Speaks the Nightbird mc-1

by Robert R. McCammon

  And this was what so completely astounded Matthew: Linch's dwelling was the absolute picture of neatness.

  The pallet had been made, its bedding tight and precise. The chamberpot was spotless. So too were the cooking pots and utensils. The lantern's glass bore not a trace of candlesoot. The floor and walls had been recently scrubbed, and the house still smelled of pinetar soap. Matthew thought he might have eaten off that floor and not tasted a grain of dirt. Everything was so orderly that it put a scare into Matthew even more than the terrible chaos of Winston's home, for the single reason that— like Winston had been—the ratcatcher was not who he appeared to be.

  "Well, " Matthew said, and his voice trembled. He looked once more toward town, but thankfully Industry Street was still empty. Then he continued his examination of this place that seemed to be a hovel from without but within was the epitome of ... might the word Matthew was searching for be control?

  This was one of the damnedest things he'd ever seen. The only bad note in the house was the foursome of dirty shoes, and Matthew thought those were part of Linch's ratcatching costume. He decided to add a pound to his penny of intrusion and therefore opened a trunk, finding within it more clothes—shirts, breeches, and stockings, all of them clean and perfectly folded.

  Beside the lantern and the candles was a small ivory box. Matthew opened it and discovered matches and a flint, the matches all lined up like obedient soldiers. In a larger box that occupied a corner Matthew discovered a supply of salted beef, ears of com, a pot of flour and a pot of grain, a bottle of rum and a bottle of wine, and various other foodstuffs. Upon the desk was a clay pipe and a carefully wrapped packet of tobacco. There was also an inkpot, a quill, and some papers ready to be written upon. He slid open the desk's top drawer, and found a second inkpot and a stack of paper, a leather wallet and... wonder of wonders... a book.

  It was a thin volume, but a well-read and well-travelled tome, from the wear and tear of the binding. Matthew gently opened it to the title page—which threatened to fall out between his fingers—and received another puzzlement. The book's title, faded as it was, read A Pharaoh's Life, or Concerning Fanciful Events in Ancient Egypt.

  Matthew knew that Egyptian culture, known through the travails of Moses in the Holy Bible, was a source of great fascination to a certain segment of the English and European populace—mainly, those gentry who had the time and inclination to indulge in theories and discourse on what that mysterious civilization might have been like. He could have expected a book of this nature to adorn Bidwell's library, simply for the show of it, but never touched; it was absolutely incredible that the ratcatcher might have an interest in the life of a pharaoh, however fancifully described. Matthew would have paged through the book to get an idea of its contents, but as the leaves were so fragile he decided to forgo that particular exploration. It was enough for now to know that Gwinett Linch was not the man he presented himself to be.

  But if not... then who was he?

  Matthew closed the book and made sure it was exactly in the position it had been when he'd touched it, as he had the feeling that Linch would know if it had been moved a hair's width. He picked up the wallet, unfolded it, and found inside a small object wrapped in brown cotton cloth and secured with knotted twine. Matthew's interest was further sharpened. The problem, however, was not the undoing of the twine but in the redoing of it. Was it worth the time and effort?

  He decided it was.

  He carefully untied the cord, noting the structure of the knot. Then he opened the cloth.

  It was a piece of jewelry: a circular gold brooch, but missing its clasping pin. Picking up the item, he held it into the sunlight... and stared with amazement into the blazing dark blue depths of a sapphire that was near the size of his thumbnail.

  The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He twisted his head around, his eyes widening, but the doorway was empty.

  Linch—or the man who called himself Linch—was not there. From where he stood, Matthew could see no one approaching. But he was certain that if Linch found him with this fabulous jewel in his hand, his life would be as short as that of a belly-gashed rat on the bloody blade of that sticker.

  Time to go. Time to get out, while he could.

  First, though, to wrap the brooch up once more, return it to the wallet and replace the wallet exactly—exactly—as it had been. His hands were shaking, as precision was a demanding taskmaster. When the wallet was correctly positioned, Matthew slid the drawer shut and stepped back, wiping his moist palms on his hips.

