Seventh Son ttoam-1

by Orson Scott Card

  Thrower didn't even make a sign that he heard. Just kept pressing. Armor started walking toward him. Got to make that man stop before he breaks the glass and cuts up his arm.

  With a crash the glass shattered. Thrower's arm went right through, up to the shoulder. The preacher smiled. He pulled his arm partway back into the church. Then he began to slide his arm around the frame, jamming it right into the shards of glass that hung there in the putty.

  Armor tried to pull Thrower away from the window, but the man had a strength on him like Armor never seen before. Finally Armor had to take a run at him and knock him right down to the floor. Blood was spattered everywhere. Armor grabbed at Thrower's arm, which was dripping all over with blood. Thrower tried to roll away from him. Armor didn't have no choice. For the first time since he became a Christian man he made his hand into a fist and popped Thrower right on the chin. It slammed the preacher's head back into the floor and knocked him silly.

  Got to stop the bleeding, Armor thought. But first he had to get the glass out. Some of the big pieces were only stuck in a little way, and he could brush them right off. But other pieces, some of the little pieces, were in deep, only a bit of their top showing, and that was slimy with blood so he couldn't get much of a grip on it. Finally, though, he got all the glass he could find. Lucky enough there wasn't a single cut a-pumping blood, which told Armor that the big veins hadn't been cut. He stripped off his shirt, which left him naked to the waist with that cold draft coming in from the broken window, but he didn't hardly notice. He just ripped up the shirt and made bandages. He bound up the wounds and stopped the bleeding. Then he sat there and waited for Thrower to wake up.

  * * *

  Thrower was surprised to find he wasn't dead. He was lying on his back on a hard floor, covered up with heavy cloth. His head hurt. His arm hurt worse. He remembered trying to cut up that arm, and he knew he ought to try again, but he just couldn't work up the same wish for death that he had felt before. Even remembering the Visitor in the form of a great lizard, even remembering those empty eyes, Thrower just couldn't remember how it felt. He only knew that it was the worst feeling in the world.

  His arm was bandaged tight. Who had bandaged him?

  He heard the sloshing of water. Then the flopping sound of wet rags slapping against wood. In the winter twilight coming through the window, he could make out somebody washing the wall. One of the window panes was covered over with a piece of wood.

  “Who is it?” asked Thrower. “Who are you?”

  “Just me.”

  “Armor-of-God.”

  “Washing down the walls. This is a church, not a butcher shed.”

  Of course there'd be blood all over. “Sorry,” said Thrower.

  “I don't mind cleaning up,” said Armor. “I think I got all the glass out of your arm.”

  “You're naked,” said Thrower.

  “Your arm is wearing my shirt.”

  “You must be cold.”

  “Maybe I was, but I got the window covered and the stove het up. You're the one with a face so white you look like you been dead a week.”

  Thrower tried to sit up, but he couldn't. He was too weak; his arm hurt too bad.

  Armor pushed him back down. “Now, you just lay back, Reverend Thrower. You just lay back. You been through a lot.”

  "Yes.

  “I hope you don't mind, but I was here in the church when you come in. I was asleep by the stove– my wife threw me out of the house. I been thrown out twice today.” He laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “So I saw you.”

  “Saw?”

  “You were having a vision, weren't you?”

  “Did you see him?”

  “I didn't see much. I mostly saw you, but there was a few glimpses, if you know what I mean. Running around the walls.”

  “You saw,” said Thrower. “Oh, Armor, it was terrible, it was beautiful.”

  “Did you see God?”

  “See God? God has no body to be seen, Armor. No, I saw an angel, an angel of chastisement. Surely this was what Pharaoh saw, the angel of death that came through the cities of Egypt and took the firstborn.”

  “Oh,” said Armor, sounding puzzled. “Was I spose to let you die, then?”

  “If I were supposed to die, you could not have saved me,” said Thrower. “Because you saved me, because you were here at the moment of my despair, it is a sure sign that I am meant to live. I was chastised, but not destroyed. Armor-of-God, I have another chance.”

