Read Online The Crystal City: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume VI by Orson Scott Card - Free Book Online Page A

crime in progress.
    So he walked, but quickly, and followed, as best he could find it, the path he’d seen Alvin’s and Dead Mary’s heartfires trace through the swamps. He knew he didn’t see heartfires anywhere near as well as Alvin did, and once they got a few hundred yards off, or mixed in with a lot of other folks, it was hopeless. But Alvin’s heartfire he could follow, it was so bright and strong, and not only that, when he followed Alvin he could see, like a sort of backwash, something of where he was, the terrain he was moving through. And he had traced along with Alvin and Dead Mary all the way to her mother’s house. He had seen her heartfire flicker and grow strong, even if he didn’t understand what Alvin had done.
    Now it took a bit of splashing around and slapping at skeeters before he finally got to the plank bridge leading to Dead Mary’s house. He stood this side of the plank and clapped his hands. “Hello the house!” he called. “Company!” Which was wrong, of course—he was supposed to call out, “Alvin Smith’s servant here!” Or, if the world had not been so ugly, “Alvin Smith’s brother-in-law!” Then again, he didn’t know if Alvin had ever so much as told Dead Mary his name. Maybe names wouldn’t mean a thing here.
    And they didn’t. Because no one was home.
    Or if they were, they weren’t answering.
    He walked swiftly across the bridge and pushed open the door, half fearing that he might find them dead, murdered by fearful people. But he knew that couldn’t be so—iffen some mob blamed Dead Mary for the plague and wanted to kill her for it, they’d have burned down the house around them.
    The house was empty. Cleaned out, too—or else they didn’t own a blame thing. Most likely they had realized their peril and fled. He didn’t need to tell them how Dead Mary was regarded in this town.
    He shouldered his sack of yams and retraced his route back into the city. Staying away from crowded streets and especially from the plaza with the public fountain, he made his way back to the house of Moose and Squirrel, scratching at skeeter bites the whole way.
    He emptied the sack of yams into the bin in the kitchen, an action which Alvin, who was stirring the soup, greeted with a raised eyebrow. Which made Arthur Stuart feel guilty about how few of his errands he had finished.
    “What?” asked Arthur Stuart. “It’s not like I had a lot of money, and besides, I got worried about Dead Mary and her mother, and so I went out to check on them.”
    “I expect they were gone,” said Alvin.
    “You expect right,” said Arthur Stuart.
    “But that’s not why I raised my eyebrow at you.”
    “Too lazy to wave?”
    “You don’t just dump out a sack of yams. They need washing. Or peeling.”
    “Why should I, when you can just talk the dirt right off the skins, or the skins right off the yams?”
    “Because knacks weren’t given to us for frivolous purposes.”
    “Oh, like the time you made me work half a summer making a dugout canoe when you could have made a canoe out of it in five minutes.”
    “It was good for you.”
    “It was a waste of my time,” said Arthur Stuart. “And it nearly got you shot by that bear hunter.”
    “Old Davy Crockett? I ended up kind of liking that fellow.”
    “Peeling the yams wouldn’t stop you from healing those kids upstairs the way you been doing.”
    Alvin turned slowly. “How do you know that?” said Alvin. “How do you know what it costs me to do that work?”
    “ ’Cause it’s easy for you. You do it like breathing.”
    “And when you run up a hill, how easy is it to breathe?”
    “Maybe I’d know what healing was like if you ever tried to teach me.”
    “You only just started hotting up metal.”
    “So I’m ready for the next step. You’re working so hard on healing those children, I know you are. So tell me, show me what to do.”
    Alvin closed his eyes. “You don’t think I wish you could?” he said. “But you