Speaks the Nightbird mc-1

by Robert R. McCammon

Matthew didn't answer. What could he say? Rachel's voice was vety tight when she spoke again. "In your opinion, how long do I have to live?"

  She was asking to be told the truth. Matthew said, "The magistrate will read thoroughly over the records. He will deliberate, according to past witchcraft cases of which he has knowledge." Matthew folded his hands together in his lap. "He may give his decision as early as Wednesday. On Thursday he might ask for your confession, and on that day as well he might require me to write, date, and sign the order of sentencing. I expect . . .

  the preparations would be made on Friday. He would not wish to carry out the sentence on either the day before the Sabbath or the Sabbath itself. Therefore—"

  "Therefore I burn on Monday," Rachel finished for him.

  "Yes," Matthew said. A long silence stretched. Though he wished to ease her sorrow, Matthew knew of no consolation he could offer that would not sound blatantly foolish.

  "Well," she said at last, her voice carrying a mixture of courage and pain, and that was all.

  Matthew lay down in his accustomed place in the straw and folded himself up for warmth. Rain drummed harder on the roof. He listened to its muffled roar and thought how simple life had seemed when he was a child and all he had to fear was the pile of pig dung. Life was so complicated now, so filled with strange twists and turns like a road that wandered across a wilderness no man could completely tame, much less understand.

  He was deeply concerned for the magistrate's failing health. On the one hand, the sooner they got away from Fount Royal and returned to the city, the better; but on the other hand he was deeply concerned as well for the life of the woman in the next cell.

  And it was not simply because he did think her beautiful to look upon. Paine had been correct, of course. Rachel was indeed—as he had crudely put it—a "handsome piece." Matthew could understand how Paine—how any man, really—could be drawn to her. Rachel's intelligence and inner fire were also appealing to Matthew, as he'd never met a woman of such nature before. Or, at least, he'd never met a woman before who had allowed those characteristics of intelligence and fire to be seen in public. It was profoundly troubling to believe that just possibly Rachel's beauty and independent nature were two reasons she'd been singled out by public opinion as a witch. It seemed to him, in his observations, that if one could not catch and conquer an object of desire, it often served the same to destroy it.

  The question must be answered in his own mind: was she a witch or not? Before the testimony of Violet Adams, he would have said the so-called eyewitness accounts were fabrications or fantasies, even though both men had sworn on the Bible. But the child's testimony had been tight and convincing. Frighten-ingly convincing, in fact. This was not a situation where the child had gone to bed and awakened thinking that a dream had been reality; this had happened when she was wide awake, and her grasp of details seemed about right considering the stress of the moment. The child's testimony—especially concerning the black cloak, the six gold buttons, and the white-haired dwarf, or "imp," as she'd called it—gave further believability to what both Buckner and Garrick had seen. What, then, to make of it?

  And there were the poppets, of course. Yes, anyone might have made them and hidden them under the floorboards. But why would anyone have done so? And what to make of Cara Grunewald's "vision" telling the searchers where to look?

  Had Rachel indulged in witchcraft, or not? Had she murdered or wished the murders of Reverend Grove and her husband, the actual killings having been committed by some demonic creature summoned from the bullypit of Hell?

  Another thought came to him while he was on this awful track: if Rachel was a witch, might she or her terrible accomplices have worked a spell on the magistrate's health to prevent him from delivering sentence?

  Matthew had to admit that, even though there were puzzling lapses of detail in the accounts of Buckner and Garrick, all the evidence taken together served to light the torch for Rachel's death. He knew the magistrate would read the court documents carefully and ponder them with a fair mind, but there was no question the decree would be guilty as charged. So: was she a witch, or not?

  Even having read and digested the scholarly volumes that explained witchcraft as insanity, ignorance, or downright malicious accusations, he honestly couldn't say, which frightened him far more than any of the testimony he'd heard.

  But she was so beautiful, he thought. So beautiful and so alone. If she was indeed a servant of Satan, how could the Devil himself let a woman so beautiful be destroyed by the hands of men?

