Speaks the Nightbird mc-1

by Robert R. McCammon

  Tell them to free my Rachel, the Devil had said. That single statement, coupled with the poppets, was powerful enough to burn her even if there had been no other witnesses.

  "I assume," Matthew said, his own voice somewhat diminished, "that the schoolmaster has heard this story?"

  "He has. I told him myself the very next mornin'," Adams said.

  "And he remembers asking Violet to stay late that afternoon?"

  "He does."

  "Well, then." Matthew licked his dry lips and resisted turning his head to look at Rachel. He could think of nothing more to say but the same again: "Well, then."

  "You are very courageous," Woodward offered the child. "Very courageous, to come in here and tell us this. My compliments and gratitude." Though in pain, he summoned up a smile albeit a tight one. "You may go home now."

  "Yes sir, thank you sir." Violet bowed her head and gave the magistrate a clumsy but well-meant curtsey. Before she left the cell, though, she glanced uneasily at the prisoner, who still sat backwards upon the bench. "She won't hurt me, will she?"

  "No," Woodward said. "God will protect you."

  "Well. . . sir, there's somethin' else I have to tell."

  Matthew roused himself from his dismayed stupor. "What is it?"

  "The Devil and that imp . . . they wasn't alone in the house."

  "You saw another creature, then?"

  "No sir." She hesitated, hugging her Bible. "I heared a man's voice. Singin'."

  "Singing?" Matthew frowned. "But you saw no other creature?"

  "No sir, I didn't. The singin' ... it was comin' from back of the house, seemed like. Another room, back there in the dark. I heared it just 'fore the candle went out."

  "It was a man's voice, you say?" Matthew had put his quill aside. Now he picked it up again and began to record the testimony once more. "Loud or soft?"

  "Soft. I could just hardly hear it. But it was a man's voice, yes sir."

  "Had you ever heard that voice before?"

  "I don't know, sir. I'm not sure if I had or hadn't."

  Matthew rubbed his chin and inadvertently smeared black ink across it. "Could you make out anything of the song?"

  "Well. . . sometimes I feel I'm near 'bout to know what song it is, that maybe I heared it before . . . but then it goes away. Sometimes it makes my head hurt thinkin' of it." She looked from Matthew to the magistrate and back again. "It's not the Devil cursin' me, is it, sir?"

  "No, I think not." He stared at the lines on the paper, his mind working. If there was a third demonic creature in that house, why didn't it show itself to the child? After all, the idea had been to scare an alarm into her, hadn't it? What was the point of a demon singing in the dark, if the song and the voice were not loud enough to be fearful? "Violet, this may be difficult for you," he said, "but might you try to remember what the voice was singing?"

  "What does it matter?" Adams had held his peace long enough. "She done told you 'bout the Devil and the imp!"

  "My own curiosity, Mr. Adams," Matthew explained. "And it seems to me that the memory of this voice troubles your daughter, or she would not have brought it to light. Don't you agree?"

  "Well..." The man made a sour face. "Mayhaps I do."

  "Is there anything further?" Matthew asked the girl, and she shook her head. "All right, then. The court thanks you for your testimony." Violet and her father withdrew from the cell. Just before they left the gaol, the child looked back fearfully at Rachel, who was sitting slumped over with a hand pressed to her forehead.

  When the two were gone, Woodward began to wrap the poppets back up in the white cloth. "I presume," he whispered, "that all other witnesses have fled town. Therefore . . ." He paused to try to clear his throat, which was a difficult and torturous task. "Therefore our trial is ended."

  "Wait!" Rachel stood up. "What about my say? Don't I get a chance to speak?"

  Woodward regarded her coldly. "It is her right, sir," Matthew reminded him.

  The magistrate continued wrapping the poppets. "Yes, yes," he said. "Of course it is. Go on, then.

  "You've made your decision, have you not?" She came to the bars and gripped them.

  "No. I shall first read over the transcript, when I am able."

  "But that's only a formality, isn't it? What can I possibly say to convince you I am not guilty of these lies?"

