Red Prophet: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume II (40 page)

It was the first time Alvin understood that something could be built out of people, that when Ta-Kumsaw talked them Reds into feeling with one heart and acting with one mind, they became something bigger than just a few people; and building something like that, it was against the Unmaker, wasn’t it? Just like Alvin always used to make little baskets by weaving grass. The grass was nothing but grass by itself, but all wove together it was something more than grass.

Ta-Kumsaw’s making something new where there wasn’t nothing, but the new thing won’t come to be without me.

That filled him with fear of helping make something he didn’t understand; but it also filled him with eagerness to see the future. So he pressed on, pushed forward, wore himself down, talked to Reds who started out suspicious and ended up filled with hate, and stared most of every day at the back of Ta-Kumsaw, running ahead of him ever deeper into the forest. The green of the wood turned gold and red, then black with the rains of autumn on the bare
trees, and finally grey and white and still. And all his worry, all his discouragement, all his confusion, all his grief for the terrible things he saw coming and the terrible things he’d seen in the past—all turned into a weary distaste for winter, an impatience for the season to change, for the snow to melt and spring to come, and then summer.

Summer, when he could look back and think of all this as the past. Summer, when he’d know pretty much how it all turned out, for good or ill, and not have this sickening snow-white dread in the back of his mind, masking all his other feelings the way snow masked the earth beneath it.

Until one day Alvin noticed that the air
was
somewhat warm, and the snow had slacked off the grass and dirt and was purely gone from the tree limbs, and there was a flash of red where a certain bird was getting itself ready to find him a wife and nestle in for egg season. And on that very day, Ta-Kumsaw turned eastward, up over a ridge of hills, and stood perched atop a rock looking down on a valley of White men’s farms in the northern part of the White man’s state of Appalachee.

It was a sight Alvin had never seen before in his life. Not like the French city of Detroit, people all packed in together, nor like the sparse settlements of the Wobbish country, with each farm carved out like a gouge in the greenwood forest. Here the trees were all disciplined, lined up in rows to mark off one farmer’s field from another. Only on the hills skirting the valley were the trees somewhat wild again. And as the ground softened today, there were farmers out cutting the earth open with their plows, just as gentle and shallow on the face of the earth as those Red warriors’ flint knives against their thighs, teaching the blade to thirst, teaching the earth to bear, so that like the blood that seeped upward under the Red men’s knives, the wheat or maize or rye or oats would seep upward, make a thin film of life across the skin of the earth, an open wound all summer until harvest blades made another kind of cut. Then the snow again, it would form like a scab, to heal the earth until the next year’s
injury. This whole valley was like that, broken like an old horse.

I shouldn’t feel like this, thought Alvin. I should be glad to see White lands again. There was curls of smoke from a hundred chimneys up and down the valley. There was folks there, children getting outside to play after being penned up the whole of winter, men sweating into the chilly air of early spring as they did their tasks, hard-working animals raising a steam from their nostrils and off their hot, heaving flanks. This was like home, wasn’t it? This was what Armor and Father and every other White man wanted to turn the Wobbish country into, wasn’t it? This was civilization, one household butting up into the next one, all elbows jostling, all the land parceled out till nobody had no doubt at all who owned every inch of it, who had the right to use it and who was trespassing and better move along.

But after this year of being with Reds practically every minute and hardly seeing a White man except for Measure, for a while, and Taleswapper for a day or two, why, Alvin didn’t see that valley with White eyes. He saw it like a Red man, and so to Alvin it looked like the end of the world.

“What’re we doing here?” Alvin asked Ta-Kumsaw.

In answer, Ta-Kumsaw just walked right down from the mountain and on into the White man’s valley, just like he had a right. Alvin couldn’t figure, but he followed tight.

To Alvin’s surprise, as they traipsed right through a field half-plowed, the farmer didn’t so much as yell at them to mind the furrows, he just looked up, squinted at them, and then waved. “Howdy, Ike!” he called.

Ike?

And Ta-Kumsaw raised his hand in greeting and walked on.

Alvin like to laughed out loud. Ta-Kumsaw, being known to civilized farmers in a place like this, known so well that a White man could tell who he was at such a distance! Ta-Kumsaw, the most ferocious hater of Whites in all the woodland, being called by a White man’s name?

