Speaks the Nightbird

by Robert R. McCammon

  “No,” she said. “I find it sad. But as I am far past tears, I must laugh instead of weep.”

  “Laugh or weep as you please. This is damning evidence.”

  “Evidence?” Again, she laughed. “What evidence is there? An insane tale told by an old man? Oh, there is some truth in what he told you.”

  “Are you admitting your concordance with the Devil, then?”

  “Not at all. I’m admitting that I attended church on three Sabbaths, and the third time I sat with a rotten egg in my hair. But I was not going to give them the pleasure of watching me run home, or seeing me sob like a wounded child. That’s the only truth in Buckner’s story.”

  “Of course you would deny the incident in the orchard. I wouldn’t expect you to do otherwise.”

  “What was the point of it, then?” She turned her amber gaze upon him. “If I am such a witch, why did I choose to invite Buckner to watch my…indiscretions? Why would I not want to do such things in private?”

  “I don’t know, madam. Why did you not?”

  “Evidently, according to Buckner, I can walk through latched doors. Why am I still here in this cage, then?”

  “It would be an admission of witchcraft to leave this gaol.”

  “And allowing Buckner to witness that profanity was not an admission?” She shook her head. “If I really were a witch, I’d be much more clever than that.”

  “Oh, I think you’re clever enough. Besides, madam, who is to say you do not leave this gaol at night, and roam where you please with your master? Possibly you inhabit some spectral world of which God-fearing citizens dare not imagine.”

  “You might ask your clerk tomorrow morning,” Rachel said. “He’ll find out tonight if I have the power to walk through walls.”

  “I doubt that you would show any such power while Matthew is present,” Woodward parried. “Again, it would be an admission of guilt that would lead to your appointment at the stake.”

  She suddenly stood up. “You must be as insane as the rest of them! Do you honestly think, after what you heard today, that I am not going to burn? There are other witnesses—other liars—yet to speak against me, I know. But who will speak for me? No one. Oh, they hated me here before they took me to be a witch, so they made me into one, the better to hate all the stronger!”

  “They made you into a witch? How could you be made into what you are not?”

  “Hear me well, Magistrate. Someone murdered Reverend Grove and my husband, and then fashioned me into the blackest witch south of Salem. Someone made poppets and hid them in the floor of my house. Someone spread these filthy lies about me, so that now the people here don’t know their own minds!”

  “I believe Mr. Buckner,” Woodward said. “I’ve seen liars before, in many courtrooms. I’ve seen them spin webs from which they cannot escape. Mr. Buckner may be confused about some small details, due to his advanced age and the experience of that night, but he is not lying.”

  “If he’s not lying,” Rachel answered, “then he’s either in need of an asylum or he’s been cursed by some witch other than the one I am painted to be. I never set foot in his house or that orchard. I swear it before God.”

  “Beware your mouth, madam! A bolt of holy fire might end your games.”

  “If it would be a quicker death than the stake, I would welcome it.”

  Matthew said, “There’s a simple way to end all of this. Madam, if you would recite the Lord’s Prayer, I think the magistrate might consider your case in a different light.”

  “I’ll speak for myself, thank you!” Woodward said. “After what I’ve heard here today, I think even a recitation of the Lord’s Prayer might be a trick provided by this woman’s master!”

  “I will save you the wondering,” Rachel said, “because I refuse to speak such a thing that has no meaning in this town. Those who babble the Lord’s Prayer day and night would be first to grin when I’m set afire. Like Lucretia Vaughan, for instance. Oh, there’s a fine Christian example! She would’ve given Christ on the cross a drink of vinegar and called it honey!”

  “She was kind enough to provide you a cup for tea. I didn’t find it vinegared.”

  “You don’t know her as I do. I believe I know why she wanted the cup broken and returned. Ask her yourself. You might be enlightened.”

  Woodward busied himself by putting the teapot and the remaining cups back into the basket. “I think that will do for today, Matthew. I’m off to visit Dr. Shields. On Monday morning we shall resume our interviews.”

  “I’d suggest, sir, that our next witness be Mrs. Buckner. I have some questions I’d like to pose.”

  “Do you, now?” Woodward paused, his cheeks showing a flame. “Who is presiding over this court, you or me?”

  “You are, of course.”

  “Then shouldn’t I be the one who determines the next witness? And since I do not have any questions for Mrs. Buckner, I suggest Mr. Garrick come to court on Monday morning.”

