Speaks the Nightbird mc-1

by Robert R. McCammon

  "Tell what you like, then." Matthew feigned indifference, but he knew this would not go over very well with the magistrate.

  "When a right Christian boy is entranced by a witch, who knoweth where such actions may lead? Thou may find thyself sharing the fire with her, and thereafter thou may fornicate in Hell to thy eternal delight."

  Matthew shouted, "Get out! By God, I'll strike you again!"

  "And blasphemous as well!" Jerusalem crowed. "This is a sorry day for thee, that I can promise!" His gaze slid toward Rachel. "Then burn, witch!" His voice, at the fullest of its power, seemed to shake the walls. "I offered thee salvation, and thou hast spurned the last hope of a Godly life! Yes, burn, and call upon me with thy last tortured breath but thou—"

  Rachel reached to the floor. "Move!" she told Matthew, who saw what she had picked up and so dodged the oncoming deluge.

  "—shall call in vain, for Exodus Jerusalem shall not ans— ohhhhh!" he bellowed, as Rachel threw the contents of her waste bucket through the bars at him, and he danced backward to avoid as much as possible a meeting between the sacred and the profane. For the most part he was lucky, but his shoes received a washing.

  Matthew couldn't help it; he burst out laughing at the preacher's whirligigging, and thus called upon himself Jerusalem's blackest regards.

  "You'll be damned too, you young bastard!" It was amazing how a bucket of pee could knock the thees and thous out of a man. "I'll call the wrath of Heaven down on both your heads!"

  "Call away, then!" Rachel said. "But do it somewhere else!"

  Matthew was still grinning. Then he saw a fleeting look in Jerusalem's eyes that should only be described as terror; in that moment he realized that ridicule was the sharpest sword that could pierce the preacher's swollen pride, and thereafter Jerusalem spun around and fled the gaol like a cat with a burning tail.

  Rachel threw the emptied bucket aside and viewed the wet floor. "Mr. Green will have a few choice words to say about this, I'm sure."

  Matthew's grin faded away, as did the hilarity that had for a brief time lightened his soul. "I'll tell the magistrate what happened."

  "Jerusalem will be there before you." She sank down on her bench. "You will have some explaining to do."

  "I'll take care of it."

  "The magistrate won't understand why you came here. I don't fully understand why, either."

  "I wished to see you," he said, before he could ponder his choice of words.

  "Why? Your business is finished here, is it not?"

  "Magistrate Woodward's business is finished," he corrected. "I intend to continue working at this puzzle."

  "I see. Is that what I've become, then? A puzzle to be worked at?"

  "Not entirely."

  Rachel looked at him, but said nothing for a stretch of time. Then she spoke in a quiet voice, "Are you becoming interested in me?"

  "Yes." He had to pause to swallow. "In your situation, I mean to say."

  "I'm not speaking of my situation, Matthew. I mean: are you interested in me?" He didn't know what to say, therefore he did not answer.

  Rachel sighed and stared at the floor. "I am flattered," she said. "Honestly. You are a bright and kind young man. But . . . though you're twenty and I am twenty-six, I am fifty years older than you. My heart is used up, Matthew. Can you understand that?"

  Again, words failed him. He had never in his life felt so confused, timid, and utterly strange, as if his powers of self-control had melted away like a lump of butter set on a forge. He might have preferred three more lashes than wearing this simpleton's suit.

  "As I said, I will be ready to die when the time comes," Rachel continued. "It will come soon, I know. I thank you for your help and care . . . but please don't make my death any more difficult than it has to be." She sat for a moment, her hands clasped together in her lap, and then she lifted her head. "How is the magistrate's health?"

  Matthew forced himself to speak. "Not well. I was on my way to see Dr. Shields. Where is the infirmary from here?"

  "On Harmony Street, toward the gate."

  Matthew knew it was time to go. His presence seemed to be sinking Rachel into deeper gloom. "I won't give up," he vowed.

  "Give what up?"

  "Trying to find an answer. To the puzzle. I won't give up, because . . ." He shrugged. "I can't."

  "Thank you," she replied. "I think—if you ever do find an answer—it will come much too late to save my life, but I thank you just the same."

