Alvin Journeyman: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume IV (20 page)

Then that last night, standing in the smithy with Miss Larner,
Alvin told her he loved her and asked her to marry him and she might have said yes, she had a look in her eyes that said yes, he thought. But at that very moment Old Peg Guester killed one Finder and got herself killed by the other. Only then did Alvin find out that Miss Larner was really Little Peggy, Peg’s and Horace’s long-lost daughter, the torch girl who saved Alvin’s life when he was a little baby. What a thing to find out about the woman you love, in the exact moment that you’re losing her forever.

But he wasn’t really thinking of losing Miss Larner then. All he could think of was Old Peg, gruff and sharp-tongued and loving old Peg, shot dead by a Slave Finder, and never mind that she shot one of them first, they was in her house without leave, trespassing, and even if the law gave them the right to be there, it was an evil law and they was evil to make their living by it and it didn’t none of it matter then, anyway, because Alvin was so angry he wasn’t thinking straight. Alvin found the one as killed Old Peg and snapped his neck with one hand, and then he beat his head against the ground until the skull inside the skin was all broke up like a pot in a meal sack.

When Alvin’s fury died, when the white-hot rage was gone, when deep justice stopped demanding the death of the killer of Old Peg, all that was left was the broken body in his arms, the blood on his apron, the memory of murder. Never mind that nobody in Hatrack River would ever call him a killer for what he done that night. In his own heart he knew that he had Unmade his own Making. For that moment he had been the Unmaker’s tool.

That dark memory was why none of the other memories could ever turn light in Alvin’s heart. And that’s why Alvin probably wouldn’t never have come back to Hatrack River, left to himself.

But he wasn’t left to himself, was he? He had Arthur Stuart with him, and to that little boy the town of Hatrack River was nothing but pure golden childhood. It was setting and watching Alvin work in the smithy, or even pumping the bellows sometimes.
It was listening to the redbird song and knowing the words. It was hearing all the gossip in the town and saying it back all clever so the grownups clapped their hands and laughed. It was being the champion speller of the whole town even though for some reason they wouldn’t let him into the school proper. And yes, sure, the woman he called Mother got herself killed, but Arthur didn’t see that with his own eyes, and anyway, he
had
to go back, didn’t he? Old Peg his adopted mother who killed a man to save him and died her own self, she lay buried on a hill behind the madhouse. And in a grave on the same hill lay Arthur’s true mother, a little Black slavegirl who used her secret African powers to make wings for herself so she could fly with the baby in her arms, she could fly all the way north to where her baby would be safe, even though she herself died from the journey. How could Arthur Stuart not return to that place?

Don’t go thinking that Arthur Stuart ever asked Alvin to go there. That wasn’t the way Arthur thought about things. He was going along with Alvin, not telling Alvin where to go. It was just that when they talked, Arthur kept going on about this or that memory from Hatrack River until Alvin reached his own conclusion. Alvin reckoned that it would make Arthur Stuart happy to go back to Hatrack River, and then it never crossed Alvin’s mind that his own sadness might outweigh Arthur’s happiness. He just up and left Irrakwa, where they happened to be that week in late August of 1820. Up and left that land of railroads and factories, coal and steel, barges and carriages and men on horseback going back and forth on urgent errands. Left that busy place and came through quiet woods and across whispering streams, down deer paths and along rutted roads until the land started looking familiar and Arthur Stuart said, “I’ve been here. I know this place.” And then, in wonder: “You brung me home, Alvin.”

They came from the northeast, passing the place where the railroad spur was fixing to pass near Hatrack River and cross the Hio into Appalachee. They came across the covered bridge
over the Hatrack that Alvin’s own father and brothers built, like a monument to their dead oldest brother Vigor, who got mashed by a tree carried on a storm flood while he was crossing the river. They came into town on the same road his family used. And, just like Alvin’s family, they passed the smithy and heard the ringing of hammer on iron on anvil.

“Ain’t that the smithy?” asked Arthur Stuart. “Let’s go see Makepeace and Gertie!”

“I don’t think so,” said Alvin. “In the first place, Gertie’s dead.”

“Oh, that’s right,” said the boy. “Blew out a blood vein screaming at Makepeace, didn’t she?”

“How’d you hear that?” asked Alvin. “You don’t miss much gossip, do you, boy?”

