Seventh Son

Chapter Thirteen—Surgery

The visitor sat comfortably upon the altar, leaning casually on his left arm, so that his body had a jaunty tilt. Reverend Thrower had seen just such an informal pose taken by a dandy from Camelot, a rakehell who clearly despised everything that the Puritan churches of England and Scotland stood for. It made Thrower more than a little uncomfortable to see the Visitor in such an irreverent pose.

"Why?" asked the Visitor. "Just because the only way you can maintain control over your bodily passions is to sit straight in your chair, knees together, hands delicately arranged in your lap, fingers tightly intertwined, does not mean that I am required to do the same."

Thrower was embarrassed. "It isn't fair to chastise me for my thoughts."

"It is, when your thoughts chastise me for my actions. Beware of hubris, my friend. Do not fancy yourself so righteous that you can judge the acts of angels."

It was the first time the Visitor had ever called himself an angel.

"I did not call myself anything," said the Visitor. "You must learn to control your thoughts, Thrower. You leap to conclusions far too easily."

"Why have you come to me?"

"It's a matter of the maker of this altar," said the Visitor. He patted one of the crosses Alvin Junior had burnt into the wood.

"I've done my best, but the boy is unteachable. He doubts everything, and contests each point of theology as if it were required to meet the same tests of logic and consistency that prevail in the world of science."

"In other words, he expects your doctrines to make sense."

"He is unwilling to accept the idea that some things remain mysteries, comprehensible only to the mind of God. Ambiguity makes him saucy, and paradox causes open rebellion."

"An obnoxious child."

"The worst I have ever seen," said Thrower.

The Visitor's eyes flashed. Thrower felt a stab in his heart.

"I've tried," said Thrower. "I've tried to turn him to serve the Lord. But the influence of his father—"

"It is a weak man who blames his failures on the strength of others," said the Visitor.

"I haven't failed yet!" said Thrower. "You told me I had until the boy was fourteen—"

"No. I told you I had until the boy was fourteen. You only have him as long as he lives here."

"I've heard nothing about the Millers moving. They just got their millstone in place, they're going to start grinding in the spring, they wouldn't leave without—"

The Visitor stood up from the altar. "Let me put a case to you, Reverend Thrower. Purely hypothetical. Let us suppose you were in the same room with the worst enemy of all that I stand for. Let us suppose that he were ill, and lay helpless in his bed. If he recovered, he would be removed from your reach, and would thus go on to destroy all that you and I love in this world. But if he died, our great cause would be safe. Now suppose that someone put a knife into your hand, and begged you to perform a delicate surgery upon the boy. And suppose that if you were to slip, just the tiniest bit, your knife could cut a great artery. And suppose that if you simply delayed, his lifeblood would flow out so quickly that in moments he would die. In that case, Reverend Thrower, what would be your duty?"

Thrower was aghast. All his life he had prepared to teach, persuade, exhort, expound. Never to perform a bloody-handed act like the one the Visitor suggested. "I'm not suited for such things," he said.

"Are you suited for the kingdom of God?" asked the Visitor.

"But the Lord said Thou shalt not kill."

"Oh? Is that what he said to Joshua, when he sent him into the promised land? Is that what he said to Saul, when he sent him against the Amalekites?"

Thrower thought of those dark passages in the Old Testament, and trembled with fear at the thought of taking part in such things himself.

But the Visitor did not relent. "The high priest Samuel commanded King Saul to kill all the Amalekites, every man and woman, every child. But Saul hadn't the stomach for it. He saved the king of the Amalekites and brought him back alive. For that crime of disobedience, what did the Lord do?"

"Chose David to be king in his place," murmured Thrower.

The Visitor stood close to Thrower, his eyes wounding him with their fire. "And then Samuel, the high priest, the gentle servant of God, what did he do?"

"He called for Agag the king of the Amalekites to be brought before him."

The Visitor would not relent. "And what did Samuel do?"

"Killed him," whispered Thrower.

"What does the scripture say that he did!" roared the Visitor. The walls of the meetinghouse shook, the glass of the windows rattled.

Thrower wept in fear, but he spoke the words that the Visitor demanded: "Samuel hacked Agag in pieces in the presence of the Lord."

Now the only sound in the church was Thrower's own ragged breath as he tried to control his hysterical weeping. The Visitor smiled at him, his eyes filled with love and forgiveness. Then he was gone.

Thrower sank to his knees before the altar and prayed. 0 Father, I would die for Thee, but do not ask me to kill. Take away this cup from my lips, I am too weak, I am unworthy, do not lay this burden upon my shoulders.

His tears fell on the altar. He heard a sizzling sound and jumped back from the altar, startled. His tears skittered along the surface of the altar like water on a hot skillet, until finally they were consumed.

