Speaks the Nightbird

by Robert R. McCammon

  The light came from small flames burning in clay bowls that held pools of oil, set in a circle. Facing this circle, a man sat cross-legged on a dais supported by wooden poles about three feet off the ground, and cushioned by various animal skins.

  It was the sight of this man that made Matthew stop in his tracks. His mouth opened and his teeth might have fallen out, so great was his shock.

  The man—who obviously was the village’s chief, governor, lord, or however the savages termed him—wore a buckskin loincloth that barely covered his genitalia. That, however, was by now a commonplace. What so shocked Matthew was that the chief had a long, white, tightly curled judicial wig on his head, and his chest was covered by…

  I’m dreaming! Matthew thought. I have to be insensible to imagine this!

  …Magistrate Woodward’s gold-striped waistcoat.

  “Pata ne.” The doctor motioned Matthew and Rachel into the circle, and then made gestures for them to sit. “Oha! Oha!”

  Rachel obeyed. When Matthew started to lower himself, pain stabbed his ribs and he clutched at the clay bandage, his face tightening.

  “Uh!” the chief spoke. He had the long-jawed, narrow face and wore circular blue tattoos on both cheeks, more tattoos trailing down his arms, like blue vines, and covering his hands. The tips of his fingers were dyed red. “Se na oha! Pah ke ne su na oha sau-papa!” His commanding voice instantly stirred the doctor to action, namely that of grasping Matthew’s right arm and pulling him up straight. When Rachel saw, she thought the chief wanted her to rise as well, but as she began to stand she was pushed down again—rather firmly—by the doctor.

  The chief stood up on his dais. His legs were tattooed from the knees to the bare feet. He put his hands on his hips, his deep-set black eyes fixed on Matthew, and his expression serious as demanded his position of authority. “Te te weya,” he said. The doctor retreated, walking backward, and left the hut. The next words were directed at Matthew: “Urn ta ka pa pe ne?”

  Matthew simply shook his head. He saw that the chief wore Woodward’s prized waistcoat unbuttoned, and more tattoos adorned his chest. Though age was difficult to estimate among these foreign people, Matthew thought the chief was a young man, possibly only five or six years older than himself.

  “Oum?” the chief asked, frowning. “Ka taynay calmet?”

  Again, Matthew could only shake his head.

  The chief looked down at the ground for a moment, and crossed his arms over his chest. He sighed and seemed lost in thought; deliberating, Matthew feared, how best to murder his captives.

  Then the chief lifted his gaze again and said, “Quel chapeau portez-vous?”

  Matthew now almost fell down. The Indian had spoken French. A bizarre question, yes, but French all the same. The question had been: “What hat do you wear?”

  Matthew had to steady himself. That this tattooed savage could speak a classic European language boggled the mind. It was such a jolt that Matthew even forgot for a few seconds that he was standing there totally naked. He replied, “Je ne porte pas de chapeau.” Meaning “I don’t wear a hat.”

  “Ah ah!” The chief offered a genuine smile that served to further light and warm the chamber. He clapped his hands together, as if equally amazed and delighted at Matthew’s understanding of the language. “Tous les hommes portent des chapeaux. Mon chapeau est Nawpawpay. Quel chapeau portez-vous?”

  Matthew now understood. The chief had said, “All men wear hats. My hat is Nawpawpay. What hat do you wear?”

  “Oh,” Matthew said, nodding. “Mon chapeau est Mathieu.”

  “Mathieu,” Nawpawpay repeated, as if testing its weight on his tongue. “Mathieu…Matthew,” he said, still speaking French. “That is a strange hat.”

  “Possibly it is, but it’s the hat I was given at birth.”

  “Ah! But you’ve been reborn now, and so you must be given a new hat. I myself will give it to you: Demon Slayer.”

  “Demon Slayer? I don’t understand.” He glanced down at Rachel, who—not having a grasp of French—was totally confounded at what they were saying.

