And wreck it he would. It was one thing if Alvin had been offended by something Thrower had inadvertently said and done. But to have the quarrel be about belief in sorcery, right from the start—well, there was no hiding from this conflict. The battle lines were laid. Thrower stood on the side of science and Christianity, and on the other side stood all the powers of darkness and superstition; the bestial, carnal nature of man was on the other side, with Alvin Miller as its champion. I am only at the beginning of my tournament for the Lord, thought Thrower. If I can’t vanquish this first opponent, then no victory will ever, be possible for me.

“Pastor Thrower!” shouted Alvin’s oldest boy, David. “We’re ready to raise the ridgebeam!”

Thrower started toward them at a trot, then remembered his dignity and walked the rest of the way. There was nothing in the gospels to imply that the Lord ever ran—only walked, as befitted his high station. Of course, Paul had his comments about running a good race, but that was allegory. A minister was supposed to be a shadow of Jesus Christ, walking in His way and representing Him to the people. It was the closest these people would ever come to beholding the majesty of God. It was Reverend Thrower’s duty to deny the vitality of his youth and walk at the reverent pace of an old man, though he was only twenty-four.

“You mean to bless the ridgebeam, don’t you?” asked one of the farmers. It was Ole, a Swedish fellow from the banks of the Delaware, and so a Lutheran at heart; but he was willing enough to help build a Presbyterian Church here in the Wobbish valley, seeing how the nearest church besides that was the Papist Cathedral in Detroit.

“I do indeed,” said Thrower. He laid his hand on the heavy, axehewn beam.

“Reverend Thrower.” It was a child’s voice behind him, piercing and loud as only a child’s voice can be. “Ain’t it a kind of a charm, to give a blessing to a piece Of wood?”

Thrower turned around to see Faith Miller already hushing the boy. Only six years old, but Alvin Junior was obviously going to grow up to be just as much trouble as his father. Maybe more—Alvin Senior had at least had the good grace to stay away from the church-raising.

“You go on,” said Faith. “Never mind him. I haven’t learned him yet when to speak and when to keep silence.”