The Lord has rejected me, he thought. I pledged to serve Him however He required, and now, when He asks something difficult, when He commands me to be as strong as the great prophets of old, I discover myself to be a broken vessel in the hands of the Lord. I cannot contain the destiny He wanted to pour into me.

The door of the church opened, letting in a wave of freezing air that rushed along the floor and sent a chill through the minister's flesh. He looked up, fearing that it was an angel sent to punish him.

It was no angel, though. Merely Armor-of-God Weaver.

"I didn't mean to interrupt you in prayer," said Armor.

"Come in," said Thrower. "Close the door. What can I do for you?"

"Not for me," said Armor.

"Come here. Sit down. Tell me."

Thrower hoped that perhaps it was a sign from God that Armor had come just now. A member of the congregation, coming to him for help, right after he prayed—surely the Lord was letting him know that he was accepted after all.

"It's my wife's brother," said Armor. "The boy, Alvin Junior."

Thrower felt a thrill of dread run through him, freezing him to the bone. "I know him. What about him?"

"You know he got his leg mashed."

"I heard of it."

"You didn't happen to go visit and see him afore it healed up?"

"I've been given to believe that I'm not welcome in that house."

"Well, let me tell you, it was bad. A whole patch of skin tore off. Bones broke. But two days later, it was healed right up. Couldn't even see no scar. Three days later he was walking."

"It must not have been as bad as you thought."

"I'm telling you, that leg was broke and the wound was bad. The whole family figured the boy was bound to die. They asked me about buying nails for a coffin. And they looked so bad from grieving that I wasn't sure but what we'd bury the boy's ma and pa, too."

"Then it can't be as fully healed as you say."

"Well, it ain't fully healed, and that's why I come to you. I know you don't believe in such things, but I tell you they witched the boy's leg to heal somehow. Elly says the boy did the witching himself. He was even walking on the leg for a few days, no splint even. But the pain never let up, and now he says there's a sick place on his bone. He's got a fever, too."

"There's a perfectly natural explanation for everything," said Thrower.

"Well, be that as you like, the way I see it the boy invited the devil with his witchery, and now the devil's eating him alive inside. And seeing how you're an ordained minister of God, I thought maybe you could cast out that devil in the name of the Lord Jesus."

Superstitions and sorceries were nonsense, of course, but when Armor brought up the possibility of a devil being in the boy, it made sense, it fit with what he knew from the Visitor. Maybe the Lord wanted him to exorcise the child, to purge the evil from him, not to kill the boy at all. It was a chance for him to redeem himself from his failure of will a few minutes before.

"I'll go," he said. He reached for his heavy cloak and whipped it around his shoulders.

"I better warn you, nobody up at their house asked me to bring you."

"I'm prepared to deal with the anger of the unfaithful," said Thrower. "It's the victim of deviltry that concerns me, not his foolish and superstitious family."

Alvin lay on his bed, burning with the heat of his fever. Now, in the daylight, they kept his shutters closed, so the light wouldn't hurt his eyes. At night, though, he made them open things up, let some of the cold air in. He would breathe it in relief. During the few days when he could walk, he had seen the snow covering the meadow. Now he tried to imagine himself lying under that blanket of snow. Relief from the fire burning through his body.

He just couldn't see small enough inside himself. What he did with the bone, with the strands of muscle and layers of skin, it was harder than ever it was to find the cracks in the quarry stone. But he could feel his way through the labyrinth of his body, find the large wounds, help them to close. Most of what went on, though, was too small and fast for him to comprehend. He could see the result, but he couldn't see the pieces, couldn't make out how it happened.

That's how it was with the bad place in his bone. Just a patch of it that was weakening, rotting away. He could feel the difference between the bad place and the good healthy bone, he could find the borders of the sickness. But he couldn't actually see what was happening. He couldn't undo it. He was going to die.

He wasn't alone in the room, he knew. Someone always sat at his bedside. He would open his eyes and see Mama, or Papa, or one of the girls. Sometimes even one of the brothers, even though it meant he had left his wife and his chores. It was a comfort to Alvin, but it was also a burden. He kept thinking he ought to hurry up and die so they could all get back to their regular lives.

This afternoon it was Measure sitting there. Alvin said howdy to him when he first came, but there wasn't much to talk about. Howdy do? I'm dying, thanks, and you? Kind of hard to keep chatting. Measure talked about how he and the twins had tried to cut a grindstone. They chose a softer stone than what Alvin worked with, and still they had a devil of a time cutting. "We finally gave right up," said Measure. "It's just going to have to wait till you can go up the mountain and get us a stone yourself."

Alvin didn't answer that, and they neither one said a word since then. Alvin just lay there, sweating, feeling the rot in his bone as it slowly, steadily grew. Measure sat there, lightly holding his hand.

