Alvin Jorneyman ttoam-4 Read online

  Alvin rolled his eyes. “She saw the plow on the night that it was made.”

  “Nevertheless,” said the judge, “three witnesses on this official occasion. You can show it to every visitor in the jail if you want to, but on this occasion, we have agreed to three, and three it is.”

  Peggy smiled at the judge. “You are a man of extraordinary integrity, sir,” she said. “I'm glad to know you're presiding at this trial.”

  When she was gone and the sheriff had closed the door to the jail, the judge looked at Alvin. “That was Peggy Guester? The torch girl?”

  Alvin nodded.

  “She grew up prettier than I ever expected,” said the judge. “I just wish I knew whether she was being sarcastic.”

  “I don't think so,” said Alvin. “But you're right, she has a way of saying even nice things as if she's only barely holding back from telling a bunch of stuff that ain't so nice.”

  “Whoever marries that one,” said the judge, “he better have a thick skin.”

  “Or a stout stick,” said Marty Laws, and then he laughed. But he laughed alone, and soon fell silent, vaguely embarrassed, uncertain why his joke had fallen so flat.

  Alvin reached under the cot and slid out the burlap bag that held the plow. He pulled back the mouth of the sack, so the plow sat exposed, surrounded by burlap, shining golden in the light from the high windows.

  “I'll be damned,” said Marty Laws. “It really is a plow, and it really is gold.”

  “Looks gold,” said the judge. “I think if we're to be honest witnesses, we have to touch it.”

  Alvin smiled. “I ain't stopping you.”

  The judge sighed and turned to the county attorney. “We forgot to get the sheriff to open the cell door.”

  “I'll fetch him,” said Marty.

  “Please cover the plow, Mr. Smith,” said the judge.

  “Don't bother,” said Alvin. He reached over and opened the cell door. The latch didn't even so much as make a sound; nor did the hinges squeak. The door just opened, silent and smooth.

  The judge looked down at the latch and lock. “Is this broken?” he asked.

  “Don't worry,” said Alvin. “It's working fine. Come on in and touch the plow, if you want.”

  Now that the door was open, they hung back. Finally Verily Cooper stepped in, the judge after him. But Marty held back. “There's something about that plow,” he said.

  “Nothing to be worried about,” said Alvin.

  “You're just bothered because the door opened so easy,” said the judge. “Come on in, Mr. Laws.”

  “Look,” said Marty. “It's trembling.”

  “Like I told you,” said Alvin, “it's alive.”

  Verily knelt down and reached out a hand toward the plow. With no one touching it yet, the plow slid toward him, dragging the burlap with it.

  Marty yelped and turned his back, pressing his face into the wall opposite the cell door.

  “You can't be much of a witness with your back turned,” said the judge.

  The plow slid to Verily. He laid his hand on the top of it. It slowly turned under his hand, turned and turned, around and around, smooth as an ice skater.

  “It is alive,” he said.

  “After a fashion,” said Alvin. “But it's got a mind of its own, so to speak. I mean, it's not like I've tamed it or nothing.”

  “Can I pick it up?” asked Verily.

  “I don't know,” said Alvin. “Nobody but me has ever tried.”

  “It would be useful,” said the judge, “if we could heft it to see if it weighs like gold, or if it's some other, lighter alloy.”

  “It's the purest gold you'll ever see in your life,” said Alvin, “but heft it if you can.”

  Verily squatted, got his hands under the plow, and lifted. He grunted at the weight of it, but it stayed in his hands as he lifted it. Still, there was some struggle with it. “It wants to turn,” said Verily.

  “It's a plow,” said Alvin. “It reckon it wants to find good soil,”

  “You wouldn't actually plow with this, would you?” said the judge.

  “I can't think why else I made it, if it ain't for plowing. I mean, if I was making a bowl I got the shape wrong, don't you think?”

  “Can you hand it to me?” asked the judge.

  “Of course,” said Verily. He stepped close to the judge and held the plow as the older man wrapped his hands around it. Then Verily let go.

  At once the plow began to buck in the judge's hands. Before the judge could drop it, Alvin reached out and rested his right hand on the plow's face. Immediately it went still.

