“But I don't know what's coming. I only know what might come. What seems likely to come. There are so many paths the future might take. Most people stumble blindly along, plunging into this or that path that I see in their heartfire, heading for disaster or delight. Few have your power, Alvin, to open up a new path that did not exist. There was no future in which I saw you push that stool through the bars of the cell. And yet it was an almost inevitable act on your part. A simple expression of the impulsiveness of a young man. I see in people's heartfires the futures that are possible for them in the natural course of events. But you can set aside the laws of nature, and so you can't be properly accounted for. Sometimes I can see clearly; but there are deep gaps, dark and wide.”
He got up from the cot and came to the bars, held them, knelt down in front of her. “Tell me how I find out how to make the Crystal City.”
“I don't know how you do it. But I've seen a thousand futures in which you do.”
“Tell me where I look then, in order to learn!”
“I don't know. Whatever it is, it doesn't follow the laws of nature. Or at least I think that's why I can't see it.”
“Vilate Franker says my life ends in Carthage City,” said Alvin.
She stiffened. “How does she know such a thing9”
“She knows where things come from and where they'll end up.”
“Don't go to Carthage City. Never go there.”
“So she's right.”
“Never go there,” she whispered. “Please.”
“I got no plans for it,” he said. But inside his heart he thought: he cares for me after all. She still cares for me.
He might have said something about it, or she might have talked a bit more tenderly and less businesslike. Might have, but then the door opened and in trooped the sheriff and the judge, and Marty Laws and Verily Cooper.
“Scuse us,” said Sheriff Doggly. “But we got us a courtroom thing to do here.”
“I'm at your service, gentlemen,” said Alvin, rising at once to his feet. Peggy also rose, then stooped to move the stool out of the way of the door.
The sheriff looked at the stool.
“It was so kind of you to allow Alvin's stool to be placed outside the bars for me,” said Peggy.
Po Doggly looked at her. He hadn't given any such order, but he decided not to argue the point. Alvin was Alvin.
“Explain things to your client,” said the judge to Verily Cooper.
“As we discussed last night,” said Verily, “we'll need to have various witnesses view the plow. The three of us will be enough to ascertain that the plow exists, that it appears to be made of gold, and…”
“That's all right,” said Alvin.
“And we've agreed that after the jury is empaneled, we'll select eight more witnesses who can testify to the existence and nature of the plow in open court.”
“As long as the plow stays in here with me,” said Alvin. He glanced toward Sheriff Doggly.
“The sheriff already knows,” said the judge, “that he is not one of the designated witnesses.”
“Blame it all, Your Honor!” said Doggly. “It sets in here for weeks in my jail and I can't even see it?”
“I don't mind if he stays,” said Alvin.
“I do,” said the judge. “It's better if he doesn't regale his deputies with tales of how big and how gold the thing is. I know we can trust Mr. Doggly. But why exacerbate the temptation that must already afflict at least some of his deputies?”
Alvin laughed.
“What's so funny, Mr. Smith?” asked the judge.
“How everybody's all pretending they know what in hell the word exacerbate means.” They all joined him in laughter.
When it died down, Sheriff Doggly was still in the room. “I'm waiting to escort the lady out,” he said.
Alvin rolled his eyes. “She saw the plow on the night that it was made.”
“Nevertheless,” said the judge, “three witnesses on this official occasion. You can show it to every visitor in the jail if you want to, but on this occasion, we have agreed to three, and three it is.”
Peggy smiled at the judge. “You are a man of extraordinary integrity, sir,” she said. “I'm glad to know you're presiding at this trial.”
When she was gone and the sheriff had closed the door to the jail, the judge looked at Alvin. “That was Peggy Guester? The torch girl?”
Alvin nodded.
“She grew up prettier than I ever expected,” said the judge. “I just wish I knew whether she was being sarcastic.”
“I don't think so,” said Alvin. “But you're right, she has a way of saying even nice things as if she's only barely holding back from telling a bunch of stuff that ain't so nice.”
“Whoever marries that one,” said the judge, “he better have a thick skin.”
“Or a stout stick,” said Marty Laws, and then he laughed. But he laughed alone, and soon fell silent, vaguely embarrassed, uncertain why his joke had fallen so flat.
Alvin reached under the cot and slid out the burlap bag that held the plow. He pulled back the mouth of the sack, so the plow sat exposed, surrounded by burlap, shining golden in the light from the high windows.
“I'll be damned,” said Marty Laws. “It really is a plow, and it really is gold.”
“Looks gold,” said the judge. “I think if we're to be honest witnesses, we have to touch it.”
Alvin smiled. “I ain't stopping you.”
The judge sighed and turned to the county attorney. “We forgot to get the sheriff to open the cell door.”
“I'll fetch him,” said Marty.
“Please cover the plow, Mr. Smith,” said the judge.
“Don't bother,” said Alvin. He reached over and opened the cell door. The latch didn't even so much as make a sound; nor did the hinges squeak. The door just opened, silent and smooth.
The judge looked down at the latch and lock. “Is this broken?” he asked.
“Don't worry,” said Alvin. “It's working fine. Come on in and touch the plow, if you want.”
Now that the door was open, they hung back. Finally Verily Cooper stepped in, the judge after him. But Marty held back. “There's something about that plow,” he said.
“Nothing to be worried about,” said Alvin.
“You're just bothered because the door opened so easy,” said the judge. “Come on in, Mr. Laws.”
“Look,” said Marty. “It's trembling.”
“Like I told you,” said Alvin, “it's alive.”
Verily knelt down and reached out a hand toward the plow. With no one touching it yet, the plow slid toward him, dragging the burlap with it.
Marty yelped and turned his back, pressing his face into the wall opposite the cell door.
“You can't be much of a witness with your back turned,” said the judge.
The plow slid to Verily. He laid his hand on the top of it. It slowly turned under his hand, turned and turned, around and around, smooth as an ice skater.
“It is alive,” he said.
“After a fashion,” said Alvin. “But it's got a mind of its own, so to speak. I mean, it's not like I've tamed it or nothing.”
“Can I pick it up?” asked Verily.
“I don't know,” said Alvin. “Nobody but me has ever tried.”
“It would be useful,” said the judge, “if we could heft it to see if it weighs like gold, or if it's some other, lighter alloy.”
“It's the purest gold you'll ever see in your life,” said Alvin, “but heft it if you can.”
Verily squatted, got his hands under the plow, and lifted. He grunted at the weight of it, but it stayed in his hands as he lifted it. Still, there was some struggle with it. “It wants to turn,” said Verily.
“It's a plow,” said Alvin. “It reckon it wants to find good soil,”
“You wouldn't actually plow with this, would you?” said the judge.
“I can't think why else I made it, if it ain't for plowing. I mean, if I was making a bowl I got the shape wrong, don't you think?”
“Can you hand it to me?” asked the judge.