“Well, Horace done prettied up the place,” said Alvin.
“It don't look like itself no more,” said Arthur Stuart.
“Anymore,” Alvin corrected him.
“If you can say 'done prettied up' then I can say 'no more,'” said Arthur Stuart. “Miss Larner ain't here to correct us no more anyhow.”
“That should be 'no more nohow,'” said Alvin, and they both laughed as they walked up onto the porch.
The door opened and a somewhat stout middle-aged woman stepped through it, almost running into them. She carried a basket under one arm and an umbrella under the other, though there wasn't a sign of rain.
“Excuse me,” said Alvin. He saw that she was hedged about with hexes and charms. Not many years ago, he would have been fooled by them like any other man (though he would always have seen where the charms were and how the hexes worked). But he had learned to see past hexes of illusion, and that's what these were. These days, seeing the truth came so natural to him that it took real effort to see the illusion. He made the effort, and was vaguely saddened to see that she was almost a caricature of feminine beauty. Couldn't she have been more creative, more interesting than this? He judged at once that the real middle-aged woman, somewhat thick-waisted and hair salted with grey, was the more attractive of the two images. And it was a sure thing she was the more interesting.
She saw him staring at her, but no doubt she assumed it was her beauty that had him awed. She must have been used to men staring at her– it seemed to amuse her. She stared right back at him, but not looking for beauty in him, that was for sure.
“You were born here,” she said, “but I've never see you before.” Then she looked at Arthur Stuart. “But you were born away south.”
Arthur nodded, made mute by shyness and by the overwhelming force of her declaration. She spoke as if her words were not only true, but superseded all other truth that had ever been thought of.
“He was born in Appalachee, Missus…” In vain Alvin waited for her reply. Then he realized that he was supposed to assume, seeing her young beautiful false image, that she was a Miss rather than a Missus.
“You're bound for Carthage City,” said the woman, speaking to Alvin again, and rather coldly.
“I don't think so,” said Alvin. “Nothing for me there.”
“Not yet, not yet,” she said. “But I know you now. You must be Alvin, that prentice boy old Makepeace is always going on about.”
“I'm a journeyman, ma'am. If Makepeace isn't saying that part, I wonder how much of what he says is true.”
She smiled, but her eyes weren't smiling. They were calculating. “Aha. I think there's the makings of a good story in that. Just needs a bit of stirring.”
At once Alvin regretted having said so much to her. Why had he spoken up so boldly, anyway? He wasn't a one to babble on to strangers, especially when he was more or less calling another fellow a liar. He didn't want trouble with Makepeace, but now it looked pretty sure he was going to get it anyway. “I wish you'd tell me who you are, ma'am.”
It wasn't her voice that answered. Horace Guester was in the doorway now. “She's the postmistress of Hatrack River, on account of her uncle's brother-in-law being the congressman from some district in Susquahenny and he had some pull with the president. We're all hoping to find a candidate in the election this fall who'll promise to throw her out so we can vote for him for president. Failing that, we're going to have to up and hang her one of these days.”
The postmistress got a sort of half-smile on her face. “And to think Horace Guester's knack is to make folks feel welcome!”
“What would the charge be, in the hanging?” asked Alvin.
“Criminal gossip,” said Horace Guester. “Rumor aforethought. Sniping with malice. Backbiting with intent to kill. Of course I mean all that in the nicest possible way.”
“I do no such thing,” said the postmistress. “And my name, since Horace hasn't deigned to utter it yet, is Vilate Franker. My grandmother wasn't much of a speller, so she named my mother Violet but spelled it Vilate, and when my mother grew up she was so ashamed of grandmama's illiteracy that she changed the pronunciation to rhyme with 'plate.' However, I am not ashamed of my grandmother, so I pronounce it 'Violet,' as in the delicate flower.”
“To rhyme,” said Horace, “with Pilate, as in Pontius the handwasher.”
“You sure talk a lot, ma'am,” said Arthur Stuart. He spoke in all innocence, simply observing the facts as he saw them, but Horace hooted and Vilate blushed and then, to Alvin's shock, clicked with her tongue and opened her mouth wide, letting her upper row of teeth drop down onto the lower ones. False teeth! And such a horrible image– but neither Arthur nor Horace seemed to see what she had done. Behind her wall of illusion, she apparently thought she could get away with all kinds of ugly contemptuous gestures. Well, Alvin wasn't going to disabuse her. Yet.
“Forgive the boy,” said Alvin. “He hasn't learned when's the right time to speak his mind.”
“He's right,” she said. “Why shouldn't he say so?” But she dropped her teeth at the boy again. “I find it irresistible to tell stories,” she went on. “Even when I know my listeners don't care to hear them. It's my worst vice. But there are worse ones– and I thank the good Lord I don't have those.”
“Oh, I like stories, too,” said Arthur Stuart. “Can I come listen to you talk some more?”
“Any time you like, my boy. Do you have a name?”
“Arthur Stuart.”
It was Vilate's turn to hoot with laughter. “Any relation to the esteemed king down in Camelot?”
“I was named after him,” he said, “but far as I know we ain't no kin.”
Horace spoke up again. “Vilate, you won yourself a convert cause the poor boy's got no guile and less sense, but kindly stand aside of this door and let me welcome in this man who was born in my house and this boy who grew up in it.”
“There's obviously parts of this story that I haven't heard yet,” said Vilate, “but don't trouble yourself on my account. I'm sure I'll get a much fuller version from others than I would ever get from you. Good day, Horace! Good day, Alvin! Good day, my young kingling. Do come see me, but don't bring me any of Horace's cider, it's sure to be poisoned if he knows it's for me!” With that she bustled off the porch and out onto the hard-packed dirt of the road. Alvin saw the illusions dazzle and shimmer as she went. The hexes weren't quite so perfect from the rear. He wondered if others ever saw through her when she was going away.
Horace watched her grimly as she walked up the road. “We pretend that we're only pretending to hate each other, but in fact we really do. The woman's evil, and I mean that serious. She has this knack of knowing where something or somebody's from and where they're bound to end up, but she uses that to piece together the nastiest sort of gossip and I swear she reads other people's mail.”
“Oh, I don't know,” said Alvin.
“That's right, my boy, you ain't been here for the past year and you don't know. A lot of changes since you left.”
“Well, let me in, Mr. Guester, so I can set down and maybe eat some of today's stew and have a drink of something– even poisoned cider sounds good about now.”
Horace laughed and embraced Alvin. “Have you been gone so long you forgot my name is Horace? Come in, come in. And you too, young Arthur Stuart. You're always welcome here.”
To Alvin's relief, Arthur Stuart said nothing at all, and so naturally among the things he didn't say was “papa.”
They followed him inside and from then on till they laid down for naps in the best bedroom, they were in Horace's hospitable care. He fed them, gave them hot water for washing their hands and feet and faces, took their dirty clothes for laundering, stuffed more food in them, and then personally tucked them into bed after making them watch him put clean sheets on the bed “Just so you know I still keep my dear Peg's high standards of cleanliness even if I am just an old widower living alone.”