“What was it?” Woodward had gripped his teacup in his hand, his palm damp.
“I don’t know. It had white hair and a child’s face. But it was a dwarf-thing, its skin all gray and shrivelled like a dead fish. It got down on its knees a’side her. It leaned its head down, and then…then a terrible long tongue slid out of its mouth, and…” He stopped, squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Can’t say,” he gasped. “Can’t say.”
Woodward took a drink of tea and put the cup down. He restrained himself from casting a glance in Rachel Howarth’s direction. He could feel Matthew tensed and ready to resume his scrivening. Woodward spoke quietly, “You must say.”
Buckner released a noise that sounded like a sob. His chest was trembling. He said painfully, “I’ll be damned to Hell for these pi’tures in my head!”
“You are acting as a proper Christian, sir. You were an observer to these sins, not a participant. I would ask you again to continue.”
Buckner ran a hand across his mouth, the fingers palsied. The hue of his flesh had become pasty, and dark hollows had taken form beneath his eyes. He said, “That dwarf-thing…looked like a child. White hair. A failed angel, is what I thought. All shrunk up when it was cast in the Pit. I saw it…saw that tongue come out…saw it wet and shiny, like raw beef. Then…that tongue went up in the woman. In her bloody parts. She took to thrashin’ and cryin’ out, and the tongue was a’movin’ inside her. I wanted to hide my face, but I couldn’t near move my arms. I had to stand there and watch it. It was like…somebody was a’makin’ me watch it, when I wanted to hide my face and call to God to take them sights away.” His voice cracked, and for a moment Woodward feared the old man would collapse into sobbing. But then Buckner said, “When that thing…slid its tongue back out again…there was blood all over it. Drippin’ blood, it was. And that woman grinned like she was a new bride.”
“Matthew?” Woodward’s throat felt so constricted that clear speaking had become an effort of will. “Are you getting all this?”
“If I weren’t,” Matthew answered tersely, “I would have to be deaf.”
“Yes. Of course. This represents a new threshold in your experience of clerking, I am sure.” Woodward used his sleeve to mop the moisture from his face. “It certainly opens a new door for me, one that I might wish had remained latched.”
“Then there was the third one,” Buckner said. “The one that was man and woman both.”
Neither Woodward nor Matthew moved nor spoke. In the silence they heard Buckner’s hoarse breathing. Through the open roof-hatch came the sound of a crow cawing in the far distance. Matthew dipped his quill into the inkwell and waited.
“Let us not say,” spoke the magistrate, “that in our interview we failed to turn over all rocks, regardless of what might be coiled underneath them. Tell us of the third creature, Mr. Buckner.”
twelve
BUCKNER’S EYES WERE SHINY now, as if these sights had burned the vision from them. “It came out of the orchard, after the dwarf-thing had gone,” he related. “I took it to be a naked woman at first. Taller than most women, though, and terrible thin. She—it—had long dark hair. Brown or black, I couldn’t say. The thing had tits, I seen ’em clear enough. Then I seen what else it had, and I near staggered and fell.” Buckner leaned his head forward, the veins standing out in his neck. “Stones and a yard. Right there where a woman’s basket oughta be. That yard was ready for work, too, and when the witch seen it she smiled so wicked it near froze my heart. The creature laid down a’side her, and then she started to…started to lickin’ the creature’s spike.”
“By ‘she,’ you are referring to whom?” Woodward asked.
“Her. In the cage there. The witch, Rachel Howarth.”
“All right.” Woodward again mopped the sweat from his face. The walls of the gaol seemed to be closing in on him. The one saving grace was the open hatch, through which he could see a square of gray clouds. “Continue.”
“There was just…more sin and vileness after that. The witch turned over, on her hands and knees, so her rear quarters was showin’. Then that half-man, half-woman took its spike in hand and squatted down atop her. I saw…things no Christian should e’er have to witness, sir. I tell you, before I seen them sights I was all right in the head. Now I ain’t. You ask my Patience. She’ll tell you, I’m no good for nothin’ no more.”
