Speaks the Nightbird

by Robert R. McCammon

  Matthew sat up from his slouched position in the chair. He reached out and pulled the lantern nearer. Then he turned back through the pages until he found the beginning of Jeremiah Buckner’s testimony.

  And there it was.

  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 later…I heard my name spoke. I opened my eyes. Every thin’ 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.

  With an eager hand, Matthew turned to the beginning of Violet Adams’s testimony, as she recounted entering the Hamilton house. He put a finger on the line of importance, his heart starting to slam hard in his chest.

  There wasn’t nary a noise. It was silent, like…it was just me breathin’ and that was the only sound.

  Three witnesses.

  Three testimonies.

  But the same word: silent.

  And that about breathing being the only sound…what possible coincidence could that be? Also the repeated phrase whole world by both Buckner and Garrick…it defied reason to think both men would speak the exact same words.

  Unless…without knowing it…all three of the witnesses had been told what to say.

  Matthew felt a chill skitter up his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck moved. He realized he had just had a glimpse of the shadow he sought.

  It was a terrifying realization. Because the shadow was larger and darker and more strangely powerful than he had dared believe. The shadow had been standing behind Jeremiah Buckner, Elias Garrick, and Violet Adams there in the gaol, all the time they’d been giving their accounts.

  “My God,” Matthew whispered, his eyes wide. Because he had realized the shadow was in their minds, directing their words, emotions, and counterfeit memories. The three witnesses were no more than flesh-and-blood poppets, constructed by the hand of an evil beyond Matthew’s imagining.

  One hand. The same hand. A hand that sewed six gold buttons on a Satanic cloak. That created a white-haired imp, a leathery lizard-like manbeast, and a bizarre creature that had a male penis and female breasts. The same hand had created these scenes of sickening depravity, had painted them on the very air to display to Buckner, Garrick, Violet, and probably other citizens, who had fled for their sanity. For that’s what the scenes were: air-paintings. Or, rather, paintings that came to life inside the minds that were spelled to accept them as truth.

  That was why Buckner could not recall where he’d put his cane, which he was unable to get around without, or whether he had worn a coat outside in the cold February air, or whether he had taken his shoes off when he’d climbed back into bed.

  That was why Garrick could not recall what clothes he had worn outside to go spew, or whether he had put on shoes or boots, or what pattern the six gold buttons were arranged in though he clearly noted their number.

  That was why Violet Adams had not noticed the reek of a decaying dog’s carcass, or the fact that the Hamilton house was overrun by canines.

  Not one of the three witnesses had actually witnessed anything but these mental paintings, constructed by a shadowy hand that had emphasized some details for the purpose of shock and disgust—the kind of details that would make for damning court testimony—but had omitted other details of a more commonplace nature.

  Except for the pattern of gold buttons on the cloak, Matthew thought. That was where the shadowy hand had been…the only word Matthew could think of was precious.

  The hand had made the oversight of not detailing the arrangement of buttons for Buckner or Garrick, but had attempted to make up for it by providing that detail to Violet, who collected buttons and therefore might be more observant as to their pattern.

  It occurred to Matthew that the shadowy hand might have placed the poppets under the floor of Rachel’s house, and then painted the dream by which Cara Grunewald had seen an item of importance hidden there. He would have liked to have spoken to Madam Grunewald, to learn if, when she’d gone to sleep that night, everything was silent, as if the whole world was feared to breathe.

  Matthew turned through the pages to another point he recalled of Garrick’s account. It was when he had challenged Garrick concerning the arrangement of the six gold buttons, and had pressed his question to the man’s obviously confused agitation.

  Garrick’s response had been a whispered It was a silent town. Silent. The whole world, afeared to breathe.

  Matthew realized that what he had heard was Garrick repeating a phrase supplied to him by the owner of the shadowy hand. Garrick had been unable to answer the question, and had unwittingly fixed on that somnambulistic phrase in a moment of great stress because it was one of the clearest things he did remember.