  “Did you not slay the demon that almost took your life? The demon that has roamed this land for…oh…only the dead souls know, my father among them. I can’t say how many brothers and sisters have passed away by those claws and fangs. But we tried to slay that beast. Yes, we tried.” He nodded, his expression grave again. “And when we tried, the demon worked its evil on us. For every arrow that was shot into its body, it delivered ten curses. Our male infants died, our crops withered, the fishing was poor, and our seers had dreams of the end of time. So we stopped trying, for our own lives. Then everything got better, but the beast was always hungry. You see? None of us could slay it. The forest demons look after their own kind.”

  “But the beast still lives,” Matthew said.

  “No! I was told how the hunters saw you travelling, and followed you. Then the beast struck! I was told how it attacked you, and how you stood before it and gave a mighty war cry. That must have been a sight to see! They said it was hurt. I sent some men. They found it, dead in its den.”

  “Oh, I see. But…it was old and tired. I think it was already dying.”

  Nawpawpay shrugged. “That may be so, Matthew, but who struck the last blow? They found your knife, still under here.” He pressed beneath his own chin with a forefinger. “Ah, if it’s the forest demons that concern you, you may rest knowing they only haunt our kind. Your kind frightens them.”

  “Of that I have no doubt,” Matthew said.

  Rachel could stand it no longer. “Matthew! What’s he saying?”

  “They found the bear dead and they believe I killed it. He’s given me a new name: Demon Slayer.”

  “Is it French you’re speaking?”

  “Yes, it is. I have no idea how—”

  “An interruption, my pardon,” Nawpawpay said. “How is it you come to know King LaPierre’s tongue?”

  Matthew shifted his thinking from English back to French once more. “King LaPierre?”

  “Yes, from the kingdom of Franz Europay. Are you a member of his tribe?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “But you’ve had some word from him?” It was said with eagerness. “When will he return to this land?”

  “Um…well…I’m not certain,” Matthew said. “When was he last here?”

  “Oh, during my grandfather’s father’s time. He left his tongue with my family, as he said it was the tongue of kings. Do I speak it well?”

  “Yes, very well.”

  “Ah!” Nawpawpay beamed like a little boy. “I do recite it, so as not to lose its taste. King LaPierre showed us sticks that shot fire, and he caught our faces in a pouch pond. And…he had a little moon that sang. All these are carved down on the tablet.”

  He frowned, perplexed. “I do wish he would return, so I might see those wonders as my grandfather’s father did. I feel I’m missing something. You’re not of his family? Then how do you speak the king’s tongue?”

  “I learned it from a member of King LaPierre’s tribe,” Matthew decided to say.

  “I see now! Someday…someday…” He lifted a finger for emphasis. “I shall go over the water in a cloudboat to Franz Europay. I shall walk in that village and see for myself the hut of King LaPierre. It must be a grand place, with a hundred pigs!”

  “Matthew!” Rachel said, about to go mad from this conversation of which she could not partake. “What is he saying?”

  “Your woman, sad to say, is not civilized like you and I,” Nawpawpay ventured. “She speaks mud words like that white fish we caught.”

  “White fish?” Matthew asked. He motioned for Rachel to remain quiet. “What white fish?”

  “Oh, he’s nothing. Less than nothing, for he’s a murderer and thief. The least civilized beast I have ever had the misfortune to look upon. Now: can you tell me anything more of the village of Franz Europay?”

  “I’ll tell you everything I know of that place,” Ma
tthew answered, “if you’ll tell me about the white fish. Did you…find your present clothing…and your headdress, at his hut?”

  “These? Yes. Are they not wonderful?” He spread his arms wide, grinning, so as to better display the gold-striped waistcoat.

  “May I ask what else you found there?”

  “Other things. They must have some use, but I just like to look at them. And…of course…I found my woman.”

  “Your woman?”

  “Yes, my bride. My princess.” His grin now threatened to slice his face in two. “The silent and lovely one. Oh, she shall share all my treasures and give me a hut full of sons! First, though, I’ll have to make her fat.”

  “And what of the white fish? Where is he?”

  “Not far. There were two other fish—old ones—but they have gone.”

