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

repeated a few phrases. Then he slapped the paper down on the anvil. “This is a fine turn,” said the smith. “Don’t you know you’re about a year late, boy? You was supposed to come last spring. I turned away three offers for prentice cause I had your pa’s word you was coming, and here I’ve been without help this whole year cause he didn’t keep his word. Now I’m supposed to take you in with a year less on your contract, and not even a by-your-leave or beg-your-pardon.”
    “I’m sorry, sir,” said Alvin. “But we had the war last year. I was on my way here but I got captured by Choc-Taw.”
    “Captured by—oh, come now, boy, don’t tell me tales like that. If the Choc-Taw caught you, you wouldn’t have such a dandy head of hair now, would you! And like as not you’d be missing a few fingers.”
    “Ta-Kumsaw rescued me,” said Alvin.
    “Oh, and no doubt you met the Prophet hisself and walked on water with him.”
    As a matter of fact, Alvin done just that. But from the smith’s tone of voice, he reckoned that it wouldn’t be wise to say so. So Alvin said nothing.
    “Where’s your horse?” asked the smith.
    “Don’t have one,” said Alvin.
    “Your father wrote the date on this letter boy, two days ago! You must’ve rode a horse.”
    “I ran.” As soon as Alvin said it, he knew it was a mistake.
    “Ran?” said the smith. “With bare feet? It must be nigh four hundred mile or more to the Wobbish from here! Your feet ought to be ripped to rags clear up to your knees! Don’t tell me tales, boy! I won’t have no liars around me!”
    Alvin had a choice, and he knew it. He could explain about how he could run like a Red man. Makepeace Smith wouldn’t believe him, and so Alvin would have to show him some of what he could do. It would be easy enough. Bend a bar of iron just by stroking it. Make two stones mash together to form one. But Alvin already made up his mind he didn’t want to show his knacks here. How could he be a proper prentice, if folks kept coming around for him to cut them hearthstones or fix a broken wheel or all the other fixing things he had a knack for? Besides, he never done such a thing, showing off just for the sake of proving what he could do. Back home he only used his knack when there was need.
    So he stuck with his decision to keep his knack to himself, pretty much. Not tell what he could do. Just learn like any normal boy, working the iron the way the smith himself did, letting the muscles grow slowly on his arms and shoulders, chest and back.
    “I was joking,” Alvin said. “A man gave me a ride on his spare mount.”
    “I don’t like that kind of joke,” said the smith. “I don’t like it that you lied to me so easy like that.”
    What could Alvin say? He couldn’t even claim that he hadn’t lied—he had, when he told about a man letting him ride. So he was as much a liar as the smith thought. The only confusion was about which statement was a lie.
    “I’m sorry,” said Alvin.
    “I’m not taking you, boy. I don’t have to take you anyway, a year late. And here you come lying to me the first thing. I won’t have it.”
    “Sir, I’m sorry,” said Alvin. “It won’t happen again. I’m not
known for a liar back home, and you’ll see I’ll be known for square dealing here, if you give me a chance. Catch me lying or not giving fair work all the time, and you can chuck me, no questions asked. Just give me a chance to prove it, sir.”
    “You don’t look like you’re eleven, neither, boy.”
    “But I am, sir. You know I am. You yourself with your own arms pulled my brother Vigor’s body from the river on the night that I was born, or so my pa told me.”
    The smith’s face went distant, as if he was remembering. “Yes. he told you true, I was the one who pulled him out. Clinging to the roots of that tree even in death, so I thought I’d have to cut him free. Come here, boy.”
    Alvin walked closer. The smith poked and pushed the muscles