  "Bear in mind," Matthew said to her, "that the witnesses did swear on the Bible. I would be wary in calling them liars. However ..." He paused.

  "However what?" Woodward rasped.

  "I think there are some omissions of detail in the testimonies of Mr. Buckner and Mr. Garrick that ought to be taken into account. For instance—"

  Woodward lifted a hand. "Spare me. I shall not discuss this today."

  "But you do agree, don't you, sir?"

  "I am going to bed." With the bundle tucked under his arm, Woodward pushed the chair back and stood up. His bones ached and his head grew dizzy, and he stood grasping the desk's edge until the dizziness abated.

  Instantly Matthew was on his feet too, alert to preventing the magistrate from falling. "Is someone coming to help you?"

  "I trust there's a carriage waiting."

  "Shall I go out and see?"

  "No. Mind you, you're still a prisoner." Woodward felt so drained of strength he had to close his eyes for a few seconds, his head bowed.

  "I demand my right to speak," Rachel insisted. "No matter if you have decided."

  "Speak, then." Woodward feared his throat was closing up again, and his nostrils seemed all but sealed.

  "It is a wicked conspiracy," she began, "to contend that I murdered anyone, or that I have made spells and poppets and committed such sins as I am accused of. Yes, I know the witnesses swore truth on the Bible. I can't understand why or how they could create such stories, but if you'll give me the Bible I'll swear truth on it too!"

  To Matthew's surprise, Woodward picked up the Holy Book, walked unsteadily to the bars, and passed the volume through into her hands.

  Rachel clasped it to her bosom. "I swear upon this Bible and every word in it that I have done no murders and I am not a witch!" Her eyes gleamed with a mixture of trepidation and triumph. "There! You see? Did I burst into flame? Did I scream because my hands were scorched? If you put such value on Bible-sworn truth, then will you not also value my denial?"

  "Madam," the magistrate whispered wearily, "do not further profane yourself. Your power to confuse is very strong, I grant you."

  "I am holding the Bible! I have just sworn on it! Would you have me kiss it?"

  "No. I would have you return it." He held out his hand. Matthew saw the bright fire of anger leap into Rachel's eyes, and for an instant he feared for the magistrate's safety. But then Rachel stepped back from the bars, opened the Holy Book, and began to methodically rip the parchment pages from it, her expression all but dead.

  "Rachel!" Matthew cried out, before he could think better of it. "Don't!"

  The torn pages of God's Writ drifted to the straw around her feet. She stared into the magistrate's eyes as she did her blasphemous damage, as if daring him to prevent her.

  Woodward held her gaze, a muscle clenching in his jaw. "Now," he whispered, "I see you clearly."

  She yanked out another page, let it fall, and then shoved the Bible between the bars. Woodward made no move to capture the mutilated Book, which dropped to the floor. "You see nothing," Rachel said, her voice trembling with emotion though her face was held under tight control. "Why did God not strike me dead just now?"

  "Because, madam, He has given me that task."

  "If I were truly a witch, God would never have allowed such an act!"

  "Only a vile sinner would have committed it," Woodward said, showing admirable composure. He leaned down and retrieved the volume, the back of which had been broken.

  Matthew said, "She's distraught, sir! She doesn't know what she's doing!"

  At that, Woodward turned toward his clerk and managed to s
ay heatedly, "She knows! Dear God, Matthew! Has she blinded you?"

  "No, sir. But I think this action should be excused on the grounds of extreme mental hardship."

  Woodward's mouth fell agape, his gray face slack. He seemed to feel the entire world wheel around him as he realized that, indeed, this woman had beguiled the very fear of God out of his clerk.

  The magistrate's shocked expression was not lost on Matthew. "Sir, she is under difficult circumstances. I hope you'll weigh that in your consideration of this incident."

  There was only one response Woodward could make to this plea. "Get your papers. You're leaving."

  Now it was Matthew's turn to be shocked. "But ... I have one more night on my sentence."

  "I'll pardon you! Come along!"

