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.”

Chapter Fifteen—Promises

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.