Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III (14 page)

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Authors: Orson Scott Card

BOOK: Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III
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And he won’t now either, Alvin told hisself. Just keep searching, so you can dig the
real
well. The false one didn’t drive that old deceiver off, but the real one’s bound to, and I won’t see him shimmering at the edges of my vision for three months after that.
With that thought in mind, Alvin hunkered down and kept his mind on searching for a break in the hidden shelf of stone.
How Alvin searched things out underground wasn’t like
seeing.
It was more like he had another hand that skittered through the soil and rock as fast as a waterdrop on a hot griddle. Even though he’d never met him a doodlebug, he figured doodling couldn’t be much different than how he done it, sending his bug scouting along under the earth, feeling things out all the way. And if he was doodle-bugging, then he had to wonder if folks was right who allowed as how it was the doodlebug’s very
soul
that slithered under the ground, and there was tales about doodlebugs whose souls got lost and the doodler never said another word or moved a muscle till he finally died. But Alvin didn’t let such tales scare him off from doing what he ought to. If there was a need for stone, he’d find him the natural breaks to make it come away without hardly chipping at it. If there was a need for water, he’d find him a way to dig on down to get it.
Finally he found him a place where the shelf of stone was thin and crumbled. The ground was higher here, the water deeper down, but what counted was he could get through the stone to it.
This new spot was halfway between the house and the smithy—which would be less convenient for Makepeace, but better for his wife Gertie, who had to use the same water. Alvin set to with a will, because it was getting on to dark, and he was determined to take no rest tonight until his work was done. Without even thinking about it he made up his mind to use his power like he used to back on his father’s land. He never struck stone with his spade; it was like the earth turned to flour and fair to jumped out of the hole
instead of him having to heft it. If any grownup happened to see him right then they’d think they was likkered up or having a conniption fit, he dug so fast. But nobody was looking, except for Arthur Stuart. It was getting nightward, after all, and Al had no lantern, so nobody’d ever even notice he was there. He could use his knack tonight without fear of being found out
From the house came the sound of shouting, loud but not clear enough for Alvin to make out the words.
“Mad,” said Arthur Stuart. He was looking straight at the house, as steady as a dog on point.
“Can you hear what they’re saying?” said Alvin. “Old Peg Guester always says you got ears like a dog, perk up at everything.”
Arthur Stuart closed his eyes. “You got no right to starve that boy,” he said.
Alvin like to laughed outright. Arthur was doing as perfect an imitation of Gertie Smith’s voice as he ever heard.
“He’s too big to thrash and I got to learn him,” said Arthur Stuart.
This time he sounded just like Alvin’s master. “I’ll be,” murmured Alvin.
Little Arthur went right on. “Either Alvin eats this plate of supper Makepeace Smith or you’ll wear it on your head. I’d like to see you try it you old hag I’ll break your arms.”
Alvin couldn’t help himself, he just laughed outright. “Consarn it if you ain’t a perfect mockingbird, Arthur Stuart.”
The little boy looked up at Alvin and a grin stole across his face. Down from the house come the sound of breaking crockery. Arthur Stuart started to laugh and run around in circles. “Break a dish, break a dish, break a dish!” he cried.
“If you don’t beat all,” said Alvin. “Now you tell me, Arthur, you didn’t really understand all them things you just said, did you? I mean, you were just repeating what you heard, ain’t that so?”
“Break a dish on his
head!”
Arthur screamed with laughter and fell over backward in the grass. Alvin laughed right along, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the little boy. More to him than meets the eye, thought Alvin. Or else he’s plain crazy.
From the other direction came another woman’s voice, a full-throated call that floated over the moist darkening air. “Ar
thur!
Arthur
Stuart!”
Arthur sat right up. “Mama,” he said.
“That’s right, that’s Old Peg Guester calling,” said Alvin.
“Go to bed,” said Arthur.
“Just be careful she don’t give you a bath first, boy, you’re a mite grimy.”
Arthur got up and started trotting off across the meadow, up to the path that led from the springhouse to the roadhouse where he lived. Alvin watched him out of sight, the little boy flapping his arms as he ran, like as if he was flying. Some bird, probably an owl, flew right alongside the boy halfway across the meadow, skimming along the ground like as if to keep him company. Not till Arthur was out of sight behind the springhouse did Alvin turn back to his labor.