  Matthew saw that Rachel had moved back into the shadows of her cage. He was torn between the desire to rid himself of this dirty hovel and the realization that once he left the gaol he would most likely not see Rachel again until the morning of her death. There were still so many questions to be asked and answered! He couldn't let it go like this, or he feared he might be haunted for the rest of his days. "I'll stay here and finish my sentence," he said.

  "What?"

  "I'll stay here," Matthew repeated calmly. "One more night will be of no consequence."

  "You forget yourself!" Woodward felt near collapse. "I demand you obey!"

  Even though this demand had been delivered in such a frail voice, it still carried enough power to offend Matthew's sense of independence. "I am your servant," he answered, "but I am not your slave. I elect to stay here and finish my sentence. I will take my lashes in the morning, and that will be the end of it."

  "You've lost your reason!"

  "No, sir, I have not. My being pardoned would only cause further problems."

  Woodward started to argue the point, but neither his voice nor his spirit had the strength. He stood at the cell's threshold, holding the violated Bible and the bundled poppets. A glance at Rachel Howarth showed him that she'd retreated to the far wall of her cage, but he knew that as soon as he left she would begin to work her mind-corrupting spells on the boy again. This was like leaving a lamb to the teeth of a bitch wolf. He tried once more: "Matthew ... I beg you to come with me."

  "There's no need. I can stand one more night."

  "Yes, and fall for eternity," Woodward whispered. Woodward laid the Holy Book down atop the desk. Even so desecrated, the volume might serve as a shield if Matthew called upon it. That is, if Matthew's clouded vision would allow him to recognize its power. He damned himself for letting the boy be put in this place; he might have known the witch would leap at the opportunity to entrance Matthew's mind. It occurred to Woodward that the court records were in jeopardy as well. There was no telling what might befall them during this last night they'd be within the witch's reach. "I will take the papers," he said. "Box them, please."

  This was not an unreasonable request, as Matthew assumed the magistrate would want to begin his reading. He immediately obeyed.

  When it was done, Woodward put the box under one arm.

  There was nothing more he could do for Matthew except offer a prayer. He cast a baleful glare upon Rachel Howarth. "Beware your acts, madam. You're not yet in the fire."

  "Is there any doubt I shall be?" she asked.

  He ignored the question, turning his eyes toward Matthew. "Your lashing ..." It seemed his throat was doubly swollen now, and speaking took a maximum of effort. "... will be at six o'clock. I shall be here . . . early as possible. Be alert to her tricks, Matthew." Matthew nodded but offered no opinion on the validity of the statement.

  The magistrate walked out of the cell, leaving the door wide open. He steeled himself not to look back, as the sight of Matthew voluntarily caged and in mortal danger of witchcraft might tear his heart asunder.

  Outside the gaol, in the dim gray light and with a mist hanging in the air, Woodward was relieved to see that indeed Goode had brought the carriage for him. He pulled himself up into one of the passenger seats and set the bundled poppets at his side. As soon as Woodward was settled, Goode flicked the reins and the horses started off.

  Shortly after the magistrate had departed, Green came to the gaol to deliver the evening meal, which was corn soup. He locked Matthew's cell and said, "I trust you sleep well, boy. Tomorrow your hide belongs to me." Matthew didn't care for the way Green laughed; then the gaol-keeper removed the lantern, as was his nightly custom, and left the prisoners in darkness.

  Matthew sat on his bench and tipped the foodbowl to his mouth. He heard a rat squeaking in the wall behind him, but their numbers had dwindled dramatically in the wake of the ratcatcher's visit and they seemed not nearly so bold as before.

  Rachel's voice came from the dark. "Why did you stay?"

  He swallowed the soup that was in his mouth. "I intend to serve out my sentence."

  "I know that, but the magistrate offered you a pardon. Why didn't you take it?"

  "Magistrate Woodward is ill and confused right now."

  "That doesn't answer my question. You elected to stay. Why?"

  Matthew busied himself in eating. At last he said, "I have other questions to ask of you."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as where were you when your husband was murdered? And why is it that someone other than you found the body?"