“I can’t help what people talk about when I’m right there,” said Arthur Stuart. And then, back to his original idea: “I reckon it wouldn’t be proper anyway, to visit Makepeace before seeing Papa.”

Alvin didn’t tell him that Horace Guester hated it when Arthur called him Papa. Folks got the wrong impression, like maybe Horace himself was the White half of that mixup boy, which wasn’t so at all but folks will talk. When Arthur got older, Alvin would explain to him that he ought to not call Horace Papa anymore. For now, though, Horace was a man and a man would have to bear the innocent offense of a well-meaning boy.

The roadhouse was twice as big as before. Horace had built on a new wing that doubled the front, with the porch continuing all along it. But that wasn’t hardly the only difference—the whole thing was faced with clapboards now, whitewashed and pretty as you could imagine against the deep green of the forest that still snuck as close to the house as it dared.

“Well, Horace done prettied up the place,” said Alvin.

“It don’t look like itself no more,” said Arthur Stuart.

“Anymore,” Alvin corrected him.

“If you can say ‘done prettied up’ then I can say ‘no more,’ ”
said Arthur Stuart. “Miss Larner ain’t here to correct us no more anyhow.”

“That should be ‘no more nohow,’ ” said Alvin, and they both laughed as they walked up onto the porch.

The door opened and a somewhat stout middle-aged woman stepped through it, almost running into them. She carried a basket under one arm and an umbrella under the other, though there wasn’t a sign of rain.

“Excuse me,” said Alvin. He saw that she was hedged about with hexes and charms. Not many years ago, he would have been fooled by them like any other man (though he would always have seen where the charms were and how the hexes worked). But he had learned to see past hexes of illusion, and that’s what these were. These days, seeing the truth came so natural to him that it took real effort to see the illusion. He made the effort, and was vaguely saddened to see that she was almost a caricature of feminine beauty. Couldn’t she have been more creative, more
interesting
than this? He judged at once that the real middle-aged woman, somewhat thick-waisted and hair salted with grey, was the more attractive of the two images. And it was a sure thing she was the more interesting.

She saw him staring at her, but no doubt she assumed it was her beauty that had him awed. She must have been used to men staring at her—it seemed to amuse her. She stared right back at him, but
not
looking for beauty in him, that was for sure.

“You were born here,” she said, “but I’ve never seen you before.” Then she looked at Arthur Stuart. “But you were born away south.”

Arthur nodded, made mute by shyness and by the overwhelming force of her declaration. She spoke as if her words were not only true, but superseded all other truth that had ever been thought of.

“He was born in Appalachee, Missus. . . .” In vain Alvin waited for her reply. Then he realized that he was supposed to
assume, seeing her young beautiful false image, that she was a Miss rather than a Missus.

“You’re bound for Carthage City,” said the woman, speaking to Alvin again, and rather coldly.

“I don’t think so,” said Alvin. “Nothing for me there.”

“Not yet, not yet,” she said. “But I know you now. You must be Alvin, that prentice boy old Makepeace is always going on about.”

“I’m a journeyman, ma’am. If Makepeace isn’t saying that part, I wonder how much of what he says
is
true.”

She smiled, but her eyes weren’t smiling. They were calculating. “Aha. I think there’s the makings of a good story in that. Just needs a bit of stirring.”

At once Alvin regretted having said so much to her. Why
had
he spoken up so boldly, anyway? He wasn’t a one to babble on to strangers, especially when he was more or less calling another fellow a liar. He didn’t want trouble with Makepeace, but now it looked pretty sure he was going to get it anyway. “I wish you’d tell me who you are, ma’am.”

It wasn’t
her
voice that answered. Horace Guester was in the doorway now. “She’s the postmistress of Hatrack River, on account of her uncle’s brother-in-law being the congressman from some district in Susquahenny and he had some pull with the president. We’re all hoping to find a candidate in the election this fall who’ll promise to throw her out so we can vote for him for president. Failing that, we’re going to have to up and hang her one of these days.”

The postmistress got a sort of half-smile on her face. “And to think Horace Guester’s knack is to make folks feel welcome!”

“What would the charge be, in the hanging?” asked Alvin.