  He went to the door, where he felt the need to look back at Rachel once again. He saw her lift her hood over her head and face, as if to block out everything possible of this treacherous world.

  "Goodbye," he said. There was no response. He left the gaol, but he had the most compelling sensation that part of himself did not follow.

  twenty-two

  MRS. NETTLES CAUGHT MATTHEW at the staircase when he returned to the mansion after his visit with Dr. Shields. "The magistrate asked that you see him directly ye arrived. I ha' to tell you that the preacher's been here, and he was might loud."

  "I expected it. Thank you." He braced himself for what was ahead and started up the stairs.

  "Oh, sir!" Mrs. Nettles said before he'd gotten more than halfway up. "I recalled somethin' I thought you might find of interest. About Rev'rend Grove."

  "Go on," Matthew urged.

  "Well, sir . . . you asked if the rev'rend had any enemies, and I said he had none I knew of. But I was thinkin' over it some, and I recall a strange thing happened—oh, I'd say it was three or four days 'fore he was killed."

  "What was it?"

  "He'd come for dinner," she said. "Had some business 'bout the church to talk over with Mr. Bidwell and Mr. Winston, so his wife had stayed home. I remember they were talkin' there in the parlor, with the fire goin'." She nodded toward that room. "Mr. Bidwell had walked with Mr. Winston out to the carriage. I had come in to ask the rev'rend if I could refresh his cup, and he said no, that he was fine as he was. I turned my back and started to leave, and he says, 'Mrs. Nettles? What would you do if you knew a thing, and tellin' it might be right but it would serve no good purpose?' That's what he said."

  "Did you ask what he meant?"

  "No sir, that would not have been proper. I told him I was nae one to be givin' advice to a man a' God, but that it depended on what it was he knew."

  "And what was the reverend's response?"

  "He just sat there, lookin' at the fire. I started out again, on my way to the kitchen, and then I heard him say, 'No Latin.' That was all, and he'd said it so quiet I hardly heard it. But I said, 'Sir?' 'cause I didn't know what he meant. He didn't answer; he was just sittin' there, lookin' at the fire and thinkin'."

  "Hm," Matthew grunted. "You're sure he spoke those words, and not something else?"

  "I heard him say, 'No Latin.' At least, it sounded like that to me. Then Mr. Bidwell came back in, and I went about my business."

  "And you say Reverend Grove was killed three or four days afterward?"

  "Yes sir, he was. His wife found him, lyin' there on the church floor." She frowned. "What do ye think he meant?"

  "I have no idea," Matthew said, "but his question to you may mean that someone of physical rather than spectral nature had cause to wish him harm. I'd very much like to find out what it might have been he knew. May I ask why you've not brought this up before?"

  "I'd forgot it, 'til this mornin'. Bein' who he was, the rev'rend knew a lot of things about a lot of people," she said. "But like I told ye, he had no enemies."

  "Obviously he did," Matthew corrected. "Only it was someone who might have worn the disguise of being a friend."

  "Yes sir, I suppose so."

  "Thank you for telling me this." Matthew decided to store this information away and pursue it at a later date. Right now there was the magistrate to deal with. "I'd better go up." He ascended the stairs, his face grim.

  He had spoken to Dr. Shields at length concerning the magistrate's condition, an
d had been informed that though the sickness appeared serious it was well under control. The doctor said more bleeding would have to be done and there would be times when the magistrate would feel both better and then worse before he improved. But, said Dr. Shields, the road to recovery was never easy, especially from a malady such as this coastal fever. The magistrate was a strong specimen and otherwise in good health, Dr. Shields had said, therefore there was no reason he shouldn't respond to the bleeding and put this sickness behind him within a week or two.

  Matthew reached the magistrate's door and tentatively knocked. "Who is it?" came his voice: a weary but serviceable croaking.

  "It's me, sir."

  There was a pointed silence. Then, "Come in." Matthew entered. Woodward was still in bed, propped up by two pillows. The box of documents lay beside him, a sheaf of the papers on the blanket that covered his lap. Three candles burned on the bedside table. He didn't look up from his reading. "Please close the door," he said, and Matthew obeyed. Woodward let his clerk stand there for a while; his throat was agonizing him again, his nostrils were swollen, his head ached, and he had a hellish mixture of chills and fever, so when Exodus Jerusalem had told him what Matthew had done it did no good to his nerves or temper. But Woodward kept himself calm and continued reading, unwilling yet to display one iota of anger.