Measure started to whistle.

The sound of it startled Alvin. He'd been so caught up inside himself that the music seemed to come from a great distance, and he had to travel some distance to discover where it was coming from.

"Measure," he cried; but the sound of his voice was a whisper.

The whistling stopped. "Sorry," said Measure. "Does it bother you?"

"No," said Alvin.

Measure started in whistling again. It was a strange tune, one that Alvin didn't recollect he ever heard before. In fact it didn't sound like any kind of tune at all. It never did repeat itself, just went on with new patterns all the time, ,like as if Measure was making it up on the way. As Alvin lay there and listened, the melody seemed like it was a map, winding through a wilderness, and he started to follow it. Not that he saw anything, the way he would following a real map. It just seemed always to show him the center of things, and everything he thought about, he thought about as if he was standing in that place. Almost like he could see all the thinking he had done before, trying to figure out a way to fix the bad place on his bone, only now he was looking from a ways off, maybe higher up a mountain or in a clearing, somewhere that he could see more.

Now he thought of something he never thought of before. When his leg was first broke, with the skin all tore up, everybody could see how bad off he was, but nobody could help him, only himself. He had to fix it all from inside. Now, though, nobody else could see the wound that was killing him. And even though he could see it, he couldn't do a blame thing to make it better.

So maybe this time, somebody else could fix him up. Not using any kind of hidden power at all. Just plain old bloody-handed surgery.

"Measure," he whispered.

"I'm here," said Measure.

"I know a way to fix my leg," he said.

Measure leaned in close. Alvin didn't open his eyes, but he could feel his brother's breath on his cheek.

"The bad place on my bone, it's growing, but it ain't spread all over yet," Alvin said. "I can't make it better, but I reckon if somebody cut off that part of my bone and took it right out of my leg, I could heal it up the rest of the way."

"Cut it out?"

"Pa's bone saw that he uses when he's cutting up meat, that'd do the trick I think."

"But there ain't a surgeon in three hundred mile."

"Then I reckon somebody better learn how real quick, or I'm dead."

Measure was breathing quicker now. "You think cutting your bone would save your life?"

"It's the best I can think of."

"It might mess up your leg real bad," said Measure.

"If I'm dead, I won't care. And if I live, it'll be worth a messed-up leg."

"I'm going to fetch Pa." Measure scuffed back his chair and thumped out of the room.

Thrower let Armor lead the way onto the Millers' porch. They couldn't very well turn away their daughter's husband. His concern was unfounded, however. It was Goody Faith who opened the door, not her pagan husband.

"Why, Reverend Thrower, if you ain't being too kind to us, stopping up here," she said. The cheerfulness of her voice was a lie, though, if her haggard face was telling the truth. There hadn't been much good sleep in this house lately.

"I brought him along, Mother Faith," said Armor. "He come only cause I asked him."

"The pastor of our church is welcome in my home whenever it pleases him to come by," said Faith.

She ushered them into the great room. A group of girls making quilt squares looked up at him from their chairs near the hearth. The little boy, Cally, was doing his letters on a board, writing with charcoal from the fire.

"I'm glad to see you doing your letters," said Thrower.

Cally just looked at him. There was a hint of hostility in his eyes. Apparently the boy resented having his teacher look at his work here at home, which he had supposed was a sanctuary.

"You're doing them well," said Thrower, trying to put the boy at ease. Cally said nothing, just looked down again at his makeshift slate and kept on scrawling out words.

Armor brought up their business right away. "Mother Faith, we come cause of Alvin. You know how I feel about witchery, but I never before said a word against what you folks do in your house. I always reckoned that was your business and none of mine. But that boy is paying the price for the evil ways that you've let go on here. He witched his leg, and now there's a devil in him, killing him off, and I brought Reverend Thrower here to wring that devil on out of him."

Goody Faith looked puzzled. "There ain't no devil in this house."

Ah, poor woman, said Thrower silently. If you only knew how long a devil has dwelt here. "It is possible to become so accustomed to the presence of a devil as not to recognize that it is presene."

A door by the stairs opened up, and Mr. Miller stepped backward through the doorway. "Not me," he said, talking to whoever was in that room. "I'll not lay a knife to the boy."

Cally jumped up at the sound of his father's voice and ran to him. "Armor brung old Thrower here, Papa, to kill the devil."

Mr. Miller turned around, his face twisted with unidentified emotion, and looked at the visitors as if he hardly recognized them.

"I've got good strong hexes on this house," said Goody Faith.

"Those hexes are a summons for the devil," said Armor. "You think they protect your house, but they drive away the Lord."

"No devil ever came in here," she insisted.

"Not by itself," said Armor. "You called it in with all you're conjuring. You forced the Holy Spirit to leave your house by your witchery and idolatry, and having swept goodness from your home, the devils naturally come right in. They always come in, where they see a fair chance to do mischief."