  And now there was the question of Linch’s voice, singing in the dark at the Hamilton house. If Violet had not actually set foot in the house, how could she have heard the ratcatcher singing his grotesque ditty from the back room?

  Matthew put aside the documents and finished his cup of tea, staring out the window toward the slaves’ quarters and the darkness beyond. He might have decided that Violet had been dreaming the involvement of Linch as well as the rest of it, but his own exploration of Linch’s dwelling told Matthew the ratcatcher had concealed the secrets of his identity behind a cleverly constructed front.

  Linch was literate and obviously cunning. Was it possible his was the shadowy hand that had guided the three witnesses?

  But why? And how? By what form of sorcery had Linch—or whomever—caused three individuals to see similar apparitions and believe without a doubt they had been viewing reality? It had to be black magic, of a sort. Not the kind popularly associated with Satan, but the kind that evolves from a corrupt and twisted human mentality. But also a mentality that was well ordered and precise, as Linch’s must be.

  Matthew couldn’t understand how Linch, or anyone else, might have done it.

  Such a thing—the guiding of three minds toward a common fiction—seemed to be absolutely impossible. Nevertheless, Matthew was certain that was exactly what had occurred.

  And what of the question of motive? Why go to such lengths—and such incredible risk—to paint Rachel as being a servant of the Devil? It had to be much more than simply covering the tracks that led away from the murders of Reverend Grove and Daniel Howarth. In fact, those killings seemed to Matthew to have been committed to add weight of suspicion upon Rachel.

  So the point was to create a witch, Matthew thought. Rachel was already disliked by many of the citizens before Grove was murdered. Her dark beauty could not have aided her popularity among the other women, and her Portuguese heritage reminded the men of how close the Spanish territory lay to their farmland. She had a tongue, a willful spirit, and courage that ruffled the feathers of the church-guarding hens. Therefore Rachel was from the beginning a perfect candidate.

  Matthew chewed on another biscuit. He looked at the stars that glittered above the ocean, and at the candle that burned within the lantern’s glass. The light of understanding was what he sought, yet it was a difficult illumination to unveil.

  Why create a witch? What possible reason was there for it? To hurt Bidwell? Was all this engineered by the jealous ravens of Charles Town to destroy Fount Royal before it could grow to rivalry?

  If that were so, wouldn’t Winston have known Rachel was innocent? Or had the Charles Town elders planted another traitor or two within Fount Royal’s midst and for the sake of security not informed Winston?

  And then there was the question of the mysterious surveyor, and what might lie in the mud at the fount’s bottom. It struck him that tomorrow night—very late, after the last lantern had gone out and the final celebrants swept from Van Gundy’s tavern—he might try his strength at some underwater swimming.

  Though the tea was certainly sturdy enough, Matthew still felt weariness pulling at
him. It was his mind that needed rest just as much—if not more so—than his body. He needed to climb into bed, sleep until dawn, and awaken ready for a fresh appraisal of what he suspected, what he knew, and what he had yet to learn.

  Matthew relieved himself at the chamberpot, then undressed and lay down upon the bed. He left the lantern burning, as his realization of the shadowy hand’s strange and compelling power had made him somewhat less than easy with the dark.

  He tossed and turned in the first bout of what would be a nightlong grappling with the hot gearwheels of his brain. At last, though, he relaxed enough to sleep for a time, and except for the occasional barking of a mongrel the town was ruled by silence.

  twenty-nine

  UPON AWAKENING AT FIRST LIGHT and the rooster chorale, Matthew hurriedly pulled on his breeches and crossed the hall to look in on the magistrate.

  Woodward was still sleeping on his stomach, his breathing harsh but steady. Matthew was curious as to the state of the blisters on Woodward’s back, and so carefully lifted the gown to view them.

  Instantly he wished he had not. The blisters had flattened into ugly ebony bruises surrounded by circles of mottled flesh. Streaks of red ran underneath the skin, attesting to the pressures that the magistrate’s body had endured. It occurred to Matthew that this procedure of heat and blister cups was more suited for the torture chamber than the sickbed. He lowered Woodward’s gown again, then dipped a cloth into the bowl of water that sat atop the dresser and spent a moment wiping away the green crust that had accumulated around the magistrate’s nostrils. The magistrate’s face was damp and swollen, the fever radiating from him like the calidity from a bellows-coaxed blaze.

