Speaks the Nightbird mc-1

by Robert R. McCammon

  In the solitude of the Home's chapel, Matthew unwrapped the box and opened it. Within it was a palm-sized pane of glass, especially made by the glazier. Matthew knew what Headmaster Staunton had given him: a clear view unto the world.

  A short time later, however, the Home had a new headmaster by the name of Eben Ausley, who in Matthew's opinion was a rotund, fat-jowled lump of pure vileness. Ausley quickly dismissed all of Staunton's staff and brought in his own band of thugs and bullies. The lash was used as never before, and the dunking barrel became a commonplace item of dread employed for the slightest infraction. Whippings became beatings, and many was the night that Ausley took a young boy into his chambers after the dormitory's lamps were extinguished; what occurred in that chamber was unspeakable, and one boy was so shamed by the deed that he hanged himself from the chapel's belltower.

  At fifteen, Matthew was too old to attract Ausley's attentions. The headmaster left him alone and Matthew burrowed ever deeper into his studies. Ausley didn't share Staunton's sense of order and cleanliness; soon the place was a pigsty, and the rats grew so bold they seized food off the platters at suppertime. Several boys ran away; some were returned, and given severe whippings and starvation diets. Some died and were buried in crude pinewood boxes in a cemetery beside the chapel. Matthew read his books, honed his Latin and French, and in a deep part of himself vowed that someday, somehow, he would bring justice to bear on Eben Ausley, as a grinding wheel on a piece of rotten timber.

  There came the day, toward the midst of Matthew's fifteenth year, that a man arrived at the Home intent on finding a boy to apprentice as his clerk. A group of the five eldest and best educated were lined up in the courtyard, and the man went down the line asking them all questions about themselves. When the man came to Matthew, it was the boy who asked the first question: "Sir? May I enquire as to your profession?"

  "I'm a magistrate," Isaac Woodward said, and Matthew glanced at Ausley, who stood nearby with a tight smile on his mouth but his eyes cold and impassive. "Tell me about yourself, young man," Woodward urged.

  It was time to leave the Home. Matthew knew it. His view upon the world was about to widen further, but never would he lose sight of this place and what he'd learned here. He looked directly into the magistrate's rather sad-eyed face and said, "My past should be of little interest to you, sir. It is my usefulness in the present and future that I expect you wish to ascertain. As to that, I speak and write Latin. I'm also fluent in French. I don't know anything about law, but I am a quick study. My handwriting is legible, my concentration is good, I have no bad habits to speak of—"

  "Other than being full of himself and a bit too big for his britches," Ausley interrupted.

  "I'm sure the headmaster prefers smaller britches," Matthew said, still staring into Woodward's eyes. He felt rather than saw Ausley go rigid with barely controlled anger. One of the other boys caught back a laugh before it doomed him. "As I was saying, I have no bad habits to speak of. I can learn whatever I need to know, and I would make a very able clerk. Would you get me out of here, sir?"

  "The boy's unsuitable for your needs!" Ausley spoke up again. "He's a troublemaker and a liar! Corbett, you're dismissed."

  "One moment," the magistrate said. "If he's so unsuitable, why did you even bother to include him?"

  Ausley's moon-shaped face bloomed red. "Well. .. because . . . that is to say, I—"

  "I'd like to see an example of your handwriting," Woodward told the boy. "Write for me . . . oh . . . the Lord's Prayer. In Latin, if you're such a scholar." Then, to Ausley, "Can that be arranged?"

  "Yes sir. I have a tablet and quill in my office." Ausley cast Matthew a look that, had it been a knife, would've plunged between the eyes, and then he dismissed the other boys and led the way to his chamber.

  When it was done, the magistrate satisfied as to Matthew's value, and the papers of transferral drawn up, Woodward announced he had some business to attend to elsewhere but that he would return the next morning and take the boy away. "I do expect the young man will be in good condition," Woodward told the headmaster. "As he is now my charge, I shouldn't like it that he might suffer an accident in the night."

  "You needn't be concerned, sir," was Ausley's rather chill reply. "But I require the sum of one guinea to house and feed him until your return. After all, he is your charge."

