Speaks the Nightbird mc-1

by Robert R. McCammon

  Woodward decided the only way to get him off this route was to run the distance. "If she's found guilty, the penalty is hanging."

  "Pah!" Shawcombe waved a disapproving hand. "If it was up to my quirt, I'd cut her head off and burn her to boot! Then I'd take them ashes and throw 'em in the ocean! They can't stand salt water, y'know." He tilted his head toward the hearth and hollered, "Hey, there! We're waitin' for our suppers!"

  Maude snapped something at him that sprayed an arc of spittle from her mouth, and he yelled, "Get on with it, then!" Another swig of rum went down his hatch. "Well," he said to his guests' silence, "this here's how I see it: they ought to shut Fount Royal down, set fire to everything there, and call it quits. Once the Devil gets in a place, ain't no remedy but the flames. You can hang her or whatever you please, but the Devil's took root in Fount Royal now, and there ain't no savin' it."

  "I think that's an extreme position," Woodward said. "Other towns have had similar problems, and they survived—and have flourished—once the situation was corrected."

  "Well,Iwouldn't want to live in Fount Royal, or any other place where the Devil's been walkin' 'round town like he's made hisself at home! Life's damn hard enough as it is. I don't want conjures bein' put on me while I'm sleepin'!" He grunted to emphasize his point. "Yessir, you talk pretty, but I'll wager you wouldn't care to turn down an alley and see ol' Scratch waitin' in the dark! So my advice to you, sir—lowly tavern-keeper that I am—is to cut the head off that Devil's whore and order the whole town burnt to the ground."

  "I will not pretend that I know any answers to mysteries—holy or unholy," the magistrate said evenly, "but I do know the situation in Fount Royal is precarious."

  "And damn dangerous too." Shawcombe started to say something else, but his open mouth expelled no words; it was obvious to Woodward and Matthew that his attention, made imprecise by strong drink, had been diverted from the matter of Fount Royal. He was admiring the gold-threaded waistcoat once more. "I swear, that's a fine piece a' work," he said, and dared to run his grimy fingers over the material again. "Where'd you get that? New York?"

  "It . . . was a present from my wife. In London."

  "I was married once'st. And once'st was enough." He gave a gruff, humorless laugh. His fingers continued to caress the fabric, much to Woodward's discomfort. "Your wife is in Charles Town?"

  "No." Woodward's voice had thickened. "My wife ... remains in London."

  "Mine's at the bottom of the bloody Atlantic. She died on the passage, shit herself to death. They rolled her up and rolled her over. Y'know, a waistc't like this . . . how much is somethin' like this worth?"

  "More than any man should have to pay," Woodward said, and then he pointedly moved his chair a few inches away from Shawcombe and left the tavern-keeper's fingers groping the air.

  "Clear room! Watchyer elbows, there!" Maude slapped two wooden bowls, both filled with a murky brown stew, onto the table in front of Shawcombe and the magistrate. Matthew's bowl was brought by the girl, who set it down and quickly turned away to retreat to the hearth again. As she did, her clothes brushed his arm and the wind of her passage brought a strong scent to Matthew's nostrils: the scent of an unwashed body, yes, but another odor that overpowered the first. It was musky and sweetly sour, a compelling pungency, and it hit him like a fist to the chest that it was the aroma of her private region.

  Shawcombe inhaled deeply, with a raucous noise. He looked at Matthew, whose eyes had widened slightly and were still tracking the girl. "Hey, there!" Shawcombe barked. "What're you gawkin' at?"

  "Nothing." Matthew averted his gaze to the stew bowl.

  "Uh huh."

  The girl returned, bringing with her their wooden spoons. Once more her skirt brushed his arm, and he moved it with a twitch as if his elbow had been hornet-stung. That smell wafted to his nostrils. His heart was beating very hard. He picked up his spoon and realized his palm was damp. Then he realized Shawcombe was staring intensely at him, reading him like a broadsheet.

  Shawcombe's eyes glittered in the candlelight. He wet his lips before he spoke. "She's a fair piece, do y'think?"

  "Sir?"

  Shawcombe smiled slightly, a mean and mocking smile. "A fair piece," he repeated. "You fancy a look at her oyster basket?"

  "Mr. Shawcombe!" Woodward grasped the situation, and it was not acceptable to him. "If you don't mind—"

  "Oh, you both can have a go at her, if you please. Won't cost you but a guinea for the two of you."

  "Certainly not!" Woodward's cheeks had flamed. "I told you, I'm a married man!"

