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Book: The Crystal City: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume VI by Orson Scott Card
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Authors: Orson Scott Card
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keeping food in the house, tending the fire, hauling the chamber pots to and from the sickroom. Moose and Squirrel didn’t allow them to come inside, though, for fear of contagion.
That didn’t stop Alvin from spending most of his concentration on the sick children. Having seen the disease at the end of its course in Dead Mary’s mother, he knew what to look for, and kept repairing the damage the disease was doing, including keeping the fever down enough that it didn’t harm them.
He also studied the sick children, trying to find out what caused the disease. He could see the tiny disease-fighting creatures in their blood, but he couldn’t see what they were hunting down the way he could with gangrene or some other sicknesses. So he couldn’t find any way to help them get rid of the cause of the disease. Still, he could see that it helped to keep the fever down and the seepage of blood under control. With Alvin tending to their bodies, the disease ran its course, but quickly, and never became dangerous.
And in the healthy children, whom he examined one by one, he found that most of them were already producing the disease-fighters, and he took such preventive action as he could.
What interested him, though, was the handful of children who did not get sick. Were they stronger? Luckier? What did they have in common?
Over the days of sickness in the house, Alvin checked on each of the ones who wasn’t ill. They were of different races, and both sexes. Some were older, some younger. They did tend to be the ones who read the most—he always found them curled up in some corner of the house, always indoors with a book in their hands, now that Papa Moose wasn’t patrolling to make sure none of them could be caught reading. But how could reading keep them from getting sick? Bookish people died all the time. In fact, they tended to be more frail, more easily carried off by disease.
Meanwhile, it was Arthur Stuart who kept his eyes open outside the house. The yellow fever was beginning to spread through the town, but the early cases all showed up in the area around the fountain. It was inevitable that people began to say that the “miracle water” had brought the fever back to Barcy. Many who still had any of it threw it out. But others were just as convinced it was the only cure, which God had sent in advance, knowing that the yellow fever was coming to smite the wicked.
Arthur Stuart was glad, for the first time he could remember, that white folks around here didn’t pay all that much attention to a half-black young man carrying water with his master. So far nobody had linked him or Alvin to the miracle water. But that didn’t mean somebody might not remember how he sat there in the plaza, waiting for his master to come back from some Swamptown shack where Dead Mary had said her mother might have yellow fever. No, said she did have it. The first victim of this epidemic.
And it occurred to Arthur that however much danger the house of Moose and Squirrel might be in, Dead Mary would face much worse, and much quicker, now that the yellow fever was back.
When this thought came to him he was in the market down in the old town, choosing whatever was cheap but still edible. He debated with himself for a moment—what was more urgent, to get food back to Alvin, or go check on the girl?
What would Alvin choose?
Well, that made it easy. He always went for the dramatic over the sensible—or rather, he chose whatever would cause him the most inconvenience and danger.
Arthur had already bought a sack of yams, and not a light one. It not only got heavier as he walked, but it made it so he couldn’t run—nothing was more sure to get him stopped than to be a half-black boy running with a sack of something on his back. Everybody knew that slaves on their masters’ business always moved about as slow as they could get away with, without somebody pronouncing them dead. So when a boy of color was running, it was sure to be a
That didn’t stop Alvin from spending most of his concentration on the sick children. Having seen the disease at the end of its course in Dead Mary’s mother, he knew what to look for, and kept repairing the damage the disease was doing, including keeping the fever down enough that it didn’t harm them.
He also studied the sick children, trying to find out what caused the disease. He could see the tiny disease-fighting creatures in their blood, but he couldn’t see what they were hunting down the way he could with gangrene or some other sicknesses. So he couldn’t find any way to help them get rid of the cause of the disease. Still, he could see that it helped to keep the fever down and the seepage of blood under control. With Alvin tending to their bodies, the disease ran its course, but quickly, and never became dangerous.
And in the healthy children, whom he examined one by one, he found that most of them were already producing the disease-fighters, and he took such preventive action as he could.
What interested him, though, was the handful of children who did not get sick. Were they stronger? Luckier? What did they have in common?
Over the days of sickness in the house, Alvin checked on each of the ones who wasn’t ill. They were of different races, and both sexes. Some were older, some younger. They did tend to be the ones who read the most—he always found them curled up in some corner of the house, always indoors with a book in their hands, now that Papa Moose wasn’t patrolling to make sure none of them could be caught reading. But how could reading keep them from getting sick? Bookish people died all the time. In fact, they tended to be more frail, more easily carried off by disease.
Meanwhile, it was Arthur Stuart who kept his eyes open outside the house. The yellow fever was beginning to spread through the town, but the early cases all showed up in the area around the fountain. It was inevitable that people began to say that the “miracle water” had brought the fever back to Barcy. Many who still had any of it threw it out. But others were just as convinced it was the only cure, which God had sent in advance, knowing that the yellow fever was coming to smite the wicked.
Arthur Stuart was glad, for the first time he could remember, that white folks around here didn’t pay all that much attention to a half-black young man carrying water with his master. So far nobody had linked him or Alvin to the miracle water. But that didn’t mean somebody might not remember how he sat there in the plaza, waiting for his master to come back from some Swamptown shack where Dead Mary had said her mother might have yellow fever. No, said she did have it. The first victim of this epidemic.
And it occurred to Arthur that however much danger the house of Moose and Squirrel might be in, Dead Mary would face much worse, and much quicker, now that the yellow fever was back.
When this thought came to him he was in the market down in the old town, choosing whatever was cheap but still edible. He debated with himself for a moment—what was more urgent, to get food back to Alvin, or go check on the girl?
What would Alvin choose?
Well, that made it easy. He always went for the dramatic over the sensible—or rather, he chose whatever would cause him the most inconvenience and danger.
Arthur had already bought a sack of yams, and not a light one. It not only got heavier as he walked, but it made it so he couldn’t run—nothing was more sure to get him stopped than to be a half-black boy running with a sack of something on his back. Everybody knew that slaves on their masters’ business always moved about as slow as they could get away with, without somebody pronouncing them dead. So when a boy of color was running, it was sure to be a
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