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.