Seventh Son: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume I (10 page)

“I’m no beggar, sir,” said Taleswapper. “As I told you, I’m willing to work.”

“With knacks and hidden shiftiness, no doubt.”

The man’s hostility was the plain opposite of his wife’s gentle welcoming air. “What
is
your knack, sir?” asked the wife. “From your speech you’re an educated man. You’d not be a teacher, would you?”

“My knack is spoken with my name,” he said. “Taleswapper. I have a knack for stories.”

“For making them up? We call that lying, hereabouts.” The more the wife tried to befriend Taleswapper, the colder her husband became.

“I have a knack for remembering stories. But I tell only those that I believe are true, sir. And I’m a hard man to convince. If you tell me your stories, I’ll tell you mine, and we’ll both be richer for the trade, since neither one of us loses what we started with.”

“I’ve got no stories,” said Armor, even though he had already told a tale of the Prophet and another of Ta-Kumsaw.

“That’s sad news, and if it’s so, then I’ve come to the wrong house indeed.” Taleswapper could see that this truly wasn’t the house for him. Even if Armor relented and let him in, he would be surrounded by suspicion, and Taleswapper couldn’t live where people looked sharp at him all the time. “Good day to you.”

But Armor wasn’t letting him go so easily. He took Taleswapper’s words as a challenge. “Why should it be sad? I live a quiet, ordinary life.”

“No man’s life is ordinary to himself,” said Taleswapper, “and if he says it is, then that’s a story of the kind that I never tell.”

“You calling me a liar?” demanded Armor.

“I’m asking if you know a place where my knack might be welcome.”

Taleswapper saw, though Armor didn’t, how the wife did a calming with the fingers of her right hand, and held her husband’s wrist with her left. It was smoothly done, and the husband must have become quite attuned to it, because he visibly relaxed as she stepped a bit forward to reply. “Friend,” she said, “if you take the track behind that hill yonder, and follow it to the end, over two brooks, both with bridges, you’ll reach the house of Alvin Miller, and I know he’ll take you in.”

“Ha,” said Armor.

“Thank you,” said Taleswapper. “But how can you know such a thing?”

“They’ll take you in for as long as you want to stay, and never turn you away, as long as you show willingness to help out.”

“Willing I always am, milady,” said Taleswapper.

“
Always
willing?” said Armor. “Nobody’s
always
willing. I thought you always spoke true.”

“I always tell what I believe. Whether it’s true, I’m no more sure than any man.”

“Then how do you call me ‘sir,’ when I’m no knight, and call her ‘milady,’ when she’s as common as myself?”

“Why, I don’t believe in the King’s knightings, that’s why. He calls a man a knight because he owes him a favor, whether he’s a true knight or not. And all his mistresses are called ‘ladies’ for what they do between the royal sheets. That’s how the words are used among the Cavaliers—lies half the time. But your wife, sir, acted like a true lady, gracious and hospitable. And you, sir, like a true knight, protecting your household against the dangers you most fear.”

Armor laughed aloud. “You talk so sweet I bet you have to suck on salt for half an hour to get the taste of sugar out of your mouth.”

“It’s my knack,” said Taleswapper. “But I have other ways to talk, and not sweetly, when the time is right. Good afternoon to you, and your wife, and your children, and your Christian house.”

Taleswapper walked out onto the grass of the commons. The cows paid him no mind, because he
did
have a warding, though not of the sort that Armor would ever see. Taleswapper sat in the sunlight for a little while, to let his brain get warm and see if it could come up with a thought. But it didn’t work. Almost never had a thought worth having, after noon. As the proverb said, “Think in the morning, Act in the noon, Eat in the evening, Sleep in the night.” Too late for thinking now. Too early for eating.

He headed up the pathway to the church, which stood well back from the commons, atop a good-sized hill. If I were a true prophet, he thought, I’d know things now. I’d know whether I’d stay here for a day or a week or a month. I’d know whether Armor would be my friend, as I hope, or my enemy, as I fear. I’d know whether his wife would someday win herself free to use her powers in the open. I’d know whether I’d ever meet this Red Prophet face to face.

