Seventh Son

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 si

“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 all 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?

I can't remember what he shouted. If I could only remember what he shouted, I'd understand why I'm standing here on the road, surrounded by snow-covered trees.

Reverend Thrower looked at his hands, and looked at the trees. He had somehow walked half a mile away from the Millers' house. He wasn't even wearing his heavy cloak.

Then the truth came clear. He hadn't fooled the devil at all. Satan had transported him here, in the twinkling of an eye, rather than let him kill the Beast. Thrower had failed in his one opportunity for greatness. He leaned against a cold black trunk and cried bitterly.

Cally walked into the room, holding the blades above his head. Measure was all set to get a grip on the leg, when all of a sudden old Thrower stood right up and walked out of the room just as quick as if he was trotting to the privy.

“Reverend Thrower,” cried Ma. “Where are you going?”

But Measure understood now. “Let him go, Ma,” he said.

They heard the front door of the house open, and the minister's heavy steps on the porch.

“Go shut the front door, Cally,” said Measure.

For once Cally obeyed without a speck of backsass. Ma looked at Measure, then at Pa, then at Measure again. “I don't understand why he left like that,” she said.

Measure gave her a little half-smile and looked at Pa. “You know, don't you, Pa?”

“Maybe,” he said.

Measure explained to his mother. “Them knives and that preacher, they can't be in this room with Al Junior at the same time.”

“But why not!” she said. “He was going to do the surgery!”

“Well, he sure ain't going to do it now,” said Measure.

The knife and the bone saw lay on the blanket.

“Pa,” said Measure.

“Not me,” said Pa.

“Ma,” said Measure.

“I can't,” Faith said.

“Well then,” said Measure, “I reckon I just turned surgeon.” He looked at Alvin.

The boy's face had a deathly pallor to it that was even worse than the ruddiness of the fever. But he managed a sort of smile, and whispered, “Reckon so.”

“Ma, you're going to have to hold back that flap of skin.”

She nodded.

Measure picked up the knife and brought the blade to rest against the bottom line.

“Measure,” Al Junior whispered.

“Yes, Alvin?” Measure asked.

“I can stand the pain and hold right still, iffen you whistle.”

“I can't keep no tune, if I'm trying to cut straight at the same time,” said Measure.

“Don't want no tune,” said Alvin.

Measure looked into the boy's eyes and had no choice but to do as he asked. It was Al's leg, after all, and if he wanted a whistling surgeon, he'd get one. Measure took a deep breath and started in whistling, no kind of tune at all, just notes. He put the knife on the black line again and began to cut. Shallow at first, cause he heard Al take a gasp of air.

“Keep whistling,” Alvin whispered. “Right to the bone.”

Measure whistled again, and this time he cut fast and deep. Right to the bone in the middle of the line. A deep slit up both sides. Then he worked the knife under the two corners and peeled the skin and muscle right back. At first it bled more than a little bit, but almost right away the bleeding stopped. Measure figured it must be something Alvin did inside himself, to stop the bleeding like that.

“Faith,” said Pa.

Ma reached over and laid her hand on the bloody flap of skin. Al reached out a trembling hand and traced a wedge on the red-streaked bone of his own leg. Measure laid down the knife and picked up the saw. It made an awful, squeaky sound as he cut. But Measure just whistled and sawed, sawed and whistled. And pretty soon he had a wedge of bone in his hand. It didn't look no different from the rest of the bone.