Alvin Journeyman: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume IV (35 page)

Alvin knew that this was more a question than a statement. “They walked right by Arthur Stuart that night,” said Alvin.

“We are going to bring a group of Slave Finders from Wheelwright to see if they can pick Arthur Stuart from a group of boys about his age,” said Verily. “Their faces and hands will be hidden, of course.”

“Make sure,” said Alvin, “to get a couple of Mock Berry’s boys in the group, along with whatever White boys you settle on. I reckon those as spends their whole lives looking for Black folks might have some ways of spotting which is which, even if they got gloves on and bags over their heads.”

“Mock Berry?” asked the judge.

“He’s a Black fellow,” explained Marty. “Free Black, mind you. Him and Anga his wife, they’ve got a passle of young folks in a cabin in the woods not far from the roadhouse.”

“Well, that’s a good idea, to have some Black boys in the mix,” said the judge. “And maybe I’ll see to a few others things to make things stay fair.” He reached out to the plow, which Alvin still held in his hands. “Mind if I touch it one more time?”

He did; the plow trembled under his hand.

“If the jury should decide that this is truly Makepeace Smith’s gold,” said the judge, “I wonder how he’s going to get it home?”

“Your Honor,” Marty protested.

The judge glared at him. “Don’t you even for a
moment
imagine that I’m going to be anything but completely fair and impartial in the conduct of this trial.”

Marty shook his head and held out his hands as if to ward off the very
thought
of impartiality.

“Besides,” said the judge. “You saw what you saw, too. You going to turn the trial over to Mr. Webster, now that you seen it move and shine and whatnot?”

Marty shook his head. “The point at issue is whether Alvin Smith made the plow with gold that belonged to Makepeace. What the plow is like, its other properties—I don’t see but what that’s completely irrelevant.”

“Exactly,” said the judge. “All we needed to verify right now is that it exists, it’s gold, and it should remain in Alvin’s custody while Alvin remains in the custody of the sheriff. I think we’ve determined all three points to everyone’s satisfaction. Right, gentlemen?”

“Right,” said Marty.

Verily smiled.

Alvin put the plow back in the burlap bag.

As they left the cell, the judge carefully closed the door until the latch clicked. Then he tried to open it and couldn’t. “Well, I’m glad to see the jail is secure.” He didn’t grin when he said it. He didn’t have to.

Po Doggly looked beside himself with curiosity as they emerged from the jail into the outer office. In moments he was inside the jail, looking through bars at Alvin, hoping to catch a glint of gold.

“Sorry, Sheriff,” said Alvin. “All put away.”

“You got no sense of sport, Alvin,” said Doggly. “You couldn’t even leave the top open a little bit?”

“I won’t mind a bit if you’re one of the eight,” said Alvin. “Let’s see what happens.”

“Not a bad idea,” said Doggly. “And thank you for not minding. I won’t do that, though. Better to use eight ordinary citizens, instead of a public official. I’m just curious, you know. Never saw that much gold in all my life, and I’d like to be able to tell my grandchildren.”

“So would I,” said Alvin. And then: “Sheriff Doggly, Peggy Larner wouldn’t still be out there, would she?”

“No. Sorry, Al. She’s gone. Reckon she went on home to say howdy to her pa.”

“Reckon so,” said Alvin. “No matter.”

Arthur Stuart would never have called himself a spy. He couldn’t help it that he was short. He couldn’t help it that his skin was dark and that, being shy, he tended to stand in shadows and hold very, very still so people overlooked him quite easily. He wasn’t aware that some of the greensong from his long journeys with Alvin still lingered with him, a melody in the back of his mind, so that his step was unusually quiet, twigs tended to bend out of his way, and boards didn’t often squeak under his step.

But when it came to his visit to Vilate’s house, well, it wasn’t no accident she didn’t see him. In fact, he made it a point not to step on the porch of the post office, so he couldn’t very well walk through the front door and make the bell ring. Nor, when he got around to the back of Vilate Franker’s house, did he knock on her back door or ask her permission before climbing up on her rain barrel and leaning over to look through her window into her kitchen, where the teapot simmered on the stove and Vilate sat drinking tea and carrying on quite a lively conversation with . . .

With a salamander.

