Seventh Son

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 pla

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.