The Crafters Book One

by Christopher Stasheff

  Amer had obviously already dismissed the event in his mind. He ambled over to his worktable, where the beakers and bottles of his alchemical experiments bubbled merrily. “I know what I’m doing, Wife,” he said mildly. “Those were no gentlemen, and I mistrusted the feel of their paper.”

  “The feel of their paper?” Samona’s voice began to rise. She took a breath. “You naysay a possible fortune over the feel of a paper? Amer, you make no sense!”

  He gave her a speaking look. “You know how I dislike arguing, Samona. Let’s talk no more on this.”

  She bit her lip and turned away, thinking that here it was again. How could he burn so cold when she flamed so hot? He doesn’t really love you, said the sly, familiar voice in her heart. The courtship, the marriage, all a result of that love philtre you tricked him into drinking. Oh, how she cursed this uncertainty. Especially now, she said silently, her hand on her still-flat belly. Especially now.

  An arm went around her waist. “Hist, now, Samona,” said Amer, giving her a rare daytime hug. “Have you noticed that when we argue, it’s always about money? A good alchemist strives to be free of all vices, but especially from the sins of greed and covetousness. I don’t concern myself with material wealth, for I won’t be able to find the Philosopher’s Stone as long as I do.”

  “Ah, your Philosopher’s Stone,” said Samona, smiling in spite of herself. The way Amer spoke of it, it was to him like the Holy Grail to the crusades. A Panacea for all ills, a Door to Immortality, the Catalyst to turn any metal, no matter how leprous, into its Pure Soul State—back to unblemished gold.

  “Yes, the Stone,” said Amer. He drew her over to the table. “Come see what I obtained yesterday. Such a rare find, I could scarcely credit it.” He ran his hands reverently over a large, leather-bound book. “See? A complete and unabridged de Brahms. The Latin is more arcane than what I’m accustomed to, but already I see a formula that has me all afire. Listen to this: Prepare three Athanors, each capacious to hold three Pounds—”

  “Athanors?” said Samona.

  “A certain kind of crucible.” He bent his head back to the book. “And then you generate in each athanor a certain Earth by putting in each a cup of Chaos. Chaos is the primeval matter I was telling you about, Samona.”

  “The source of the four elements in their original combined state, I remember,” said Samona. She turned back the leaf to read the front cover. “How did you pay the tradesman for this book?”

  “Oh.” Amer shrugged, but watched Samona from the corner of his eye. “I gave him the silver from our cache.”

  Samona straightened. “You spent our cache! Oh, Husband! I begged you not to; we must save that aside. We’ll have need of it someday.” She felt tears in her eyes. Of all times for him to be so profligate!

  “ ’Tis all right, Samona. We can replace it in good time. Why, you yourself are getting quite excellent at rhabdomancy. You could find a bit of silver, or even some gold ore, did you put your mind to it.” Amer had made Samona her own dowsing rod, fine hazelwood with a quicksilver core.

  “Nay, Husband,” said Samona, biting off each word.

  Disappointment had left a huge hole where her heart used to be. “I know I lost all my powers when I renounced my witchcraft for you. This prattle of my Talent is suspect and only meant to indulge me. How could I ever approach the skill of a man who can read intentions merely by the feel of a paper?”

  As she flounced off to the bedroom, Amer called after her, “You do have real Talent, you know, Samona. It’s true.”

  Once in the bedroom with the door closed, Samona lifted a certain floorboard. She took out the crockery urn nestled in a small cavity beneath it. The urn was light, so light. She loosened the lid to stare awhile at the tiny collection of ore nuggets. She felt again the tiny flutter in her belly. Someone must tend to the needs of this family, she told herself.

  At last Samona stood and went to the mirror hanging above the washbasin. She pulled her heavy braid from its pins. I can take care of this myself, she thought. Why, I did the witch’s initiation, didn’t I? I’m a brave woman, a woman ripe for adventure.

  Nevertheless, she closed her eyes at the first snip of the scissors.

