Speaks the Nightbird

by Robert R. McCammon

  “Thank you,” she whispered. And then, perhaps overcoming with an effort of will her momentary weakness, she let go of his hand and took the bread with her back to her place in the straw.

  To stay longer would be hurtful both to himself and her, for in his case it would make leaving all the more painful. He had wished her to know she was not forgotten, and that had certainly been accomplished. So he took his leave and presently was walking westward along Truth Street, his face downcast and his brow freighted with thought.

  Love.

  It came to him not as a stunning blow, but as a soft shadow.

  Love. What was it, really? The desire to possess someone, or the desire to free them?

  Matthew didn’t believe he had ever been in love before. In fact, he knew he had not been. Therefore, since he had no experience, he was at a loss to clearly examine the emotion within him. It was an emotion, perhaps, that defied examination and could not be shaped to fit into any foursquare box of reason. Because of that, there was something frightening about it…something wild and uncontrollable, something that would not be constrained by logic.

  He felt, though, that if love was the desire to possess someone, it was in reality the poor substance of self-love. It seemed to him that a greater, truer love was the desire to open a cage—be it made of iron bars or the bones of tormented injustice—and set the nightbird free.

  He wasn’t sure what he was thinking, or why he was thinking it. On the subjects of the Latin and French languages, English history, and legal precedents he was comfortable with his accumulated knowledge, but on this strange subject of love he was a total imbecile. And, he was sure the magistrate would say, also a misguided youth in danger of God’s displeasure.

  Matthew was here. So was Rachel. Satan had made a recent fictitious appearance and certainly dwelled in both the lust of Exodus Jerusalem and the depraved soul of the man who worked the poppet strings.

  But where was God, in all this?

  If God intended to show displeasure, it seemed to Matthew that He ought to take a little responsibility first.

  Matthew was aware that these thoughts might spear his head with lightning on a cloudless night, but the paradox of Man was the fact that one might have been made in the image of God, yet it was often the most devilish of ideas that gave action and purpose to the human breed.

  He returned to Bidwell’s mansion, where he learned from Mrs. Nettles that the master had not yet returned from his present task. However, Dr. Shields had just left after giving Woodward a third dose of the medicine, and currently the magistrate was soundly asleep. Matthew chose a book from the library—the tome on English plays and dramatists, so that he might better acquaint himself with the craft of the maskers—and went upstairs. After looking in on Woodward to verify that he was indeed sleeping but breathing regularly, Matthew then retired to his bedchamber to rest, read, think, and await the passage of time.

  In spite of what had been a very trying day, and the fact that the image of Paine’s butchered corpse was still gruesomely fresh in his mind, Matthew was able to find short periods of sleep. At an hour he judged to be past midnight, he relit the lantern he had blown out upon lying down and took it with him into the hallway.

  Though it was certainly late, there was still activity in the house. Bidwell’s voice could be heard—muffled but insistent—coming from the upstairs study. Matthew paused outside the door, to hear who was in there with him, and caught Winston’s strained reply. Paine’s name was mentioned. Matthew thought it best he not be a party to the burial plans, even through the thickness of a door, and so he went on his way down the stairs, descending quietly.

  A check of the mantel clock in the parlor showed the time to be thirty-eight minutes after midnight. He entered the library and unlatched the shutters so that if the door was later locked from the inside he might still gain admittance without ringing for Mrs. Nettles. Then he set off for the spring, the lantern held low at his side.

  On the eastern bank, Matthew set the lamp on the ground next to a large water oak and removed his shoes, stockings, and shirt. The night was warm, but a foot slid into the water gave him a cold shock. It was going to take a sturdy measure of fortitude just to enter that pond, much less go swimming about underwater in the dark.

  But that was what he had come to do, and so be it. If he could find even a portion of what he suspected might be hidden down there, he would have made great progress in solving the riddle of the surveyor’s visit.

