Alvin didn’t really know that much about the Unmaker, but with years in which to speculate and reason about it, he had come to a few conclusions. He didn’t really think of the Unmaker as a person anymore, though sometimes he still called it “him” in his own thoughts. Alvin had always seen the Unmaker as a shimmering of air, as something that retreated toward his peripheral vision; he believed now that this was the true nature of the Unmaker. As long as a person was engaged in Making, the Unmaker was held at bay; and, in fact, most people weren’t particularly attractive to it. It was drawn only to the most extraordinary of Makers—and the most prideful destroyers (or destructively proud; Alvin wasn’t sure if it made a difference). It was drawn to Alvin in the effort to undo him and all his works. It was drawn to others, though, like Philadelphia Thrower and, apparently, Vilate Franker, because they provided the hands, the lips, the eyes that would allow the Unmaker to do its work.
What Alvin guessed, but could not know, was that the people to whom the Unmaker appeared most clearly had a kind of power over it. That the Unmaker, having been drawn into relations with them, could not suddenly free itself. Instead, it acted out the role that its human ally had prepared for it. Reverend Thrower needed an angelic visitor that was ripe with wrath—so that was what the Unmaker became for him. Vilate needed something else. But the Unmaker could not withhold itself from her. It could not sense that there was danger in being exposed, unless Vilate sensed that danger herself. And since Vilate was unable to be rational enough to know there even was a salamander—something Alvin had learned from Arthur Stuart’s report—there was a good chance that the Unmaker could be led to expose itself to the whole courtroom, as long as Alvin worked carefully and took Vilate by surprise.
So he watched as the bailiff finally took the calm—well, calmer, anyway—salamander from the collar of his shirt, whither it had fled, and set it gently on the table. Gradually Alvin withdrew his doodlebug from the creature, so that the Unmaker could come back into possession of it. Would it come? Would it speak again to Vilate, as Alvin hoped?
It did. It would.
The column of sound arose again.
Everyone could see the salamander’s mouth opening and closing, but of course they heard nothing and so it looked like the random movements of an animal.
“Do you see the salamander?” asked Verily.
Vilate looked quizzical. “I don’t understand the question.”
“On this table in front of you. Do you see the salamander?”
Vilate smiled wanly. “I think you’re trying to play with me now, Mr. Cooper.”
A whisper arose in the courtroom.
“What I’m trying to do,” said Verily, “is determine just how reliable an observer you are.”
Daniel Webster spoke up. “Your Honor, how do we know there isn’t some trick going on that the defense is playing? We already know that the defendant has remarkable hidden powers.”
“Have patience, Mr. Webster,” said the judge. “Time enough for rebuttal on redirect.”
In the meantime, Alvin had been playing with the double column of sound coming from the salamander and leading straight to Vilate. He tried to find some way to bend it, but of course could not, since sound must travel in a straight line—or at least to bend it was beyond Alvin’s power and knowledge.
What he could do, though, was set up a counterturbulence right at the source of one of the columns of sound, leaving the other to be perfectly audible, since there would be no interference from the column Alvin had blocked. The sound would still be faint, however; Alvin had no way of knowing whether it could be heard well enough for people to understand it. Only one way to find out.
Besides, this might be the new thing he had to Make in order to get past the dark place in his heartfire where Peggy couldn’t see.
He blocked one of the columns of sound.
Verily was saying, “Miss Franker, since everyone in the court but you is able to see this salamander—”
Suddenly, a voice from an unexpected source became audible, apparently in midsentence. Verily fell silent and listened.
It was a woman’s voice, cheery and encouraging. “You just sit tight, Vilate, this English buffoon is no match for you. You don’t have to tell him a single thing unless you want to. That Alvin Smith had his chance to be your friend, and he turned you down, so now you’ll show him a thing or two about a woman scorned. He had no idea of your cleverness, you sly thing.”
“Who is that!” demanded the judge.
Vilate looked at him, registering nothing more than faint puzzlement. “Are you asking me?” she said.
