Speaks the Nightbird mc-1

by Robert R. McCammon

  Winston shrugged. "The better part of an afternoon, I suppose."

  "Do you recall his description?"

  "A beard and a hat, " Winston said. "That's all I can remember."

  "And probably all you were meant to remember." Winston gave him a questioning look. "What does this concern?"

  "It concerns the manipulation of memory, " Matthew answered. "Something I think my fox knows a great deal about."

  "If you are making sense, I am unable to follow it."

  "I believe I have information enough. Thank you for your time." Matthew started toward the door, and Winston stood up.

  "Please!" Winston's voice held a note of urgency. "If you were in my position... what would you do? Remain here—and await the end—or go to Charles Town and try to salvage what I can of a future?"

  "A difficult question, " Matthew said after a short consideration. "I would agree that your present is precarious, and since you have neither love nor loyalty for Bidwell you might as well seek your fortune elsewhere. However... as much a dog you think Bidwell to be, your masters in Charles Town are probably mongrels of similar breed. You might have known that, judging from the voracity with which they have eaten your soul. So... flip a coin, and good luck to you."

  Matthew turned his back and left Edward Winston standing forlorn and alone in the midst of his self-made chaos.

  twenty-seven

  HIS THOUGHTS STILL CLOUDED by Winston's betrayal, Matthew was ascending the stairs to look in upon the magistrate when he almost collided with Mrs. Nettles, who was descending with a tray upon which sat a bowl of pap. "How is he?" Matthew asked.

  "Not verra well, " she said, her voice low. "He's havin' some trouble even swallowin' the mush."

  Matthew nodded grimly. "I have my doubts about whether the bloodletting is doing any good."

  "I've seen it do wonders, though. That afflicted blood's got to be rid of."

  "I hope you're right. I'm not sure his condition isn't being hastened by all this bleeding." He started to slide past her up the stairs, which was a precarious maneuver due to her formidable size and the lack of a railing.

  "Just a moment, sir!" she said. "You have a visitor."

  "A visitor? Who?"

  "The child, " she said. "Violet Adams. She's in the library, waitin' for you."

  "Oh?" Matthew instantly went back down the stairs and entered the library. His quick entrance startled the little girl, who was standing before the open window studying a bishop she had picked up from the chessboard. She jumped and backed away from him like a cornered deer.

  "Forgive me, " Matthew said in a calming tone. He showed one palm in a non-threatening gesture, while he held the rolled-up decree at his side. "I should have announced myself."

  She just stared at him, her body rigid as if she might either decide to flee past him or leap through the window. On this occasion she definitely was not groomed for a court appearance. Her light brown hair was loose about her shoulders and in need of washing, her tan-and-red-checked shift was held together with patches, and her shoes were near worn through.

  "You've been waiting for me?" Matthew asked. She nodded. "I presume this is not an errand on behalf of your father and mother?"

  "No sir, " she answered. "They sent me to fetch some water." Matthew looked down and saw two empty buckets on the floor. "I see. But you decided to come here first?"

  "Yes sir."

  "For what reason?"

  Violet carefully placed the chesspiece back in its proper place on the board. "What are these, sir? Are they toys?"

  "It's a game called chess. The pieces have different patterns of movement across the board."

  "Ohhhh." She seemed much impressed. "Like knuckles 'n' stones, 'ceptin' you play that in the dirt."

  "I imagine so, yes."

  "They're pretty, " she said. "Did Mr. Bidwell carve 'em?"

  "I doubt it."

  She continued staring at the chessboard. The tic of her upper lip had returned. "Last night, " she said, "a rat got in my bed." Matthew didn't quite know how to respond to this matter-of-fact statement, so he said nothing.

  "It got all tangled up in the beddin's, " she went on. "It couldn't get out, and I could feel it down at my feet, thrashin'. I couldn't get loose, neither. Both of us were tryin' to get out. Then my papa come in and I was scared I was gonna get bit so I was screamin'. So he grabbed it up in the sheet and hit it with a candlestick, and then my mama started screamin' 'cause there was blood everywhere and that sheet was ruined."