  He eased into the shallows, the cold water stealing his breath. A touch of that fount’s kindness upon his groin, and his stones became as true rocks. He stood in water up to his waist for a moment, his feet in the soft mud below, as he steeled himself for further immersion. Presently, though, he did become acclimated to the water and he reasoned that if turtles and frogs could accept it, then so could he. The next challenge was going ahead and sliding the rest of the way down, which he did with clenched teeth.

  He moved away from the bank. Instantly he felt the bottom angling away under his feet. Three more strides, and he was up to his neck. Then two more…and suddenly he was treading water. Well, he thought. The time had come.

  He drew a breath, held it, and submerged.

  In the darkness he felt his way along the sloping bottom, his fingers gripping into the mud. As he went deeper, he was aware of the thump of his own heartbeat and the gurgle of bubbles leaving his mouth. Still the bottom continued to slope downward at perhaps an angle of thirty degrees. His hands found the edges of rocks protruding from the mud, and the soft matting of moss-like grass. Then his lungs became insistent, and he had to return to the surface to fill them.

  Again he dove under. Deeper he went this time, his arms and legs propelling his progress. A pressure clamped hold of his face and began to increase as he groped his way down. On this descent he was aware of a current pulling at him from what seemed to be the northwestern quadrant of the fount. He had time to close his fists in the mud, and then he had to rise once more.

  When he reached the surface, he trod water and squeezed the mud between his fingers. There was nothing but finely grained terra liquum. He took another breath, held it, and went down a third time.

  As Matthew descended what he estimated to be more than twenty feet, he again felt the insistent pull of a definite current, stronger as he swam deeper. He reached into the sloping mud. His fingers found a flat rock—which suddenly came to life and shot away underneath him, the surprise bringing a burst of bubbles from his mouth and causing him to instantly rise.

  On the surface he had to pause to steady his nerves before he dove again, though he should have expected to disturb turtles. A fourth descent allowed him to gather up two more fistfuls of mud, but in the muck was not a trace of gold or silver coinage.

  He resolved on the fifth dive to stay down and search through the mud as long as possible. He filled his lungs and descended, his body beginning to protest such exertion and his mind beginning to recoil from the secrets of the dark. But he did grip several handfuls and sift through them, again without success.

  After the eighth dive, Matthew came to the conclusion that he was simply muddying the water. His lungs were burning and his head felt dangerously clouded. If indeed there was a bounty of gold and silver coins down there, they existed only in a realm known by the turtles. Of course, Matthew had realized that a pirate’s treasure vault would be no vault at all if just anyone—particularly a land creature like himself—could swim down and retrieve it. He had never entertained the illusion that he could—or cared to—reach the fount’s deepest point, which he recalled Bidwell saying was some forty feet, but he’d hoped he might find an errant coin. He imagined the retrieval process would involve several skilled divers, the kind of men who were useful at scraping mollusks from the bottoms of ships while still at sea. The process might also demand the use of hooks and chains, a dense netting and a lever device, depending on how much treasure was hidden.

  He had surfaced from this
final dive near the center of the spring, and so he began the swim back to the shallows. He was intrigued by the current he’d felt below the level of fifteen feet or thereabouts. It had strengthened as he’d gone deeper, and Matthew wondered at the ferocity of its embrace at the forty-foot depth. Water was definitely flowing down there at the command of some unknown natural mechanism.

  In another moment his feet found the mud, and he was able to stand. He waded toward the bank and the tree beside which he’d left his clothes and the lantern.

  And that was when he realized his lamp was no longer there.

  Instantly a bell of alarm clanged in his mind. He stood in the waist-deep water, scanning the bank for any sign of an intruder.

  Then a figure stepped out from behind the tree. In each hand was a lantern, but they were held low so Matthew couldn’t see the face.

  “Who’s there?” Matthew said, trying mightily to keep his speech from shivering as much as his body was beginning to.

  The figure had a voice: “Would you care to tell me what you’re up to?”

