Orson Card - Heartfire

"Don't hurt them," Gullah Joe pleaded, weeping. "Stop him, Denmark!"

But Denmark was sitting on the floor, weeping.

"Tear up the name-strings," cried Fishy. "Give the slaves back their anger!"

Calvin looked over at Fishy and smiled nastily. "What good does anger do for anybody?"

Then, savagely, furiously, with the power of his mind alone he unmade all the knotted strings until they lay in tatters. They all watched the seething pile of name-strings as bits of this and that flew upward from the untangling mass. And then all lay still, the bits and pieces commingled.

Now that the deed was done, Gullah Joe stopped remonstrating with Calvin. He looked up toward the invisible sky beyond the ceiling that crouched overhead. "Go home to you body, you! All you name go home!" Then he sank to his knees, weeping.

"What are you crying for," demanded Calvin. He looked at Denmark, too, who was only just beginning to dry his eyes.

"You too strong a wind for me," said Gullah Joe. "Oh, my people, my people, go home!"

Calvin lurched toward him a couple of steps, then fell to the floor. "I'm dying, Margaret," he said. "My body's too far gone."

"He be dying, that save me the trouble of killing him," said Denmark. "All we done for our people, he just undid it all."

"No!" cried Fishy. "He be setting us free! All our rage tied up in that net, that be the bad jail of all. We be slaves then, right down to the heart. Give up ourself so we can hide? From what? The worst thing already happen, when we give you our name-string."

Margaret knelt beside Calvin's body. "You have to heal yourself," she kept murmuring to him.

"I don't know where to start," Calvin whispered. "I'm filled with corruption clear through."

"Alvin!" cried Margaret desperately. "Alvin, look! Look at me! See what's happening here!" She rose to her feet and began forming letters in the air. H-E-L-P. C-A-L-V-I-N. H-E-A-L H-I-M! "Look at me and save his life, if you want him to live!"

"What you do in the air, you?" asked Fishy. "What you waving at?"

"My husband," said Margaret. "He doesn't see me." She turned to Gullah Joe. "Is there something you can do to help all those lost names return home?"

"Yes," said Joe.

"Then take your friend Denmark and go do it."

"What are you going to do" asked Denmark sullenly.

"I'm going to try to get my husband to heal his brother. And if he can't, then I'm going to hold Calvin's hand while he lies dying."

Calvin let out a deep moan of despair. "I ain't ready to die!" he said.

"Ready or not, you'll have to do it sometime," Margaret reminded him. "Heal yourself, as best you can," she told him. "You're supposed to be a Maker, aren't you?"

Calvin laughed. Weak and bitter, the sound of that laughter. "I spend my whole life trying to get out from under Alvin. Now the one time I need him, it's the only time he isn't right there under foot."

In the ensuing silence, Gullah Joe's voice came, soft and low. "They do it, them," he said. "They finding the way back."

"Then you'd better go out into the street and spread the word through the city," said Margaret. "They're filled with rage long pent up. You have to keep them from rising up in a fruitless rebellion as soon as all their strong passions come back." They did nothing. "Go!" she shouted. "I'll take care of Calvin here."

Gullah Joe and Denmark staggered out into the street, going from house to house. Already the sound of moaning and singing could be heard all over the city. In Blacktown, they collared every black person they could find and explained it to them as best they could, then sent them out with the warning: Contain your anger. Harm no one. They'll destroy us if we don't keep to that. The taker of names says so. We're not ready yet. We're not ready yet.

Inside the warehouse attic, Margaret and Fishy were reduced to mopping Calvin's brow as he lay delirious in his fever-racked stupor. Body and soul were together again, but only, it seemed, in time to die.

After a while a third pair of hands joined them. A Black woman who moved slowly, hesitantly. Her speech was slurred when she asked a question or two; it was hard to understand her. Margaret knew at once who she was. She laid her hand on the Black woman's hand; on the other side of her, Fishy did the same. "You don't gots to work today," said Fishy. "We take care of him."

But the woman acted as if she didn't understand. She kept on helping them take care of Calvin as if she had some personal stake in keeping him alive. Or maybe she was simply loving her neighbor as herself.

John Adams didn't even bother to seat himself comfortably on the bench. It was supposed to be routine. Quill would read out the charge. The young lawyer for the defense would plead his client guilty or not. They'd be back out the door in a few minutes.

It started right. Quill read the charge. It was the normal collection of allegations of dealings with Satan, and as it became clear it was more a peroration than a simple reading of charges, John gaveled him down. "I think we've heard all the charges and you've moved on to opening arguments, Mr. Quill."

"For a full understanding of the charges, Your Honor, I--"

"I have a full understanding of the charge, as does the defendant," said John. "We'll hear your elaboration of the particulars at a later time, I'm sure. How does the defendant answer to the charges?"

Verily Cooper rose from his chair, his movement smooth, a perfect gentleman. By contrast, the lanky smith seemed to unfold himself, to come out of the chair like a turtle out of its shell. His chains clanked noisily.

"Alvin Smith, how do you plead?" asked John.

"Not guilty, Your Honor."

Alvin sat back down, and John started to announce the schedule for tomorrow, when the trial would begin. Then he noticed that Cooper was still standing.

"What is it, Mr. Cooper?"

"I believe it is customary to hear motions."

"Peremptory motions to dismiss are never granted in witch trials," John reminded him.

Cooper just stood there, waiting.

"All right, let's have your motion."

Cooper approached the bench with several petitions written out in an elegant hand.

"What is all this?" demanded Quill.

"It seems," said John, "that the defendant has some interesting requests. All right, Mr. Cooper. Relieve Mr. Quill's curiosity and read out your motions."

"First, the defense requests that since the prosecution intends to prosecute a witness named in the records of the parish as Purity Orphan on the same evidence as my client, the trials be joined."

"That's ridiculous," said Quill. "Purity is our prime witness and the defense knows it."

John was amused by Cooper's maneuver, and he enjoyed seeing Quill's outrage. "Are you saying, Mr. Quill, that you are not planning to try Mistress Purity on the basis of the same evidence?"

"I'm saying it's irrelevant to this trial."

"I believe that Mistress Purity should have the rights of a defendant in this courtroom," said Cooper, "since the evidence she gives here should not then be able to be turned against her in her own trial."

Before Quill could answer, John asked him sharply, "Mr. Quill, I'm inclined to grant this motion, unless you are prepared to grant an irrevocable dismissal of all charges against Mistress Purity that might arise from her testimony in this trial."

Quill was speechless, but only for a moment. It was easy to guess what he was thinking during his hesitation: Was it more important to keep the trials separate, or to be able to try Purity at all? "I have no intention of dismissing on a confessed witch."

John banged his gavel. "Motion granted. Is Mistress Purity in the court?"

A timid, weary-looking young woman rose from her place behind the prosecutor's bench.