“Why didn’t they build in stone, like the Egyptians?” asked John.

  “Why didn’t the Egyptians build in soil, like these folks?” asked Measure.

  “I reckon what the Egyptians had instead of soil was sand,” said Marty.

  “They had good soil, those Egyptians,” said John Binder. “Floods of the Nile River brought good fresh soil every year, so they could grow crops of grain—barley, I hear, since they drank beer prodigiously.”

  “You had a good education, I reckon,” said Alvin.

  “I read me a book once,” said John Binder.

  “I guess it don’t take much to get educated,” said Alvin.

  “Why did you bring us here?” asked Measure.

  “I wanted to complete the vision,” said Alvin. “Because when I was on Eight-Face Mound, I saw myself standing here. With my brother Measure and two other men whose faces I couldn’t make out at the time.”

  “You saw yourself?” asked Marty.

  “And, apparently, I saw you, too,” said Alvin. “And now, my friends, I think we got plenty of time to find the courthouse and go inside by ten o’clock. Why keep the judge waiting, if we don’t have to?”

  * * *

  When Alvin and his companions entered the courthouse, he was not surprised to hear a cry of “There he is!” and hear the scampering and pounding of feet on the heavy plank floors. At once hands were all over Alvin’s arms, shoulders, the back of his neck—but the hands immediately slid off, like butter on hot bread.

  “I’m a mite confused,” said Alvin after this had gone on long enough. “It’s my name on the summons, and here you are gripping my companions, who aren’t charged with anything, who came along as my attorney and some friends, and yet you’re treating them like criminals.”

  “You know we can’t get any hold on you,” said one of the men.

  “Of course not,” said Alvin. “I’m an innocent man. So are my friends. We got here in time for me to present myself to the judge at ten in the morning on the first of November, and you seem to be trying to make me late.”

  “We are charged,” said the leader, “with making sure you appear in court.”

  “I see. Did you escort us all the way from Crystal City? No? Did you escort us from the jail where we spent the night? No? Did we enter this courthouse a little early, without the slightest compulsion from any of you?”

  “We have our orders!”

  “Weren’t your orders to see to it we got before the judge?”

  No answer.

  “We’re heading for the courtroom, if you’ll just tell us which one is his. There seem to be four courtrooms in this building.”

  “Two of them are still empty,” said the leader. “Haven’t needed them yet. There’s a civil case under way in courtroom three, and the judge is waiting for you in courtroom four.”

  “So courtrooms one and two are the empty ones,” said Measure, as his guards let him go.

  “We started with three and four because they’re on the north side of the building. Way cooler on a sunny day.”

  “That’s sensible,” said Alvin. “You got sensible folk here in Carthage.”

  Now Alvin and his friends were all free. Marty Laws took his place beside Alvin and they walked into the courtroom together, the other two following right behind. Marty led Alvin up to the front of the aisle, so that the defense and prosecution tables were on either side of them.

  The judge glowered at them. “I thought I sent men to fetch you.”

  “And here we are,” said Marty Laws. “Fetched.”

  “Are you mocking this court, sir?” asked the judge.

  “I certainly am not,” said Marty Laws. “We came a good long way from the shores of the Mizzippy to comply with your material witness summons, sir. I think that shows our respect for this court.”

  “Who are you?” asked the judge.

  “Martin Laws, Your Honor, attorney for Mr. Alvin Smith, who is standing beside me.”

  The judge looked at Alvin. “Are you the one they call Alvin Maker?”

  “Can’t rightly say, Your Honor,” said Alvin. “I was born Alvin Miller, Junior, and then I became a journeyman smith, so now I’m called Alvin Smith. Others may call me whatever names they choose, but I came here for a summons that has my name as Alvin Smith.”

  The judge raised his gavel. “I hereby stay the material witness summons against Alvin Smith.” He brought down the gavel.

  “Why thank you, Your Honor,” said Marty Laws. “We’ll be on our way, then.” He started to guide Alvin to turn around.

  “Hold where you are, sir,” said the judge. “There’s the little matter of the arrest warrant for Mr. Smith.”

  “But that arrest warrant doesn’t actually charge him with anything,” said Marty. “Without any charges, how can my client even be arraigned? He has to be charged with something before he can plead.”

  “Whatever the charge is,” said Alvin, “I plead not guilty, on account of I done nothing wrong.” Alvin was pouring on the hick country boy attitude, because it would be better if the judge thought he was too dumb to be a threat to anybody.

  “Mr. Laws, please instruct your client to be silent until he is directed, by me, to speak.”

  “Just hoping to save time,” Alvin muttered.

  The bailiff brought a piece of paper to the judge, who glanced at it and looked again at Alvin. “Alvin Smith, or Alvin Miller, Junior, as you have styled yourself before, this court charges you with resisting arrest, interfering with officers of the law attempting to obey a court order to bring you before this bench, and doing so by means of so-called knacks, which it is illegal to use against law enforcement personnel, doing their sworn duty.”

  Alvin thought this through, realizing that these charges all pertained to what happened not ten minutes ago, outside the courtroom.

