Speaks the Nightbird

by Robert R. McCammon

  “You might instruct it, but I doubt you could enforce it.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re correct. I’m no duellist, either.”

  Paine’s face had taken on a reddish cast. “Listen to me! I didn’t want to fight that man, and if he’d insulted me in private I would have let it go! But he had to test me in public, right there at Van Gundy’s! What could I do but call him out? He had the choice of weapons, and the fool chose pistols instead of blades! I would’ve given him a single cut and called it done!” He shook his head, his expression taking on a hint of regret. “But no, Summers wanted heart’s blood. Well, his pistol misfired and the ball hardly rolled out of the muzzle! Still, that was his shot. Then it was mine. I aimed for the meat of his shoulder, which I squarely hit. How would I know he was such a bleeder?”

  “You might have fired at the earth,” Matthew said. “Isn’t that acceptable when the first shot misfires?”

  “Not by my rules,” came the chill reply. “If a man aims a weapon at me, whether it’s a pistol or a dagger, he must account for it. I’ve been stabbed between the ribs before and shot through my leg; so I hold no sympathy for anyone who tries to do me harm! No matter if he is a farmer!”

  “You suffered these wounds during your career at sea?” Matthew asked.

  “The stab, yes. The shot…was a later incident.” He stared at the clerk with fresh interest. “What do you know of my career at sea?”

  “Just that you were a seaman aboard a brigantine. Mr. Bidwell told me. A brigantine is a fast ship, isn’t it? In fact, brigantines are the vessels of choice by pirates, are they not?”

  “They are. And they are also the vessels of choice by those who would hunt pirates in service of the trading companies.”

  “That was your profession, then?”

  “Hardly a profession. I was sixteen years old, hot-tempered and eager to fight. I served one year and four months on a coastal patrol before a black-flagger’s rapier laid me low. That was the end of my saltwater adventures.”

  “Oh,” Matthew said quietly. “I see.”

  “What? Did you think me a pirate?”

  “I wondered.” Now that the subject had been opened, he had to ask the next question as well: “Might I inquire…who taught you to roll your tobacco in the Spanish fashion?”

  “A Spaniard, of course,” Paine said. “A prisoner aboard ship. He had no teeth, but he dearly loved his cigars. I think he was hanged with one in his mouth.”

  “Oh,” Matthew repeated. His suspicions concerning the Spanish spy had just fallen to pieces like shattered mirrorglass, and he felt an utter fool.

  “All right, I admit it!” Paine lifted his hands. “Yes, I have done the things the witch claims, but they were not all my doing! Lucretia Vaughan came after me like a shewolf! I couldn’t walk the street without being near attacked by her! A match can only bear so much friction before it flames, and a single hot blaze is all I gave her! You know how such things happen!”

  “Um…” Matthew inspected the tip of his quill. “Well…yes, such things do happen.”

  “And perhaps—perhaps—my eye does wander. I did, at one point, feel an attraction to the witch. Before she was a witch, I mean. You must admit, she’s a handsome piece. Is she not?”

  “My opinion is of no consequence.” Matthew blushed so furiously that his face hurt.

  “You do admit it. You’d have to be blind if you did not. Well, I may have looked in her direction once or twice, but I never laid a hand on her. I had respect for her husband.”

  “I’d be amazed if you had respect for anyone!” Rachel said sharply.

  Paine started to fire off another volley at her, but he checked himself. After a pause in which he stared at the floor, he answered in what was almost a saddened tone, “You don’t know me very well, madam, even though you imagine you do. I am not the beast you make me out to be. It is my nature to respect only those who respect themselves. As for the others, from them I feel free to take what is offered. Whether that makes me good or bad, I can’t say, but that is how I am.” He looked at the magistrate and lifted his chin high. “I did not put those poppets in the witch’s house. I found them, according to a dream related to me by Cara Grunewald. It seems she had a vision—God-sent, if you want my opinion—in which a shining figure told her there was something of importance hidden beneath the floor of Rachel Howarth’s kitchen. We knew not what we were searching for. But there the poppets were, beneath a loosened board.”

