Alvin Jorneyman ttoam-4 Page 13

  Verily's talents were immediately noticed. He was invited to join several law firms, and finally chose the one that gave him the greatest independence to choose his own clients. His reputation soared as he won case after case; but what impressed the lawyers who truly understood these things was not the number of victories, but rather the even larger number of cases that were settled justly without even going to trial. By the time Verily turned twenty-five, it was becoming a custom several times a month for both parties in hotly contested lawsuits to come to Verily and beg him to be their arbiter, completely sidestepping the courts: such was his reputation as a wise and just man. Some whispered that in due course he would become a great force in politics. Some dared to wish that such a man might someday be Lord Protector, if that office were only filled by election, like the presidency of the United States.

  The United States of America– that motley, multilingual, mongrel, mossbacked republic that had somehow, kingless and causeless, arisen by accident between the Crown Lands and New England. America, where men wearing buckskin were said to walk the halls of Congress along with Reds, Dutchmen, Swedes, and other semi-civilized specimens who would have been ejected from Parliament before they could speak a word aloud. More and more Verily Cooper turned his eyes to that country; more and more he yearned to live in a place where his gift for making things fit together could be used to the fullest. Where he could join things together with his hands, not just with his mind and with his words. Where, in short, he could live without deception.

  Maybe in such a land, where men did not have to lie about who they were in order to be granted the right to live, maybe in such a land he could find his way to some kind of truth, some kind of understanding about what the universe was for. And, failing that, at Icast Verily could be free there.

  The trouble was, it was English law that Verily had studied, and it was English clients who were on the way to making him a rich man. What if he married? What if he had children? What kind of life would he make for them in America, amid the forest primeval? How could he ask a wife to leave civilization and go to Philadelphia?

  And he wanted a wife. He wanted to raise children. He wanted to prove that goodness wasn't beaten into children, that fear was not the fount from which virtue flowed. He wanted to be able to gather his family in his arms and know that not one of them dreaded the sight of him, or felt the need to lie to him in order to have his love.

  So he dreamed of America but stayed in London, searching in high society to find the right woman to make a family with. By now his homely manners had been replaced by university fashion and finally with courtliness that made him welcome in the finest houses. His wit, never biting, always deep, made him a popular guest in the great salons of London, and if he was never invited to the same dinners or parties as the leading theologians of the day, it was not because he was thought to be an atheist, but rather because there were no theologians regarded as his equal in conversation. One had to place Verily Cooper with at least one who could hold his own with him– everyone knew that Very was far too kindhearted to destroy fools for public entertainment. He simply fell silent when surrounded by those of dimmer wit; it was a shameful thing for a host when word spread that Verily Cooper had been silent all night long.

  Verily Cooper was twenty-six years old when he found himself at a party with a remarkable young American named Calvin Miller.

  Verily noticed him at once, because he didn't fit, but it wasn't because of his Americanness. In fact, Verily could see at once that Calvin had done a good job of acquiring a veneer of manners that kept him from the most egregious faux pas that bedevilled most Americans who attempted to make their way in London. The boy was going on about his effort to learn French, joking about how abominably untalented he was at languages; but Verily saw (as did many others) that this was all pretense. When Calvin spoke French each phrase came out with splendid accents, and if his vocabulary was lacking, his grammar was not.

  A lady near Verily murmured to him, “If he's bad at languages, I shudder to imagine what he's good at.”

  Lying, that's what he's good at, thought Verily. But he kept his mouth shut, because how could he possibly know that Calvin's every word was false, except because he knew that nothing fit when Calvin was speaking? The boy was fascinating if only because he seemed to lie when there was no possible benefit from lying; he lied for the sheer joy of it.

  Was this what America produced? The land that in Verily's fantasies was a place of truth, and this was what was spawned there? Maybe the ministers were not wholly wrong about those with hidden powers-or “knacks,” as the Americans quaintly called them.

  “Mr. Miller,” said Wrily. “I wonder, since you're an American, if you have any personal knowledge of knacks.”

  The room fell silent. To speak of such things– it was only slightly less crude than to speak of personal hygiene. And when it was rising young barrister Verily Cooper doing the asking…

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Calvin.

  “Knacks,” said Verily. “Hidden powers. I know that they're legal in America, and yet Americans profess to be Christian. Therefore I'm curious about how such things are rationalized, when here they are considered to be proof of one's enslavement to Satan and worthy of a sentence of death.”

  “I'm no philosopher, sir,” said Calvin.

  Verily knew better. He could tell that Calvin was suddenly more guarded than ever. Verily's guess had been right. This Calvin Miller was lying because he had much to hide. “All the better,” said Verily. “Then there's a chance that your answer will make sense to a man as ignorant of such matters as I am.”

  “I wish you'd let me speak of other things,” said Calvin. “I think we might offend this company.”

  “Surely you don't imagine you were invited here for any reason other than your Americanness,” said Verily. “So why do you resist talking about the most obvious oddity of the American people?”

  There was a buzz of comment. Who had ever seen Verily be openly rude like this?

