Seventh Son

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.

“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 ca

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.