“This creature—the half-man, half-woman—penetrated Madam Howarth with its penis?”
“Yes sir. The creature pushed its yard in from behind.”
“Let us move past those particulars,” Woodward said, his face blanched. “What was the aftermath of this incident?”
“The what, sir?”
“The aftermath. What happened after the creature had…” He paused, seeking the proper word, “…finished?”
“It got up off her and walked away. Then the witch stood up and took to dressin’ herself. All a’ sudden I heard my name spoke, right up next to my ear, and I whipped ’round to see who it be.”
“And did you see?”
“Well…I was mighty scairt. There was a man standin’ behind me…but I don’t think he had no face. ’Cept a mouth. He did have a mouth…I ’member that. He said, ‘Jeremiah Buckner, run home.’ That’s all. I must’a done what he said, ’cause next thing I knew I was a’layin’ in bed, sweatin’ and shakin’. Patience was hard asleep, conjured most likely. I heard a cock crow, and I knew then that the demons of the night was passin’.”
“Did you in the morning, then, tell your wife what had happened?”
“No sir, I didn’t. I was shamed to tell Patience such things. And I was scairt, too, that the witch might kill her for hearin’. I didn’t tell nobody, not even after I heard what Elias Garrick seen. Then Lester Crane told me Stephen Dunton seen such a thing—them three creatures with the witch, ’cept they was doin’ their wickedness inside the house where the Poole family used to live, right next to Dunton’s farm. Still I held my tongue.”
“What made you decide to tell what you’d seen?” Woodward asked. “And who did you tell?”
“I decided…after they found them poppets in the witch’s house. I went straight to Mr. Bidwell and told him all of it.”
“I should like to speak to Mr. Dunton,” Woodward said to Matthew. “Make a note of that, please.”
“Cain’t,” Buckner said. “He took his family and they left, back two month ago. Dunton’s house since burnt down. Lester Crane and his brood lit out ’bout the same time.”
Woodward paused for a moment, ordering his thoughts. “Did you know Daniel Howarth?”
“Yes sir.”
“What kind of man was he?”
“Oh, he was but a youngster. Maybe forty, forty-five year old. Big man, he was. Took a right demon to lay him low, I’ll grant you!”
“Did you have occasion to see Mr. Howarth and his wife together?”
“No, not much. Daniel kept to hisself. Wasn’t a social kind of man.”
“And what about his wife? Was she social?”
“Well…I don’t know about such. Daniel and that woman been here maybe three year. He had a sizable piece a’ land, bought it from a Dutchman named Niedecker. That man’s wife had passed in childbirth, the child died too, so he decided to give it up. Daniel was always a quiet man. Never needed much help at anythin’, seemed like.” Buckner shrugged. “The woman…well, mayhap she did try to be social. But it just caused a stir.”
“A stir? What kind of stir?”
“Look at her, sir. If you can bear it, after what I’ve told you. She’s betwixt a nigger and a Spaniard. Would you care to share a pew with her?”
“The witch attended church?” Woodward raised his eyebrows.
“That was ’fore she took to witchcraft,” Buckner explained. “She only come to church two or three Sabbaths. Wouldn’t nobody sit near her. Them Port’a’geeze got a whiff about ’em.”
“So she was not welcome in church, is that correct?”
/> “She could do and go as she pleased. Wasn’t nobody gonna stop her from enterin’ Our Lord’s house. But I recall the last time she showed up, somebody—and I know who it was, but I ain’t sayin’—pelted her with a rotten egg a’fore she could come in. Hit her right a’side the face. You know what she done?”
“What?”
“She sat down in a pew with that egg smellin’ as it did, that mess all in her hair, and she nary made a move ’til Reverend Grove said the last Praise and Amen ’bout four hours later. ’Course, he did rush it some, that smell in the church as it was.”
Matthew was aware of a movement from the corner of his eye. He looked up as he finished scribing the last line—and there was Rachel Howarth, standing next to the bars, her teeth gritted and an expression of sheer ferocity on her face. Her right arm was lifted and swinging forward, a gesture of violence that made Matthew shout, “Magistrate!”