  “Gone? To where?”

  “Everywhere,” Nawpawpay said, spreading his arms wide again. “The wind, the earth, the trees, the sky. You know.”

  Matthew feared that he did know. “But you say the white fish is still here?”

  “Yes, still here.” Nawpawpay scratched his chin. “You have a nature full of questions, don’t you?”

  “It’s just that…I might know him.”

  “Only uncivilized beasts and dung buzzards know him. He is unclean.”

  “Yes, I agree, but…why do you say he’s a murderer and thief?”

  “Because he is what he is!” Like a child, Nawpawpay put his hands behind himself and began to bounce up and down on his toes. “He murdered one of my people and stole a courage sun. Another of my people saw it happen. We took him. Took them all. They were all guilty. All except my princess. She is innocent. Do you know how I know that? Because she was the only one who came willingly.”

  “A courage sun?” Matthew realized he must mean the gold coin. “What is that?”

  “That which the water spirit gives.” His bouncing ceased. “Go visit the white fish, if you like. See if you know him, and ask him to tell you what crimes he’s committed.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “This direction.” Nawpawpay pointed to Matthew’s left. “The hut that stands nearest the woodpile. You will know it.”

  “What’s he pointing to, Matthew?” Rachel asked. “Does he want us to go somewhere?” She started to stand.

  “Ah, no no!” Nawpawpay said quickly. “A woman doesn’t stand before me in this place.”

  “Rachel, please stay where you are.” Matthew rested his hand on her shoulder. “Evidently it’s the chief’s rule.” Then, to Nawpawpay, “Might she go with me to see the white fish?”

  “No. That hut is not a woman’s territory. You go and come back.”

  “I’m going to go somewhere for a short time,” he told her. “You’ll need to stay here. All right?”

  “Where are you going?” She grasped his hand.

  “There’s another white captive here, and I want to see him. It won’t take long.”

  He squeezed her hand and gave her a tight but reassuring smile. Rachel nodded and reluctantly let go.

  “Oh…one other thing,” Matthew said to Nawpawpay. “Might I have some clothing?”

  “Why? Are you cold on such a hot day as this?”

  “Not cold. But there is a little too much air here for my comfort.” He gestured toward his exposed penis and testicles.

  “Ah, I see! Very well, I shall give you a gift.” Nawpawpay stepped out of his own loincloth and offered it.

  Matthew got the thing on with a delicate balancing act, since he was able only to use one arm. “I’ll return presently,” he told Rachel. Then he retreated from the hut, out into the bright sun.

  The hut and the woodpile were not fifty paces from the chief’s abode. A small band of chattering, giggling children clung to his shadow as he walked, and two of them ran round and round him as if to mock his slow, pained progress. When he neared the hut, however, they saw his destination, fell back, and ran away.

  Nawpawpay had been correct, in saying that Matthew would know the place.

  Blood had been painted on the outside walls, in strange patterns that a Christian would say was evidence of the Indians’ satanic nature. Flies feasted on the gore paintings and buzzed about the entrance, which was covered with a black bearskin.

  Matthew stood outside for a moment, steeling himself. This looked very bad indeed. With a trembling hand, he pulled aside the bearskin. Bitter blue smoke drifted into his face. There was only a weak red illumination within, perhaps the red embers of a past fire still glowing.

  “Shawcombe?” Matthew called. There was no answer. “Shawcombe, can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  Matthew could make out only vague shapes through the smoke. “Shawcombe?” he tried again, but in the silence that followed he knew he was going to have to cross the dreadful threshold.

  He took a breath of the sulphuric air and entered. The bearskin closed behind him. He stood where he was for a moment, waiting for his eyes to grow used to such darkness again. The awful, suffocating heat coaxed beads of sweat from his pores. To his right he could make out a large clay pot full of seething coals from which the light and smoke emitted.

  Something moved—a slow, slow shifting—there on his left.

  “Shawcombe?” Matthew said, his eyes burning. He moved toward the left, as currents of smoke undulated before him.