  “What…” Woodward whispered, his eyelids fluttering. “What is the day?”

  “Thursday, sir.”

  “I must…get up…and about. Can you help me?”

  “I don’t think it’s wise to get up quite yet, sir. Possibly later in the day.”

  “Nonsense. I…shall miss court…if I don’t get up.” Matthew felt something as keen as an icy dagger pierce his guts. “They…already think me…lax in my duties,” Woodward continued. “They think…I am more fond…of the rumpot…than the gavel. Yes, I saw Mendenhall yesterday. That peacock. Laughing at me…behind his hand. What day is it, did you say?”

  “Thursday.” Matthew’s voice was hushed.

  “I…have a larceny trial to hear. This morning. Where are my boots?”

  “Sir?” Matthew said. “I fear…that court has been postponed for the day.”

  Woodward was quiet. Then, “Postponed?”

  “Yes, sir. The weather being so bad.” Even as he spoke it, he could hear birds singing in the trees around the spring.

  “Ahhhhh, the weather,” Woodward whispered. His eyes had never fully opened, but remained hidden behind the fever-inflamed lids. “Then I shall stay indoors today,” he said. “Shall light a fire…drink a hot rum.”

  “Yes, sir, I think that would be best.”

  Woodward said something that was more gibberish than language, as if he were losing control over even his speech, but then he spoke clearly enough for Matthew to make out the words, “My back. Pains me.”

  “It will be well soon. You must lie still and rest.”

  “A bottle,” Woodward said, drowsing off once more. “Will you…bring me a bottle?”

  “I shall, yes, sir.” It seemed a small but helpful untruth. The magistrate’s eyelids had ceased their war against gravity and he lay quiet again, his breathing returned to its accustomed rasp like that of a rusted hinge being slowly worked back and forth.

  Matthew finished his task of carefully cleaning Woodward’s nostrils. When he left the room, he was stricken in the middle of the hallway by what might have been a crushing weight suddenly applied to his shoulders. At the same time, the icy dagger that had entered his entrails seemed to twist toward his heart. He stood short of his own door, one hand clasped to his mouth and above it his eyes wide and brimming with tears.

  He was trembling, and wished to make it cease but could not. A sensation of utter powerlessness had come upon him, a sensation of being a leaf stripped from a tree in a high wind and blown through a terrifying altitude of lightning and rain.

  He had realized that every day—every hour—brought the magistrate closer to death. It was not now a question of whether the magistrate might die, but when. Matthew was sure this bleeding-and-blistering treatment was not sufficient; indeed, he doubted the ability of Dr. Shields to heal a man who was only half as ill as the magistrate. If Woodward could be gotten to Charles Town, to the attentions of the urban doctors who commanded fully equipped infirmaries and a benefit of medicines, then there was a chance—be it however diminished—that he might be cured of this savage malady.

  Yet Matthew knew that no one here would volunteer to carry Woodward the long distance to Charles Town, especially if it meant denigrating the abilities of their own doctor. If he undertook to convey Woodward there, he would lose at the very least two vital days from his investigation, and by the time he returned here Rachel would likely be a black smudge on a charred stake. Woodward might not be his father, it was true, but the man had served in as near that capacity as was humanly possible, saving him from the drear almshouse and setting him on a path of purpose. Did he not, then, owe the magistrate at least something?

  He might persuade Winston to take Woodward to Charles Town, under threat of revealing the incriminating bucket, but should such a disloyal dog be trusted with a man’s life? Winston could as well leave his charge on the side of the road for the animals to eat, and never return.

  No, not Winston. But…would Nicholas Paine be willing to do the job?