Not a lizard—even from the window, Arthur Stuart could see there were no scales. Besides, you didn’t have to be some kind of genius to know a salamander from a lizard at five paces. Arthur Stuart was a boy, and boys tended to know such things. Moreover, Arthur Stuart had been an unusually solitary and
inquisitive boy, and he had a way with animals, so even if some other boy might make a mistake, Arthur Stuart never would. It was a salamander.

Vilate would say something, and then sip her tea, glancing up from the cup now and then to nod or murmur something—“Mm-hm”; “I know”; “Isn’t it just awful?”—as if the salamander was saying something.

But the salamander didn’t say nothing. Didn’t even look at her, most of the time, though truth to tell you never quite knew for sure what a salamander was looking at, because if one eye was looking there, the other might be looking here and how would you know? Still and all, Arthur was pretty sure it looked right at him. Knew he was there. But didn’t seem to get alarmed or nothing, so Arthur just kept on looking and listening.

“A man shouldn’t trifle with a lady’s affections,” she was saying. “Once a man goes down that road, the lady has a right to protect herself as best she can.”

Another sip. Another nod.

“Oh, I know. And the worst of it is, people are going to think so badly of me. But everyone knows that Alvin Smith has hidden powers. Of course I couldn’t help myself.”

Another sip. And then, abruptly, tears streamed out of her eyes.

“Oh, my dear, dear soul, my friend, my beloved trusted friend, how can I do this? I really do care for the boy. I really do care for him. Why oh why couldn’t he have loved me? Why did he have to spurn me and make me do this?”

And so it went. Arthur wasn’t no dummy. He knew right off that Vilate Franker was planning some kind of devilment against Alvin, and he sort of hoped she might mention what it was, though that wasn’t too likely, since all she talked about was how bad she felt and how she hated to do it but it was a lady’s right to defend her honor even though it might involve giving the appearance of having
no
honor but that’s why it was so good having such a good, true, wonderful
friend.

Ah, the tears that flowed. Ah, the sighs. Ah, the quart of
tea she consumed while Arthur leaned on the sill, watching, listening.

Oddly, though, as soon as the tears were done, her face just went clean. Not a streak. Not a trace of redness around the eyes. Not a sign that she had even shed a tear.

The tea eventually took its toll. Vilate slid her chair back and rose to her feet. Arthur knew where the privy was; he immediately jumped from the rain barrel and ran around the front of the house before the door even opened leading out to the back. Then, knowing she couldn’t possibly hear the bell, he opened the post office door, went inside, clambered over the counter, and made his way into the kitchen from the front of the house. There was the salamander, licking a bit of tea that had spilled from the saucer. As Arthur entered, the salamander lifted its head. Then it scurried back and forth, making a shape on the table. One triangle. Another triangle crossing it.

A hex.

Arthur moved to the chair where Vilate had been sitting. Standing, his head was just about at the height her head was at when she was seated. And as he leaned over her chair, the salamander changed.

No, not really. No, the salamander disappeared. Instead, a woman was sitting in the chair across from him.

“You’re an evil little boy,” the woman said with a sad smile.

Arthur hardly even noticed what she said. Because he knew her. It was Old Peg Guester. The woman he called Mother. The woman who was buried under a certain stone marker on the hill behind the roadhouse, near his real mother, the runaway slave girl he never met. Old Peg was there.

But it wasn’t Old Peg. It was the salamander.

“And you imagine things, you nasty boy. You make up stories.”

Old Peg used to call him her “nasty boy,” but it was a tease. It was when he repeated something someone else had said. She would laugh and call him nasty boy and give him a hug and tell him not to repeat
that
remark to anyone.

But this woman, this pretend Old Peg, she meant it. She thought he was a nasty boy.

He moved away from the chair. The salamander was back on the table and Old Peg was gone. Arthur knelt by the table to look at the salamander at eye level. It stared into his eyes. Arthur stared back.

He used to do this for hours with animals in the forest. When he was very little, he understood them. He came away with their story in his mind. Gradually that ability faded. Now he caught only glimmers. But then, he didn’t spend as much time with animals anymore. Maybe if he tried hard enough . . .

“Don’t forget me, salamander,” he whispered. “I want to know your story. I want to know who taught you how to make them hexes on the table.”