  "I'm sorry, " Matthew said. "It must have been traumatic." Especially for a child of her sensitive nature, he might have added.

  "Trau—what, sir?"

  "I meant it must have been a fearsome experience."

  "Yes sir." She nodded, and now she picked up a pawn and studied it in the sunlight. "The thing about it, though... is that... near mornin', I started rememberin' somethin'. About that man's voice I heard singin' in the Hamilton house."

  Matthew's heart suddenly lodged in his throat. "Remembering what?"

  "Whose voice it was." She put down the pawn and lifted her eyes to his. "It's still a fog... and thinkin' about it makes my head hurt somethin' awful, but... I recollected what he was sin-gin'." She took a breath and began to softly sing, in a sweet and clear timbre: "Come out, come out, my dames and dandies. Come out, come out, and taste my candies..."

  "The ratcatcher, " Matthew said. In his mind he heard Linch singing that same macabre song during the massacre of rats at the gaol.

  "Yes sir. It was Mr. Linch's voice I heard, from that room back there."

  Matthew stared intensely into the child's eyes. "Tell me this, Violet: how did you know it was Linch's voice? Had you ever heard that song before?"

  "One time he come to kill a nest of rats my papa found. They were all big ones, and black as night. Mr. Linch came and brought his potions and his sticker, and that was what he was singin' when he was waitin' for the rats to get drunk."

  "Did you tell anyone else about this? Your mother and father?"

  "No sir. They don't like for me to talk of it."

  "Then you shouldn't tell them you've been here to see me, either."

  "No sir, I wouldn't dare. I'd get a terrible whippin'."

  "You ought to get your water and go home, then, " Matthew said. "But one more thing: when you entered the Hamilton house, do you remember smelling anything? Like a very bad odor?" He was thinking of the decaying carcass. "Or did you see or hear a dog?"

  Violet shook her head. "No sir, none of that. Why?"

  "Well..." Matthew reached down to the chessboard and traded positions between the king's knight and the king's bishop. "If you were to describe this board and the pieces upon it to someone not in this room, how would you do so?"

  She shrugged. "I suppose... that it's a wooden board with light and dark squares and some pieces in position on it."

  "Would you say the game is ready to be played?"

  "I don't know, sir. I would say... it is, but then again I don't know the particulars."

  "Yes." He smiled slightly. "And it is the particulars that make all the difference. I want to thank you for coming to tell me what you've remembered. I know this has been very difficult for you."

  "Yes sir. But my mama says when the witch is burnt up my head won't pain me no more." She picked up the two buckets. "May I ask you somethin' now, sir?'"

  "You may."

  "Why do you suppose Mr. Linch was back there in the dark, singin' like that?"

  "I don't know, " he answered.

  "I thought on it all this mornin'." She stared out the window, the yellow sunlight coloring her face. "It made my head ache so bad I almost cried, but it seemed like somethin' I had to keep thinkin' on." Violet didn't speak for a moment, but Matthew could tell from the set of her jaw that she had come to an important conclusion. "I think... Mr. Linch must be a friend of Satan's. That's what I think."

  "You might possibly be right. Do you know where I might find Mr. Lin
ch?"

  An expression of alarm tightened her face. "You're not going to tell him, are you?"

  "No. I promise it. I would just like to know where he lives."

  She hesitated for a few seconds, but she knew he would find out anyway. "At the end of Industry Street. He lives in the very last house."

  "Thank you."

  "I don't know if I was right to come here, " she said, frowning. "I mean to say... if Mr. Linch is a friend of the Devil, shouldn't he be called to account for it?"

  "He'll be called for an accounting, " Matthew said. "You may depend on that." He touched her shoulder. "You were right to come. Go ahead, now. Get your water."

  "Yes sir." Violet left the library with her buckets in tow, and a moment later Matthew stood at the window watching her walk to the spring. Then, his mind aflame with this new information, he hurried upstairs to look in on the magistrate.

  He found Woodward sleeping again, which was probably for the best. The magistrate's face sparkled with sweat, and when Matthew approached the bed he could feel the man's fever long before he placed his fingers to Woodward's hot forehead.