But Alvin knew better than to ask for explanation. He
just followed close behind till Ta-Kumsaw finally came to where he was going.

It looked to be a house like any other house, maybe a speck older. Big, anyway, and added onto in a jumbly way. Maybe that corner of the house was the original cabin, with a stone foundation, and then they added that wing onto it bigger than the log house, so the cabin no doubt got turned into a kitchen, and then another wing across the front of the cabin, only this time two stories high, with an attic, and then an add-on in the back of the cabin, right across the roof of it, keeping the gable shape and framing it with shaped timbers, which were whitewashed clean enough once, but now were peeling off the paint and showing grey wood through. The whole history of this valley in that house—desperately just throwing up enough of a cabin to keep rain off between battling the forest; then a measure of peace to add a room or two for comfort; then some prosperity, and more children, and a need to put a grand two-story face on things, and finally three generations in that house, and building not for pride but just for space, just for rooms to put folks into.

Such a house it was, a house that held the whole story of the White man’s victorious war against the land in its shape.

And up walks Ta-Kumsaw to a small and shabby-looking door in the back, and he doesn’t so much as knock, he just opens the door and goes inside.

Well, Alvin saw that, and for the first time he didn’t know what to do. By habit he wanted to follow Ta-Kumsaw right into the house, the way he’d followed him into a hundred mud-daubed Red man’s huts. But by even older habit he knew you don’t just walk right into a house like
this
, with a proper door and all. You go round to the front and knock polite, and wait for folks to invite you in.

So Alvin stood at the back door, which Ta-Kumsaw of course didn’t even bother to close, watching the first flies of spring wander into the hallway. He could almost hear his mother yelling about people leaving doors open so the flies would come in and drive everybody crazy all night, buzzing when folks are trying to sleep. And so Alvin,
thinking that way, did what Ma always had them do: he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

But he dared go no farther into the house than that back hall, with some heavy coats on pegs and dirt-crusted boots in a jumble by the door. It felt too strange to move. He’d been hearing the greensong of the forest for so many months that it was deafening, the silence when it was near gone, near completely killed by the cacophony of the jammering life on a White man’s farm in spring.

“Isaac,” said a woman’s voice.

One of the White noises stopped. Only then did Alvin realize that it had been an actual noise he was hearing with his ears, not the life-noises he heard with his Red senses. He tried to remember what it was. A rhythm, and banging, regular rhythm like—like a loom. It was a loom he’d been hearing. Ta-Kumsaw must’ve just walked hisself right into the room where some woman was weaving. Only he wasn’t no stranger here, she knew him by the same name as that farmer fellow out in the fields. Isaac.

“Isaac,” she said again, whoever she was.

“Becca,” said Ta-Kumsaw.

A simple name, no reason for Alvin’s heart to start a-pounding. But the
way
Ta-Kumsaw said it, the way he spoke—it was such a tone of voice that was meant to make hearts pound. And more: Ta-Kumsaw spoke it, not with the strange-twisted vowels of Red men talking English, but with as true an accent as if he was from England. Why, he sounded more like Reverend Thrower than Alvin would have thought possible.

No, no, it wasn’t Ta-Kumsaw at all, it was another man, a White man in the same room with the White woman, that’s all. And Alvin walked softly down the hall to find where the voices were, to see the White man whose presence would explain all.

Instead he stood in an open door and looked into a room where Ta-Kumsaw stood holding a White woman by her shoulders, looking down into her face, and her looking up into his. Saying not a word, just looking at each other. Not a White man in the room.

“My people are gathering at the Hio,” said Ta-Kumsaw, in his strange English-sounding voice.

“I know,” said the woman. “It’s already in the fabric.” Then she turned to look at Alvin in the doorway. “And you didn’t come alone.”

Alvin never saw eyes like hers before. He was still too young to hanker after women like he remembered Wastenot and Wantnot doing when they both hit fourteen at a gallop. So it wasn’t any kind of man-wishing-for-a-woman feeling that he had, looking at her eyes. He just looked into them like he sometimes looked into a fire, watching the flames dance, not asking for them to make sense, just watching the sheer randomness of it. That was what her eyes were like, as if those eyes had seen a hundred thousand things happen, and they were all still swirling around inside those eyes, and no one had ever bothered or maybe even known how to get those visions out and make sensible stories out of them.

