Speaks the Nightbird mc-1

by Robert R. McCammon

  His first task was to make his way to the nearest window and open the shutters wide, which he did. Now, with the aid of feeble though welcome light, his courage grew. He went to the other window and opened those shutters also, allowing God's illumination into the refuge of Satan.

  When he turned to survey the room in which he stood, there were three things he noted in rapid succession: the Hamil-tons had evidently carried everything away in a wagon, for there was not a stick of furniture remaining; the floor was littered with what appeared to be dog droppings, some of them relatively fresh; and a skeleton lay in the corner.

  The skeleton, of course, secured his attention. Matthew approached it for a closer inspection.

  It had been at one time a medium-sized dog, obviously aged because its teeth were so worn down. The skeleton lay on its right side on a mat of its own grayish-brown hair, its bones picked clean by the flies that even now buzzed around the fresher mounds of excrement. The smell in this corner of the room was not pleasant, as the boards beneath the dead animal had been stained by the liquids of decay. Matthew wondered how long this carcass had been lying here, being whittled down to its foundations by scavenging insects.

  He remembered what Martin Adams had said before Violet had related her story: This thing she is 'bout to tell you happent near three week ago.

  Surely, to have been so completely consumed, the dead dog had been lying in this room for at least that long, he thought. The smell must have been sickening. It must have struck a person in the face as soon as that threshold was crossed, and indeed must have been quite apparent even before the entry was reached. Yet it had not stopped Violet Adams from entering the house, and indeed she'd not noticed it even when she was well within.

  One might say the Devil had masked the odor, or that Violet had been too entranced to let it wrinkle her nose, but still ... Of course, the dog could have died here two weeks ago rather than three. But still. . .

  Matthew turned his mind to the fact that there were no furnishings in the room. No chair, no bench, nothing upon which the Devil might have been sitting with the imp upon his knee. Of course Satan might have conjured a chair from thin air, but still. . .

  He heard a noise from the rear of the house.

  It was a slight sound, just a whisper of a noise, but it was enough to make the small hairs stir on the back of his neck. He stood very still, his mouth gone dry. He stared into the darkness that held reign back there, beyond the spill of meager light.

  The sound—whatever it was—was not repeated. Matthew thought it had been the creaking of a board, or the slow shifting of something that would not be seen. He waited, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his eyes trying to pierce the gloom. A fly landed on his forehead, and he quickly brushed it away.

  The room back there. From where the child had said she'd heard a man's voice, singing.

  Matthew was terrified by the thought of what might be lurking just beyond his range of vision. Or, indeed, lying in wait for him. But, God help him, he had come to this house to ascertain the truth and therefore he must go back into that dark room, for who would go if he would not?

  Still, his feet had grown roots. He looked around for a weapon of some kind—of any kind—but found nothing. No, that was not quite correct: amid the ashes of the hearth he saw two items that had been left by the Hamiltons—a broken clay tankard and a small iron cooking pot. He picked up the pot, which had been so used its bottom was burned black, and again faced the gathered dark.

  Matthew would have traded two teeth for a sword and a lantern, but a cooking pot was at least substantial enough to strike a blow with, if need be. He sincerely hoped there would be no need. And now came the test of his own mettle. To go or not to go, that was the question. If he slinked out, would it not be an admittance that the Devil really might be back in that room awaiting him? And had he heard a noise, or had it been only his fevered imagination?

  It could have been a rat, of course. Yes, a rat. That was all.

  He took one step toward the dark and stopped, listening. There was no sound other than the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. One more step, and then another. He could now make out an open doorway, beyond which might have been a bottomless pit.

  Slowly, slowly, Matthew approached the room and winced as his weight made a board groan. He peered inside, all his senses alert for any hint of motion or threat of attack from a spectral fiend. He saw the barest crack of daylight back there: the seam of closed shutters.

  Again his courage faltered. To have a view of the room meant he must cross it and unlatch the shutters. A cold hand might grip the back of his neck before he could get there.