  There were other drawers he might have wished to go through, and he might have desired to inspect the underside of Linch's pallet and further explore the house, but it would be daring Fate. He retreated to the door and was about to shut it when he realized with a shock that he had smeared across the otherwise-pristine floor a small amount of mud from the sodden yard.

  He bent down, attempting to get the debris up with his hand. He succeeded somewhat but there was still a telltale streak. No doubt of it: Linch was going to know his sanctum had been violated.

  A bell began ringing in the distance. Matthew, still working at removing the stain of his presence by spittle and elbow-grease, realized it was the watchman at the gate signaling an arrival. He had done the best he could do. A little grime on the floor would pall before the gore that would flow if Linch found him here. He stood up, went out, pulled the door shut, and dropped its latch.

  As Matthew started walking back along Industry Street, the signal bell ceased. He assumed that the new arrival had been allowed into Fount Royal. Would that it was a doctor whose method was more medicine and less bloodletting!

  The sun warmed his face and the breeze blew softly at his back. Yet Matthew had never felt as if he walked a darker or colder path. The sapphire in that brooch had to be worth a small fortune, therefore why was Linch stabbing rats for a living? And why did he go to such effort to disguise his true nature, which appeared to be a preference for order and control, behind a facade of filthiness? It seemed to Matthew that Linch even wished his house to look absolutely decrepit from the outside and had gone to some lengths to make it so.

  This pit of deceit was deeper than he'd expected. But what did it have to do with Rachel? Linch was obviously a learned, intelligent man who could write with a quill and read books of theoretical substance; he was also quite well off financially, judging from the sapphire brooch. Why in the world was he acting such a wretched part?

  And then there was the singing to consider. Had Violet gone into the Hamilton house or not? If she had, why didn't she notice the disagreeable odor of that dead dog? And if she had not gone in, then what strange power had made her believe she had? No, no; it was confusing to even his disciplined mind. The most troubling things about Violet's supposed entrance into the house were her sighting of the white-haired imp and her memory of the six gold buttons on Satan's cloak. Those details she shared with Buckner and Garrick were damnable evidence against Rachel. But what about the ratcatcher singing in that dark room where Matthew had found the bitch and her pups? One might say Violet had imagined it, but then could one not infer that she'd imagined the whole incident? But she could not imagine details that had already been supplied by Buckner and Garrick!

  So: if Violet had entered the house, why was the ratcatcher singing back there in the dark? And if she had not entered the house, why—and how—did she fervently believe she had, and from where did those details of the white-haired imp and the six gold buttons come?

  He was thinking so furiously on these questions that he failed to gird his wits for his return engagement with Exodus Jerusalem, but he found that the preacher's tongue had ceased its salivation over orifices. Indeed, Jerusalem, the trio of audience, and the so-called sister and the so-called nephew had departed and were nowhere to be seen. Matthew was soon aware, however, of a balhaloo in progress on Harmony Street. He saw four covered wagons and fifteen or twenty townspeople thronged about them. A lean gray-bearded man weari
ng a green tricorn sat at the reins of the first wagon's team and was engaged in conversation with Bidwell. Matthew also saw Winston standing behind his master; the cur had gone to some effort to shave and dress in clean clothes to make a presentable picture, and he was speaking to a young blond-haired man who appeared to be a companion to the wagon driver.

  Matthew approached a farmer standing nearby. "May I ask what's going on?"

  "The maskers have come, " the man, who had perhaps three teeth in his head, answered.

  "Maskers? You mean actors?"

  "That's right. They come every year and show a play. Weren't expected 'til midsummer, though."

  Matthew was amazed at the tenacity of a travelling actors' troupe to negotiate the bone-jarring road between here and Charles Town. He recalled a book on the English theater he'd seen in Bidwell's library, and realized Bidwell had engineered a yearly entertainment—a midsummer festival, so to speak—for his citizenry.

  "Now we'll have a fine time!" the farmer said, grinning that cavernous mouth. "A witch-burnin' in the morn and a play in the eve!"

