Alvin Maker's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Alvin Maker dreamed of a living plow that turned the soil without horse or ox to pull it. It would cut soil so hard it had gone to dust. He had no iron to try it on. He had a stack of oak logs to haul, and Davis waiting on them. So he hauled. Alvin worked bare to the waist, his suspenders on, or hanging loose at his hips over heavy leather pants. He set another log by the door of the workshop and looked past the anvil at the scrap barrel. It stood empty. Every bar and rod in the shop belonged to Davis. The tools on the wall belonged to Davis. Alvin owned his hands and nothing to put in them. Davis stepped out and eyed the timber. He was broad through the chest, his beard streaked gray. He said Alvin listened to wood better than he did. Alvin had needed a year to believe it. He still did not think he had earned the right to stand at the anvil. "You keep looking at that barrel," Davis said. "There's nothing in it." "No." Davis wiped his hands. "I sold the last scrap." Alvin said nothing. He picked up the next log. "A trader came through," Davis said. "Left me steel I can't work. I tried it. More than once." He stopped there. "I want to go back at it. I can't. Not with hauling to do and no help free to learn." Alvin set the log down slow. "You want me at the anvil." "I want the timber cut first." Davis looked at him. "Cut it today and the anvil's yours tomorrow. There's a bad hinge and a cracked hoe. Ruin them if you want. They're not worth saving." It was the most Davis had ever offered him. Iron he could burn through and no one grieving the loss. Alvin felt his chest go warm. He cut timber until his arms shook. He split every log, stacked every piece by the wall, and swept the shavings clear before evening. When he finished, the sun sat low. Davis walked the pile once, touched the cut ends, and nodded. "Done right." He pulled the broken hinge and the cracked hoe from a bin and set them on the anvil. "Yours," he said. "Morning." Alvin picked up the hoe head. The crack ran deep through the metal. He turned it in his hands and heard nothing from it. Wood spoke to him loud, insistent. This did not. He had begged for iron and now he held it, and it was silent as a stone. As he trudged toward the stream to wash, he heard something, faint and foreign. Out here in the open field by the stream there was no wood, it was silent. What was Alvin hearing? He looked down, he found the cracked hoe in his hand. He hadn’t realized he brought it with him. It was heavy in his hand. Its voice was so different. Not vibrant with the need to grow, that was wood’s song. This was faint yes, but it was clear. Iron’s voice was sturdy, solid, permanent. He would learn to hear it. He had until morning to figure out how a man starts.