“That’s plain crazy. Why save him, then?”
“How else do you figure they made it so we can’t see him, then?”
“He’s in the roadhouse. They got some hex that hides him up,
I’ll bet. Once we open the right door there, we’ll see him and that’ll be that.”
For a fleeting moment the black-haired Finder thought-well, why not look in this teacher lady’s cottage, too, if they got a hex like that? Why not open
this
door?
But he no sooner had that thought than it just slipped away so he couldn’t remember it, couldn’t even remember
having
a thought. He just trotted away after the white-haired Finder. Mixup boy’s bound to be in the roadhouse, that’s for sure.
She saw their heartfires, of course, as the Finders came toward her cottage, but Peggy wasn’t afraid. She had explored Arthur Stuart’s heartfire all this time, and there was no path there which led to capture by these Finders. Arthur had dangers enough in the future—Peggy could see that—but no harm would come to the boy tonight. So she paid them little heed. She knew when they decided to leave: knew when the black-haired Finder thought of coming in; knew when the hexes blocked him and drove him away. But it was Arthur Stuart she was watching, searching out the years to come.
Then, suddenly, she couldn’t hold it to herself any longer. She had to tell Alvin, both the joy and sorrow of what he had done. Yet how could she? How could she tell him that Miss Larner was really a torch who could see the million newborn futures in Arthur Stuart’s heartfire? It was unbearable to keep all this to herself. She might have told Mistress Modesty, years ago, when she lived there and kept no secrets.
It was madness to go down to the smithy, knowing that her desire was to tell him things she couldn’t tell without revealing who she was. Yet it would surely drive her mad to stay within these walls, alone with all this knowledge that she couldn’t share.
So she got up, unlocked the door, and stepped outside. No one around. She closed the door and locked it; then again looked into Arthur’s heartfire and again found no danger for the boy. He would be safe. She would see Alvin.
Only then did she look into Alvin’s heartfire; only then did she see the terrible pain that he had suffered only minutes ago. Why
hadn’t she noticed? Why hadn’t she seen? Alvin had just passed through the greatest threshold of his life; he had truly done a great Making, brought something new into the world, and she hadn’t seen. When he faced the Unmaker while she was in far-off Dekane, she had seen his struggle-now, when she wasn’t three rods off, why hadn’t she turned to him? Why hadn’t she known his pain when he writhed inside the fire?
Maybe it was the springhouse. Once before, near nineteen years ago, the day that Alvin was born, the springhouse had damped her gift and lulled her to sleep till she was almost too late. But no, it couldn’t be that—the water didn’t run through the springhouse anymore, and the forgefire was stronger than that.
Maybe it was the Unmaker itself, come to block her. But as she cast about with her torchy sight, she couldn’t see any unusual darkness amid the colors of the world around her, not close at hand, anyway. Nothing that could have blinded her.
No, it had to be the nature of what Alvin himself was doing that blinded her to it. Just as she hadn’t seen how he would extricate himself from his confrontation with the Unmaker years ago, just as she hadn’t seen how he would change young Arthur at the Hio shore tonight, it was just the same way she hadn’t seen what he was doing in the forge. It was outside the futures that her knack could see, the particular Making he performed tonight.
Would it always be like that? Would she always be blinded when his most important work was being done? It made her angry, it frightened her—what good is my knack, if it deserts me just when I need it most!
No. I didn’t need it most just now. Alvin had no need of me or my sight when he climbed into the fire. My knack has never deserted me when it was
needed
. It’s only my desire that’s thwarted.
Well, he needs me now, she thought. She picked her way carefully down the slope; the moon was low, the shadows deep, so the path was treacherous. When she rounded the corner of the smithy, the light from the forgefire, spilling out onto the grass, was almost blinding; it was so red that it made the grass look shiny black, not green.
Inside the smithy Alvin lay curled on the ground, facing toward the forge, away from her. He was breathing heavily, raggedly. Asleep? No. He was naked; it took a moment to realize that his clothing must have burned off him in the forge. He hadn’t noticed it in all his pain, and so had no memory of it; therefore she hadn’t seen it happen when she searched for memories in his heartfire.
His skin was shockingly pale and smooth. Earlier today she had seen his skin a deep brown from the sun and the forgefire’s heat. Earlier today he had been callused, with here and there a scar from some spark or searing burn, the normal accidents of life beside a fire. Now, though, his skin was as unmarked as a baby’s, and she could not help herself; she stepped into the smithy, knelt beside him, and gently brushed her hand along his back, from his shoulder down to the narrow place above the hip. His skin was so soft it made her own hands feel coarse to her, as if she marred him just by touching him.
He let out a long breath, a sigh. She withdrew her hand.
“Alvin,” she said. “Are you all right?”
He moved his arm; he was stroking something that lay within the curl of his body. Only now did she see it, a faint yellow in the double shadow of his body and of the forge. A golden plow.
“It’s alive,” he murmured.
As if in answer, she saw it move smoothly under his hand.
Of course they didn’t knock. At this time of night? They would know at once it couldn’t be some chance traveler—it could only be the Finders. Knocking at the door would warn them, give them a chance to try to carry the boy farther off.
But the black-haired Finder didn’t so much as try the latch. He just let fly with his foot and the door crashed inward, pulling away from the upper hinge as it did. Then, shotgun at the ready, he moved quickly inside and looked around the common room. The fire there was dying down, so the light was scant, but they could see that there was no one there.
“I’ll keep watch on the stairs,” said the white-haired Finder. “You go out the back to see if anybody’s trying to get out that way.”
The black-haired Finder immediately made his way past the kitchen and the stairs to the back door, which he flung open. The white-haired Finder was halfway up the stairs before the back door closed again.