Thrower became a little concerned that Armor was saying too much about things he didn't really understand. It would have been better had he simply asked if Thrower could pray for the boy at Alvin's bedside. Now Armor was drawing battle lines that should never have been drawn.

And whatever was going on in Mr. Miller's head right now, it was plain to see that this wasn't the best of times to provoke the man. He slowly walked toward Armor. "You telling me that what comes into a man's house to do mischief is the devil?"

"I bear you my witness as one who loves the Lord Jesus," Armor began, but before he could get any further into his testimony, Miller had him by the shoulder of his coat and the waist of his pants, and he turned him right toward the door.

"Somebody better open this door!" roared Miller. "Or there's going to be a powerful big hole right in the middle of it!"

"What do you think you're doing, Alvin Miller!" shouted his wife.

"Casting out devils!" cried Miller. Cally had swung the door open by then, and Miller walked his son-in-law to the edge of the porch and sent him flying. Armor's cry of outrage ended up muffled by the snow on the ground, and there wasn't much chance to hear his yelling after that because Miller closed and barred the door.

"Ain't you a big man," said Goody Faith, "throwing out your own daughter's husband."

"I didn't do but what he said the Lord wanted done," said Miller. Then he turned his gaze upon the pastor.

"Armor didn't speak for me," said Thrower mildly.

"If you lay a hand on a man of the cloth," said Goody Faith, "you'll sleep in a cold bed for the rest of your life."

"Wouldn't think of touching the man," said Miller. "But the way I figure it, I stay out of his place, and he ought to stay out of mine."

"You may not believe in the power of prayer," said Thrower.

"I reckon it depends on who's doing the praying, and who's doing the listening," said Miller.

"Even so," said Thrower, "your wife believes in the religion of Jesus Christ, in the which I have been called and ordained a minister. It is her belief, and my belief, that for me to pray at the boy's bedside might be efficacious in his cure."

"If you use words like that in your praying," said Miller, "it's a wonder the Lord even knows what you're talking about."

"Though you don't believe such prayer will help," Thrower went on, "it certainly can't hurt, can it?"

Miller looked from Thrower to his wife and back again. Thrower had no doubt that if Faith had not been there, he would have been eating snow alongside Armor-ofGod. But Faith was there and had already uttered the threat of Lysistrata. A man does not have fourteen children if his wife's bed holds no attraction to him. Miller gave in. "Go on in," he said. "But don't pester the boy too long."

Thrower nodded graciously. "No more than a few hours," he said.

"Minutes!" Miller insisted. But Thrower was already headed for the door by the stairs, and Miller made no move to stop him. He could have hours with the boy, if he wanted to. He closed the door behind him. No sense in letting any of the pagans interfere with this.

"Alvin," he said.

The boy was stretched out under a blanket, his forehead beaded with sweat. His eyes were closed. After a while, though, he opened his mouth a little. "Reverend Thrower," he whispered.

"The very same," said Thrower. "Alvin, I've come to pray for you, so the Lord will free your body of the devil that is making you sick."

Again a pause, as if it took a while for Thrower's words to reach Alvin and just as long again for his answer to return. "Ain't no devil," he said.

"One can hardly expect a child to be well-versed in matters of religion," said Thrower. "But I must tell you that healing comes only to those who have the faith to be healed." He then devoted several minutes to recounting the story of the centurion's daughter and the tale of the woman who had an issue of blood and merely touched the Savior's robe. "You recall what he said to her. Thy faith hath made thee whole, he said. So it is, Alvin Miller, that your faith must be strong before the Lord can make you whole."

The boy didn't answer. Since Thrower had used his considerable eloquence in the telling of both stories, it offended him a bit that the boy might have fallen asleep. He reached out a long finger and poked Alvin's shoulder.

Alvin flinched away. "I heard you," he muttered.

It wasn't good that the boy could still be sullen, after hearing the light-giving word of the Lord. "Well?" asked Thrower. "Do you believe?"

"In what," murmured the boy.

"In the gospel! In the God who would heal you, if you only soften your heart!"

"Believe," he whispered. "In God."

That should have been enough. But Thrower knew too much of the history of religion not to press for more detail. It was not enough to confess faith in a deity. There were so many deities, and all but one was false. " Which God do you believe in, Al Junior?"

"God," said the boy.

"Even the heathen Moor prays toward the black stone of Mecca and calls it God! Do you believe in the true God, and do you believe in Him correctly? No, I understand, you're too weak and fevered to explain your faith. I will help you, young Alvin. I'll ask you questions, and you tell me, yes or no, whether you believe."

Alvin lay still, waiting.

