Speaks the Nightbird mc-1

by Robert R. McCammon

  A long silence followed, during which Matthew set about cleaning the quill. Then, "Do you think I am a witch?" Rachel asked pointedly.

  "I think," he replied after some deliberation, "that this town is the host to a very cunning evil. Whether it is demon or man, it does seem Satanic. More than that, I can't say."

  "Neither can I," she said. "But no matter who—or what— cut my husband's throat and masqueraded as me in these filthy performances, I'll be the one to burn for it." Matthew couldn't deny her statement. That conflagration now seemed very near indeed.

  Lies upon lies, Mrs. Nettles had said. What she needs is a champion of truth.

  Just as truth was sparse here, Matthew thought, so were champions. He was a clerk, nothing more. Not a magistrate, not an attorney . . . certainly not a champion.

  He was certain of one thing, though; it had become clear to him, after the sickening ordeal of Buckner's testimony and the magistrate's forceful reaction. At the conclusion of these interviews, Woodward would be compelled to immediately order Rachel Howarth put to death. She would burn to the bone in a matter of days after that order had been read to the prisoner. And whose hand would scribe the sentence of death?

  Matthew's own, of course. He had done it several times before; it was nothing new.

  Except in this instance, he would go to his own grave pondering the pieces that did not fit, and agonized over the missing why.

  He finished cleaning the quill and put it and the inkwell into the box, and then the box went into one of the desk's drawers— which Winston had obviously cleaned out before carting to the gaol, since the desk was absolutely empty—to await further need.

  Then he stretched himself out in the straw—which was fresh thanks be to Mr. Green—closed his eyes, and tried to rest. It came to him only after a moment that he had reclined as far as possible from the bars that stood between his cage and Rachel Howarth's, and that in his right hand he gripped the Bible across his chest.

  thirteen

  BY THE TIME THE MAGISTRATE reached Dr. Shields's infirmary, which was a chalkwhite painted house on Harmony Street, he felt as if he were walking in a fog cloud. This dazed, opaque sensation was more than his physical distress; it was his mental burden, as well.

  Woodward had just left the house of Lucretia Vaughan. Mrs. Vaughan had been summoned to the door by a lovely blonde girl of sixteen or thereabouts, whom the elder lady had introduced as her daughter Cherise. Upon returning the basket containing teapot and cups, Woodward had inquired why Mrs. Vaughan had wished the reddish-brown cup to be broken to pieces by Rachel Howarth.

  "Surely you understand, being a sophisticated man of the city," Mrs. Vaughan had said, "that now the cup is much more valuable than before."

  "Valuable?" he'd asked. "How is it that fragments of a cup are worth more than the whole?"

  "Because she broke it," came the reply, which only further puzzled the magistrate. It must have shown on his face, because Mrs. Vaughan explained, "After the witch is put to death and Fount Royal is steadied again, the citizens of this town might wish to possess some token of the terrible ordeal we have been strong enough to endure." She gave a smile that Woodward could only describe as chilling. "It will take time, of course, but with the proper presentation the bits of broken cup might be sold as charms of good fortune."

  "Pardon me?" Woodward had then felt the fog closing in around his head.

  "I chose the nearest hue to blood-red that I could find," Mrs. Vaughan said, her tone of voice that of a sharper to a dimwit. "The blood of the witch. Or the scarlet tears of the witch. I haven't yet settled on one or the other. It's a matter of imagination, do you see?"

  "I . . . fear my imagination isn't as developed as yours," Woodward said, a thick knot seemingly clogged in his throat.

  "Thank you for returning these so promptly. At the appropriate time I can advertise that the pieces of cup broken by the witch were given to my own hand by the magistrate who executed her." Mrs. Vaughan now exhibited a slight frown. "Tell me—what's to become of the straw poppets?""The straw poppets?" he'd echoed.

  "Yes. Surely you'll have no need of them after the witch is dead, will you?"

  "Excuse me," Woodward had said. "I really must go."

