Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III (10 page)

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Authors: Orson Scott Card

BOOK: Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III
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“I was joking,” Alvin said. “A man gave me a ride on his spare mount.”
“I don’t like that kind of joke,” said the smith. “I don’t like it that you lied to me so easy like that.”
What could Alvin say? He couldn’t even claim that he hadn’t lied—he had, when he told about a man letting him ride. So he was as much a liar as the smith thought. The only confusion was about
which
statement was a lie.
“I’m sorry,” said Alvin.
“I’m not taking you, boy. I don’t have to take you anyway, a year late. And here you come lying to me the first thing. I won’t have it.”
“Sir, I’m sorry,” said Alvin. “It won’t happen again. I’m not
known for a liar back home, and you’ll see I’ll be known for square dealing here, if you give me a chance. Catch me lying or not giving fair work all the time, and you can chuck me, no questions asked. Just give me a chance to prove it, sir.”
“You don’t look like you’re eleven, neither, boy.”
“But I am, sir. You know I am. You yourself with your own arms pulled my brother Vigor’s body from the river on the night that I was born, or so my pa told me.”
The smith’s face went distant, as if he was remembering. “Yes. he told you true, I was the one who pulled him out. Clinging to the roots of that tree even in death, so I thought I’d have to cut him free. Come here, boy.”
Alvin walked closer. The smith poked and pushed the muscles of his arms.
“Well, I can see you’re not a lazy boy. Lazy boys get soft, but you’re strong like a hardworking farmer. Can’t lie about
that,
I reckon. Still, you haven’t seen what real work is.”
“I’m ready to learn.”
“Oh, I’m sure of that. Many a boy would be glad to learn from me. Other work might come and go, but there’s always a need for a blacksmith. That’ll never change. Well, you’re strong enough in body, I reckon. Let’s see about your brain. Look at this anvil. This here’s the bick, on the point, you see. Say that.”
“Bick.”
“And then the throat here. And this is the table—it ain’t faced with blister steel, so when you ram a cold chisel into it the chisel don’t blunt. Then up a notch onto the steel face, where you work the hot metal. And this is the hardie hole, where I rest the butt of the fuller and the flatter and the swage. And this here’s the pricking hole, for when I punch holes in strap iron---the hot punch shoots right through into this space. You got all that?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Then name me the parts of the anvil.”
Alvin named them as best he could. Couldn’t remember the job each one did, not all of them, anyways, but what he did was good enough, cause the blacksmith nodded and grinned. “Reckon you
ain’t a half-wit, anyhow, you’ll learn quick enough. And big for your age is good. I won’t have to keep you on a broom and the bellows for the first four years, the way I do with smaller boys. But your age, that’s a sticking point. A term of prentice work is seven year, but my written-up articles with your pa, they only say till you’re seventeen.”
“I’m almost twelve now, sir.”
“So what I’m saying is, I want to be able to hold you the full seven years, if need be. I don’t want you whining off just when I finally get you trained enough to be useful.”
“Seven years, sir. The spring when I’m nigh on nineteen, then my time is up.”
“Seven years is a long time, boy, and I mean to hold you to it. Most boys start when they’re nine or ten, or even seven years old, so they can make a living, start looking for a wife at sixteen or seventeen years old. I won’t have none of that. I expect you to live like a Christian, and no fooling with any of the girls in town, you understand me?”
“Yes sir.”
“All right then. My prentices sleep in the loft over the kitchen, and you eat at table with my wife and children and me, though I’ll thank you not to speak until spoken to inside the house—I won’t have my prentices thinking they have the same rights as my own children, cause you don’t.”
“Yes sir.”
“And as for now, I need to het up this strap again. So you start to work the bellows there.”
Alvin walked to the bellows handle. It was T-shaped, for two-handed working. But Alvin twisted the end piece so it was at the same angle as the hammer handle when the smith lifted it into the air. Then he started to work the bellows with one arm.
“What are you doing, boy!” shouted Alvin’s new master. “You won’t last ten minutes working the bellows with one arm.”
