“I’ve watched him make barrels, and I’ve watched other coopers at their work, and he does exactly what they all do, only perhaps a little slower, and definitely with better results. I don’t know how he does it though, not being a cooper myself.”

  “I’ve heard that you split a millstone in half without touching it,” said the bishop.

  Alvin grinned, though inside he was trying to imagine how the bishop could have heard of the incident, since it happened more than two decades ago and there were few witnesses.

  As if in answer to Alvin’s wondering, there was a rap on the door. Alvin rose to his feet, offering with the look on his face to admit the visitor. The bishop nodded, so Alvin took a stride to reach the door and opened it.

  He stood, surprised to recognize the man at the door. It was Philadelphia Thrower, a man who Alvin knew was a servant of the Unmaker himself. Itself. A man who had tried to kill Alvin, or at least planned to.

  Thrower recognized Alvin, too, but gave only a moment to regarding him. He came in and set a thin sheaf of papers on the desk, then stood waiting for some kind of response.

  The bishop scribbled something at the bottom of every sheet of paper. Alvin looked at the papers, but in the dim light he couldn’t read them upside down.

  Thrower gathered up the papers and left, closing the door behind him. Alvin immediately sat down, but this time turned the chair around and sat on it in the civilized manner. “How well do you know that man?” asked Alvin.

  “He knows you,” said the bishop.

  “Or so he thinks,” said Alvin. “He’s Scottish Rite, not Church of England or Ireland.”

  “In the struggle against Satan, I have found that Presbyterians and Anglicans can work together.”

  Alvin wanted to say, I have seen Satan and this man was his servant. But he wasn’t sure that the Unmaker was actually Satan, and telling the bishop that he had seen Satan would cement his fate. He couldn’t do much in Ireland under sentence of death. He would only endanger the people he was here to rescue.

  “Reverend Thrower thinks he knows me,” said Alvin, “but all he knows are rumors, many of them started by himself. His malice isn’t directed only at me, Your Grace. He has worked to promote the Property Rights Crusade, which exists only to protect, promote, and spread the practice of slavery.”

  “But he’s a staunch opponent of witchery,” said the bishop.

  “It’s fairly safe to oppose something that doesn’t actually exist,” said Alvin. “But slavery does exist, and he promotes it. When it comes to war in America, will you be happy to be on the side of men who promote slavery instead of those who oppose it?”

  “I would be surprised if Parliament supported either side, and Ireland will do as London decides.”

  “So for you, slavery is not a moral matter, but witchery, which is only an accusation, not a fact, you will exert great energy to oppose.”

  “If it doesn’t exist, my opposition will do it no harm,” said the bishop mildly.

  “But your accusations do great harm. As you said, people brought before you under a charge of witchcraft are treated harshly by the citizens.”

  “You say witchery doesn’t exist,” said the bishop, “but for some reason the people fear it and hate it.”

  “Because the Puritans have spent the past two centuries under the Protectorate teaching the people of these islands to fear witches and hate them and look for pretexts to bring charges against neighbors who annoy them.”

  “My view is that they can’t help but see the workings of dark, satanic magic around them, and bravely try to bring it to an end.”

  Alvin nodded. “So you want to rid Ireland of witchery, such as it might be.”

  “You have spoken very politely, Brother Alvin—may I call you that?”

  “All men are brothers,” said Alvin.

  “You have dealt with my observations with poise and calm, without anxiety or fear.”

  “I am not worried, and I fear nothing.”

  “Because you think your witching powers will keep you safe,” said the bishop.

  “Because I believe you to be an honorable man, having had no evidence to the contrary, and an honorable man will not find me guilty of anything.”

  “This is not a trial,” said the bishop, “so there is no question of finding guilt.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I detect doubt in your voice,” said the bishop.

  “The fact that Reverend Philadelphia Thrower seems to be in your service causes me to suspect that you are sometimes careless about which witnesses to believe and which to doubt.”

