Seventh Son ttoam-1

by Orson Scott Card

  He headed up the pathway to the church, which stood well back from the commons, atop a good-sized hill. If I were a true prophet, he thought, I'd know things now. I'd know whether I'd stay here for a day or a week or a month. I'd know whether Armor would be my friend, as I hope, or my enemy, as I fear. I'd know whether his wife would someday win herself free to use her powers in the open. I'd know whether I'd ever meet this Red Prophet face to face.

  But that was nonsense, he knew. That was the sort of seeing that a torch would do– he'd seen them doing it before, more than a few of them, and it filled him with dread, because it wasn't good, he knew, for a man to know too much of the path of his own life ahead. No, for him the knack he wanted was prophecy, to see, not the small doings of men and women in their little corners of the world, but rather the great sweep of events as directed by God. Or by Satan– Taleswapper wasn't particular, since both of them had a good idea of what they planned to do in the world, and so either one was likely to know a few things about the future. Of course, it was likely to be more pleasant to hear from God. What traces of the devil he had touched so far in his life had all been painful, each in its own way.

  The church door stood open, this being a warmish day for autumn, and Taleswapper buzzed right in along with the Ries. It was as fine a church inside as out– obviously Scottish rite, so it was plain– but all the more cheerful for that, a bright and airy place, with whited walls and glass-paned windows. Even the pews and pulpit were of light wood. The only thing dark in the whole place was the altar. So naturally his eye was drawn to it. And, because he had a knack for this sort of thing, he saw traces of a liquid touch upon the surface of it.

  He walked slowly toward the altar. Toward it, because he had to know for sure; slowly, because this sort of thing ought not to be in a Christian church. Up close, though, there was no mistaking. It was the same trace he had seen on the face of the man in DeKane, who tortured his own children to death and blamed it on the Reds. The same trace he had seen lingering on the sword that beheaded George Washington. It was like a thin film of filthy water, invisible unless you looked at a certain angle, in a certain light. But to Taleswapper it was always visible now– he had an eye for it.

  He reached out his hand and set his forefinger carefully on the clearest trace. It took all his strength just to hold it there for a moment, it burned so, setting his whole arm to trembling and aching, right to the shoulder.

  “You're welcome in God's house,” said a voice.

  Taleswapper, sucking on his burnt finger, turned to face the speaker. He was robed as a Scottish Rite preacher– Presbyterian, they called them here in America.

  “You didn't get a splinter, did you?” asked the preacher.

  It would have been easier just to say Yes, I got a splinter. But Taleswapper only told stories he believed.

  “Preacher,” said Taleswapper, “the devil has set his hand upon this altar.”

  At once the preacher's lugubrious smile disappeared. “How do you know the devil's handprint?”

  “It's a gift of God,” said Taleswapper. “To see.”

  The preacher looked at him closely, unsure whether or not to believe. “Then can you also tell where angels have touched?”

  “I could see traces, I think, if goodly spirits had intervened. I've seen such marks before.”

  The preacher paused, as if he wanted to ask a very important question but was afraid of the answer. Then he shuddered, the desire to learn plainly fled from him, and the preacher spoke now with contempt. “Nonsense. You can fool the common people, but I was educated in England, and I am not deluded by talk of hidden powers.”

  “Oh,” said Taleswapper. “You're an educated man.”

  “And so are you, by your speech,” said the preacher. “The south of England, I would say.”

  “The Lord Protector's Academy of Art,” said Taleswapper. “I was trained as an engraver. Since you're Scottish rite, I daresay you've seen my work in your Sunday school book.”

  “I never notice such things,” said the preacher. “Engravings are a waste of paper that could be given over to words of truth. Unless they illustrate matters that the artist's eye has actually seen, like anatornies. But what the artist conceives in his imagination has no better claim on my eyes than what I imagine for myself.”

  Taleswapper followed that notion to its root. “What if the artist were also a prophet?”

