Seventh Son

“I just wondered if he ever felt a desire to kill them.”

“Never, not a speck. I asked him that, matter of fact. I asked him, and he said not a speck.”

“Well, Mr. Miller, what did you tell him?”

Miller breathed in and out a few times. “I didn't know what to tell him. Some things are just too big for a man like me to understand. I mean, the way that water is out to kill my boy Alvin. And then this Swede fellow with his son. Maybe there's some children that wasn't meant to grow up. Do you think so, Taleswapper?”

“I think there are some children that are so important, that someone– some force in the world– may want them dead. But there are always other forces, maybe stronger forces, that want them alive.”

“Then why don't those forces show theirselves, Taleswapper? Why don't some power from heaven come and say– come to that poor Swedish man and say, 'Don't you fear no more, your boy is safe, even from you!'”

“Maybe those forces don't speak out loud in words. Maybe those forces just show you what they're doing.”

“The only force that shows itself in this world is the one that kills.”

“I don't know about that Swedish boy,” said Taleswapper, “but I'd guess that there's a powerful protection on your son. From what you said, it's a miracle he isn't dead ten times over.”

“That's the truth.”

“I think he's being watched over.”

“Not well enough.”

“The water never got him, did it?”

“It came so close, Taleswapper.”

“And as for that Swedish,boy, I know he's got somebody watching over him.”

“Who?” asked Miller.

“Why, his own father.”

“His father is the enemy,” said Miller.

“I don't think so,” said Taleswapper. “Do you know how many fathers kill their sons by accident? They're out hunting, and a shot goes wrong. Or a wagon crushes the boy, or he takes a fall. Happens all the time. Maybe those fathers just didn't see what was happening. But this Swedish man is sharp, he sees what's happening, and he watches himself, catches himself in time.”

Miller sounded a little more hopeful. “You make it sound like maybe the father ain't all bad.”

“If he were all bad, Mr. Miller, that boy would be dead and buried long ago.”

“Maybe. Maybe.”

Miller thought for a while more. So long, in fact, that Taleswapper dozed a little. He snapped awake with Miller already talking.

“–and it's just getting worse, not better. Harder to fight off those feelings. Not all that long ago, he was standing up in a loft in the– in his bam– and he was pitching down hay. And there below him was his boy, and all it would take is to let fly with the pitchfork, easiest thing in the world, he could say the pitchfork slipped and no one would ever know. Just let it fly, and stick that boy right through. And he was going to do it. Do you understand me? It was so hard to fight off those feelings, harder than ever before, and he just gave up. Just decided to have it done with, to give in. And in that very moment, why, a stranger appeared in the doorway, and shouted, 'No,' and I set down the pitchfork– that's what he said, 'I set down the pitchfork, but I was shaking so bad I could hardly walk, knowing that the stranger saw me with murder in my heart, he must think I'm the most terrible man in the world to think of killing my own boy, he can't even guess how hard I've struggled all those years before–'”

“Maybe that stranger knew something about the powers that can work inside a man's heart,” said Taleswapper.

“Do you think so?”

“Oh, I can't be sure, but maybe that stranger also saw how much that father loved the boy. Maybe the stranger was confused for a long time, but finally began to realize that the child was extraordinary, with powerful enemies. And then maybe he came to understand that no matter how many enemies the boy had, his father wasn't one of them. Wasn't an enemy. And he wanted to say something to that father.”

“What did he want to say?” Miller brushed his eyes with his sleeve again. “What do you think that stranger might want to say?”

“Maybe he wanted to say, 'You've done all you can do, and now it's too strong for you. Now you ought to send that boy away. To relatives back east, maybe, or as a prentice in some town.' That might be a hard thing for the father to do, since he loves the boy so much, but he'll do it because he knows that real love is to take the boy out of danger.”

“Yes,” said Miller.

“For that matter,” said Taleswapper, “maybe you ought to do something like that with your own boy, Alvin.”

“Maybe,” said Miller.

“He's in some danger from the water around here, wouldn't you say? Somebody's protecting him, or something. But maybe if Alvin weren't living here–”

“Then some of the dangers would go away,” said Miller.

“Think about it,” said Taleswapper.

“It's a terrible thing,” said Miller, “to send your boy away to live with strangers.”

“It's a worse thing, though, to put him in the ground.”

“Yes,” said Miller. “That's the worst thing in the world. To put your child in the ground.”

They didn't talk any more, and after a while they both slept.

The morning was cold, with a heavy frost, but Miller wouldn't even let Al Junior come up to the rock until the sun burned it away. Instead they all spent the morning preparing the ground from the cliff face to the sledge, so they could roll the stone down the mountain.

By now, Taleswapper was sure that Al Junior used a hidden power to get the millstone away from the cliff face, even if he didn't realize it himself. Taleswapper was curious. He wanted to see just how powerful this power was, so he could understand more about its nature. And since Al Junior didn't realize what he was doing, Taleswapper's experiment had to be subtle, too. “How do you dress your stone?” asked Taleswapper.

Miller shrugged. “Buhr Stone is what I used before. They all come with sickle dress.”

“Can you show me?” asked Taleswapper.

Using a corner of the rake, Miller drew a circle in the frost. Then he drew a series of arcs, radiating from the center of the circle out to the edges. Between each pair of arcs he drew a shorter arc, which began at the edge but never came closer than two-thirds of the way toward the center. “Like, that,” said Miller.

“Most millstones in Pe

“Show me.”

So Taleswapper drew another circle. It didn't show up as well, since the frost was burning off now, but it was good enough. He drew straight lines instead of curved ones from the center to the edge, and the shorter lines branched directly from the long ones and ran straight to the edge. “Some millers like this better, because you can keep it sharp longer. Since all the lines are straight, you get a nice even draw when you're tooling the stone.”

“I can see that,” said Miller. “I don't know, though. I'm used to those curvy lines.”

“Well, suit yourself,” said Taleswapper. “I've never been a miller, so I don't know. I just tell stories about what I've seen.”

“Oh, I don't mind you showing me,” said Miller. “Don't mind a bit.”

Al Junior stood there, studying both circles.

“I think if we once get this stone home,” said Miller “I'll try that quarter dress on it. Looks to me like it might be easier to keep up a clean grind.”

Finally the ground was dry, and Al Junior walked to the cliff face. The other boys were all down below, breaking camp or bringing the horses up to the quarry. Only Miller and Taleswapper watched as Al Junior finally carried his hammer to the cliff face. He had a little more cutting to do, to get the circle to its full depth all around.

To Taleswapper's surprise, when Al Junior set the chisel in place and gave a whang with the hammer, a whole section of stone, some six inches long, split away from the cliff face and crumbled to the ground.