Orson Scott Card - Alvin 3 - Prentice Alvin

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PRENTICE ALVIN
The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume 3
by Orson Scott Card
(c) 1989 by Orson Scott Card
v1.1 (Jan-24-1999)
If you find and correct errors in the text, please update the version number by 0.1 and
redistribute.
Contents
1: The Overseer
2: Runaway
3: Lies
4: Modesty
5: Dowser
6: Masquerade
7: Wells
8: Unmaker
9: Redbird
10: Goodwife
11: Wand
12: School Board
13: Springhouse
14: River Rat
15: Teacher
16: Property
17: Spelling Bee
18: Manacles
19: The Plow
20: Cavil's Deed
21: Alvin Journeyman
Chapter 1 -- The Overseer
Let me start my history of Alvin's prenticeship where things first began to go wrong. It was a
long way south, a man that Alvin had never met nor never would meet in all his life. Yet he it was
who started things moving down the path that would lead to Alvin doing what the law called murder--
on the very day that his prenticeship ended and he rightly became a man.
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It was a place in Appalachee, in 1811, before Appalachee signed the Fugitive Slave Treaty and
joined the United States. It was near the borders where Appalachee and the Crown Colonies meet, so
there wasn't a White man but aspired to own a passel of Black slaves to do his work for him.
Slavery, that was a kind of alchemy for such White folk, or so they reckoned. They calculated a
way of turning each bead of a Black man's sweat into gold and each moan of despair from a Black
woman's throat into the sweet clear sound of a silver coin ringing on the money-changer's table.
There was buying and selling of souls in that place. Yet there was nary a one of them who
understood the whole price they paid for owning other folk.
Listen tight, and I'll tell you how the world looked from inside Cavil Planter's heart. But make
sure the children are asleep, for this is a part of my tale that children ought not to hear, for
it deals with hungers they don't understand too well, and I don't aim for this story to teach
them.
Cavil Planter was a godly man, a church-going man, a tithepayer. All his slaves were baptized
and given Christian names as soon as they understood enough English to be taught the gospel. He
forbade them to practice their dark arts-- he never allowed them to slaughter so much as a chicken
themselves, lest they convert such an innocent act into a sacrifice to some hideous god. In all
ways Cavil Planter served the Lord as best he could.
So, how was the poor man rewarded for his righteousness? His wife, Dolores, she was beset with
terrible aches and pains, her wrists and fingers twisting like an old woman's. By the time she was
twenty-five she went to sleep most nights crying, so that Cavil could not bear to share the room
with her.
He tried to help her. Packs of cold water, soaks of hot water, powders and potions, spending
more than he could afford on those charlatan doctors with their degrees from the University of
Camelot, and bringing in an endless parade of preachers, with their eternal prayers and priests
with their hocus-pocus incantations. All of it accomplished nigh onto nothing. Every night he had
to lie there listening to her cry until she whimpered, whimper until her breath became a steady in
and out, whining just a little on the out-breath, a faint little wisp of pain.
It like to drove Cavil mad with pity and rage and despair. For months on end it seemed to him
that he never slept at all. Work all day, then at night lie there praying for relief. If not for
her, then for him.
It was Dolores herself who gave him peace at night. "You have work to do each day, Cavil, and
can't do it unless you sleep. I can't keep silent, and you can't bear to hear me. Please-- sleep
in another room."
Cavil offered to stay anyway. "I'm your husband, I belong here" --he said it, but she knew
better.
"Go," she said. She even raised her voice. "Go!"
So he went, feeling ashamed of how relieved he felt. He slept that night without interruption, a
whole five hours until dawn, slept well for the first am in months, perhaps years-- and arose in
the morning consumed with guilt for not keeping his proper place beside his wife.
In due time, though, Cavil Planter became accustomed to sleeping alone. He visited his wife
often, morning and night. They took meals together, Cavil sitting on a chair in her room, his food
on a small side table, Dolores lying in bed as a Black woman carefully spooned food into her mouth
while her hands sprawled on the bedsheets like dead crabs.
Even sleeping in another room, Cavil wasn't free of torment. There would be no babies. There
would be no sons to raise up to inherit Cavil's fine plantation. There would be no daughters to
give away in magnificent weddings. The ballroom downstairs-- when he brought Dolores into the fine
new house he had built for her, he had said, "Our daughters will meet their beaus in this
ballroom, and first touch their hands, the way our hands first touched in your father's house."
Now Dolores never saw the ballroom. She came downstairs only on Sundays, to go to church and on
thow rare days when new slaves were purchased, so she could see to their baptism.
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Everyone saw her on such occasions, and admired them both for their courage and faith in
adversity. But the admiration of his neighbors was scant comfort when Cavil surveyed the ruins of
his dreams. All that he prayed for-- it's as if the Lord wrote down the list and then in the
margin noted "no, no, no" on every fine.
