osc.am2.redprophet-第59部分

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　　So　Alvin　stood　at　the　back　door；　which　Ta…Kumsaw　of　course　didn't　even　bother　to　close；　watching　the　first　flies　of　spring　wander　into　the　hallway。　He　could　almost　hear　his　mother　yelling　about　people　leaving　doors　open　so　the　flies　would　e　in　and　drive　everybody　crazy　all　night；　buzzing　when　folks　are　trying　to　sleep。　And　so　Alvin；　thinking　that　way；　did　what　Ma　always　had　them　do：　he　stepped　inside　and　closed　the　door　behind　him。
　　But　he　dared　go　no　farther　into　the　house　than　that　back　hall；　with　some　heavy　coats　on　pegs　and　dirt…crusted　boots　in　a　jumble　by　the　door。　It　felt　too　strange　to　move。　He'd　been　hearing　the　greensong　of　the　forest　for　so　many　months　that　it　was　deafening；　the　silence　when　it　was　near　gone；　near　pletely　killed　by　the　cacophony　of　the　jammering　life　on　a　White　man's　farm　in　spring。
　　〃Isaac；〃　said　a　woman's　voice。
　　One　of　the　White　noises　stopped。　Only　then　did　Alvin　realize　that　it　had　been　an　actual　noise　he　was　hearing　with　his　ears；　not　the　life…noises　he　heard　with　his　Red　senses。　He　tried　to　remember　what　it　was。　A　rhythm；　and　banging；　regular　rhythm　like　like　a　loom。　It　was　a　loom　he'd　been　hearing。　Ta…Kumsaw　must've　just　walked　hisself　right　into　the　room　where　some　woman　was　weaving。　Only　he　wasn't　no　stranger　here；　she　knew　him　by　the　same　name　as　that　farmer　fellow　out　in　the　fields。　Isaac。
　　〃Isaac；〃　she　said　again；　whoever　she　was。
　　〃Becca；〃　said　Ta…Kumsaw。
　　A　simple　name；　no　reason　for　Alvin's　heart　to　start　apounding。　But　the　way　Ta…Kumsaw　said　it；　the　way　he　spoke　　it　was　such　a　tone　of　voice　that　was　meant　to　make　hearts　pound。　And　more：　Ta…Kumsaw　spoke　it；　not　with　the　strange…twisted　vowels　of　Red　men　talking　English；　but　with　as　true　an　accent　as　if　he　was　from　England。　Why；　he　sounded　more　like　Reverend　Thrower　than　Alvin　would　have　thought　possible。
　　No；　no；　it　wasn't　Ta…Kumsaw　at　all；　it　was　another　man；　a　White　man　in　the　same　room　with　the　White　woman；　that's　all。　And　Alvin　walked　softly　down　the　hall　to　find　where　the　voices　were；　to　see　the　White　man　whose　presence　would　explain　all。
　　Instead　he　stood　in　an　open　door　and　looked　into　a　room　where　Ta…Kumsaw　stood　holding　a　White　woman　by　her　shoulders；　looking　down　into　her　face；　and　her　looking　up　into　his。　Saying　not　a　word；　just　looking　at　each　other。　Not　a　White　man　in　the　room。
　　〃My　people　are　gathering　at　the　Hio；〃　said　Ta…Kumsaw；　in　his　strange　English…sounding　voice。
　　〃I　know；〃　said　the　woman。　〃It's　already　in　the　fabric。　〃　Then　she　turned　to　look　at　Alvin　in　the　doorway。　〃And　you　didn't　e　alone。〃
　　Alvin　never　saw　eyes　like　hers　before。　He　was　still　too　young　to　hanker　after　women　like　he　remembered　Wastenot　and　Wantnot　doing　when　they　both　hit　fourteen　at　a　gallop。　So　it　wasn't　any　kind　of　man…wishing…for…a…woman　feeling　that　he　had；　looking　at　her　eyes。　He　just　looked　into　them　like　he　sometimes　looked　into　a　fire；　watching　the　flames　dance；　not　asking　for　them　to　make　sense；　just　watching　the　sheer　randomness　of　it。　That　was　what　her　eyes　were　like；　as　if　those　eyes　had　seen　a　hundred　thousand　things　happen；　and　they　were　all　still　swirling　around　inside　those　eyes；　and　no　one　had　ever　bothered　or　maybe　even　known　how　to　get　those　visions　out　and　make　sensible　stories　out　of　them。