  “This was how long after Madam Howarth had been removed from her house?” Matthew asked.

  “Two weeks, I believe. Not any longer.”

  “I presume her house wasn’t guarded or watched in any way?”

  “No. Why should it have been?”

  “No reason. But two weeks was time enough for someone else to form the poppets and hide them under the floor, don’t you think?”

  Paine surprised Matthew by giving a short, sharp laugh. “You’re jesting, of course!”

  “Two weeks,” Matthew repeated. “An empty, unguarded house. The poppets are made of common materials. Anyone might have placed them there.”

  “Have you lost your senses, clerk? No one put them there but the witch herself! You’re forgetting that Madam Grunewald had a divine vision that directed us where to look!”

  “I know nothing of divine visions. I only know two weeks passed and the house was open to all who might want to enter.”

  “No one wanted to enter,” Paine argued. “The only reason I and the others who were with me entered is that we had a task to perform. When it was done, we didn’t linger there!”

  “Who discovered the loosened board? You or someone else?”

  “I did, and if you like I’ll vow on the Bible that I hadn’t set foot in that house since the morning the witch was taken out of it!”

  Matthew glanced at the magistrate. Woodward, who was looking dourly at him, shook his head. Matthew felt he’d come to the end of this particular road. He believed Paine. Why should the man have made the poppets and placed them there? Perhaps it had been a divine vision sent from God to Cara Grunewald; but then again, if he followed that track, he must come to the conclusion that Rachel was indeed performing witchcraft. He sighed heavily and said, “It’s not necessary that you swear on the Bible, sir. Thank you for your candor in this matter. I believe you may go, if the magistrate desires it.”

  “Go,” Woodward said.

  Paine hesitated. “Are you thinking,” he said to Matthew, “that someone other than the prisoner might have murdered Reverend Grove and Daniel Howarth? If so, you’d best take care the witch is not casting a spell on your mind this very minute! She did those crimes, and she did the other sins she’s been accused of too. Her ultimate purpose was the destruction of this town, which she nearly did—and still might do, if she’s not soon ashes! Why should it be anyone else’s purpose?”

  To this question, Matthew had no answer. “Good afternoon, sir,” Paine said, addressing the magistrate, and then he turned away and stalked out of the gaol.

  Woodward watched through hooded eyes as the militia captain left. The magistrate had recalled something else Dr. Shields had said concerning the subject of Paine’s deceased wife: It was a long time ago, and I’m sure Paine wouldn’t care to speak about it. In fact, I know he would not. Had it been such a terrible experience that Paine had decided to deny to the people of Fount Royal that he ever had a wife? And if so, why had he confided it to Dr. Shields? It was a small thing, to be sure…but still, a point of interest.

  On Matthew’s mind was the imminent arrival of the final witness, the child Violet Adams. He cleaned his quill and prepared a fresh sheet of paper. Rachel returned to her bench and sat down, her head lowered. Woodward closely inspected one of the black-ribboned poppets, after which he closed his eyes and took the opportunity to rest.

  In a short while the gaol’s door was opened, and Violet Adams had arrived.

  eighteen

  EDWARD WINSTON ENTERED
FIRST through the door, followed by a thin brown-haired man of about thirty years who wore a dark green suit and tan stockings. Close behind him—up under his arm, it would be more accurate to say—was the child, of eleven or twelve years. She, too, was slender. Her light brown hair was pulled severely back from her forehead under the constriction of a stiff white bonnet. She wore a smoke-gray cassock from throat to ankles, and sturdy black shoes that had recently been buffed. Her right hand gripped the left of her father’s, while in the crook of her own left arm she held a battered Bible. Her blue eyes, set rather far apart on her long, sallow face, were wide with fear.

  “Magistrate, this is Violet Adams and her father, Martin,” Winston said as he led them in. The child balked at the entrance to the cell, but her father spoke quietly and firmly to her and she reluctantly came along.

  “Hello,” Woodward whispered to the little girl; the sound of his raw voice seemed to alarm her further, as she stepped back a pace and might have fled had not Martin Adams put his arm around her. “I’m having trouble speaking,” Woodward explained. “Therefore my clerk will speak for me.”