The disappointments might have embittered a man of weaker faith. But Cavil Planter was a godly,
upright man, and whenever he bad the faintest thought that God might have treated him badly, he
stopped whatever he was doing and pulled the small psaltery from his pocket and whispered aloud
the words of the wise man. In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust; Bow down thine ear to me; Be thou
my strong rock.
He concentrated his mind firmly, and the doubts and resentments quickly fled. The Lord was with
Cavil Planter, even in his tribulations.
Until the morning he was reading in Genesis and he came upon the first two verses of chapter 16.
Now Sarai Abram's wife bare him no children: and she had an handmaid, an Egyptian, whose name
was Hagar. And Sarai said unto Abram, Behold now, the Lord hath restrained me from bearing: I pray
thee, go in unto my maid: it may be that I may obtain children by her.
At that moment the thought came into his mind, Abraham was a righteous man, and so am I.
Abraham's wife bore him no children, and mine likewise has no hope. There was an African
slavewoman in their household, as there are such women in mine. Why shouldn't I do as Abraham did,
and father children by one of these?
The moment the thought came into his head, he shuddered in horror. He'd heard gossip of White
Spaniards and French and Portuguese in the jungle islands to the south who lived openly with Black
women-- truly they were the lowest kind of creature, like men who do with beasts. Besides, how
could a child of a Black woman ever be an heir to him? A mix-up boy could no more take possession
of an Appalachee plantation than fly. Cavil just put the thought right out of his mind.
But as he sat at breakfast with his wife, the thought came back. He found himself watching the
Black woman who fed his wife. Like Hagar, this woman is Egyptian, isn't she? He noticed how her
body twisted lithely at the waist as she bore the spoon from tray to mouth. Noticed how as she
leaned forward to hold the cup to the frail woman's lips, the servant's breasts swung down to
press against her blouse. Noticed how her gentle fingers brushed crurnbs and drops from Dolores's
lips. He thought of those fingers touching him, and trembled slightly. Yet it felt like an
earthquake inside him.
He rushed from the room with hardly a word. Outside the house, he clutched his psaltery.
Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, And cleanse me from my sin. For I my transgressions: And
my sin is ever before me.
Yet even as he whispered these words, he looked up and saw the field women washing themselves at
the bough. There was the young girl he had bought only a few days before, six hundred dollars even
though she was small, since she was probably breeding stock. So fresh from the boat she was that
she hadn't learned a speck of Christian modesty. She stood there naked as a snake, leaning over
the bough, pouring cups of water over her head and down her back.
Cavil stood transfixed, watching her. What had only been a brief thought of evil in his wife's
bedroom now became a trance of lust. He had never seen anything so graceful as her blue-black
thighs sliding against each other, so inviting as her shiver when the water ran down her body.
Was this the answer to his fervent psalm? Was the Lord telling him that it was indeed with him
as it had been with Abraham?
Just as likely it was witchery. Who knew what knacks these fresh-from-Africa Blacks might have?
She knows I'm here a-watching, and she's tempting me. These Blacks are truly the devil's own
children, to excite such evil thoughts in me.
He tore his gaze from the new girl and turned away, hiding his burning eyes in the words of the
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book. Only somehow the page had turned-- when did he turn it? --and he found himself reading in
the Song of Solomon.
Thy two breasts are like two young roes
That are twins, winch feed among the lilies
"God help me," he whispered. "Take this spell from me."
Day after day he whispered the same prayer, yet day after day he found himself watching his
slave-women with desire, particularly that newbought girl. Why was it God seemed to be paying him
no mind? Hadn't he always been a righteous man? Wasn't he good to his wife? Wasn't he honest in
business? Didn't he pay tithes and offerings? Didn't he treat his slaves and horses well? Why
didn't the Lord God of Heaven protect him and take this Black spell from him?
Yet even when he prayed, his very confessions became evil imaginings. O Lord, forgive me for
thinking of my newbought girl standing in the door of my bedroom, weeping at the caning she got
from the overseer. Forgive me for imagining myself laying her on my own bed and lifting her skirts
to anoint them with a balm so powerful the welts on her thighs and buttocks disappear before my
eyes and she begins to giggle softly and writhe slowly on the sheets and look over her shoulder at
me, smiling, and then she turns over and reaches out to me and-- O Lord, forgive me, save me!
Whenever this happened, though, he couldn't help but wonder-- why do such thoughts come to me
even when I pray? Maybe I'm as righteous as Abraham; maybe it's the Lord who sent these desires to
me. Didn't I first think of this while I was reading scripture? The Lord can work miracles-- what
if I went in unto the newbought girl and she conceived, and the Lord worked a miracle and the baby
was born White? All things are possible to God.
This thought was both wonderful and terrible. If only it were true! Yet Abraham heard the voice
of God, so he never had to wonder about what God might want of him. God never said a word to Cavil
Planter.