  Armor nodded, but Thrower could see that he was worried about something. “What is it?” Thrower asked. “What is it that you want to ask me?”

  Armor's eyes widened. “Can you hear what I'm thinking9”

  “If I could, I wouldn't have to ask you.”

  Armor smiled. “Reckon not.”

  “I'll tell you what you want to know, if I can.”

  “I heard you praying,” said Armor. He waited, as if that were the question.

  Since Thrower didn't know what the question was, he wasn't sure what to answer. “I was in despair, because I failed the Lord. I was given a mission to perform, but at the crucial moment my heart was filled with doubt.” With his good hand he reached out and clutched at Armor. All he could touch was the cloth of Armor's trousers, where he knelt beside him. “Armor-of-God,” he said, “never let doubt enter your heart. Never question what you know is true. It's the doorway to let Satan have power over you.”

  But that wasn't the answer to Armor's question.

  “Ask me what you want to ask me,” said Thrower. “I'll tell you the truth, if I can.”

  “You prayed about killing,” said Armor.

  Thrower had not thought to tell anyone about the burden the Lord had placed upon him. Yet if the Lord had wanted the secret kept from Armor, He would not have allowed the man to be there in the church to overhear. “I believe,” said Thrower, “that it was the Lord God that brought you to me. I am weak, Armor, and I failed at what the Lord required. But now I see that you, a man of faith, have been given to me as a friend and helper.”

  “What did the Lord require?” asked Armor.

  “Not murder, my brother. The Lord never asked me to kill a man. It was a devil I was sent to kill. A devil in man-shape. Living in that house.”

  Armor pursed his lips, deep in thought. “The boy ain't just possessed, is that what you're saying? It ain't something you can cast right out?”

  “I tried, but he laughed at the Holy Book and mocked my words of exorcism. He is not possessed, Armor-of-God. He is the devil's own kin.”

  Armor shook his head. “My wife ain't a devil, and she's his own sister.”

  “She has given up witchcraft, and so she has been made pure,” said Thrower.

  Armor gave one bitter laugh. “I thought so.”

  Thrower understood, now, why Armor had taken refuge in the church, in the house of God: His own house had been polluted.

  “Armor-of-God, will you help me purge this country, this town, that house, thatfamily, of the evil influence that has corrupted them?”

  “Will it save my wife?” asked Armor. “Will it end her love of witchery?”

  “It may,” said Thrower. “Perhaps the Lord has brought us together so we can purify both our houses.”

  “Whatever it takes,” said Armor. “I'm with you against the devil.”

  Chapter Fifteen – Promises

  The blacksmith listened as Taleswapper read the letter from beginning to end.

  “Do you remember the family?” asked Taleswapper.

  “I do,” said Makepeace Smith. “The graveyard almost began with their oldest boy. I pulled his body from the river with my own hands.”

  “Well then, will you take him as your prentice?”

  A youth, perhaps sixteen years old, walked into the forge carrying a bucket of snow. He glanced at the visitor, ducked his head, and walked to the cooling barrel that stood near the hearth.

  “You see I have a prentice,” said the Smith.
>
  “He looks like a big one,” said Taleswapper.

  “Getting on,” the Smith agreed. “Ain't that right, Bosey? You ready to go on your own?”

  Bosey smiled a bit, stifled it, nodded. “Yes, Sir,” he said.

  “I'm not an easy master,” said the Smith.

  “Alvin's a good-hearted boy. He'll work hard for you.”

  “But will he obey me? I like to be obeyed.”

  Taleswapper looked again at Bosey. He was busy scooping snow into the barrel.

  “I said he's a good-hearted boy,” said Taleswapper. “He'll obey you if you're fair with him.”

  The Smith met his gaze. “I give honest measure. I don't beat the boys I take on. Have I ever laid hand on you, Bosey?”

  “Never, sir.”

  “You see, Taleswapper, a prentice can obey out of fear, and he can obey out of greed. But if I'm a good master, he'll obey me cause he knows that's how he'll learn.”