  The magistrate stirred. His mouth opened, yet his eyes remained sealed. "Hurting, " he said, in that tormented whisper. 'Ann... he's hurting..."

  Matthew drew his hand back. The tips of his fingers felt as if he had held them over a forge. Matthew placed the rolled-up decree atop the dresser and then picked up the box that held the remainder of the court documents so that he might continue reading through them tonight. For now, though, he had other things to do. He went to his room, put the document box on the table beside his bed, splashed water in his face from his shaving bowl to revive his flagging energies, and then was again out the door.

  It had become a truly magnificent day. The sky was bright blue and cloudless and the sun was gorgeously warm. A light breeze was blowing from the west, and in it Matthew could detect the fragrances of wild honeysuckle, pine sap, and the rich aroma of fulsome earth. He might have sat down upon the bank of the spring to enjoy the warmth, as he saw several citizens doing, but he had a task ahead of him that granted no freedom of time for simple pleasures.

  On his way along Industry Street—which he was beginning to know quite well—he passed Exodus Jerusalem's camp. Actually, he heard the bluster of Jerusalem's preaching before he got there and he marvelled that the breeze didn't become a hot and malodorous tempest in this quarter of Fount Royal. Jerusalem's sister—and by that term Matthew didn't know whether the preacher meant by blood or by indecent patronage—was scrubbing clothes in a washpot next to the wagon, while the young nephew—and here it was best to make no mental comment— was lying on a quilt in the shade nearby, picking the petals off a yellow flower and tossing them idly aside. The black-garbed master of ceremonies, however, was hard at work; he stood upon an overturned crate, orating and gesticulating for a somber crowd of two men and a woman.

  Matthew stared straight ahead, hoping to invoke invisibility as he slipped past Jerusalem's field of view, but he knew it was not to be. "Ah!" came the sky-ripping shout. "Ah, there walketh a sinner! Right there! Look, everyone! Look how he doth scurry like a thief in broad daylight!"

  What Jerusalem called scurrying Matthew called picking up his pace. He dared not pause to deflect Jerusalem's hook, for then he would be nattered to holes by this pseudo-holy imbecile. Therefore he kept a constant course, even though the preacher began to rant and rave in a fashion that made Matthew's blood start to boil: "Yes, look at him and thy looketh upon the pride of a witch's bed! Oh, did thou not all know the vile truth? Well, it is as plain as the writ of God across the soul of a righteous man! That sinner yonder hath actually struck me—struck me, I sayeth!—in defense of that wanton sorceress he so dearly yearn-eth to protect! And not just protect! Gentle flock, if thou but kneweth the cravings in that sinner's mind concerning the dark woman, thou might falleth to thy knees in the frenzy of madness! He wisheth the flesh of her body be gripped in his hands, her mouth open to his abominable needs, her every orifice a receptacle of his goatly lusts! And there he goeth, the blind wretched beast, scurrying away from the word of God lest it scorcheth some light into his eyes and maketh him see the path to Damnation upon which he rusheth to travel!"

  The only path upon which Matthew rusheth was the one leading away from Exodus Jerusalem. It occurred to him, as he gladly left the preacher's caterwaulings behind, that the gentle flock would probably cough up some coins to hear more on the subject of orifices, receptacles, and goatly lusts, which was probably at the heart of it the whole reason for their attendance today. Matthew had to admit that Jerusalem had a talent at painting horny pictures. For now, though—until, dreadfully, he had to come back this way—his attention was focused on finding the ratcatcher's domicile.

  He passed the Hamilton house and Violet's home, and continued by a large weed-choked field where a split-rail fence had fallen to disrepair. Further on, what appeared to be an attempt at an apple orchard was stubbled with dwarfed and twisted trees that seemed to be begging for the mercy of an axe. On the opposite side of Industry Street, the feeble trees of another unfortunate planting drooped in apparent pain, their few remaining leaves blotched with brown and ochre sores. In this area of Fount Royal, the sun might be shining but there was definitely no rejoicing of nature.