  The preacher half-closed his eyes. “The day of prophets is over. Like that apostate heathen one-eyed drunken Red man, across the river, all who claim to be prophets now are charlatans. And I have no doubt that if God granted the gift of prophecy even to one artist, we would soon have a surplus of sketchers and daubers wishing to be taken for prophets, especially if it would bring them better pay.”

  Taleswapper answered mildly, but he did not let the preacher's implicit accusation stand. “A man who preaches the word of God for a salary ought not to criticize others who seek to earn a living by revealing the truth.”

  “I was ordained,” said the preacher. “No one ordains artists. They ordain themselves.”

  Just as Taleswapper had expected. The preacher retreated to authority as soon as he feared his ideas could not stand on their own merit. Reasonable argument was impossible when authority became the arbiter; Taleswapper returned to the immediate matter. “The devil laid his fingers on this altar,” said Taleswapper. “It burned my finger to touch the place.”

  “It never burned mine,” said the preacher.

  “I expect not,” said Taleswapper. “You were ordained.”

  Taleswapper made no effort to hide the scorn in his voice, and it plainly irked the preacher, who lashed back. It did not bother Taleswapper when people got angry at him. It meant they were listening, and at least half believing him. “Tell me, then, if you have such keen eyes,” said the preacher. “Tell me if a messenger from God has ever touched the altar.”

  Plainly the preacher regarded this question as a test. Taleswapper had no idea which answer the preacher thought was correct. It hardly mattered; Taleswapper would answer truthfully, no matter what. “No,” he said.

  It was the wrong answer. The preacher smirked. “Just like that? You can say that he has not?”

  Taleswapper thought for a moment that the preacher might believe his own ordained hands had left the marks of God's will. He would lay that notion to rest at once. “Most preachers don't leave tracks of light on things they touch. Only a few are ever holy enough.”

  But it wasn't himself the preacher had in mind. “You've said enough now,” said the preacher. “I know that you're a fraud. Get out of my church.”

  “I'm no fraud,” said Taleswapper. “I may be mistaken, but I never lie.”

  “And I never believe a man who says he never lies.”

  “A man always assumes that others are as virtuous as himself,” said Taleswapper.

  The preacher's face flushed with anger. “Get out of here, or I'll throw you out.”

  “I'll go gladly,” said Taleswapper. He walked briskly to the door. “I never hope to return to a church whose preacher is not surprised to learn that Satan has touched his altar.”

  “I wasn't surprised because I don't believe you.”

  “You believed me,” said Taleswapper. “You also believe an angel has touched it. That's the story you think is true. But I tell you that no angel could touch it without leaving a trace that I could see. And I see but one trace there.”

  “Liar! You yourself are sent by the devil, trying to do your necromancy here in the house of God! Begone! Out! I conjure you to leave!”

  “I thought churchmen like you didn't practice conjurings.”

  “Out!” The preacher screamed the last word, the veins standing out in his neck. Taleswapper put his hat back on and strode away. He heard the door slam closed behind him. He walked across a hilly meadow of dried-out autumn grass until he struck the track that led up toward the house that the woman had spoken of. Where she was sure they'd take
him in.

  Taleswapper wasn't so sure. He never made more than three visits in a place– if he hadn't found a house to take him in by the third try, it was best to move on. This time, the first stop had been unusually bad, and the second had gone even worse.

  Yet his uneasiness wasn't just that things were going badly. Even if at this last place they fell on their faces and kissed his feet, Taleswapper felt peculiar about staying around here. Here was a town so Christian that the leading citizen wouldn't allow hidden powers in his house– yet the altar in the church had the devil's mark on it. Even worse was the pattern of deception. The hidden powers were being used right under Armor's nose, and by the person he loved and trusted most; while in the church, the preacher was convinced that God, not the devil, had claimed his altar. What could Taleswapper expect, in this place up the hill, but more madness, more deception? Twisted people entwined each other, Taleswapper knew that much from the evidence of his own past.