In a few more minutes it was full dark, and the deep silence of night came quick after that. Even the dogs were quiet all through town. It’d be hours before the moon came up. Alvin worked on. He didn’t have to see; he could feel how the well was going, the earth under his feet. Nor was it the Red man’s seeing now, their gift for hearing the greenwood song. It was his own knack he was using, helping him feel his way deeper into the earth.
He knew he’d strike rock twice as deep this time. But when the spade caught up on big chunks of rock, it wasn’t a smooth plate like it was at the spot Hank Dowser chose. The stones were crumbly and broke up, and with his knack Al hardly had to press his lever afore the stones flipped up easy as you please, and he tossed them out the well like clods.
Once he dug through that layer, though, the ground got oozy underfoot. If he wasn’t who he was, he’d’ve had to set the work aside and get help to dredge it out in the morning. But for Alvin it was easy enough. He tightened up the earth around the walls of the hole, so water couldn’t seep in so fast. It wasn’t spadework now. Alvin used a dredge to scoop up the mucky soil, and he didn’t need no partner to hoist it out on a rope, either, he just heaved it
up and his knack was such that each scoop of ooze clung together and landed neat as you please outside the well, just like he was flinging bunny rabbits out the hole.
Alvin was master here, that was sure, working miracles in this hole in the ground. You tell me I can’t eat or drink till the well is dug, thinking you’ll have me begging for a cup of water and pleading for you to let me go to bed. Well, you won’t see such a thing. You’ll have your well, with walls so solid they’ll be drawing water here after your house and smithy have crumbled into dust.
But even as he felt the sweet taste of victory, he saw that the Unmaker was closer than it had ever come in years. It flickered and danced, and not just at the edges of his vision anymore. He could see it right in front of him, even in the darkness, he could see it clearer than ever in daylight, cause now he couldn’t see nothing real to distract him.
It was scary, all of a sudden, just like the nightmares of his childhood, and for a while Alvin stood in the hole, all froze with fear, as water oozed up from below, making the ground under him turn to slime. Thick slime a hundred feet deep, he was sinking down, and the walls of the well were getting soft, too, they’d cave in on him and bury him, he’d drown trying to breathe muck into his lungs, he knew it, he could feel it cold and wet around his thighs, his crotch; he clenched his fists and felt mud ooze between his fingers, just like the nothingness in all his nightmares—
And then he came to himself, got control. Sure, he was up to his waist in mud, and if he was any other boy in such a case he might have wiggled himself down deeper and smothered hisself, trying to struggle out. But this was Alvin, not some ordinary boy, and he was safe as long as he wasn’t booglied up by fear like a child caught in a bad dream. He just made the slime under his feet harden enough to hold his weight, then made the hard place float upward, lifting him out of the mud until he was standing on gravelly mud at the bottom of the well.
Easy as breaking a rat’s neck. If that was all the Unmaker could think of doing, it might as well go on home. Alvin was a match for him, just like he was a match for Makepeace Smith and Hank
Dowser both. He dug on, dredged up. hoisted, flung, then bent to dredge again.
He was pretty near deep enough now, a good six feet lower than the stone shelf. Why, if he hadn’t firmed up the earthen sides of the well, it’d be full of water over his head already. Alvin took hold of the knotted rope he left dangling and walked up the wall, pulling himself hand over hand up the rope.
The moon was rising now, but the hole was so deep it wouldn’t shine into the well until near moon-noon. Never mind. Into the pit Alvin dumped a barrowload of the stones he’d levered out only an hour before. Then he clambered down after it.
He’d been working rock with his knack since he was little, and he was never more sure-handed with it than tonight. With his bare hands he shaped the stone like soft clay, making it into smooth square blocks that he placed all around the walls of the well from the bottom up, braced firm against each other so that the pushing of soil and water wouldn’t cave it in. Water would seep easily through the cracks between stones, but the soil wouldn’t, so the well would be clean almost from the start.
There wasn’t enough stone from the well itself, of course; Alvin made three trips to the stream to load the barrow with water-smoothed rocks. Even though he was using his knack to make the work easier, it was late at night and weariness was coming on him. But he refused to pay attention. Hadn’t he learned the Red man’s knack for running on long after weariness should have claimed him? A boy who followed Ta-Kumsaw, running without a rest from Detroit to Eight-Face Mound, such a boy had no need to give in to a single night of well-digging, and never mind his thirst or the pain in his back and thighs and shoulders, the ache of his elbows and his knees.