  "Sir?" Matthew said. "I know you had a visit from—"

  "I'm involved at the moment," Woodward interrupted. "Allow me to finish this page."

  "Yes, sir." He stared at the floor, his hands clasped behind him. Finally, he heard the magistrate put aside the documents and clear his throat with what sounded to be painful difficulty.

  "As usual," Woodward began, "you have done an admirable job. The papers are excellent."

  "Thank you."

  "I should finish reading them tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest. Oh, I'll be glad to get out of this place!" He lifted a hand and massaged his tender throat; his shaving mirror had told him how bad he appeared—pasty-faced, dark hollows under the eyes, and a sheen of fever sweat on his cheeks and forehead. He was extremely tired as well, weakened by both the ravages of his illness and the bleeding lancet, and all he really cared to do was lie back in this bed and sleep. "I'm sure you shall be glad too, won't you?"

  A trick, Matthew thought. So obvious it was hardly worth dodging. "I'll be glad when justice is done, sir."

  "Well, justice is about to be done. I shall deliver my decree tomorrow."

  "Pardon me," Matthew said, "but usually you spend at least two days reviewing the documents."

  "Is it etched in stone? No, I hardly need to read these papers."

  "Does it matter at all that I feel—very strongly—that Rachel Howarth is neither a murderess nor a witch?"

  "Evidence, Matthew." Woodward tapped the sheaf of papers. "The evidence is right here. You heard it, and you recorded it. There are the poppets on the dresser over there. Tell me what evidence refutes the testimony?" Matthew remained silent. "None," Woodward said. "Your opinion, and your opinion only."

  "But do you agree that some of the testimony is questionable?"

  "I find the witnesses to be credible. How do you explain that all their stories have overlapping elements?"

  "I can't."

  Woodward swallowed and winced at the pain. He had to speak, though, while his voice had at least a minimum of strength. "You know what will be best for this town, just as I do. I don't relish it. But it has to be done."

  "Will you not allow me time to ask some more questions, sir? I believe that Violet Adams may—"

  "No," came the firm answer. "Leave that child alone. And I want you to stay away from the gaol, from this minute on."

  Matthew took a deep breath. He said, "I believe I should be able to go where I please, sir." He saw the fire jump into Woodward's eyes, even as sick as the magistrate was. "If you are basing your restrictions on what Exodus Jerusalem told you, I might inform you that the preacher has filthy designs on Madam Howarth. He wants her to confess and throw herself at your mercy, whereupon he will step in and vouch for her newfound Christian soul. His aim is to recruit her as his travelling doxy."

  Woodward started to speak, but his voice cracked and so he had to pause until he regained it. When he was able, he said, "I don't give a damn about Exodus Jerusalem! Of course he's a scoundrel. I knew that the minute I saw him. My concern is your soul."

  "My soul is well protected," Matthew answered.

  "Is it? Really?" Woodward stared up at the ceiling for a time, composing his thoughts. "Matthew," he said, "I fear for you. That woman . . . she can do you some harm, if she pleases."

  "I can take care of myself."

  At that Woodward had to laugh, though it fiercely pained him. "The famous last words of a million sons to their fathers!"

  "I am not your son," Matthew said, a muscle clenching in his jaw. "You are not my father. We have a professional relationship, sir, and that is all."

  Woodward didn't reply, but simply closed his eyes and rested his head on the pillows. His breathing was slow and steady, if somewhat ragged-sounding. He opened his eyes and looked directly at Matthew. "The time has come," he said.

  "Sir?"

  "The time," Woodward repeated, "has come. To tell you things . . . that perhaps should already have been told. Sit down, if you like." He nodded toward the chair that was placed close beside the bed, and Matthew sat down upon it.

  "Where to begin?" It was a question the magistrate had posed to himself. "The beginning, of course. When I was a prosperous attorney, I lived in London with my wife, Ann. We had a very fine house. A garden in the back, with a fountain. Oxford had prepared me well." He gave Matthew a slight, sad smile, and then it went away. "We had been wed two years when we had a son, whom we named Thomas, after my father."

