Seventh Son

Most times Alvin just listened to grown-ups lie and didn't say nothing about it, but this time it was Measure, and he especially didn't like having Measure lie to him.

“How old will I have to be before you tell me straight?” asked Alvin.

Measure's eyes flashed with anger for just a second– nobody likes being called a liar– but then he gri

“When's that?” Alvin demanded. “I want you to tell me the truth now, all the time.”

Measure squatted down again. “I can't always do that, Al, cause sometimes it'd just be too hard. Sometimes I'd have to explain things that I just don't know how to explain. Sometimes there's things that you have to figure out by living long enough.”

Alvin was mad and he knew his face showed it.

“Don't you be so mad at me, little brother. I can't tell you some things because I just don't know myself, and that's not lying. But you can count on this. If I can tell you, I will, and if I can't, I'll just say so, and won't pretend.”

That was the most fair thing a grown-up ever said, and it made Alvin's eyes fill up. “You keep that promise, Measure.”

“I'll keep it or die, you can count on that.”

“I won't forget, you know.” Alvin remembered the vow he had made to the Shining Man last night. “I know how to keep a promise, too.”

Measure laughed and pulled Alvin to him, hugged him right against his shoulder. “You're as bad as Mama,” he said. “You just don't let up.”

“I can't help it,” said Alvin. “If I start believing you, then how'll I know when to stop?”

“Never stop,” said Measure.

Calm rode up on his old mare about then, and Mama came out with the di

Papa didn't say much. Didn't have to. They both knew Alvin Junior had a knack for making things fit right, just like his Papa did. By nightfall the whole altar was put together and stained. They left it to dry, and as they walked into the house Papa's hand was firm on Alvin's shoulder. They walked together just as smooth and easy as if they were both parts of the same body, as if Papa's hand just growed there right out of Alvin's neck. Alvin could feel the pulse in Papa's fingers, and it was beating right in time with the blood pounding in his throat.

Mama was working by the fire when they came in. She turned and looked at them. “How is it?” she asked.

“It's the smoothest box I ever seen,” said Alvin Junior.

“There wasn't a single accident at the church today,” said Mama.

“Everything went real good here, too,” said Papa.

For the life of him Alvin Junior couldn't figure out why Mama's words sounded like “I ain't going nowhere,” and why Papa's words sounded like “Stay with me forever.” But he knew he wasn't crazy to think so, cause right then Measure looked up from where he lay all sprawled out afore the fire and winked so only Alvin Junior could see.

Chapter Eight – Visitor

Reverend Thrower allowed himself few vices, but one was to eat Friday supper with the Weavers. Friday di

They would eat in the room back of the Weavers' store, which was part kitchen, part workshop, and part library. Eleanor stirred the pot from time to time, and the smell of boiled venison and the day's bread baking mingled with the odors from the soapmaking shed out back and the tallow they used in candlemaking right here. “Oh, we're some of everything,” said Armor, the first time Reverend Thrower visited. “We do things that every farmer hereabouts can do for himself– but we do it better, and when they buy it from us it saves them hours of work, which gives them time to clear and plow and plant more land.”

The store itself, out front, was shelved to the ceiling, and the shelves were filled with dry goods brought in by wagon from points east– cotton cloth from the spi

Now, as they waited for Eleanor to a

“I've seen what they haul away,” said Reverend Thrower, “and I can't begin to guess what they use to pay you. Nobody makes cash money around here, and not much they can trade that'll sell back east.”

“They pay with lard and charcoal, ash and fine lumber, and of course food for Eleanor and me and– whoever else might come.” Only a fool wouldn't notice that Eleanor was thickening enough to be about halfway to a baby. “But mostly,” said Armor, “they pay with credit.”

“Credit! To farmers whose scalps might well be traded for muskets or liquor in Fort Detroit next winter?”

“There's a lot more talk of scalping than there is scalping going on,” said Armor. “The Reds around here aren't stupid. They know about the Irrakwa, and how they have seats in Congress in Philadelphia right along with White men, and how they have muskets, horses, farms, fields, and towns just like they do in Pe

“They might also have noticed the steady stream of flatboats coming down the Hio and wagons coming west, and the trees failing down and the log houses going up.”

“I reckon you're half right, Reverend,” said Armor. “I reckon the Reds might go either way. Might try to kill us all, or might try to settle down and live among us. Living with us wouldn't be exactly easy for them– they aren't much used to town living, whereas it's the most natural way for White folks to live. But fighting us has got to be worse, cause if they do that they'll end up dead. They may think that killing White folks might scare the others into staying away. They don't know how it is in Europe, how the dream of owning land will bring people five thousand miles to work harder than they ever did in their lives and bury children who might have lived in the home country and risk having a tommyhock mashed into their brains cause it's better to be your own man than to serve any lord. Except the Lord God.”