  "I understand." The gold guinea coin—worth twenty-one shillings, an exorbitant price to pay—was removed from Woodward's wallet and placed into Ausley's outstretched hand. Thus was the agreement sealed and Matthew's protection bought.

  At supper, however, one of Ausley's thuggish helpers entered the dining hall. A silence fell as the man walked directly to Matthew and grasped his shoulder. "You're to come with me," he said, and Matthew had no choice but to comply.

  In the headmaster's chamber, Ausley sat behind the same desk that Staunton had occupied in happier times. The place was dirty, the window's glass panes filmed with soot. Ausley lit a churchwarden pipe with the flame of a lamp and said, "Leave us," to his accomplice. When the other man had retreated, Ausley sat smoking his pipe and staring with his small dark eyes at Matthew.

  "My supper's getting cold," Matthew said, daring the lash.

  "Oh, you think you're so smart, don't you?" Ausley drew on the pipe and expelled smoke from his nostrils. "So damned clever. But you're not near as clever as you take yourself to be, boy."

  "Do you require a response from me, sir, or do you wish me to be silent?"

  "Silent. Just stand there and listen. You're thinking that because you're off to be the ward of a magistrate you can cause some trouble for me, isn't that right? Maybe you think I've done some things that ought to be called to his attention?"

  "Sir?" Matthew said. "Might I suggest a book on logic for your bedtime reading?"

  "Logic? What's that got to do with anything?"

  "You've told me to be silent, but then posed questions that require an answer."

  "Shut your mouth, you little bastard!" Ausley rose to his feet on a surge of anger. "Just mark well what I say! My commission gives me absolute authority to run this institution as I see fit! Which includes the administering of order and punishments, as I see fit!" Ausley, realizing he was on the edge of losing all control, settled back into his chair and glared at Matthew through a blue haze of pipesmoke. "No one can prove I have been remiss in that duty, or overzealous in my methods," he said tersely. "For a very simple reason: I have not been so. Any and all actions I have taken here have been to benefit my charges. Do you agree with that, or do you disagree?"

  "I presume you wish me to speak now?"

  "I do."

  "I have small qualm With the method of your punishments, though I would consider some of them to have been delivered with a sickening sense of joy," Matthew said. "My objections concern your methods after the dormitory lamps have been put out."

  "And what methods are you referring to? My private counseling of wayward, stubborn boys whose attitudes are disruptive? My willingness to take in hand these boys and guide them in the proper direction? Is that your reference?"

  "I think you understand my reference very clearly, sir."

  Ausley gave a short, hard laugh. "You don't know anything. Have you witnessed with your own eyes any impropriety? No. Oh, you've heard things, of course. Because all of you despise me. That's why. You despise me, because I'm your master and wild dogs cannot bear the collar. And now, because you fancy yourself so damned clever, you think to cause me some trouble by way of that black-robed magpie. But I shall tell you why you will not."

  Matthew waited while Ausley pushed more tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, tamped it down, and relit it with deliberately slow motions.

  "Your objections," Ausley said acidly, "would be very difficult to prove. As I've said, my commission gives me absolute authority. I know I've delivered some harsh punishments; too harsh perhaps. That is why you might wish to slander me. And the other boys?

  Well... I like this posit
ion, young man, and I plan on staying here for many years to come. Just because you're leaving does not mean the others—your friends, the ones among whom you've grown up—will be departing anytime soon. Your actions might have an effect on their comfort." He drew on the pipe, tilted his head upward, and spewed smoke toward the ceiling. "There are so many young ones here," he said. "Much younger than you. And do you realize how many more the hospitals and churches are trying to place with us? Hardly a day goes by when I don't receive an enquiry concerning our available beds. I am forced to turn so many young ones away. So, you see, there will always be a fresh supply." He offered Matthew a cold smile. "May I give you some advice?"

  Matthew said nothing. "Consider yourself fortunate," Ausley continued. "Consider that your education concerning the real world has been furthered. Be of excellent service to the magistrate, be of good cheer and good will, and live a long and happy life." He held up a thick finger to warrant Matthew's full attention. "And never—never—plot a war you have no hope of winning. Am I understood?"