At last, at last, it was done. The moon past zenith, his mouth tasting like a horsehair blanket, but it was done. He climbed on out of the hole, bracing himself against the stone walls he’d just finished building. As he climbed he let go of his hold on the earth around the well, unsealed it, and the water, now tame, began to trickle noisily into the deep stone basin he’d built to hold it.
Still Alvin didn’t go inside the house, didn’t so much as walk to
the stream and drink. His first taste of water would be from this well, just like Makepeace Smith had said. He’d stay here and wait until the well had reached its natural level, and then clear the water and draw up a bucket and carry it inside the house and drink a cup of it in front of his master. Afterward he’d take Makepeace Smith outside and show him the well Hank Dowser called for, the one Makepeace Smith had cuffed him for, and then point out the one where you could drop a bucket and it was splash, not clatter.
He stood there at the lip of the well, imagining how Makepeace Smith would sputter, how he’d cuss. Then he sat down, just to ease his feet, picturing Hank Dowser’s face when he saw what Al had done. Then he lay right down to ease his aching back, and closed his eyes for just a minute, so he didn’t have to pay no heed to the fluttering shadows of unmaking that kept pestering him out the corners of his eyes.
Unmaker
MISTRESS MODESTY WAS stirring. Peggy heard her breathing change rhythm. Then she came awake and sat up abruptly on her couch. At once Mistress Modesty looked for Peggy in the darkness of the room.
“Here I am,” Peggy murmured.
“What has happened, my dear? Haven’t you slept at all?”
“I dare not,” said Peggy.
Mistress Modesty stepped onto the portico beside her. The breeze from the southwest billowed the damask curtains behind them. The moon was flirting with a cloud; the city of Dekane was a shifting pattern of roofs down the hill below them. “Can you see him?” asked Mistress Modesty.
“Not him,” said Peggy. “I see his heartfire; I can see through his eyes, as he sees; I can see his futures. But himself, no, I can’t see him.”
“My poor dear. On such a marvelous night, to have to leave the Governor’s Ball and watch over this faraway child in grave danger.” It was Mistress Modesty’s way of asking what the danger was
without actually
asking.
This way Peggy could answer or not, and neither way would any offense be given or taken.
“I wish I could explain,” said Peggy. “It’s his enemy, the one with no face—”
Mistress Modesty shuddered. “No face! How ghastly.”
“Oh, he has a face for
other
men. There was a minister once, a man who fancied himself a scientist. He saw the Unmaker, but could not see him truly, not as Alvin does. Instead he made up a manshape for him in his mind, and a name—called him ‘the Visitor,’ and thought he was an angel.”
“An angel!”
“I believe that when most of us see the Unmaker, we can’t comprehend him, we haven’t the strength of intellect for that. So our minds come as close as they can. Whatever shape represents naked destructive power, terrible and irresistible force, that is what we see. Those who
love
such evil power, they make themselves see the Unmaker as beautiful. Others, who hate and fear it, they see the worst thing in the world.”
“What does your Alvin see?”
“I could never see it myself, it’s so subtle; even looking through his eyes I wouldn’t have noticed it, if he hadn’t noticed it. I saw that he was seeing something, and only then did I understand what it was he saw. Think of it as—the feeling when you think you saw some movement out of the corner of your eye, only when you turn there’s nothing there.”
“Like someone always sneaking up behind you,” said Mistress Modesty.
“Yes, exactly.”
“And it’s sneaking up on Alvin?”
“Poor boy, he doesn’t realize that he’s calling to it. He has dug a deep black pit in his heart, just the sort of place where the Unmaker flows.”
Mistress Modesty sighed. “Ah, my child, these things are all beyond me. I never had a knack; I can barely comprehend the things you do.”
“You? No knack?” Peggy was amazed.
“I know—hardly anyone ever admits to not having one, but surely I’m not the only one.”
“You misunderstand me, Mistress Modesty,” said Peggy. “I was startled, not that you had no knack, but that you
thought
you had no knack. Of course you have one.”
“Oh, but I don’t mind not having one, my dear—”
“You have the knack of seeing potential beauty as if it were already there, and by seeing, you let it come to be.”
“What a lovely idea,” said Mistress Modesty.
“Do you doubt me?”
“I don’t doubt that you believe what you say.”