  * * *

  The Fortunate Osgood was a likely looking square-masted three-rigger about eighty feet long. Samona found the boatswain buying provisions at the shipping dock and asked him to take her aboard. He cast a doubtful eye on her, and Samona was afraid he could see right through her brother’s old breeches, coat, and hose that she wore. She was glad she’d taken the precaution of binding down her breasts with a swath of linen.

  “Aye, lad, I’ll be going back in a quarter hour or so. You got business on the ship?”

  Samona had practiced lowering her already husky voice.

  “Master Caleb Brown and his partners will be glad to meet up with me, I reckon.” Hurry, man! she said to herself. Her note to Amer was purposefully vague, but he could have ways of finding her before the boat sailed. Amer was always surprising her.

  “Oh, Brown.” The boatswain spit against a wall. “Wait, then.”

  Once on the shore boat, he put the oars in the rowlocks and seemed more disposed to talk to her. “Look sharp, lad. You ain’t a lubber, are ye? What’d you say your name was?”

  “Sam—Samuel, sir. Samuel Goldman.” There, that could be a lucky name! She’d come back as the Gold Woman, she just knew it.

  “Well, Sammie, you’ll soon meet the finest merchant ship on either side of the Atlantic. Captain Buttons mans a trim ship, he does.”

  Samona was tugging at her short ponytail, trying to get it out of her collar. “Captain Buttons?”

  “Captain John Baldridge, a good old salt, even if he does relish his fancy dress a bit too much. An honest man, and fair.”

  In a moment, they were alongside and Samona had scrambled up the rope ladder and was on deck. The boatswain called out, and, before she knew it, there stood big red-haired Caleb Brown before her. She stepped forward and shook his hand.

  “Samuel Goldman, sir. My sister is Master Crafter’s wife. She told me you had need of a cunning man, so here I am.”

  Brown looked her askance. “Aye, it’s a cunning man we need, not a cunning boy. How old are ye, lad? Thirteen? Fourteen ?”

  “Check his whiskers, Caleb!” called Master Churcher, also on deck. “If he’s over twelve, I’m a Dutchman!”

  Samona drew herself up, glad she’d brushed a little ash on her chin and upper lip. “Don’t you know anything about the powers of a cunning man? Why, I could grandfather you all two times over, but why should I look it, eh? It takes a good deal of Talent to keep your appearance as young as this. Thought I’d join you on your wee adventure, but if I’ve got to be explaining every little trick of my trade, well—”

  “Nay, wait.” This was little Markham, who came up on the forecastle, squinting. He was followed by a heavyset man in spotless breeches and a periwig, whose blue greatcoat was festooned with much trim and many buttons. Samona noticed many more men now hanging from the rigging and capstan bars. “Caleb, the captain and I’ve been talking,” said Markham. “He’s a reasonable man and asks no more than a one-fifth portion to take us along that bay we seek.” He put a hand on Samona’s shoulder. “I say we let the blackamoor give the boy a test.”

  “Aye, King James!” Samona heard mutters. “Call up the Blackbird!” Caleb Brown hollered down into the hold, “Jimbo! King James! On deck, you heathen!”

  Samona heard a heavy tread on the galley stairs, then up came the biggest man she’d ever seen, nearly seven feet tall.

  He wore clean hose, well-cut breeches, a pristine white shirt. He was black as night, with one gold earring and tricorne hat. “You call me for a reason, Master Caleb?” Even his voice was big and deep and dark, with an accent Samona had never heard before.

  Brown, tall as he was, seemed to shr
ink a little as the black man loomed over him. “Samuel Goldman, this here is our magic man from the West Indies. He’s got such royal ways, he earned hisself the name of the last King but one. King James, or Jimbo to those what know him.”

  Samona strode forward again, hand out. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure, Master James.” King James looked surprised, but took Samona’s hand in his huge one. Samona heard the crew chuckling, and looked over to see the man in the greatcoat sputtering. Oh, she understood, this was the captain, and she should’ve taken his hand first. “Captain Baldridge,” she remembered. “And it’s an honor to set foot on your fine ship, sir.” Belatedly, she shook his hand.