  Taleswapper grinned at the smith. “There's no fee,” said Taleswapper. “The boy will earn it out. And he gets his schooling.”

  “No need for a smith to have letters, as I should know.”

  “Won't be long before Hio's part of the United States,” said Taleswapper. “The boy's got to vote, I think, and read the newspapers. A man who can't read only knows what other folks tell him.”

  Makepeace Smith looked at Taleswapper with a grin half-hid on his face. “That so? And ain't it you telling me? So don't I only know this cause other folks, namely you, is telling me so?”

  Taleswapper laughed and nodded. The smith had shot the head clean off the turkey with that one. “I make my way in the world telling tales,” said Taleswapper, “so I know you can get much with just the sound of a man's voice. He already reads above his years, so it won't do him harm to miss a bit of school. But his ma is set on him having letters and ciphering like a scholar. So just promise me you won't stand between him and schooling, if he wants it, and we'll leave it at that.”

  “Got my word on that,” said Makepeace Smith. “And you don't have to write it down. A man who keeps his word doesn't have to read and write. But a man who has to write down his promises, you got to watch him all morning. I know that for a fact. We got lawyers in Hatrack these days.”

  “The curse of civilized man,” said Taleswapper. “When a man can't get folks to believe his lies anymore, then he hires him a professional to lie in his place.”

  They laughed together over that one, setting there on two stout stumps just inside the door of the forge, the fire smoldering in its brick chimney place behind them, the sun shining on half-melted snow outside. A redbird flew across the grassy, trampled, dunged-up ground in front of the forge. It dazzled Taleswappees eyes for a moment, it was such a startlement against the whites and greys and browns of late winter.

  In that moment of amazement at the redbird's flight, Taleswapper knew for certain, though he couldn't say why, that it would be a while yet before the Unmaker let young Alvin come to this place. And when he came he'd be like a redbird out of season, to dazzle folks all hereabouts, them thinking he was just as natural as a bird flying, not knowing what a miracle it was every minute that the bird stayed in the air.

  Taleswapper shook himself, and the moment's clear vision passed. “Then it's done, and I'll write to them to send the boy.”

  “I'll look for him the first of April. No later!”

  “Unless you expect the boy to control the weather, you'd best be flexible about the date.”

  The smith grumbled and waved him away. All in all, a successful meeting. Taleswapper left feeling good– he had discharged his duty. It'd be easy to send a letter with a westbound wagon– several groups passed through the town of Hatrack every week.

  Though it had been a long time since he passed through this place, he still knew the way from the forge to the inn. It was a well-traveled road, and not a long one. The inn was much larger now than it had been, and there were several shops a bit farther up the road. An outfitter, a saddler, a cobbler. The kind of service traveling folk could use.

  He hardly set foot on the porch when the door opened and Old Peg Guester came out, her arms spread wide to embrace him. “Ah, Taleswapper, you've been away too long, come in, come in!”

  “It's good to see you again, Peg,” he said.

  Horace Guester growled at him from behind the bar in the common room, where he was serving several thirsty visitors. “What I don't need here is another teetotaling man!”

  “Good news, then, Horace,” Taleswapper answered cheerfully. “I gave up tea as well.”

  “What, do you drink water?”

  “Water and the blood of greasy old men,” said Taleswapper.

  Horace gestured to his wife. “You keep that man away from me, Old Peg, you hear?”

  Old Peg helped him strip off a few layers of clothing. “Look at you,” said Old Peg, sizing him up. “There ain't enough meat on you to make a stew.”

  “The bears and panthers pass me by in the night, looking for richer fare,” said Taleswapper.

  “Come in and tell me stories while I fix up a mess of supper for the company.”

  There was talk and chatter, especially once Oldpappy came in to help. He was getting feeble now, but he still had a hand in the kitchen, which was all to the benefit of those who ate here; Old Peg meant well and worked hard, but some folks had the knack and some folks didn't. But it wasn't food that Taleswapper came for, nor conversation either, and after a while he realized he'd have to bring it up himself “Where's your daughter?”

