Thrower was surprised to find he wasn't dead. He was lying on his back on a hard floor, covered up with heavy cloth. His head hurt. His arm hurt worse. He remembered trying to cut up that arm, and he knew he ought to try again, but he just couldn't work up the same wish for death that he had felt before. Even remembering the Visitor in the form of a great lizard, even remembering those empty eyes, Thrower just couldn't remember how it felt. He only knew that it was the worst feeling in the world.

His arm was bandaged tight. Who had bandaged him?

He heard the sloshing of water. Then the flopping sound of wet rags slapping against wood. In the winter twilight coming through the window, he could make out somebody washing the wall. One of the window panes was covered over with a piece of wood.

“Who is it?” asked Thrower. “Who are you?”

“Just me.”

“Armor-of-God.”

“Washing down the walls. This is a church, not a butcher shed.”

Of course there'd be blood all over. “Sorry,” said Thrower.

“I don't mind cleaning up,” said Armor. “I think I got all the glass out of your arm.”

“You're naked,” said Thrower.

“Your arm is wearing my shirt.”

“You must be cold.”

“Maybe I was, but I got the window covered and the stove het up. You're the one with a face so white you look like you been dead a week.”

Thrower tried to sit up, but he couldn't. He was too weak; his arm hurt too bad.

Armor pushed him back down. “Now, you just lay back, Reverend Thrower. You just lay back. You been through a lot.”

"Yes.

“I hope you don't mind, but I was here in the church when you come in. I was asleep by the stove– my wife threw me out of the house. I been thrown out twice today.” He laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “So I saw you.”

“Saw?”

“You were having a vision, weren't you?”

“Did you see him?”

“I didn't see much. I mostly saw you, but there was a few glimpses, if you know what I mean. Running around the walls.”

“You saw,” said Thrower. “Oh, Armor, it was terrible, it was beautiful.”

“Did you see God?”

“See God? God has no body to be seen, Armor. No, I saw an angel, an angel of chastisement. Surely this was what Pharaoh saw, the angel of death that came through the cities of Egypt and took the firstborn.”

“Oh,” said Armor, sounding puzzled. “Was I spose to let you die, then?”

“If I were supposed to die, you could not have saved me,” said Thrower. “Because you saved me, because you were here at the moment of my despair, it is a sure sign that I am meant to live. I was chastised, but not destroyed. Armor-of-God, I have another chance.”

Armor nodded, but Thrower could see that he was worried about something. “What is it?” Thrower asked. “What is it that you want to ask me?”

Armor's eyes widened. “Can you hear what I'm thinking9”

“If I could, I wouldn't have to ask you.”

Armor smiled. “Reckon not.”

“I'll tell you what you want to know, if I can.”

“I heard you praying,” said Armor. He waited, as if that were the question.

Since Thrower didn't know what the question was, he wasn't sure what to answer. “I was in despair, because I failed the Lord. I was given a mission to perform, but at the crucial moment my heart was filled with doubt.” With his good hand he reached out and clutched at Armor. All he could touch was the cloth of Armor's trousers, where he knelt beside him. “Armor-of-God,” he said, “never let doubt enter your heart. Never question what you know is true. It's the doorway to let Satan have power over you.”

But that wasn't the answer to Armor's question.

“Ask me what you want to ask me,” said Thrower. “I'll tell you the truth, if I can.”

“You prayed about killing,” said Armor.

Thrower had not thought to tell anyone about the burden the Lord had placed upon him. Yet if the Lord had wanted the secret kept from Armor, He would not have allowed the man to be there in the church to overhear. “I believe,” said Thrower, “that it was the Lord God that brought you to me. I am weak, Armor, and I failed at what the Lord required. But now I see that you, a man of faith, have been given to me as a friend and helper.”

“What did the Lord require?” asked Armor.

“Not murder, my brother. The Lord never asked me to kill a man. It was a devil I was sent to kill. A devil in man-shape. Living in that house.”

Armor pursed his lips, deep in thought. “The boy ain't just possessed, is that what you're saying? It ain't something you can cast right out?”

“I tried, but he laughed at the Holy Book and mocked my words of exorcism. He is not possessed, Armor-of-God. He is the devil's own kin.”

Armor shook his head. “My wife ain't a devil, and she's his own sister.”

“She has given up witchcraft, and so she has been made pure,” said Thrower.

Armor gave one bitter laugh. “I thought so.”

Thrower understood, now, why Armor had taken refuge in the church, in the house of God: His own house had been polluted.

“Armor-of-God, will you help me purge this country, this town, that house, thatfamily, of the evil influence that has corrupted them?”

“Will it save my wife?” asked Armor. “Will it end her love of witchery?”

“It may,” said Thrower. “Perhaps the Lord has brought us together so we can purify both our houses.”

“Whatever it takes,” said Armor. “I'm with you against the devil.”

The blacksmith listened as Taleswapper read the letter from beginning to end.

“Do you remember the family?” asked Taleswapper.

“I do,” said Makepeace Smith. “The graveyard almost began with their oldest boy. I pulled his body from the river with my own hands.”

“Well then, will you take him as your prentice?”

A youth, perhaps sixteen years old, walked into the forge carrying a bucket of snow. He glanced at the visitor, ducked his head, and walked to the cooling barrel that stood near the hearth.

“You see I have a prentice,” said the Smith.

“He looks like a big one,” said Taleswapper.

“Getting on,” the Smith agreed. “Ain't that right, Bosey? You ready to go on your own?”

Bosey smiled a bit, stifled it, nodded. “Yes, Sir,” he said.

“I'm not an easy master,” said the Smith.

“Alvin's a good-hearted boy. He'll work hard for you.”

“But will he obey me? I like to be obeyed.”

Taleswapper looked again at Bosey. He was busy scooping snow into the barrel.

“I said he's a good-hearted boy,” said Taleswapper. “He'll obey you if you're fair with him.”

The Smith met his gaze. “I give honest measure. I don't beat the boys I take on. Have I ever laid hand on you, Bosey?”

“Never, sir.”

“You see, Taleswapper, a prentice can obey out of fear, and he can obey out of greed. But if I'm a good master, he'll obey me cause he knows that's how he'll learn.”

Taleswapper grinned at the smith. “There's no fee,” said Taleswapper. “The boy will earn it out. And he gets his schooling.”

“No need for a smith to have letters, as I should know.”

“Won't be long before Hio's part of the United States,” said Taleswapper. “The boy's got to vote, I think, and read the newspapers. A man who can't read only knows what other folks tell him.”

Makepeace Smith looked at Taleswapper with a grin half-hid on his face. “That so? And ain't it you telling me? So don't I only know this cause other folks, namely you, is telling me so?”

Taleswapper laughed and nodded. The smith had shot the head clean off the turkey with that one. “I make my way in the world telling tales,” said Taleswapper, “so I know you can get much with just the sound of a man's voice. He already reads above his years, so it won't do him harm to miss a bit of school. But his ma is set on him having letters and ciphering like a scholar. So just promise me you won't stand between him and schooling, if he wants it, and we'll leave it at that.”