There was no point in arguing. Mistress Modesty believed her, but was afraid to believe. It didn’t matter, though. What mattered was Alvin, finishing his second well. He had saved himself once; he thought the danger was over. Now he sat at the edge of the well, just to rest a moment; now he lay down. Didn’t he see the Unmaker moving close to him? Didn’t he realize that his very sleepiness opened himself wide for the Unmaker to enter him?
“No!” whispered Peggy. “Don’t sleep!”
“Ah,” said Mistress Modesty. “You speak to him. Can he hear you?”
“Never,” said Peggy. “Never a word.”
“Then what can you do?”
“Nothing. Nothing I can think of.”
“You told me you used his caul—”
“It’s a part of his power, that’s what I use. But even his knack can’t send away what came at his own call. I never had the knowledge to fend off the Unmaker itself, anyway, even if I had a yard of his caulflesh, and not just a scrap of it.”
Peggy watched in desperate silence as Alvin’s eyes closed. “He sleeps.”
“If the Unmaker wins, will he die?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. Perhaps he’ll disappear, eaten away to nothing. Or perhaps the Unmaker will own him—”
“Can’t you see the future, torch girl?”
“All paths lead into darkness, and I see no path emerging.”
“Then it’s over,” whispered Mistress Modesty.
Peggy could feel something cold on her cheeks. Ah, of course: her own tears drying in the cool breeze.
“But if Alvin were awake,
he
could fend off this invisible enemy?” Mistress Modesty asked. “Sorry to bother you with questions, but if I know how it works, perhaps I can help you think of something.”
“No, no, it’s beyond us, we can only watch—” Yet even as Peggy rejected Mistress Modesty’s suggestion, her mind leapt ahead to ways of using it. I must waken him. I don’t have to fight the Unmaker, but if I waken him, then he can do his fighting for himself. Weak and weary though he is, he might still find a way to victory. At once Peggy turned and rushed back into her room, scrabbled through her top drawer until she found the carven box that held the caul.
“Should I leave?” Mistress Modesty had followed her.
“Stay with me,” said Peggy. “Please, for company. For comfort, if I fail.”
“You won’t fail,” said Mistress Modesty.
“He
won’t fail, if he’s the man you say he is.”
Peggy barely heard her. She sat on the edge of her bed, searching in Alvin’s heartfire for some way to waken him. Normally she could use his senses even when he slept, hearing what he heard, seeing his memory of the place around him. But now, with the Unmaker seeping in, his senses were fading. She could not trust them. Desperately she cast about for some other plan. A loud noise? Using what little was left of Alvin’s sense of the life around him, she found a tree, then rubbed a tiny bit of the caul and tried—as she had seen Alvin do it—to picture in her mind how the wood in the branch would come apart. It was painfully slow—Alvin did it so quickly!—but at last she made it fall. Too late. He barely heard it. The Unmaker had undone so much of the air around him that the trembling of sound could not pass through it. Perhaps Alvin noticed; perhaps he came a bit closer to wakefulness. Perhaps not.
How can I waken him, when he is so insensible that nothing can disturb him? Once I held this caul as a ridgebeam tumbled toward
him; I burned a childsize gap in it, so that the hair of his head wasn’t even touched. Once a millstone fell toward his leg; I split it in half. Once his own father stood in a loft, pitchfork in hand, driven by the Unmaker’s madness until he had decided to murder his own most-beloved son; I brought Taleswapper down the hill to him, distracting the father from his dark purpose and driving off the Unmaker.
How? How did Taleswapper’s coming drive off the Destroyer? Because he would have seen the hateful beast and given the cry against it, that’s why the Unmaker left when Taleswapper arrived. Taleswapper isn’t anywhere near Alvin now, but surely there’s someone I can waken and draw down the hill; someone filled with love and goodness, so that the Unmaker must flee before him.
With agonizing fear she withdrew from Alvin’s heartfire even as the blackness of the Unmaker threatened to drown it, and searched in the night for another heartfire, someone she could waken and send to him in time. Yet even as she searched, she could sense in Alvin’s heartfire a certain lightening, a hint of shadows within shadows, not the utter emptiness she had seen before where his future ought to be. If Alvin had any chance, it was from her searching. Even if she found someone, she had no notion how to waken them. But she would find a way, or the Crystal City would be swallowed up in the flood that came because of Alvin’s foolish, childish rage.

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