“I am!” the judge replied.
“But I don’t understand. Who is what?”
The woman’s voice said, “Something’s wrong but you just stay calm, don’t admit a thing. Blame it on Alvin, whatever it is.”
Vilate took a deep breath. “Is Alvin casting some kind of spell that affects everyone but me?” she asked.
The judge answered sharply. “Someone just said, ‘Blame it on Alvin, whatever it is.’ Who was it that said that?”
“Ah! Ah! Ah!” cried the woman’s voice—which was obviously coming from the salamander’s mouth. “Ah! How could he hear me? I talk only to you! I’m your best friend, Vilate, nobody else’s! They’re trying to trick you! Don’t admit a thing!”
“I . . . don’t know what you mean,” said Vilate. “I don’t know what you’re hearing.”
“The woman who just said, ‘Don’t admit a thing,’ “ said Verily. “Who is that? Who is this woman who says she’s your best friend and no one else’s?”
“Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” cried the salamander.
“My best friend?” asked Vilate. Suddenly her face was a mask of terror—except for her mouth, which still wore a pretty grin. Sweat beaded on her forehead.
On impulse, Verily strode to her and took hold of her shawl. “Please, Miss Franker, you seem overwarm. Let me hold your shawl for you.”
Vilate was so confused she didn’t realize what he was doing until it was done. The moment the shawl came from her shoulders, the smile on her mouth disappeared. In fact, the face that everyone knew so well was gone, replaced by the face of a middle-aged woman, somewhat wrinkled and sunburnt; and most remarkable of all, her mouth was wide open and inside it, the upper plate of her false teeth were clicking up and down, as if she were raising and lowering it with her tongue.
The buzz in the courtroom became a roar.
“Verily, dammit,” said Alvin. “I told you not to—”
“Sorry,” said Verily. “I see you need that shawl, Miss Franker.” Quickly he replaced it.
Aware now of what he had done to her, she snatched the shawl close to her. The clicking false teeth were immediately replaced by the same lovely smile she had worn before, and her face was again thin and young.
“I believe we have some idea of the reliability of this witness,” said Verily.
The salamander cried out, “They’re winning, you foolish ninny! They trapped you! They tricked you, you silly twit!”
Vilate’s face lost its composure. She looked frightened. “How can you talk like that to me,” she whispered.
Vilate wasn’t the only one who looked frightened. The judge himself had shrunk back into the far corner of his space behind the bench. Marty Laws was sitting on the back of his chair, his shoes on the seat.
“To whom are you speaking?” asked the judge.
Vilate turned her face away from judge and salamander both. “My friend,” she said. “My best friend, I thought.” Then she turned to the judge. “All these years, no one else has ever heard her voice. But you hear her now, don’t you?”
“I do,” said the judge.
“You’re telling them too much!” cried the salamander. Was its voice changing?
“Can you see her?” asked Vilate, her voice thin and quavering. “Do you see how beautiful she is? She taught me how to be beautiful, too.”
“Shut up!” cried the salama
nder. “Tell them nothing, you bitch!”
Yes, the voice was definitely lower in pitch now, thick in the throat, rasping.
“I can’t see her, no,” said the judge.
“She’s not my friend, though, is she,” said Vilate. “Not really.”
“I’ll rip your throat out, you . . .” The salamander let fly with a string of expletives that made them all gasp.
Vilate pointed at the salamander. “She made me do it! She told me to tell those lies about Alvin! But now I see she’s really hateful! And not beautiful at all! She’s not beautiful, she’s ugly as a . . . as a newt!”
“Salamander,” said the judge helpfully.
“I hate you!” Vilate cried at the salamander. “Get away from me! I don’t want to see you ever again!”
The salamander seemed poised to move—but not away from her. It looked more as if it meant to spring from the table, leap the distance between it and Vilate, and attack her as its hideous voice had threatened.
Alvin was searching carefully through the salamander’s body, trying to find where and how the Unmaker had control of it. But however it was done, it left no physical evidence that Alvin could see.