  “Why didn't it do that with Mr. Cooper?” asked the judge, his voice trembling a little.

  “I reckon it knows Verily Cooper is my attorney,” said Alvin, grinning.

  “While I am impartial,” s aid the judge. “Perhaps Mr. Laws is correct not to handle it.”

  “But he has to,” said Verily. “He's the most important one to see it. He has to assure Mr. Webster and Makepeace Smith that it's the real plow, the gold plow, and that it's safe here in the jailhouse.”

  The judge handed the plow to Alvin, then left the cell and put his hand on Marty Laws' shoulder. “Come now, Mr. Laws, I've handled it, and even if it bucks a bit, it won't harm you.”

  Laws shook his head.

  “Marty,” said Alvin. “I don't know what you're afraid of, but I promise you that the plow won't hurt you, and you won't hurt it.”

  Marty turned sideways. “It was so bright,” he said. “It hurt my eyes.”

  “Just a glint of sunlight,” said the judge.

  “No sir,” said Marty. “No, your honor, It was bright. It was bright from way down deep inside itself. It shone right into me. I could feel it.”

  The judge looked at Alvin.

  “I don't know,” said Alvin. “It's not like I've been showing it to folks.”

  “I know what he means,” said Verily. “I didn't see it as light. But I felt it as warmth. When the bag fell open, the whole place felt warmer. But there's no harm in it, Mr. Laws. Please– I'll hold it with you.”

  “As will I,” said the judge.

  Alvin held the plow out to them.

  Marty slowly turned so he could watch, his head partly averted, as the other two witnesses got their hands on and under the plow. Only then did he sidle forward and gingerly lay his fingertips on and under the golden plowshare. He was sweating something awful, and Alvin felt plain sorry for him, but couldn't begin to understand what the man was going through. The plow had always felt comfortable and friendly-like to him. What did it mean to Marty?

  When the thing didn't hurt him, Marty gained confidence, and shifted his hands to get some of the weight of the plow. Still his eyes were squinted and he looked sidelong, as if to protect one eye in case the other one was suddenly blinded. “I can hold it alone, I guess,” he said.

  “Let Mr. Smith keep his hand on it, so it doesn't buck,” said the judge.

  Alvin left his hand, but the others took their hands away, and Marty held the plow alone.

  “I reckon it weighs like gold,” said Marty.

  Alvin reached under the plow and got hold of it. “I got it now, Marty,” he said.

  Marty let go– reluctantly, it seemed to Alvin.

  “Anyway, I reckon you can see why I don't just let anyone have a grab at it,” said Alvin.

  “I'd hate to think what shape I'd be in if I dropped it on my toe,” said the judge.

  “Oh, it lands easy,” said Alvin.

  “It really is alive,” said Verily softly.

  “You're a bold fellow,” said the judge to Alvin. “Your attorney was quite adamant about having a hearing on the extradition matter before we even empanel a jury about the larceny business.”

  Alvin looked at Verily. “I reckon my attorney knows what he's doing.”

  “I told them,” said Verily, “that my defense would be that the finder was not engaged in lawful business, since by the cachet they car
ried, Arthur Stuart could not possibly be identified.”

  Alvin knew that this was more a question than a statement. “They walked right by Arthur Stuart that night,” said Alvin.

  “We are going to bring a group of Slave Finders from Wheelwright to see if they can pick Arthur Stuart from a group of boys about his age,” said Verily. “Their faces and hands will be hidden, of course.”

  “Make sure,” said Alvin, “to get a couple of Mock Berry's boys in the group, along with whatever White boys you settle on. I reckon those as spends their whole lives looking for Black folks might have some ways of spotting which is which, even if they got gloves on and bags over their heads.”

  “Mock Berry?” asked the judge.

  “He's a Black fellow,” explained Marty. “Free Black, mind you. Him and Anga his wife, they've got a passle of young folks in a cabin in the woods not far from the roadhouse.”

  “Well, that's a good idea, to have some Black boys in the mix,” said the judge. “And maybe I'll see to a few others things to make things stay fair.” He reached out to the plow, which Alvin still held in his hands. “Mind if I touch it one more time?”