"Alvin Miller, do you believe in a God without body, parts, or passions? The great Uncreated Creator, Whose center is everywhere, yet Whose circumference can never be found?"

The boy seemed to ponder this for a while before he spoke. "That don't make a bit of sense to me," he said.

"He isn't supposed to make sense to the carnal mind," Thrower said. "I merely ask if you believe in the One who sits atop the Topless Throne; the self-existing Being who is so large He fills the universe, yet so penetrating that He lives in your heart."

"How can he sit on the top of something that ain't got no top?" the boy asked. "How can something that big fit inside my heart?"

The boy was obviously too uneducated and simpleminded to grasp sophisticated theological paradox. Still, it was more than a life or even a soul at stake here—it was all the souls that the Visitor had said this boy would ruin if he could not be converted to the true faith. "That's the beauty of it," said Thrower, letting emotion fill his voice. "God is beyond our comprehension; yet in His infinite love He condescends to save us, despite our ignorance and foolishness."

"Ain't love a passion?" asked the boy.

"If you have trouble with the idea of God," said Thrower, "then let me pose another question, which may be more to the point. Do you believe in the bottomless pit of hell, where the wicked writhe in flames, yet are never burned up? Do you believe in Satan, the enemy of God, who wishes to steal your soul and take you captive into his kingdom, to torment you through all eternity?"

The boy seemed to perk up a little, turning his head toward Thrower, though he still didn't open his eyes.

"I might believe in something like that," he said.

Ah, yes, thought Thrower. The boy has had some experience with the devil. "Have you seen him, child?"

"What's your devil look like?" whispered the boy.

"He is not my devil," said Thrower. "And if you had listened in services, you would have known, for I have described him many times. Where a man has hair on his head, the devil has the horns of a bull. Where a man has hands, the devil has the claws of a bear. He has the hooves of a goat, and his voice is the roar of a ravening lion."

To Thrower's amazement, the boy smiled, and his chest bounced silently with laughter. "And you call us superstitious," he said.

Thrower would never have believed how firm a grip the devil could have on a child's soul, had he not seen the boy laugh with pleasure at the description of the monster Lucifer. That laughter must be stopped! It was an offense against God!

Thrower slapped his Bible down on the boy's chest, causing Alvin to wheeze out his breath. Then, with his hand pressing on the book, Thrower felt himself fill up with inspired words, and he cried out with more passion than he had ever felt before in his life: "Satan, in the name of the Lord I rebuke you! I command you to depart from this boy, from this room, from this house forever! Never again seek to possess a soul in this place, or the power of God will wreak destruction unto the uttermost bounds of hell!"

Then silence. Except for the boy's breathing, which seemed labored. There was such peace in the room, such exhausted righteousness in Thrower's own heart, that he felt convinced the devil had heeded his peroration and retreated forthwith.

"Reverend Thrower," said the boy.

"Yes, my son?"

"Can you take that Bible off my chest now? I reckon if there was any devils here, they're all gone now."

Then the boy began to laugh again, causing the Bible to jump up and down under Thrower's hand.

In that moment Thrower's exultation turned to bitter disappointment. Indeed, the fact that the boy could laugh so devilishly with the Bible itself resting on his body was proof that no power could purge him of evil. The Visitor had been right. Thrower should never have refused the mighty work that the Visitor had called him to do. It had been in his power to be the slayer of the Beast of the Apocalypse, and he had been too weak, too sentimental to accept the divine calling. I could have been a Samuel, hewing to death the enemy of God. Instead I am a Saul, a weakling, who cannot kill what the Lord commands must die. Now I will see this boy rise up with the power of Satan in him, and I will know that he thrives only because I was weak.

Now the room was stifling hot, choking him. He had not realized until now how his clothing sogged with sweat. It was hard to breathe. But what should he expect? The hot breath of hell was in this room. Gasping, he took the Bible, held it out between him and the satanic child who lay giggling feverishly under the blanket, and fled.

In the great room he stopped, breathing heavily. He had interrupted a conversation, but he scarcely took notice of it. What did the conversations of these benighted people amount to, compared to what he had just experienced? I have stood in the presence of Satan's minion, masquing it as a young boy; but his mockery revealed him to me. I should have known what the boy was years ago, when I felt his head and found it to be so perfectly balanced. Only a counterfeit would be so perfect. The child was never real. Ah, that I had the strength of the great prophets of old, so I could confound the enemy and bear the trophy back to my Lord!

Someone was tugging at his sleeve. "Are you well, Reverend?" It was Goody Faith, but Reverend Thrower did not think to answer her. Her tugging pulled him around, though, so he faced the fireplace. There on the mantel he saw a carven image, and in his distracted state he could not at once determine what it was. It seemed to be the face of a soul in torment, surrounded by writhing tendrils. Flames, that's what they are, he thought, and that is a soul drowning in brimstone, burning in hellfire. The image was a torment to him, and yet it was also satisfying, for its presence in this house signified how closely bound this family was to hell. He stood in the midst of his enemies. A phrase from the Psalmist came to his mind: Bulls of Bashan stare upon me, and I can tell all my bones. My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?

