Red Prophet: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume II (42 page)

“But now it’s here.”

“It’s here
and
there. Don’t try to understand it, Alvin. I gave up long ago. But isn’t it good to know that all of the threads of life are being woven into one great cloth?”

“Who’s weaving the cloth for the Red folk that went west with Tenskwa-Tawa?” asked Alvin. “Those threads went off the cloth.”

“That’s not your business,” said Becca. “We’ll just say that another loom was built, and carried west.”

“But Ta-Kumsaw said no White folk would ever cross the river to the west. The Prophet said it, too.”

Ta-Kumsaw turned slowly on the floor, without getting up. “Alvin,” he said, “you’re only a boy.”

“And I was only a girl,” Becca reminded him, “when I first loved you.” She turned to Alvin. “It’s my daughter who carried the loom into the west. She could go because she’s only half White.” She again stroked Ta-Kumsaw’s hair. “Isaac is my husband. My daughter Wieza is his daughter.”

“Mana-Tawa,” said Ta-Kumsaw.

“I thought for a time that Isaac would choose to stay here, to live with us. But then I watched as his thread moved away from us, even though his body still was with us. I knew he would go to be with his people. I knew why he had come to us, alone from the forest. There is a hunger deeper than the Red man’s hunger for the song of the living forest, deeper than a blacksmith’s yearning for the hot wet iron, deeper even than a doodlebug’s longing for the hollow heart of the earth. That hunger brought Ta-Kumsaw to our house. My mother was still the weaver at the loom then. I taught Ta-Kumsaw to read and write; he
rushed through my father’s library, and read every other book in the valley, and we sent for more books from Philadelphia and he read those. He chose his own name, then, for the man who wrote the
Principia.
When we came of age, he married me. I had a baby. He left. When Wieza was three, he came back, built a loom, and took her west over the mountain to live with his people.”

“And you let your own daughter go?”

“Just like one of my ancestors sat at her old loom and let her daughter go, across the ocean to this land, her with a new loom and her watchful father beside her, yes, I let her go.” Becca smiled sadly at Alvin. “We all have our work, but there’s no good work that doesn’t have its cost. By the time Isaac took her, I was already in this room. Everything that happened has been good.”

“You didn’t even ask how your daughter was doing when he got here! You still haven’t asked.”

“I didn’t have to ask,” said Becca. “No harm comes to the keepers of the loom.”

“Well, if your daughter’s gone, who’s going to take your place?”

“Perhaps another husband will come here, by and by. One who’ll stay in this house, and make another loom for me, and yet another for a daughter not yet born.”

“And what happens to you then?”

“So many questions, Alvin,” said Ta-Kumsaw. But his voice was soft and tired and English-sounding; Alvin wasn’t in awe of the Ta-Kumsaw who read White men’s books, and so he paid no heed to the mild rebuke.

“What happens to you when your daughter takes your place?”

“I don’t know,” said Becca. “But the story is that we go to the place where the threads come from.”

“What do you do there?”

“We spin.”

Alvin tried to imagine Becca’s mother, and her grandmother, and the women before that, all in a line, he tried to imagine how many there’d be, all of them working their spinning wheels winding out threads from the spindle, yarn all raw and white, which would just go somewhere, go on and disappear somewhere until it broke. Or maybe
when it broke they held the whole thing, a whole human life, in their hands, and then tossed it upward until it was caught by a passing wind, and then dropped down and got snagged up in somebody’s loom. A life afloat on the wind, then caught and woven into the cloth of humanity; born at some arbitrary time, then struggling to find its way into the fabric, weaving into the strength of it.

And as he imagined this, he also imagined that he understood something about that fabric. About the way it grew stronger the more tightly woven in each thread became. The ones that skipped about over the top of the cloth, dipping into the weft only now and then, they added little to the strength, though much to the color, of the cloth. While some whose color hardly showed at all, they were deeply wound among the threads, holding all together. There was a goodness in those hidden binding threads. Forever from then on, Alvin would see some quiet man or woman, little noticed and hardly thought of by others, who nevertheless went a-weaving through the life of village, town, or city, binding up, holding on, and Alvin would silently salute such folk, and do them homage in his heart, because he knew how their lives kept the cloth strong, the weave tight.

He also remembered the many threads that ended at the point where Ta-Kumsaw’s battle was to take place. It was as if Ta-Kumsaw had taken shears to the cloth.

“Ain’t there a way to heal things up?” asked Alvin. “Ain’t there a hope of keeping this battle from ever happening, so those threads don’t all get broke?”

Becca shook her head. “Even if Isaac refused to go, the battle would take place without him. No, the threads aren’t broken by anything Isaac did. They broke the moment some Red man chose a course of action that would surely end in his death in battle; you and Isaac weren’t going around spreading death, if that’s what worries you. No more than Old Hickory’s been killing people. You were just going spreading choices. They didn’t have to believe in you. They didn’t have to choose to die.”

“But they didn’t know that’s what they was choosing.”

“They knew,” said Becca. “We always know. We
don’t admit it to ourselves, not until the very moment of death, but in that moment, Alvin, we see all the life before us and we understand how we chose, every day of our lives, the manner of our death.”

“What if something just happens to fall on somebody’s head and mashes him?”

“He chose to be in a place where such things happen. And he wasn’t looking up.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Alvin. “I think folks can always change what’s coming, and I think some things happen that ain’t nobody ever chose to happen.”

