Speaks the Nightbird

by Robert R. McCammon

  The breeze stirred dust from Harmony Street, and whirled that dust into the cemetery where it had been sworn a dark figure was seen walking amid the markers, counting numbers on an abacus. The breeze whispered along Truth Street, past the accursed gaol and that house—that witch’s house—from which sounds of infernal merriment and the scuttling of demons’ claws could be heard, if one dared approach too closely.

  Yes, it all was very clear now to the citizens, who had responded to this clarity of vision by fleeing for their lives. Seth Hazelton’s house lay empty, the stalls of his barn bare, his forge cold. The hearth at the abandoned Vaughan house still held the perfume of baked bread, but the only movement in that forsaken domicile was the agitation of the wasps. At the infirmary, bags and boxes had been packed in preparation for departure, the glass vials and bottles nestled in cotton and waiting for…

  Just waiting.

  They were almost all gone. A few stalwarts remained, either out of loyalty to Robert Bidwell, or because their wagons had to be repaired before a trip could be undertaken, or because—the rarest cases—they had nowhere else to go and continued to delude themselves that all would be well. Exodus Jerusalem remained in his camp, a fighter to the end, and though the audience at his nightly preachings had dwindled he continued to assail Satan for the appreciation of his flock. Also, he had made the acquaintance of a certain widow woman who had not the benefit of male protection, and so after his feverish sermons were done he protected her at close quarters with his mighty sword.

  But lanterns still glowed in the mansion, and light sparkled off four lifted wineglasses.

  “To Fount Royal,” Bidwell said. “What it was, I mean. And what it might have been.” The toast was drunk without comment by Winston, Johnstone, and Shields. They stood in the parlor, in preparation to go into the dining room for the light dinner to which Bidwell had invited them.

  “I deeply regret it’s turned out this way, Robert,” Shields said. “I know you—”

  “Hush.” Bidwell lifted the palm of his free hand. “We’ll have no tears this evening. I have travelled my road of grief, and wish to go on to the next destination.”

  “What, then?” Johnstone asked. “You’re going back to England?”

  “Yes, I am. In a matter of weeks, after some business is finished. That’s why Edward and I went to Charles Town on Tuesday, to prepare for our passage.” He drank another sip of his wine and looked about the room. “My God, how shall I ever salvage such a folly as this? I must have been mad, to have dumped so much money into this swamp!”

  “I myself must throw in my cards,” Johnstone said, his face downcast. “There’s no point in my staying any longer. I should say in the next week.”

  “You did a fine job, Alan,” Shields offered. “Fount Royal was graced by your ideas and education.”

  “I did what I could, and thank you for your appreciation. As for you, Ben…what are your plans?”

  Shields drank down his wine and walked to the decanter to refill his glass. “I will leave…when my patient departs. Until then, I will do my damnedest to make him comfortable, for that’s the very least I can do.”

  “I fear at this point, doctor, it’s the most you can do,” Winston said.

  “Yes, you’re right.” Shields took down half the fresh glass at a swallow. “The magistrate…hangs on from day to day by his fingernails. I should say he hangs on from hour to hour.” Shields lifted his spectacles and scratched his nose. “I’ve done everything I could. I thought the potion was going to work…and it did work, for a while. But his body wouldn’t accept it, and it virtually collapsed. Therefore: the question is not if he will pass, but when.” He sighed, his face strained and his eyes bloodshot. “But he is comfortable now, at least, and he’s breathing well.”

  “And still he’s not aware?” Winston asked.

  “No. He still believes Witch Howarth burned on Monday morning, and he believes his clerk looks in on him from time to time, simply because that’s what I tell him. As his mind is quite feeble, he has no recollection of the passage of days, nor of the fact that his clerk is not in the house.”

  “You don’t intend on telling him the truth, then?” Johnstone leaned on his cane. “Isn’t that rather cruel?”

  “We decided…I decided…that it would be supremely cruel to tell him what has actually happened,” Bidwell explained. “There’s no need in rubbing his face in the fact that his clerk was bewitched and threw in his lot with the Devil. To tell Isaac that the witch did not burn…well, there’s just no point to it.”