  Thunder spoke over Fount Royal. Rain began to drip from the gaol's roof at a dozen weak joints. Matthew lay in the dark, huddled up against the chill, his mind struggling with a question inside a mystery within an enigma.

  nineteen

  JUST BEFORE THE STORM had broken, Mrs. Nettles had answered the front door bell to admit Schoolmaster Johnstone, who inquired if the magistrate was able to see him. She took his black coat and tricorn and hung them near the door, then escorted him into the parlor, where Woodward—still bundled up in coat and scarf as he'd been at the gaol—sat in a chair that had been pulled up close to the fireplace. A tray across Woodward's knees held a bowl of steaming, milky pap that was near the same grayish hue as the color of his face, and Woodward had been stirring his dinner with a spoon to cool it.

  "Pardon me. For not rising," Woodward whispered.

  "No pardon necessary between Oxford brothers, sir."

  "Mr. Bidwell is in his study with Mr. Winston," Mrs. Nettles said. "Shall I fetch 'im?"

  "No, I won't disturb their work," Johnstone said, leaning on his cane. Woodward noted he was wigless this evening, his light brown hair shorn close to the scalp. "I have business with the magistrate.

  "Very well, sir." She bowed her head in a gesture of respect and left the parlor.

  Johnstone watched the magistrate stirring his pap. "That doesn't look very appetizing.

  "Doctor's orders. All I can swallow."

  "Yes, I had a talk with Dr. Shields this morning and he told me you'd been suffering. I'm sorry you're in such a condition. He bled you, I understand."

  Woodward nodded. "More bleeding. Yet to be done."

  "Well, it is helpful to drain the corrupted fluids. Might I sit down?" He motioned toward a nearby chair, and Woodward whispered, "Yes, please do." Johnstone, with the aid of his cane, eased himself into the chair and stretched his legs out toward the crackling fire. Rain began to beat at the shuttered windows. Woodward took a taste of the pap and found it just the same as what he'd eaten at midday: entirely tasteless, since his nostrils were so clogged he could not smell even the smoke from the burning pinewood.

  "I won't take much of your time," Johnstone said. "I did wish to ask how the trial was coming."

  "Over. The last witness has been heard."

  "Then I presume your decision will be forthcoming? Tomorrow, perhaps?"

  "Not tomorrow. I must review the testimony."

  "I see. But your decision will be made by the end of the week?" Johnstone waited for Woodward to nod his assent. "You have a responsibility I do not envy," he continued. "Sentencing a woman to death by fire is not a kind job."

  "It is not," Woodward answered between swallows of pap, "a kind world."

  "Granted. We have come a long way from Oxford, the both of us. I imagine we began our careers as shining lamps. It is unfortunate that life has a way of dirtying the glass. But tell me this, Magistrate: can you in good conscience sentence Rachel Howarth to death without yourself seeing evidence of her supposed witchcraft?"

  Woodward paused in bringing another spoonful of pap to his mouth. "I can. As did the magistrates of Salem."

  "Ah, yes. Infamous Salem. But you're aware, of course, that since the incident in Salem there has been much written concerning questions of guilt and innocence." His right hand settled on the misshapen knee and began to massage it. "Thete are some who believe the incident in Salem resulted in the execution of persons who were either
mentally unbalanced or falsely accused."

  "And some who believe," Woodward hesitated to get a breath, "Christ was served and Satan vanquished."

  "Oh, Satan is never vanquished. You know that as well as anyone. In fact, one might say that if a single innocent person died at Salem, the Devil's work was well and truly done, for the souls of the magistrates themselves were corrupted." Johnstone stared into the flames. "I have to confess something," he said at length. "I consider myself a man of the here-and-now, not a man whose opinions are rooted in the beliefs and judgments of the past. I believe in God's power and I trust in the wisdom of Christ . . . but I have difficulty with this question of witchcraft, sir. It seems to me a highly doubtful thing."

  "Doubtful?" Woodward asked. "You doubt the witnesses, then?"

