The morning incarnation session had
again proven futile. Will floated down
the town thoroughfare, lost in thought.
He was so distracted that he nearly drifted straight through the man
standing in the middle of the road, with legs spread and arms akimbo, staring
straight at his heartlight.
“You the fast ‘un?”
Will’s spirits picked up considerably;
it was the first time in ages that someone had asked him a question he could
actually answer. Lifting off, he projected himself down the
street, past Big John’s smithy and Ben’s apothecary, and then upwards on a
trajectory over the livery stable. He
charted a U-shaped course that carried him out over the sheep pens and past the
tannery, then back down towards the street and finally to a stop directly in
front of the rawboned figure, whose face bore sparse patches of reddish beard.
The man’s expression never changed. “Reckon that answers that. Been meanin’ t’ have a word or two wit’
ye. Name’s John Ammerman. Reckon y’mayya heard tell o’ me.” He was tall, lean, his face craggy, his
leather garments patchy and worn, his jaw in constant motion, chawing away on
nothing at all. He wasn’t dirty so much as unkempt and frazzled; he
exuded the impression of a man too occupied with other tasks to make hygiene a
high priority. His diction suggested
either a lack of education or a tongue actively at war with the speech centers
of his brain.
If Will might otherwise have thought
him stupid, though, a single look into his eyes was enough to dissuade him. They were the eyes of a raptor, crystal blue
and calculating. To say he saw right
through Will was, of course, faint praise given Will’s condition; nonetheless, Will
thought that this might be a man to whom a lot of fully incarnate people would
prove equally transparent.
“Reckon ya might notta heard much
about me that pleased ye. Ben likes to
warn off the new arrivals. Get ‘is hooks
in early. Make productive lil’ cogs out
‘o ‘em, in ‘is machine. His
‘community.’” In his mouth, the word
sounded like a curse. “But yer a free
man. A free man can make up ‘is own
mind. Matter o’ fact, a free man hasta.
Figger ya wanna decide fer yerself, join me in my workshop fer a spell.”
He gestured towards an expansive oaken
building with a large porch, then marched off towards it. It took Will a few moments to untangle the
stranger’s syntax and figure out that he’d been invited inside.
The door opened directly into
Ammerman’s showroom, which was neatly organized, spacious, and spotless. Sunlight streamed in through large windows,
each of which bore stout oaken shutters.
Abundant shelves displayed bows, crossbows, and ammunition of various
sorts. A dark-skinned boy of roughly
Will’s own age sat on a stool, threading crow feathers into the end of an arrow
shaft; seeing Will’s heartlight trailing behind Ammerman, he glanced up with
interest. “Keep workin’ th’ counter if ye
would, Dion, least ‘till Milton’s back,” Ammerman growled. “Got company. An’ don’ fergit t’ file away them new
receipts. Remember, boy, it ain’t about trust, it’s about th’ contract. Always
keep the receipt.” The boy nodded and
went back to his work. Ammerman strode to
a door behind the counter, which he unlocked with an iron key. This came as a surprise to Will; he couldn’t
recall seeing a lock of the same quality―a lock of any kind―anywhere else in town.
The inner room was windowless, lit
only by the embers in a small hearth, the smoke from which filtered out through
a small chimney. Ammerman lit a brand
and touched it to a pair of oil lamps hanging near the door. It was, as he’d
stated, a small workshop, and by Haven standards, a formidable one. Will recognized several carpentry and
leatherworking tools―a framed push-saw, a wood plane, several chisels, an awl,
as well as other instruments the purpose of which he could only guess at. Long, threadlike strands of plant fiber and
sinew dangled from a small rack not far from the hearth. A massive cabinet dominated the wall opposite
the hearth beside the door with the formidable iron lock. Ammerman seated himself on a three-legged
stool with his back to the fire.
“I’d offer ye a seat, but not much
point, I reckon,” he began. “Ye may be
wonderin’ bout certain things, such as how come I ‘m jes about th’ only one in
Haven with a last name. Here’s th’ first
thing y’otter know. I’m a man what remembers things.
I don’t let things go easy. I
remember m’ pa’s name. Lot else
besides. Here’s another thing I
remember.”
When Ammerman spoke again, it was
in a different voice than his previous strangled tenor. It was deeper, stronger―and his diction was suddenly
perfect. “We hold these truths to be
self-evident; that all men are created equal.
That they are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights,
among which are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” He paused again; when he continued, his voice
had returned to its usual rusted-saw squawk.
“Fine words. I believe them words
‘r true, mostly. Back on Earth, I lived my life in a country that
believed ‘em, ‘til people forgot what they meant.”
His mouth tightened for a moment,
thin lips puckering, as if he’d bitten down on something sour. “Lotta folks in Haven don’t remember them
words. I’m a man what died believin’ in
the truth o’ them words, an’ in the lord an’ savior Jesus Christ. Lotta folks in Haven fergot him, too. I didn’t.
I died believin’ Jesus would welcome me with open arms t’ his heavenly
kingdom, that I’d be brought home by firey chariots while choirs o’ angels
sang.” Ammerman glanced around
theatrically. “Funny. Jesus done made himself scarce, dinnee? Ain’t no chariots neither. Not sure what I believe ‘bout that no
more. The angels?” And there was the piercing glare again, with
a hint of a smile for seasoning. “Might
be I still believe in th’ angels jes’ a bit.”