"Here," said Goody Faith. "Sit down."

"Is the boy all right?" demanded Miller.

"The boy?" asked Thrower. Words could hardly come to his mouth. The boy is a fiend from Sheol, and you ask how he is? "As well as can be expected," said Thrower.

They turned away from him then, back to their conversation. Gradually he came to understand what they were discussing. It seemed that Alvin wanted someone to cut away the diseased portion of his bone. Measure had even brought a fine-toothed bone saw from the butchery shed. The argument was between Faith and Measure, because Faith didn't want anyone cutting her son, and between Miller and the other two, because Miller refused to do it, and Faith would only consent if Alvin's father did the cutting.

"If you think it ought to be done," said Faith, "then I don't see how you'd be willing to have anyone but yourself cut into him."

"Not me," said Miller.

It struck Thrower that the man was afraid. Afraid to lay the knife against his own son's flesh.

"He asked for you, Pa. He said he'd draw the marks for cutting, right on his own leg. You just cut a flap of skin and peel it back, and right under it there's the bone, and you just cut a wedge in the bone that takes out the whole bad place."

"I'm not the fainting kind," said Faith, "but my head is getting light."

"If Al Junior says it's got to be done, then do it!" said Miller. "But not me!"

Then, like a rush of light into a dark room, Reverend Thrower saw his redemption. The Lord was clearly offering him exactly the opportunity that the Visitor had prophesied. A chance to hold a knife in his hand, to cut into the boy's leg, and accidently sever the artery and spill the blood until the life was gone. What he had shrunk to do in the church, thinking of Alvin as a mere boy, he would do gladly, now that he had seen the evil that disguised itself in child-shape.

"I'm here," he said.

They looked at him.

"I'm no surgeon," he said, "but I have some knowledge of anatomy. I am a scientist."

"Head bumps," said Miller.

"You ever butchered cattle or pigs?" asked Measure.

"Measure!" said his mother, horrified. "Your brother is not a beast."

"I just wanted to know if he was going to throw up when he saw blood."

"I've seen blood," said Thrower. "And I have no fear, when the cutting is for salvation."

"Oh, Reverend Thrower, it's too much to ask of you," said Goody Faith.

"Now I see that perhaps it was inspiration that brought me up here today, after so long being away from this house."

"It was my pebble-headed son-in-law brought you here," said Miller.

"Well," said Thrower, "it was just a thought. I can see that you don't want me to do it, and I can't say that I blame you. Even if it means saving your son's life, it's still a dangerous thing to let a stranger cut into your own child's body."

"You're no stranger," insisted Faith.

"What if something went wrong?. I might slip. His previous injury might have changed the path of certain blood vessels. I might cut an artery, and he could bleed to death in moments. Then I'd have the blood of your child on my hands."

"Reverend Thrower," said Faith, "we can't blame you for chance. All we can do is try."

"It's sure that if we don't do something he'll die," said Measure. "He says we got to cut right away, before the bad place spreads too far."

"Perhaps one of your older sons," said Thrower.

"We got no time to fetch them!" cried Faith. "Oh, Alvin, he's the boy you chose to have your name. Are you set to let him die, just cause you can't abide the preacher here?"

Miller shook his head miserably. "Do it, then."

"He'd rather you did, Pa," said Measure.

"No!" said Miller vehemently. "Better anyone than me. Better even him than me."

Thrower saw disappointment, even contempt, on Measure's face. He stood and walked to where Measure sat, holding a knife and the bone saw in his hands. "Young man," he said, "do not judge any man to be a coward. You cannot guess what reasons he hides in his heart."

Thrower turned to Miller and saw a look of surprise and gratitude on the man's face. "Give him them cutting tools," Miller said.

Measure held out the knife and the bone saw. Thrower pulled out a handkerchief, and had Measure lay the implements carefully within it.

It had been so easy to do. In just a few moments he had them all asking him to take the knife, absolving him in advance of any accident that might happen. He had even won the first scrap of friendship from Alvin Miller. Ah, I have deceived you all, he thought triumphantly. I am a match for your master the devil. I have deceived the great deceiver, and will send his corrupt progeny back to hell within the hour.

"Who will hold the boy?" asked Thrower. "Even with wine in him, the pain will make him jump if he isn't held down."

"I'll hold him," said Measure.

"He won't take no wine," said Faith. "He says he has to have his head clear."

"He's a ten-year-old boy," said Thrower. "If you insist that he drink it, he's bound to obey you."