  "I don't know." The schoolmaster shook his head. "I can't understand why such elaborate lies should be produced against Madam Howarth—whom I always thought to be, by the way, a very dignified and intelligent woman. Of course she did—and does—have her enemies here. A beautiful, strong-spirited woman as she is could not fail to have enemies. Constance Adams is one of them. Granny Lawry was another who spoke with a vehement tongue, but she passed away in late March. A number of citizens were outraged when Madam Howarth attended church, she being Portuguese and of such dark coloring. They wanted her to go worship in the slave quarters."

  "The slaves have a church?"

  "A shed that serves the purpose. Anyway, since the day Madam Howarth set foot in church, she was the object of bitter resentment. The citizens were looking for a reason to openly despise her. The nature of her heritage—and the fact that she'd married a much older and reasonably wealthy man—had made her a target of scorn since she and Daniel arrived here."

  "Howarth was wealthy?" Woodward asked, his pap-loaded spoon poised near his mouth.

  "Yes. Though not in the sense of Bidwell's wealth, of course. The Howarth land is larger than most of the other farms. He did have some money, as I understand."

  "Money from what source?"

  "He was a wine merchant in Virginia. From what I heard, he'd suffered some bad luck. A shipment was lost at sea, another shipment was delivered foul, and evidently there was a continuing problem with a tax collector. As I understand, Daniel simply sickened of laboring beneath the threat of losing his business. He was married to another woman at that point, but I don't know if she died or returned to England. Some women can't stand the New World, you know."

  "Your own wife being an example?" Woodward whispered before he slid the spoon of pap into his mouth.

  "Yes, my own Margaret." Johnstone offered a thin smile. "Ben told me you'd been asking questions. He said that somehow—he couldn't quite recall—you had wandered onto that field where Margaret lies buried. Figuratively speaking, of course. No, Margaret lives with her family now, south of London." He shrugged. "I suppose she does, if they haven't locked her up in Bedlam yet. She was—to be kind—mentally unstable, a condition that the rigors of life in Fount Royal made only worse. Unfortunately, she sought balance in the rum barrel." Johnstone was silent, the firelight and shadows moving on his thin-nosed, aristocratic face. "I expect Ben—knowing Ben as I do—has told you also of Margaret's . . . um . . . indiscretions?"

  "Yes."

  "The one in particular, with that Noles bastard, was the worst. The man is an animal, and for Margaret—who when I married her was a virgin and comported herself as a proper lady—to have fallen to his level was the final insult to me. Well, she had made no secret of hating Fount Royal and everyone in it. It was for the best that I took her where she belonged." He looked at Woodward with a pained expression. "Some people change, no matter how hard one tries to deny it. Do you understand what I mean?"

  "Yes," Woodward answered, in his fragile voice. His own face had taken on some pain. He stared into the fire. "I do understand."

  The schoolmaster continued to rub his deformed knee. Sparks popped from one of the logs. Outside, the sound of rain had become a dull roar. "This weather," Johnstone said, "plays hell with my knee. Too much damp and I can hardly walk. You know, that preacher must be getting his feet wet. He's camped up on Industry Street. Last night he gave a sermon that I understand sent a few people into spasms and separated them from their coins as well. Of course, the subject of his speech was Rachel Howarth, and how her evil has contaminated the whole of Fount Royal. He mentioned you by name as one of those so afflicted, as well as your clerk, Nicholas Paine, and myself."

  "I'm not surprised."

  "At the risk of verifying the preacher's opinion of me," Johnstone said, "I suppose I'm here to plead for Madam Howarth. It just makes no sense to me that she would commit two murders, much less take up witchcraft. I'm aware that the witnesses are all reliable and of good character, but . . . something about this is very wrong, sir. If I were you, I'd be wary of rushing to pass sentence no matter how much pressure Bidwell puts upon you."

  "I am not rushing," Woodward replied stiffly. "I set my own pace."

  "Surely you do, and forgive me for stating otherwise. But it appears there is some pressure being put upon you. I understand how Bidwell feels Fount Royal is so endangered, and it's certainly true that the town is being vacated at an alarming rate. These fires we've been suffering don't help matters. Someone is trying to paint Madam Howarth as having the power of destruction beyond the gaol's walls."

  "Your opinion."

  "Yes, my opinion. I'm aware that you have more experience in these matters than do I, but does it not seem very strange to you that the Devil should so openly reveal himself about town? And it seems to me quite peculiar that a woman who can burn down houses at a distance can't free herself from a rusty lock."