  He did; the plow trembled under his hand.

  “If the jury should decide that this is truly Makepeace Smith's gold,” said the judge, “I wonder how he's going to get it home?”

  “Your Honor,” Marty protested.

  The judge glared at him. “Don't you even for a moment imagine that I'm going to be anything but completely fair and impartial in the conduct of this trial.”

  Marty shook his head and held out his hands as if to ward off the very thought of impartiality.

  “Besides,” said the judge. “You saw what you saw, too. You going to turn the trial over to Mr. Webster, now that you seen it move and shine and what not?”

  Marty shook his head. “The point at issue is whether Alvin Smith made the plow with gold that belonged to Makepeace. What the plow is like, its other properties– I don't see but what that's completely irrelevant.”

  “Exactly,” said the judge. “All we needed to verify right now is that it exists, it's gold, and it should remain in Alvin's custody while Alvin remains in the custody of the sheriff. I think we've determined all three points to everyone's satisfaction. Right, gentlemen?”

  “Right,” said Marty.

  Verily smiled.

  Alvin put the plow back in the burlap bag.

  As they left the cell, the judge carefully closed the door until the latch clicked. Then he tried to open it and couldn't. “Well, I'm glad to see the jail is secure.” He didn't grin when he said it. He didn't have to.

  Po Doggly looked beside himself with curiosity as they emerged from the jail into the outer office. In moments he was inside the jail, looking through bars at Alvin, hoping to catch a glint of gold.

  “Sorry, Sheriff,” said Alvin. “All put away.”

  “You got no sense of sport, Alvin,” said Doggly. “You couldn't even leave the top open a little bit?”

  “I won't mind a bit if you're one of the eight,” said Alvin. “Let's see what happens.”

  “Not a bad idea,” said Doggly. “And thank you for not minding. I won't do that, though. Better to use eight ordinary citizens, instead of a public official. I'm just curious, you know. Never saw that much gold in all my life, and I'd like to be able to tell my grandchildren.”

  “So would I,” said Alvin, And then: “Sheriff Doggly, Peggy Larner wouldn't still be out there, would she?”

  “No. Sorry, Al. She's gone. Reckon she went on home to say howdy to her pa.”

  “Reckon so,” said Alvin. “No matter.”

  * * *

  Arthur Stuart would never have called himself a spy. He couldn't help it that he was short. He couldn't help it that his skin was dark and that, being shy, he tended to stand in shadows and hold very, very still so people overlooked him quite easily. He wasn't aware that some of the greensong from his long journeys with Alvin still lingered with him, a melody in the back of his mind, so that his step was unusually quiet, twigs tended to bend out of his way, and boards didn't often squeak under his step.

  But when it came to his visit to Vilate's house, well, it wasn't no accident she didn't see him. In fact, he made it a point not to step on the porch of the post office, so he couldn't very well walk through the front door and make the bell ring. Nor, when he got around to the back of Vilate Franker's house, did he knock on her back door or ask her permission before climbing up on her rain barrel and leaning over to look through her window into her kitchen, where the teapot simmered on the stove and Vilate sat drinking tea and carrying on quite a lively conversation with…

  With a salamander.

  Not a lizard– even from the window, Arthur Stuart could see there were no scales. Besides, you didn't have to be some kind of genius to know a salamander from a lizard at five paces. Arthur Stuart was a boy, and boys tended to know such things. Moreover, Arthur Stuart had been an unusually solitary and inquisitive boy, and he had a way with animals, so even if some other boy might make a mistake, Arthur Stuart never would. It was a salamander.

  Vilate would say something, and then sip her tea, glancing up from the cup now and then to nod or murmur something. “Mm-hm”; “I know”; “Isn't it just awful?” –as if the salamander was saying something.

  But the salamander didn't say nothing. Didn't even look at her, most of the time, though truth to tell you never quite knew for sure what a salamander was looking at, because if one eye was looking there, the other might be looking here, and how would you know? Still and all, Arthur was pretty sure it looked right at him. Knew he was there. But didn't seem to get alarmed or nothing, so Arthur just kept on looking and listening.

