Seventh Son Page 0,39

without so much as noticing that there were words on the paper.

He didn't hear them until they stepped onto the wooden floor. Then he looked up and saw, to his surprise, Mistress Faith carrying a lantern, followed by the eighteen-year-old twins, Wastenot and Wantnot. They were carrying a large wooden box between them. It took a moment before he realized that the box was meant to be an altar. That in fact it was a rather fine altar, the wood was tightly fitted as any master cabinetmaker could manage, beautifully stained. And burnt into the boards surrounding the top of the altar were two rows of crosses.

"Where do you want it?" asked Wastenot.

"Father said we had to bring it down tonight, now that the roof and walls were done."

"Father?" asked Thrower.

"He made it for you special," said Wastenot. "And little Al burnt in the crosses hisself, seeing how he wasn't allowed down here no more."

By now Thrower was standing with them, and he could see that the altar had been lovingly built. It was the last thing he expected from Alvin Miller. And the perfectly even crosses hardly looked like the work of a six-year-old child.

"Here," he said, leading them to the place where he had imagined his altar would stand. It was the only thing in the meetinghouse besides the walls and the floor, and being stained, it was darker than the new-wood floor and walls. It was perfect, and tears came to Thrower's eyes. "Tell them that it's beautiful."

Faith and the boys smiled as broad as could be. "You see he ain't your enemy," said Faith, and Thrower could only agree.

"I'm not his enemy, either," he said. And he didn't say: I will win him over with love and patience, but I will win, and this altar is a sure sign that in his heart he secretly longs for me to set him free from the darkness of ignorance.

They didn't linger, but headed home briskly through the night. Thrower set his candlestick on the floor near the altar - never on it, since that would smack of Papistry - and knelt in a prayer of thanksgiving. The church mostly built, and a beautiful altar already inside it, built by the man he had most feared, the crosses burnt into it by the strange child who most symbolized the compelling superstitions of these ignorant people.

"You're so full of pride," said a voice behind him.

He turned, already smiling, for he was always glad when the Visitor appeared.

But the Visitor was not smiling. "So full of pride."

"Forgive me," said Thrower. "I repent of it already. Still, can I help it if I rejoice in the great work that is begun here?"

The Visitor gently touched the altar, his fingers seeking out the crosses. "He made this, didn't he?"

"Alvin Miller."

"And the boy?"

"The crosses. I was so afraid they were servants of the devil - "

The Visitor looked at him sharply. "And because they built an altar, you think that proves they're not?"

A thrill of dread ran through him, and Thrower whispered, "I didn't think the devil could use the sign of the cross - "

"You're as superstitious as any of the others," said the Visitor coldly. "Papists cross themselves all the time. Do you think it's a hex against the devil?"

"How can I know anything, then?" asked Thrower. "If the devil can make an altar and draw a cross - "

"No, no. Thrower, my dear son, they aren't devils, either of them. You'll know the devil when you see him. Where other men have hair on their heads, the devil has the horns of a bull. Where other men have feet, the devil has the cloven hooves of a goat. Where other men have hands, the devil has the great paws of a bear. And be sure of this: he'll make no altars for you when he comes." Then the Visitor laid both his hands on the altar. "This is my altar now," he said. "No matter who made it, I can turn it to my purpose."

Thrower wept in relief. "Consecrated now, you've made it holy." And he reached out a hand to touch the altar.

"Stop!" whispered the Visitor. Even voiceless, though, his word had the power to set the walls a-trembling. "Hear me first," he said.

"I always listen to you," said Thrower. "Though I can't guess why you should have chosen such a lowly worm as me."

"Even a worm can be made great by a touch from the finger of