Orson Scott Card - Alvin 2 - Red Prophet

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RED PROPHET

The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume 2

by Orson Scott Card

v1.1 (Jan-24-1999)

If you find and correct errors in this text, please update the version number by 0.1 and

redistribute.

Author's Note

This story takes place in an America whose history is often similar to, but often quite

different from our own. You should not assume that the portrayal in this book of a person who

shares a name with a figure from American history is an accurate portrayal of that historical

figure. In particular, you should be aware that William Henry Harrison, famed in our own history

for having the briefest presidency and for his unforgettable election slogan "Tippecanoe and Tyler

too," was a somewhat nicer person than his counterpart in this book.

My thanks to Carol Breakstone for American Indian lore; to Beth Meacham for Octagon Mound and

Flint Ridge; to Wayne Williams for heroic patience; and to my great-great-grandfather Joseph for

the stories behind the story in this book.

As always with my work, Kristine A. Card has influenced and improved every page in this book.

Chapter 1 -- Hooch

Not many flatboats were getting down the Hio these days, not with pioneers aboard, anyway, not

with families and tools and furniture and seed and a few shoats to start a pig herd. It took only

a couple of fire arrows and pretty soon some tribe of Reds would have themselves a string of half-

charred scalps to sell to the French in Detroit.

But Hooch Palmer had no such trouble. The Reds all knew the look of his flatboat, stacked high

with kegs. Most of those kegs sloshed with whisky, which was about the only musical sound them

Reds understood. But in the middle of the vast heap of cooperage there was one keg that didn't

slosh. It was filled with gunpowder, and it had a fuse attached.

How did he use that gunpowder? They'd be floating along with the current, poling on round a

bend, and all of a sudden there'd be a half-dozen canoes filled with painted-up Reds of the Kicky-

Poo persuasion. Or they'd see a fire burning near shore, and some Shaw-Nee devils dancing around

with arrows ready to set alight.

For most folks that meant it was time to pray, fight, and die. Not Hooch, though. He'd stand

right up in the middle of that flatboat, a torch in one hand and the fuse in the other, and shout,

"Blow up whisky! Blow up whisky!"

Well, most Reds didn't talk much English, but they sure knew what "blow up" and "whisky" meant.

And I instead of arrows flying or canoes overtaking them, pretty soon them canoes passed by him on

the far side of the river. Some Red yelled, "Carthage City!" and Hooch hollered back, "That's

right!" and the canoes just zipped on down the Hio, heading for where that likker would soon be

sold.

The poleboys, of course, it was their first trip downriver, and they, didn't know all that Hooch

Palmer knew, so they about filled their trousers first time they saw them Reds with fire arrows.

And when they saw Hooch holding his torch by that fuse, they like to jumped right in the river.

Hooch just laughed and laughed. "You boys don't know about Reds and likker," he said. "They won't

do nothing that might cause a single drop from these kegs to spill into the Hio. They'd kill their

own mother and not think twice, if she stood between them and a keg, but they won't touch us as

long as I got the gunpowder ready to blow if they lay one hand on me."

Privately the poleboys might wonder if Hooch really would blow the whole raft, crew and all, but

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the fact is Hooch would. He wasn't much of a thinker, nor did he spend much time brooding about

death and the hereafter or such philosophical questions, but this much he had decided: when he

died, he supposed he wouldn't die alone. He also supposed that if somebody killed him, they'd get

no profit from the deed, none at all. Specially not some half-drunk weak-sister cowardly Red with

a scalping knife.

The best secret of all was, Hooch wouldn't need no torch and he wouldn't need no fuse, neither.

Why, that fuse didn't even go right into the gunpowder keg, if the truth be known-- Hooch didn't

want a chance of that powder going off by accident. No, if Hooch ever needed to blow up his

flatboat, he could just set down and think about it for a while. And pretty soon that powder would

start to hotten up right smart, and maybe a little smoke would come off it, and then pow! it goes

off.

That's right. Old Hooch was a spark. Oh, there's some folks says there's no such thing as a

spark, and for proof they say, "Have you ever met a spark, or knowed anybody who did?" but that's

no proof at all. Cause if you happen to be a spark, you don't go around telling everybody, do you?

It's not as if anybody's hoping to hire your services-- it's too easy to use flint and steel, or

even them alchemical matches. No, the only value there is to being a spark is if you want to start

a fire from a distance, and the only time you want to do that is if it's a bad fire, meant to hurt

somebody, burn down a building, blow something up. And if you hire out that kind of service, you

don't exactly put up a sign that says Spark For Hire.

