it help his work or make him overconfident to know?
To tell or not to tell, the endless question that Peggy wrestled with. Next to that one, Hamlet’s little quandary was downright silly. Contemplations of suicide were always the Unmaker’s work. But truth-telling and truth-hiding—it could go either way. The consequences were unpredictable.
Of course, for ordinary people consequences were always unpredictable. Only torches like Peggy were burdened by having such a clear idea of the possibilities. And there weren’t many torches like Peggy.
Makepeace wasn’t a very good witness in his own cause. Surly and nervous—not a winning combination, Verily knew. But that was why Laws and Webster had put him on first, so that his negative impression would be forgotten after the testimony of more likable—and believable—witnesses.
The best thing Verily could do, in this case, was to let Makepeace have his say—as memorably as possible, as negatively as possible. So he made no objection when Makepeace peppered his account with slurs on Alvin’s character. “He was always the laziest prentice I ever had.” “I never could get the boy to do nothing without standing over him and yelling in his ear.” “He was a slow learner, everybody knowed that.” “He ate like a pig even on days when he didn’t lift a finger.” The onslaught of slander was so relentless that everyone was getting uncomfortable with it—even Marty Laws, who was starting to glance at Verily to see why he wasn’t raising any objections. But why should Verily object, when the jurors were shifting in their seats and looking away from Makepeace with every new attack on Alvin? They all knew these were lies. There probably wasn’t a one of them that hadn’t come to the smithy hoping that Alvin rather than his master would do the work. Alvin’s skill was famous—Verily had learned that from overhearing casual conversation in the roadhouse at evening meals—so all Makepeace was doing was damaging his own credibility.
Poor Marty was trapped, however. He couldn’t very well cut short Makepeace Smith’s testimony, since it was the foundation of his whole case. So the questioning went on, and the answering, and the slander.
“He made a plow out of plain iron. I saw it, and so did Pauley Wiseman who was sheriff then, and Arthur Stuart, and the two dead Finders. It was setting on the workbench when they come by to get me to make manacles for the boy. But I wouldn’t make no manacles, no sir! That’s not decent work for a smith, to make the chains to take a free boy into slavery! So what do you know but Alvin himself, who said he was such a friend to Arthur Stuart, he up and says he’ll make the manacles. That’s the kind of boy he was and is today—no loyalty, no decency at all!”
Alvin leaned over to Verily and whispered in his ear. “I know it’s wicked of me, Verily, but I want so bad to give old Makepeace a bad case of rectal itch.”
Verily almost laughed out loud.
The judge shot him a glare, but it wasn’t about his near laughter. “Mr. Cooper, aren’t you going to object to any of these extraneous comments upon your client’s character?”
Verily rose slowly to his feet. “Your Honor, I am sure the jury will know exactly how seriously to take all of Mr. Makepeace Smith’s testimony. I’m perfectly content for them to remember both his malice and his inaccuracy.”
“Well, maybe that’s how it’s done in England, but I will instruct the jury to ignore Mr. Smith’s malice, since there’s no way to know whether his malice came as a result of the events he has recounted, or predated them. Furthermore, I will instruct Mr. Smith to make no more aspersions on the defendant’s character, since those are matters of opinion and not of fact. Did you understand me, Makepeace?”
Makepeace looked confused. “I reckon so.”
“Continue, Mr. Laws.”
Marty sighed and went on. “So you saw the iron plow, and Alvin made the manacles. What then?”
“I told him to use the manacles as his journeyman piece. I thought it would be fitting for a traitorous scoundrel to go through his whole life knowing that the manacles he made for his friend were the—”
The judge interrupted, again glaring at Verily. “Makepeace, it’s words like ‘traitorous scoundrel’ that’s going to get you declared in contempt of court. Do you understand me now?”
“I been calling a
spade a spade all my life, Your Honor!” Makepeace declared.
“At this moment you’re digging a very deep hole with it,” said the judge, “and I’m the man to bury you if you don’t watch your tongue!”
Cowed, Makepeace put on a very solemn look and faced forward. “I apologize, Your Honor, for daring to live up to my oath to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the—”
The gavel came down.