  “I doubt all the witnesses,” said the bishop. “So many of the accusers seem motivated by malice or envy rather than godly service to their fellow beings.”

  “So you weigh their testimony carefully?”

  “I am not a judge. Ecclesiastical courts can inquire, but we have no power to condemn or punish suspected miscreants.”

  “Not even those who bear false witness?” asked Alvin.

  “Brother Alvin,” said the bishop, “I can no more be certain of the falsity of an accusation, merely because I suspect that the accuser has a low motive, than I can be certain of the truth of an accusation merely because the witness seems to be a person who genuinely believes in the accusation.”

  “I’ve seen enough of courtrooms,” said Alvin, “to believe that it is impossible for mortals to know the heart of any other person, and to judge them on their motives is to judge them on what we imagine their motives to be.”

  “And yet we must have a judicial system, which must do its best to discern truth, falsity, error, prejudice, malice, deception, and, yes, the heart of a witch whose soul belongs to the great enemy of God.”

  “Do you keep a tally of those who are killed as witches, who were not in fact witches?” asked Alvin.

  “How could such a tally be kept?” asked the bishop.

  “Doesn’t the fact that they were killed suggest that they had no satanic power?” asked Alvin.

  “Satan is as treacherous as he is sly and deceptive,” said the bishop. “His servants should not be surprised when he abandons them in their hour of need.”

  Alvin nodded, then smiled.

  “It seems that you have judged me,” said the bishop.

  “Not at all,” said Alvin, “except to admire the ease with which you explain away your irrationality in rational ways.”

  “We are none of us rational, compared to God,” said the bishop. “As you said, we have to muddle through with whatever sense we have, and whatever information is conferred upon us by the Holy Ghost.”

  Alvin nodded. “So the Holy Ghost communes with you.”

  “And with all whose souls are not trapped behind the walls of Satan’s power.”

  “Yes, always an answer,” said Alvin.

  “I don’t think that my having an answer is proof that my views are incorrect,” said the bishop.

  “Always an answer that retreats from the brink of declaring yourself an angel of death in the service of the Holy One of Israel.”

  “Nor any other kind of angel,” said the bishop. “Only a man who tries to discern the will of God and does his best to serve God in the position he has placed me in.”

  Alvin realized that nothing he could say would cause this man to admit the slightest doubt about his war on witchery. “You didn’t bring me here to try me, or even to inquire about my supposed witchery.”

  “I have no need to inquire. Your use of magic is attested by the soldiers who brought you here, and by many affidavits brought from America.”

  “So why am I here?” asked Alvin. “Captain Porter said there were complaints from the local citizens, including the ones that I counted as my friends. Yet you sent for me before receiving any of their accusations.”

  “Captain Porter is skilled at turning people’s words into much stronger statements than they intended.”

  “So you disregard any such accusations he relays to you?” asked Alvin.

  “I weigh everything in the balance,” said the bishop. “Captain Porter is a reliable servant of God. I don’t believe he would lead anyone to bear false witness.”

  Alvin stopped himself from pointing out that the bishop had just stated that Captain Porter did exactly that.

  “He kept his oath to you,” said the bishop.

  Alvin bowed his head for a moment, in acknowledgment. Then he said, “Your Grace, if you have finished with your inquiries, may I make some inquiries of my own?”

  “I’m not sure about the propriety of allowing you to question me,” said the bishop.

  “I have no power to compel you to answer,” said Alvin. “But if you choose to respond, I would be grateful.”

  “Ask what you like,” said the bishop.

  “Your Grace, what if the people accused of witchery were able to leave Ireland permanently? Not to England or Scotland or anywhere on the continent of Europe, but rather to a part of America where nobody treats knackery as a crime or a sin.”

  “If I understand you, are you asking if my goal is merely to cleanse Ireland, but allow the wickedness to be transferred to a place where wickedness already rules?”

