Speaks the Nightbird mc-1

by Robert R. McCammon

  The doctor waited until the fifth cup was attached before he replied. "Well... let us say I needed a challenge. Or perhaps... there was something I wished to accomplish."

  "And have you? Accomplished it, I mean?"

  Shields stared at the rim of the sixth cup as he moved it between the flames, and Matthew saw the fire reflected in his spectacles. "No, " he said. "Not yet."

  "This involves Fount Royal, I presume? And your infirmary?"

  "It involves... what it involves." Shields glanced quickly into Matthew's eyes and then away again. "You do have a fetish for questions, don't you?"

  If this remark was designed to seal Matthew's mouth and turn aside his curiosity, it had the opposite effect. "Only for questions that go unanswered."

  "Touche, " the doctor said, and he pressed the sixth blister cup firmly onto Woodward's back. Again the magistrate trembled with pain but was steadfastly silent. "All right, then: I left Boston because my practise was failing there. The city has a glut of doctors, as well as lawyers and ministers. There must be a dozen physicians alone, not to mention the herbalists and faith-healers! So I decided that for a space of time I would leave Boston—and my wife, whose sewing enterprise is actually doing quite well— and offer my services elsewhere."

  "Fount Royal is a long distance from Boston, " Matthew said.

  "Oh, I didn't come directly here. I lived for a month in New York, spent a summer in Philadelphia, and lived in other smaller places. I always seemed to be heading southward." He began peeling off his deerskin gloves. "You may put the candles down now."

  Matthew returned the double candlestick to the table. He had seen—though he certainly didn't let his eyes linger on the sight, or his imagination linger on what the sensation must be— that the flesh gripped by the first two cups had become hideous, blood-swollen ebony blisters. The others were following the gruesome pattern.

  "We shall let the blood rise for a time." Dr. Shields put the gloves into his bag. "This procedure breaks up the stagnant pools within his body, you see."

  Matthew saw nothing but grotesque swellings. He dared not dwell on what pressures were inflicted within the magistrate's suffering bones. To keep his mind from wandering in that painful direction, he asked, "Do you plan on staying in Fount Royal very much longer?"

  "No, I don't think so. Bidwell pays me a fee, and he has certainly built a fine infirmary for my use, but... I do miss my wife. And Boston, too. So as soon as the town is progressing again, the population healthy and growing, I shall seek to find a replacement for myself."

  "And what then would be the accomplishment you crave, sir?"

  Dr. Shields cocked his head to one side, a hint of a smile on his mouth but his owlish eyes stony. "You're a regular goat amid a briar patch, aren't you?"

  "I pride myself on being persistent, if that's your meaning."

  "No, that is not my meaning, but I'll answer that rather meddlesome question in spite of my reluctance to add pine knots to your fire. My accomplishment—my hoped-for accomplishment, that is—would be twofold: one, to aid in the construction of a settlement that would grow into a city; and two, to have my name forevermore on the title of Fount Royal's infirmary. I plan on remaining here long enough to see both those things come to pass." He reached out and gently grasped the first blister cup between thumb and forefinger, checking its suction. "The influence of Rachel Howarth, " he said, "was an unfortunate interruption in the forward motion of Fount Royal. But as soon as her ashes are buried—or scattered or whatever Bidwell's going to do with them—we shall put an end to our calamities. As the weather has turned for the better, the swamp vapors have been banished. Soon we shall see an increase in the population, both by people coming in from elsewhere and by healthy babies being born. Within a year, I think Fount Royal will be back to where it was before this ugly incident ever happened. I shall do my best to aid that growth, leave my mark and name for posterity, and return to Boston and my wife. And, of course, the comfort and culture of the city."

  "Admirable aims, " Matthew said. "I expect having your name on the mast of an infirmary would help your standing in Boston, as well."

  "It would. A letter from Bidwell stating that fact and his appreciation for my services could secure me a place in a medical partnership that ordinarily I might be denied."

  Matthew was about to ask if Bidwell knew what the doctor intended when there was a knock at the door. Shields said, "Who is it, please?"

  "Nicholas, " came the reply. "I wanted to look in on the magistrate."

