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 learned such talk。 Alvin never even heard so much as a rumor about Ta…Kumsaw having White friends in Appalachee； and you'd think a tale like that would be known。 Though it wasn't hard to guess why Ta…Kumsaw wouldn't want it noised around much。 What would all those het…up Reds think if they saw Ta…Kumsaw here and now？ What would it do to Ta…Kumsaw's war？
And e to think of it； how could Ta…Kumsaw wage such a war； if he had true White friends like the folk of this valley？ Surely the land was dead here； at least as the Reds knew it。 How could Ta…Kumsaw bear it？ It left such a hunger in Alvin that even though he packed bread and cheese down his throat till his belly poked out； he still felt a gnawing inside him； a need to get back to the woodland and feel the song of the land inside himself。
The meal was filled with Becca's pleasant chatter about doings in the valley； her saying names that meant nothing to Alvin； except any one of them could have been the name of a body back in Vigor Church there was even folks named Miller； which was natural； seeing how a valley this size no doubt had more than one miller's worth of grain to grind。
The old man came back to clear away。
〃Did you e to see my cloth？〃 asked Becca。
Ta…Kumsaw nodded。 〃That's half why I came。〃
Becca smiled； and led him to the loom。 She sat on her weaving stool and gathered the newest cloth up into her lap。 She started about three yards from the lip of the loom。
〃Here；〃 she said。 〃The gathering of your folk to Prophetstown。〃
Alvin saw how she passed her hand over a whole bunch of threads that seemed to climb out of their proper warp and migrate across the cloth to gather up near the edge。
〃Reds from every tribe；〃 she said。 〃The strongest of your people。〃
Even though the fibers tended to be greenish； they were indeed heavier than most threads； strong and taut。 Becca fed the cloth farther down her lap。 The gathering grew stronger and clearer； and the threads turned brighter green。 How could threads change color that way？ And how with the machinery of the loom could the warp shift like that？
〃And now the Whites that gathered against them；〃 she said。
And sure enough； another group of threads； tighter to start with； but gathering； knotting up a little。 To Alvin's eyes it looked like the cloth was a ruin； the threads all tangled and bunched who'd wear a shirt made of such stuff as that？ and the colors made no sense； all jumbled together without no effort to make a pattern or any kind of regular order。
Ta…Kumsaw reached out his hand and pulled the cloth toward himself。 Pulled until he exposed a place were all those pure green threads just went slack and then stopped； most of them。 The warp of the cloth was spare and thin； then； maybe one thread for every ten there used to be； like a worn…down raggedy patch in the elbow of an old shirt； so when you bent your elbow maybe a dozen threads made lines across your skin one direction； and no threads at all the other way。
If the green threads stood for Prophetstown； there couldn't be no mistake what was going on here。 〃Tippy…Canoe；〃 Alvin murmured。 Now he knew the order of this cloth。
Becca bent over the cloth and tears dropped from her eyes straight down on it。
Tearless； Ta…Kumsaw pulled the cloth again； steadily。 Alvin saw the rest of the green threads； the few that remained from the massacre at Tippy…Canoe； migrate to the edge of the cloth and stop。 The cloth was narrower by that many threads。 Only now there was another gathering； and the threads were not green。 They were mostly black。
〃Black with hate；〃 said Becca。 〃You are gathering your people with hate。〃
〃Can you imagine conducting a war with love？〃 asked Ta…Kumsaw。
〃That's a reason to refuse to make war at all；〃 she said gently。
〃Don't talk like a White woman；〃 said Ta…Kumsaw。
〃But she is one；〃 said Alvin； who thought she made perfect sense。
They both looked at Alvin； Ta…Kumsaw impassively； Becca with amusement？ Pity？ Then they returned to the cloth。
Very quickly they came to where the cloth hung over the beam； then fed out of the loom。 Along the way； the black threads of Ta…Kumsaw's army worked closer together； knotted； intertwined。 And other threads； some blue； some yellow； some black； all gathered in another place； the fabric bunching up something awful。 It was thicker； but it didn't seem to Alvin that it was a speck stronger。 Weaker； if anything。 Less useful。 Less trustworthy。
〃This cloth ain't going to be worth much； if this goes on；〃 said Alvin。
Becca smiled grimly。 〃Truer words were never spoken； lad。〃
〃If this is about a year's worth of story；〃 said Alvin； 〃you must have two hundred years all gathered up here。〃
Becca cocked her head。 〃More than that；〃 she said。
〃How do you find out all that's going on； to make it all go into the cloth？〃
〃Oh； Alvin； there's some things folks just do； without knowing how；〃 she said。
〃And if you change the threads around； can't you make things go differ