  Matthew did not reply. He observed that the gray-bearded man, who appeared to be the troupe's leader, seemed to be asking instructions or directions from Bidwell. The master of Fount Royal conferred for a moment with Winston, whose outward mannerisms gave no inkling that he was anything but a loyal servant. Then, the conference done, Bidwell spoke again to the bearded man and motioned westward along Industry Street. Matthew realized Bidwell must be telling the man where the actors might set up their camp. He would have paid an admission fee to hear the thoughts of Exodus Jerusalem when the preacher learned his neighbors would be thespians. Then again, Jerusalem might make some extra coins by giving the players acting lessons.

  Matthew went on his way, avoiding contact with Bidwell and the scoundrel in his shadow. He paused for a short while at the spring, watching the golden sunlight ripple on the water's surface. It entered his mind to go to the gaol and look in on Rachel; in fact, he felt an urgent need to see her, but with a considerable effort of willpower he declined. She had made it clear she did not want his presence there, and as much as it pained him, he must respect her wishes.

  He returned to the house, found Mrs. Nettles, and asked if he might have some lunch. After a quick repast of corn soup and buttered bread, he ascended the stairs to his room and settled in a chair by the open window to contemplate his findings and to finish reading through the documents.

  He could not shake the feeling, as he read the answers to the questions he had posed, that a revelation was close at hand. He only dimly heard the singing of birds and sensed the warmth of the sun, as all his attention was focused on these responses. There had to be something in here—something small, something overlooked—that might be a key to prove Rachel's innocence. As he read, however, he was distracted by two things: first, the bellring-ing and braying voice of a public crier announcing the magistrate's decree even in the slave quarters; and second, the sound of an axe chopping timber in the woods between the mansion and the tidewater swamp.

  Matthew reached the end of the documents. He had found nothing. He realized he was looking for a shadow that may or may not exist, and to find it—if it was discoverable—he must concentrate on reading between the lines. He ran a weary hand over his face, and began once more from the beginning.

  twenty-eight

  ISAAC WOODWARD INHABITED A REALM that lay somewhere between twilight and Tartarus. The agony of his swollen throat had spread now through his every nerve and fiber, and the act of breathing seemed itself a defiance toward the will of God. His flesh was slick with sweat and sore with fever. Sleep would fall upon him like a heavy shroud, bearing him into blessed insensibility, but while he was awake his vision was as blurred as a candle behind soot-filmed glass. In spite of all these torments, however, the worst was that he was keenly aware of his condition. The deterioration of his body had not yet reached his mind, and thus he had sense enough to realize he was perilously close to the grave's edge.

  "Will you help me turn him over?" Dr. Shields asked Matthew and Mrs. Nettles.

  Matthew hesitated, his own face pallid in the light from a double candleholder to which was fixed a circle of reflective mirror. "What are you going to do?"

  Dr. Shields pushed his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose. "The afflicted blood is pooling in his body, " he answered. "It must be moved. Stirred up from its stagnant ponds, if you will."

  "Stirred up? How? By more bleeding?"

  "No. I think at this point the lancet will not perform its necessary function."

  "How, then?" Matthew insisted.

  "Mrs. Nettles, " the doctor said curtly, "if you'll please assist me?"

  "Yes sir." She took hold of Woodward's arm and leg on one side and Shields took the opposite side.

  "All right, then. Turn him toward me, " Shields instructed. "Magistrate, can you help us at all?"

  "I shall try, " Woodward whispered.

  Together, the doctor and Mrs. Nettles repositioned Woodward so he lay on his stomach. Matthew was torn about whether to give a hand, for he feared what Dr. Shields had decided to do. The magistrate gave a single groan during the procedure, but otherwise bore the pain and indignity like a gentleman.

  "Very well." Dr. Shields looked across the bed at Mrs. Nettles. "I shall have to lift his gown up, as his back must be bared."

  "What procedure is this?" Matthew asked. "I demand to know!"

  "For your information, young man, it is a time-tested procedure to move the blood within the body. It involves heat and a vacuum effect. Mrs. Nettles, would you remove yourself, please? For the sake of decorum?"