But that was nonsense, he knew. That was the sort of seeing that a torch would do—he’d seen them doing it before, more than a few of them, and it filled him with dread, because it wasn’t good, he knew, for a man to know too much of the path of his own life ahead. No, for him the knack he wanted was prophecy, to see, not the small doings of men and women in their little corners of the world, but rather the great sweep of events as directed by God. Or by Satan—Taleswapper wasn’t particular, since both of them had a good idea of what they planned to do in the world, and so either one was likely to know a few things about the future. Of course, it was likely to be more
pleasant
to hear from God. What traces of the devil he had touched so far in his life had all been painful, each in its own way.

The church door stood open, this being a warmish day for autumn, and Taleswapper buzzed right in along with the flies. It was as fine a church inside as out—obviously Scottish rite, so it was plain—but all the more cheerful for that, a bright and airy place, with whited walls and glasspaned windows. Even the pews and pulpit were of light wood. The only thing dark in the whole place was the altar. So naturally his eye was drawn to it. And, because he had a knack for this sort of thing, he saw traces of a liquid touch upon the surface of it.

He walked slowly toward the altar. Toward it, because he had to know for sure; slowly, because this sort of thing ought not to be in a Christian church. Up close, though, there was no mistaking. It was the same trace he had seen on the face of the man in DeKane who tortured his own children to death and blamed it on the Reds. The same trace he had seen lingering on the sword that beheaded George Washington. It was like a thin film of filthy water, invisible unless you looked at a certain angle, in a certain light. But to Taleswapper it was always visible now—he had an eye for it.

He reached out his hand and set his forefinger carefully on the clearest trace. It took all his strength just to hold it there for a moment, it burned so, setting his whole arm to trembling and aching, right to the shoulder.

“You’re welcome in God’s house,” said a voice.

Taleswapper, sucking on his burnt finger, turned to face the speaker. He was robed as a Scottish Rite preacher—Presbyterian, they called them here in America.

“You didn’t get a splinter, did you?” asked the preacher.

It would have been easier just to say Yes, I got a splinter. But Taleswapper only told stories he believed. “Preacher,” said Taleswapper, “the devil has set his hand upon this altar.”

At once the preacher’s lugubrious smile disappeared. “How do you know the devil’s handprint?”

“It’s a gift of God,” said Taleswapper. “To see.”

The preacher looked at him closely, unsure whether or not to believe. “Then can you also tell where angels have touched?”

“I could see traces, I think, if goodly spirits had intervened. I’ve seen such marks before.”

The preacher paused, as if he wanted to ask a very important question but was afraid of the answer. Then he shuddered, the desire to learn plainly fled from him, and the preacher spoke now with contempt. “Nonsense. You can fool the common people, but I was educated in England, and I am not deluded by talk of hidden powers.”

“Oh,” said Taleswapper. “You’re an educated man.”

“And so are you, by your speech,” said the preacher. “The south of England, I would say.”

“The Lord Protector’s Academy of Art,” said Taleswapper. “I was trained as an engraver. Since you’re Scottish rite, I daresay you’ve seen my work in your Sunday school book.”

“I never notice such things,” said the preacher. “Engravings are a waste of paper that could be given over to words of truth. Unless they illustrate matters that the artist’s eye has actually seen, like anatomies. But what the artist conceives in his imagination has no better claim on my eyes than what I imagine for myself.”

Taleswapper followed that notion to its root. “What if the artist were also a prophet?”

The preacher half-closed his eyes. “The day of prophets is over. Like that apostate heathen one-eyed drunken Red man across the river, all who claim to be prophets now are charlatans. And I have no doubt that if God granted the gift of prophecy even to one artist, we would soon have a surplus of sketchers and daubers wishing to be taken for prophets, especially if it would bring them better pay.”

Taleswapper answered mildly, but he did not let the preacher’s implicit accusation stand. “A man who preaches the word of God for a salary ought not to criticize others who seek to earn a living by revealing the truth.”

“I was ordained,” said the preacher. “No one ordains artists. They ordain themselves.”

Just as Taleswapper had expected. The preacher retreated to authority as soon as he feared his ideas could not stand on their own merit. Reasonable argument was impossible when authority became the arbiter; Taleswapper returned to the immediate matter. “The devil laid his fingers on this altar,” said Taleswapper. “It burned my finger to touch the place.”

“It never burned mine,” said the preacher.

“I expect not,” said Taleswapper. “
You
were ordained.”

