Seventh Son: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume I by Orson Scott Card Page B
Authors: Orson Scott Card
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too,” said Papa.
For the life of him Alvin Junior couldn’t figure out why Mama’s words sounded like “I ain’t going nowhere,” and why Papa’s words sounded like “Stay with me forever.” But he knew he wasn’t crazy to think so, cause right then Measure looked up from where he lay all sprawled out afore the fire and winked so only Alvin Junior could see.
8
Visitor
R EVEREND T HROWER ALLOWED himself few vices, but one was to eat Friday supper with the Weavers. Friday dinner was more accurate, since the Weavers were shopkeepers and manufacturers, and didn’t stop work for more than a snack at noon. It wasn’t the quantity so much as the quality that brought Thrower back every Friday. It was said that Eleanor Weaver could take an old tree stump and make it taste like sweet rabbit stew. And it wasn’t just the food, either, because Armor-of-God Weaver was a churchgoing man who knew his Bible, and conversation was on a higher plane. Not so elevated as conversation with highly educated churchmen, of course, but the best that could be had in this benighted wilderness.
They would eat in the room back of the Weavers’ store, which was part kitchen, part workshop, and part library. Eleanor stirred the pot from time to time, and the smell of boiled venison and the day’s bread baking mingled with the odors from the soapmaking shed out back and the tallow they used in candlemaking right here. “Oh, we’re some of everything,” said Armor, the first time Reverend Thrower visited. “We do things that every farmer hereabouts can do for himself—but we do it better, and when they buy it from us it saves them hours of work, which gives them time to clear and plow and plant more land.”
The store itself, out front, was shelved to the ceiling, and the shelves were filled with dry goods brought in by wagon from points east. Cotton cloth from the spinning jennies and steam looms of Irrakwa, pewter dishes and iron pots and stoves from the foundries of Pennsylvania and Suskwahenny, fine pottery and small cabinets and boxes from the carpenters of New England, and even a few precious bags of spices shipped into New Amsterdam from the Orient. Armor Weaver had confessed once that it took all his life savings to buy his stock, and it was no sure bet that he’d prosper out here in this thinly settled land. But Reverend Thrower had noticed the steady stream of wagons coming up from the lower Wobbish and down the Tippy-Canoe, and even a few from out west in the Noisy River country.
Now, as they waited for Eleanor to announce that the venison stew was ready, Reverend Thrower asked him a question that had bothered him for some time.
“I’ve seen what they haul away,” said Reverend Thrower, “and I can’t begin to guess what they use to pay you. Nobody makes cash money around here, and not much they can trade that’ll sell back east.”
“They pay with lard and charcoal, ash and fine lumber, and of course food for Eleanor and me and—whoever else might come.” Only a fool wouldn’t notice that Eleanor was thickening enough to be about halfway to a baby. “But mostly,” said Armor, “they pay with credit.”
“Credit! To farmers whose scalps might well be traded for muskets or liquor in Fort Detroit next winter?”
“There’s a lot more talk of scalping than there is scalping going on,” said Armor. “The Reds around here aren’t stupid. They know about the Irrakwa, and how they have seats in Congress in Philadelphia right along with White men, and how they have muskets, horses, farms, fields, and towns just like they do in Pennsylvania or Suskwahenny or New Orange. They know about the Cherriky people of Appalachee, and how they’re farming and fighting right alongside Tom Jefferson’s White rebels to keep their country independent from the King and the Cavaliers.”
“They might also have noticed the steady stream of flatboats coming down the Hio and wagons coming west, and the trees falling down and
For the life of him Alvin Junior couldn’t figure out why Mama’s words sounded like “I ain’t going nowhere,” and why Papa’s words sounded like “Stay with me forever.” But he knew he wasn’t crazy to think so, cause right then Measure looked up from where he lay all sprawled out afore the fire and winked so only Alvin Junior could see.
8
Visitor
R EVEREND T HROWER ALLOWED himself few vices, but one was to eat Friday supper with the Weavers. Friday dinner was more accurate, since the Weavers were shopkeepers and manufacturers, and didn’t stop work for more than a snack at noon. It wasn’t the quantity so much as the quality that brought Thrower back every Friday. It was said that Eleanor Weaver could take an old tree stump and make it taste like sweet rabbit stew. And it wasn’t just the food, either, because Armor-of-God Weaver was a churchgoing man who knew his Bible, and conversation was on a higher plane. Not so elevated as conversation with highly educated churchmen, of course, but the best that could be had in this benighted wilderness.
They would eat in the room back of the Weavers’ store, which was part kitchen, part workshop, and part library. Eleanor stirred the pot from time to time, and the smell of boiled venison and the day’s bread baking mingled with the odors from the soapmaking shed out back and the tallow they used in candlemaking right here. “Oh, we’re some of everything,” said Armor, the first time Reverend Thrower visited. “We do things that every farmer hereabouts can do for himself—but we do it better, and when they buy it from us it saves them hours of work, which gives them time to clear and plow and plant more land.”
The store itself, out front, was shelved to the ceiling, and the shelves were filled with dry goods brought in by wagon from points east. Cotton cloth from the spinning jennies and steam looms of Irrakwa, pewter dishes and iron pots and stoves from the foundries of Pennsylvania and Suskwahenny, fine pottery and small cabinets and boxes from the carpenters of New England, and even a few precious bags of spices shipped into New Amsterdam from the Orient. Armor Weaver had confessed once that it took all his life savings to buy his stock, and it was no sure bet that he’d prosper out here in this thinly settled land. But Reverend Thrower had noticed the steady stream of wagons coming up from the lower Wobbish and down the Tippy-Canoe, and even a few from out west in the Noisy River country.
Now, as they waited for Eleanor to announce that the venison stew was ready, Reverend Thrower asked him a question that had bothered him for some time.
“I’ve seen what they haul away,” said Reverend Thrower, “and I can’t begin to guess what they use to pay you. Nobody makes cash money around here, and not much they can trade that’ll sell back east.”
“They pay with lard and charcoal, ash and fine lumber, and of course food for Eleanor and me and—whoever else might come.” Only a fool wouldn’t notice that Eleanor was thickening enough to be about halfway to a baby. “But mostly,” said Armor, “they pay with credit.”
“Credit! To farmers whose scalps might well be traded for muskets or liquor in Fort Detroit next winter?”
“There’s a lot more talk of scalping than there is scalping going on,” said Armor. “The Reds around here aren’t stupid. They know about the Irrakwa, and how they have seats in Congress in Philadelphia right along with White men, and how they have muskets, horses, farms, fields, and towns just like they do in Pennsylvania or Suskwahenny or New Orange. They know about the Cherriky people of Appalachee, and how they’re farming and fighting right alongside Tom Jefferson’s White rebels to keep their country independent from the King and the Cavaliers.”
“They might also have noticed the steady stream of flatboats coming down the Hio and wagons coming west, and the trees falling down and
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