Worst of it is that if word once gets around that you're a spark, every little fire gets blamed

on you. Somebody's boy lights up a pipe out in the bam, and the barn burns down-- does that boy

ever say, "Yep, Pa, it was me all right." No sir, that boy says, "Must've been some spark set that

fire, Pa!" and then they go looking for you, the neighborhood scapegoat. No, Hooch was no fool. He

didn't ever tell nobody about how he could get things het up and flaming.

There was another reason Hooch didn't use his sparking ability too much. It was a reason so

secret that Hooch didn't rightly know it himself. Thing was, fire scared him. Scared him deep. The

way some folks is scared of water, and so they go to sea; and some folks is scared of death, and

so they take up gravedigging; and some folks is scared of God, and so they set to preaching. Well

Hooch feared the fire like he feared no other thing, and so he was always drawn to it, with that

sick feeling in his stomach; but when it was time for him to lay a fire himself, why, he'd back

off, he'd delay, he'd think of reasons why he shouldn't do it at all. Hooch had a knack, but he

was powerful reluctant to make much use of it.

But he would have done it. He would have blown up that powder and himself and his poleboys, and

all his likker, before he'd let a Red take it by murder. Hooch might have his bad fear of fire,

but he'd overcome it right quick if he got mad enough.

Good thing, then, that the Reds loved likker so much they didn't want to risk spilling a drop.

No canoe came too close, no arrow whizzed in to thud and twang against a keg, and Hooch and his

kegs and casks and firkins and barrels all slipped along the top of the water peaceful as you

please, clear to Carthage City, which was Governor Harrison's high-falutin name for a stockade

with a hundred soldiers right smack where the Little My-Ammy River met the Hio. But Bill Harrison

was the kind of man who gave the name first, then worked hard to make the place live up to the

name. And sure enough, there was about fifty chimney fires outside the stockade this time, which

meant Carthage City was almost up to being a village.

He could hear them yelling before he hove into view of the wharf-- there must be Reds who spent

half their life just setting on the riverbank waiting for the likker boat to come in. And Hooch

knew they were specially eager this time, seeing as how some money changed hands back in Fort

Dekane, so the other likker dealers got held up this way and that until old Carthage City must be

dry as the inside of a bull's tit. Now here comes Hooch with his flatboat loaded up heavier than

they ever saw, and he'd get a price this time, that's for sure.

Bill Harrison might be vain as a partridge, taking on airs and calling himself governor when

nobody elected him and nobody appointed him but his own self, but he knew his business. He had

those boys of his in smart-looking uniforms, lined up at the wharf just as neat as you please,

their muskets loaded and ready to shoot down the first Red who so much as took a step toward the

shore. It was no formality, neither-- them Reds looked mighty eager, Hooch could see. Not jumping

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up and down like children, of course, but just standing there, just standing and watching, right

out in the open, not caring who saw them, half-naked the way they mostly were in summertime.

Standing there all humble, all ready to bow and scrape, to beg and plead, to say, Please Mr.

Hooch one keg for thirty deerskins, oh that would sound sweet, oh indeed it would; Please Mr.

Hooch one tin cup of likker for these ten muskrat hides. "Whee-haw!" cried Hooch. The poleboys

looked at him like he was crazy, cause they didn't know, they never saw how these Reds used to

look, back before Governor Harrison set up shop here, the way they never deigned to look at a

White man, the way you had to crawl into their wicky-ups and choke half to death on smoke and

steam and sit there making signs and talking their jub-jub until you got permission to wade. Used

to be the Reds would be standing there with bows and spears, and you'd be scared to death they'd

decide your scalp was worth more than your trade goods.

Not anymore. Now they didn't have a single weapon among them. Now their tongues just hung out

waiting for likker. And they'd drink and drink and drink and drink and drink and whee-haw! They'd

drop down dead before they'd ever stop drinking, which was the best thing of all, best thing of

all. Only good Red's a dead Red, Hooch always said, and the way he and Bill Harrison had things

going now, they had them Reds dying of likker at a good clip, and paying for the privilege along

the way.

So Hooch was about as happy a man as you ever saw when they tied up at the Carthage City Wharf.

The sergeant even saluted him, if you could believe it! A far cry from the way the U.S. Marshalls

treated him back in Suskwahenny, acting like he was scum they just scraped off the privy seat. Out

here in this new country, free-spirited men like Hooch were treated most like gentlemen, and that

suited Hooch just fine. Let them pioneers with their tough ugly wives and wiry little brats go

hack down trees and cut up the dirt and raise corn and hogs just to live. Not Hooch. He'd come in

after, after the fields were all nice and neat looking and the houses were all in fine rows on

squared-off streets, and then he'd take his money and buy him the biggest house in town, and the

banker would step off the sidewalk into the mud to make way for him, and the mayor would call him

sir-- if he didn't decide to be mayor himself by then.

