The following morning, the villagers gathered by the well, their voices a low, frantic hum of unease. As Billy listened, he realized that the previous day’s disturbance had not been an isolated incident.

“He—he visited my home! He looked at my child and called him precious!” one woman gasped, clutching her shawl.

“I was out hunting when he suddenly appeared, offering to help dress the kill!” a man added, his face pale.

“The fiend sat at our very table!” another cried, crossing himself. “He broke bread with us as if he were kin!”

It seemed the “Angel” had made a circuit of the entire village. Rumors swirled like autumn leaves in a gale, each more terrifying than the last, as the people stoked one another’s fears. Dropping his bundle of kindling and his axe, Billy stepped into the fray, his voice booming over the chatter.

“Have you all lost your wits? Trembling like children over a single false prophet?”

“But, Elder!”

“If your faith is iron, no amount of silver-tongued devils can lead you astray,” Billy declared, his eyes flashing with righteous conviction. “Ignore him and return to your labors. He has no power here save what you grant him.”

Despite his bold proclamation, the villagers remained huddled together, their voices rising in a shaky, defensive hymn before they finally dispersed to their tasks. Billy let out a heavy sigh. What a cursed turn of events, he thought, rubbing his temples.

He didn’t have to wait long for the “curse” to reappear. Later that day, as he sought the solitude of the woods to gather timber, a firm hand suddenly caught his arm as he stumbled under the weight of a log.

“Careful now,” a familiar voice murmured. “Are you alright?”

“You—!” Billy recoiled, his face contorting with a mix of fury and fear.

“You’re carrying far too much for one man to manage alone,” Nemo said, his expression one of mild, maddening concern. “I’d be happy to assist. If we carry it between us, the burden would be—”

Billy didn’t wait for him to finish. He shouldered his load with a grunt and marched away, nearly tripping in his haste to escape. “Stay away from me!”

But Nemo was relentless. When Billy went to draw water, the man was there, peering into the depths of the well. “I’ve had another look, and I’m certain now. You really must move this well soon.”

When Billy went fishing with the other men, a shadow fell over the water. “Steady… steady… Ah, you lost him. I have a few fish of my own; would you care for them?”

Even when the families went out to gather herbs, Nemo’s voice drifted down from the hills. “Not there! Most of those plants are toxic to your constitution! Come this way, the hillside is much safer!”

He was everywhere. No matter where one turned within the village bounds, the man was there—lingering at the edges of their lives, interrupting their meals with a terrifyingly mundane presence that left everyone dazed. If this man truly was the Antichrist, he was a demon of the most exhausting sort: one who possessed an infinite capacity to be a nuisance.

And yet, his advice was undeniably sound. He pointed out the haunts of game, distinguished edible fungi from the poisonous, and explained which local timbers were best suited for their hearths. Life in the New World, which had been a grueling struggle for the city-bred migrants, became significantly easier under his unbidden tutelage.

The villagers couldn’t deny it, so they simply stopped speaking of it. Over the next two weeks, the panic subsided into a wary, silent tolerance. Avoiding his gaze or feigning ignorance of his presence became the new standard of neighborly conduct. Within a fortnight, the “Devil” had become a fixture of their daily routine.

Until, that is, the day the blood was drawn.

***

My plan was actually quite simple. These people were a potential threat to our internal security, but objectively speaking? They were just a cult.

They were the classic “us-versus-them” types, convinced that the world outside their borders was a den of Antichrist-worshipping vipers and that I was a demon sent to ensnare their souls. Of course, one could argue that a man claiming to be an angel is also a bit “cultish,” but in this neighborhood, I was the mainstream. I was the establishment. Therefore, they were the ones out of step.

Besides, they lived in self-imposed poverty, rejecting our medical services and supplies in a desperate bid to keep themselves “pure.” That isolation is a hallmark of cult behavior. The best way to break that spell is to show them that the outside world is safe—that the “demon” they fear is actually just a guy who’s annoying at parties. It’s a standard deprogramming technique I’d seen in old documentaries.

So, I made myself a permanent, pestering shadow. I intruded on their fishing trips, crashed their dinners, and offered unsolicited advice on everything from well-digging to masonry. And slowly, it started to work.

“Good morn—”

“Gah! Move aside, you pest! You’ve spooked the fish!”

They had stopped weeping and crossing themselves every time I appeared. They were no longer paralyzed by existential dread; they were just irritated. In the world of deprogramming, “annoyance” is a massive upgrade from “holy terror.”

Of course, there was always that one guy.

“Demon! Stay back! Don’t you dare come any closer!”

I stood by the shaded path, leaning against a tree. “I’m literally just standing here, kid.”