In the kitchen, Old Peg crawled out from under the table. Neither one had so much as paused at the kitchen door. She didn’t know who they were, of course, but she hoped—hoped it was the Finders, sneaking back here because somehow, by some miracle, Arthur Stuart got away and they didn’t know where he was. She slipped off her shoes and walked as quietly as she could from the kitchen to the common room, where Horace kept a loaded shotgun over the fireplace. She reached up and took it down, but in the process she knocked over a tin teakettle that someone had left warming by the fire earlier in the evening. The kettle clattered; hot water spilled over her bare feet; she gasped in spite of herself.
Immediately she could hear footsteps on the stairs. She ignored the pain and ran to the foot of the stairs, just in time to see the white-haired Finder coming down. He had a shotgun pointed straight at her. Even though she’d never fired a gun at a human being in her life, she didn’t hesitate a moment. She pulled the trigger; the gun kicked back against her belly, driving the breath out of her and slamming her against the wall beside the kitchen door. She hardly noticed. All she saw was how the white-haired Finder stood there, his face suddenly relaxing till it looked as stupid as a cow’s face. Then red blossoms appeared all over his shirt, and he toppled over backward.
You’ll never steal another child away from his mama, thought Old Peg. You’ll never drag another Black into a life of bowing under the whip. I killed you, Finder, and I think the good Lord rejoices. But even if I go to hell for it, I’m glad.
She was so intent on watching him that she didn’t even notice that the door out back stood open, held in place by the barrel of the black-haired Finder’s gun, pointed right at her.
Alvin was so intent on telling Peggy what he had done that he hardly noticed he was naked. She handed him the leather apron
hanging from a peg on the wall, and he put it on by habit, without a thought. She hardly heard his words; all that he was telling her, she already knew from looking in his heartfire. Instead she was looking at him, thinking, Now he’s a Maker, in part because of what I taught him. Maybe I’m finished now, maybe my life will be my own—but maybe not, maybe now I’ve just begun, maybe now I can treat him as a man, not as a pupil or a ward. He seemed to glow with an inner fire; and every step he took, the golden plow echoed, not by following him or tangling itself in his feet, but by slipping along on a line that could have been an orbit around him, well out of the way but close enough to be of use; as if it were a part of him, though unattached.
“I know,” Peggy told him. “I understand. You are a Maker now.”
“It’s more than that!” he cried. “It’s the Crystal City. I know how to build it now. Miss Larner. See, the city ain’t the crystal towers that I saw, the city’s the people inside it, and if I’m going to build the place I got to find the kind of folks who ought to be there, folks as true and loyal as this plow, folks who share the dream enough to want to build it, and keep on building it even if I’m not there. You see, Miss Larner? The Crystal City isn’t a thing that a single Maker can make. It’s a city of Makers; I got to find all kinds of folks and somehow make Makers out of them.”
She knew as he said it that this was indeed the task that he was born for—and the labor that would break his heart. “Yes,” she said. “That’s true, I know it is.” And in spite of herself, she couldn’t sound like Miss Larner, calm and cool and distant. She sounded like herself, like her true feelings. She was burning up inside with the fire that Alvin lit there.
“Come with me, Miss Larner,” said Alvin. “You know so much, and you’re such a good teacher—I need your help.”
No, Alvin, not those words. I’ll come with you for those words, yes, but say the other words, the ones I need so much to hear. “How can I teach what only you know how to do?” she asked him—trying to sound quiet, calm.
“But it ain’t just for the teaching, either—I can’t do this alone.
What I done tonight, it’s so hard—I need to have you with me.” He took a step toward her. The golden plow slipped across the floor toward her, behind her; if it marked the outer border of Alvin’s largest self, then she was now well within that generous circle.
“What do you need me for?” asked Peggy. She refused to look within his heartfire, refused to see whether or not there was any chance that he might actually—no, she refused even to name to herself what it was she wanted now, for fear that somehow she’d discover that it couldn’t possibly be so, that it could never happen, that somehow tonight all such paths had been irrevocably closed. Indeed, she realized, that was part of why she had been so caught up in exploring Arthur Stuart’s new futures; he would be so close to Alvin that she could see much of Alvin’s great and terrible future through Arthur’s eyes, without ever having to know what she would know if she looked into Alvin’s own heartfire: Alvin’s heartfire would show her whether, in his many futures, there were any in which he loved her, and married her, and put that dear and perfect body into her arms to give her and get from her that gift that only lovers share.
“Come with me,” he said. “I can’t even think of going on out there without you, Miss Larner. I—” He laughed at himself. “I don’t even know your first name, Miss Larner.”
“Margaret,” she said.
“Can I call you that? Margaret—will you come with me? I know you ain’t what you seem to be, but I don’t care what you look like under all that hexery. I feel like you’re the only living soul who knows me like I really am, and I—”
He just stood there, looking for the word. And she stood there, waiting to hear it.
“I love you,” he said. “Even though you think I’m just a boy.”
Maybe she would’ve answered him. Maybe she would’ve told him that she knew he was a man, and that she was the only woman who could love him without worshipping him, the only one who could actually be a helpmeet for him. But into the silence after his words and before she could speak, there came the sound of a gunshot.
At once she thought of Arthur Stuart, but it only took a moment to see that his heartfire was undisturbed; he lay asleep up in her little house. No, the sound came from farther off. She cast her torchy sight to the roadhouse, and there found the heartfire of a man in the last moment before death, and he was looking at a woman standing down at the foot of the stairs. It was Mother, holding a shotgun.
His heartfire dimmed, died. At once Peggy looked into her mother’s heartfire and saw, behind her thoughts and feelings and memories, a million paths of the future, all jumbling together, all changing before her eyes. all becoming one single path, which led to one single place. A flash of searing agony, and then nothing.