  The woman was right– the brooks were bridged. Even this, though, wasn't a good sign. To bridge a river was a necessity; to bridge a broad stream, a kindness to travelers. But why did they build such elaborate bridges over brooks so narrow that even a man as old as Taleswapper could leap them without wetting a foot? The bridges were sturdy, anchored into the earth far to either side of the stream, and both had roofs, well thatched. People pay money to stay in inns that aren't as tight and dry as these bridges, thought Taleswapper.

  Surely this meant that the people at the end of the track were at least as strange as those he had met so far. Surely he ought to turn away. Prudence demanded that he leave.

  But prudence was not strong in Taleswapper's character. It was as Old Ben told him, years before. “You'll go into the mouth of hell someday, Bill, just to find out why the devil has such bad teeth.” There was a reason for the bridges, and Taleswapper sensed that it would mean a story worth remembering in his book.

  It was only a mile, after all. Just when it seemed the track was about to wander into impenetrable wood, it took a sharp northward turn and opened into as pretty a holding as Taleswapper had seen, even in the placid settled lands of New Orange and Pennsylvania. The house was large and fine, with shaped logs, to show that they meant it to last, and there were barns and sheds and pens and coops that made it almost a village in itself. A wisp of smoke rising a half mile on up the track told him that his guess wasn't all wrong. There was another household nearby, sharing the road, which meant it was probably kin. Married children, no doubt, and all farming together, for the better prosperity of all. That was a good thing, Taleswapper knew, when brothers could grow up liking each other well enough to plow each other's fields.

  Taleswapper always headed for the house– best to announce himself at once, rather than skulking about and being taken for a robber. Yet this time, when he meant to walk toward the house, he felt himself become stupid all at once, unable to remember what it was he was about to do. It was a warding so powerful that he did not realize he had been pushed away until he was halfway down the hill toward a stone building beside a brook. He stopped abruptly, frightened, for no one had power enough, he thought, to back him off without him realizing what was happening. This place was as strange as the other two, and he wanted no part of it.

  Yet as he tried to turn back the way he had come, the same thing happened again. He found himself going down the hill toward the stone-walled building.

  Again he stopped, and this time muttered, “Whoever you are, and whatever you want, I'll go of my own free will or I'll not go at all.”

  All at once it was like a breeze behind him, pushing him toward the building. But he knew he could go back if he wanted. Against the breeze, yes, but he could do it. That eased his mind considerably. Whatever constraints had been placed upon him, they were not meant to enslave him. And that, he knew, was one of the marks of a goodly spell– not the hidden chains of a tormentor.

  The path rounded to the left a bit, along the brook, and now he could see that the building was a mill, for it had a millrace and the frame of a tall wheel standing where the water would flow. But no water flowed in the race today, and as he came close enough to see through the large barn-size door, he discovered why. It wasn't just closed up for the winter. It had never been used as a mill. The gears were in place, but the great round millstone wasn't there. Just a foundation of rammed cobbles, level and ready and waiting.

  Waiting a long time. This construction was at least five years old, from the vines and the mosses on the building. It had been a lot of work to build this millhouse, and yet it was being used as a common haybarn.

  Just inside the large door, a wagon was rocking back and forth as two boys grappled together atop a half-load of hay. It was a friendly bout; the boys were obviously brothers, the one about twelve years old, the other perhaps nine, and the only reason the young one wasn't thrown off the wagon and out the door was because the older boy couldn't keep himself from laughing. They didn't notice Taleswapper, of course.

  They also didn't notice the man standing at the edge of the loft, pitchfork in hand, looking down at them. Taleswapper thought at first that the man was watching in pride, like a father. Then he came close enough to see how he held the fork. Like a javelin, ready to cast. For a single moment, Taleswapper saw in his mind's eye just what would happen– the fork thrown, burying itself in the flesh of one of the boys, surely killing him, if not immediately, then soon enough, with gangrene or belly bleeding. It was murder that Taleswapper saw.

  “No!” he shouted. He ran through the doorway, fetching up alongside the wagon, looking up at the man in the loft.