　　And　Alvin　feared　mightily　that　she　had　some　power　of　witchery　that　she　used　to　turn　Ta…Kumsaw　into　a　White　man。
　　〃My　name　is　Becca；〃　said　the　woman。
　　〃His　name　is　Alvin；〃　said　Ta…Kumsaw；　or　rather；　said　Isaac；　for　it　sure　didn't　sound　like　Ta…Kumsaw　anymore。　〃He's　a　miller's　son　from　the　Wobbish　country。〃
　　〃He's　that　thread　I　saw　running　through　the　fabric　out　of　place。〃　She　smiled　at　Alvin。　〃e　here；〃　she　said。　〃I　want　to　see　the　legendary　Boy　Renegado。〃
　　〃Who's　that？〃　asked　Alvin。　〃The　Boy　Rainy　God〃
　　〃Renegado。　There　are　stories　all　through　Appalachee；　don't　you　know　that？　About　Ta…Kumsaw；　who　appears　one　day　in　the　Osh…Kontsy　country　and　the　next　day　in　a　village　on　the　banks　of　the　Yazoo；　stirring　up　Reds　to　do　massacre　and　torture。　And　always　with　him　is　a　White　boy　who　urges　the　Reds　to　be　ever　more　brutal；　who　teaches　them　the　secret　methods　of　torture　that　used　to　be　practiced　by　the　Papist　Inquisitions　in　Spain　and　Italy。〃
　　〃That　ain't　so；〃　said　Alvin。
　　She　smiled。　The　flames　of　her　eyes　danced。
　　〃They　must　hate　me；〃　said　Alvin。　〃I　don't　even　know　what　a　Inky…zitchum　is。〃
　　〃Inquisition；〃　said　Isaac。
　　Alvin　felt　a　sick　dread　in　his　heart。　If　folks　were　tellin　such　tales　about　him；　why；　folks　would　regard　him　as　a　criminal；　a　monster；　practically。　〃I'm　only　going　along　with〃
　　〃I　know　what　you're　doing；　and　why；〃　said　Becca。　〃Around　here　we　all　know　Isaac　well　enough　to　disbelieve　such　lies　about　him　and　you　both。〃
　　But　Alvin　didn't　care　about　〃around　here。〃　What　he　cared　about　was　back　home　in　Wobbish　country。
　　〃Don't　worry　yourself；〃　said　Becca。　〃Nobody　knows　who　this　legendary　White　boy　is。　Certainly　not　one　of　the　two　Innocents　that　Ta…Kumsaw　chopped　to　bits　in　the　forest。　Certainly　not　Alvin　or　Measure。　Which　one　are　you；　by　the　way？〃
　　〃Alvin；〃　said　Isaac。
　　〃Oh；　yes；〃　said　Becca。　〃You　already　told　me　that。　I　have　such　a　hard　time　holding　people's　names　in　my　head。〃
　　〃Ta…Kumsaw　didn't　chop　nobody　up。〃
　　〃As　you　might　guess；　Alvin；　we　didn't　believe　that　story　here；　either。〃
　　〃Oh。〃　Alvin　didn't　know　what　to　say；　and　since　he'd　been　living　like　a　Red　for　so　long；　he　did　what　Reds　do　when　they　have　nothing　to　say；　something　that　a　White　man　hardly　ever　thinks　of　doing。　He　said　nary　a　thing　at　all。
　　〃Bread　and　cheese？〃　asked　Becca。
　　〃You're　too　kind。　Thank　you；〃　said　Isaac。
　　If　that　didn't　beat　all。　Ta…Kumsaw　saying　thank　you　like　a　fine　gentleman。　Not　that　he　wasn't　noble　and　fairspoke　among　his　kind。　But　in　White　man's　language　he　was　always　so　cold；　so　unflowered　in　his　talk。　Till　now。　Witchery。
　　Becca　rang　a　little　bell。
　　〃It's　simple　fare；　but　we　live　simply　in　this　house。　And　especially　in　this　room。　Which　is　fitting　　it's　such　a　simple　place。〃