  "Yeah, but she's in London, ain't she? Don't mean to tell me you got her name tattooed on your cock now, do you?"

  If the storm had not been raging outside, if the horses had not been in the barn, if there were anywhere else in the world to spend this night, Woodward might've gotten to his feet with all the dignity he could summon and bade farewell to this coarse-minded lout. What he really wanted to do, deep in his soul, was to strike an open-handed blow across Shawcombe's leering face. But he was a gentleman, and gentlemen did no such things. Instead, he forced down his anger and disgust like a bucketful of bile and said tersely, "Sir, I am faithful to my wife. I would appreciate your understanding of that fact."

  Shawcombe replied by spitting on the floor. He riveted his attention on the younger man again. "Well, how 'bout you then? You care for a toss? Say ten shillin's?"

  "I ... I mean to say—" Matthew looked to Woodward for help, because in truth he didn't know what he meant to say.

  "Sir," Woodward said, "you force us into a difficult position. The young man . . . has lived in an almshouse for much of his life. That is . . ." He frowned, deciding how to phrase the next thing. "What you must realize is . . . his experience is very limited. He hasn't yet partaken of-—"

  "Great sufferin' mother!" Shawcombe broke in. "You mean he ain't never been fucked?"

  "Well... as I say, his experience hasn't yet led him to—"

  "Oh, quit that foamin' at the mouth! He's a fuckin' virgin, is that what you're tellin' me?"

  "I believe your way of expressing that is a contradiction of terms, sir, but . . . yes, that's what I'm telling you."

  Shawcombe whistled with amazement, and the way he regarded Matthew made the younger man blush blood-red. "I ain't never met one of your breed before, sonny! Damn my ears if I ever heard such a thing! How old are you?"

  "I'm . . . twenty years old," Matthew was able to answer. His face was absolutely on fire.

  "Twenty years and no pussy? How're you able to draw a breath without bustin' your bag?"

  "I might ask how old that girl is," Woodward said. "She's not seen fifteen yet, has she?"

  "What year is this?" Shawcombe asked.

  "Sixteen ninety-nine."

  Shawcombe began counting on his fingers. Maude brought to their table a wooden platter laden with chunks of brown cornbread, then scurried away once more. The tavern-keeper was having obvious difficulty with his digital mathematics, and finally he dropped his hand and grinned at Woodward. "Never you mind, she's ripe as a fig puddin'."

  Matthew reached for the snakebite and near guzzled it.

  "Be that as it may," Woodward countered, "we shall both pass on your invitation." He picked up his spoon and plunged it into the watery stew.

  "Wasn't no invite. Was a business offer." Shawcombe drank some more rum and then started in on his stew as well.

  "Damnedest thing I ever heard!" he said, his mouth full and leaking at the corners. "I was rogerin' the girls when I was twelve years old, m'self!"

  "Jack One Eye," Matthew said. It had been something he'd wanted to ask about, and now seemed as good a time as any to get Shawcombe's mind off the current subject.

  "What?"

  "Earlier you mentioned Jack One Eye." Matthew dipped a chunk of cornbread into his stew and ate it. The bread tasted more of scorched stones than corn, but the stew wasn't at all objectionable. "What were you talking about?"

  "Th
e beast of beasts." Shawcombe picked up his bowl with both hands and slurped from it. "Stands seven, eight feet tall. Black as the hair on the Devil's ass. Had his eye shot out by a redskin's arrow, but just one arrow didn't stop him. No sir! Just made him meaner, is what they say. Hungrier, too. Swipe your face off with a claw and eat your brains for breakfast, he would."

  "Jack One Eye's a fuckin' bear!" spoke up Abner, from where he stood steaming by the hearth. "Big one, too! Bigger'n a horse! Bigger'n God's fist, what he is!"

  "Hain't no burr."

  Shawcombe looked toward the speaker of this last declaration, stew glistening on his grizzled chin. "Huh? What're you sayin'?"

  "Sayin' he hain't no burr." Maude came forward, silhouetted by the firelight. Her voice was still a mangled wheeze, but she was speaking as slowly and clearly as she could. This subject, both Woodward and Matthew surmised, must be of importance to her.

  '"Course he's a bear!" Shawcombe said. "What is he, if he ain't no bear?"

  "Hain't jus' a burr," she corrected. "I seen 'im. You hain't. I know 'hut he is."

  "She's as addle-brained as the rest of 'em," Shawcombe told Woodward with a shrug.

