Free Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III by Orson Scott Card Page B

come to know as well as a man knows his own body. But he wasn’t no philosopher. He was a boy of eleven, and he also hankered to see an eastern town, all settled up and civilized. Besides, he had business here, business he’d waited a year to take up, ever since he first learned there was such a body as the torch girl, and how she looked for him to be a Maker.
    He pulled his clothes out of his pack and put them on. He walked the edge of the farmland till he came to a road. First time the road crossed a stream, there was proof it was the right road: a covered bridge stood over that little one-jump brooklet. His own pa and older brothers built that bridge, and others like it all the way along
that road from Hatrack to Vigor Church. Eleven years ago they built it, when Alvin was a baby sucking on his mama while the wagon rattled west.
    He followed the road, and it wasn’t awful far. He’d just run hundreds of miles through virgin forest without harm to his feet, but the White man’s road had no part of the greensong and it didn’t yield to Alvin’s feel. Within a couple of miles he was footsore and dusty and thirsty and hungry. Alvin hoped it wasn’t too many miles on White man’s road, or he’d sure be wishing he’d kept his boots.
    The sign beside the road said, Town of Hatrack, Hio.
    It was a good-sized town, compared to frontier villages. Of course it didn’t compare to the French city of Detroit, but that was a foreign place, and this town was, well, American. The houses and buildings were like the few rough structures in Vigor Church and other new settlements, only smoothed out and growed up to full size. There was four streets that crossed the main road, with a bank and a couple of shops and churches and even a county courthouse and some places with shingles saying Lawyer and Doctor and Alchemist. Why, if there was professional folk here, it was a town proper, not just a hopeful place like Vigor Church before the massacre.
    Less than a year ago he’d seen a vision of the town of Hatrack. It was when the Prophet, Lolla-Wossiky, caught him up in the tornado that he called down onto Lake Mizogan. The walls of the whirlwind turned to crystal that time, and in the crystal Alvin had seen many things. One of them was the town of Hatrack the way it was when Alvin was born. It was plain that things hadn’t stayed the same in these eleven years. He didn’t recognize a thing, walking through the town. Why. this place was so big now that not a soul even seemed to notice he was a stranger to give him howdy-do.
    He was most of the way through the built-up part of town before he realized that it wasn’t the town’s bigness that made folks pay him no mind. It was the dust on his face, his bare feet, the empty pack on his back. They looked, they took him in at a glance, and then they looked away, like as if they were halfway scared he’d come up and ask them for bread or a place to stay. It was something Alvin never met up with before, but he knowed it right away for
what it was. In the last eleven years, the town of Hatrack, Hio, had learned the difference between rich and poor.
    The built-up part was over. He was through the town, and he hadn’t seen a single blacksmith’s shop, which was what he was supposed to be looking for, nor had he seen the roadhouse where he was born, which was what he was really looking for. All he saw right now was a couple of pig farms, stinking the way pig farms do, and then the road bent a bit south and he couldn’t see more.
    The smithy had to still be there, didn’t it? It was only a year and a half ago that Taleswapper had carried the prentice contract Pa wrote up for Makepeace, the blacksmith of Hatrack River. And less than a year ago that Taleswapper hisself told Alvin that he delivered that letter, and Makepeace Smith was amenable—that was the word he used, amenable. Since Taleswapper talked in his halfway English manner, with the R s dropped off the ends of words, it sounded to