  Instantly Matthew sensed a change in Dr. Shields's demeanor. It was nothing radical, but remarkable nevertheless. The doctor's face seemed to tighten; indeed, his entire body went taut as if an unseen hand had gripped him around the back of his neck. When Shields answered, even his voice had sharpened. "The magistrate is indisposed at the moment."

  "Oh... well, then. I'll return later."

  "Wait!" Woodward had removed the sassafras root from his mouth, and was whispering in Matthew's direction. "Ask Mr. Paine to come in, please."

  Matthew went to the door and stopped Paine before he reached the stairs. When Paine entered the room, Matthew watched the doctor's face and saw that Shields refused to even cast a glance at his fellow citizen.

  "How is he?" Paine inquired, standing at the door.

  "As I said, indisposed, " Shields replied, with a distinct chill. "You can see for yourself."

  Paine flinched a little at the sight of the six glass cups and the ebony blisters they had drawn, but he came around to Matthew's side of the bed for a view of the magistrate's face. "Good evening, " he said, with as much of a smile as he could summon. "I see... Dr. Shields is taking care of you. How are you feeling?"

  "I have felt... much superior, " Woodward said.

  "I'm sure." Paine's smile faltered. "I wanted to tell you... that I approve heartily of your decree, sir. Also that your efforts—and the efforts of your clerk, of course—have been nothing short of commendable."

  "My thanks, " Woodward replied, his eyes heavy-lidded.

  "Might I get you anything?"

  "You might leave, " Shields said. "You're taxing him."

  "Oh. I'm sorry. I don't wish to do any harm."

  "No harm." Woodward gasped for a breath, a green crust around his nostrils. "I appreciate... your taking... time and effort... to come and see me."

  "I also wanted to tell you, sir, that the stake has been cut. I understand Mr. Bidwell hasn't yet decided where the execution shall take place, but the likelihood is in one of the unused fields on Industry Street."

  "Yes." Woodward swallowed thickly. "That would do."

  Shields grasped the first blister cup and popped it free. Woodward winced and bit his lower lip. "I think you should depart now, " the doctor said to Paine. "Unless you'd like to give a hand in this procedure?"

  "Uh... yes, I'd best be going." Paine, for all his manly experiences, appeared to Matthew to be a little green around the gills. "Magistrate, I'll look in on you at a later time." He glanced at Matthew with a pained expression of commiseration and took a step toward the door.

  "Mr. Paine?" Woodward whispered. "Please... may I ask you something?"

  "Yes, surely." Paine returned to the bedside and stood close, leaning toward the magistrate, the better to hear him clearly.

  Shields removed the second blister cup. Again Woodward winced, and now his eyes were wet. He said, "We share... a commonality."

  "We do, sir?"

  "Your wife. Died of fits, I understand. I wanted you to know... my son... perished of fits... suffered by the plague. Was your wife... also plague-stricken?"

  Dr. Shields's hand had seized the third blister cup, but had not yet removed it.

  Nicholas Paine stared into Woodward's face. Matthew saw a pulse beating at Paine's temple. "I fear you're mistaken, sir, " Paine said, in a strangely hollow voice. "I have never been married."

  "Dr. Shields told me, " Woodward went on, with an effort. "I know... such things are diffi
cult to speak of. Believe me, I do know."

  "Dr. Shields, " Paine repeated, "told you."

  "Yes. That she suffered fits until she died. And that... possibly it was the plague."

  Shields removed the third cup and placed it almost noiselessly into his bag.

  Paine licked his lower lip. "I'm sorry, " he said, "but I fear Dr. Shields is just as mistaken as—" He chose that instant to look into the doctor's face, and Matthew was a witness to what next occurred.

  Something passed between Paine and Shields. It was something intangible, yet absolutely horrific. For the briefest of seconds Matthew saw the doctor's eyes blaze with a hatred that defied all reason and logic, and Paine actually drew back as if from a threatening physical presence. Matthew also realized that he'd witnessed very little direct communication between Dr. Shields and Paine. It dawned on Matthew that it was the doctor who preferred to keep his distance from Paine, yet the feeling had been so well disguised that Paine might not even have been aware of a void between them.