  “I agree,” Winston said. “The man should be allowed to die with peace of mind.”

  “I can’t understand how that young man could have bested Green!” Johnstone swirled the wine around his glass and then finished it. “He must have been either very lucky or very desperate.”

  “Or possessed supernatural strength, or had the witch curse Green to sap the man’s power,” Bidwell said. “That’s what I think.”

  “Pardon me, gentlemen.” Mrs. Nettles had come. “Dinner’s a’table.”

  “Ah, yes. Good. We’ll be there directly, Mrs. Nettles.” Bidwell waited for the woman to withdraw, and then he said quietly to the others, “I have a problem. Something of the utmost importance that I need to discuss with all of you.”

  “What is it?” Shields asked, frowning. “You sound not yourself.”

  “I am not myself,” Bidwell answered. “As a matter of fact…since we returned from Charles Town and I have taken stock of my impending failure, I am changed in a way I would never have thought possible. In fact, that is what I need to discuss with all of you. Come, let’s go into the library where voices don’t carry as freely.” He picked up a lamp and led the way.

  Two candles were already burning in the library, shedding plenty of light, and four chairs had been arranged in a semicircle. Winston followed Bidwell in, then the doctor entered, and lastly Johnstone limped through the doorway.

  “What’s this, Robert?” Johnstone asked. “You make it sound so secretive.”

  “Please, sit down. All of you.” When his guests were seated, Bidwell put his lantern on the sill of the open window and settled himself in his chair. “Now,” he said gravely. “This problem that I grapple with…has to do with…”

  “Questions and answers,” came a voice from the library’s entrance. Instantly Dr. Shields and Johnstone turned their heads toward the door.

  “The asking of the former, and the finding of the latter,” Matthew said, as he continued into the room. “And thank you, sir, for delivering the cue.”

  “My God!” Shields shot to his feet, his eyes wide behind his spectacles. “What are you doing here?”

  “Actually, I’ve been occupying my room for the afternoon.” Matthew walked to a position so that he might face all the men, his back to the wall. He wore a pair of dark blue breeches and a fresh white shirt. Mrs. Nettles had cut the left sleeve away from the clay dressing. He didn’t tell them that when he’d shaved and been forced to regard his bruise-blotched face and the clay plaster on his forehead, he’d been cured of unnecessary glances in a mirror for some time to come.

  “Robert?” Johnstone’s voice was calm. He gripped the shaft of his cane with both hands. “What trickery is this?”

  “It’s not a trick, Alan. Simply a preparation in which Edward and I assisted.”

  “A preparation? For what, pray tell?”

  “For this moment, sir,” Matthew said, his face betraying no emotion. “I arrived back here—with Rachel—around two o’clock. We entered through the swamp, and as I was…um…deficient in clothing and did not wish to be seen by anyone, I asked John Goode to make my presence known to Mr. Bidwell. He did so, with admirable discretion. Then I asked Mr. Bidwell to gather you all together this evening.”

  “I’m lost!” Shields said, but he sat down again. “You mean to say you brought the witch back here? Where is she?”

  “The woman is currently in Mrs. Nettles’s quarter
s,” Bidwell offered. “Probably eating her dinner.”

  “But…but…” Shields shook his head. “She’s a witch, by God! It was proven so!”

  “Ah, proof.” Now Matthew smiled slightly. “Yes, doctor, proof is at the crux of things, is it not?”

  “It certainly is! And what you’ve proven to me is that you’re not only bewitched, but a bewitched fool! And for the sake of God, what’s happened to you? Did you fight with a demon to gain the witch’s favors?”

  “Yes, doctor, and I slayed it. Now: if it is proof you require, I shall be glad to satisfy your thirst.” Matthew, for the fourth or fifth time, found himself absentmindedly scratching at the clay plaster that covered his broken ribs beneath the shirt. He had a small touch of fever and was sweating, but the Indian physician—through Nawpawpay—had this morning announced him fit to travel. Demon Slayer hadn’t had to walk the distance, however; except for the last two miles, he’d been carried by his and Rachel’s Indian guides on a ladder-like conveyance with a dais at its center. It had been quite the way to travel.