This was the message of the sergeant's salute, telling his future for him, when he stepped

ashore.

"We'll unload here, Mr. Hooch," said the sergeant.

"I've got a bill of lading," said Hooch, "so let's have no privateering by your boys. Though I'd

allow as how there's probably one keg of good rye whisky that somehow didn't exactly get counted

on here. I'd bet that one keg wouldn't be missed."

"We'll be as careful as you please, sir," said the sergeant, but he had a grin so wide it showed

his hind teeth, and Hooch knew he'd find a way to keep a good half of that extra keg for himself.

If he was stupid, he'd sell his half-keg bit by bit to the Reds. You don't get rich off a half keg

of whisky. No, if that sergeant was smart, he'd share that half keg, shot by shot, with the

officers that seemed most likely to give him advancement, and if he kept that up, someday that

sergeant wouldn't be out greeting flathoats, no Sir, he'd be sitting in officers' quarters with a

pretty wife in his bedroom and a good steel sword at his hip.

Not that Hooch would ever tell this to the sergeant. The way Hooch figured, if a man had to be

told, he didn't have brains enough to do the job anyway. And if he had the brains to bring it off,

he didn't need no flatboat likker dealer telling him what to do.

"Governor Harrison wants to see you," said the sergeant.

"And I want to see him," said Hooch. "But I need a bath and a shave and clean clothes first."

"Governor says for you to stay in the old mansion."

"Old one?" said Hooch. Harrison had built the official mansion only four years before. Hooch

could think of only one reason why Bill might have upped and built another so soon. "Well, now,

has Governor Bill gone and got hisself a new wife?"

"He has," said the sergeant. "Pretty as you please, and only fifteen years old, if you like

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that! She's from Manhattan, though, so she don't talk much English or anyway it don't sound like

English when she does."

That was all right with Hooch. He talked Dutch real good, almost as good as he talked English

and a lot better than he talked Shaw-Nee. He'd make friends with Bill Harrison's wife in no time.

He even toyed with the idea of-- but no, no, it wasn't no good to mess with another man's woman.

Hooch had the desire often enough, but he knew things got way too complicated once you set foot on

that road. Besides, he didn't really need no White woman, not with all these thirsty squaws

around.

Would Bill Harrison bring his children out here, now he had a second wife? Hooch wasn't too sure

how old them boys would be now, but old enough they might relish the frontier life. Still, Hooch

had a vague feeling that the boys'd be a lot better off staying in Philadelphia with their aunt.

Not because they shouldn't be out in wild country, but because they shouldn't be near their

father. Hooch liked Bill Harrison just fine, but he wouldn't pick him as the ideal guardian for

children-- even for Bill's own.

Hooch stopped at the gate of the stockade. Now, there was a nice touch. Right along with the

standard hexes and tokens that were supposed to ward off enemies and fire and other such things,

Governor Bill had put up a sign, the width of the gate. In big letters it said

CARTHAGE CITY

and in smaller letters it said

CAPITAL OF THE STATE OF WOBBISH

which was just the sort of thing old Bill would think of. In a way, he expected that sign was

more powerful than any of the hexes. As a spark, for instance, Hooch knew that the hex against

fire wouldn't stop him, it'd just make it harder to start a fire up right near the hex. If he got

a good blaze going somewhere else, that hex would burn up just like anything else. But that sign,

naming Wobbish a state and Carthage its capital, why, that might actually have some power in it,

power over the way folks thought. If you say a thing often enough, people come to expect it to be

true, and pretty soon it becomes true. Oh, not sornething like "The moon is going to stop in its

tracks and go backward tonight," cause for that to work the moon'd have to hear your words. But if

you say things like "That girl's easy" or "That man's a thief," it doesn't much matter whether the

person you're talking about believes you or not-- everybody else comes to believe it, and treats

them like it was true. So Hooch figured that if Harrison got enough people to see a sign that

named Carthage as the capital of the state of Wobbish, someday it'd plumb come to be.

Fact is, though, Hooch didn't much care whether it was Harrison who got to be governor and put

his capital in Carthage City, or whether it was that teetotaling self-righteous prig Armor-of-God

Weaver up north, where Tippy-Canoe Creek flowed into the Wobbish River, who got to be governor and

make Vigor Church the capital. Let those two fight it out; whoever won, Hooch intended to be a

rich man and do as he liked. Either that or see the whole place go up in flames. If Hooch ever got

completely beat down and broken, he'd make sure nobody else profited. When a spark had no hope

left, he could still get even, which is about all the good Hooch figured he got out of being a

spark.

