Speaks the Nightbird

by Robert R. McCammon

  “Is that what you hope to do?”

  “Madam, I hope to find the truth,” Woodward said. “That is my profit.”

  “And where’s Bidwell, then? Isn’t he attending?”

  “No. I’ve instructed him to keep his distance.” She cocked her head to one side. Her eyes were still slightly narrowed, but Woodward could tell that this last bit of information had cooled her coals.

  “If you please?” Winston said, desiring the magistrate’s attention. “I’ll go fetch your tea now. As I said, Nicholas should be here shortly with Mr. Buckner. Three cups, did you say?”

  “Three. For me, my clerk, and the witness. Wait. Make that four. A cup for Madam Howarth as well.”

  “This is a gaol!” Green protested. “It ain’t no social club!”

  “Today it’s a court,” Woodward said. “My court, and I’ll preside over it as I please. At the end of the day, it will be a gaol again. Four cups, Mr. Winston.”

  Winston left without another word, but Green shook his red-maned head and grumbled his disapproval. The magistrate paid him no further heed, and sat down in the desk’s chair. Likewise, Matthew situated himself at his clerk’s station. He took a sheet of paper from the box, set it before him, and then shook the inkwell to mix the pigments and opened it. He chose a quill, dipped the nib, and made some circles so as to get the feel of the instrument; all quills might look similar, he’d learned, but some were far more suited for the task of writing than others. This one, he found directly, was a wretched tool. Its nib was much too broad, and unevenly split so that the ink came out in spots and dollops rather than a smooth flow. He snapped it in two, dropped it to the floor, and chose a second quill. This one was better; it was a neater point and the ink flowed sufficiently well, but its shape was so crooked that the hand would be paralyzed before an hour’s work was finished.

  “Horrible,” Matthew said, but he decided not to break the second one before he tested the third. His regular quills—the ones carried in a leather holder that had been lost back at Shawcombe’s tavern—were precision instruments that, not unlike fine horses, required only the lightest of touches to perform their task. He longed for them now, as he tried the third quill and found it to be the sorriest of the batch, with a crack down its center that caused ink to bleed into the feathers. He broke it at once, and therefore was wed to the handkiller.

  “Are the tools unsuitable?” Woodward asked as Matthew practised writing a few lines of Latin, French, and English on the rough-skinned paper.

  “I’d best accept what I’ve got.” He was leaving blotches of ink on the paper, and so he further lightened his pressure. “This will do, once I’ve tamed it.”

  Within a few moments Nicholas Paine entered the gaol with the first witness. Jeremiah Buckner walked slowly and unsteadily even with the use of a cane. His beard, far more white than gray, trailed down his chest, and what remained of his snowy hair hung about his frail shoulders. He wore loose-fitting brown breeches and a faded red-checked shirt. Both Woodward and Matthew stood as a show of respect for the aged as Paine helped the old man across the threshold. Buckner’s watery brown eyes marked the presence of Rachel Howarth, and he seemed to draw back a bit but allowed Paine to aid him in sitting on the stool.

  “I’m all right,” he said; it was more of a gasp than speech.

  “Yes sir,” Paine said. “Magistrate Woodward will protect you from harm. I’ll be waiting just outside to take you home when you are done here.”

  “I’m all right.” The old man nodded, but his eyes kept returning to the figure in the next cage.

  “Where do you want me, Magistrate?” Green inquired, with more than a little sarcasm in his voice.

  “You may also wait outside. I’ll ask you to return if it’s necessary.”

  The two men left, and Buckner positioned his cane so as to give himself balance on the stool. He swallowed nervously, his knotty fingers working together, his face gaunt and blotched with the dark spots of advanced age.

  “Are we ready to begin?” Woodward asked of Matthew, and the clerk dipped his quill and nodded. The first thing was for Woodward to stand and offer the Bible to Buckner, instructing him to place his right hand upon it and swear before God that he would tell the truth. Buckner did, and Woodward put the Good Book aside and settled himself back in his chair.

  “Your full name and age, please, for the record.”

  “Jeremiah Buckner. I shall be sixty-and-eight year come August.”