  Presently, with some straining of the vision, he could make out an object. It looked like a raw and bloody side of beef that had been strung up to dry, and in fact was hanging from cords that were supported further up in the rafters.

  Matthew neared it, his heart slamming.

  Whatever hung there, it was just a slab of flayed meat with neither arms nor legs. Matthew stopped, tendrils of smoke drifting past his face. He couldn’t bear to go any further, because he knew.

  Perhaps he made a sound. A moan, a gasp…something. But—as slowly as the tortures of the inner circle of Hell—the scalped and blood-caked head on that slab of meat moved. It lolled to one side, and then the chin lifted.

  His eyes were there, bulging from their sockets in that hideously swollen, black-bruised, and black-bloodied face. He had no eyelids. His nose had been cleaved off, as had been his lips and ears. A thousand tiny cuts had been administered to the battered torso, the genitals had been burned away and the wound cauterized to leave a glistening ebony crust. Likewise sealed with terrible fire were the hacked-off stumps of arms and legs. The cords had been tied and knotted around those gruesomely axed ruins.

  If there was a description for the utter horror that wracked Matthew, it was known only by the most profane demon and the most sacred angel.

  The motion of that lifted chin was enough to cause the torso to swing slightly on its cords. Matthew heard the ropes squeak up in the rafters, like the rats that had plagued Shawcombe’s tavern.

  Back and forth, and back and forth.

  The lipless mouth stretched open. They had spared his tongue, so that he might cry for mercy with every knife slash, hatchet blow, and kiss of flame.

  He spoke, in a dry rattling whisper that was almost beyond all endurance to hear. “Papa?” The word was as mangled as his mouth. “Wasn’t me killed the kitten, was Jamey done it.” His chest shuddered and a wrenching sob came out. The bulging eyes stared at nothing. His was the small, crushed whine of a terrified child: “Papa please…don’t hurt me no more…”

  The brutalized bully began to weep.

  Matthew turned—his eyes seared by smoke and sight—and fled lest his own mind be broken like Lucretia Vaughan’s pie dish.

  He got outside, was further blinded and disoriented by the glare. He staggered, was aware of more naked children ringing him, jumping and chattering, their grins joyful even as they danced in the shadow of the torture hut. Matthew nearly fell in his attempts to get away, and his herky-jerky flailing to retain his balance made the children scream with laughter, as if they thought he was joining in their dance. Cold sweat clung
to his face, his insides heaved, and he had to bend over and throw up on the ground, which made the children laugh and leap with new energy.

  He staggered on, the pack of little revelers now joined by a brown dog with one ear. A fog had descended over him, and he knew not if he was going in the right direction amid the huts. His progress attracted some older residents who put aside their seed-gathering and basket-weaving to accompany the merry throng, as if he were some potentate or nobleman whose fame rivalled the very sun. The laughter and hollering swelled as did the numbers of his followers, which only served to heighten Matthew’s terror. Dogs barked at his heels and children darted underfoot. His ribs were killing him, but what was pain? In his dazed stupor he realized he had never known pain, not an ounce of it, compared to what Shawcombe had suffered. Beyond the grinning brown faces he saw sunlight glitter, and suddenly there was water before him and he fell to his knees to plunge his face into it, mindless of the agony that seized his bones.

  He drank like an animal and trembled like an animal. A fit of strangulation struck him and he coughed violently, water bursting from his nostrils. Then he sat back on his haunches, his face dripping, as behind him the throng continued its jubilations.

  He sat on the bank of a pond. It was half the size of Fount Royal’s spring, but its water was equally blue. Matthew saw two women nearby, both filling animal-skin bags. The sunlight glittered golden off the pond’s surface, putting him in mind of the day he’d seen the sun shine with equal color on Bidwell’s fount.

  He cupped his hand into the water and pressed it to his face, letting it stream down over his throat and chest. His mind’s fever was cooling and his vision had cleared.

  The Indian village, he’d realized, was a mirror image of Fount Royal. Just like Bidwell’s creation, the village had probably settled here—who could say how long ago—to be so near a water supply.