  “I understand that you are the authority in this court, as in any other,” Matthew said, with a slight bow of his head, “but shouldn’t Mrs. Buckner be asked to describe her husband’s mental state during the period of time that—”

  “Mrs. Buckner should be left alone,” the magistrate interrupted. “She was asleep during both incidents her husband related. I daresay Mr. Buckner has never told her what he saw. Would you bring a decent Christian wife into this gaol, within earshot of Madam Howarth?”

  “She would be brought into any other courtroom.”

  “At the discretion of the judge. In my opinion, she has nothing to add, and indeed might even suffer harm by being called to appear.”

  “Magistrate,” Matthew said quietly, “a wife knows her husband. I would like to learn whether Mr. Buckner has had…shall we say…delusions of any kind in previous years.”

  “If you’re saying that what he witnessed was a delusion, remember that it was a delusion shared by another person. Stephen Dunton, wasn’t that the man’s name?”

  “Yes, sir. But as Mr. Dunton is no longer present, we only have Mr. Buckner’s word.”

  “Sworn on the Bible. Delivered in a rational manner. Told in as stomach-churning detail as I ever hope to hear. His word is good enough for me.”

  “But not good enough for me,” Matthew said. The rawly honest thought had left his mouth before he could constrain it. If Woodward’s teeth had been false, they might have dropped to the floor. The silence stretched, as the magistrate and his clerk stared at each other.

  Woodward’s throat was ravaged, his air passages swollen, and his bones aching in the damp, close heat. He had just heard a reliable witness relate a story of both fascination and horror that brought a woman—a human being, even if she was a notorious witch—nearer the stake. He felt sick to his very marrow, and now this audacity added to his freight was enough to lay him low. “You’ve forgotten your place,” he rasped. “You are a clerk, not a magistrate. Not even—though you seem to wish it—an attorney. Your duty is as a scrivener, not a questioner. The former you do very well, the latter undoes you.”

  Matthew didn’t respond except for the flush of shame on his face. He realized that he’d spoken completely out of turn and was better off embracing silence.

  “I will ascribe this incident to our surroundings and the miserable weather,” Woodward decided. “Therefore we shall put this behind us like gentlemen. Agreed?”

  “Yes, sir,” Matthew said, though he still thought it was appropriate—no, vital—to interview Buckner’s wife.

  “Very good, then.” Woodward picked up the basket in preparation of leaving. “I’ll ask Mr. Green to come in and move you to one of the cells over there.” He nodded toward the opposite cages. “I would prefer that you not be in such close proximity to Madam Howarth.”

  “Uh…I’d like to stay where I am, sir,” Matthew countered quickly. “I’d appreciate the benefit of the desk.”

  “Why? You won’t be needing it.”

  �
��It…makes the place seem not such a cage.”

  “Oh. Yes, I see. Then I’ll have Madam Howarth moved.”

  “There’s no need for that, sir,” Matthew said. “The distance of one or two cages hardly matters, if indeed she employs such witchcraft. And I do have this.” He held up the leatherbound Bible. “If this isn’t strong enough to protect me, nothing can.”

  The magistrate paused, glancing from his clerk to Rachel Howarth and back again. This whole situation—Matthew being forced to remain in this wretched place with a woman who’d known such wickedness—gnawed at his nerves. Who knew what Matthew would witness in the dead of night? He damned himself for passing sentence on the boy, but what other choice had there been? It crossed his mind to occupy one of the other cages for the night, on some pretext of keeping an eye on Madam Howarth’s activities, but he knew Bidwell and everyone else would see through the flimsy gauze and realize him to be quite less the taskmaster than he appeared.

  At the bottom of his pond, far down from the light of public inspection, he was afraid. Fearful of Rachel Howarth, and of what she might do to the boy. Fearful also that once he left Matthew alone with this Devil’s doxy, the boy might never again be the same. The witch’s pleasure would be in destroying innocence, would it not?

  “I shall be all right,” Matthew said, reading some of these thoughts in the magistrate’s anguished expression. “Just go to Dr. Shields and ask for a tonic.”

  Woodward nodded, but still he couldn’t bear to leave. The time, however, had come. “I’ll return this afternoon and see to you,” he said. “Can I bring you anything? Books from Mr. Bidwell’s library?”

  “Yes, that would be fine. Any books will do.”

  “I’m sure you will be fed before long. If you’re displeased at the meal, I’ll be glad to bring you—”

  “Whatever the meal is, it will be good enough,” Matthew told him. “Just go see Dr. Shields.”

  “Yes, I shall.” Woodward turned his attention to the woman, who had resumed sitting on her bench. “Your actions toward my clerk will be watched and noted, madam,” he said sternly. “I strongly suggest you keep your distance.”

  “My actions needn’t cause you worry,” she replied. “But the rats in here are not subject to strong suggestions.”