  To his surprise, Old Peg stiffened, and her voice went cold and hard. “She ain't so little no more. She's got a mind of her own, she's the first to tell you.”

  And you don't much like it, thought Taleswapper. But his business with the daughter was more important than any family squabbles. “Is she still a–”

  “A torch? Oh, yes, she does her duty, but it's no pleasure for folks to come for her. Snippy and cold, that's what she is. It's got her a name for being sharp-tongued.” For a moment Old Peg's face softened. “She used to be such a soft-hearted child.”

  “I've never seen a soft heart turn hard,” said Taleswapper. “At least not without good reason.”

  “Well, whatever her reason, she's one whose heart has crusted up like a waterbucket on a winter's night.”

  Taleswapper held his tongue and didn't sermonize, didn't talk about how if you chip the ice it'll freeze up again right away, but if you take it inside, it'll warm up fresh as you please. No use stepping in the middle of a family squabble. Taleswapper knew enough of the way people lived that he took this particular quarrel as a natural event, like cold winds and short days in autumn, like thunder after lightning. Most parents didn't have much use for a halfgrown child.

  “I have a matter to discuss with her,” said Taleswapper. “I'll take the risk of having my head bitten off.”

  He found her in Dr. Whitley Physicker's office, working on his accounts. “I didn't know you were a bookkeeper,” he said.

  “I didn't know you held much with physicking,” she answered. “Or did you just come to see the miracle of a girl who does sums and ciphers?”

  Oh, yes, she was as sharp as could be. Taleswapper could see how a wit like that might discommode a few folks who expected a young woman to cast down her eyes and speak softly, glancing upward only now and then under heavy-lidded eyes. There was none of that young ladyness about Peggy. She looked Taleswapper in the face, plain as could be.

  “I didn't come to be healed,” said Taleswapper. “Or to have my future told. Or even to have my accounts added up.”

  And there it was. The moment a man answered her right back instead of getting his dander up, why, she flashed a smile fit to charm the warts off a toad. “I don't recollect you having much to add or subtract anyhow,” she said. “Naught plus naught is naught, I think.”

  “You've got it wrong, Peggy,” said Taleswapper. “I own this whole world, and folks haven't been keeping up too
well on the payments.”

  She smiled again, and set aside the doctor's account book. “I keep his records for him, once a month, and he brings me things to read from Dekane.” She talked about the things she read, and Taleswapper began to see that her heart yearned for places far beyond Hatrack River. He also saw other things– that she, being a torch, knew the folks around here too well, and thought that in faraway places she'd find people with jewel-like souls that would never disappoint a girl who could see clean into their heart.

  She's young, that's all. Give her time, and she'll learn to love such goodness as she finds, and forgive the rest.

  After a while the doctor came in, and they chatted a bit, and it was well into the afternoon by the time Taleswapper was alone with Peggy again and could ask her what he came to ask.

  “How far off can you see, Peggy?”

  He could almost see wariness fall across her face like a thick velvet curtain. “I don't reckon you're asking me whether I need spectacles,” she said.

  “I just wonder about a girl who once wrote in my book, A Maker is born. I wonder if she still keeps an eye on that Maker, now and then, so she can see how he fares.”

  She looked away from him, gazing at the high window above where the curtain gave privacy. The sun was low and the sky outside was grey, but her face was full of light, Taleswapper saw that right enough. Sometimes you didn't have to be a torch to know full well what was in a person's heart.

  “I wonder if that torch saw a ridgebeam failing on him one time,” said Taleswapper.

  “I wonder,” she said.

  “Or a millstone.”

  “Could be.”

  “And I wonder if somehow she didn't have some way to split that ridgebeam clean in twain, and crack that millstone so a certain old taleswapper could see lantern light right through the middle of that stone.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes, not like she was about to cry, but like she was looking into the sun straight on, and it made her water up. “A scrap of his birth caul, rubbed into dust, and a body can use the boy's own power to work a few clumsy makings,” she said softly.