“Hold him,” said the man with the rope.

  Alvin looked the fellow in the eyes. “I don’t need holding. I give my word that I’ll keep up and won’t run away.”

  “What is the oath of a witch?” asked the rope-holder.

  “I don’t know,” said Alvin, “on account of my not being a witch.”

  The other two men, meanwhile, had tried twice more to get hold of Alvin’s arms, and one of them had seized his collar, but still their hands slid away. They looked at their hands dumfounded, as if trying to see some grease that made them slippery.

  “You should have brought stronger men,” said Alvin. “Or perhaps their consciences rebel against taking captive an innocent man.”

  “You will have the rope,” said the man who had formed a lariat at the end of it.

  “Looks like a stout rope,” said Alvin.

  The man cast the lariat over Alvin’s head.

  Alvin did not move, did not dodge or shrink away. But the lariat, instead of looping his head, slid off one shoulder and hit the ground. Now the other two men snickered openly.

  “This is witchcraft,” declared rope-man.

  “It will be reported to the prelate,” said Porter.

  The lariat flew again. This time it slid off Alvin’s other shoulder. “In America,” said Alvin, “we have a lot of men who can set a lariat on a running calf.”

  The men stood there, regarding him. Porter got off his horse and joined them. He held out his hand toward Alvin. Alvin took it. They gripped each other, not tightly, but not loosely either.

  “Are you a man who regards an oath as sacred?” asked Porter.

  “If I took that oath freely, and not under threat,” said Alvin.

  “Do you swear by God that you will—”

  Alvin interrupted him. “The Lord said, Swear not by heaven, but let your communications be yea and nay.”

  “You’ll swear by God or you’ll wear the rope,” said Porter mildly.

  “God hears all things,” said Alvin. “He hears me promise you that I will not try to escape you, and that I will match your pace all the way to Dublin, and I will submit to being interviewed by your prelate.”

  “So God is your witness,” said Porter.

  “As he is witness of all the deeds and words of men,” said Alvin.

  “Just so you know,” said Sergeant Porter, “these men are all very skilled with the weapons they carry. If you should change your mind about your promise, it will not bring you freedom.”

  “I am always free,” said Alvin. “But thank you for acquainting me with their skill, since they’re bound to be better at shooting than they are at arm-grabbing and head-roping.”

  Porter walked to his horse and mounted it. The other men did as well.

  “Well,” said Alvin, “are we going north along this track, or south?”

  Porter looked both ways, as if he hadn’t yet decided. “I don’t want to walk you to death,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, you can’t,” said Alvin.

  “So we’ll go north to where a spur of railroad has just been built.”

  “Do they have seats to accommodate your horses?” asked Alvin.

  “We did not ride the horses from Dublin,” said Porter. “We requisitioned them from the fort at Sligo.”

  “A fort? But surely we are in the United Kingdom of England, Scotland, and Ireland. Why would there be a fort in this land, as if it were a conquered and occupied country?”

  “It holds an arsenal,” said Porter, with a bit of tension in his voice.

  “Why do you answer him, Sergeant?” asked rope-man.

  “He’s a courteous man,” said Alvin, “and I am not a prisoner.”

  The man wheeled his horse and started walking it northward along the track. Alvin fell in behind him, walking briskly. “I can go faster than this,” Alvin offered.

  “It’s a long trek,” said Porter, whose horse was right behind him.

  “I’m a good walker,” said Alvin.

  Porter walked his horse a little faster, passing Alvin. Then he broke into a trot, and the other men did likewise.

  Alvin jogged along, keeping pace easily. Green though the countryside of Ireland was, there was scant Greensong to help Alvin run; this once forested land had been fully cleared of all but a few trees. Still, Alvin could feel the life of the place, just as he could now feel the distress of the potato fields, responding to the death that was growing among them. From the blighted potato plants he drew no strength, but from grasses and sheep and moss and lichens he drew, not strength, but a welcoming invisible embrace. We know you, the plants and animals seemed to say. We know you have no harm in you.

  It was not the way it was when he practically flew along with the Prophet and other Reds back in America, when he could make prodigious runs without wearying. But it was enough that he kept up with the trotting horses without any strain, and even increased his speed when some of the men, wearying of the trot, took their mounts into a canter. He loped along with them and, feeling a little playful, he increased his speed and passed the cantering horses.

  Immediately some of them broke into a gallop to overtake him, and Alvin could hear pistols and carbines coming out of their holsters.

  Alvin came to a stop.

  Porter came up beside him, berating him from his perch atop the saddle. “What was that!” he demanded. “You gave your word.”

  “Have I escaped?” asked Alvin. “Or am I right here among you?”

  “Then why did you run on ahead?” asked Porter.

  “Because I could,” said Alvin. “And to show you that you can’t wear me down with your pace on horseback. The horses will wear out before I do. Look how they’re lathering already, with only a mile’s canter and three rods at a gallop.”

  “So you’re concerned for our horses.”

  “They serve you,” said Alvin, “but these creatures belong to themselves and to God. Of course I’m concerned for them. Aren’t you? Don’t you feel that you owe them consideration and kind treatment, considering all they do for you?”