  “Thank you. Mr. Buckner, how long have you been a citizen of Fount Royal?”

  “Ever since it begun. Five year, I reckon.”

  “You’re a farmer, is that correct?”

  “Was. My son brung Patience and me here to live with ’em. He did some farmin’. Wasn’t no good at it, though. Two year ago, he an’ Lizabeth lit out, took the boys. Gonna come back an’ fetch us, once they’s settled.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you,” Woodward said. “So you and your wife occupy a farm? On which street?”

  “Industry.”

  “And what is your source of income?”

  Buckner wet his lips with his tongue. “Patience an’ me get by on the lovin’ kindness of our fellows, sir. Our farm ain’t worth nothin’. Just got a roof o’er our heads, that’s all. But when Ezra comes to get us, everythin’ll be paid back. I’ll swear that on the Lord’s Book, too. He writ me a letter, come by the post rider from Charles Town. Said he was lookin’ for some good land up Virginia way.”

  “I see. Now I presume you have an accusation to make concerning Madam Howarth?”

  “Well…” Buckner glanced quickly through the bars into the next cell.

  “Sir?” Woodward said sternly. “Look at me, please, not at anyone else. If you have an accusation to make, now is the proper time.”

  Matthew waited in the silence that fell, his quill poised. On the paper was written every utterance up to the moment, penned in the code of shortened words, abbreviations, and alphabetic memory-devices of his own creation.

  Buckner stared at the floor. A blue vein at his temple throbbed. With an obvious effort he opened his mouth and spoke. “She…the witch…she come to me. In the night. She come to me…naked, she was. Wearin’ a…serpent ’round her neck. A black serpent, with yella eyes. Like hers. She come to me, stood right at the foot of my bed, and Patience sleepin’ a’side me.”

  “You’re referring to Rachel Howarth?”

  “She’s the one.”

  “You have that down?” Woodward asked his clerk, but he needn’t have because he knew Matthew’s ability. Matthew just nodded grimly and dipped his quill once more.

  “May I speak?” Rachel asked sharply.

  “No, you may not!” The answer was delivered with an even-sharper point. “I told you, I’ll have no disruptions in my court!”

  “I would just like to say that I—”

  “Madam!” Woodward shouted, and his raw throat paid the price for it. “One more word and the gag shall be delivered!”

  Matthew had been scribing all this down as well. Now he stared at her, his quill’s nib resting at the end of a letter, and he said quietly, “It would be wise not to speak further. Believe me.”

  Her mouth had already begun to open to test the magistrate’s will. Now, however, she paused in her intent. Woodward waited, his fists clenched in his lap and his teeth gritted behind his lips. Slowly Rachel Howarth closed her mouth and then seated herself on the bench.

  Woodward returned his full attention to Buckner. “When did this event occur? Was it before or after the murder of Daniel Howarth?”

  “After. I believe Daniel had been laid down a week or two, so I reckon it was early February.”

  “All right. Tell me then, as clearly as you recall, exactly what happened.”

  “Yes sir.” Buckner spent a moment putting it together in his mind, his head lowered. “Well…I don’t recollect so good as I used to, but that kinda thing you don’t forget. Me and Patience went to bed just like usual
that night. She put out the lamp. Then…I don’t know how long it was…I heard my name spoke. I opened my eyes. Everythin’ was dark, and silent. I waited, a’listenin’. Just silent, like there was nothin’ else in the whole world makin’ a sound but my breathin’. Then…I heard my name spoke again, and I looked at the foot of the bed and seen her.”

  “By what light, if there was none?” Woodward asked.

  “Well, I’ve put my mind to that but I can’t answer it. The winda’s were shuttered, ’cause it was might cold outside, so there wasn’t no moonlight. But she was there, all right. I seen her, clear as I see you.”

  “You’re positive it was Rachel Howarth?”

  “I am.”

  Woodward nodded, staring at his hands spread out on the desktop before him. “And what else transpired?”

  “I was scairt half out of my wits,” Buckner said. “Any man would’ve been. I started to wake up Patience, but then that woman—the witch—said I wasn’t to. She said if I woke up Patience I would be sorry for it.”