Becca smiled at him, reached out her arm. “Come here, Alvin. Let me hold you close to me. I love your simple faith, child. I want to hold on to that faith, even if I can’t believe it.”

So she held him for a time, and her arm around him felt so much like his own mama’s, strong and gentle, that he cried a little. In fact he cried a good deal more than he would ever have meant to cry, if he’d meant to cry at all. And he knew better than to ask to see his own thread, even though he imagined his thread would be easy to find—the one thread born in the White man’s section of the cloth, but migrating over and becoming green. Surely becoming green, like the Prophet’s people did.

One thing he was also sure of, so sure that he didn’t even ask, though heaven knows he wasn’t shy about asking any question popped into his head: He was sure that Becca knew which thread was Ta-Kumsaw’s, and knew as well that his and Ta-Kumsaw’s threads were all bound up with each other, for a while at least. As long as Alvin was with him, Ta-Kumsaw’d be alive. Alvin knew that there was two endings to the prophecy: the one in which Alvin died first, leaving Ta-Kumsaw by himself, in which case he’d die too; or the one in which neither one of them died and their threads went on until they disappeared. There might’ve been a third way it could come out: Alvin might just up and leave Ta-Kumsaw. But then if he did that, he wouldn’t be Alvin anymore, so there wasn’t no point in considering that as a possibility, cause it wasn’t one.

Alvin slept the night on a mat on the library floor, after reading a few pages in a book by a man named Adam
Smith. Where Ta-Kumsaw slept, Alvin didn’t know or care to ask. What a man does with his wife is no affair for children, Alvin knew; but he wondered if the main reason Ta-Kumsaw had come back here wasn’t his wish to see the loom, but the hungering that Becca spoke of. The need to make another daughter to care for Becca’s loom. It wasn’t a bad idea, in Alvin’s mind, to have the cloth of White America in the hands of a Red man’s daughter.

In the morning Ta-Kumsaw led him away, back into the forest. They did not speak of Becca, or anything else; it was back to the old way, with Ta-Kumsaw speaking only to get things done. Alvin never heard him speak in his Isaac voice again, so that Alvin began to wonder if he really heard it.

On the north bank of the Hio, near where the Wobbish empties into it, the Red army gathered, more Reds than Alvin knew existed in the whole world. More people than Alvin had ever imagined together in the same place at the same time.

Because such a company was bound to get hungry, the animals also came to them, sensing their need and fulfilling what they all was born for. Did the forest know that all its hopes of withstanding White men’s axes depended on Ta-Kumsaw’s victory?

No, Alvin decided, the forest was just doing what it always did—making shift to feed its own.

It was raining and the breeze was cool on the morning they set out from the Hio, bound northward. But what was rain to Red men? The messenger had come from the French in Detroit. It was time to join forces, and lure Old Hickory’s army north.

18

It was a glorious time for Frederic, Comte de Maurepas. Far from living in hell here in Detroit, with none of the amenities of Paris, he found the exhilaration of, for once, being part of something larger than himself. War was afoot, the fort was stirring, the heathen Reds were gathering from the far corners of the wilderness, and soon, under de Maurepas’s command, the French would destroy the ragtag American army Old Chestnut had brought north of the Maw-Mee. Old Willow? Whatever they called him.

Of course a part of him was rather unnerved by all this. Frederic had never been a man of action, and now so much action was going on that he could hardly fathom it. It bothered him sometimes that Napoleon was letting the savages fight from behind trees. Surely Europeans, even the barbarous Americans, should be courteous enough not to let the Reds take unfair advantage of their ability to hide in the woods. But never mind. Napoleon was sure it would work out. What could go wrong, really? Everything was working as Napoleon said it would. Even Governor La Fayette, traitorous effete Feuillant dog that he was, seemed enthusiastic about the battle ahead. He had even sent another ship with more troops, which Frederic had seen pull into harbor not ten minutes ago.

“My lord,” said Whoever-it-was, the servant who
handled things in the evening. He was announcing somebody, of all things.

“Who?” Who is it visiting at such an ungodly hour?

“A messenger from the Governor.”

“In,” said Frederic. He was feeling too pleasant to bother keeping the man cooling his heels for a while. After all, it was evening—no need to pretend to be hard at work at an hour like this. After four o’clock, in fact!

The man came in, smart in his uniform. A major officer, in fact. Frederic should know his name, probably, but then he wasn’t anybody, hadn’t even a cousin with a title. So Frederic waited, not greeting him.

The major held two letters in his hand. He laid one on Frederic’s table.

“Is the other for me as well?”

“Yes, sir. But I have the Governor’s instructions to give you that one first, to wait while you read it in my presence, and then decide whether to give you the other.”

“The Governor’s instructions! To make me wait to receive my mail until I’ve read his letter first?”

“The second letter is not addressed to you, my lord,” said the major. “So it is not your mail. But I think you will want to see it.”

“What if I’m weary of work, and choose to read the letter tomorrow?”

“Then I have still another letter, which I will read to your soldiers if you don’t read the first letter within five minutes. That third letter relieves you of command and places me in charge of Fort Detroit, under the authority of the Governor.”

“Audacious! Offensive! To address me in this manner!”

“I but repeat the words of the Governor, my lord. I urge you, read his letter It can do you no harm, and not reading it will have devastating effect.”