  “Tell her to quit a’lookin’ at us!” Adams said, his bony face damp with sweat. “She’s castin’ the evil eye!”

  Matthew saw that Rachel was indeed staring at them. “Madam, in the interests of keeping everyone calm, would you refrain from looking at this father and child?”

  She aimed her gaze at the floor. “Ain’t good ’nuff!” Adams protested. “Cain’t you put her somewheres else?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s impossible.”

  “Make her turn ’round, then! Make her put her back to us!” At this Matthew looked to the magistrate for help, but all Woodward could do was give a dismissive shrug.

  Adams said, “We ain’t stayin’ here if she don’t turn ’round! I didn’t want to bring Violet to this place anyways!”

  “Martin, please!” Winston held up a hand to quiet him. “It’s very important that Violet tell the magistrate what she knows.”

  Violet suddenly jumped and her eyes looked about to burst from her skull. Rachel had risen to her feet. She pulled the bench away from the wall and then sat down upon it again, this time with her back toward them.

  “There,” Matthew said, much relieved. “Is that agreeable?”

  Adams chewed his lower lip. “For now,” he decided. “But if she looks at us again, I’ll take my child out of here.”

  “Very well, then.” Matthew smoothed out the fresh sheet of paper before him. “Mr. Winston, you may remove yourself.” Winston’s departure made the father and daughter even more nervous; now both of them looked liable to bolt at any instant. “Violet, would you care to sit down?” Matthew motioned toward the stool, but the little girl quickly and emphatically shook her head. “We shall have to swear you to truth on the Bible.”

  “What’s the need for that?” Adams spoke up, in what was becoming an irritant to Matthew’s ears. “Violet don’t lie. She ain’t never lied.”

  “It is a formality of the court, sir. You may use your own Good Book, if you please.”

  With sullen hesitation, the man agreed and Matthew administered the oath to his daughter, who made hardly a sound in her acceptance to tell only the truth in the sight of God. “All right,” Matthew said after that hurdle had been cleared, “what is it that you have to offer in this case?”

  “This thing she’s ’bout to tell you happent near three week ago,” came back that aural irritation. “It were of an afternoon. Violet was kept late to school, so when she was comin’ home she was by herself.”

  “School? You mean she’s a student?” Matthew had never heard of such a thing.

  “She was. I never wanted her to go, myself. Readin’ is a fool’s way to waste time.”

  Now the knave had well and truly endeared himself to Matthew. He examined the child’s face. Violet was not a particularly handsome little girl, but neither was she homely; she was simply ordinary, not being remarkable in any way except perhaps the wide spacing of her eyes and a slight tic of her upper lip that was becoming a bit more pronounced as it became time for her to speak. Still, the child carried herself with grace and seemed of a sturdy nature; Matthew knew it had taken quite a lot of courage to enter this gaol.

  “My name is Matthew,” he began. “May I call you Violet?”

  She looked to her father for aid. “That’ll do,” Adams agreed.

  “Violet, it’s important that you answer my questions instead of your father. All right?”

  “She will,” Adams said.

  Matthew dipped his quill in the inkwell, not because it needed ink but because he required a moment to compose himself. Then he tried it again, first offering Violet a smile. “Your bonnet is pretty. Did your mother sew it?”

  “What’s that got to do with the witch?” Adams asked. “She’s here to tell her tale, not talk ’bout a bonnet!”

  Matthew wished for a jolt of rum. He glanced at the magistrate, who had cupped his hand to his mouth to hide what was a half-smile, half-grimace. “Very well,” Matthew said. “Violet, tell your tale.”

  The little girl’s gaze slid over toward Rachel, registering that the accused still remained sitting with her face to the wall. Then Violet lowered her head, her father’s hand on her shoulder, and said in a small, frightened voice, “I seen the Devil and his imp. Sittin’ there. The Devil told me the witch was to be set loose. Said if the witch was kept in the gaol everybody in Fount Royal would pay for it.” Again her eyes darted to mark if Rachel had moved or responded, but the prisoner had not.

  Matthew said quietly, “May I ask where this sighting occurred?”