“But today, it’s them words I wanted ta talk to ye about. Creator or no, a man got rights. Right ta life. Right ta liberty. An’ that’s a big un.” He nodded.
“Pursuit o’ his own aims an’ schemes.
Big right, that. None
bigger. A free man lives by his hands
an’ his wits, contracts w’ who he pleases, lives his own way long as he hurt
none. Lives under the thumb o’ no other
man, no matter how that other man might be pop’lar, or talk fancy, or
whatnot. No man owns no other man, let
alone a whole town.” Another
pucker. “Might be some folks locally
fergit that no man owns ‘em. I’m John
Ammerman. I’m a man what remembers. Might be I remember more than any other
livin’ soul in Haven.”
“Livin’ soul.” In the
lamplight he looked almost cockeyed, his right eye wider than the other. “Now, here’s a thing. Two new souls in town. S’pposed ta be brand new souls, what everyone’s assumin’. But folks live under a man’s thumb too long,
get used to that man doin’ their thinkin’ for ‘em, maybe they forget how ta
think. John Ammerman’s a man what
remembers.” A lopsided stare. “One o’ them souls tears inta town like
all-git-out. Faster than anyone seen a
soul move, maybe two hunnert years. Now,
a soul moves like that, one o’ two things has
to be true. One,” and he held up a
finger, “that ain’t no new soul. New
souls ain’t got no legs unner ‘em. Ain’t
got that turn o’ speed. Or two,”―a
second finger―”that is a new soul,
but not no ordinary new soul. Got a little extra somethin’ other souls
don’t. Maybe a lotta extra somethin’.
Either way, though, story’s the same.
People ain’t estimatin’ the new fella proper. That new soul? He got somethin’ others don’t.” He lowered his fingers and gave a slow
grin. “Maybe he throws folks off the
scent a titch. Takes some extra time ta
figger out how to incarnate. ‘Oh, nothin’ special here, can’t even build me a
new body right, don’t nobody take no notice.’”
The grin widened. “Sly fella if
he did. Knowin’ fella, I reckon.
Fella worth swappin’ secrets with.”
Ammerman leaned back on his stool,
folding his fingers behind his head, the lamplight reflecting in his eyes. “Know what else I reckon? I reckon that fella, he’s his own man.
Don’t reckon he’s gonna wanna be
a cog in no man’s machine. Don’t reckon
he’s gonna fall in line behind some fella jes cuz he talks purty. Not gonna be like some big dumb kid, follow
that man ‘round like a dog, lookin’ fer a new daddy. Lookin’ fer security.”
“I’m
a man what remembers. Know what I
remembered best, when I came here, twenny-odd years ago? Firearms.”
He savored the word as he spoke it.
“I swear to God, I remembered every goddamn thing there was to remember
about firearms. Might be not a body in
Haven showed up knowin’ more ‘bout any one thing. If’n Huanphu remembered farming like I
remembered guns, we’d have stores fer a whole winter before half the harvest
came in. Mavra remembered makin’ liquor
like I remembered guns, everyone in town’d carry their liver beside ‘em in a
bucket.” A sad smile. “Beautiful machine, a firearm. Can’t do nothin’ with what I know,
‘course. Can’t get th’ parts. Can’t hardly even make steel here. Might be ye could manage a flintlock, but
them ain’t my area o’ expertise. But
here’s the thing.” Ammerman stood, and
walked over to a table by the hearth.
“Rememberin’ ain’t all there
is. These ‘community’ folks, now? They’re willin’ ta coast on what they brought
with ‘em from Earth and what others tell ‘em.
Play out th’ string, go home to Th’ Light. Not John Ammerman. No sir.”
He picked up a nearly finished crossbow off of the table and returned to
sit in front of Will. “You can teach an old dog new tricks. Believe that.
Came here not knowin’ howta hammer two boards together. Ol’ Anders, used ta run this shop, he taught
me up some. So happens I’m a bit of a
craftsman now. Them bows you seen,
stored up in th’ Redoubt? Might be I
made most of ‘em w’ these two hands here.
Might be those ain’t all the
bows there are, though.”
His hands caressed the crossbow;
its varnish glistened in the firelight, sleek and deadly. “’All men created equal’? Not so sure.
Met Lil’ Bill at the livery stable?
Does some work for me, time t’ time.
Lil’ squirt like ‘im, figure he could take someone like ‘at Jason inna straight-up
fight? Ha!” This time the grin showed teeth. “How’s that fer ‘created equal’?”
Ammerman lowered the weapon; placed
his foot in the stirrup; drew back the string, cocking it. “But can’t no man, regardless o’ size, bully
a man who’s armed. Nor a woman, neither. Can’t no mob rule over armed men. An armed man or woman, that’s a free man or woman.”
Ammerman turned his profile to Will. He lifted the bow to his shoulder, pointed it
at the far wall, sighted down the shaft.
“Creator mighta endowed us with inalienable rights. Might even be he made men. If so, I’m right grateful. But I figger…”
Ammerman’s finger tightened. The sinew string snapped forward on an empty chamber.
“…it’s John Ammerman who’ll make
all men equal.”
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