The shout itself most possibly caused Woodward to lose the remaining few hairs on his scalp. He twisted his head around as well, and Buckner gave a garbled cry of terror and raised a hand to protect his face from what he was sure would be Satanic flame.
There was a loud crack! at the end of the woman’s blow against the bars. Fragments of dark reddish-brown clay fell into the straw. Matthew saw that in her right hand was the cup’s grip, the rest of it smashed to smithereens.
“I am done with my tea,” Rachel said. She opened her hand and dropped the largest bit of the cup into their cell. “That is how Lucretia Vaughan wanted it returned, is it not?”
“Yes, it is. And thank you, Matthew, for your help in emptying my bladder. Will you collect those pieces for me, please?” The magistrate blotted his face with his sleeve and attempted mightily to control his galloping heart. Matthew had to bend down on his knees and reach into the woman’s cell to gather up all the shards. She stood over him, an intimidating presence to begin with but now—due to farmer Buckner’s tale—absolutely fearsome, even though Matthew had the benefit of clear-headed reasoning.
“Wait,” she said as he started to rise. Her hand came down and plucked up a small piece he’d missed. “Take this one, too.” She placed it in his outstretched palm, which he immediately withdrew between the bars.
Woodward put the fragments into Madam Vaughan’s basket. “Let us continue, please, though my mind is as shambled as that broken cup.” He rubbed his temples with both hands. “Matthew, do you have any questions for the witness?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” he answered readily, and then he prepared to scribe his own inquiry. “Mr. Buckner, how long have you depended on that cane?”
“My cane? Oh…eight, nine year. My bones are poorly.”
“I understand that you were terrified that night in the orchard. Terror can strengthen a man’s legs, I know. But when the person behind you said, ‘Jeremiah, run home,’ did you actually run?”
“I don’t know. But I must’a, ’cause I got back to my bed.”
“You don’t recall running? You recall no pain to your legs?”
“No,” Buckner said. “I don’t recall.”
“By which door did you enter your house?”
“Which door? Well…I reckon the back door.”
“You don’t remember which door?”
“Jus’ two doors,” Buckner said with a snort. “Back ’n front. I was behind the house, so I must’a gone in the back un.”
“Was it cold that night?” Matthew asked, as he dipped the quill once more.
“It was February, like I say.”
“Yes, sir. But my question to you is: was it cold that night?”
“Sure it was. Had to be cold, a February night!”
“You don’t know for certain whether it was cold or not? You don’t recall it being cold?”
“I’m not on trial here, am I?” Buckner looked to the magistrate for help. “What’s he poundin’ the nail for?”
“Is there some point to this, Matthew?”
“Yes, sir, there is. If you’ll bear with me?”
“All right, then.” Woodward nodded. “But please remember that Mr. Buckner is a witness, not a defendant.”
“Mr. Buckner, when you rose from bed to go outside in the cold February night, did you pause to put on any outer garments?”
“Outer garments? What’re you goin’ on about?”
“A coat,” Matthew said. “A cloak. A hat. Gloves. Surely you paused to at least put on shoes.”
Buckner scowled. “Well…of course I put on shoes!”
“And a coat?”
“Yes, I reckon I put on a coat too! Do you think me a fool?”
“No, sir, I do not. But you don’t sound very certain about those details. Tell me this, then: when you heard the cock crow, were you lying in bed with your shoes and coat still on?”
“What?”
“You testified that you were lying in bed, sweating and shaking. Did you pause at some point to remove your shoes and coat before you got into bed?”
“Yes.” It was said with faint conviction. “I must’a.”
“You don’t recall?”
“I was scairt. Like I said, scairt half dead!”
“What about your cane?” Matthew asked. “You did take your cane outside with you, did you not?”
“I did. I cain’t hardly get ’round without it.”
“Where did you put your cane when you returned from the orchard?”
“I…put it…” He pressed his fingers against his mouth. “I put it…in the corner next to the bed, I reckon. Where it always is put.”
“Then that’s where it was when morning came?”
“Yes. Right there in that corner.”