　　Alvin　looked　around。　She　was　right。　It　only　just　now　occurred　to　him　that　this　room　was　the　original　log　cabin；　with　its　one　remaining　window　casting　southern　light　into　the　room。　Around　it　the　walls　were　all　still　rough　old　wood；　he　just　hadn't　noticed；　from　all　the　cloth　draped　here　and　there；　hanging　on　hooks；　piled　up　on　furniture；　rolled　up　in　bolts。　A　strange　kind　of　cloth；　lots　of　color　in　it　but　the　color　making　no　pattern　or　sense；　just　weaving　this　way；　that　way；　changing　shades　and　colors；　a　broad　streak　of　blue；　a　few　narrow　strands　of　green；　all　twisting　in　and　out　of　each　other。
　　Somebody　came　into　the　room　to　answer　Becca's　bell；　an　older　man　from　the　sound　of　his　voice；　she　sent　him　for　food；　but　Alvin　didn't　even　know　what　he　looked　like；　he　couldn't　take　his　eyes　off　the　cloth。　What　was　so　much　cloth　for？　Why　would　somebody　make　it　such　a　bright　and　ugly　unorganized　set　of　colors？
　　And　where　did　it　end？
　　He　walked　over　to　where　maybe　a　dozen　bolts　of　cloth　were　standing　in　a　corner；　leaning　on　each　other；　and　he　realized　that　each　bolt　grew　out　of　the　one　before。　Somebody'd　taken　the　end　of　cloth　from　one　bolt　and　wrapped　it　around　itself　to　start　the　next　one；　so　the　cloth　spooled　off　the　end　of　one　bolt；　then　leapt　up　and　plunged　right　down　into　the　center　of　the　next；　one　after　the　other；　making　a　chain　of　fabric。　It　wasn't　a　bunch　of　different　cloths；　it　was　all　one　cloth；　rolled　up　until　it　was　almost　too　heavy　to　move；　and　then　the　next　bolt　started　right　up；　with　never　a　scissor　touching　the　cloth。　Alvin　began　to　wander　around　the　room；　his　fingers　tracing　the　pattern　of　the　cloth；　following　its　path　up　over　hooks　on　the　wall；　down　into　folds　stacked　up　on　the　floor。　He　followed；　he　followed；　until　finally；　just　is　the　old　man　returned　with　the　bread　and　cheese；　he　found　the　end　of　the　cloth。　It　was　feeding　out　the　front　of　Becca's　loom。
　　All　that　time；　Ta…Kumsaw　had　been　talking　to　Becca　in　his　Isaac　voice；　and　she　to　him　in　her　deep　melodious　way　of　speech；　which　had　just　the　slightest　hint　of　foreignness　to　it；　like　some　of　the　Dutch　in　the　area　around　Vigor　Church；　who'd　been　in　America　all　their　lives　but　still　had　a　trace　of　the　old　country　in　their　talk。　Only　now；　with　Alvin　standing　by　the　loom　and　the　food　on　a　low　table　with　three　chairs　around　it；　only　now　did　he　pay　attention　to　what　they　were　saying；　and　that　only　because　he　wanted　so　badly　to　ask　Becca　what　all　this　cloth　was　for；　seeing　as　how　she　must　have　been　weaving　at　it　for　more　than　a　year；　to　have　it　so　long；　without　never　once　taking　shears　to　it　to　make　something　out　of　it。　It　was　what　Ma　always　called　a　shameful　waste；　to　have　something　and　make　no　use　of　it；　like　Dally　Framer's　pretty　singing　voice；　which　she　sang　with　all　day　at　home　but　wouldn't　ever　join　in　singing　hymns　at　church。
　　〃Eat；〃　said　Ta…Kumsaw。　And　when　he　spoke　so　bluntly　to　Alvin；　his　voice　lost　that　Englishness；　he　was　the　real　Ta…Kumsaw　again。　It　set　Alvin's　mind　to　rest；　knowing　that　there　wasn't　some　witchery　at　work；　that　Ta…Kumsaw　just　had　two　different　ways　of　talking；　but　of　course　that　also　set　more　questions　into　Alvin's　mind；　about　how　Ta…Kumsaw　ever　lear