  "Shall I wait outside?"

  "No, that won't be necessary. I shall call if you're needed." He paused while Mrs. Nettles left the room, and when the door was again closed he said to Woodward, "I am going to pull your gown up to your shoulders, Isaac. Whatever help you may give me is much appreciated."

  "Yes, " came the muffled reply. "Do what is needed."

  The doctor went about the business of exposing Woodward's buttocks and back. Matthew saw that at the base of the magistrate's spine was a bed sore about two inches in diameter, bright red at its center and outlined with yellow infection. A second, smaller, but no less malignant sore had opened on the back of Woodward's right thigh.

  Dr. Shields opened his bag, brought out a pair of supple deerskin gloves, and began to put them on. "If your stomach is weak, " he said quietly to Matthew, "you should follow Mrs. Nettles. I need no further complications."

  "My stomach is fine, " Matthew lied. "What... is the procedure?"

  The doctor reached into the bag again and brought out a small glass sphere, its surface marred only by a circular opening with a pronounced curved rim. The rim, Matthew saw with sickened fascination, had been discolored dark brown by the application of fire. "As I said before... heat and vacuum." From the pocket of his tan waistcoat he produced the fragrant piece of sassafras root, which he deftly pushed to the magistrate's lips. "Isaac, there will be some pain involved, and we wish your tongue not to be injured." Woodward accepted the tongue-guard and sank his teeth into the accustomed grooves. "Young man, will you hold the candles, please?"

  Matthew picked up the double candlestick from the table beside Woodward's bed. Dr. Shields leaned forward and stroked the sphere's rim from one flame to the other in a circular motion, all the time staring into Matthew's eyes in order to gauge his nerves. As he continued to heat the rim, Shields said, "Magistrate, I am going to apply a blister cup to your back. The first of six. I regret the sensation, but the afflicted blood will be caused to rise to the surface from the internal organs and that is our purpose. Are you ready, sir?"

  Woodward nodded, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Shields held the cup's opening directly over the flames for perhaps five seconds. Then, rapidly and without hesitation, he pressed the hot glass rim down upon Woodward's white flesh a few inches upward from the virulent bedsore.

  There wa
s a small noise—a snake's hiss, perhaps—and the cup clamped tightly as the heated air within compressed itself. An instant after the hideous contact was made, Woodward cried out around the sassafras root and his body shivered in a spasm of pure, animal pain.

  "Steady, " Shields said, speaking to both the magistrate and his clerk. "Let nature do its work."

  Matthew could see that already the flesh caught within the blister cup was swelling and reddening. Dr. Shields had brought a second cup from his bag, and again let the flames lick its cruel rim. After the procedure of heating the air inside the cup, the glass was pressed to Woodward's back with predictable and—at least to Matthew—spine-crawling result.

  By the time the third cup was affixed, the flesh within the first had gone through the stages of red to scarlet and now was blood-gorged and turning brown like a maliferous poison mushroom.

  Shields had the fourth cup in his gloved hand. He offered it to the candle flames. "We shall see a play directly, I understand, " he said, his voice divorced from his actions. "The citizens do enjoy the maskers every year."

  Matthew didn't answer. He was watching the first brown mushroom of flesh becoming still darker, and the other two following the path of swollen discoloration.

  "Usually, " the doctor went on, "they don't arrive until the middle of July or so. I understand from Mr. Brightman—he's the leader of the company—that two towns they customarily play in were decimated by sickness, and a third had vanished altogether. That accounts for their early arrival this year. It's a thing to be thankful for, though, because we need a pleasant diversion." He pressed the fourth blister cup onto Woodward's back, and the magistrate trembled but held back a moan. "My wife and I used to enjoy the theater in Boston, " Shields said as he prepared the fifth implement. "A play in the afternoon... a beaker of wine... a concert on the Commons." He smiled faintly. "Those were wonderful times."

  Matthew had recovered his composure enough to ask the question that at this point naturally presented itself. "Why did you leave Boston?"