  “A man shouldn't trifle with a lady's affections,” she was saying. “Once a man goes down that road, the lady has a right to protect herself as best she can.” Another sip. Another nod. “Oh, I know. And the worst of it is, people are going to think so badly of me. But everyone knows that Alvin Smith has hidden powers. Of course I couldn't help myself.”

  Another sip. And then, abruptly, tears streamed out of her eyes.

  “Oh, my dear, dear soul, my friend, my beloved trusted friend, how can I do this? I really do care for the boy. I really do care for him. Why oh why couldn't he have loved me? Why did he have to spurn me and make me do this?”

  And so it went. Arthur wasn't no dummy. He knew right off that Vilate Franker was planning some kind of devilment against Alvin, and he sort of hoped she might mention what it was, though that wasn't too likely, since all she talked about was how bad she felt and how she hated to do it but it was a lady's right to defend her honor even though it might involve giving the appearance of having no honor but that's why it was so good having such a good, true, wonderful friend.

  Ah, the tears that flowed. Ah, the sighs. Ah, the quart of tea she consumed while Arthur leaned on the sill, watching, listening.

  Oddly, though, as soon as the tears were done, her face just went clean. Not a streak. Not a trace of redness around the eyes. Not a sign that she had even shed a tear.

  The tea eventually took its toll. Vilate slid her chair back and rose to her feet. Arthur knew where the privy was; he immediately jumped from the rain barrel and ran around the front of the house before the door even opened leading out to the back. Then, knowing she couldn't possibly hear the bell, he opened the post office door, went inside, clambered over the counter, and made his way into the kitchen from the front of the house. There was the salamander, licking a bit of tea that had spilled from the saucer. As Arthur entered, the salamander lifted its head. Then it scurried back and forth, making a shape on the table. One triangle. Another triangle crossing it.

  A hex.

  Arthur moved to the chair where Vilate had been sitting. Standing, his head was just about at the height her head was at when she was seated. And as he leaned over her chair, the salamander changed.

  No, not really. No, the salamander disappeared. Inste
ad, a woman was sitting in the chair across from him.

  “You're an evil little boy,” the woman said with a sad smile.

  Arthur hardly even noticed what she said. Because he knew her. It was Old Peg Guester. The woman he called Mother. The woman who was buried under a certain stone marker on the hill behind the roadhouse, near his real mother, the runaway slave girl he never met. Old Peg was there.

  But it wasn't Old Peg. It was the salamander.

  “And you imagine things, you nasty boy. You make up stories.”

  Old Peg used to call him her “nasty boy,” but it was a tease. It was when he repeated something someone else had said. She would laugh and call him nasty boy and give him a hug and tell him not to repeat that remark to anyone.

  But this woman, this pretend Old Peg, she meant it. She thought he was a nasty boy.

  He moved away from the chair. The salamander was back on the table and Old Peg was gone. Arthur knelt by the table to look at the salamander at eye level. It stared into his eyes. Arthur stared back.

  He used to do this for hours with animals in the forest. When he was very little, he understood them. He came away with their story in his mind. Gradually that ability faded. Now he caught only glimmers. But then, he didn't spend as much time with animals anymore. Maybe if he tried hard enough…

  “Don't forget me, salamander,” he whispered. “I want to know your story. I want to know who taught you how to make them hexes on the table.”

  He reached out a hand, then slowly let a single finger come to rest on the salamander's head. It didn't recoil from him; it didn't move even when his finger made contact. It just looked at him.

  “What are you doing indoors?” he whispered. “You don't like it indo ors. You want to be outside. Near the water. In the mud. In the leaves. With bugs.”

  It was the kind of thing Alvin did, murmuring to animals, suggesting things to them.

  “I can take you back to the mud if you want. Come with me, if you want. Come with me, if you can.”

  The salamander raised a foreleg, then slowly set it down. One step closer to Arthur.

  And from the salamander he thought he felt a hunger, a desire for food, but more than that, a desire for… for freedom. The salamander didn't like being a prisoner.