  “But your wife wasn’t roused by Madam Howarth’s voice?”

  “No sir. I’ve puzzled on that, too, but I can’t make no sense out of it. Patience slept deep as usual. Only thing I figure is that the witch put a conjure on her.”

  Matthew heard the woman give a muffled grunt of frustration; he was tempted to lift his head to glance at her, but the quill demanded his absolute concentration.

  “All right. Then what occurred?”

  “The witch…said I was to keep her visit a secret. Said if I spoke it to anyone, they would be killed on the spot. Said I was to meet her two nights hence, in the orchard behind my house. Just said be there betwixt midnight and two, she would find me.”

  “Madam Howarth was nude, you say?”

  “Yes sir, she wore not a stitch.”

  “But she had a serpent around her neck?”

  “Yes sir. Black, it was. With yella eyes.”

  “Had you latched your doors and windows before retiring to bed?”

  Buckner nodded. “We had. Never used to, but…with somebody a’killin’ Reverend Grove and then Daniel like that…Patience felt easier with the latches throwed after dark.”

  “Therefore in your estimation there was no possible earthly way for Rachel Howarth to have entered your house?”

  “Well sir…after she was gone, I lit the lantern and checked them latches. They was all still throwed. Patience woke up and asked me what I was doin’. I had to tell her a lie, say a barkin’ dog stirred me up. She went on back to sleep, but I couldn’t near close my eyes.”

  “I can understand,” Woodward said. “Tell me this, then: exactly how did Madam Howarth leave your house?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Oh? You didn’t see her leave?”

  “Soon as she told me where to meet her…she was just gone. Didn’t fade nor nothin’, like you might think a phantasm would. She was there and then not.”

  “And you immediately lit the lantern?”

  “I think so. Maybe it was a minute or two. It was kinda hazy what I did just after she left. I believe I was still conjured, myself.”

  “Uh…Magistrate?” The voice made Matthew jump, the quill scrawling across two neat lines above it before he could rein it in.

  “Yes?” Woodward snapped, looking toward the gaol’s entrance. “What is it?”

  “I’ve brought your tea, sir.” Winston carried a wicker basket with a lid. He came into the cell, put the basket down upon the magistrate’s desk, and opened it, revealing a white clay teapot and four cups, three of the same white clay but the fourth a dark reddish-brown. “Compliments of Mrs. Lucretia Vaughan,” Winston said. “She sells pies, cakes, and tea from her home, just up Harmony Street, but she graciously offered to brew the pot free of charge. I felt it my duty, however, to inform her that the witch would be drinking as well, therefore Mrs. Vaughan asks that Madam Howarth use the dark cup so that it may be broken into pieces.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

  “Is there anything else I might do for you? Mr. Bidwell has put me at your disposal.”

  “No, nothing else. You may go, and thank you for your assistance.”

  “Yes sir. Oh…one more thing: Mrs. Vaughan would like Madam Howarth herself to break the cup, and then she asks that you gather the pieces and return them to her.”

  Woodward frowned. “May I ask why?”

  “I don’t know, sir, but it was her request.”

  “Very well, then.” Woodward waited for the other man to leave, and then he removed the teapot from the basket and poured himself a cup. He drank almost all of it immediately, to soothe his throat. “Tea?” he offered Buckner, but the farmer declined. Matthew took a cup, taking care not to spill any upon his papers. “Madam Howarth?” Woodward called. “I should be lacking in manners if I failed to offer you a cup of tea.”

  “Lucretia Vaughan brewed it?” she asked sullenly. “I wonder if it’s not poisoned.”

  “I have drunk some that I would swear was tainted, but this is quite good. I’d daresay it’s been a while since you’ve had a taste.” He poured some into the dark cup and handed it to Matthew. “Put this through the bars, please.”

  Matthew stood up to do so, and the woman rose from her bench and approached. In a moment Matthew found himself face-to-face with her, the compelling amber eyes staring fixedly at him. Curls of her thick ebony hair had fallen across her forehead, and Matthew was aware of tiny beads of sweat glistening on her upper lip, due to the gaol’s damp heat. He saw her pulse beating in the valley of her throat.