He realized, though, that it didn’t matter. There were ways to get a person free of another person’s control—an off-my-back hex. Couldn’t it work for the salamander, if it was perfectly done? Alvin marked out in his mind the exact spots on the table where the hex would need to be marked, the order of the markings, the number of loops that would have to be run linking point to point.
Then he sent his doodlebug into that part of the salamander’s brain where such sense as it had resided. Freedom, he whispered there, in the way he had that animals could understand. Not words, but feelings. Images. The salamander seeking after food, mating, scampering over mud, through leaves and grass, into cool mossy stone crevices. Free to do that instead of living in a dry handbag. The salamander longed for it.
Just do this, said Alvin silently into the salamander’s mind. And he showed it the loops to make to get to the first mark.
The salamander had been poised to leap from the table. But instead it ran the looping pattern, touched one toe on the exact point; Alvin made it so the toe penetrated the wood just enough to make a mark, though no human eye could have seen it, the mark was so subtle. Scamper, loop, mark, and mark again. Six tiny prickings of the table’s surface, and then a bound into the middle of the hex.
And the Unmaker was gone.
The salamander raced in a mad pattern, too fast to follow clearly; ran, then stopped stockstill in the middle of the table.
And then, suddenly, the intelligence seemed to go out of its movements. It no longer looked at Vilate. No longer looked at anyone in particular. It nosed across the table. Not certain yet whether the spell that bound the creature was done or not, no one moved toward it. It ran down the table leg, then scurried straight toward Alvin. It nosed the sack under his chair that contained the plow. It ran inside the sack.
Consternation broke out in the courtroom. “What’s happening!” cried Marty Laws. “Why did it go in that sack!”
“Because it was spawned in that sack!” cried Webster. “You can see now that Alvin Smith was the source of all this mischief! I have seen the face of the devil and he sits cocky as you please in yonder chair!”
The judge banged with his gavel.
“He’s not the devil,” said Vilate. “The devil wears a much more lovely face than that.” Then she burst into tears.
“Your honor,” said Webster, “the defendant and his lawyer have turned this court into a circus!”
“Not until after you turned it into a cesspool of scandalous lies and filthy innuendoes!” Verily roared back at him.
And as he roared, the spectators burst into applause.
The judge banged the gavel again. “Silence! Come to order, or I’ll have the bailiff clear the court! Do you hear me?”
And, after a time, silence again reigned.
Alvin bent over and reached into the sack. He took out the limp body of the salamander.
“Is it dead?” asked the judge.
“No, sir,” said Alvin. “She’s just asleep. She’s very, very tired. She’s been rode hard, so to speak. Rode hard and given nothing to eat. It ain’t evidence of nothing now, Your Honor. Can I give her to my friend Arthur Stuart to take care of till she has her strength back?”
“Does the prosecution have any objection?”
“No, Your Honor,” said Marty Laws.
At the same time, Daniel Webster rose to his feet. “This salamander never was evidence of anything. It’s obvious that it was introduced by the defendant and his lawyer and was always under their command. Now they’ve taken possession of an honest woman and broken her! Look at her!”
And there sat beautiful Vilate Franker, tears streaming down her smooth and beautiful cheeks.
“An honest woman?” she said softly. “You know as well as I do how you hinted to me about how you needed corroboration for that Amy Sump girl, how if you just had some way of proving that Alvin did indeed leave the jail, then she would be believed and no one would believe Alvin. Oh, you sighed and pretended that you weren’t suggesting anything to me, but I knew and you knew, and so I learned the hexes from my friend and we did it, and now there you sit, lying again.”
“Your Honor,” said Webster, “the witness is clearly distraught. I can assure you she has misconstrued the brief conversation we had at supper in the roadhouse.”
“I’m sure she has, Mr. Webster,” said the judge.
“I have not misconstrued it,” said Vilate, furious, whirling on the judge.
“And I’m sure you have not,” said the judge. “I’m sure you’re both completely correct.”