  “It seems to me,” Matthew said, “that we have all—being learned and God-fearing men—come to the conclusion that a witch cannot speak the Lord’s Prayer. I would venture that a warlock could neither speak it. Therefore: Mr. Winston, would you please speak the Lord’s Prayer?”

  Winston drew a long breath. He said, “Of course. Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done…”

  Matthew waited, staring into Winston’s face, as the man perfectly recited the prayer. At the “Amen,” Matthew said, “Thank you,” and turned his attention to Bidwell.

  “Sir, would you also please speak the Lord’s Prayer?”

  “Me?” Instantly some of the old accustomed indignation flared in Bidwell’s eyes. “Why should I have to speak it?”

  “Because,” Matthew said, “I’m telling you to.”

  “Telling me?” Bidwell made a flatulent noise with his lips. “I won’t speak such a personal thing just because someone orders me to!”

  “Mr. Bidwell?” Matthew had clenched his teeth. This man, even as an ally, was insufferable! “It is necessary.”

  “I agreed to this meeting, but I didn’t agree to recite such a powerful prayer to my God on demand, as if it were lines from a maskers’ play! No, I shall not speak it! And I’m not a warlock for it, either!”

  “Well, it appears you and Rachel Howarth share stubborn natures, does it not?” Matthew raised his eyebrows, but Bidwell didn’t respond further. “We shall return to you, then.”

  “You may return to me a hundred times, and it won’t matter!”

  “Dr. Shields?” Matthew said. “Would you please cooperate with me in this matter, as one of us refuses to do, and speak the Lord’s Prayer?”

  “Well…yes…I don’t understand the point, but…all right.” Shields ran the back of his hand across his mouth. During Winston’s recitation he’d finished the rest of his drink, and now he looked into the empty glass and said, “I have no more wine. Might I get a fresh glass?”

  “After the prayer is spoken. Would you proceed?”

  “Yes. All right.” The doctor blinked, his eyes appearing somewhat glazed in the ruddy candlelight. “All right,” he said again. Then: “Our Father…who art in heaven…hallowed be Thy name; Thy kingdom come; Thy…will be done…on earth as it is…is in heaven.” He stopped, pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his sand-colored jacket and blotted moisture from his face. “I’m sorry. It is warm in here. My wine…I do need a cooling drink.”

  “Dr. Shields?” Matthew said quietly. “Please continue.”

  “I’ve spoken enough of it, haven’t I? What madness is this?”

  “Why can you not finish the prayer, doctor?”

  “I can finish it! By Christ, I can!” Shields lifted his chin defiantly, but Matthew saw that his eyes were terrified. “Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our…forgive us our trespasses…as we forgive those who…who trespass…trespass…” He pressed his hand to his lips and now he appeared to be distraught, even near weeping. He made a muffled sound that might have been a moan.

  “What is it, Ben?” Bidwell asked in alarm. “For God’s sake, tell us!” Dr. Shields lowered his head, removed his glasses, and wiped his damp forehead with the handkerchief. “Yes,” he answered in a frail voice. “Yes. I should tell it…for the sake of God.”

  “Shall I fetch you some water?” Winston offered, standing up.

  “No.” Shields waved him down again. “I…should…tell it, while I am able.”

  “Tell what, Ben?” Bidwell glanced up at Matthew, who had an idea what was about to be revealed. “Ben?” Bidwell prompted. “Tell what?”

  “That…it was I…who murdered Nicholas Paine.”

  Silence fell. Bidwell’s jaw might have been as heavy as an anvil.

  “I murdered him,” the doctor went on, his head lowered. He dabbed at his forehead, cheeks, and eyes with small, birdlike movements. “Executed him, I should say.” He shook his head slowly back and forth. “No. That is a pallid excuse. I murdered him, and I deserve to answer to the law for it…because I can no longer answer to myself or God. And He asks me about it. Every day and night, He does. He whispers…Ben…now that it’s done…at long last, now that it’s done…and you have committed with your own hands the act that you most detest in this world…the act that makes men into beasts…how shall you go on living as a healer?”

  “Have you…lost your mind?” Bidwell thought his friend was suffering a mental breakdown right before his eyes. “What are you saying?”