  No, it was ridiculous! he thought. His very reticence here was giving weight to the notion—absurd, in his belief—that indeed Satan had visited this house and might still be a presence in its darkness. The longer he tarried on the threshold, the more claws and teeth Satan bared. There was nothing to do but enter the room, go straight to the shutters, and throw them open.

  And, of course, while doing so keep a tight grip on the iron pot.

  Matthew took as much of a deep breath as he could stand, as the smell was less than fragrant. Then he gritted his teeth and walked into the room.

  He felt the darkness take him. His spine crawling, he went the ten feet or so to the opposite wall, found the shutter latch, and lifted it with a quick—one might say frantic—motion. As he opened the shutters the blessed gray light rushed in, and never had he been so glad to see a skyful of ugly clouds.

  At the instant of Matthew's relief, a groan came from behind him that rose in volume and power and quite near sent him hurtling through the window. This sound of a vengeful demon all but lifted Matthew out of his shoes. He twisted around with his face frozen into a terrified rictus and the iron pot lifted to strike a blow against a horned skull.

  It was difficult to say who was more frightened, the wild-eyed young man or the wild-eyed brown mongrel that cowered in a corner. But it was definitely Matthew's fear that passed first, as directly he saw on the floor the six pups that had been suckling at their mother's swollen teats. He gave a reflexive, strangled laugh, though his testicles were yet to descend from the height they had risen.

  The bitch was trembling, but now she began to show her teeth and mutter a growl, therefore Matthew felt it prudent to take his leave. He had a look around the room, which was quite bare except for the animals, their excrement, and a couple of tattered chicken carcasses. He lowered the cooking pot and backed out, and was on his way to the door when the master of the house suddenly arrived.

  It was one of the dogs that had been pulling the entrails from the dead pig in the street. It came in bloody-mouthed, carrying between its jaws a hunk of something dark red and dripping. As soon as its glinting eyes took sight of Matthew, the animal dropped its gory prize and crouched down in an attitude of attack, its husky growl indicating that Matthew had intruded upon a territory off-limits to the humans of Fount Royal. The beast was about to jump for Matthew's throat, that much was dangerously clear. Matthew wasted no time in making his decision; he flung the pot to the floor in front of the dog, causing it to leap backward and issue a fusillade of indignant barks, and then he immediately turned to the nearest window, climbed up over the sill, and jumped out.

  Up on his feet again, he made haste in an easterly direction.

  He glanced back, but the dog did not follow. Matthew kept his pace brisk until he'd left the Hamilton house well in his wake, and then he stopped to take account of a scraped right shin and a number of splinters in the palm of his right hand. Otherwise, he was none the worse for his venture.

  As he continued to walk toward the conjunction of streets, he reflected on the meaning of this experience. Possibly the dogs had belonged to the Hamiltons and had been left behind months ago, or possibly they were curs abandoned by some other fleeing family. The question was: how long had the dogs been living there? More or less than three weeks? Was it reasonable to assume th
ey had been there when Violet Adams had entered the house?

  If she had entered the house. There had been no chair. No candle or candlestick. Bidwell and Exodus Jerusalem would say that those items had been spectral and of course had vanished with the demons, but Matthew needed to see them to believe they had been there at all. And what of the dog's skeleton? The decaying carcass would have filled that room with a repulsive odor, yet Violet had not noticed it nor been hesitant in entering the house. Matthew doubted very much if he would have gone into a deserted house that had the smell of death wafting from its front door, no matter who'd been calling to him. Therefore, what to make of the child's testimony?

  Had she really been in there, or not? The strangest thing about this was that, as far as he could tell, Violet—like Buckner and Garrick—was not lying. She fervently—and fearfully—believed in the truth of what she'd witnessed. It was her truth, perhaps, just as what had happened to Buckner and Garrick were truths to them . . . but was it the whole and actual truth?

  But what kind of truth was it, that might be both true and false at the same time?