  "A son?" This was an amazement to Matthew.

  "Yes. A good boy he was. Very intelligent, very . . . serious, I suppose. He loved for me to read to him, and he loved to hear his mother sing." Woodward heard in his mind the woman's sweet soprano and saw shadows on the green Italian tiles that graced the fountain. "Those were the finest days of my life," he said as softly as his tortured voice would allow. "On our fifth anniversary, I presented Ann with a silver music box, and she gave me the gold-striped waistcoat. I remember the moment I opened the wrapping. I recall thinking . . . that no man on earth had ever been so fortunate. So privileged to be alive. There I was, with my loved ones before me, my house, my possessions, my career. I had tasted the full fruit of life and I was a rich man. Rich in so many ways."

  Matthew said nothing, but now he more fully understood the magistrate's anguish at leaving the treasured garment in Shawcombe's hands.

  "Four years later," Woodward continued after a painful swallow, "Ann and my partners encouraged me to pursue the robe. I passed the necessary examinations . . . became a jurist apprentice. In time I was informed I would advance when the next appointments were made." He drew a long, suffering breath and let it go. "I didn't have long to wait. That summer the plague came. Many openings were created."

  Woodward lapsed into silence as the memories came up around him like so many whispering ghosts. "The plague," he said, his gaze fixed on nothing. "Summer ended. A wet and nasty autumn, and the plague remained. It was a visitation of blisters on the flesh, followed by fits and terrible agonies until death. I saw my closest friend die that September. He withered from a sturdy athlete into a weeping skeleton in the space of two weeks. And then . . . one morning in October . . . the maidservant screamed in Thomas's bedchamber. I rushed in. Knowing already. And fearing what I would find."

  His voice had dwindled to a mere whisper and his throat was a burning hellpit, yet he felt the necessity to go on. "Thomas was twelve years old. The plague cared not for age, nor social position, nor riches nor . . . anything. It set in on Thomas ... as if determined to destroy not only him, but his mother and myself. The best the doctors could do was sedate him with opium. It was not enough to make him stop
hurting. Not nearly enough."

  He had to halt once more to swallow, and felt the scum of infection ooze down his throat.

  "May I get you something to drink?" Matthew asked, standing up.

  "No. Sit down. I must speak while I can." He waited for Matthew ro settle himself again. "Thomas fought it," he said. "But of course ... he could not win. His skin was so raw he couldn't turn over in bed. Once . . . when a fit struck him, he thrashed so much that the flesh . . . peeled from his back like wet bark from a rotten tree. And everything was blood and pestilence and that smell . . . that smell . . . that death-reeking, hideous smell."

  "Sir," Matthew said, "you don't have to—"

  Woodward lifted a hand. "Please hear me out. Thomas lived for ten days after he was afflicted. No, lived is not the correct word. Survived. The days and nights were of indistinguishable damnation for us all. He vomited torrents of blood. His eyes were swollen closed from crying, and he lay in filth because we had no help and ... we could not wash the sheets fast enough. On the last day ... he was seized by uncontrollable fits. So strong he grasped hold of the iron bedstead, and the bowing of his body . . . made the entire bed jump up and down . . . like some demonic toy. I remember his face, in that final hour. His face." Woodward squeezed his eyes shut, sweat glistening on his cheeks, and Matthew could barely look at him, so awful was the sight of his soul-caged grief.

  "Oh, my God, his face," the magistrate rasped. His eyes opened, and Matthew saw they had gone red with the memory of such torment. "The pox . . . had consumed most of his face. At the end, he . . . hardly appeared human. As he was dying . . . being racked by those fits ... he gripped the bedstead with all his remaining strength. I saw his fingers tighten . . . tighten . . . and he looked at me." Woodward nodded, marking the moment. "He couldn't speak, but I saw him ask a question of me, as if I had been God Almighty. He asked me: Why? And to that question— that unknown, unfathomable question—I was mute. Hardly ten minutes later ... he let loose a groan, and at last he left us. I had such plans for him. Such plans. And I loved him, more than I had even known.