He reached out a hand, then slowly let a single finger come to rest on the salamander’s head. It didn’t recoil from him; it didn’t move even when his finger made contact. It just looked at him.

“What are you doing indoors?” he whispered. “You don’t like it indoors. You want to be outside. Near the water. In the mud. In the leaves. With bugs.”

It was the kind of thing Alvin did, murmuring to animals, suggesting things to them.

“I can take you back to the mud if you want. Come with me, if you want. Come with me, if you can.”

The salamander raised a foreleg, then slowly set it down. One step closer to Arthur.

And from the salamander he thought he felt a hunger, a desire for food, but more than that, a desire for. . . for freedom. The salamander didn’t like being a prisoner.

The door opened.

“Why, Arthur Stuart,” said Vilate. “Imagine you coming to visit.”

Arthur had sense enough not to jump to his feet as if he was doing something wrong. “Any letters for Alvin?” he asked.

“Not a one.”

Arthur didn’t even mention the salamander, which was just as well, because Vilate never even looked at it. You’d think that if a lady was caught with a live salamander—or even a dead one, for that matter—on her kitchen table, she’d at least offer some explanation.

“Want some tea?” she asked.

“Can’t stay,” said Arthur.

“Oh, next time then. Give Alvin my love.” Her smile was sweet and beautiful.

Arthur reached out his hand, right in front of her, and touched the salamander’s back.

She didn’t notice. Or at least she gave no sign of noticing.

He moved away, backed out of the room, hopped the counter, and ran out the front door, hearing the bell ring behind him as he went.

If the salamander was a prisoner, who had captured it? Not Vilate—the salamander was making hexes to fool her into seeing somebody there. Though Arthur was willing to bet that it wasn’t Old Peg Guester that Vilate saw. But the salamander wasn’t fooling her out of its own free will, because all it wanted was to be free to go back to being an ordinary salamander again.

He’d have to tell Alvin about this, that was sure. Vilate was planning to do something rotten to him, and the salamander that walked out hexes on the kitchen table, it had something to do with the plot.

How could Vilate be so stupid that she didn’t even see me touching her salamander? Why didn’t she get upset when she saw me in the kitchen when she got back from the privy?

Maybe she wanted me to see the salamander. Or maybe someone else wanted me to see it.

Wanted me to see Mother.

For a moment, walking along the dusty main street of Hatrack River, he lost control of himself, almost let himself cry thinking about Mother, thinking about seeing her sitting across from him.

It wasn’t real, he told himself. It was all fakery. Humbug. Hoaxification. Whoever was behind all this was a liar, and a mean liar at that. Nasty boy indeed. Evil boy. He wasn’t no evil boy. He was a good boy and the real Peg Guester would know that, she wouldn’t say nothing like that to him. The real Peg Guester would hug him up tight and say, “My good boy, Arthur Stuart, you are my own good boy.”

He walked it off. He walked the tears right out of his eyes, and when the sad feelings went away, another feeling came in its place. He was plain mad. Got no right making him see Mama. Got no right. I hate you, whoever you are, making me see my Mama calling me names like that.

He trotted up the stairs into the courthouse. The only good thing about Alvin being in jail was that Arthur Stuart always knew where he was.

It was hard for Napoleon to believe that he had once come
this
close to killing the American boy Calvin. Hard to remember how frightened he had been to see the boy’s power. How for the first few days, Napoleon had watched him closely, had hardly slept for fear that the boy would do something to him in the night. Remove his legs, for instance. That would be a cure for the gout! It only occurred to him because of the number of times he had wished, in the throes of agony, that in one of his battles a cannonball had severed his leg. Stumping around on sticks couldn’t be worse than this. And the boy brought such relief. Not a cure . . . but a cessation of the pain.

In exchange for that, Napoleon was content to let Calvin manipulate him. He knew who was really in control, and it wasn’t an upstart, ignorant American boy. Who cared if Calvin thought he was clever, doling out a day’s relief from pain in exchange for another lesson on how to govern men? Did he really imagine Napoleon would teach him anything that would give him the upper hand? On the contrary, with every hour, every day they spent together, Napoleon’s control over a boy
who
could
have been uncontrollable grew stronger, deeper. And Calvin had no idea.