  Matthew saw that Bidwell's orchards had suffered greatly during the long period of storms. The coarse, sandy earth had been washed away to such an extent that some trees seemed more exposed roots than branches, and what branches there were had shrivelled and malformed in their piteous reach for sunlight. Here and there some kind of knobby-looking thing had sprouted, but it was more green mold than edible product. This display of blighted agriculture seemed to stretch on and on like a preview of the harvests of Hell, and Matthew could readily understand how Bidwell and the citizens might ascribe the devastation not to natural causes but to a demonic purpose.

  As Matthew continued walking between the miserable fields he reflected on the possibility that, in addition to the havoc wreaked by the deluge, this climate and soil might not be suited to sustain the types of crops that Bidwell was trying to grow. Of course Bidwell was trying to produce something that would earn him money and attention from the home country, but it might be that apples, for instance, were doomed in this swamp air. Likewise doomed was whatever those green molded things were. It might be, then, that a suitable cash crop for Fount Royal was yet to be planted, and Bidwell could benefit from the advice of a professional botanist. Yet a botanist would command a sizeable fee, and Matthew thought that if Winston was correct about Bidwell's combination of stinginess and swollen self-worth—and there was no reason to doubt it—then the master of Fount Royal was apt to consider himself as much an expert on growing crops as in building ships.

  Presently Matthew came to the last dwelling on Industry Street, beyond which stood the fortress wall.

  If the ratcatcher desired to live apart from other human beings, he could only have created a more suitable abode by digging a hole in the earth and covering it with a mudcaked roof. The house—-if it might be distinguished by such a term—made Winston's shack appear the brother of Bidwell's mansion. Brush had been allowed to grow up around it, all but obscuring it from view. Vines gripped the gray clapboards and ivy grew abundant on the roof. The house's four windows were sealed by unpainted and badly weathered shutters, and Matthew thought it was a wonder the rains hadn't broken the poor place down to the ground entirely.

  Matthew made his way to the door over a bare yard still treacherous with mud. Over the door Linch had hung three large rat skeletons from leather cords, as if to announce his trade to the world—whatever portion of the world cared to come to this place, that is. But then again, perhaps those three rats had given him such a fight Linch felt the need to mount them as trophies. Matthew swallowed his disgust, balled up his fist, and knocked at the door.

  He waited, but there was no response. Matthew knocked again, and this time called, "Mr. Linc
h? May I speak with you, please?" Still there was no answer. The ratcatcher was out, probably pursuing some long-tailed dame or dandy.

  Matthew had come a distance to see the man, and he despised the thought of making a second trip. He might wait for Linch, he decided, though there was no telling when the ratcatcher would return. He knocked a third time, just to know he had, and then he put his hand on the door's crude latch. He paused, weighing his sense of morality as concerning entering a man's home unbidden.

  Pulling his hand back, he stepped away from the door and stood looking at the latch with his hands on his hips. What was the right thing to do? He glanced up Industry Street the way he'd come. There was no sign of a living soul. Of course, the right thing was to leave and return at a later time. The necessary thing... now that was a horse pulling a different cart.

  But he wasn't sure he wanted to enter Linch's sanctum. If a place ever smelled like dead rats, he was sure this one did. And those skeletons did not speak well of what else might be on display in there. Matthew looked again down Industry Street. Still no sign of anyone. If he wanted a chance to explore the ratcatcher's quarters, this was definitely the moment.

  He took a deep breath. Trespassing upon a house was far different than intruding upon a barn... or was it? He didn't care to debate the distinction.

  He quickly lifted the latch, before he could think better of it, and pushed the door open. It went smoothly, on oiled hinges. And by the sunlight that entered the house Matthew saw a very strange thing.

  He stood at the threshold, peering in and wondering if he had lost his senses. Or at least his sense of order. This revelation took him inside. He looked around, his curiosity now well and truly piqued.

  There was a desk and a sleeping pallet, a hearth and a shelf of cooking utensils. There was a chair and beside it a table on which sat a lantern. Nearby were a half-dozen candles wrapped up in oiled paper. A chamberpot was placed at the foot of the pallet. Two pairs of dirty shoes were lined up side-by-side next to the hearth, which was perfectly devoid of ashes. A broom leaned against the wall, ready for work.