  There was nothing more that Woodward could do. Matthew would have to fend for himself, and the Lord God be with him. Woodward, basket in hand, left the gaol. In another moment Green entered, closed and locked the door of Matthew’s cage, and then he too retreated.

  Matthew stood at the bars, staring up toward the open hatch. His fingers were gripping the iron. The sound of the cell’s door being shut had made him think of the iron gate clanging at the almshouse, and sickness roiled in his stomach.

  “You’ve not been in here very long to feel the loss of freedom,” Rachel said quietly. “What is your sentence?”

  “Three days.”

  “An age!” She gave a harsh laugh that sounded biting.

  “I’ve never been in a gaol before. At least, not on this side of the bars.”

  “Neither had I. It’s not so bad here, in the daylight. But the darkness is not kind.”

  “Three days,” Matthew repeated. “I can bear it.”

  “What kind of foolishness is this?” Her tone had sharpened. “Do you think I don’t know you’ve been placed in here to spy on me?”

  “You’re wrong. I am here because I…offended the blacksmith.”

  “Oh, of course you did! Well, what shall I do to conjure you tonight? Shall I become a raven and flit from cage to cage? Shall I dance a jig on the air, while Satan plays the fiddle? Ah! Why don’t I turn you into a piece of cheese and let the rats tear you apart! Would that impress your magistrate?”

  “I’m sure it might,” Matthew said evenly. “But it would do neither of us any good, for if I were crumbs by dawn you would be ashes by noon.”

  “Some noon I shall be ashes. Why should it not be tomorrow?”

  Matthew looked through the bars at Rachel Howarth, who had drawn her legs up beneath herself. “Not all in this town believe you to be a witch.”

  “Who does not?”

  “One, at least. As for the name, I don’t feel I should betray the confidence.”

  “One.” She smiled thinly. “That one is not the magistrate, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Well then? It is you?”

  “I have an open mind on such subjects.”

  “And your magistrate does not?”

  “Magistrate Woodward,” Matthew said, “is a man of honor and conviction. No matter his reaction today, he will act in a tempered fashion. You’ll notice no flames around your feet yet, and after Mr. Buckner’s tale I think the magistrate might be justified in lighting the torch.”

  “Buckner!” Rachel spoke it like a spit. “He’s insane. I was neither in his home nor in the orchard. I hardly know the man; perhaps I’ve spoken a dozen words to him altogether.”

  Matthew walked over to his desk and began to arrange the papers into a neat stack. “He seems to know you well enough. After your display here yesterday, I must wonder if your natural inclination is not to shed your clothing and walk the town.”

  “I shed my clothing for my husband,” she said. “No one else. Certainly not in public, and certainly not…for the vile purposes Buckner imagined.”

  “Was that it, then? The imaginings of an old man?”

  “Yes! Of course.”

  Matthew located a particular sheet of paper and read from it. “Regarding the incident in the orchard, Mr. Buckner says as follows: 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.” He looked up at her. “How could it be the imaginings of two men, at two different times and two different places?”

  She didn’t answer; her face seemed darker and she stared straight ahead.

  “The testimony of Elias Garrick on Monday morning will add more sticks to your pyre,” Matthew said. “Are you aware of what he’s going to say?” There was no reply. “I take it that you are. Then we shall hear from a child by the name of Violet Adams. I have no knowledge of what she will testify. Do you?” Silence met his question. “Whatever it is, it will be doubly damning coming from a child. The magistrate is very sensitive to the testimony of children, and I would advise you to hold your tongue when she is speaking.”

  “No matter what lies she spews?” Rachel asked, still staring blankly ahead.

  “No matter if she swears she witnessed you in a privyhouse accommodating three hundred and three demons. Keep your tongue shackled.”

  “You might care to know,” Rachel said, “that the child’s mother is the person who anointed my head with such a perfumed present before the church. Constance Adams made no secret of her feelings toward me.” Rachel’s head turned, and her eyes found Matthew’s. “You’re the magistrate’s clerk, sworn to abide by his law. If you’re not here to spy for him, then why are you in the least interested in what I might say or not say?”

  Matthew continued straightening the sheets of paper. When he was done, he returned them to the box and closed the lid. It had taken him that long to formulate an answer. “I have a curiosity for puzzles,” he said, refusing to meet her gaze. “I am satisfied only when all the pieces fit to perfection. In this instance…I feel there are many pieces that have been forced into the wrong positions, and thus are ragged of edge. There are missing pieces that must be found. There are pieces that seem to be correct…but are, to me at least, of false shape. That is my interest.”

  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 dem
on 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.