  And so he found himself—fogheaded under the gray-plated sky—reaching for the bellcord at Dr. Shields's door. Above the door, a sign painted in the medical colors of red, white, and blue announced this to be the shop of Benj. Shields, Surgeon Barber. Woodward pulled the cord and waited, and presently the door was opened by a portly, broad-faced woman with curly dark brown hair. He introduced himself, asked to be seen by Dr. Shields, and was admitted into a sparsely appointed parlor, the most notable feature of it being a gilded birdcage that held two yellow canaries. The woman, whose ample figure was contained by a beige dress and apron that might have served as a settler's tent, went through a door at the other side of the room and Woodward was left with the birds.

  But not for very long, however, as within a minute or two the door opened again and the doctor appeared, his clothing a white blouse with sleeves rolled up, a wine-colored waistcoat, and charcoal-gray breeches. He wore his round-lensed spectacles, his long hair trailing over his shoulders. "Magistrate!" he said, and offered his hand. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

  "Would that pleasure was the purpose," Woodward answered, his voice—though quite husky—now in a fragile condition. "I fear I've been visited by ill health."

  "Open your mouth, please," Shields instructed. "Angle your head back a bit, if you will." He peered in. "Oh my," he said, after the briefest of inspections. "Your throat appears quite swollen and aflame. You're in some pain, I would presume."

  "Yes. Very much."

  "No doubt. Come with me, let's have a better look."

  Woodward followed the doctor through the door and along a hallway, past one room where there stood a basin of water, a chair, and a leather strop to keen the razor for the barbering duties, and past a second room that held three narrow beds. A young female with a plaster bandage around her right arm and her torpid face discolored by bruises lay in one of the beds, being fed a bowl of soup by the woman who'd admitted Woodward. He realized it must be Noles's unfortunate wife, who'd suffered the wrath of his carpet-beater.

  A door into a third room further down the hallway was opened, and Shields said, "Sit there, please," as he motioned toward a chair positioned near the single window. The magistrate seated himself. Shields opened the shutters to let in the misty gray illumination. "My soul rose at the dawn," the doctor said, as he turned away to prepare the examination. "Then it fell back to earth and resides now in a puddle of mud."

  "Myself the same. Will a full day of sun never again shine on the New World?""A debatable question, it seems."

  Woodward considered the room into which he'd been led. It appeared to be both the physician's study and his apothecary. On one side of the chamber stood a timeworn desk and chair, next to which was a bookcase of what looked to be old medical tomes, by their thickness and the dark solemnity of their bindings. Opposite those furnishings was a long workbench built to the height of Dr. Shields's waist. Atop the bench, which had perhaps a dozen small drawers with ivory pulls constructed along its length, was a glassblower's nightmare of arcane bottles, beakers, jars, and the like, along with a set of measuring scales and various other instruments. On the wall, too, were mounted shelves that held more bottles and jars, many of the vessels murky with fluids and potions.

  Shields scrubbed his hands with soap in a waterbowl. "You've just recently come into this condition? Or was it bothersome before you reached Fount Royal?"

  "Just recently. It began as a slight soreness, but now ... I can hardly swallow."

  "Hmmm." He dried his hands upon a cloth and then opened one of the bench's drawers. "We must go down into your throat." He turned toward the magistrate again, and Woodward saw with a start that Shields was holding a pair of clippers suitable for shearing treelimbs.

  "Oh," Shields sai
d with a slight smile at Woodward's alarm. "What I mean to say is, we must look down into your throat." With the clippers he snipped a candle in two, then laid the dread shears aside and fitted one of the candle stubs into a small metal holder with a mirror fixed behind the flame so as to amplify its light. He lit the candle from a match, then took another instrument out of a drawer and positioned the desk's chair in front of his patient. "Open wide, please."

  Woodward did. Shields held the candle near the magistrate's mouth and studied the scene. "Quite raw, it appears. Are you having difficulty breathing as well?""It is a labor, yes."

  "Lean your head back, let me inspect your nostrils." Shields gave a grunt as he peered up that formidable proboscis. "Yes, quite swollen there, too. The right much more than the left, but the passage of air is equally endangered. Your mouth open again."

  This time when Woodward obeyed, the doctor inserted a long metal probe that at its end held a square of cotton secured by a clamp. "Refrain from swallowing, please." The cotton swabbed along the back of Woodward's throat, and the magistrate was compelled to squeeze his eyes shut and fight the urge to gag or cry out as the pain was so acute. At last the probe was withdrawn, and Woodward saw—through a veil of tears—that a pasty yellow fluid had soaked the cotton.