“Criminal gossip,” said Horace Guester. “Rumor aforethought. Sniping with malice. Backbiting with intent to kill. Of course I mean all that in the nicest possible way.”

“I do no such thing,” said the postmistress. “And my name, since Horace hasn’t deigned to utter it yet, is Vilate Franker. My grandmother wasn’t much of a speller, so she named my
mother Violet but spelled it Vilate, and when my mother grew up she was so ashamed of grandmama’s illiteracy that she changed the pronunciation to rhyme with ‘plate.’ However, I am
not
ashamed of my grandmother, so I pronounce it ‘Violet,’ as in the delicate flower.”

“To rhyme,” said Horace, “with Pilate, as in Pontius the handwasher.”

“You sure talk a lot, ma’am,” said Arthur Stuart. He spoke in all innocence, simply observing the facts as he saw them, but Horace hooted and Vilate blushed and then, to Alvin’s shock, clicked with her tongue and opened her mouth wide, letting her upper row of teeth drop down onto the lower ones. False teeth! And such a horrible image—but neither Arthur nor Horace seemed to see what she had done. Behind her wall of illusion, she apparently thought she could get away with all kinds of ugly contemptuous gestures. Well, Alvin wasn’t going to disabuse her. Yet.

“Forgive the boy,” said Alvin. “He hasn’t learned when’s the right time to speak his mind.”

“He’s right,” she said. “Why shouldn’t he say so?” But she dropped her teeth at the boy again. “I find it irresistible to tell stories,” she went on. “Even when I know my listeners don’t care to hear them. It’s my worst vice. But there are worse ones—and I thank-the good Lord I don’t have
those
.”

“Oh, I like stories, too,” said Arthur Stuart. “Can I come listen to you talk some more?”

“Any time you like, my boy. Do you have a name?”

“Arthur Stuart.”

It was Vilate’s turn to hoot with laughter. “Any relation to the esteemed king down in Camelot?”

“I was named after him,” he said, “but far as I know we ain’t no kin.”

Horace spoke up again. “Vilate, you won yourself a convert cause the poor boy’s got no guile and less sense, but kindly stand aside of this door and let me welcome in this man who was born in my house and this boy who grew up in it.”

“There’s obviously parts of this story that I haven’t heard yet,” said Vilate, “but don’t trouble yourself on my account—I’m sure I’ll get a much fuller version from others than I would ever get from you. Good day, Horace! Good day, Alvin! Good day, my young kingling. Do come see me, but don’t bring me any of Horace’s cider, it’s sure to be poisoned if he knows it’s for me!” With that she bustled off the porch and out onto the hard-packed dirt of the road. Alvin saw the illusions dazzle and shimmer as she went. The hexes weren’t quite so perfect from the rear. He wondered if others ever saw through her when she was going away.

Horace watched her grimly as she walked up the road. “We pretend that we’re only pretending to hate each other, but in fact we really do. The woman’s evil, and I mean that serious. She has this knack of knowing where something or somebody’s from and where they’re bound to end up, but she uses that to piece together the nastiest sort of gossip and I swear she reads other people’s mail.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Alvin.

“That’s right, my boy, you ain’t been here for the past year and you
don’t
know. A lot of changes since you left.”

“Well, let me in, Mr. Guester, so I can set down and maybe eat some of today’s stew and have a drink of something—even poisoned cider sounds good about now.”

Horace laughed and embraced Alvin. “Have you been gone so long you forgot my name is Horace? Come in, come in. And you too, young Arthur Stuart. You’re always welcome here.”

To Alvin’s relief, Arthur Stuart said nothing at all, and so naturally among the things he didn’t say was “papa.”

They followed him inside and from then on till they laid down for naps in the best bedroom, they were in Horace’s hospitable care. He fed them, gave them hot water for washing their hands and feet and faces, took their dirty clothes for laundering, stuffed more food in them, and then personally tucked them into bed after making them watch him put clean
sheets on the bed “just so you
know
I still keep my dear Peg’s high standards of cleanliness even if I am just an old widower living alone.”

The mention of his late wife was all it took, though, to bring memory flooding back. Tears came into Arthur Stuart’s eyes. Horace at once began to apologize, but Alvin stilled him with a smile and a gesture. “He’ll be all right,” he said. “It’s coming home, and her not here. Those are good tears and right to shed them.”