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.
<
br /> “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 a
ll 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?
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