  “We’ll walk the horses from here,” said Porter. “Nobody needs to wear anybody out on this journey.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Alvin. “Walking will allow us to enjoy this beautiful countryside. I only regret that we’re not in a place where we can have a view of the sea. The sight of water—even water that you can’t drink—refreshes the soul.”

  When night fell, Alvin picked a dry place, sheltered from the western breeze by a hillock, and lay down.

  The horses gathered around him.

  “What now?” asked Porter.

  “It’s many miles till the next inn,” said Alvin, “and here we have soft grass, plenty for the horses to eat, and a brook not far off when it’s time to drink. Isn’t this a good place to sleep?”

  Porter and the other men looked at each other.

  “I extend my oath, of my own free will. I will not run any farther than I need to go to micturate in privacy.”

  “Micatur—”

  “Void my bladder. Or, to use biblical language, to piss.”

  “So if we see you wander off…”

  “Follow me if you want,” said Alvin. “You won’t see anything unusual, because even if witches existed, I’ve never heard that they don’t urinate and defecate like all God’s creatures.”

  “What are we supposed to eat out here?” demanded Rope-man.

  “Whatever you brought with you,” said Alvin. “Or are you completely unprepared for the task at hand?”

  “I have some bread and cheese in my saddlebag,” said one of the men.

  “So you have a loaf,” said Alvin, “and we can count the cheese as fishes. Not feeding five thousand, or even three thousand. Just five grown men, and I don’t eat much.”

  “And none of us is Jesus,” said Porter.

  “Don’t I know it!” said Alvin. “But Jesus set the example and prayed over the food. You know how to pray, don’t you, being a representative of the Church of Ireland as you are?”

  Porter frowned a little. He wasn’t glad that Alvin had seen through his claims and realized he represented no government authority, but the Church of Ireland alone. But Alvin thought it was better to allow Porter to lie a little less, which would be good for his soul.

  Porter said grace over the bread and cheese, and then divided it out. Alvin admired him for giving him an equal share, and did not refuse it, though he really wasn’t very hungry. The reward of Porter’s generosity would be to have the gift accepted and used, so Alvin ate with the energy and roughness he thought they probably expected from an American.

  Except for Porter, though, they ate as roughly as Alvin. And Porter’s slower pace didn’t amount to fastidiousness. They all ate like men, and Alvin felt good that he could use his makery to extend the bread and cheese so that all of them were truly satisfied with this supper.

  10

  ALVIN HAD EXPECTED to be taken to the cathedral in Dublin, or at least to some fine building, so he was surprised when Porter led the party down ever narrower streets and past ever shabbier buildings, until he stopped and dismounted, tying up his horse’s reins at a hitching post in front of what had to be a tavern. The other men dismounted and tied up their horses, and sure enough, Porter led the way inside.

  Alvin made no comment, even though the tavern was even more slovenly than it had looked from the outside. This was a place that sold alcohol, yes, but it also provided solace for lonely men, renting them the use of a woman’s body for a half-hour. Alvin had some idea of the level of desperation that would bring a woman to such a trade. To be a wife to one man was hard enough, even without adding children into the mix; but to be a nonce wife to a multitude, at times of their choosing, seemed unnatural and unbearable to Alvin. In such places as this, he kept picturing one of his sisters dwelling in an upstairs room. Even to imagine it made him feel like weeping—or raging.

  But he calmed his temper. Of course he had the power to make this whole building crumble into dust—but to do it so gradually that not a soul would be injured. What then? How would these women earn their bread? Would there suddenly be a spinning mill to hire them? Or would they only find another place to uncover themselves for lascivious men? The drinkers would find a place to drink; the fornicators and adulterers would easily find women to meet their needs.

  And this was where the Bishop of Dublin held court?

  Only at night, Alvin concluded. When he could do things that exceeded his legal authority.

  To Alvin’s relief, Porter did not lead him upstairs, where the sole occupation was harlotry. Instead, waving away the other three, who headed directly for the bar, Porter led him through a labyrinthine corridor that Alvin calculated to have taken them not one but two buildings over. They would not meet, then, in the tavern itself, but in a place that visitors only reached through the tavern.

  Porter rapped lightly on a door that looked no different from other doors. Instead of anyone answering, the door simply opened. Porter did not step through, but motioned Alvin to do so. The man who had opened the door had a sword at his side, which made him some kind of gentleman or officer.

  There was a desk in the dim light at the far side of the room, and behind it sat a man of some age and even more dignity. The bishop, Alvin concluded, and bowed his head in greeting.

  The bishop looked at the door guard and said, “Please wait outside until I call.”

  The guard silently left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  Alvin was tempted to cause the wood of the door to swell, making it impossible to open—or dry it out and shrink it, so the door could not latch and stay closed.

  Not a time for mischief. He had done enough with the games he played back in the west part of Ireland, to convince Porter’s squad not to try to seize him or tie him.

  There was a light rap at the door. The bishop showed no sign of noticing.

  Alvin, ever wishing to be polite, said, “Should I open the door, Your Grace?”

  The bishop nodded.