“He—he’s right,” one of the older men muttered, trying to pull the youth away. “He’s just resting. Let’s just walk around him…”

“Are you defending this fiend?” the boy screamed, his eyes wide and wild. “Have you all gone mad?”

I watched him with a bored expression. The boy was convinced I was the source of all his misfortunes. “I know what you’re trying to do! Yesterday, I nearly fell down the hill because of your sorcery!”

“You tripped over your own feet,” I corrected calmly. “I was a hundred yards away.”

“Silence! The Devil’s tongue seeks to beguile me! Hic!“

“Stop this at once!” the older man hissed. “If you harm him, the idolaters from the East will burn this village to the ground!”

“I don’t care!” The boy’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he began muttering psalms under his breath. Suddenly, he lunged at me with a paring knife.

Snap!

I’d dealt with enough knives in my time to know the rhythm of a frantic amateur. I stepped inside his guard, tripped him with a casual flick of my foot, and slapped the knife from his hand.

“Ow.” I looked at my palm. He’d managed to catch me with a glancing blow.

I frowned, pouring some water from my flask over the shallow cut. As the water washed away the blood, the skin knit back together in seconds—a clean, perfect closure.

“Do you think your miracles will sway me, demon?” the boy spat, trembling as he scrambled back.

You’re the one who swung the knife, I thought, suppressing a sigh. I put on my best “benevolent mentor” smile and kept my voice soft.

“What did the Pharisees say when our Lord cast out a demon from the man who was mute? ‘It is by the prince of demons that he drives out demons.’ (Matthew 9:34). If even those who saw the Lord’s works refused to believe, why would I bother trying to ‘beguile’ you with such a trivial trick?”

“Invoking the name of the Lord! You are truly a foul fiend!”

“Look, I—”

“Die, monster! Take my—”

Thwack.

I didn’t hit him. Billy Berry, the village elder, had stepped forward and delivered a sharp blow to the back of the boy’s head.

“Tie this fool up and lock him in his house,” Billy barked at the other men. “He’ll bring the wrath of the heavens down on us all.”

“My thanks, Mr. Berry,” I said, offering a polite nod.

The elder looked at me as if I were the lunatic. “Do you have some sort of masochistic streak? Why do you keep following our people? Can you not simply leave us in peace?”

Because if I leave you alone, you’ll start a civil war or become Spanish spies, I couldn’t say. Instead, I kept the smile firmly in place. “Because I wish to be your neighbor.”

Billy snorted in derision. “You’re mad. What’s to stop us from tying a stone to your neck and tossing you into the sea?”

“Oh, you won’t do that. I’ve taken precautions.” I pointed toward the treeline, where a group of my own scouts were visible, watching the exchange. “They’re here to intervene if things get out of hand.”

“And just now?”

“Haha, a child with a fruit knife is hardly a threat, is he?”

Billy stared at me, his jaw tight.

“Anyway,” I continued, “since you’re heading for water, I must insist again: you really need to move that well. The runoff from the waste area is—”

Billy didn’t listen. He turned and stomped away, his back rigid with fury.

I swear, I thought, these cultists are the most stubborn people on the planet.

***

He was a persistent, meddling demon.

“Are you quite well? Have you given any further thought to moving the well as I suggested?”

“Greetings, friends! I noticed you haven’t planted any potatoes yet, so I’ve brought some autumn starts for you.”

“Ah, Billy! Just the man I was looking for. Would you mind lending a hand? I’m trying to set some stepping stones across the creek and— Wait, where are you going?”

“Is the farm work proving difficult? If you were to join the main community, we could provide equipment and—“

The man had a god-given talent for being a nuisance. Billy couldn’t fathom how the people of Virginia could worship such a creature. Did the man have nothing better to do? (He didn’t.)

“I swear by the Lord,” Billy had shouted once, “this village will never bow to you as an angel or a god!”

Nemo’s response had been even more infuriating. “Oh, that’s quite alright. You don’t have to.”

A lie, Billy thought. It must be a lie. Why else would he haunt their every step? Billy’s dreams were plagued by images of himself and Margaret kneeling before the “Angel” only to be cast into the depths of hell.

One morning, Billy woke from a particularly vivid nightmare to find Margaret muttering over a pot of water. “The water from the well tastes saltier lately. It’s strange… Ah, you’re awake?”

“I’m heading out to hunt,” Billy said, grabbing his bow. “Wait for my return.”

“I’ll have the salt ready for the meat,” she replied with a tired smile.

Billy stepped outside to find the other men waiting. They headed into the forest, hoping for a quiet day, but—

“How many days do you plan to stay in the woods this time?”