  Shields lifted his face. His eyes were swollen and red, his mouth slack. Saliva had gathered in the corners. “Nicholas Paine was the highwayman who killed my elder son. Shot him…during a robbery on the Philadelphia Post Road, just outside Boston eight years ago. My boy lived long enough to describe the man…and also to say that he’d drawn a pistol and shot the highwayman through the calf of his leg.” Shields gave a bitter, ghastly smile. “It was I who told him never to travel that road without a prepared pistol near at hand. In fact…it was my birthday gift to him. My boy was shot in the stomach, and…there was nothing to be done. But I…I went mad, I think. For a very long time.” He picked up the wineglass, forgetting it was empty, and started to tip it to his mouth before he realized the futility of it.

  Shields drew a long, shuddering breath and released it. All eyes were on him. “Robert…you know what the officers in these colonies are like. Slow. Untrained. Stupid. I knew the man might lose himself, and I would never have the satisfaction…of doing to his father what he had done to me. So I set out. First…to find a doctor who might have treated him. It took a search through every rumhole and whorehouse in Boston…but I eventually found the doctor. The so-called doctor, a drunken slug who tended to the whores. He knew the man, and where he lived. He had also…recently buried the man’s wife and baby daughter, the first who’d died of fits, and the second who’d perished soon after.”

  Shields again wiped his face with the handkerchief, his hand trembling. “I had no pity for Nicholas Paine. None. I simply…wanted to extinguish him, as he had extinguished something in my soul. So I began to track him. From place to place. Village to town to city, and back again. Always close, but never finding. Until I learned he had traded horses in Charles Town and had told the stable master his destination. And it took me eight years.” He looked into Bidwell’s eyes. “Do you know what I realized, the very hour after I killed him?”

  Bidwell didn’t reply. He couldn’t speak.

  “I realized…I had also killed myself, eight years ago. I had given up my practise, I had turned my back on my wife and my other son…who both needed me, then more than ever. I had forsaken them, to kill a man who in many ways was also already dead. And now that it was done…I felt no pride in it. No pride in anything anymore. But he was dead. He was bled like my heart had bled. And the most terrible thing…the most terrible, Robert…was th
at I think…Nicholas was not the same man who had pulled that trigger. I wanted him to be a coldhearted killer…but he was not that man at all. But me…I was the same man I had always been. Only much, much worse.”

  The doctor closed his eyes and let his head roll back. “I am prepared to pay my debt,” he said softly. “Whatever it may be. I am used up, Robert. All used up.”

  “I disagree, sir,” Matthew said. “Your use is clear: to comfort Magistrate Woodward in these final hours.” It hurt him like a dagger to the throat to speak such, but it was true. The magistrate’s health had collapsed the very morning of Matthew’s departure, and it was terribly clear that the end would be soon. “I’m sure we all appreciate your candor, and your feelings, but your duty as a doctor stands first before your obligation to the law, whatever Mr. Bidwell—as the mayor of this town—decides it to be.”

  “What?” Bidwell, who had paled during this confession, now appeared shocked. “You’re leaving it up to me?”

  “I’m not a judge, sir. I am—as you have reminded me so often and with such hot pepper—only a clerk.”

  “Well,” Bidwell breathed, “I’ll be damned.”

  “Damnation and salvation are brothers separated only by direction of travel,” Matthew said. “When the time is right, I’m sure you’ll know the proper road upon which to progress. Now: if we may continue?” He directed his attention to the schoolmaster. “Mr. Johnstone, would you please speak the Lord’s Prayer?”

  Johnstone stared intently at him. “May I ask what the purpose of this is, Matthew? Is it to suggest that one of us is a warlock, and that by failing to utter the prayer he is exposed as such?”

  “You are on the right track, yes, sir.”

  “That is absolutely ridiculous! Well, if you go by that faulty reasoning, Robert has already exposed himself!”

  “I said I would go back to Mr. Bidwell, and offer him a chance at redemption. I am currently asking you to speak the prayer.”

  Johnstone gave a harsh, scoffing laugh. “Matthew, you know better than this! What kind of game are you playing?”