“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 God,” said the Visitor. “No, don’t misunderstand me—I am not the Lord of Hosts. Don’t worship me.”

But Thrower could not help himself, and he wept in devotion, kneeling before this wise and powerful angel. Yes, angel, Thrower had no doubt of it, though the Visitor had no wings and wore a suit of clothes one might expect to see in Parliament.

“The man who built this is confused, but there is murder in his soul, and if he is provoked enough, it will come forth. And the child who made the crosses—he is as remarkable as you suppose. But he is not yet ordained to a life of good or evil. Both paths are set before him, and he is open to influence. Do you understand me?”

“Is this my work?” asked Thrower. “Should I forget all else, and devote myself to turning the child to righteousness?”

“If you seem too devoted, his parents will reject you. Rather you should conduct your ministry as you have planned. But in your heart, you’ll bend everything toward this remarkable child, to win him to my cause. Because if he does not serve me by the time he’s fourteen years of age, then I’ll destroy him.”

The mere thought of Alvin Junior being hurt or killed was unbearable to Thrower. It filled him with such a sense of loss that he could not imagine a father or even a mother feeling more. “All that a weak man can do to save the child, I will do,” he cried, his voice wrung almost to a scream by his anguish.