“Nor will I allow sarcasm directed at this bench, Mr. Smith. Continue, Mr. Laws.”
And so it went, till Makepeace had finished with his tale. It truly was a weak and whining little complaint. First there was an iron plow, made of the very iron Makepeace had provided for the journeyman piece. Then there was a plow made of solid gold. Makepeace could only think of two possibilities. First, that Alvin had somehow used some sort of hexery to change the iron into gold, in which case it was made from the iron Makepeace had given him and, according to time-honored tradition and the terms of Alvin’s prentice papers, the plow belonged to Makepeace. Or it was a different plow, not made from Makepeace’s iron, in which case where did Alvin get such gold? The only time Alvin had ever done enough digging to bring up buried treasure like that was when he was digging a well for Makepeace, which he dug in the wrong place. Makepeace was betting Alvin had dug in the right place first, found the gold, and then hid it by digging in another spot for the actual well. And if the gold was found on Makepeace’s land, well, it was Makepeace’s gold that way, too.
Verily’s cross-examination was brief. It consisted of two questions.
“Did you see Alvin take gold or anything like gold out of the ground?”
Angry, Makepeace started to make excuses, but Verily waited until the judge had directed him to answer the question yes or no.
“No.”
“Did you see the iron plow transformed into a golden plow?”
“Well so what if I didn’t, the fact is there ain’t no iron plow so where is it then?”
Again, the judge told him to answer the question yes or no.
“No,” said Makepeace.
“No more questions for this witness,” said Verily.
As Makepeace got up and left the witness box, Verily turned to the judge. “Your Honor, the defense moves for immediate dismissal of all charges, inasmuch as the testimony of this witness is not sufficient to establish probable cause.”
The judge rolled his eyes. “I hope I’m not going to have to listen to motions like that after every witness.”
“Just the pathetic ones. Your Honor,” said Verily.
“Your point is made. Your motion is denied. Mr. Laws, your next witness?”
“I would like to have called Makepeace’s wife, Gertie, but she passed away more than a year ago. Instead, with the court’s permission, I will call the woman who was doing kitchen help for her the day the golden plow was first. . . evidenced. Anga Berry.”
The judge looked at Verily. “This will make her testimony hearsay, after a fashion. Do you have any objection, Mr. Cooper?”
Alvin had already assured Verily that nothing Anga could say would do him any possible harm. “No objection, Your Honor.”
Alvin listened as Anga Berry testified. She didn’t really witness to anything except that Gertie told her about Makepeace’s accusations the very next morning, so the charge wasn’t one he dreamed up later. On cross-examination, Verily was kind to her, only asking her whether Gertie Smith had said anything to lead Anga to believe she thought Alvin was as bad a boy as Makepeace said.
Marty rose to his feet. “Hearsay, Your Honor.”
Impatiently the judge replied, “Well, Marty, we know it’s hearsay. It was for hearsay that you called her in the first place!”
Abashed, Marty Laws sat back down.
“She never said nothing about his smithery or nothing,” said Anga. “But I know Gertie set quite a store by the boy. Always helped her out, toted water for her whenever she asked—that’s the worst job—and he was good with the children and just. . . always helping. She never said a bad word about him, and I reckon she had a high opinion of his goodness.”
“Did Gertie ever tell you he was a liar or deceiver?” asked Verily.
“Oh, no, unless you count hiding some job he was doing till it was done, so as to surprise her. If that’s deception, then he done that a couple of times.”
And that was it. Alvin was relieved to know that Gertie hadn’t been unkind to him behind his back, that even after her death she was a friend to him. What surprised Alvin was how glum Verily was when he sat down at the table next to him. Marty was busy calling his next witness, a fellow named Hank Dowser whose tale Alvin could easily guess—this was a man who did have malice and it wouldn’t be pleasant to hear him. Still, he hadn’t seen anything either, and in fact the well-digging had nothing to do with the plow so what did it matter? Why did Verily look so unhappy?
Alvin asked him.
“Because there was no reason for Laws to call that woman. She worked against his case and he had to know that in advance.”