  “Now Jimbo,” said Markham, “hasn’t the power to find what’s buried. He has magic of a whole other sort.” Samona heard Brown and Churcher snort at this. “But we think he’ll know enough to test your cunning ways. How ‘bout it, Jimbo? What’ll the boy dowse for?”

  “Hmmm.” King James rubbed his chin, then gave Samona an oddly gentle look. “We must see if Master Goldman be knowing the scent of silver too, I think. My pardon, Captain, but I must borrow from your finery.” King James reached over and plucked an ornate silver button from the captain’s coat with no more effort than one would pluck a berry. The captain opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. “A handkerchief over the boy’s eyes,” instructed King James.

  Before she knew what was happening, Samona was blindfolded. She stood there patiently, hearing King James’s heavy tread across the decking, the muffled snickers of the men. Finally the handkerchief was lifted.

  “Dowse away, Master Goldman,” sneered Caleb Brown. Samona reached into the .heavy cloth bag she had slung across her shoulders. Amer had found her a good sturdy branch of the hazel tree, one that made an almost perfect Y. He’d peeled the bark so that the branch gleamed white. The rod was heavier than it looked, the core being hollowed out, filled with quicksilver, and plugged up again.

  She licked her lips and took a breath. Yes, she did all right when dowsing for wells—often Amer took her along to verify his own work. But she’d never tried it for anything else. . . . “I’ll take another of the captain’s silver buttons in hand,” she said, “to help me concentrate my Talent on the invisibles. And Captain Baldridge, you must step away, please. The many silver buttons still on your coat may prove too attractive.”

  She waited while King James plucked another button, the captain then going to stand on the poop deck. Once Samona had the silver button, she held the two branches of the rod with the tail of the Y pointing up. A silence fell on deck. Samona cast about, turning in a complete circle, and watching the hazel branch all the while.

  Suddenly the rod gave a quiver. Samona let out her breath.

  She continued to turn slowly. She found that even before the divining rod twitched, she felt a shiver of something run up her arms. Caleb Brown leaned against the cathead wall, continuing to grin sardonically at her efforts. For some reason, Samona’s eyes kept being drawn to that long face, that mass of red hair. And when she felt the tiny tickle on her palms as she faced him, she knew there was a reason.

  Without saying another word, she walked purposefully toward him. His smile fell away as the rod bucked in her hand, seeming to flip upside down. Then it flipped back up for all the world like a rearing horse. Samona put the rod to one hand and reached the other hand up to Brown’s frizzy ponytail. Sure enough, she felt a pellet of something wedged in his hair. She pulled it out and held it up for all to view.

  “As nimble a trick as ever I saw,” breathed Churcher.

  He took the button and handed it back to the captain. “I’d say we found ourselves a good little dowser. One-twentieth part will be your share, Master Goldman, same as I offered your sister’s husband.”

  “Aye, then, we’ll take the lad aboard,” said the captain. “And none too soon, for the tide’s up.”

  Samona sighed and relaxed, accepting the congratulatory claps on her back with what she hoped was masculine aplomb. A woman ripe for adventure, she told herself again. Yes, indeed!

  That night, in the bunk they’d given her with the other men in the forecastle, shivering in the chill though she was still fully-dressed, hearing the snores and smelling the rumbullion on their breath, she curled protectively around her belly and said it to herself again. Ripe for adventure. Ripe for adventure.

  * * *

  “ . . . because the brother of my mother was a bokor,” said King James to Samona. “So it run in my blood, that I be a priest of the voudan religion.” They were taking their ease on deck. In the three days of voyaging along the coast toward the mouth of the Delaware, Samona and King James had spent many hours together.

  “My friend Amer told me you have a strange religion in the West Indies, one where blood is scattered across pictures in the sand,” she said.

  King James nodded his big head. “Yes, we feed the spirit ancestors, the deities—what we call loas—with dried food and rum. Sometimes we kill a chicken or goat for them too. Only the faithful can invoke the loa. We call on them for protection, for healing, for learning the future.”

  “Hmmm.” Samona resisted the urge to shiver. “Aren’t you protected by that little bag you wear?”