  Matthew hesitated; his mind was working over the planes and angles of this problem, diagramming and dissecting it, turning it this way and that, shaking it in search of a loose nail that might be further loosened, stretching it like a chain to inspect the links, and hoping to find one rust-gnawed and able to be broken.

  "Am I understood?" Ausley repeated, with some force.

  Matthew was left with one response. At least for the moment. He said, "Yes, sir," in his calmest voice.

  "Very good. You may go back to your supper."

  Matthew left the headmaster's office and returned to his food; it was, indeed, cold and quite tasteless. That night he said goodbye to his friends, he climbed into his bunk in the dormitory, but he found sleep elusive. What should have been an occasion of rejoicing was instead a time for reflection and more than a little regret. At first light, he was dressed and waiting. Soon afterward, the bell at the front gate rang and a staff member came to escort him to Magistrate Woodward in the courtyard.

  As the magistrate's carriage pulled away, Matthew glanced back at the Home and saw Ausley standing at the window, watching. Matthew felt the tip of a blade poised at his throat. He looked away from the window, staring instead at his hands clenched together in his lap.

  "You seem downcast, young man," the magistrate said. "Are you troubled by something?"

  "Yes, sir, I am," Matthew had to admit. He thought of Ausley at the window, the carriage wheels turning to take him far away from the almshouse, the boys who were left behind, the terrible punishments that Ausley could bring down upon them. For now, Ausley held the power.Iplan on staying here for many years to come, the headmaster had said. In that case, Matthew knew where to find him.

  "Is this a matter you wish to talk about?" Woodward asked. "No sir. It's my problem, and mine alone. I will find a way to solve it. I will."

  "What?"

  Matthew looked into the magistrate's face. Woodward no longer wore his wig and tricorn, his appearance much aged since that day he'd driven Matthew away from the almshouse. A light rain was falling through the thick-branched trees, steam hanging above the muddy track they were following. Ahead of them was the wagon Paine drove.

  "Did you say something, Matthew?" the magistrate asked. I will, he thought it had been.

  It took Matthew a few seconds to adjust to the present from his recollections of the past. "I must have been thinking aloud," he said, and then he was quiet.

  In time, the fortress walls of Fount Royal emerged from the mist ahead. The watchman on his tower began to ring the bell, the gate was unlocked and opened, and they had returned to the witch's town.

  seven

  IT WAS DARK-CLOUDED and cool, the sun a mere specter on the eastern horizon. From the window of his room, which faced away from Fount Royal, Matthew could see Bidwell's stable, the slaves' clapboard houses beside it, the guard tower, and the thick pine forest that stretched toward the swamp beyond. It was a dismal view. His bones ached from the continual damp, and because of a single mosquito that had gotten past the barrier of his bed-netting, his sleep had been less than restful. But the day had come, and his anticipation had risen to a keen edge.

  He lit a candle, as the morning was so caliginous, and shaved using the straight razor, soap, and bowl of water that had been left in the hallway outside. Then he dressed in black trousers, white stockings, and a cream-colored shirt from the limited wardrobe Bidwell had provided him. He was blowing out the candle when a knock sounded at his door. "Breakfast is a'table, sir," said Mrs. Nettles.

  "I'm ready." He opened the door and faced the formidable, square-chinned woman in black. She carried a lantern, the yellow light and shadows of which made her stern visage almost fearsome. "Is the magistrate up?"

  "Already downstairs," she said. Her oiled brown hair was combed back from her forehead so severely that Matthew thought it looked painful. "They're waitin' for you before grace is said."

  "Very well." He closed the door and followed her along the hallway. Her weight made the boards squeal. Before they reached the staircase, the woman suddenly stopped so fast Matthew almost collided into her. She turned toward him, and lifted the lantern up to view his face.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  "May I speak freely, sir?" Her voice was hushed. "And trust you na' to repeat what I might say?"

  Matthew tried to gauge her expression, but the light was too much in his eyes. He nodded.

  "This is a dangerous day," she said, all but whispering. "You and the magistrate are in grave danger."

  "Of what nature?"

  "Danger of bein' consumed by lies and blasphemies. You seem an able-minded young man, but you nae understand this town and what's transpirin' here. In time you might, if your mind is na' poisoned."