  Verily knew what he was doing, however. He hadn't interviewed a thousand witnesses without learning how to elicit truth even from the most flagrant habitual liar. Calvin Miller was a man who felt shame sharply. That was why he lied– to hide himself from anything that would shame him. If provoked, however, he would respond with heat, and the lies and calculation would give way to bits of honesty now and then. In short, Calvin Miller had a dander, and it was up.

  “Oddity?” asked Calvin. “Perhaps the odd thing is not having knacks, but rather denying that they exist or blaming them on Satan.”

  Now the buzz was louder. Calvin, by speaking honestly, had shocked and offended his pious listeners more than Verily's rudeness had. Yet this was a cosmopolitan crowd, and there were no ministers present. No one left the room; all watched, all listened with fascination.

  “Take that as your premise, then,” said Verily. “Explain to me and this company how these occult knacks came into the world, if not caused by the influence of the Devil. Surely you won't have us believe that we Englishmen burn people to death for having powers given to them by God?”

  Calvin shook his head. “I see that you want merely to provoke me, sir, into speaking in ways, that are against the law here.”

  “Not so,” said Verily. “There are three dozen witnesses in this salon right now who would testify that far from initiating this conversation, you were dragged into it. Furthermore, I am not asking you to preach to us. I'm merely asking you to tell us, as scientists, what Americans believe. It is no more a crime to tell about American beliefs concerning knacks than it is to report on Muslim harems and Hindu widow-burning. And this is a company of people who are eager to learn. If I'm wrong, please, let me be corrected.”

  No one spoke up to correct him. They were, in fact, dying to hear what the young American would say.

  “I'd say there's no consensus about it,” said Calvin. “I'd say that no one knows what to think. They just use the knacks that they ha
ve. Some say it's against God. Some say God made the world, knacks included, and it all depends on whether the knacks are used for righteousness or not. I've heard a lot of different opinions.”

  “But what is the wisest opinion that you've heard?” insisted Verily.

  He could feel it the moment Calvin decided on his answer: It was a kind of surrender. Calvin had been flailing around, but now he had given in to the inevitable. He was going to tell, if not the truth, then at least a true reporting of somebody else's truth.

  “One fellow says that knacks come because of a natural affinity between a person and some aspect of the world around him. It's not from God or Satan, he says. It's just part of the random variation in the world. This fellow says that a knack is really a matter of winning the trust of some part of reality. He reckons that the Reds, who don't believe in knacks, have found the truth behind it all. A White man gets it in his head he has a knack, and from then on all he works on is honing that particular talent. But if, like the Reds, he saw knacks as just an aspect of the way all things are connected together, then he wouldn't concentrate on just one talent. He'd keep working on all of them. So in this fellow's view, knacks are just the result of too much work on one thing, and not enough work on all the rest. Like a hodsman who carries bricks only on his right shoulder. His body's going to get twisted. You have to study it all, learn it all. Every knack is within our power to acquire it, I reckon, if only we…”

  His voice trailed off.

  When Calvin spoke again, it was in the crisp, clear, educated-sounding way he must have learned since reaching England. Only then did Verily and the others realize that his accent had changed during that long speech. He had shed the thin coating of Englishness and shown the American.

  “Who is this man who taught you all this lore?” asked Verily.

  “Does it matter? What does such a rough man know of nature?” Calvin spoke mockingly; but he was lying again, Verily knew it.

  “This 'rough man,' as you call him. I suspect he says a great deal more than the mere snippet you've given us today.”

  “Oh, you can't stop him from talking, he's so full of his own voice.” The bitterness in Calvin's tone was a powerful message to Verily: This is sincere. Calvin resents whoever this frontier philosopher is, resents him deeply. “But I'm not about to bore this company with the ravings of a frontier lunatic.”

  “But you don't think he's a lunatic, do you, Mr. Miller?” said Verily.

  A momentary pause. Think of your answer quickly, Calvin Miller. Find a way to deceive me, if you can.

  “I can't say, sir,” said Calvin. “I don't think he knows half as much as he lets on, but I wouldn't dare call my own brother a liar.”

  There was a sudden loud eruption of buzzing. Calvin Miller had a brother who philosophized about knacks and said they weren't from the Devil.

  More important to Verily was the fact that Calvin's words obviously didn't fit in with the world he actually believed in. Lies, lies. Calvin obviously believed that his brother was very wise indeed; that he probably knew more than Calvin was willing to admit.

  At this moment, without realizing it himself, Verily Cooper made the decision to go to America. Whoever Calvin's brother was, he knew something that Verily wanted desperately to learn. For there was a ring of truth in this man's ideas. Maybe if Verily could only meet him and talk to him, he could make Verily's own knack clear to him. Could tell him why he had such a talent and why it persisted even though his father tried to beat it out bf him.

  “What's your brother's name?” asked Verily.

  “Does that matter?” asked Calvin, a faint sneer in his voice. “Planning a visit to the backwoods soon?”

  “Is that where you're from? The backwoods?” asked Verily.

  Calvin immediately backtracked. “Actually, no, I was exaggerating. My father was a miller.”

  “How did the poor man die?” asked Verily.

  “He's not dead,” said Calvin.

  “But you spoke of him in the past tense. As if he were no longer a miller.”