  However, now an ugly animosity was clearly revealed if only for that fleeting second. Paine perhaps recognized it for the first time, and his mouth opened as if he might exclaim or protest against it. Yet in the next heartbeat Paine's face froze as tightly as the doctor's and whatever he might have said remained unborn.

  Shields held the dark bond between them for only a second or two longer, and then he very calmly returned his attention to his patient. He removed the fourth blister cup, and into the bag it went.

  Matthew looked questioningly at Paine, but the other man had blanched and would not meet his gaze. Matthew realized a piece of information had been delivered from Dr. Shields to Paine in that brief hateful glare, and whatever it was had almost buckled Paine's knees.

  "My wife, " Paine's voice was choked with emotion. "My wife."

  "My son... died, " Woodward said, oblivious to the drama. "Fits. From the plague. Pardon my asking you... but I wished you to know... you were not alone in your grief."

  "Grief, " Paine repeated. Shadows lay in his eye sockets, and his face appeared to have become more gaunt and aged by five years in as many seconds. "Yes, " he said quietly. "Grief."

  Dr. Shields pulled the fifth blister cup free, none too gently, and Woodward winced.

  "I should... tell you about my wife, " Paine offered, his face turned toward the window. "She did perish from fits. But not caused by the plague. No." He shook his head. "Hunger was the killer. Hunger... and crushing despair. We were very young, you see. Very poor. We had a baby girl who was sick, as well. And I was sick in the mind... and very desperate."

  No one spoke. Even the magistrate, in his cloudy realm on the edge of delirium, realized Paine had dropped his mask of sturdy self-control and was revealing heart's blood and fractured bones.

  "I think I understand this, " Paine said, though that strange remark itself was a puzzle to Matthew. "I am... quite overcome... but I must tell you... all of you... that I never intended... the result of what happened. As I said, I was young... I was brash, and I was frightened. My wife and my child needed food and medicine. I had nothing... but an ability I had learned from hunting cruel and violent men." He was silent for a time, during which Dr. Shields stared intently at the sixth blister cup but made no attempt at removing it.

  "I did not fire the first shot, " Paine went on, his voice tired and heavy. "I was first struck myself. In the leg. But you must know that already. Something I had been taught by the older men... during my career at sea... was that once a weapon— pistol or rapier—was aimed at you, you fired or slashed back with grievous intent. That was our creed, and it served to keep us— most of us—among the living. It was a natural reaction, learned by watching other men die wallowing in their own blood. That was why I could not—could not—spare Quentin Summers in our duel. How can a man be taught the ways of a wolf and then live among sheep? Especially... when there is hunger and need involved... and the specter of death knocking at the door."

  Matthew's curiosity had ignited from a flame to a bonfire and he yearned to ask Paine exactly what he was talking about, but something of the moment seemed almost sacred in its self-revelation, in its picture of a proud man giving up his pride to the overwhelming desire for confession and—perhaps—sanctuary from past misdeeds. Therefore he felt it small of himself to speak and break this spell of soul-broaching.

  Paine walked to the window and looked out over the lantern-spangled town. On Industry Street, two fires some distance apart marked the camps of Exodus Jerusalem and the newly arrived maskers. Through the warm night wafted the faint sound of laughter and the trilling of a recorder from Van Gundy's tavern. "My compliments, " Paine said, his face still averted. "I presume my wound left a trail. Is that what you followed?"

  Dr. Shields at last freed the ebony flesh under the sixth blister cup. He put the implement into his bag, followed by the sassafras root. Then, slowly and methodically, he began to close the bag by its buttons and loops.

  "Are you not going to answer me?" Paine asked. "Or is this a torture by silence?"

  "I think, " the doctor said with grit in his voice, "that the time has come for you to depart."

  "Depart? What game are you playing at?"

  "No game. I assure you... no game." Shields pressed a finger to one of the six horrid black swellings that protruded from Woodward's back. "Ah, yes. Quite firm now. We have drawn the stagnant blood upward from the organs, you see?" He glanced at Matthew, then away. "This procedure has a cleansing effect, and we should see some improvement in the magistrate's condition by morning."

  "And if not?" Matthew had to ask.

  "If not... then there is the next step."