  He felt he was venturing onto philosophical ground, worthy of intense thought and debate yet not very helpful to Rachel's cause. He'd been planning on asking directions to Dr. Shields's infirmary, in order to more thoroughly understand the magistrate's illness, but somehow he did not approach the next person he saw, which was a man mending a wagon's wheel, nor did he approach the next two men who were standing together smoking pipes and conversing. Perhaps he didn't wish to answer questions concerning the magistrate's health or the fate of the witch, but in any case he kept walking from Industry Street onto Truth Street and therefore in the direction of where he knew he'd been heading all along: the gaol.

  The door was still left unsecured. The sight of the pillory standing beside the gaol did nothing for his fond memories of this morning, yet he realized—and would be loath to admit it to anyone, especially Bidwell or the magistrate—that he missed Rachel's presence. And why was that? He asked himself that question, as he stood just outside the door.

  Because she needed him. That was it, in an acorn's shell.

  He went inside. A lantern burned and the roof's hatch had been opened, courtesy of Mr. Green, therefore the gloom had been somewhat conquered. Upon seeing who her visitor was, Rachel stood up from the bench and pushed the hood of her coarse cloak back from her face. She allowed as much of a smile as she was able to muster—so feeble it was hardly worth the effort—and she came to the bars to meet him.

  He approached her cell. He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to explain his return. So he was relieved when Rachel spoke first, "I heard the whip strike. Are you all right?"

  "I am."

  "It sounded painful."

  He felt suddenly very shy in her company. He didn't know whether to look at the floor or into Rachel's eyes, which caught the yellow lamplight and gleamed like gold coins. Though her smile had been weak, her eyes still held remarkable strength, and Matthew had the sensation that she could see through his frame of flesh and bones, into the depths of his guarded soul. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. What she might see there, he knew, was his own desire to be needed, which had always been true in his relationship with the magistrate but was now a bright, hot bonfire. It was that he had seen her naked, he thought: not the moment of her being physically unclothed, but the moment in which she had exposed her own need and reached for his hand through the bars to seek comfort.

  He'd realized he was all the hope she had left in the world. Whatever aid and comfort would be given to her for the rest of her short days, it would come from him. How could he banish her from his mind and soul? Woodward was in dire need as well, but he had the care of Dr. Shields. This woman—this beautiful, tragic woman standing before him—had no one on earth to care for her but himself.

  "Has Green brought your meal yet?" he asked.

  "I've just now finished it."

  "Do you need fresh water? I could go fetch you some."

  "No," she said. "I have enough water. But thank you."

  Matthew looked around at the dirty hovel. "This place should be swept out and fresh straw laid down. It's abysmal that you should have to endure such filth."

  "I imagine it's a late hour for that," she replied. "May I ask how goes the magistrate's deliberations?"

  "He has issued no word yet."

  "I know there can be no other decree but that of guilty," she said. "The evidence against me is too strong, particularly after what the child said. I know also I didn't help myself by violating the Bible, but I lost my senses. So . . . Bidwell will have his witch-burning before long." There was pain in her face, but she lifted her chin. "When the time comes, I shall be ready. I will have made my preparations. When I am led out of this place I will be glad, because I know that though I am banished from earth I shall be received in Heaven."

  Matthew started to protest her surrender, but words failed him.

  "I am very, very tired," Rachel said quietly. She pressed the fingers of her right hand to her forehead and closed her eyes for a few seconds. "I will be ready to fly this cage," she said. "I did love my husband. But I have so long felt alone . . . that death must be better." Her eyes opened, and she lowered her hand. "Will you attend it?"

  Matthew realized what she meant. "No," he said.

  "Will I be buried near my husband? Or somewhere else?"

  There was no use in telling her anything but the truth. "Probably outside the town."

  "I thought as much. They won't behead me, will they? I mean . . . after I'm burned, will my body be violated?"

  "No." He would make sure not even a fingerbone was cleaved off to be shown for two pence at Van Gundy's tavern. Of course, what some graverobber did to her skeleton after he and Woodward had departed was beyond his control and beyond his wish to think about.