  The door guard came back in, holding a sheet of paper, and laid it on the bishop’s desk. Then, having said no words, he left and again closed the door behind him.

  The bishop studied the paper for about a minute. If there was writing on it, Alvin wasn’t sure how the man could read anything at all in such dim light. The man was squinting and holding the paper so as to catch the faint light from a high window.

  This feels like a dungeon, thought Alvin.

  “I see that you led my servants on a merry chase.”

  “There was no chasing, Your Grace,” said Alvin. “I kept up with them, and they kept up with me.”

  “You walked the whole way?”

  “Flying being outside the range of my talents,” said Alvin.

  The bishop raised an eyebrow. Alvin remembered that in England, they believed witches could fly. He should have curbed his humor.

  “I’m a good walker,” Alvin explained, “but we kept a pace that did not strain the horses.”

  “And no rope could hold you,” said the bishop.

  “The poor fellow wasn’t well practiced with the lariat, so he missed. Only twice, but then he gave up.”

  “And my men could not take hold of your arms.”

  Alvin shrugged. “I thought they should have been strong enough. You can see for yourself that my arms can easily be held.” He extended an arm toward the bishop. “I’m a blacksmith by trade, so maybe my arms were too big around for them to hold.”

  The bishop looked alarmed for a moment—perhaps he couldn’t tell the difference between extending a hand and striking a blow. Then he reached out and took Alvin by the wrist, including the sleeve of his shirt and of his coat. His grip was firm but he was not trying to grip particularly hard. “Pull your arm away from me with the same force you used against the grip of my men.”

  Alvin shook his head. “I don’t know what’s written on that paper, but I believe Sergeant Porter is an honest man, and he’ll tell you that I made no movement to resist. They simply let go of me, and their hands dropped to their sides.”

  “You were completely compliant?” asked the bishop.

  “I told them that I didn’t need to be seized or bound. I gave them my oath that I would not try to escape. And I even found us a place to sleep without having to hunt for an inn along the way. We all slept very well.”

  “Perhaps I should have you help me find a better bed than the one I have,” said the bishop.

  “I’m not an expert on beds, Your Grace,” said Alvin.

  “But you know soft ground when you see it,” said the bishop.

  “I spent several months with the Reds, Your Grace,” said Alvin, “and I learned to look at the ground the way they do.”

  “So you have been tutored by savages,” said the bishop.

  “They know the forest,” said Alvin, “which still covers much of our part of America. A White could starve to death in a patch of woods where a Red would not only feast, but store up a good amount of food for the morrow.”

  “You speak their language?”

  “I can understand several of their languages,” said Alvin, “and say enough in their tongues to avoid needless combat and achieve cooperation.”

  The bishop nodded. “They don’t all speak the same language, then.”

  “The different tribes and nations speak Nahuatl, Commanche, Shawnee, Apache, Navaho, Cherriky, the languages of the Irrakwa alliance, and others as they’ve sprung up all over the continent. Rather the way that Germans and Poles and Spaniards and Greeks all have languages of their own.”

  “But you speak only English and the Red languages?”

  “Some of the Red languages. The most important of them. And my teacher helped me achieve some small knowledge of French, which I could have used years before when I had to converse with Napoleon, before he achieved high office.”

  “You met Bonaparte?”

  “He would not remember me,” said Alvin.

  “He has a very good memory,” said the bishop, “or so I hear.”

  “I’m afraid my curiosity is getting the better of me, Your Grace. Surely you had more on your mind than my connections with Reds and Frenchmen when you invited me here to your palace.” Alvin let no trace of irony come out in his voice or expression, but the bishop knew he had been mocked and grimaced very slightly.

  “If I questioned possible witches out in the open,” said the bishop, “then whether I acquitted them or called them guilty, the moment they went outside they would be beaten by the mob, usually to death.”

  “Then you are charitable to make all such questioning a private matter.”

  “There’s a chair,” said the bishop, indicating. “Bring it closer and sit down. You make me weary, standing there.”

  Alvin fetched the chair. But he sat on it backward, his arms on the back of the chair, his legs astraddle.

  The bishop raised his eyebrows and showed a faint smile—Alvin assumed that his rough manner of sitting in the chair amused the bishop. That was what Alvin intended. Peggy had taught him the finest manners, but in this time and place, Alvin thought it better to be seen as a half-wild American. It briefly crossed his mind to offer a stick-pull or chunkey or a wrestling match to the bishop, but it wouldn’t be fair to the old fellow, and he would certainly refuse any such contest.

  “I’ve heard you called ‘Alvin Maker,’” said the bishop. “Can you tell me why?”

  “I’ve heard that such a name is used, Your Grace, but never to my face. My father is Alvin Miller, and he gave me his same name. I’m proud of it and never looked for another. But some folks call me Alvin Smith, on account of my trade.”

  “I believe you call your witchery ‘knacks,’” said the bishop.

  “Every man has a knack at something, at least if he works at it. Every woman, too. They’re just better at some jobs than other people are. A friend of mine is an English lawyer, but his real knack is fitting together the staves of a barrel. His kegs and barrels never leak.”

  “And you don’t find that unnatural?” asked the bishop.