And why not? Why didn't God just tell him right out? Take the girl, she's yours! Or, Touch her
not, she is forbidden! Just let me hear your voice, Lord, so I'll know what to do!
O Lord my rock; Unto thee will I cry, Be not silent to me: Lest, if thou be silent to me, I
become like them, That go down into the pit.
On a certain day in 1810 that prayer was answered.
Cavil was kneeling in the curing shed, which was mostly empty, seeing how last year's burly crop
was long since sold and this year's was still a-greening in the field. He'd been wrestling in
prayer and confession and dark imaginings until at last he cried out, "Is there no one to hear my
prayer?"
"Oh, I hear you right enough," said a stern voice.
Cavil was terrified at first, fearing that some stranger-- his overseer, or a neighbor-- had
overheard some terrible confession. But when he looked, he saw that it wasn't anyone he knew.
Still, he knew at once what the man was. From the strength in his arms, his sun-browned face, and
his open shirt-- no jacket at all-- he knew the man was no gentleman. But he was no White trash,
either, nor a tradesman. The stern look in his face, the coldness of his eye, the tension in his
muscles like a spring tight-bound in a steel trap: He was plainly one of those men whose whip and
iron will keep discipline among the Black fieldworkers. An overseer. Only he was stronger and more
dangerous than any overseer Cavil had ever seen. He knew at once that this overseer would get
every ounce of work from the lazy apes who tried to avoid work in the fields. He knew that
whoever's plantation was run by this overseer would surely prosper. But Cavil also knew that he
would never dare to hire such a man, for this overseer was so strong that Cavil would soon forget
who was man and who was master.
"Many have called me their master," said the stranger. "I knew that you would recognize me at
once for what I am."
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How had the man known the words that Cavil thought in the hidden reaches of his mind? "Then you
are an overseer?"
"Just as there was one who was once called, not a master, but simply Master, so am I not an
overseer, but the Overseer.
"Why did you come here?"
"Because you called for me."
"How could I call for you, when I never saw you before in my life?"
"If you call for the unseen, Cavil Planter, then of course you will see what you never saw
before."
Only now did Cavil fully understand what sort of vision it was he saw, there in his own burly
curing shed. A man whom many called their master, come in answer to his prayer.
"Lord Jesus!" cried Cavil.
At once the Overseer recoiled, putting up his hand as if to fend off Cavil's words. "It is
forbidden for any man to call me by that name!" he cried.
In terror, Cavil bowed hishead to the dirt. "Forgive me, Overseer! But if I am unworthy to say
your name, how is it I can look upon your face? Or am I doomed to die today, unforgiven for my
sins?"
"Woe unto you, fool," said the Overseer. "Do you really believe that you have looked upon my
face?"
Cavil lifted his head and looked at the man. "I see your eyes even now, looking down at me."
"You see the face that you invented for me in your own mind, the body conjured out of your own
imagination. Your feeble wits could never comprehend what you saw, if you saw what I truly am. So
your sanity protects itself by devising its own mask to put upon me. If you see me as an Overseer,
it is because that is the guise you recognize as having the greatness and power I possess. It is
the form that you at once love and fear, the shape that makes you worship and recoil. I have been
called by many names. Angel of Light and Walking Man, Sudden Stranger and Bright Visitor, Hidden
One and Lion of War, Unmaker of Iron and Water-bearer. Today you have called me Overseer, and so,
to you, that is my name."
"Can I ever know your true name, or see your true face, Overseer?"
The Overseer's face became dark and terrible, and he opened his mouth as if to howl. "Only one
soul alive in all the world has ever seen my true shape, and that one will surely die!"
The mighty words came like dry thunder and shook Cavil Planter to his very root, so that he
gripped the dirt of the shed floor lest he fly off into the air like dust whipped away in the wind
before the storm. "Do not strike me dead for my impertinence!" cried Cavil.
The Overseer's answer came gentle as morning sunlight. "Strike you dead? How could I, when you
are a man I have chosen to receive my most secret teachings, a gospel unknown to priest or
minister."
"Me?"
"Already I have been teaching you, and you understood. I know you desire to do as I command. But
you lack faith. You are not yet completely mine."
Cavil's heart leapt within him. Could it be that the Overseer meant to give him what he gave to
Abraham? "Overseer, I am unworthy."
"Of course you are unworthy. None is worthy of me, no, not one soul upon this earth. But still,
if you obey, you may find favor in my eyes."
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file:///F|/rah/Orson%20Scott%20Card/The%20Tales%20of%20Alvin%20Maker%203\%20-%20Prentice%20Alvin.txtPRENTICEALVINTheTalesofAlvinMaker,Volume3byOrsonScottCard(c)1989byOrsonScottCardv1.1(Jan-24-1999)Ifyoufindandcorrecterrorsinthetext,pleaseupdatetheversion umberby0.1andredistribute.Contents1:TheOvers...

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