  He pushed the cup through; it was a tight fit, but it did scrape between the bars. She reached to accept it, and her fingers pressed across his. The sensation of her body heat was like a wildfire that burned through his flesh and flamed along the nerves of his hand. He let go of the cup and jerked his arm back, and he didn’t know what his expression had revealed but the woman was looking at him with curious interest. He abruptly turned his back to her and resumed his place.

  “Let us continue,” Woodward said, when his clerk was once more situated. “Matthew, read back to me the last question and answer, please.”

  “The question was: And you immediately lit the lantern? Mr. Buckner’s reply was: I think so. Maybe it was a minute or two. It was kind of hazy what I did just after she left. I believe I was still conjured, myself.”

  “All right. Mr. Buckner, did you later that day inform your wife of what had occurred?”

  “No sir, I did not. I was a’feared that if I told her, the witch’s curse might kill her on the spot. I didn’t tell nobody.”

  “Two nights hence, did you go to the orchard at the prescribed time?”

  “I did. Betwixt midnight and two, just as the witch commanded. I got out of bed slow and quiet as I could. I didn’t want Patience hearin’ and wakin’ up.”

  “And when you went to the orchard, what transpired?” Woodward sipped at a fresh cup of tea and waited for the man to respond.

  This question obviously troubled Jeremiah Buckner, as the farmer shifted uneasily on his stool and chewed at his lower lip. “Sir?” he at last said. “I’d…beg not relate it.”

  “If it has to do with Madam Howarth, I must insist that you relate it.” Again, Buckner shifted and chewed but no words were forthcoming. “I would remind you that you have taken an oath on the Bible,” Woodward said. “Also, that this is a station of the law just as much as any courthouse in Charles Town. If you’re fearful of your safety, let me assure you that these bars are solid and Madam Howarth cannot reach you.”

  “The walls of my house are solid, too,” Buckner muttered. “She got through ’em, didn’t she?”

  “You came here to testify of your own free will, did you not?”

  “Yes sir, I did.”

  “Then you will leave here with your testimony incomplete if you fail to respond to my questions. I need to know what occurred in the orchard.”

  “Oh Lord,” Buc
kner said softly; it was a supplication for strength. He bowed his head, staring at the floor, and when he lifted it again the lamplight sparkled from the sheen of sweat on his face. “I walked into the orchard,” he began. “It was a cold night, and silent. I walked in, and directly I heard…a woman laughin’, and another noise too. Somethin’ that sounded…sounded like a beast, a’gruntin’.” He was quiet, his head once again lowered.

  “Go on,” Woodward said.

  “Well…I followed them sounds. Followed ’em, deeper in. I ’member I stopped to look back at my house. It seemed such an awful long way off. Then I took to walkin’ again, tryin’ to find the woman. Wasn’t a few minutes passed ’fore I did.” Buckner paused and took a deep breath, as if fortifying himself for the rest of it. “She was a’layin’ on her back, under one of them apple trees. She was a’layin’ with her legs spread wide, ’bout to split her down the middle. And on top a’her was…that thing I seen. It was goin’ at her, like the drivin’ of a spike. It was a’gruntin’ ever’time it come down, and she had her eyes closed and was laughin’.”

  “A thing?” Woodward said. “What kind of thing?”

  Buckner looked directly into the magistrate’s eyes, his jaw slack and the sweat gleaming on his forehead. “It was somethin’ that…kinda ’sembled a man, but…it had a black hide, and leathery. I couldn’t see its face…I didn’t want to. But it was big. A beast the likes I’d never set eye on before. It just kept poundin’ her. That woman’s legs open wide, and that beast comin’ down a’top her. I saw its back movin’…it had some kinda spines or the like up and down its backbone. Then all a’sudden it whipped its head side to side and let out an awful moan, and the woman gave a cry too. It got up off her…must’a been seven, eight feet tall. I could see…” Buckner hesitated, his eyes glazed with the memory of it. “I could see the woman was all bloody, there in her private parts. The beast moved away, and then…then somethin’ else come out of the orchard, and it got down on its knees a’side her.”