Well, of course, as a spark he made sure his bathwater was always hot, so it wasn't a total

loss. Sure was a nice change, getting off the river and back into civilized life. The clothes laid

out for him were clean, and it felt good to get that prickly beard off his face. Not to mention

the fact that the squaw who bathed him was real eager to get an extra dose of likker, and if

Harrison hadn't sent a soldier knocking on his door telling him to hurry it up, Hooch might have

collected the first installment of her trade goods. Instead, though, he dried and dressed.

She looked real, concerned when he started for the door. "You be back?" she asked.

"Look here, of course I will," he said. "And I'll have a keg with me."

"Before dark though," she said.

"Well maybe yes and maybe no," he answered. "Who cares?"

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"After dark, all Reds like me, outside fort."

"Is that so," murmured Hooch. "Well, I'll try to be back before dark. And if I don't, I'll

remember you. May forget your face, but I won't forget your hands, hey? That was a real nice

bath."

She smiled, but it was a grotesque imitation of a real smile. Hooch just couldn't figure out why

the Reds didn't die out years ago, their women were so ugly. But if you kind of closed your eyes,

a squaw would do well enough until you could get back to real women.

It wasn't just a new mansion Harrison had built-- he had added a whole new section of stockade,

so the fort was about twice the size it used to be. And a good solid parapet ran the whole length

of the stockade. Harrison was ready for war. That made Hooch pretty uneasy. The likker trade

didn't thrive too good in wartime. The kind of Reds who fought battles weren't the kind of Reds

who drank likker. Hooch saw so much of the latter kind that he pretty much forgot the former kind

existed. There was even a cannon. No, two cannons. This didn't look good at all.

Harrison's office wasn't in the mansion, though. It was in another building entirely, a new

headquarters building, and Harrison's office was in the southwest corner, with lots of light.

Hooch noticed that besides the normal complement of soldiers on guard and officers doing

paperwork, there were several Reds sprawling or sitting in the headquarters building. Harrison's

tame Reds, of course-- he always kept a few around.

But there were more tame Reds than usual, and the only one Hooch recognized was Lolla-Wossiky, a

one-eyed Shaw-Nee who was always about the drunkest Red who wasn't dead yet. Even the other Reds

made fun of him, he was so bad, a real lickspittle.

What made it even funnier was the fact that Harrison himself was the man who shot Lolla-

Wossiky's father, some fifteen years ago, when Lolla-Wossiky was just a little tyke, standing

right there watching. Harrison even told the story sometimes right in front of Lolla-Wossiky, and

the one-eyed drunk just nodded and laughed and grinned and acted like he had no brains at all, no

human dignity, just about the lowest, crawliest Red that Hooch ever seen. He didn't even care

about revenge for his dead papa, just so long as he got his likker. No, Hooch wasn't a bit

surprised to see that Lolla-Wossiky was lying right on the floor outside Harrison's office, so

every time the door opened, it bumped him right in the butt. Incredibly, even now, when there

hadn't been new likker in Carthage City in four months, Lolla-Wossiky was pickled. He saw Hooch

come in, sat up on one elbow, waved an arm in greeting, and then rocked back onto the floor

without a sound. The handkerchief he kept tied over his missing eye was out of place, so the empty

socket with the sucked-in eyelids was plainly visible. Hooch felt like that empty eye was looking

at him. He didn't like that feeling. He didn't like Lolla-Wossiky. Harrison was the kind of man

who liked having such squalid creatures around-- made him feel real good about himself, by

contrast, Hooch figured, but Hooch didn't like seeing such miserable specimens of humanity. Why

hadn't Lolla-Wossiky died yet?

Just as he was about to open Harrison's door, Hooch looked up from the drunken one-eyed Red into

the eyes of another man, and here's the funny thing: He thought for a second it was Lolla-Wossiky

again, they looked so much alike. Only it was Lolla-Wossiky with both eyes, and not drunk at all,

no sir. This Red must be six feet from sole to scalp, leaning against the wall, his head shaved

except his scalplock, his clothing clean. He stood straight, like a soldier at attention, and he

didn't so much as look at Hooch. His eyes stared straight into space. Yet Hooch knew that this boy

saw everything, even though he focused on nothing. It had been a long time since Hooch saw a Red

who looked like that, all cold and in control of things.

Dangerous, dangerous, is Harrison getting careless, to let a Red into his own headquarters with

eyes like those? With a bearing like a king, and arms so strong he looks like he could pull a bow

made from the trunk of a six-year-old oak? Lolla-Wossiky was so contemptible it made Hooch sick.

But this Red who looked like Lolla-Wossiky, he was the opposite. And instead of making Hooch sick,

he made Hooch mad, to be so proud and defiant as if he thought he was as good a man as any White.

No, better. That's how he looked-- like he thought he was better.

Then he realized he was just standing there, his hand on the latch pull, staring at the Red.

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