  “I am swimming, Mr. Winston.” Matthew continued wading toward the bank. “Is that not apparent?”

  “Yes, it’s apparent. My question remains valid, however.”

  Matthew had only a few seconds to construct a reply, so he gave it his best dash of pepper. “If you knew anything of health,” he said, “which obviously you do not, because of your living habits, you would appreciate the benefit to the heart of a nocturnal swim.”

  “Oh, of course! Shall I fetch a wagon to help load this manure?”

  “I’m sure Dr. Shields would be glad to inform you of the benefit.” Matthew left the water and, dripping, approached Winston. He took the lantern that Winston offered. “I often swim at night in Charles Town,” he plowed on, deepening the furrow.

  “Do tell.”

  “I am telling.” Matthew leaned down to pick up his shirt and blot the moisture from his face. He closed his eyes in so doing. When he opened them he realized that one of his shoes—which had both been on the ground when he’d picked up the shirt—was now missing. At the same instant he registered that Winston had taken a position behind him.

  “Mr. Winston?” Matthew said, quietly but clearly. “You don’t really wish to do what you’re considering.” From Winston there was no word or sound.

  Matthew suspected that if a blow from the stout wooden heel was going to come, it would be delivered to his skull as he turned toward the other man. “Your disloyalty to your master need not deform itself into murder.” Matthew blotted water from his chest and shoulders with a casual air, but inwardly he was an arrow choosing his direction of flight. “The residents might find a victim of drowning on the morrow…but you will know what you’ve done. I don’t believe you to be capable of such an act.” He swallowed, his heart pounding through his chest, and took the risk of looking at Winston. No blow fell. “I am not the reason for your predicament,” Matthew said. “May I please have my shoe?”

  Winston sighed heavily, his head lowered, and held out his hand with the shoe in it. Matthew noted that it was offered heel-first. “You are not a killer, sir,” Matthew said, after he’d accepted the shoe. “If you’d really wished to bash my head in, you never would have signalled your presence by moving the lantern. May I ask how come you to be here?”

  “I…just left a meeting with Bidwell. He wants me to take care of disposing of Paine’s corpse.”

  “So you came to consider the fount? I wouldn’t. You might weigh the corpse down well enough, but the water supply would surely be contaminated. Unless…that’s what you intend.” Matthew had put on his shirt and was buttoning it.

  “No, that’s not my intention, though I had considered the fount for that purpose. I might wish the town to die, but I don’t wish to cause the deaths of any citizens.”

  “A correction,” Matthew said. “You wish not to bear the blame for the death of Fount Royal. Also, you wish to improve your financial and business standing with Mr. Bidwell. Yes?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Well, you’re aware then that you have Mr. Bidwell stretched over a very large barrel now, don’t you?”

  Winston frowned. “What?”

  “You and he share important knowledge he would rather not have revealed to his citizens. If I were in your position, I would make the most of it. You’re adept at drawing up contracts, are you not?”

  “I am.”

  “Then simply contract between yourself and Mr. Bidwell the task of corpse disposal. Write into it whatever you please and negotiate, realizing of course that you will most likely not get everything you feel you deserve. But I’d venture your style of living would find some improvement. And with Bidwell’s signature on a contract of such…delicate nature, you need never fear losing your position with his company. In fact, you might find yourself promoted. Where is the body now? Still at the house?”

  “Yes. Hidden under the pallet. Bidwell wept and moaned such that I…had to help him place it there.”

  “That was your first opportunity to negotiate terms. I hope you won’t miss the next one.” Matthew sat down in the grass to put on his stockings.

  “Bidwell will never sign any contract that implicates him in hiding evidence of a murder!”

  “Not gladly, no. But he will sign, Mr. Winston. Particularly if he understands that you—his trusted business manager—will take care of the problem without bringing anyone else into it. That’s his greatest concern. He’ll also sign when you make him understand—firmly but diplomatically, I hope—that the task will not and cannot be done without your doing it. You might emphasize that the contract with his signature upon it is a formality for your legal protection.”

