“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 ajudge 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 terrib
le 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 took 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.
14
Ch
astisement
AS SOON AS ELLY SAW HIM, she was sweet as could be, brushing snow off him, helping with his cloak, and never so much as whispering a question of how it happened.
Didn’t make no difference how kindly she might be. He was shamed afore his own wife, cause sooner or later she’d hear the tale from one of those children. Soon enough the tale would be all up and down the Wobbish. How Armor-of-God Weaver, storekeeper for the western country, future governor, got throwed right off a porch into the snow by his old father-in-law. They’d be laughing behind their hands, all right. They’d laugh him up and down. Never to his face, of course, cause there was hardly a soul between Lake Canada and the Noisy River who didn’t owe him money or need his maps to prove their claims. Come the time when the Wobbish country was made a state, they’d tell that story at every polling place. They might like a man they laughed at, but they wouldn’t respect him, and they wouldn’t vote for him.
It was the death of his plans he was facing, and his wife just had too much of that Miller family look about her. She was pretty enough, for a frontier woman, but he didn’t care about pretty right now. He didn’t care about sweet nights and gentle mornings. He didn’t care about her working alongside him in the store. All he cared about was shame and rage.
“Don’t do that.”
“You got to get that wet shirt off. How’d you get snow clear down your shirt?”
“I said get your hands off me!”
She stepped back, surprised. “I was just—”
“I know what you ‘was just.’ Poor little Armor, you just pat him like a little boy and he’ll feel better.”
“You could catch your death—”
“Tell that to your pa! If I cough my guts out, you tell him what it means to throw a man in the snow!”
“Oh no!” she cried. “I can’t believe Papa would—”
“See? You don’t even believe your own husband.”
“I do believe you, it just ain’t like Pa—”
“No ma’am, it’s like the devil himself, that’s what it’s like! That’s what fills that house of yours up there! The spirit of evil! And when a body tries to speak the words of God in that house, they throw him right out in the snow!”
Seventh Son: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume I Page 23