Orson Card - Heartfire

With exaggerated care, Denmark picked up the buckets without turning his back to the foreman. And he made a show of stopping and looking behind him a couple of times to make sure no one had snuck up to kick him again. His clowning kept the White man laughing even after he was gone.

Through it all, the newly arrived slaves didn't take their eyes off him.

"He is showing them how to survive here," said Honor‚.

"You mean get a White man mad? That's smart."

"He is not a stupid man," said Honor‚. "He is a clever man. He shows the others that they must act stupid and make the White man laugh. They must make the White man feel amusement and contempt, for this will keep Whites from feeling fear and anger."

"Probably," said Calvin. "Or maybe he just gets his butt kicked now and then."

"No," said Honor‚. "I tell you I am the authority on human nature. He does this on purpose. After all, he is the one who gathers up their souls."

"I thought you said these weren't their souls at all."

"I changed my mind," said Honor‚. "Look at them. The soul is missing now."

They looked at the Blacks in their chains and ropes, while the customs inspectors prodded them, stripped them, checked their body orifices, as if they were animals. They bore it easily. The looks of fear that they had worn as they emerged into sunlight were gone now. Gone also was the intensity with which they had gazed after Denmark as he carried away their tokens, or whatever they were. They really did seem like animals now.

"They been emptied, all right," said Calvin. "They all had heartfires getting off the boat, strong ones, but now they're all slacked back like a fire settled down to coals."

"They knew," said Honor‚. "The were ready before they got off the boat. How did they know?"

"Maybe that's one of the things Margaret can tell us later," said Calvin.

"If she ever speaks to us again," said Honor‚.

"She'll speak to us," said Calvin. "She's a nice person. So she'll start feeling guilty about sticking us for the price of the meal last night."

"They knew," said Honor‚. "And they all consented. They gave away their souls into his hands."

"What I want to know," said Calvin, "is where he keeps them and what he does with them."

"Then we must go to your sister-in-law and ask her, since you are certain she will speak to us."

Calvin glared at him. "I'm already following him. He can't see my bug."

"Or he does not show you that he sees," said Honor‚.

"I been doing this longer than you have. I know."

"Then why are you trembling?" said Honor‚.

Calvin whirled on him, backing him against the crates. "Because I'm barely stopping myself from making your heart... stop... beating."

Honor‚ looked surprised. "Did you lose your sense of humor under the hedge?"

Calvin backed away, only slightly mollified. "One thing you ain't is funny," said Calvin.

"But if I practice, perhaps I will become funny."

"I'm the funny one," said Calvin. He backed off, leaving Honor‚ room to stand without pressing his body against the crates. "Or did you lose your sense of humor under the hedge?"

"We are both funny fellows," said Honor‚. "Let's follow the man with a basket of souls. I have to know what he does with them."

"He's going through a door."

"Where?"

"In Blacktown," said Calvin. "There's junk hanging all over the place. Only one other heartfire in the house." He whistled. "That's bright."

"What's bright?" asked Honor‚.

Calvin didn't answer.

Honor‚ leaned closer to him. "It's not fair not to tell me."

Calvin looked at him stupidly. "Tell you what?"

Margaret sat at her writing table, composing her daily letter to Alvin. She never mailed them. She could have, since she always knew where he was and where he was going. But why make him find post offices in every town he visited? Better to wait until the last hours before sundown. Whatever he was doing, he'd pause and let his thoughts turn to her. More to the point, he would send out his doodlebug to watch her. He could not read her thoughts, but he could see how her arms moved, her fingers; he could find the pen, the paper. She dipped it into ink only so that she could look back and see what she had written. She knew that he could see the words she formed on paper as clearly as if he were looking over her shoulder. She would ask questions; when they were half-formed, she would find the answer in his memory.

It was a lopsided arrangement, she knew. She could see his inmost thought, even the feelings he was scarcely aware of himself. She could see his choices unfold before him, could see them narrow again as he chose. He had no secrets from her. She, on the other hand, could keep anything secret that she chose, except for the condition of her body. He could reassure her that the baby was doing well; he could worry about her working too hard. But her thoughts remained closed to him. It hardly seemed fair.

And yet Alvin didn't mind-- honestly didn't mind at all, never even seemed to notice. She knew there were several reasons for this. First, Alvin was an open fellow, not given to keeping secrets. He could keep them, of course, but once he trusted someone, he told the whole story, leaving nothing out, whether it reflected badly on him or not. Sometimes it sounded to others like boasting, when the things he had done were quite remarkable. But it was neither boasting nor confession. He simply reported what was in his memory. So it was no burden to him to have her see into his heartfire so readily.

A second reason for his lack of resentment, however, troubled her: He simply didn't care. He didn't mind that she knew his secrets, and he also didn't mind that he didn't know hers. He might be more inquisitive! Did this mean he didn't love her? Did it betray some fundamental selfishness? No, Alvin was generous of spirit. He simply wasn't all that curious about the minutiae of her thoughts. He was content to know what she told him. He trusted her. That's what it was, trust, not a lack of love.

The third reason, and probably the most important, was also the least satisfying. Alvin accepted everything about Margaret as a given, as part of the natural world around him. Though he didn't learn of it till later, she had watched over him through his entire childhood and saved his life many times. She had taught him, disguised as an older spinster schoolmarm. As the sun had shone on him every day, so had her care for him. He took her for granted. Having her inside his mind was as natural as breathing.

I am not even the weather in his life. I am more like the climate. No, more like the calendar. There are holidays, but the rest of the time he loses track, knowing the days will pass one by one whatever he names them.

Mustn't think that way. Write.

Dearest Alvin, I miss you now more than ever. Calvin is such an unpleasant boy, the opposite of you, and yet when I hear his voice it reminds me of yours.

Only the letters were not really written out so nicely. As soon as she saw that he understood, she would cease writing a word and skip ahead. The letter really began more like this: DA, I miss now mor. C is such an unpl boy, the opp of y&yet wh I hear hi voi it rem me of yo.

It was hard to imagine anyone else making sense of these scraps of words, scrawled in a child's printed hand instead of Margaret's elegant script, since printing was easier for Alvin to detect from a distance.

She kept writing: I think you're a fool to stay in that jail a single night. Walk out of it, gather up your companions, and come home. I don't much care for Mistress Purity. She has some good futures but they're not likely, and there's great harm possible, too, if you stay and win her away from New England.

His question: So it can be done?