Faith shook her head. "He knows what's best. He bears up right smart under pain. You never seen the like."

I imagine not, said Thrower silently. The devil within the boy no doubt revels in the pain, and doesn't want the wine to dim the ecstasy. "Very well, then," he said. "There's no reason to delay further." He led the way into the bedroom and boldly pulled the blanket off Alvin's body. The boy immediately began trembling in the sudden cold, though he continued sweating from the fever. "You say that he has marked the place to cut?"

"Al," said Measure. "Reverend Thrower here is going to do the cutting."

"Papa," said Alvin.

"It's no use asking him," said Measure. "He just plain won't."

"Are you sure you won't have some wine?" asked Faith.

Alvin started to cry. "No," he said. "I'll be all right if Pa holds me."

"That does it," said Faith. "He may not do the cutting, but he'll be here with the boy or he'll be stuffed up the chimney, one or the other." She stormed out of the room.

"You said the boy would mark the place," Thrower said.

"Here, Al, let me set you up here. I got some charcoal, and you mark right on your leg here just exactly where you want that flap of skin took up."

Alvin moaned as Measure lifted him to a sitting position, but his hand was steady as he marked a large rectangle on his shin. "Cut it from the bottom, and leave the top attached," he said. His voice was thick and slow, each word an effort. "Measure, you hold that flap back out of the way while he cuts."

"Ma'll have to do that," said Measure. "I got to hold you down so you don't jump."

"I won't jump," said Alvin. "If Pa's holding me."

Miller came slowly into the room, his wife right behind. "I'll be holding you," he said. He took Measure's place, sitting behind the boy with his arms wrapped clear around him. "I'm holding you," he said again.

"Very well, then," said Thrower. He stood there, waiting for the next step.

He waited for a good little while.

"Ain't you forgetting something, Reverend?" asked Measure.

"What?" asked Thrower.

"The knife and the saw," he said.

Thrower looked at his handkerchief, wadded in his left hand. Empty. "Why, they were right here."

"You set them down on the table on the way in," said Measure.

"I'll fetch them," said Goody Faith. She hurried out of the room.

They waited and waited and waited. Finally Measure got up. "I can't guess what's keeping her."

Thrower followed him out of the room. They found Goody Faith in the great room, piecing together quilt squares with the girls.

"Ma," said Measure. "What about the saw and the knife?"

"Good laws," said Faith, "I can't imagine what's got into me. I clean forgot why I come out here." She picked up the knife and saw and marched back to the room. Measure shrugged at Thrower and followed her. Now, thought Thrower. Now I'll do all that the Lord ever expected of me. The Visitor will see that I am a true friend to my Savior, and my place in heaven will be assured. Not like this poor, miserable sinner caught up in the flames of hell.

"Reverend," said Measure. "What are you doing?"

"This drawing," said Thrower.

"What about it?"

Thrower looked closely at the drawing over the hearth. It wasn't a soul in hell at all. It was a depiction of the family's oldest boy, Vigor, drowning. He had heard the story at least a dozen times. But why was he standing here looking at it, when he had a great and terrible mission to perform in the other room?

"Are you all right?"

"Perfectly all right," said Thrower. "I just needed a moment of silent prayer and meditation before I undertook this task."

He strode boldly into the room and sat down on the chair beside the bed where Satan's child lay trembling, waiting for the knife. Thrower looked around for his tools of holy murder. They were nowhere in sight. "Where is the knife?" he asked.

Faith looked at Measure. "Didn't you bring them back in with you?" she asked.

"You're the one brought them in here," said Measure.

"But when you went back out to get the preacher, you took them," she said.

"Did I?" Measure looked confused. "I must have set them down out there." He got up and left the room.

Thrower began to realize that something strange was going on here, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

He walked to the door and waited for Measure to return.

Cally was standing there, holding his slate, looking up at the minister. "You going to kill my brother?" he asked.

"Don't even think of such a thing," Thrower answered.

Measure looked sheepish as he handed the implements to Thrower. "I can't believe I just set them on the mantel like that." Then the young man pushed past Thrower into the room.

A moment later, Thrower followed him into Alvin's room and took his place beside the exposed leg, with the box drawn in black.

"Well where'd you put them?" asked Faith.

Thrower realized that he didn't have the knife or the saw. He was completely confused. Measure handed them to him just outside the door. How could he have lost them?

Cally stood in the doorway. "Why'd you give me these?" he asked. He was, in fact, holding both blades.

"That's a good question," said Measure, eyeing the pastor with a frown. "Why'd you give them to Cally?"

"I didn't," said Thrower. "You must have given them to him."

"I put them right in your hands," said Measure.

"The preacher give them to me," said Cally.

"Well, bring them here," said his mother.