  Of course Adams spoke up. “It were in the Hamilton house. Where the Hamiltons used to live ’fore they took up and went. On Industry Street, ’bout three houses shy of our’n.”

  “All right. I presume the Hamiltons had left before this sighting took place?”

  “They was gone right after the witch murdered Dan’l. Abby Hamilton knowed it was that woman’s doin’. She told my Constance that a dark woman’s got dark in her.”

  “Hm,” Matthew said, for want of any better response. “Violet, how come you to be in that house?”

  She didn’t answer. Her father nudged her. “Go on and tell it, child. It’s the right thing to do.”

  Violet began in what was almost an inaudible voice, her face angled toward the floor. “I…was walkin’ home. From the schoolhouse. I was goin’ by where the Hamiltons used to live…and…I heared somebody.” She paused once more and Matthew thought he would have to urge her on, but then she said, “Somebody was callin’ me. Said…‘Violet, come here.’ Low and quiet, it was. ‘Violet, come here.’ I looked…and the door was open.”

  “The door to the Hamilton house,” Matthew said.

  “Yes sir. I knowed it was empty. But I heared it again. ‘Violet, come here.’ It sounded like…my papa was callin’ me. That’s why I went in.”

  “Had you ever been inside that house before?”

  “No sir.”

  Matthew redipped his quill. “Please go on.”

  “I went in,” Violet said. “There wasn’t nary a noise. It was silent, like…it was just me breathin’, and that was the only sound. I near turned to run out…and then…I heared ‘Violet, look at me.’ At first…’cause it was so dark, I couldn’t see nothin’. Then a candle was lit, and I seen ’em sittin’ there in that room.” Both Matthew and Woodward could see that her face, though turned downward, was agonized with the recollection. She trembled, and her father patted her shoulder for comfort. “I seen ’em,” she repeated. “The Devil was sittin’ in a chair…and the imp was on his knee. The imp…was holdin’ the candle…and he was grinnin’ at me.” She made a soft, wounded gasp down in her throat and then was quiet.

  “I know this is difficult,” Matthew told her, as gently as he could, “but it has to be spoken. Please continue.”

  She said, “Yes sir,” but offered nothing more for a space of time.
Obviously the recounting of this incident was a terrible ordeal. Finally she took a long breath and let it go. “The Devil said, ‘Tell them to free my Rachel.’ He said, ‘Let her out of the gaol, or Fount Royal is cursed.’ After that…he asked me if I could remember what he’d said. I nodded. Then the imp blowed out the candle, and it come dark again. I run home.” She looked up at Matthew, her eyes shocked and wet. “Can I go now?”

  “Soon,” he said. His heart had begun beating harder. “I’m going to have to ask you some questions, and I want you to think carefully before you answer to make sure that—”

  “She’ll answer ’em,” Adams interrupted. “She’s a truthful child.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Matthew said. “Violet? Can you tell me what the Devil looked like?”

  “Yes sir. He…had on a black cloak…and a hood over his head, so I couldn’t see no face. I remember…on his cloak…was gold buttons. They was shinin’ in the candlelight.”

  “Gold buttons.” Matthew’s mouth had gone dry; his tongue felt like a piece of iron. “May I ask…if you know how many there were?”

  “Yes sir,” she said. “Six.”

  “What’s this fool question for?” Adams demanded. “Six buttons or sixty, what does it matter?”

  Matthew ignored him. He stared intently into the child’s eyes. “Violet, please think about this: can you tell me how the buttons were arranged on the cloak? Were they six straight up and down, or were they three side by side?”

  “Pah!” The man made a disgusted face. “She seen the Devil, and you’re askin’ ’bout his buttons?”

  “I can answer, Papa,” Violet said. “They was six straight up and down. I seen ’em shinin’.”

  “Straight up and down?” Matthew pressed. “You’re absolutely certain of it?”

  “Yes sir, I am.”

  Matthew had been leaning forward over his paper; now he sat back in his chair, and ink dripped upon the previous lines he’d quilled.

  “Child?” Woodward whispered. He managed a frail smile. “You’re doing very well. Might I ask you to describe the imp?”