  "The nature of evil," Woodward said as he ate another spoonful of the tasteless mush, "is never fully understood."

  "Agreed. But I would think Satan would be more cunning than illogical. It appears to me that the Devil went to great pains to make certain everyone in town knew there was a witch among us, and that her name was Rachel Howarth."

  After a moment of contemplation, Woodward said, "Perhaps it is strange. Still, we have the witnesses."

  "Yes, the witnesses." Johnstone frowned, his gaze fixed upon the fire. "A puzzle, it seems. Unless . . . one considers the possibility that—as much as I might wish to deny it—Satan is indeed at work in Fount Royal, and has given Madam Howarth's face to the true witch. Or warlock, as the case might be."

  Woodward had been about to eat the last swallow of his pap, but he paused in lifting the spoon. This idea advanced by Johnstone had never occurred to him. Still, it was only an idea, and the witnesses had sworn on the Bible. But what if the witnesses had been themselves entranced, without knowing it? What if they had been led to believe they were viewing Madam Howarth, when indeed it was not? And when Satan had spoken Madam Howarth's name to Violet Adams, was he simply attempting to shield the identity of the true witch?

  No! There was the evidence of the poppets found in Madam Howarth's house! But, as Matthew had pointed out, the house was empty for such a period of time that someone else might have secreted them there. Afterward, Satan might have slipped the vision into Madam Grunewald's dreams, and thereby the poppets were discovered.

  Was it possible—only by the slimmest possibility—that the wrong person was behind bars, and the real witch still free?

  "I don't wish to cloud your thinking," Johnstone said in response to the magistrate's silence, "but only to point out what damage a rush to execute Madam Howarth might do. Now, that being said, I have to ask if you have progressed any in your search for the thief."

  "The thief?" It took Woodward a few seconds to shift his thoughts to the missing gold coin. "Oh. No progress."

  "Well, Ben also informed me that you and your clerk had questions about my knee, and if I was able to climb the staircase or not. I suppose I could, if I had to. But I'm flattered that you would consider I could move as quickly as the thief evidently did." The schoolmaster leaned forward
and unbuttoned his breeches leg at the knee. "I wish you to judge for yourself."

  "Uh ... it isn't necessary," Woodward whispered.

  "Oh, but it is! I want you to see." He pulled the breeches leg back and then rolled his stocking down. A bandage had been secured around the knee, and this Johnstone began to slowly unwrap. When he was finished, he turned his leg so as to offer Woodward a clear view of the deformity by the firelight. "There," Johnstone said grimly. "My pride."

  Woodward saw that a leather brace was buckled around Johnstone's knee, but the kneecap itself was fully exposed. It was the size of a knotty fist, gray-colored and glistening with some kind of oil. The bone itself appeared terribly misshapen, bulging up in a ghastly ridge along the top of the kneecap and then forming a concavity at the knee's center. Woodward found himself recoiling from the sight.

  "Alan! We heard the bell, but why didn't you announce yourself?" Bidwell had just entered the parlor, with Winston a few steps behind him.

  "I had business with the magistrate. I wished to show him my knee. Would you care to look?"

  "No, thank you," Bidwell said, as politely as possible.

  But Winston came forward and craned his neck. He wrinkled up his nose as he reached the fireside. "My Lord, what's that smell?"

  "The hogsfat ointment Ben sells me," Johnstone explained. "As the weather is so damp, I've had to apply it rather liberally tonight. I apologize for the odor." Woodward, because his nostrils were blocked, could smell nothing. Winston came a couple of steps closer to view the knee but then he retreated with as much decorum as he could manage.

  "I realize it's not a pretty sight." Johnstone extended his index finger and moved it along the bony ridge and down into the concavity, an exploration that made the magistrate's spine crawl. Woodward had to look away, choosing to stare into the fire. "Unfortunately, it is part of my heritage. I understand my great-grandfather—Linus by name—was born with a similar defect. In good weather it has decent manners, but in such weather as we've been enduring lately it behaves rather badly. Would you care for a closer inspection?"