Seventh Son: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume I Read Online Free PDF

“The one downriver!” cried one.
    “Still alive!” cried the other.
    “How do you know!”
    “He can’t be!”
    They spoke so all on top of each other that Mama had to hush them up just to hear them. “It was Vigor, our big brother, he got swept away—”
    “Well he’s alive,” said little Peggy, “but the river’s got him.”
    The twins looked to Mama for confirmation. “She know what she’s talking about, Goody Guester?”
    Mama nodded, and the boys raced for the door, shouting, “He’s alive! He’s still alive!”
    “Are you sure?” asked Mama fiercely. “It’s a cruel thing, to put hope in their hearts like that, if it ain’t so.”
    Mama’s flashing eyes made little Peggy afraid, and she couldn’t think what to say.
    By then, though, Oldpappy had come up from behind. “Now Peg,” he said, “how would she know one was taken by the river, lessun she saw?”
    “I know,” said Mama. “But this woman’s been holding off birth too long, and I got a care for the baby, so come on now, little Peggy, I need you to tell me what you see.”
    She led little Peggy into the bedroom off the kitchen, the place where Papa and Mama slept whenever there were visitors. The woman lay on the bed, holding tight to the hand of a tall girl with deep and solemn eyes. Little Peggy didn’t know their faces, but she recognized their fires, especially the mother’s pain and fear.
    “Someone was shouting,” whispered the mother.
    “Hush now,” said Mama.
    “About him still alive.”
    The solemn girl raised her eyebrows, looked at Mama. “Is that so, Goody Guester?”
    “My daughter is a torch. That’s why I brung her here in this room. To see the baby.”
    “Did she see my boy? Is he alive?”
    “I thought you didn’t tell her, Eleanor,” said Mama.
    The solemn girl shook her head.
    “Saw from the wagon. Is he alive?”
    “Tell her, Margaret,” said Mama.
    Little Peggy turned and looked for his heartfire. There were no walls when it came to this kind of seeing. His flame was still there, though she knew it was afar off. This time, though, she drew near in the way she had, took a close look. “He’s in the water. He’s all tangled in the roots.”
    “Vigor!” cried the mother on the bed.
    “The river wants him. The river says, Die, die.”
    Mama touched the woman’s arm. “The twins have gone off to tell the others. There’ll be a search party.”
    “In the dark!” whispered the woman scornfully.
    Little Peggy spoke again. “He’s saying a prayer, I think. He’s saying—seventh son.”
    “Seventh son,” whispered Eleanor.
    “What does that mean?” asked Mama.
    “If this baby’s a boy,” said Eleanor, “and he’s born while Vigor’s still alive, then he’s the seventh son of a seventh son, and all of them alive.”
    Mama gasped. “No wonder the river—” she said. No need to finish the thought. Instead she took little Peggy’s hands and led her to the woman on the bed. “Look at this baby, and see what you see.”
    Little Peggy had done this before, of course. It was the chief use they had for torches, to have them look at an unborn baby just at the birthing time. Partly to see how it lay in the womb, but also because sometimes a torch could see who the baby was, what it would be, could tell stories of times to come. Even before she touched the woman’s belly, she could see the baby’s heartfire. It was the one that she had seen before, that burned so hot and bright that it was like the sun and the moon, to compare it to the mother’s fire. “It’s a boy,” she said.
    “Then let me bear this baby,” said the mother. “Let him breathe while Vigor still breathes!”
    “How’s the baby set?” asked Mama.
    “Just right,” said little Peggy.
    “Head first? Face down?”
    Little Peggy nodded.
    “Then why won’t it come?” demanded Mama.
    “She’s been telling him not to,” said little Peggy, looking at the mother.
    “In the wagon,” the mother said. “He