“Your Honor,” said Daniel Webster, “with all due respect, I don’t see—”
“No, you don’t see!” cried Vilate, standing up in the witness box. “You claim to see an honest woman here? I’ll show you an honest woman!”
She peeled her shawl off her shoulders. At once the illusion of beauty about her face disappeared. Then she reached down and pulled the amulets out of her bodice and lifted their chains from around her neck. Her body changed before their eyes: Now she was not svelte and tall, but of middle height and a somewhat thickened middle-aged body. There was a stoop to her shoulders, and her hair was more white than gold. “This is an honest woman,” she said. Then she sank down into her seat and wept into her hands.
“Your Honor,” said Verily, “I believe I have no more questions for this witness.”
“Neither does the prosecution,” said Marty Laws.
“That’s not so!” cried Webster.
“Mr. Webster,” said Marty Laws quietly, “you are discharged from your position as co-counsel. The testimony of the witnesses you brought me now seems inappropriate to use in court, and I think it would be prudent of you to retire from this courtroom without delay.”
A few people clapped, but a glare from the judge quieted them.
Webster began stuffing papers into his briefcase. “If you are alleging that I behaved unethically to any degree—”
“Nobody’s alleging anything, Mr. Webster,” said the judge, “except that you have no further relationship with the county attorney of Hatrack County, and therefore it’s appropriate for you to step to the other side of the railing and, in my humble opinion, to the other side of the courtroom door.”
Webster rose to his full height, tucked his bag under his arm, and without another word strode down the aisle and out of the courtroom.
On his way out, he passed a middle-aged woman with brown-and-grey hair who was moving with some serious intent toward the judge’s bench. No, toward the witness stand, where she stepped into the box, put her arm around Vilate Franker’s shoulders, and helped the weeping woman rise to her feet. “Come now, Vilate, you did very bravely, you did fine, we’re right proud of you.”
“Goody Trader,” Vilate murmured, “I’m so ashamed.”
“Nonsense,” said Goody Trader. “We all want to be beautiful, and truth to tell, I think you still are. Just—mature, that’s all.”
The spectators watched in silence as Goody Trader led her erstwhile rival from the courtroom.
“Your Honor,” said Verily Cooper, “I think it should be clear to everyone that it is time to return to the real issue before the court. We have been distracted by extraneous witnesses, but the fact of the matter is that it all comes down to Makepeace Smith and Hank Dowser on one side, and Alvin Smith on the other. Their word against his. Unless the prosecution has more witnesses to call, I’d like to begin my defense by letting Alvin give his word, so the jury can judge between them at last.”
“Well said, Mr. Cooper,” said Marty Laws. “That’s the real issue, and I’m sorry I ever moved away from it. The prosecution rests, and I think we’d all like to hear from the defendant. I’m glad he’s going to speak for himself, even though the constitution of the United States allows him to decline to testify without prejudice.”
“A fine sentiment,” said the judge. “Mr. Smith, please rise and take the oath.”
Alvin bent over, scooped up the sack with the plow in it, and hoisted it over his shoulder as easy as if it was a loaf of bread or a bag of feathers. He walked to the bailiff, put one hand on the Bible and raised the other, sack and all. “I do solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me God,” he said.
“Alvin,” said Verily, “just tell us all how this plow came to be.”
Alvin nodded. “I took the iron my master gave me—that’s Makepeace, he was my master in those days—and I melted it to the right hotness. I’d already made my plow mold, so I poured it in and let it cool enough to strike off the mold, and then I shaped and hammered and scraped all the imperfections out of it, till near as I could tell it had the shape of a plow as perfect as I could do it.”
“Did you use any of your knack for Making as you did it?” asked Verily.
“No sir,” said Alvin. “That wouldn’t be fair. I wanted to earn the right to be a journeyman smith. I did use my doodlebug to inspect the plow, but I made no changes except with my tools and my two hands.”
Alvin Journeyman: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume IV Page 34