"No," she whispered.

She walked to the door of her room. "Papa," she called.

Horace Guester was serving the last round of drinks to the night's customers. But he had an innkeeper's ears, to hear all needs and wishes, and in a few moments he came.

"The baby is coming," she said.

"I'll fetch the midwife," he said.

"It's too early," said Margaret. "The birth will be easy, but the baby will die."

Tears came to her father's eyes. "Ah, Peggy, I know what it cost your mother, those two tiny graves on the hill behind the house. I never wished for you to have two of your own."

"Nor I," she said.

"But I should fetch her anyway," said Father. "You shouldn't be alone at such a time, and it's not fitting for a father to see his daughter in labor."

"Yes, fetch her," said Margaret.

"But not in here," said Father. "You shouldn't do this in the room where the baby's father was born."

"There's no better place," said Margaret. "It's a room where hope once triumphed over despair."

"Have hope then, my little Peggy." Father kissed her cheek and hastened away.

My little Peggy, he had called her. In this room, that's who I am. Peggy. My mother's name. Where is she now, that fierce, wise, powerful woman? Too strong for me, she was, or anyone else in this place, I see that now. Too strong for her husband, a woman of such will that even fate would not defy her. Perhaps that's why I was able to see the way to save baby Alvin's life-because my mother willed it so.

Perhaps it was losing two babies against her will made her so indomitable.

Or perhaps she simply imprinted her own life on mine so indelibly that I, too, must bury my first two babies before giving birth to a child who might live.

Tears flowed down her cheeks. I can't go through this again. I'm not as strong as Mother. It will not make me stronger. It took all my courage just to let Alvin give this second child to me, and if I lose this one, too, how can I try yet again? It isn't in me. I can't do it.

The midwife found her weeping on the bed. "Aw, Mistress Larner, what have you done? Stained the bedclothes, and your own fine underthings as well, couldn't you have taken them off? What a waste, what a waste."

"What do I care about my clothing," clothing," said Margaret savagely. "My baby is going to die." said Margaret savagely. "My baby is going to die."

"What! How can you-" But the midwife knew exactly how Margaret Larner could say such a thing, and so she fell silent.

"Grieving on your own childbed," grumbled the woman, "grieving for the baby before it's had a chance to live, it's not right."

"I wish I didn't know," said Margaret. "Oh, please G.o.d, make me wrong!"

And with a single push, the baby, small and thin, slipped out into the midwife's waiting hands.

The emptiness in her own body hurt more than the pains of labor. "No!" cried Margaret. "Don't cut the cord! Don't tie it off, no!"

"But the baby needs to-"

"As long as the cord is still connected to my body then he isn't dead!"

They were starting to cross over the river now, but not with any spectacular show. The people might have expected otherwise, but Alvin insisted that they would come by boat, by raft, by canoe, by something that floated by itself.

"That'll take weeks," Verily told him.

"I know," said Alvin.

"Then why-"

"The first to come will fell logs and make shelters. A place for the children when they cross over the river. Six thousand souls, all in a place where there's nothing standing, nothing cleared? It's not too heavy a burden on Tenskwa-Tawa's people, to keep most of them on his side of the river for a while. They can spare the food-and the time. And on our side, well, Verily, you're the man who knows how things should fit together."

"But I should be with Lincoln, working on the charter."

"Who will I put in charge, if not you, Verily? You drew up the plat of the city. Who else knows it the way you do? Arthur Stuart isn't back from Mexico yet and besides, he's too young to be telling folks where to build their houses and where to farm. La Tia's no town-builder. Mike Fink? Rien? Who can I trust?"

"You can trust yourself," said Verily.

"I can't," said Alvin. "It's not my job."

"It's your city."

"Not today," said Alvin. "I have no city today. The baby's making ready to be born."

It took Verily a moment to register what baby he was talking about. "Now?"

"Soon," said Alvin. "Do you think I care about a single one of these six thousand souls, when my baby's going to die?"

Verily looked as if he had been slapped.

"Die," he said. "And you, who've healed so many..."

"Many but not all," said Alvin. "The first one died. This one isn't quite so early, but..."

"But you'll try."

"I'll do what I do," said Alvin. "You get the city started, Verily. It's as much yours as mine. You held onto the plow as much as I did."

The truth of that sank in and Verily nodded gravely. "So I did." He turned and left.

Alvin sat alone on the stone outcropping just above the spring. He reached down and filled his hands with water. He lifted the water to his face and started to drink, but then splashed it onto his skin and wept into his hands.

And then, in the far-off place where his attention really lay, in the very room where he himself had come out of his mother's womb, his wife gave a mighty push and all at once the baby was out in the open air and there was no more time for grief because even though he knew he could not save the baby, he had to try.