  Meanwhile, Marty Laws put on his most innocent face. “Your Honor, were these the charges for which my client was placed under arrest back in April? Because if these things happened, they happened in the last quarter hour. What have the charges been from serving the warrant until now?”

  “What the original charges were is irrelevant,” said the judge. “These are the charges for which your client is being arraigned right now.”

  “With respect, Your Honor, how can my client be charged with resisting arrest when he came into this court of his own volition?”

  “Is there a motion in there somewhere, Mr. Laws?”

  “Since I was present for the alleged events, I can personally affirm that the men who accosted my client and his companions, including me, never identified themselves as being officers of the law. So as far as we knew, we were being set upon by bandits, and we had no reason not to resist them.”

  “So you stipulate that you did indeed resist them,” said the judge.

  “I stipulate that we submitted to them, did not harm them, and complied with their instructions, without raising a hand of violence against them,” said Marty Laws.

  The judge looked at the squad of constables or whatever they were, and some of them sheepishly nodded.

  “Well, apparently there’s a circus in town, and these are the clowns,” said the judge.

  “They’ve been sober gentlemen throughout our acquaintanceship,” said Alvin.

  “I believe your client is speaking,” said the judge.

  Marty again gripped Alvin’s arm and urged him to keep still.

  “The arguments you have brought up are not appropriate for the arraignment. All such matters can be addressed at the trial.”

  “Trial? Has there been a true bill of indictment?” asked Marty Laws.

  “Done last April,” said the judge.

  “And what were the charges upon which my client was indicted?” asked Marty Laws. “His future outrages?”

  “It was a sealed indictment,” said the judge.

  “The defendant still has a right to—”

  “Not if the court has reason to believe that witnesses before the grand jury are likely to be intimidated or harmed should their names be revealed.”

  Marty took a step toward the bench. “On what grounds does the court suspect my client of intimidation of witnesses!”

  “The grounds that he has powerful knacks that can strike down his enemies from far away.”

  “What enemy has he ever stricken down? Your Honor, I mean.”

  “You are coming near a charge of contempt of court, Mr. Laws.”

  “And what is the penalty for that?” asked Marty. “Hanging? Drowning? Flogging?”

  The judge brought down his gavel. “I hereby cite you for contempt, Mr. Laws. You will be held for three days in Carthage Jail.”

  “Your Honor,” said Marty. “Would that be the very jail where we are already boarding?”

  The judge consulted quietly with the bailiff. “The same,” said the judge.

  “I will serve my sentence with great penitence for having behaved in such a way as to cause Your Honor to feel that I was disrespectful to the court.”

  “Shut up, Mr. Laws. Your sarcasm is likely to add to your sentence for contempt.”

  “Sarcasm?” cried Marty Laws in outrage.

  The gavel came down again. “Silence. This court did not assemble to hear your complaints and feigned outrage, Mr. Laws. Alvin Miller, Junior, or Alvin Smith, whichever alias you are using today, do you understand the charges against you as I listed them—a long, long time ago?”

  “I understand them, and I plead—”

  “You have not yet been asked to plead, Mr. Smith.”

  Alvin waited.

  “Mr. Smith or Miller, to these charges, how do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?”

  “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

  “There will be no bail in this case,” said the judge, “since I have been assured that the defendant has a habit of escaping custody and evading arrest.”

  “I got no money anyway,” said Alvin.

  The gavel struck again. Marty again forcefully whispered to Alvin, “Don’t go off the script.”

  “The defendant will be escorted to Carthage Jail where he is to be confined until his trial, for which the date of November fourteenth has been decided.” To Marty, the judge said, “This will give you nearly two weeks to prepare your case.”

  “I look forward to receiving all of the depositions and interrogatories that have been sworn against my client,” said Marty Laws.

  “There are no documents at present,” said the judge, “but as they are prepared, copies will be sent to you in jail.”

  “Can we expect to be fed while imprisoned?” asked Marty Laws.

  “Yes,” said the judge. “But not at the expense of the City of Carthage. You have companions with you?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” said Marty, stopping Alvin from answering directly.

  “They can acquire food in the city and bring it to the jail.”

  “I hope they can eat with us, and sleep in the room with us, as they did last night,” said Marty Laws.

  “Of course. But the door is to be locked at night.”

  Alvin tried mightily not to smile at the idea of a lock holding him in.

  The judge might have seen the first trace of that smile on Alvin’s face. “The court is well aware that no lock can keep Alvin Maker inside any place he wants to get out of. The lock is for your protection, in case outraged citizens try to cause you harm.”

  “That is very considerate of the court,” said Marty Laws. “Has the court any specific information about persons seeking to harm my client?”

  The judge gaveled the end of the arraignment without answering. Then he stood up and stalked out of the courtroom through the door leading to his chambers.

  We really managed to discombobulate the fellow, didn’t we? thought Alvin. It had been so tempting to turn the head of that gavel into taffy, so it would stick to the anvil. But Alvin knew that only he would really appreciate the humor of it, and it couldn’t help his case. Not that it mattered, not that his trial would ever take place.

  A parade of law enforcement personnel followed them through the streets leading to the jail. The four companions climbed up the stairs and, as promised, the door was locked behind them.