  "Poisoned by whom? The witch, do you mean?"

  "The witch." It was said with more than a hint of bitterness. "Nay, I'm na' speakin' of Rachel Howarth. Whatever you hear of her—however you perceive her—she is na' your enemy. She's a victim, young man. If anythin', she needs your he'p."

  "How so?"

  "They're ready to hang her," Mrs. Nettles whispered. "They'd hang her this morn, if they could. But she does na' deserve the rope. What she needs is a champion of truth. Somebody to prove her innocent, when ever'body else is again' her."

  "Madam, I'm just a clerk. I have no power to—"

  "You're the only one with the power," she interrupted. "The magistrate is the kind of man who plows a straight furrow, ay? Well, this field's damn crooked!"

  "So you contend that Madam Howarth is not a witch? Even though her husband was brutally murdered, poppets were found in her house, she can't speak the Lord's Prayer, and she bears the Devil's marks?"

  "Lies upon lies. I think you're a man of some education: do you believe in witchcraft?"

  "The books on demonology are well founded," Matthew said.

  "Hang the books! I asked if you believe." Matthew hesitated; the question had never been posed to him. Of course he knew the Salem incident, which had occurred only seven years ago. He'd read Cotton Mather's Memorable Providences and Richard Baxter's Certainty of the Worlds of Spirits, both of which secured witchcraft and demon possession as fact. But he'd also read John Webster's The Displaying of Supposed Witchcraft and John Wagstaffe's The Question of Witchcraft Debated, and both of those volumes held that "witchcraft" was either deliberate fraud or that "witches" were insane and should be bound for an asylum rather than the gallows. Between those two poles, Matthew hung suspended.

  "I don't know," he said.

  "Mark this," Mrs. Nettles told him. "Satan does walk in Fount Royal, but Rachel Howarth's na' the one beside him. Things that nae want to be seen are plentiful here. And that's God's truth."

  "If you believe so, why don't you speak to Mr. Bidwell?"

  "What? And then he'll be thinkin' I'm bewitched too? Because any woman or man who speaks up for Rachel Howarth would have a noose ready for—"

  "Mrs. Ne
ttles!" came a shout from the bottom of the stairs. "Where's Mr. Corbett?" It was Bidwell and he sounded quite irritated. "We're awaiting our breakfast, woman!"

  "I'm at your mercy!" she whispered urgently to Matthew. "Na' a word about this, please!"

  "All right," he agreed.

  "We're here, sir!" Mrs. Nettles called to the master of the house, as she started toward the staircase again. "Beg pardon, the young man was late a'risin'!"

  Their breakfast was slices of ham and cornmeal porridge, biscuits and locally gathered honey, all washed down with mugs of strong amber tea. Matthew was still full from last night's dinner of turtle soup, turtle steaks, and cornbread, so he ate only sparingly. Woodward, who'd awakened with a raw throat and clogged nostrils after a restless night, drank as much tea as he could and then sucked on a lemon. In ravenous appetite, however, was Bid-well; the master of the house consumed slice after slice of ham and a whole serving bowl full of porridge, as well as a platter of biscuits.

  At last Bidwell leaned back in his chair, expelled air, and patted his bulging stomach. "Ahhhh, what a breakfast!" His gaze fell upon an unclaimed soul amid the carnage. "Magistrate, are you going to finish that biscuit?"

  "No, sir, I'm not."

  "May I, then?" Bidwell reached for it and pushed it into his mouth before an assent could be made. Woodward swallowed thickly, his throat very painful, and afforded himself another drink of the tart tea.

  "Magistrate, are you not feeling well?" Matthew asked; it would have been difficult not to notice the man's pallor and the dark circles beneath his eyes.

  "I didn't sleep very soundly last night. The mosquitoes here seem to favor me."

  "Tar soap," Bidwell said. "That's what you should bathe in this evening. Tar soap keeps them away. Well . . . most of them, that is."

  "I thought the insects were particularly greedy in Charles Town." Woodward scratched at a reddened welt on the back of his right hand, one of a dozen bites he'd suffered already this morning. "But your mosquitoes, sir, have no compare."