  The man plunged the pitchfork into the hay beside him and heaved the hay over the edge onto the wagon, half-burying the two boys. “I brought you here to work, you two bearcubs, not to tie each other in knots.” The man was smiling, teasing. He winked at Taleswapper. Just as if there hadn't been death in his eyes a moment before.

  “Howdy, young feller,” said the man.

  “Not so young,” said Taleswapper. He doffed his hat, letting his bare pate give away his age.

  The boys dug themselves out of the hay. “What were you shouting at, Mister?” asked the younger one.

  “I was afraid someone might come to harm,” said Taleswapper.

  “Oh, we wrassle like that all the time,” said the older boy. “Put her there, friend. My name's Alvin, same as my pa.” The boy's grin was contagious. Scared as he'd been, with so much dark dealing going on today, Taleswapper had no choice but to smile back and take the proffered hand. Alvin Junior had a handshake like a grown man, he was that strong. Taleswapper commented on it.

  “Oh, he gave you his fish hand. When he gets to wringing and wrenching on you, he like to pops your palm like a razzleberry.” The younger boy shook hands, too.

  “I'm seven years old, and Al Junior, he's ten.” Younger than they looked. They both had that nasty bitter body stench that young boys get when they've been playing hard. But Taleswapper never minded that. It was the father who puzzled him. Was it just a fancy in his own mind, that Taleswapper thought he meant to kill the boys? What man could take a murderous hand to boys as sweet and fine as these?

  The man had left the pitchfork in the loft, clambered down the ladder, and now strode toward Taleswapper with his arms out as if to hug him. “Welcome here, stranger,” said the man. “I'm Alvin Miller, and these are my two youngest sons, Alvin Junior and Calvin.”

  “Cally,” corrected the younger boy.

  “He doesn't like the way our names rhyme,” said Alvin Junior. “Alvin and Calvin. See, they named him like me hoping he'd grow up to be as fine a specimen of manhood as I am. Too bad it ain't working.”

  Calvin gave him a shove of mock anger. “Near as I can tell, he was the first try, and when I came along they finally got it right!”

  “Mostly we call thern Al and Cally,” said the father.

  “Mostly you call us 'shutup' and 'get over here,'” said Cally.

  Al Junior gave
him a whack on the shoulder and sent him sprawling in the dirt. Whereupon his father placed a boot on his backside and sent him head over heels out the door. All in fun. Nobody was hurt. How could I have thought there was murder going on here?

  “You come with a message? A letter?” asked Alvin Miller. Now, that the boys were outside, yelling at each other across the meadow, the grown men could get a word in.

  “Sorry,” said Taleswapper. “Just a traveler. A young lady in town said I might find a place to sleep up here. In exchange for whatever good hard work you might have for my arms.”

  Alvin Miller grinned. “Let me see how much work those arms can do.” He thrust out an arm, but it wasn't to shake hands. He gripped Taleswapper by the forearm and braced his right foot against Taleswapper's right foot. “Think you can throw me?” asked Alvin Miller.

  “Just tell me before we start,” said Taleswapper, “whether I'll get a better supper if I throw you, or if I don't throw you.”

  Alvin Miller leaned back his head and whooped like a Red. “What's your name, stranger?”

  “Taleswapper.”

  “Well, Mr. Taleswapper, I hope you like the taste of dirt, cause that's what you'll eat before you eat anything else here!”

  Taleswapper felt the grip on his forearm tighten. His own arms were strong, but not like this man's grip. Still, a game of throws wasn't all strength. It was also wit, and Taleswapper had a bit of that. He let himself slowly flinch under Alvin Miller's pressure, long before he had forced the man to use his full strength. Then, suddenly, he pulled with all his might in the direction Miller was pushing. Usually that was enough to topple the bigger man, using his own weight against him– but Alvin Miller was ready, pulled the other way, and flung Taleswapper so far that he landed right among the stones that formed the foundation for the missing millstone.