  “I think the locking of the door was premature,” said John Binder, “considering that we haven’t had our luncheon yet, nor our supper.”

  “At least we have the chamber pot and the cuspidor,” said Measure. “Though for four men, I don’t know how a chamber pot that size will serve.”

  “Maybe that’s why the window opens,” offered Marty Laws. “So we can empty it onto the stones below, every time someone has used it.”

  “Since nobody here chews tobaccy,” said Measure, “I nominate the cuspidor as our urinal, which will make the chamber pot discharge less fluid and splashy on the cobbles.”

  His nomination was carried by acclamation.

  With little else to do, they sang a few songs that they knew—hymns, some of them, and ballads, and anthems. They napped a little as the day got hot—the open window, having no cross-ventilation, did not cool the room much, especially as it was south-facing and there was no shade.

  The door was unlocked at five in the evening, and two men brought in four pails, containing “a bean stew with cinnamon in it—a specialty of Carthage City,” one of the men explained, a melange of fruits, bread and cheeses, and a watered-down wine of an exceptionally bad vintage. They made the best of this feast, and, as Measure pointed out, “We don’t have to pay for it after all.”

  “Unless they present us a bill upon our release,” said John Binder.

  They all chuckled, though mirth sat pretty low in their hearts tonight.

  “John Binder, you have a good voice,” said Alvin. “Do you happen to know the song about the man who keeps helping a stranger, and the stranger turns out to have been the Savior all along?”

  “It’s a new song, but I liked it right away, so I committed it to memory. If I had a guitar, I could accompany it, too.”

  “Can’t help with the guitar,” said Alvin. “But I want to hear it again tonight. I think I need the reassurance of those words.”

  37

  MARGARET WAS ONLY occasionally in suspense about the outcomes of crucial choices. She knew all the things that could go wrong, but usually she could catch glimpses, at least, of how people she cared about would cope, adapt, recover from disaster. And along with that, she foresaw much about people she cared about less.

  I am not a very good Christian, she had to admit to herself. She knew she should care about all God’s children equally. But if that’s what God really wanted, why did he put us on Earth in families? Nobody could hurt and annoy you like family members; no one could give you strength and wisdom better than family members.

  The virtues of families were spread no more equally than knacks. She saw children playing, and recognized, in their outward behavior and in their heartfires, which children really had compassionate hearts, which were kind by nature, with no disposition toward taunting and tormenting.

  And she recognized the torturers, the ones who thrived on other people’s fear and grief and pain. Why would this be born in some children, and not others?

  I know too much, thought Margaret.

  And I do not know enough, because for the past few weeks Alvin’s heartfire has shone no light on what is coming. Did this blankness mean that he will die in Carthage, and never come home to me and Vigor and whoever these new babies turn out to be? Or is it just a way to humble me, so I won’t get too complacent in my foreknowledge?

  This is how Margaret spent most of her nights, or so it seemed. She must sleep at night, because she kept waking up all night. And the moment she awoke, all she could do was fret about Alvin.

  Yes, protecting and supporting him was her life’s work, and had been since she pulled the caul from his newborn face and allowed him to catch his first breaths. Using that caul, breaking off a pinch of it when she needed to use some of Alvin’s power, she had been able to save him from the attempts of the Unmaker to kill him as in infant, as a child. And when he was old enough to protect himself by using his own knacks, she got her training as a schoolteacher and then came to be his teacher, along with the other young people of Hatrack River.

  How long was it before he realized that she was the same Little Peggy who had laid hands on his mother’s womb and seen that brightness of the light that shone from his heart. She did not even know what a Maker was, when she first formed that word in her mind. A Maker is born.

  His ability to see into heartfires was limited compared to hers, but surely he saw from the start of her stint as his schoolteacher that she had been his childhood protector when she was barely older than he was. But then, maybe he also had blind spots about her, as she did about him.

  Will he die?

  Please bring him back to me, alive and ready to live the peaceful life of a husband and father. My husband. My children’s father. So long he has belonged to “his people,” the knackles who had few other protectors, but now it had to be the time for him to live among his people in the faraway West, near that strange Salt Lake, like a Dead Sea in the midst of the mountains, and I will live with him, and we will be … ordinary. We’ll have an ordinary life.

  Or I’ll bury him before we cross over the river.

  God, has he been serving you all these years? Have I? Isn’t there an end to the sacrifice? Can’t Vigor grow to manhood in the light of Alvin’s proud and loving eyes? Can Alvin and I grow old together? Is there no respite?

  It was already light outside, she could see through the drapes.

  When I feel like I’ve had no sleep at all, how am I supposed to rise up and face this morning?

  There was a knock at the door.

  Alvin had urged her to keep a maid, someone who could answer the door. And so she had a maid—who began her duties at nine in the morning.

  Margaret got out of bed, feeling more energy than she had expected, but less good cheer in the morning than she usually felt. This was not a day of confidence, but it was a day of work and works. There would be so many people wondering: Will we cross over the river before Alvin comes home? Where will we get boats? Will the showboat ferry us across, along with our animals? Should we muster a militia and be prepared to defend our city against marauders again?