  "Which is?"

  "Again applying the cups, " Shields said, "and then bleeding the blisters." Matthew instantly regretted his inquiry. The thought of those swellings being burst by a lancet was almost too much to consider.

  Shields lowered the magistrate's gown. "You should endeavor to sleep on your stomach tonight, Isaac. I know your position is less than comfortable, but I'm afraid it's necessary."

  "I shall endure it, " Woodward rasped, drifting even now toward sleep again.

  "Good. I'll have Mrs. Nettles send a servant with a cold compress for your fever. In the morning we shall—"

  "Shields, what do you want of me?" Paine interrupted, this time daring to face the other man. Moisture glistened on Paine's forehead and cheeks.

  The doctor lifted his eyebrows. "I've already told you, sir. I wish you to depart."

  "Are you going to hold this over my head for the rest of my life?"

  Shields did not answer, but stared fixedly through his spectacle lenses at his antagonist. So damning was this wordless accusation that Paine was forced at length to drop his gaze to the floorboards. Then, abruptly, Paine turned toward the door and slinked out in the manner of the wolf he had proclaimed himself to be—yet, however, a wolf whose tail had been shorn off by an unexpected blade.

  In the wake of Paine's departure, Dr. Shields let free a breath he'd been hoarding. "Well, " he said, and behind the lenses his magnified eyes appeared stunned by the rapid turn of events. He blinked slowly several times, as if clearing his mind as well as his vision. "What was I saying? Oh... in the morning we shall administer a colonic and apply fresh plasters. Then we shall proceed as necessary." He took a handkerchief from inside his jacket and mopped his brow. "Is it hot in here to you?"

  "No, sir, " Matthew said. "The temperature seems very regular." He now saw his opportunity. "May I ask what your exchange with Mr. Paine concerned?"

  "I will have Mrs. Nettles look in on the magistrate from time to time tonight, " the doctor said. "You might keep yourself aware, also. I will be ready to come if any emergency presents itself." He placed a reassuring hand on Woodward's shoulder. "I'm going to leave now, Isaac, just rest and be of good spirits. Tomorrow we might have you up and walking for some exercise." From the magistrate there was no reply, because he had already fallen asleep.


  "Good night, " Shields said to Matthew and, taking his bag with him, he left the bedchamber.

  Matthew was after him like a shot. "One moment, sir!" he called in the hallway, but to be such a small-framed man Dr. Shields suddenly had the stride of a racehorse. Just before the doctor reached the stairs, Matthew said, "If you refuse to tell me, I shall find out on my own."

  This statement caused an immediate reaction. Dr. Shields halted in his tracks, spun around with furious speed, and advanced on Matthew as if to strike the clerk a blow. By the Mars-orange glow of the hallway's lantern, Shields's face was a hellish, sweating rictus with bared and clenched teeth, his eyes drawn into narrow slits that made him appear a stranger to the man Matthew had seen only seconds before. To compound this transformation, Shields gripped the front of Matthew's shirt with one hand and forced his back solidly and painfully into the wall.

  "You listen!" Shields hissed. His hand tightened, twisting the fabric it clenched. "You do not—I repeat, do not-—have the right to interfere in my business. What transpired between Paine and myself tonight will remain just that: between him and me. No one else. Certainly not you. Do you understand me, boy?" Shields gave Matthew a violent shake to underscore his vehemence. 'Answer!"

  In spite of the fact that he towered over the doctor, Matthew was stricken with fright. "Yes, sir, " Matthew said. "I do understand."

  "You'd better, or by God you'll wish you had!" Shields held Matthew pressed up against the wall for a few seconds longer— an eternity to Matthew—and then the doctor's hand left his shirt. Without a further word, Shields walked away and descended the stairs.

  Matthew was left severely confused and no less severely scared. The doctor might have been a brother to Will Shawcombe, for all that rough treatment. As he straightened his shirt and tried to steady his nerves, Matthew realized something truly treacherous was going on between Shields and Paine; indeed, the violence induced from Shields spoke volumes about the doctor's mental state. What had all that been, about wounds and weapons and Paine's deceased wife? I presume my wound left a trail, Paine had said. Is that what you followed?