Taleswapper made no effort to hide the scorn in his voice, and it plainly irked the preacher, who lashed back. It did not bother Taleswapper when people got angry at him. It meant they were listening, and at least half believing him. “Tell me, then, if you have such keen eyes,” said the preacher. “Tell me if a messenger from God has ever touched the altar.”

Plainly the preacher regarded this question as a test. Taleswapper had no idea which answer the preacher thought was correct. It hardly mattered; Taleswapper would answer truthfully, no matter what. “No,” he said.

It was the wrong answer. The preacher smirked. “Just like that? You can say that he has not?”

Taleswapper thought for a moment that the preacher might believe his own ordained hands had left the marks of God’s will. He would lay that notion to rest at once. “Most preachers don’t leave tracks of light on things they touch. Only a few are ever holy enough.”

But it wasn’t himself the preacher had in mind. “You’ve said enough now,” said the preacher. “I know that you’re a fraud. Get out of my church.”

“I’m no fraud,” said Taleswapper. “I may be mistaken, but I never lie.”

“And I never believe a man who says he never lies.”

“A man always assumes that others are as virtuous as himself,” said Taleswapper.

The preacher’s face flushed with anger. “Get out of here, or I’ll throw you out.”

“I’ll go gladly,” said Taleswapper. He walked briskly to the door. “I never hope to return to a church whose preacher is not surprised to learn that Satan has touched his altar.”

“I wasn’t surprised because I don’t believe you.”

“You believed me,” said Taleswapper. “You also believe an angel has touched it. That’s the story you think is true. But I tell you that no angel could touch it without leaving a trace that I could see. And I see but one trace there.”

“Liar! You yourself are sent by the devil, trying to do your necromancy here in the house of God! Begone! Out! I conjure you to leave!”

“I thought churchmen like you didn’t practice conjurings.”

“Out!” The preacher screamed the last word, the veins standing out in his neck. Taleswapper put his hat back on and strode away. He heard the door slam closed behind him. He walked across a hilly meadow of dried-out autumn grass until he struck the track that led up toward the house that the woman had spoken of. Where she was sure they’d take him in.

Taleswapper wasn’t so sure. He never made more than three visits in a place—if he hadn’t found a house to take him in by the third try, it was best to move on. This time, the first stop had been unusually bad, and the second had gone even worse.

Yet his uneasiness wasn’t just that things were going badly. Even if at this last place they fell on their faces and kissed his feet, Taleswapper felt peculiar about staying around here. Here was a town so Christian that the leading citizen wouldn’t allow hidden powers in his house—yet the altar in the church had the devil’s mark on it. Even worse was the pattern of deception. The hidden powers were being used right under Armor’s nose, and by the person he loved and trusted most; while in the church, the preacher was convinced that God, not the devil, had claimed his altar. What could Taleswapper expect, in this place up the hill, but more madness, more deception? Twisted people entwined each other, Taleswapper knew that much from the evidence of his own past.

The woman was right—the brooks were bridged. Even this, though, wasn’t a good sign. To bridge a river was a necessity; to bridge a broad stream, a kindness to travelers. But why did they build such elaborate bridges over brooks so narrow that even a man as old as Taleswapper could leap them without wetting a foot? The bridges were sturdy, anchored into the earth far to either side of the stream, and both had roofs, well thatched. People pay money to stay in inns that aren’t as tight and dry as these bridges, thought Taleswapper.

Surely this meant that the people at the end of the track were at least as strange as those he had met so far. Surely he ought to turn away. Prudence demanded that he leave.

But prudence was not strong in Taleswapper’s character. It was as Old Ben told him, years before. “You’ll go into the mouth of hell someday, Bill, just to find out why the devil has such bad teeth.” There was a reason for the bridges, and Taleswapper sensed that it would mean a story worth remembering in his book.

It was only a mile, after all. Just when it seemed the track was about to wander into impenetrable wood, it took a sharp northward turn and opened into as pretty a holding as Taleswapper had seen, even in the placid settled lands of New Orange and Pennsylvania. The house was large and fine, with shaped logs, to show that they meant it to last, and there were barns and sheds and pens and coops that made it almost a village in itself. A wisp of smoke rising a half mile on up the track told him that his guess wasn’t all wrong. There was another household nearby, sharing the road, which meant it was probably kin. Married children, no doubt, and all farming together, for the better prosperity of all. That was a good thing, Taleswapper knew, when brothers could grow up liking each other well enough to plow each other’s fields.