  "I seen 'im," the old woman repeated, a measure of force in her voice. She had reached their table and stood next to Matthew. Candlelight touched upon her wizened face, but her deep sunken eyes held the shadows. "I 'as at the door. Right they, at the door. Me Joseph was comin' home. Our boy too. I watch 'em, comin' out of the woods, over the field. Had a deer hangin' 'tween 'em. I lift up me laneturn, and I start ta holler 'em in . . . and all suddens that thang behind 'em! Jus' rose up, out of nowhar'." Her right hand had raised, her skinny fingers curled around the handle of a spectral lantern. "I try ta scream me husband's name . . . but hain't get nothin' out," she said. Her mouth tightened. "I try," she croaked. "I try . . . but God done stole me voice."

  "Most like it was rotgut liquor stole it!" Shawcombe said, with a rough laugh.

  The old woman didn't respond. She was silent, as rain battered the roof and a pine knot popped in the hearth. Finally she drew a long ragged breath that held terrible sadness and resignation. "Kilt our boy 'fore Joseph could tarn 'round," she said, to no one in particular. Matthew thought she might be looking at him, but he wasn't certain of it. "Like take his head off, one swang o' them claws. Then it fell on me husband . . . and weren't nothin' to be dun. I took a'running, threw me laneturn at 'im, but he 'as big. So awful big. He jus' shake them big black shoulders, and then he drag that deer off and leave me with what 'as left. Joseph 'as a-split open from 'is windpipe to 'is gullet, his innards a-hangin' out. Took 'im three days ta die." She shook her head and Matthew could see a wet glint in her eye sockets.

  "My Lord!" Woodward said. "Wasn't there a neighbor to come to your aid?"

  "Naybarr?" she said, incredulously. "Hain't no naybarrs out 'chere. Me Joseph 'as a trapper, dun some Injun tradin'. Tha's how we live. What I'm tellin' you is, Jack One Eye hain't jus' a burr. Ever'thin' dark 'bout this land . . . ever'thin' cruel and wicked. When you think your husband 'n son are comin' home and you liftin' a light and 'bout to holler 'em in. Then that thang rises up, and all sudden you hain't got nothin' no more. Tha's what Jack One Eye is."

  Neither Woodward nor Matthew knew how to respond to this wretched tale, but Shawcombe, who had continued slurping stew and pushing cornbread into his mouth, had his own response. "Aw, shit!" he cried out and grasped his jaw. His face was pinched with pain. "What's in this bloody bread, woman?" He reached into his mouth, probed around, and his fingers came out gripping a small dark brown object. '"Bout broke my tooth on this damn thing! Hell's bells!" Realization had struck him. "It is a fuckin' tooth!"

  "I 'spect it's mine," Maude said. "Had some loose 'uns this mornin'." She grabbed it from his hand, and before he could say anything more she turned her back on them and went to her duties at the hearth.

  "Damn ol' bitch is fallin' to pieces!" Shawcombe scowled. He swigged some rum, swished it around his mouth, and started in on his supper once more.

  Woodward looked down at a chunk of cornbread that he'd placed in his stewbowl. He very politely cleared his throat. "I believe my appetite has been curtailed."

  "What? You ain't hungry no more? Here, pass it over then!" Shawcombe grabbed the magistrate's bowl and dumped it all into his own. He had decided to disdain the use of his eating utensils in favor of his hands, stew dripping from his mouth and spattering his shirt. "Hey, clerk!" he grunted, as Matthew sat there deciding whether to risk chewing on a rotten tooth or not. "You want a go with the girl, I'll pay you ten pence to watch. Ain't like I'll see a virgin ridin' the wool every day."

  "Sir?" Woodward's voice had sharpened. "I've already told you, the answer is no."

  "You presumin' to speak for him, then? What are you, his damn father?"

  "Not his father. But I am his guardian."

  "What the hell does a twenty-year-old man need with a fuckin' guardian?"

  "There are wolves everywhere in this world, Mr. Shawcombe," Woodward said, with a lift of his eyebrows. "A young man must be very careful not to fall into their company."

  "Better the company of wolves than the cryin' of saints," Shawcombe said. "You might get et up, but you won't die of boredom."

  The image of wolves feasting on human flesh brought another question to Matthew's mind. He pushed his stewbowl toward the tavern-keeper. "There was a magistrate travelling to Fount Royal from Charles Town two weeks ago. His name was Thymon Kingsbury. Did he happen to stop here?"

