The Boy Orator by Tracy Daugherty Page B

by a blurry impression of crystals and soft, waxy edges. He knew these were simply the things his mother always bought—soaps and lotions and candles—but here in the dim wagon they appeared to be strange elixirs from a distant continent. An exotic scent—a mixture of greens and earth and musk—dizzied him. He turned aside to swallow air and ran into a looming black shirt. A huge hat hid the sun. Harry blinked. A fleshy animal rose in front of his face. Then he saw it was just a man’s hand. “Hello. My name is Avram,” said a low voice.
    Reluctantly, Harry shook the hand and introduced himself. He didn’t know why, but he was afraid to touch the man. Up close, Avram was younger than Harry would have guessed, probably in his late twenties or thirties, though it was hard to tell beneath the bramble of his thick black beard. Harry’s father had told him, many times, not to judge people by their appearances, but no one else hereabouts looked as strange as Avram did, and Harry flinched from him, involuntarily. Besides, though his mother seemed to like the peddler, she always complained about his prices, as though he couldn’t be wholly trusted.
    â€œYes. Young Harry. Your mother’s told me all about you,” Avram said. “Your speeches. Her sleeplessness when you travel.”
    Harry’s face burned. He felt exposed. He wouldn’t look up. “I won’t be going anymore,” he mumbled.
    â€œOh? I’m surprised. I thought you were much in demand.”
    â€œI don’t know.” Harry shrugged. “Accident?”
    Avram thumped the shattered wheel. He wore a big ruby ring. “A stone in the street. I didn’t see it until it was too late. Do you think you could help me move the wagon into that alley, out of the way? I’d appreciate it.”
    Harry really wanted to go, but no one else was coming by to help.
    â€œIt won’t take a minute,” Avram said.
    The man’s heavy, hooded eyelids reminded Harry of looks he’d seen on the faces of lizards—a kind of cold and brooding amusement.
    Was that the peddler’s true manner? Harry fought his fear and revulsion; after all, Avram was what his father would call a “fellow worker.” “Okay,” he said.
    Avram unhooked his mule from the hack, secured it to a post. Then, while Harry pushed from behind, he steered the wagon into a shadow, carrying it on his back where the wheel had disengaged. Afterwards, sweat trickled like dew through the rings of his beard. “Let me see,” he said, crawling through the curtain. “Perhaps I have—” He combed through fallen bottles. “Yes.” He popped back out and handed Harry a tall, curved flask. “Homemade lemonade,” Avram said. “For a job well done. Thank you. It’s a little warm, I’m afraid.” He grabbed the broken wheel and walked with Harry through town. A woman with a shady parasol, crossing the street, gave them a curious glance.
    â€œTell me, are you leaving the road because of what happened in Anadarko?” Avram asked.
    â€œMy mother told you?”
    â€œYes.”
    Harry felt shy again, to be so revealed to a stranger, especially one as odd as Avram. “My dad was badly hurt. He may not get well.”
    â€œI heard. I’m sorry.” Avram studied the boy. “Forgive me, it’s none of my business,” he said, “but if you let those men silence you, you’re doing just what they want, you know? They’ve won. You realize that?” He grunted, shifted the wheel to his other arm.
    Harry blew into the flask. “So?” His voice sank, trapped in the glass.
    â€œSo …don’t you believe in what you say?”
    â€œOf course.” He didn’t like being challenged this way.
    Avram laid a hand on his shoulder, stopped him too roughly in the street. “Then you must keep saying it.”
    Harry glanced up. The