  "I've seen this ailment before, in varying degrees of severity," the doctor said. "Your condition lies at about the midpoint. Such is the price one pays for habitation at the edge of a swamp, enduring fetid air and damp humours. This constriction and drainage is therefore inflicting extreme irritation to your throat." He stood up and laid the probe and yellow-soaked cotton on the benchtop. "I'll paint your throat with a tonic that should relieve much of the pain. I have also a remedy for the breathing obstruction." As he was speaking, he removed the tainted cotton and inserted a fresh square into the clamp.

  "Thank God I can find some relief!" Woodward said. "It was sheer torture having to speak at the testimony today!"

  "Ah, the testimony." Shields selected a bottle from the wall-shelf and removed its stopper. "Jeremiah Buckner was the first witness? Mr. Winston told me you were beginning with him.""That's correct."

  "I know his story." Shields returned to his chair, carrying bottle and probe but minus the mirrored candle this time. "It's enough to shock the hair off a wigstand, isn't it?""I've never heard anything more sickening."

  "Open, please." Shields dipped the cotton into the bottle and brought it out wet with a dark brown liquid. "This may sting a bit, but it's the rawness being soothed." He slid the probe in and Woodward braced himself. "Steady, now." The liquid-soaked cotton made contact. Woodward almost bit down on the probe, so fierce was the pain. New tears sprang to his eyes, his hands curled into fists, and he found himself thinking that this must be akin to a burning at the stake but without the smoke. "Steady, steady," the doctor said, pausing to dip the cotton into the bottle again. The contest with agony began once more, and Woodward realized his head was starting to twist on his neck in an involuntary effort to escape; thus it was akin, he thought in a fevered sort of humor, to being hanged as well as being burnt.

  In another moment, though, the awful pain did begin to subside. Shields kept redipping the cotton into the bottle and swabbing liquid liberally over the back of Woodward's throat. "You should be feeling some relief by now," Shields said. "Are you?" Woodward nodded, tears streaking his face.

  "This is my own mixture: Jesuit's Bark, limonum, and opium, made more firm by a base of oxymel. It's shown very excellent results in the past. I'm even considering applying for a label." He made a few more applications of the tonic and then, satisfied that the magistrate's throat was well done, sat back with a smile. "There! I wish all my patients were as sturdy as you, sir! Ah, just a moment!" He got up, went to one of the drawers, and returned with a linen cloth. "You might wish to use this."

  "Thank you," Woodward croaked. He used the cloth as it was intended, to blot his tears.

  "If your condition worsens in the next few days, we shall apply the tonic again at a greater strength. But I expect you'll feel much more yourself by tomorrow evening. . . . Elias Garrick is to be your next witness?""Yes."

  "He's already told you his story. Why do you need to see him?""His testimony must be spoken onto the record."

  Dr. Shields peered over his spectacles, looking every bit the barn owl. "I must warn you that prolonged speaking will further harm your throat. You should rest it, by all means."

  "I'm seeing Garrick on Monday. I'll have the Sabbath to rest."

  "Even Monday might be too soon. I'd recommend a week of as little speech as absolutely necessary."

  "Impossible!" Woodward said. "I'd be a fine magistrate who couldn't speak!"

  "Be that as it may, I'm simply giving you my advice." He again went to the workbench, where he put aside the probe and opened a blue ceramic jar. "This remedy will aid your air passages," he said, returning to Woodward with the jar. "Take one."

  Woodward looked into the jar and saw what appeared to be a dozen or so small brown sticks, each perhaps two inches in length. "What are they?"

  "A botanical remedy, from the hemp plant. I grow and cure the weed myself, as it seems to be one of the few crops that will thrive in this atrocious climate. Go ahead; you'll find it quite a useful drug."

  Woodward selected one of the sticks, which had a rather oily texture, and started to slide it into his mouth, intending to chew it. "No, no!" Shields said. "It's smoked, much as one would puff a pipe.""Smoked?"