  “He still runs a mill,” said Calvin.

  “You still haven't told me your brother's name.”

  “Same as my father's. Alvin.”

  “Alvin Miller?” asked Verily.

  “Used to be. But in America we still change our names with our professions. He's a journeyman smith now. Alvin Smith.”

  “And you remain Calvin Miller because…”

  “Because I haven't chosen my life's work yet.”

  “You hope to discover it in France?”

  Calvin leapt to his feet as if his most terrible secret had just been exposed. “I have to get home.”

  Verily also rose to his feet. “My friend, I fear my curiosity has made you feel uncomfortable. I will stop my questioning at once, and apologize to this whole company for having broached such difficult subjects tonight. I hope you will all excuse my insatiable curiosity.”

  Verily was at once reassured by many voices that it had been most interesting and no one was angry with or offended by anyone. The conversation broke into many smaller chats.

  In a few moments, Verily managed to maneuver himself close to the young American. “Your brother, Alvin Smith,” he said. “Tell me where I can find him.”

  “In America,” said Calvin; and because the conversation was private, he did not conceal his contempt.

  “Only slightly better than telling me to search for him on Earth,” said Verily. “Obviously you resent him. I have no desire to trouble you by asking you to tell me any more of his ideas. It will cost you nothing to tell me where he lives so I can search him out myself.”

  “You'd make a voyage across the ocean to meet with a boy who talks like a country bumpkin in order to learn what he thinks about knacks?”

  “Whether I make such a voyage or merely write him a letter is no concern of yours,” said Verily. “In the future I'm bound to be asked to defend people accused of witchery. Your brother may have the arguments that will allow me to save a client's life. Such ideas can't be found here in England because it would be the ruin of a man's career to explore too assiduously into the works of Satan.”

  “So why aren't you afraid of ruining your own career?” said Calvin.

  “Because whatever he knows, it's true enough to make a liar like you run halfway around the world to get away from the truth.”

  Calvin's expression grew ugly with hate. “How dare you speak to me like that! I could…”

  So Verily had guessed right, about the way Calvin fit into his own family back home. “The name of the town, and you and I will never have to speak again.”

  Calvin paused for a moment, weighing the decision. “I take you at your word, Mr. Rising Young Barrister Esquire. The town is Vigor Church, in Wobbish Territory. Near the mouth of Tippy-Canoe Creek. Go find my brother if you can. Learn from him– if you can. Then you can spend the rest of your life wondering if maybe you wouldn't have been better off trying to learn from me.”

  Verily laughed softly. “I don't think so, Calvin Miller. I already know how to lie, and alas, that's the only knack you have that you've practiced enough to be truly accomplished at it.”

  “In another time I would have shot you dead for that remark.”

  “But this is an age that loves liars,” said Verily. “That's why there are so many of us, acting out lives of pretense. I don't know what you're hoping to find in France, but I can promise you, it will be worthless to you in the long run, if your whole life up to that moment is a lie.”

  “Now you're a prophet? Now you can see into a man's heart?” Calvin sneered and backed away. “We had a deal. I told you where my brother lives. Now stay away from me.” Calvin Miller left the party, and, moments later, so did Verily Cooper. It was quite a scandal, Verily's acting so rudely in front of the whole company like that. Was it quite safe to invite him to dinners and parties anymore?

  Within a week that question ceased to matter. Verily Cooper was gone: resigned fro
m his law firm, his bank accounts closed, his apartment rented. He sent a brief letter to his parents, telling them only that he was going to America to interview a fellow about a case he was working on. He didn't add that it was the most important case of his life: his trial of himself as a witch. Nor did he tell them when, if ever, he meant to return to England. He was sailing west, and would then take whatever conveyance there was, even if it was his own feet on a rough path, to meet this fellow Alvin Smith, who said the first sensible thing about knacks that Verily had ever heard.

  On the very day that Verily Cooper set sail from Liverpool, Calvin Miller stepped onto the Calais ferry. From that moment on, Calvin spoke nothing but Freneh, determined to be fluent before he met Napoleon. He wouldn't think of Verily Cooper again for several years. He had bigger fish to fry. What did he care about what some London lawyer thought of him?

  Chapter 10 – Welcome Home

  Left to himself, Alvin likely wouldn't have come back to Hatrack River. Sure, it was his birthplace, but since his folks moved on before he was even sitting up by himself he didn't have no memories of the way it was then. He knew that the oldest settlers in that place were Horace Guester and Makepeace Smith and old Vanderwoort, the Dutch trader, so when he was born the roadhouse and the smithy and the general store must have been there already. But he couldn't conjure up no pictures in his memory of such a little place.

  The Hatrack River he knew was the village of his prenticeship, with a town square and a church with a preacher and Whitley Physicker to tend the sick and even a post office and enough folks with enough children that they got them up a subscription and hired them a schoolteacher. Which meant it was a real town by then, only what difference did that make to Alvin? He was stuck there from the age of eleven, bound over to a greedy master who squeezed the last ounce of work out of “his” boy while teaching him as little as possible, as late as possible. There was scarce any money, and neither time to get any pleasure from it nor pleasures to be bought if you had the time.