And Alvin feared mightily that she had some power of witchery that she used to turn Ta-Kumsaw into a White man.

“My name is Becca,” said the woman.

“His name is Alvin,” said Ta-Kumsaw; or rather, said Isaac, for it sure didn’t sound like Ta-Kumsaw anymore. “He’s a miller’s son from the Wobbish country.”

“He’s that thread I saw running through the fabric out of place.” She smiled at Alvin. “Come here,” she said. “I want to see the legendary Boy Renegado.”

“Who’s that?” asked Alvin. “The Boy Rainy God—”

“Renegado. There are stories all through Appalachee, don’t you know that? About Ta-Kumsaw, who appears one day in the Osh-Kontsy country and the next day in a village on the banks of the Yazoo, stirring up Reds to do massacre and torture. And always with him is a White boy who urges the Reds to be ever more brutal, who teaches them the secret methods of torture that used to be practiced by the Papist Inquisitions in Spain and Italy.”

“That ain’t so,” said Alvin.

She smiled. The flames of her eyes danced.

“They must hate me,” said Alvin. “I don’t even know what a Inky-zitchum is.”

“Inquisition,” said Isaac.

Alvin felt a sick dread in his heart. If folks were telling such tales about him, why, folks would regard him as a criminal, a monster, practically. “I’m only going along with—”

“I know what you’re doing, and why,” said Becca. “Around here we all know Isaac well enough to disbelieve such lies about him and you both.”

But Alvin didn’t care about “around here.” What he cared about was back home in Wobbish country.

“Don’t worry yourself,” said Becca. “Nobody knows who this legendary White boy is. Certainly not one of the two Innocents that Ta-Kumsaw chopped to bits in the forest. Certainly not Alvin or Measure. Which one
are
you, by the way?”

“Alvin,” said Isaac.

“Oh, yes,” said Becca. “You already told me that. I have such a hard time holding people’s names in my head.”

“Ta-Kumsaw didn’t chop nobody up.”

“As you might guess, Alvin, we didn’t believe that story here, either.”

“Oh.” Alvin didn’t know what to say, and since he’d been living like a Red for so long, he did what Reds do when they have nothing to say, something that a White man hardly ever thinks of doing. He said nary a thing at all.

“Bread and cheese?” asked Becca.

“You’re too kind. Thank you,” said Isaac.

If that didn’t beat all. Ta-Kumsaw saying thank you like a fine gentleman. Not that he wasn’t noble and fair-spoke among his kind. But in White man’s language he was always so cold, so unflowered in his talk. Till now. Witchery.

Becca rang a little bell.

“It’s simple fare, but we live simply in this house. And I especially in this room. Which is fitting—it’s such a simple place.”

Alvin looked around. She was right. It only just now occurred to him that this room was the original log cabin, with its one remaining window casting southern light into the room. Around it the walls were all still rough old
wood; he just hadn’t noticed, from all the cloth draped here and there, hanging on hooks, piled up on furniture, rolled up in bolts. A strange kind of cloth, lots of color in it but the color making no pattern or sense, just weaving this way, that way, changing shades and colors, a broad streak of blue, a few narrow strands of green, all twisting in and out of each other.

Somebody came into the room to answer Becca’s bell, an older man from the sound of his voice; she sent him for food, but Alvin didn’t even know what he looked like, he couldn’t take his eyes off the cloth. What was so much cloth for? Why would somebody make it such a bright and ugly unorganized set of colors?

And where did it end?

He walked over to where maybe a dozen bolts of cloth were standing in a corner, leaning on each other, and he realized that each bolt grew out of the one before. Somebody’d taken the end of cloth from one bolt and wrapped it around itself to start the next one, so the cloth spooled off the end of one bolt, then leapt up and plunged right down into the center of the next, one after the other, making a chain of fabric. It wasn’t a bunch of different cloths, it was all one cloth, rolled up until it was almost too heavy to move, and then the next bolt started right up, with never a scissor touching the cloth. Alvin began to wander around the room, his fingers tracing the pattern of the cloth, following its path up over hooks on the wail, down into folds stacked up on the floor. He followed, he followed, until finally, just as the old man returned with the bread and cheese, he found the end of the cloth. It was feeding out the front of Becca’s loom.