“So why did he call her?”
“Because he wanted to lay the groundwork for something. And since she didn’t say anything new during his examination of her, it must have been during the cross-examination that the new groundwork was laid.”
“All you asked Anga was whether Gertie had the same low opinion of me that her husband had.”
Verily thought for a moment. “No. I also asked her if you had ever deceived Gertie. Oh, I’m such a fool. If only I could recall those words from my lips!”
“What’s wrong with that?” asked Alvin.
“He must have some witness that calls you a deceiver, a witness who is otherwise irrelevant to this case.”
In the meantime, the dowser, in a state of high dudgeon, was speaking of how uppity Makepeace’s prentice was, how he dared to tell a dowser how to dowse. “He’s got no respect for any man’s knack but his own!”
Verily spoke up. “Your Honor, I object. The witness is not competent to testify concerning my client’s respect or lack of it toward other people’s knacks in general.”
The objection was sustained. Hank Dowser was a quicker learner than Makepeace; there was no more problem with him. He quickly established that the prentice had obviously dug the well in a different place from the place where Hank had declared water could be found.
Verily had only one question for him. “Was there water in the place where he dug the well?”
“That’s not the question!” declared Hank Dowser.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you, Mr. Dowser, that I am the one authorized by this court to ask questions at this time, and I tell you that it is the question that I would like you to answer. At this time.”
“What was the question?”
“Did my client’s well reach water?”
“It reached a kind of water. But compared to the pure water I found, I’m sure that what he got was a sludgy, scummy, foul-tasting brew.”
“Do I take it that your answer is yes?”
“Yes.”
And that was that.
For his next witness, Marty called a name that sent a shiver down Alvin’s spine. “Amy Sump.”
A very attractive girl arose from the back of the courtroom and walked down the aisle.
“Who is she?” asked Verily.
“A girl from Vigor with a very active imagination.”
“About what?”
“About how she and I did what a man has no business doing with a girl so young.”
“Did you?”
Alvin was annoyed by the question. “Never. She just started telling stories and it grew from there.”
“Grew?”
“That’s why I took off from Vigor Church, to give her lies a chance to settle down and die out.”
“So she started telling stories about you and you fled?”
“What does it have to do with the plow and Makepeace Smith?”
Verily grimac
ed. “A certain matter of whether you deceive people or not. Marty Laws roped me in.”
Marty was explaining to the judge that, because he had had no chance to talk with this witness himself beforehand, his illustrious co-counsel would conduct the examination. “The girl is young and fragile, and they have established a rapport.”
Verily thought that the idea of Webster and Amy having rapport wasn’t very promising when it came to getting honest testimony from her, but he had to tread carefully. She was a child, and a girlchild at that. He couldn’t seem to be hostile or fearful of her before she spoke, and in cross-examination he’d have to proceed delicately lest he seem to be a bully.
Unlike Makepeace Smith and Hank Dowser, who were obviously angry and malicious, Amy Sump was absolutely believable. She spoke shyly and reluctantly. “I don’t want to get Alvin in no trouble, sir,” she said.
“And why not?” asked Daniel Webster.
Her answer came in a whisper. “Because I still love him.”
“You . . . you still love him?” Oh, Webster was a fine actor, worthy of the boards in Drury Lane. “But how can you—why do you still love him?”
“Because I am with child,” she whispered.
A buzzing arose through the courtroom.
Again, Webster feigned grieved surprise. “You are with . . . Are you married, Miss Sump?”
She shook her head. Glistening tears flew from her eyes onto her lap.
“Yet you are with child. The child of some man who didn’t even have the decency to make an honest woman of you. Whose child, Miss Sump?”
This was already out of control. Verily leapt to his feet. “Your Honor, I object on the grounds that this can have no conceivable connection with—”
“It goes to the issue of deception, Your Honor!” cried Daniel Webster. “It goes to the issue of a man who will say whatever it takes to get his way, and then absconds without so much as a farewell, having taken away that which is most precious from the very one who trusted him!”
Alvin Journeyman: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume IV Page 30