Cally obediently started into the room, brandishing the blades like trophies of war. Like the attack of a great army. Ah, yes, a great army, like the army of the Israelites that Joshua led into the promised land. This is how they held their weapons, high above their heads, as they marched around and around the city of Jericho. Marched and marched. Marched and marched. And on the seventh day they stopped and blew their trumpets and gave a great shout, and down came the walls, and they held their swords and knives high over their heads and charged into the city, hacking men, women, and children, all the enemies of God, so the promised land would be purged of their filthiness and be ready to receive the people of the Lord. They were spattered in blood by the end of the day, and Joshua stood in their midst, the great prophet of God, holding a bloody sword above his head, and he shouted. What did he shout?

I can't remember what he shouted. If I could only remember what he shouted, I'd understand why I'm standing here on the road, surrounded by snow-covered trees.

Reverend Thrower looked at his hands, and looked at the trees. He had somehow walked half a mile away from the Millers' house. He wasn't even wearing his heavy cloak.

Then the truth came clear. He hadn't fooled the devil at all. Satan had transported him here, in the twinkling of an eye, rather than let him kill the Beast. Thrower had failed in his one opportunity for greatness. He leaned against a cold black trunk and cried bitterly.

Cally walked into the room, holding the blades above his head. Measure was all set to get a grip on the leg, when all of a sudden old Thrower stood right up and walked out of the room just as quick as if he was trotting to the privy.

"Reverend Thrower," cried Ma. "Where are you going?"

But Measure understood now. "Let him go, Ma," he said.

They heard the front door of the house open, and the minister's heavy steps on the porch.

"Go shut the front door, Cally," said Measure.

For once Cally obeyed without a speck of backsass. Ma looked at Measure, then at Pa, then at Measure again. "I don't understand why he left like that," she said.

Measure gave her a little half-smile and looked at Pa. "You know, don't you, Pa?"

"Maybe," he said.

Measure explained to his mother. "Them knives and that preacher, they can't be in this room with Al Junior at the same time."

"But why not!" she said. "He was going to do the surgery!"

"Well, he sure ain't going to do it now," said Measure.

The knife and the bone saw lay on the blanket.

"Pa," said Measure.

"Not me," said Pa.

"Ma," said Measure.

"I can't," Faith said.

"Well then," said Measure, "I reckon I just turned surgeon." He looked at Alvin.

The boy's face had a deathly pallor to it that was even worse than the ruddiness of the fever. But he managed a sort of smile, and whispered, "Reckon so."

"Ma, you're going to have to hold back that flap of skin."

She nodded.

Measure picked up the knife and brought the blade to rest against the bottom line.

"Measure," Al Junior whispered.

"Yes, Alvin?" Measure asked.

"I can stand the pain and hold right still, iffen you whistle."

"I can't keep no tune, if I'm trying to cut straight at the same time," said Measure.

"Don't want no tune," said Alvin.

Measure looked into the boy's eyes and had no choice but to do as he asked. It was Al's leg, after all, and if he wanted a whistling surgeon, he'd get one. Measure took a deep breath and started in whistling, no kind of tune at all, just notes. He put the knife on the black line again and began to cut. Shallow at first, cause he heard Al take a gasp of air.

"Keep whistling," Alvin whispered. "Right to the bone."

Measure whistled again, and this time he cut fast and deep. Right to the bone in the middle of the line. A deep slit up both sides. Then he worked the knife under the two corners and peeled the skin and muscle right back. At first it bled more than a little bit, but almost right away the bleeding stopped. Measure figured it must be something Alvin did inside himself, to stop the bleeding like that.

"Faith," said Pa.

Ma reached over and laid her hand on the bloody flap of skin. Al reached out a trembling hand and traced a wedge on the red-streaked bone of his own leg. Measure laid down the knife and picked up the saw. It made an awful, squeaky sound as he cut. But Measure just whistled and sawed, sawed and whistled. And pretty soon he had a wedge of bone in his hand. It didn't look no different from the rest of the bone.

"You sure that was the right place?" he asked.

Al nodded slowly.

"Did I get it all?" Measure asked.

Al sat for a few moments, then nodded again.

"You want Ma to sew this back up?" Measure asked.

Al didn't say a thing.

"He fainted," said Pa.

The blood started to flow again, just a little, seeping into the wound. Ma had a needle and thread on the pincushion she wore around her neck. In no time she had that flap of skin right back down, and she was stitching away at it, making a fine tight seam.

"You just keep on whistling, Measure," she said.

So he kept right on whistling and she kept right on sewing, till they had the wound all bandaged up and Alvin was laying back sleeping like a baby. They all three stood up to go. Pa laid a hand on the boy's forehead, as gentle as you please.

"I think his fever's gone," he said.

Measure's tune got downright jaunty as they slipped on out the door.