“Then in ten minutes I’ll switch to my left arm,” said Alvin. “But I won’t get myself ready for the hammer if I bend over every time I work the bellows.”
The smith looked at him angrily. Then he laughed. “You got a fresh mouth, boy, but you also got sense. Do it your way as long as you can, but see to it you don’t slack on wind—I need a hot fire, and that’s more important than you working up strength in your arms right now.”
Alvin set to pumping. Soon he could feel the pain of this unaccustomed movement gnawing at his neck and chest and back. But he kept going, never breaking the rhythm of the bellows, forcing his body to endure. He could have made the muscles grow right now, teaching them the pattern with his hidden power. But that wasn’t what Alvin was here for, he was pretty sure of that. So he let the pain come as it would, and his body change as it would, each new muscle earned by his own effort.
Alvin lasted fifteen minutes with his right hand, ten minutes with his left. He felt the muscles aching and liked the way it felt. Makepeace Smith seemed pleased enough with what he did. Alvin knew that he’d be changed here, that his work would make a strong and skillful man of him.
A man, but not a Maker. Not yet fully on the road to what he was born to be. But since there hadn’t been a Maker in the world in a thousand years or more, or so folks said, who was he going to prentice himself to in order to learn
that
trade?
Modesty
WHITLEY PHYSICKER HELPED Peggy down from the carriage in front of a fine-looking house in one of the best neighborhoods of Dekane. “I’d like to see you to the door, Peggy Guester, just to make sure they’re home to greet you.” said he, but she knew he didn’t expect her to allow him to do that. If anybody knew how little she liked to have folks fussing over her, it was Doctor Whitley Physicker. So she thanked him kindly and bid him farewell.
She heard his carriage rolling off, the horse clopping on the cobblestones, as she rapped the knocker on the door. A maid opened the door, a German girl so fresh off the boat she couldn’t even speak enough English to ask Peggy’s name. She invited her in with a gesture, seated her on a bench in the hall, and then held out a silver plate.
What was the plate
for?
Peggy couldn’t hardly make sense at all of what she saw inside this foreign girl’s mind. She was expecting something—what? A little slip of paper, but Peggy didn’t have a notion why. The girl thrust the salver closer to her, insisting. Peggy couldn’t do a thing but shrug.
Finally the German girl gave up and went away. Peggy sat on the bench and waited. She searched for heartfires in the house, and found the one she looked for. Only then did she realize what the plate was for—her calling card. Folks in the city, rich folks anyway, they had little cards they put their name on, to announce theirself when they came to visit. Peggy even remembered reading about it in a book, but it was a book from the Crown Colonies and she never thought folks in free lands kept such formality.
Soon the lady of the house came, the German girl shadowing her, peering from behind her fine day gown. Peggy knew from the lady’s heartfire that she didn’t think herself dressed in any partickler finery today, but to Peggy she was like the Queen herself.
Peggy looked into her heartfire and found what she had hoped for. The lady wasn’t annoyed a bit at seeing Peggy there, merely curious. Oh, the lady was judging her, of course—Peggy never met a soul, least of all herself, what didn’t make some judgment of every stranger—but the judgment was kind. When the lady looked at Peggy’s plain clothes, she saw a country girl, not a pauper; when the lady looked at Peggy’s stern, expressionless face, she saw a child who had known pain, not an ugly girl. And when the lady imagined Peggy’s pain, her first thought was to try to heal her. All in all, the lady was
good.
Peggy made no mistake in coming here.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure to meet you,” said the lady. Her voice was sweet and soft and beautiful.
“I reckon not, Mistress Modesty,” said Peggy. “My name is Peggy. I think you had some acquaintance with my papa, years ago.”
“Perhaps if you told me his name?”
“Horace,” said Peggy. “Horace Guester, of Hatrack, Hio.”
Peggy saw the turmoil in her heartfire at the very sound of his name—glad memory, and yet a glimmer of fear of what this strange girl might intend. Yet the fear quickly subsided—her husband had died several years ago, and so was beyond hurt. And none of these emotions showed in the lady’s face, which held its sweet and friendly expression with perfect grace. Modesty turned to the maid and spoke a few words of fluent German. The maid curtsied and was gone.