“Where did you put your coat and shoes?”
“I…took off my coat, and laid it and my shoes…at the foot of the bed, I believe.”
“That’s where they were the next time you had need of them?”
“Wait,” Buckner said, his forehead deeply creased. “No. I must’a hung up my coat on the hook by the front door. That’s where it was.”
“By the front door? Yet you entered by the back door? Was there a lantern lit within the house, or was it dark?”
“Dark. I don’t recall no light.”
“You were—as you put it—scared half dead, a witness to demonic wickedness, and yet you walked from one side of the house to the other in the dark to hang your coat on its proper hook?” Matthew held up a finger before Buckner could respond. “Ah! You did so because you didn’t wish your wife to know you’d been outside, could that be correct?”
“Yes, it could.” He nodded vigorously. “That must be the why of it.”
“Sir, if you had decided to do so, why did you believe you took it off and laid it at the foot of the bed? Is it so unclear in your mind where you left your coat?”
“I was conjured! Must’a been. Like I say, after what I seen I ain’t right in the head no more.”
“Mr. Buckner?” Matthew stared forcefully into the man’s eyes. “You have given us a story of amazing details, seen without the benefit of illumination. Why is it, then, that your grasp of details is so hazy both before and after the incident in the orchard?”
Buckner’s face tightened. “You think I’m lyin’, don’t you?”
“Mr. Buckner,” Woodward spoke up, “no one has said that.”
“Don’t have to say it! I can read it in these damn questions you’re askin’ me! All this ’bout coats and shoes, and did I have my cane and whatnot! I’m a honest man, you can ask anybody!”
“Please, sir, there’s no need for an outburst.”
“I ain’t no liar!” Buckner had fairly shouted it. He hobbled to his feet and pointed at Rachel Howarth. “There’s the witch I seen with them three demons from Hell! I seen it was her, no mistakin’ it! She’s evil to her black heart, and if you think I’m lyin’ she’s conjured you, too!”
“Sir,” Woodward said quietly, trying to calm the man. “Please. Won’t you sit down and—”
�
�No, I will not! I won’t be called a liar, not even by a magistrate! God knows I’m tellin’ the truth, and He’s the only judge matters!”
“In Heaven, yes,” Woodward said, feeling a bit wounded by this last remark. “In the courts of Earth, however, justice is the responsibility of mortals.”
“If justice is served, that witch’ll be dead ’fore another day goes past!” Buckner had white spittle on his lips, his eyes enraged. “Or hav’ya already decided it’s the town that dies and the witch that lives?”
“I still have a few questions to ask, sir.” Woodward motioned toward the stool. “Won’t you sit down?”
“I’ve had a fill of this! I ain’t answerin’ nothin’ more!” The old man abruptly turned and walked out of the cell, leaning heavily on his cane.
Woodward also stood up. “Mr. Buckner! Please! Just a few moments longer!” His entreaties were in vain, however. Buckner stalked away and was gone from the gaol altogether.
“He can be convinced to return,” Matthew said. “He’ll listen to Bidwell.”
“I only had two or three more questions to ask.” Woodward cast a dark glare at his clerk. “What was the meaning of badgering the man like that?”
“I don’t think I was badgering, sir. I was clarifying.”
“You took that man to task, Matthew! You just as well said you believed him a liar!”
“No, sir,” Matthew replied evenly, “I never said such a thing. I simply desired to know why he couldn’t recall some specific details, when other specifics were so very clear. I should think he would remember putting on and removing his coat and shoes, no matter what kind of fright he’d experienced.”
“Well, the man’s not a liar!” Woodward vowed. “Confused, possibly. Frightened, certainly. But I don’t believe him the stripe of man who would make up such phantasms, do you? I mean…dear God, if he was concocting such a tale, I’d fear his mind was diseased beyond all salvation!”
There came a laugh. Matthew and Woodward looked into the next cage. Rachel Howarth was sitting on her bench, her back against the rough wall and her head uptilted.
“You find this amusing, madam?” Woodward inquired.
Speaks the Nightbird Page 23