  "No, ain't seen him," Shawcombe answered without pause in his gluttony.

  "He never arrived at Fount Royal," Matthew went on. "It seems he might have stopped here, if he—"

  "Prob'ly didn't get this far," Shawcombe interrupted. "Got hisself crowned in the head by a highwayman a league out of Charles Town, most like. Or maybe Jack One Eye got him. Man travellin' alone out here's a handshake away from Hell."

  Matthew pondered this statement as he sat listening to the downpour on the roof. Water was streaming in, forming puddles on the boards. "I didn't say he was alone," Matthew said at last.

  Shawcombe's chewing might have faltered a fraction. "You just spoke the one name, didn't you?"

  "Yes. But I might not have mentioned his clerk."

  "Well, shit!" Shawcombe slammed the bowl down. The fury had sparked in his eyes again. "Was he alone or not? And what does it matter?"

  "He was alone," Matthew said evenly. "His clerk had taken ill the night before." He watched the candle's flame, a black thread of smoke rising from its orange blade. "But then, I don't suppose it really matters."

  "No, it don't." Shawcombe darted a dark glance at Woodward. "He's got an itch to ask them questions, don't he?"

  "He's an inquisitive young man," Woodward said. "And very bright, as well."

  "Uh huh." Shawcombe's gaze turned on Matthew again, and Matthew had the distinct and highly unsettling sensation of facing the ugly barrel of a primed and cocked blunderbuss. "Best take care somebody don't put out your lamp." Shawcombe held the penetrating stare for a few seconds, and then he started in on the food Matthew had pushed aside.

  The two travellers excused themselves from the table when Shawcombe announced that Abner was going to play the fiddle for their "entertainment." Woodward had tried mightily to restrain his bodily functions, but now nature was shouting at him and he was obliged to put on his coat, take a lantern, and venture out into the weather.

  Alone in the room, rain pattering from the roof and a single candle guttering, Matthew heard Abner's fiddle begin to skreech. It appeared they would be serenaded whether they liked it or not. To make matters worse, Shawcombe began to clap and holler in dubious counterpoint. A rat scuttled in a corner of the room, obviously as disturbed as was Matthew.

  He sat down on the straw mattress and wondered how he would ever find sleep tonight, though he was exhausted from the trip. With rats in the room and two more caterwauling out by the hearth, it was likely to be a hard go. He decide
d he would create and solve some mathematics problems, in Latin of course. That usually helped him relax in difficult situations.

  I don't suppose it really matters, he'd told Shawcombe in regard to Magistrate Kingsbury's travelling alone. But it seemed to Matthew that it did matter. To travel alone was exceptional and—as Shawcombe had correctly stated—foolhardy. Magistrate Kingsbury had been drunk every time Matthew had seen the man, and perhaps the liquor had enfeebled his brain. But Shawcombe had assumed that Kingsbury was alone. He had not asked Was he alone or Who was travelling with him. No, he'd made the statement: Man travellin' alone . . .

  The fiddling's volume was reaching dreadful heights. Matthew sighed and shook his head at the indignity of the situation. At least, however, they had a roof over them for the night. Whether the roof held up all night was another question.

  He could still smell the girl's scent.

  It came upon him like an ambush. The scent of her was still there, whether in his nostrils or in his mind he wasn't sure. Care for a toss?

  Yes, Matthew thought. Math problems. She's ripe as a fig puddin'. And definitely in Latin.

  The fiddle moaned and shrieked and Shawcombe began to stomp the floor. Matthew stared at the door, the girl's scent summoning him.

  His mouth was dry. His stomach seemed to be tied up in an impossible knot. Yes, he thought, sleep tonight was going to be a hard go.

  A very, very hard go.

  three

  MATTHEW'S EYES OPENED with a start. The light had dwindled to murky yellow, the candle having burned itself to a shrunken stub. Beside him on the harsh straw, Woodward was snoring noisily, mouth half ajar and chin flesh quivering. It took Matthew a few seconds to realize that there was a wetness on his left cheek. Then another drop of rainwater fell from the sodden ceiling onto his face and he abruptly sat up with a curse clenched behind his teeth.

  The sudden movement made a rodent—a very large one, from the sound—squeal in alarm and scurry with a scrabbling of claws back into its nest in the wall. The noise of rain falling from the ceiling onto the floor was a veritable tenpence symphony. Matthew thought the time for building an ark was close at hand. Perhaps Abner was right about it being the end of the world; the year 1700 might never be marked on a calendar.