“Did your father send you?” asked the lady. Her unspoken
question was: Did your father tell you what I meant to him, and he to me?
“No,” said Peggy. “I come here on my own. He’d die if he found out I knew your name. You see I’m a torch, Mistress Modesty. He has no secrets, not from me. Nobody does.”
It didn’t surprise Peggy one bit how Modesty took that news. Most folks would’ve thought right off about all the secrets they hoped she wouldn’t guess. Instead, the lady thought at once how awful it must be for Peggy, to know things that didn’t bear knowing. “How long has it been that way?” she said softly. “Surely not when you were just a little girl. The Lord is too merciful to let such knowledge fill a child’s mind.”
“I reckon the Lord didn’t concern himself much with me,” said Peggy.
The lady reached out and touched Peggy’s cheek. Peggy knew the lady had noticed she was somewhat dirty from the dust of the road. But what the lady mostly thought of wasn’t clothes or cleanliness. A torch, she was thinking. That’s why a girl so young wears such a cold, forbidding face. Too much knowledge has made this girl so hard.
“Why have you come to me?” asked Modesty. “Surely you don’t mean harm to me or your father, for such an ancient transgression.”
“Oh, no ma’am,” said Peggy. Never in her life did her own voice sound so harsh to her, but compared to this lady she was squawking like a crow. “If I’m torch enough to know your secret, I’m torch enough to know there was some good in it as well as sin, and as far as the sin goes, Papa’s paying for it still, paying double and treble every year of his life.”
Tears came into Modesty’s eyes. “I had hoped,” she murmured, “I had hoped that time would ease the shame of it, and he’d remember it now with joy. Like one of the ancient faded tapestries in England, whose colors are no longer bright, but whose image is the very shadow of beauty itself.”
Peggy might’ve told her that he felt more than joy, that he relived all his feelings for her like it happened yesterday. But that was Papa’s secret, and not hers to tell.
Modesty touched a kerchief to her eyes, to take away the tears that trembled there. “All these years I’ve never spoken to a mortal soul of this. I’ve poured out my heart only to the Lord, and he’s forgiven me; yet I find it somehow exhilarating to speak of this to someone whose face I can see with my eyes, and not just my imagination. Tell me, child, if you didn’t come as the avenging angel, have you come perhaps as a forgiving one?”
Mistress Modesty spoke with such elegance that Peggy found herself reaching for the language of the books she read, instead of her natural talking voice. “I’m a—a supplicant,” said Peggy. “I come for help. I come to change my life, and I thought, being how you loved my father, you might be willing to do a kindness for his daughter.”
The lady smiled at her. “And if you’re half the torch you claim to be, you already know my answer. What kind of help do you need? My husband left me a good deal of money when he died, but I think it isn’t money that you need.”
“No ma’am,” said Peggy. But what was it that she wanted, now that she was here? How could she explain why she had come? “I didn’t like the life I saw for myself back in Hatrack. I wanted to—”
“Escape?”
“Somewhat like that, I reckon, but not exactly.”
“You want to become something other than what you are,” said the lady.
“Yes, Mistress Modesty.”
“What is it that you wish to be?”
Peggy had never thought of words to describe what she dreamed of, but now, with Mistress Modesty before her, Peggy saw how simply those dreams might be expressed. “You, ma’am.”
The lady smiled and touched her own face, her own hair. “Oh, my child, you must have higher aims than that. Much of what is best in me, your father gave me. The way he loved me taught me that perhaps—no, not
perhaps
—that I
was
worth loving. I have learned much more since then, more of what a woman is and ought to be. What a lovely symmetry, if I can give back to his daughter
some of the wisdom he brought to me.” She laughed gently. “I never imagined myself taking a pupil.”
“More like a disciple, I think, Mistress Modesty.”
“Neither pupil nor disciple. Will you stay here as a guest in my home? Will you let me be your friend?”
Even though Peggy couldn’t rightly see the paths of her own life, she still felt them open up inside her, all the futures she could hope for, waiting for her in this place. “Oh, ma’am,” she whispered, “if you will.”

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