  “Yes, that would make sense. But he’ll know I might use the contract as future leverage against him!”

  “Of course he will. As I said, I doubt if you’ll find yourself without a position at Bidwell’s firm anytime soon. He might even send you back to England on one of his ships, if that’s what you want.” The job of putting on his stockings and shoes done, Matthew stood up. “What do you want, Mr. Winston?”

  “More money,” Winston said. He took a moment to think. “And a fair shake. I should be rewarded for my good work. And I ought to get credit for the business decisions I’ve made that have helped pad Bidwell’s pockets.”

  “What?” Matthew raised his eyebrows. “No mansion or statue?”

  “I am a realistic man, sir. I might only push Bidwell so far.”

  “Oh, I think you should at least try for the mansion. If you’ll excuse me now?”

  “Wait!” Winston said when Matthew started to walk away. “What do you suggest I do with Paine’s corpse?”

  “Actually, I have no suggestion and I don’t care to know what you do,” Matthew replied. “My only thought is…the dirt beneath Paine’s floor is the same dirt that fills the cemetery graves. I know you have a Bible and consider yourself a Christian.”

  “Yes, that is right. Oh…one more thing,” Winston added before Matthew could turn to leave. “How are we to explain Paine’s disappearance? And what shall we do to find his killer?”

  “The explanation is your decision. About finding his killer…from what I understand, Paine dabbled with other men’s wives. I’d think he had more than his share of enemies. But I am not a magistrate, sir. It is Mr. Bidwell’s responsibility, as the mayor of this town, to file the case. Until then…” Matthew shrugged. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” Winston said as Matthew departed. “And good swimming to you.”

  Matthew went directly to Bidwell’s house, to the library shutters he’d unlatched, opened them, and put the lantern on the sill. Then he carefully pulled himself up through the window, taking care not to overturn the chess set on his entry. Matthew took the lantern and went upstairs to bed, disappointed that no evidence of a pirate’s hoard had been found but hopeful that tomorrow—or later today, as the fact was—might show him some path through th
e maze of questions that confronted him.

  When the rooster choir of Friday’s sunrise sounded, Matthew awakened with the fading impression of a dream but one very clear image remaining in his memory: that of John Goode, talking about the coins he’d discovered and saying May’s got it in her mind we’re gon’ run to the Florida country.

  He rose from bed and looked out the window at the red sun on the eastern horizon. A few clouds had appeared, but they were neither dark nor pregnant with rain. They moved like stately galleons across the purple sky.

  The Florida country, he thought. A Spanish realm, the link to the great—though English-despised—cities of Madrid and Barcelona. The link, also, to Rachel’s Portuguese homeland.

  He recalled Shawcombe’s voice saying You know them Spaniards are sittin’ down there in the Florida country, not seventy leagues from here. They got spies all in the colonies, spreadin’ the word that any black crow who flies from his master and gets to the Florida country can be a free man. You ever heard such a thing? Them Spaniards are promisin’ the same thing to criminals, murderers, every like of John Badseed.

  Seventy leagues, Matthew thought. Roughly two hundred miles. And not simply a two-hundred-mile jaunt, either. What of wild animals and wild Indians? Water would be no hardship, but what of food? What of shelter, if the heavens opened their floodgates again? Such a journey would make his and the magistrate’s muddy trek from Shawcombe’s tavern seem an afternoon’s idyll.

  But evidently others had made the journey and survived, and from much greater distances than two hundred miles. May was an elderly woman, and she had no qualms about going. Then again, it was her last hope of freedom.

  Her last hope.

  Matthew turned away from the window, walked to the basin of water atop his dresser, and liberally splashed his face. He wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking, but—whatever it may have been—it was the most illogical, insane thought he’d ever had. He was surely no outdoorsman or leatherstocking, and also he was proud to be a British subject. So he might dismiss from his mind all traces of such errant and unwise consideration.