This time, at least, there was no fumbling and searching. He knew exactly what was wrong-the lungs, not yet fully formed inside, the tiny structures not yet ready to filter the air through into the blood. The tissue was a little better formed this time; some air was pa.s.sing. And for some reason the baby's umbilical cord had not yet been tied off. The placenta would soon detach itself from the wall of the womb, but for the moment, there was still air pa.s.sing into the baby's blood. So there was a little time. Not enough, it would take hours and hours to prepare the lungs, and the placenta could not last that long.

But he did not brood on what he could not do. Instead he simply did it, told each tiny part of the lung what to do, helped it do it, and then the next part, and the next, each time a little easier because the tissues could more easily change when they were adjacent to tissue that had already matured enough to transform the air into what the blood needed it to be.

It was almost as if the baby's very heart slowed down- indeed, for a moment Alvin thought that the heart had stopped. But no, it was beating very, very slowly, and he worked with feverish intensity, wishing he could slather on the mature tissue the way a painter slaps whitewash on a wall instead of doing it the way he had to do it, like a tatter making knot, knot, knot, and only gradually turning it into lace.

"I've got to tie this cord," said the midwife. "You know your business, I'm sure, but I know mine, and you don't wait for the afterbirth to come out of itself!"

"Look how he breathes in the air," said Margaret. "Look, almost as if he had a hope of life."

And then, as she watched his quick breathing, as she felt his rapid heartbeat, she began to see paths emerging out of darkness. He would not die. He would live. Mentally damaged from the lack of air at the time of his birth, but alive. She was not afraid of such damage-maybe Alvin could fix the problem, yes, if Alvin was watching he could...

More paths opened, and more and more, and now there were a few where the baby was not damaged, where it would learn to walk like any other child, and talk, and...

And now all paths were open, like a normal life, except that there was something that she needed to do.

"Cut the cord," she said. "He can breathe on his own now."

"About time," said the midwife. She strung a thread around the cord and tied it tight, then another about two inches away, and then pa.s.sed a sharp knife under the cord between the knots and pulled upward.

The afterbirth slid out onto the clean rags covering the bed.

The baby cried, a whimpering sound, not the l.u.s.ty cry of a full-term baby, and the poor lad was still as scrawny as could be, but he could breathe, and now almost every path in the child's life showed him in his father's arms, as the three of them, father, mother, and son, stood on the bluff overlooking the river.

The sound of an axe chopping against wood rang out and Alvin came out of his deep concentration. It had been hours and hours, working on the baby's lungs, but somehow the child had stayed alive through all of it, and now it was done. The child was breathing on his own. The cord was cut. And Alvin was surprised that it was still light. Surely it had taken him all day.

He got up from the stone, his body stiff from resting in one position for so long. He walked to the edge of the bluff, expecting to see many trees fallen.

Instead, there was Verily making his way down the hill. What had he been doing, coming up and checking on Alvin all day? Couldn't he do this by himself? And instead of teams of axemen toppling trees, only the one axe was being wielded, and by a man who seemed to be no part of an organized plan.

What had Verily been doing all day, while Alvin wrestled to keep his baby alive?

Only as he was about to cry out to Verily impatiently did Alvin take note of the fact that Verily's shadow still fell long beyond him, down the hill, toward the west.

It was still morning. Early morning. Only minutes after Verily had left Alvin. Somehow, all those hours of work- and as sore as his body was, it had had to have been hours-had been compressed into only a few minutes. to have been hours-had been compressed into only a few minutes.

"Verily!" he called. "Wait!"

Verily turned and watched as Alvin leapt and slipped and slid down the hill to join him.

"What is it?" said Verily.

"How long ago did we talk?"

Verily looked at him as if he were crazy. "Three minutes."

"I did it," said Alvin. "Somehow in just those minutes, I did it."

"Did what?"

"The baby's born. He can breathe, He's alive."

Only then did Verily understand. "Thank G.o.d, Alvin."

"I do," said Alvin. "I do thank G.o.d."

Then he burst into tears and wept in the arms of his friend.

17

Foundation

ALVIN LEANED ON the fireplace, watching Margaret nurse little Vigor. "Got a mighty good suction in him," said Alvin.

"Like a tick," said Margaret. "Can't pry him loose till he's full."

"He's getting strong, don't you think?

"Getting some muscle on him," said Margaret. "But I don't think he'll ever be one of those fat little babies."

"That's fine," said Alvin. "Don't want to raise a spoiled child."

"You'll raise him whatever he is," said Margaret. "And if anyone's likely to spoil him, it's you."

"That's my plan, more or less," said Alvin.

"Don't want him to be spoiled, but you plan to spoil him."

"Can't help it. Only way to save this boy is to have another child to divide up my doting."

"I'll do my best," said Margaret.

"Do you mind, not traveling now, not being in the world of affairs?"