  “Oh, yes,” King James pulled the leather thong from around his neck. “The ouanga bag has powerful things in it, things to ward off accidents and disease.”

  Samona looked out across the water. “Maybe your ‘wangu’ bag will help us find the treasure,” she said. She turned back when she heard King James sigh.

  “We got a duppy there,” she heard him mutter, wondering what that was. Then he looked up and met her eyes. “Not everything a bokor does is for good. Sometimes . . . sometimes we got to make a scary thing, a bad spell. There is ways to do that, too. You got your cunning man powers. You take care to make a protection for you, whatever you do. You understand my words? Make a protection for you.”

  “Jimbo, get below deck and rest up for tonight,” said Caleb Brown, suddenly appearing before them. “Freddy will act as sailing master and bring us to a safe anchorage on our inlet under cover of dark.” At Samona’s quizzical look, he explained. “ ’Twouldn’t do to allow the scavengers to see us too close now, would it?”

  After the bokor and Brown had left, Captain Baldridge walked up to Samona. “Terrible thing, that. The trading for those of our own species can never be agreeable to the eyes of Divine Justice, says I. To sell men like beasts is an unholy thing.”

  “What are you saying? King James is a slave?” Samona asked, aghast.

  “Aye, the property of that Master Brown. Ah well,” said the captain. “We’ll be running to ground around dusk, and your party is to go ashore a few hours later. Good luck with your hunt. I do admit a one-fifth interest makes my good wishes all the more warm.”

  Samona nodded as he walked off. She added it up in her head: one-fifth for the captain, one-fifth for the king, one-twentieth for her. That left a little over half for the three partners to share. They must be expecting a great windfall, thought Samona.

  She was dozing in her bunk when she felt a hand on her shoulder. King James’s deep voice urged her to get up. As she sat a moment yawning, he opened his ouanga bag, removed something, and handed it to her. She held it up in the lantern light.

  “What’s this?” It was a smooth cabochon stone, almost black in the dim light.

  “It’s a bloodstone, for protection,” King lames whispered.

  “I think maybe it will drive away the duppy—”

  “Hurry yourselves,” called Markham from nearby.

  A short while later, as she sat in the jolly-boat and stowed the shovels and pickaxes being handed to her, Samona felt the sweat begin to trickle down her back even though the night was chill. Finding the silver button may have been a fluke, she thought. What if nothing happens once we get to shore?

  Samona, King James, Markham
, and Brown were already in the boat. The river around them was marshy and dark. When Churcher slid down beside them, he looked at Caleb Brown and tapped his finger alongside his nose. Brown nodded, grinning in that leering way he had. Samona fingered the smooth bloodstone in her pocket.

  “Away we go, gentlemen,” said Markham, as if setting off for a holiday.

  They were soon aground on the swampy shore, the boat scudding to a stop in two feet of water. They disembarked, and loaded with their lanterns and tools and ropes, they tramped on up past the low bluffs, through the willows and stunted pine trees. Brown called everyone to a halt. “Take this in your hand and be testing your powers on it, Master Goldman,” he said. He handed Samona a piece of eight, its silver edges roughly cut.

  “Is this one similar to the coins we’ll find in the treasure pot?” she asked. She blinked as the three partners guffawed in a coarse way.

  “Similar, no,” said Brown. “It’s from the exact same lot that was buried, so it should be a good marker for ye. We’ll let you take the lead now. Best ye take out your dowsing rod.”

  As Samona began to draw the hazel branch from beneath her coat, Markham held his lantern high and watched her face. “And once you’ve located the thing, don’t go a-rushing right up to it,” he told her. “That’s why we brought Jimbo along. He’s got him a pocket full of his voodoo nails, so he can drive a magic circle in the ground around it, keep the treasure from trying to escape.”

  “Have—have you done this before?” asked Samona. She was thinking how safe the Fortunate Osgood suddenly seemed.

  “Well, we can say this,” said Caleb Brown. “Third time’s the charm, isn’t it, boys?” The three men began to laugh. Samona saw King James staring at her with dark, sad eyes.