  “If we discount the word ‘wickedness,’ then yes,” said Alvin.

  “How would this be different from sending them to the fires of hell?” asked the bishop.

  “When the Savior was tempted by Satan in the wilderness,” said Alvin, “did he slay Satan? Or did he cast him down to his dwelling place in hell?”

  “We know he will not slay Satan until the end of time,” said the bishop. “But neither does the scripture say he cast Satan down to hell.”

  Alvin nodded. “I see your wisdom there, Your Grace. Even Milton shows that Satan can freely leave hell and walk upon the Earth, where he tempts and tries the souls of men.”

  “Milton is not scripture,” said the bishop.

  “Just as many Catholics believe Dante’s Inferno is a faithful representation of hell, so many Puritans believe that Milton has given a faithful representation of the war in heaven between Michael and Lucifer.”

  “I wish you would not use the term ‘Puritan,’” said the Bishop. “That is a name of derision applied to the most fervent Christians by those who gloried in paying no attention to righteousness.”

  “I intended no derision. In New England, the people generally call themselves and their government ‘Puritan’ with pride.”

  “They put you on trial in New England, didn’t they,” observed the bishop.

  “I was acquitted,” said Alvin.

  “The Devil has many clever lawyers in his employ,” said the bishop.

  Alvin smiled. “I’m sure he has,” said Alvin. “But I have never hired a lawyer who already had such an employer.”

  “As far as you knew.”

  “That’s a caveat that can be added to almost any statement of fact made by anyone ever,” said Alvin. “The sun will rise tomorrow … as far as I know. I will someday die and be judged for my sins and forgiven as Christ sees fit—as far as I know.”

  It was the bishop’s turn to smile. “All of us judge according to what we know, or think we know, or know that we do not know but merely believe.”

  “Back to my question, Your Grace,” said Alvin. “Suppose someone were to organize voyages to carry away accused witches to the New World? Would you oppose this?”

  The bishop thought for a long moment. “Is it cowardly for me to be attracted to the idea of purging Ireland of witches by such a method, which would make it so that any errors of judgment did not leave blood on the hands of the Irish people?”

  “If you’re afraid of what people think, how can you make righteous decisions?” asked Alvin. “I think you are afraid only of what God would think of you, and I can’t imagine why he would call you a coward.”

  “Perhaps because I am one,” said the bishop. “It’s so hard to pass just judgment on yourself. Either I will be too harsh on myself, or too lenient.”

  “If it is a mistake to permit suspected witches to leave Ireland and go to a land where they will not be condemned, then God can find other ways to punish the unrighteous. But if you set these people up to be killed, then you take the matter out of God’s hands.”

  “Nothing is out of God’s hands,” said the bishop.

  “He has sent back only one man from the dead,” said Alvin, “and even he did not stay long or tell us all. So God seems to follow the rule that once people are murdered unjustly, he will not vindicate them by unslaying them.”

  “Has the word ‘unslaying’ ever been uttered before?” asked the bishop.

  “Because the thing rarely happens,” said Alvin, “the word has not been much needed.”

  “You believe,” said the bishop, “that if I turn accused witches over to the unforgiving mob, I am foreclosing God’s mercy toward them in this life. But if I let them go, God can take whatever vengeance or make whatever judgment he desires.”

  “It seems reasonable to me,” said Alvin.

  “Oh, your logic is sound,” said the bishop. “But Jesus said that the devil can quote scripture to promote his wicked plans.”

  “And yet we all quote scripture, on both sides of every dispute.”

  “God does not need my permission to do what he will,” said the bishop. “He does not wait on me, I wait on him.”

  “I am having a little trouble deciphering your meaning, Your Grace. But I think you’re saying that you will pursue witchery in whatever way you please, and you will not cooperate with my plan of evacuating these supposed witches from Ireland.”

  “That is a fair summary,” said the bishop. “I didn’t bring you here to bargain with you for the lives of the darkest sinners.”