The “Angel” was there, a rifle slung casually over his shoulder. How he always knew their plans was a mystery that only reinforced their fears of sorcery. The men ignored him and pushed deeper into the brush.

“The location of a well is a matter of life and death,” Nemo noted, matching their stride. “You are city folk; your farming and hunting skills are… lacking, to put it politely.”

Silence was their only answer.

“I suppose the Trade Company’s recruitment was a bit too focused on urban centers,” Nemo mused. “Anyway, if you don’t mind, may I join the hunt? I’ll give all my kills to the village. I know these woods better than any of you, and—”

“Listen here—”

“Hush,” Billy barked, cutting off the man who had been about to respond. He grabbed the wavering villager by the collar and pulled him along.

The hunt was a disaster.

Whistle!

“Too high,” Nemo noted as an arrow sailed over a buck’s back. “You missed.”

Billy’s jaw ached from clenching his teeth.

“I have a deer of my own if you’d like it,” Nemo offered later. “What do you say?”

They couldn’t afford to starve. They took three deer from him, dressed the meat in grim silence, and began the trek back to the village.

“Stop with the damned well talk!” Billy finally exploded as they reached the edge of the settlement. “We may be from the city, but we aren’t so stupid we can’t dig a proper well!”

His frustration boiled over, but Nemo merely tilted his head, his expression shifting into something uncomfortably grave. “Being from the city is exactly why you don’t—”

Nemo stopped mid-sentence.

The sound of screaming and wailing drifted through the air. The easy, annoying smile vanished from Nemo’s face, replaced by a cold, sharp focus. He didn’t say a word; he simply ran.

The villagers followed, their hearts sinking. The village was eerily quiet, the streets deserted. A foul, cloying stench hung in the air, and a low, rhythmic sound—the sound of many people groaning in pain—seeped from every house.

Billy ignored everything else and raced for his home. He burst through the door to find Margaret slumped in a chair, her face a sickly grey, staring at their daughter’s straw bed.

“Gah… huff… urgh…“

The girl was pale, her body wracked by violent vomiting. Margaret reached out a trembling hand to rub the girl’s back, only to double over and retch herself. There was nothing left in her stomach but a clear, watery bile.

Billy stood frozen, paralyzed by terror. A shadow passed him.

“They need immediate treatment,” a voice said.

Nemo was looking down at his wife and daughter, his face more clinical and distant than Billy had ever seen it. He turned to Billy, his eyes like flint.

“It looks like cholera.”

“Chol…” Billy whispered. “Cholera?”

The name sounded like a foreign curse, or the name of a legendary witch. Billy staggered to his wife’s side. Margaret looked half-dead already, her body slick with a cold, greasy sweat.

“It isn’t a death sentence if treated properly,” Nemo said, his voice a low whisper. “But they need clean water, sugar, and salt. Do you have… No, of course you don’t. Not out here. But I will send word to the clinic immediately. My doctors will come. They can save them. They—”

Billy stared at the man. This is his doing, a voice screamed in the back of his mind. He did this to break us. To force us to crawl to him.

Was this the Devil’s play? To lull them into a false sense of security before striking them down to claim their souls? Surely, a disease of the Devil could be fought with faith…

But as he looked at his daughter’s sunken eyes and his wife’s trembling form, the words of faith died in his throat. Billy Berry reached out and grabbed the “Angel’s” sleeve.

“Please… anything… I’ll do anything…”

Nemo looked at him, his expression unreadable. “There is no need for that. I’ve already sent the message.”

“What?”

“You can continue to believe I’m a demon for all I care,” Nemo said, turning toward the door. “Just focus on keeping your wife and child alive for now.”

“I… I…”

“I’m going to check the other houses,” Nemo added, and then he was gone.

The afternoon was a blur of screams and agonizing silence. True to his word, the doctors arrived within hours. They brought water that tasted of salt and sugar, and they washed the sick with practiced, clinical efficiency. They asked for nothing in return.

Billy spent the next several days in a feverish vigil of prayer. And slowly, his wife and daughter began to recover.

When the crisis had passed, Nemo left as quietly as he had arrived.

A few days later, a series of letters were sent from the village to the Chesapeake. Over the following weeks, members of the Knightly Order and the Trade Company began to visit. A tractor arrived and began to plow their fields.

Months later, the village of New Bristol began to integrate into the wider community. They still didn’t believe the Nameless One was an angel, but they no longer hated him. They no longer feared him.

Billy Berry didn’t “convert” in the traditional sense. But it didn’t matter.

The gifts of the Continental Covenant were given freely, like sunlight in a dark place or rain on a parched land.