  It was a spark, but it might kindle a flame. Matthew pulled himself together, wiped his eyes clear with the back of his hand, and continued into his room. There he shaved, cleaned his teeth, and finished dressing. Downstairs, he found Bidwell clad in a lime-green suit at the bountiful breakfast table, the foxtail of his wig tied with an emerald-hued ribbon.

  “Sit down, sit down!” Bidwell offered, his mood jovial because the day promised to be as sunwarmed and beautiful as the one before. “Come have breakfast, but please let us announce a truce on the subject of theories.”

  “I haven’t time for breakfast,” Matthew said. “I am on my way to—”

  “Oh, of course you have time! Come sit down and at least eat a blood sausage!” Bidwell indicated the platter heaped with sausages, but their color was so similar to the ebon collapsed blisters on the magistrate’s back that Matthew couldn’t have swallowed one if it had been shot into his throat from a pistol. “Or, here, have a pickled melon!”

  “No, thank you. I am on my way to see Mr. Paine. Can you tell me where he lives?”

  “To see Nicholas? Why?” Bidwell speared a segment of pickled melon with his knife and slid it into his mouth.

  “Some business I wish to discuss.”

  “What business?” Bidwell now was truly suspicious. “Any business you have with him is also business with me.”

  “All right, then!” Matthew had reached his zenith of frustration. “I wish to ask him to take the magistrate to Charles Town! I want him placed in an infirmary there!”

  Bidwell cut a blood sausage in two and chewed thoughtfully on half of it. “So you don’t trust Dr. Shields’s method of treatment? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “It is.”

  “I’ll have you know,” and here Bidwell aimed his knife at Matthew, “that Ben is just as good a doctor as any of those quacks in Charles Town.” He frowned, knowing that hadn’t come out as he’d intended. “I mean to say, he’s an able practitioner. Without his treatment, I’ll grant you that the magistrate would have been deceased days ago!”

  “It’s the days hence I’m concerned about. The magistrate is showing no improvement at all. Just now he was speaking to me in delirium!”

  Bidwell pushed his knife into the second half of sausage and guided the greasy bla
ck thing into his mouth. “You should by all means be on your way, then,” he said as he chewed. “Not to see Nicholas, but to visit the witch.”

  “Why should I wish to do that?”

  “Well, isn’t it obvious? One day after the decree is delivered, and the magistrate lies at death’s door? Your skirt has placed a curse on him, boy!”

  “That’s nonsense!” Matthew said. “The magistrate’s condition has worsened because of this excessive bloodletting! And also because he was required to sit in that cold gaol for hours when he should have been in bed resting!”

  “Oh, ho! His sickness is now my fault, is that it? You cast about for blame from everyone except that to whom it rightly belongs! Besides…if you hadn’t pulled your stunt with Seth Hazelton, the witch’s case would have been heard in the public meetinghouse—which has a very comfortable hearth, I might add. So if you wish to blame anyone, go speak to a mirror!”

  “All I wish to do is find the house of Nicholas Paine,” Matthew said, his cheeks flushed and his teeth gritted. “I don’t care to argue with you, for that is like trying to outbray a jackass. Will you direct me to his house, or not?”

  Bidwell busied himself by stirring the scrambled eggs on his plate. “I am Nicholas’s employer, and I direct his comings and goings,” he said. “Nicholas will not go to Charles Town. He is needed here to help with the preparations.”

  “By God!” Matthew shouted, with such force that Bidwell jumped in his chair. “Would you deny the magistrate a chance at living?”

  “Calm your vigor,” Bidwell warned. A servant girl peeked in from the kitchen and then quickly drew her head back. “I will not be shouted at in my own house. If you wish to spend time hollering down the walls at the gaol, I might arrange it for you.”

  “Isaac needs better medical attention than what he’s getting,” Matthew insisted. “He needs to be taken to Charles Town immediately. This morning, if possible.”

  “And I say you’re wrong. I’d also say that the trip to Charles Town might well kill the poor wretch. But…if you’re so willing to gallop in that direction, you should load him on a wagon and take him yourself. I will even make you a loan of a wagon and two horses, if you will sign a note of agreement.”