  "Yes. Except for one difference: the smoke is pulled deeply into the lungs, let settle, and then slowly exhaled." Shields brought the candle over. "Put it between your lips and draw on it." The magistrate obeyed, and Shields touched the candle's flame to the stick's slightly twisted end. A thin plume of bluish smoke began to rise. "Draw it in," Shields instructed. "It will do you no good if you don't."

  Woodward inhaled as deeply as possible. He felt the bitter-tasting smoke sear his lungs, and then the bout of coughing that burst forth from him brought fresh tears. He bent over, coughing and weeping.

  "The first several inhalations are difficult," the doctor admitted. "Here, I'll show you how it's done." He seated himself, chose one of the hemp sticks, and lit it. Then he inhaled with a familiar ease. After a slight pause, he let the smoke exit his mouth. "You see? It does take some practise."

  Even so, Woodward noted that Shields's eyes were glistening. He tried it again, and again was attacked by a coughing fit.

  Shields said, "You may be taking in too much smoke. Small doses are the better.""Do you insist I suffer this remedy?"

  "I do. You'll breathe so much more freely." Shields inhaled again, uptilted his chin, and let the smoke drift toward the ceiling.

  Woodward tried it a third time. The coughing was not so severe. The fourth time, he coughed only twice. By the sixth inhalation, there did seem to be some lessening of the pressure in his head.

  Dr. Shields had almost smoked his down to the halfway point. He regarded the burning tip, and then he stared fixedly at Woodward. "You know, Magistrate," he said after a long silence, "you're a very fine man.""And why is that, sir?"

  "Because you take Robert Bidwell's bluff and bluster without complaint. You must be a fine man. By God, you must be verging on sanctity.""I think not. I'm just a servant"

  "Oh, more than a servant! You're master of the law, which makes you Bidwell's superior, since he so desperately needs what only you can supply."

  "But I might say the same for you, sir," Woodward answered. He inhaled deeply, let settle, and then exhaled. The smoke, as it rose, seemed to him to break apart, merge, and break apart again like the movement of a beautiful kaleidoscope. "You are master of the healing arts."

  "Would that I were!" Shields gave a hollow laugh, then leaned forward to give a conspiratorial whisper: "Most of the time, I don't know what the hell I'm doing.""Oh, you're joking!"

  "No." Shields drew again and the smoke spooled from his mouth. "It's quite pitifully true."

 
"I think your honesty has lost its brindle. I mean . . ." Woodward had to pause to collect the words. The lessening of the pressure in his head also seemed to have shaken the proper vocabulary from his brain. "Your modesty has lost its bridle, I think."

  "Being a physician here ... in this town, at this time ... is a depressing occupation, sir. I have occasion to stroll past the cemetery in visiting my patients. Sometimes I feel I should set up office amid the graves, as there would not be as much travel required." He held the hemp stick between his lips and pulled rather violently on it. The amount of smoke that poured from his mouth was copious. Behind his spectacles, his eyes had become reddened and sad. "It's the swamp, of course. Human beings were not meant to live so near to such a miasma. It burdens the soul and weakens the spirit. Add upon that dismal picture the continual rain and the presence of the witch, and I cannot for the life of me see how Bidwell's town can thrive. People are leaving here every day . . . one way or the other. No." He shook his head. "Mark Fount Royal as doomed."

  "If you really believe so, why don't you take your wife and leave?""My wife?"

  "Yes." Woodward blinked heavily. His air passages were feeling so much clearer, but his mind seemed befogged. "The woman who admitted me. Isn't she your wife?"

  "Oh, you mean Mrs. Heussen. My nurse. No, my wife and two sons—no, one son—live in Boston. My wife is a seamstress. I did have two sons. One of them ..." He inhaled in a way that struck Woodward as being needful. "... the eldest, was murdered by a highwayman on the Philadelphia Post Road. That would be . . . oh . .. eight years ago, I suppose, but still some wounds refuse the remedy of time. To have a child—no matter what age—snatched away from you in such a fashion ..." He trailed off, watching the blue smoke swirl in currents and eddies as it rose toward the ceiling. "Pardon me," he said presently, lifting a hand to rub his eyes. "My mind wandered."