  "I remember Daniel getting out of bed that night," Rachel said. "Or perhaps it was early morning. I don't know. But he often rose in the dark and by candlelight figured in his ledger. There was nothing odd in his rising. I simply turned over, pulled the blanket up, and went back to sleep as I always did."

  "Did you know that he'd gone outside?"

  "No, I didn't."

  "Was that usual also? That he should go out in the cold at such an early hour?"

  "He might go out to feed the livestock, depending on how near it was to sunrise."

  "You say your husband kept a ledger? Containing what?"

  "Daniel kept account of every shilling he had. Also how much money was invested in the farm, and how much was spent on day-to-day matters such as candles, soap, and the like."

  "Was money owed to him by anyone in town, or did he owe money?"

  "No," Rachel said. "Daniel prided himself that he was his own master."

  "Admirable, but quite unusual in these times." Matthew took another swallow of soup. "How did your husband's body come to be found?"

  "Jess Maynard found it. Him, I mean. Lying in the field, with his throat . . . you know." She paused. "The Maynards lived on the other side of us. Jess had come out to feed his chickens at first light when he saw . . . the crows circling. He came over and that's when he found Daniel."

  "Did you see the body?"

  Again, there was a hesitation. Then she said quietly. "I did."

  "I understand it was the throat wound that killed him, but were there not other wounds on his body? Bidwell described them, I recall, as claw or teeth marks to the face and arms."

  "Yes, there were those."

  "Forgive my indelicacy," Matthew said, "but is that how you would describe them? As teeth or claw marks?"

  "I . . . remember . . . how terrible was the wound to his throat. I did see what appeared to be claw marks on his face, but ... I didn't care at the moment to inspect them. The sight of my husband lying dead, his eyes and mouth open as they were ... I remember that I cried out and fell to my knees beside him. I don't recall much after that, except that Ellen Maynard took me to her house to rest."

  "Are the Maynards still living there?"

  "No. They moved away after ..." She gave a sigh of resignation. "After the stories about me began to fly."

  "And who began these stories? Do you know of any one person?"

  "I would be the last to know," Rachel said dryly.

  "Yes," Matthew agreed. "Of course. People being as they are, I'm sure the stories were spread about and more and more embellished. But tell me this: the accusations against you did not begin
until your husband was murdered, is that correct? You were not suspected in the murder of Reverend Grove?"

  "No, I was not. After I was brought here, Bidwell came in to see me. He said he had witnesses to my practise of witchcraft and that he knew I—or my 'master,' as he put it—was responsible for the calamities that had struck Fount Royal. He asked me why I had decided to consort with Satan, and what was my purpose in destroying the town. At that point he asked if I had murdered the reverend. Of course I thought he'd lost his mind. He said I was to cease all associations with demons and confess myself to be a witch, and that he would arrange for me to be immediately banished. The alternative, he said, was death."

  Matthew finished his soup and set the bowl aside. "Tell me," he said, "why you didn't agree to banishment. Your husband was dead, and you faced execution. Why didn't you leave?"

  "Because," she answered, "I am not guilty. Daniel bought our farm from Bidwell and we had both worked hard at making it a success. Why should I give it up, admit to killing two men and being a witch, and be sent out into the wilds with nothing? I would have surely died out there. Here, at least, I felt that when a magistrate arrived to hear the case I might have a chance." She was silent for a while, and then she said, "I never thought it would take so long. The magistrate was supposed to be here over a month ago. By the day you and Woodward arrived, I had suffered Bidwell's slings and arrows many times over. I had almost lost all hope. In fact, you both looked so . . . well, unofficial. . . that I at first thought Bidwell had brought in two hirelings to goad a confession out of me."

  "I understand," Matthew said. "But was there no effort to discover who had murdered the reverend?"

  "There was, as I recall, but after Lenora Grove left, the interest faded over time, as there were no suspects and no apparent motive. But the reverend's murder was the first incident that caused people to start leaving Fount Royal. It was a grim Winter."

  "I can imagine it was." Matthew listened to the increasing sound of rain on the roof. "A grim Spring, as well. I doubt if Fount Royal could survive another one as bad."

  "Probably not. But I won't be here to know, will I?"