  Rachel's expression of concern told Matthew this thought had entered her mind as well, but she didn't give it voice. She said, "I'll have only one regret: that whoever murdered Daniel and Reverend Grove will never be brought to justice. That's not fair, is it?"

  "No, it certainly is not."

  "But by then I won't care, will I?" She looked up at the clouded sky through the roof hatch. "I thought—I hoped—I would die of old age, in bed in my own home. I never dreamed my life would end like this, and that I'd not even be allowed to lie beside my husband! That's not fair either, is it?" She breathed in and let go a long sigh, and finally she lowered her gaze, her mouth drawn into a tight line.

  The gaol's door opened, and instantly upon seeing who had arrived Rachel stepped back from the bars.

  "Ah ha!" Exodus Jerusalem tilted his head to one side, smiling slyly. "What doth go on here?"

  Matthew turned to confront him. "May I ask what your business is?"

  "Whatever I do, wherever I goeth, 'tis the business of my Lord God." Jerusalem, clad in his black tricorn and black suit, came forward within an arm's length of Matthew. "I should wager thy business doth not be so holy."

  "Your presence is not wanted here, sir."

  "Oh, I am sure of that. But I hath come to speak to the witch, not to her cock-a-doodler."

  Matthew felt the blood burn in his cheeks. "I don't think Madam Howarth has anything to say to you."

  "She might, as without my influence her tongue should be forever silent." The preacher directed his next statement to Rachel: "Witch Howarth, thy hourglass is near empty. I have heard it said the tree hath been selected from which thy stake shall be cut. Even now, the axes are being sharpened. I sincerely hope thou hast given some thought to the offer I made thee on my last visit."

  "What, the offer to be your travelling doxy?" Rachel asked sharply.

  "To be my travelling disciple," he answered, his voice a smooth adagio, so leisurely that Matthew felt sure Jerusalem had proposed this arrangement so many times it was second nature. Or perhaps first nature. "And companion in study and prayer," Jerusalem added.


  "The study of sin and prayer that you find another woman whom you can pluck from a gaol?" On Rachel's face was an expression of sheer disgust that might have curdled a pail of milk. "I would rather kiss the flames."

  "Thy wish shall become reality," Jerusalem said. "And thy dark beauty shall be burnt from thy skull and crushed beneath the foot of God, and where thou dost lie the beasts shall come and tear thy very bones asunder."

  The anger was rising up in Matthew like a floodtide. "I wish you to leave."

  "Boy, this a public place, and I have just as much right to enter it as thyself." His eyes narrowed. "At least I entered here to bring salvation to the witch, not to receive her vile blessings."

  "Madam Howarth and I are both aware of your purpose."

  "Oh, thou and the witch are coupled now, is that it? Yes, I knew it was only a matter of time." He lifted his right hand and inspected his fingernails. "I hath seen witches at work before. I hath seen them promise all manner of pleasures to young boys. Tell me this, then: how did she propose thou should ride her? From the north or the south?"

  Matthew swung at him. It was so fast he hardly knew what he was doing, but the blood roared in his ears and his right fist came up and cracked across the preacher's prominent jaw. Jerusalem staggered back two steps but found his balance; he blinked, touched his lower lip, and then regarded the smear of crimson on his fingertips. Instead of offering a wounded and angry countenance, as Matthew had thought he would, the preacher only smiled, but there was some wicked triumph in it. "Thou nicked me, boy. Yet I think I drew first blood."

  "I should apologize, but I will not." Matthew rubbed his stinging knuckles.

  "Oh, don't apologize! This action speaks for itself, and therefore should be reported to thy master."

  "As you please. The magistrate trusts my judgment."

  "Really?" Jerusalem's smile broadened. He licked his injured lip. "What shall Woodward say, upon report that his clerk was caught in intimate conversation with the witch, and that his clerk is so bewildered in the mind that he hath struck a proper man of God? And look here! 'Tis the damage to prove it!"