  “That is your privilege,” said Alvin. “And in reply, I remind you of Pharaoh, who sent his chariots to prevent the Israelites from crossing the sea to safety.”

  “The chariots were swallowed up in the sea,” said the bishop.

  “Nobody uses chariots anymore,” said Alvin, “and it is wasteful and unrighteous to kill animals that are only doing as their masters require.”

  “I’m not sure how to take that,” said the bishop. “Are you comparing me to dumb horses?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Alvin. “I’m comparing you to Pharaoh, and anyone you send against me to the dumb horses who do not deserve to be drowned in pursuit of a foul cause.”

  The bishop nodded. “You will not attack me, then. But you will destroy anyone I send against you?”

  “I won’t destroy anybody. I only reminded you of the Book of Exodus because Pharaoh believed he was a god who had the power to decide who should live and who should die, who should be slaves in Egypt and who should live free in another land.”

  “Your America is the land of slavery.”

  “The crown lands in the South are the land of slavery. Where I live, no man can buy or sell another.”

  “Here is my dilemma,” said the bishop. “You have sworn to me that you have no powers at all. That the slipperiness of your arms and the impossibility of binding you with rope were completely natural events, and that no satanic power allowed you to cross the breadth of Ireland at the same pace as horsemen. Yet you seem to contradict yourself by implying that any soldiers I send against you will come to grief—specifically, the same fate that met the soldiers of Pharaoh during the Exodus.”

  “I don’t see the contradiction,” said Alvin. “Did Moses cause the waters to close over Pharaoh’s chariots? Or did God?”

  “You think you’re Moses?” asked the bishop.

  “I think I’m Alvin Miller, Junior, who has never served Satan in his life, and whose talents, such as they are, came as a gift from God.”

  “Or as the magical result of your being a seventh son of a seventh son,” said the bishop.

  “We’re both grown men here,” said Alvin. “You don’t believe in childish superstitions, and neither do I.”

  The bishop said nothing to that.

  “I also don’t believe that we are not being listened to. You’re a careful man, Your Grace, and so I think you have scribes working in a room where every word spoken by us is completely audible. It’s quite possible that they are making faithful copies of our words. But what if they believe that it would serve your cause if they were to write down only my words, and only the words that can be made to seem as if I am confessing my guilt.”

  “That is not happening,” said the bishop.

  “I’m glad to have your witness to that effect,” said Alvin. “But will you join with me in a prayer?”

  The bishop stiffened.

  “I pray to the Heavenly Father,” said Alvin, “the God to whom Jesus prayed in the garden of Gethsemane, that if there is anyone transcribing our words spoken in this room, then words faithfully taken down in their right context will be preserved. But if there are words selected deceptively, or altered from what either of us truly said, may God strike out those words, without causing any harm to the scriveners. In the name of Jesus. Amen.”

  Alvin looked at the bishop. “Is that not a prayer to which you can add your amen, spoken with the authority of the Bishop of Dublin?”

  “I don’t take my religious instruction from you,” said the bishop.

  “I’m only asking,” said Alvin, “if you can say amen to those words spoken to God. If you can’t, then don’t forswear yourself. If you can, though, I beg you to add your faith to mine.”

  The bishop hesitated, glowering at Alvin until he finally looked away. He looked to the right, toward the secret room in which Alvin knew three scribes had been working the whole time, taking down words—but not all the words.

  “Amen,” said the bishop, clearly and firmly.

  Immediately Alvin caused the letters on their papers to burst into flame. He made sure none of their sleeves or collars caught on fire. He also made sure that not just the top sheet, but all the sheets with writing on them, were burnt, while the blank sheets were kept from any flame at all. Fire was an element that Alvin was comfortable with; how could it be otherwise, with his years of training and practice as a smith?

  From the hidden chamber there came muffled shrieks and a tumult of furniture being overturned.