Speaks the Nightbird mc-1

by Robert R. McCammon

  Whatever the problem was, it had to do with Paine's past— which seemed more infamous now than ever. But Matthew was faced with so many puzzles to untangle concerning Rachel's plight—and such a short time to untangle them—that this new situation seemed more of a sideshow than a compelling attraction. He didn't believe the strife between the two men had anything to do with Rachel, whereas, for instance, Gwinett Linch's voice singing in the darkness of the Hamilton house while Satan laid an ultimatum at the feet of Violet Adams most certainly did.

  Therefore, though he might fervently desire to know more about the relationship he'd witnessed tonight, he felt pressed by time to keep his focus on proving Rachel's innocence and let old griefs fall by the wayside. For now, at least.

  He looked in once more on the magistrate and waited for the servant girl to come with the cold compress. Matthew thanked her, bade her go, and himself applied the compress—a water-soaked cotton cloth, to be accurate—to the sleeping man's face and on the back of his neck where the fever seemed most heated. Afterward, Matthew went downstairs and found Mrs. Nettles closing the shutters for the night. He asked if he might have a pot of tea and some biscuits, and was soon thereafter in possession of a tray with both. He took the moment to inquire of Mrs. Nettles what she knew about the ratcatcher, but she could supply nothing other than the facts that Linch kept to himself, and though he was sorely needed he was something of a pariah because of the nature of his craft. Matthew also asked—in a most casual way—if Mrs. Nettles had ever detected a tension between Dr. Shields and Nicholas Paine, or knew of anything that might be a cause of trouble in their dealings with each other.

  Mrs. Nettles answered that she knew of no trouble, but that she was aware of a certain chill emanating from the good doctor regarding Mr. Paine. By contrast, she said, Dr. Shields acted warmly toward Mr. Winston and Mr. Bidwell, but it was apparent to her that the doctor would rather not share the same room in which Mr. Paine was present. It was nothing so dramatic that anyone else might notice, but in her opinion Dr. Shields had a marked distaste for the man.

  "Thank you, " Matthew said. "Oh... one more thing. Who arrived first in Fount Royal? Mr. Paine or the doctor?"

  "Mr. Paine did, " she replied. "It was... oh, more'n a month or two a'fore Dr. Shields came." She knew there must be a valid reason for these questions. "Does this concern Rachel Howarth?"

  "No, I don't believe so. It's only an observation I needed verified."

  "Oh, I swan it's more'n that!" She offered him a sly smile. "You canna' leave a thread undone, can ya?"

  "I might find employment as a weaver of rugs, if that's what you mean."

  "Ha!" She gave a rough bark of a laugh. "Yes, I 'spect you might!" However, her smile vanished and her countenance darkened until she had reached her customary grim composure. "It's all up for Madam Howarth then, is that the basket?"

  "The lid has not yet been closed, " Matthew said.

  "Meanin' what?"

  "Meaning that the execution flame has not yet been lighted... and that I have some reading to do. Excuse me and good night." Matthew took his tray of tea and biscuits upstairs to his room, where he poured himself a cup and sat down next to the open window, his lantern burning on its sill. For the third time he took the documents from their protective box and began reading through them, starting at the beginning.

  By now he might have recited the testimony by heart. Still he felt—or, rather, ardently hoped—that something in the thicket of words might leap out at him like a directional signpost, signaling the next step in his exploration. He drank from his cup of tea and chewed on a biscuit. Bidwell had taken his own repast at Van Gundy's tavern, as Matthew had discovered from Dr. Shields, who had earlier seen Bidwell hoisting a tankard with Winston and several other men in a general air of merry celebration.

  He finished—for the third time—Jeremiah Buckner's account and paused to rub his eyes. He felt in need of a tankard himself, yet strong drink would weaken his resolve and blur his sight. Oh, for a night of pure sleep untouched by the thought of Rachel afire on the stake!

  Or even a night untouched by the thought of Rachel. Period.

  He recalled what the magistrate had said: Helping her. Finding the truth. Being of service. Whatever and however you choose to phrase it... Rachel Howarth is your nightbird, Matthew. Perhaps the magistrate was right, but not in the sinister way he had meant it.

  Matthew closed his eyes for a moment to rest them. Then he opened them, drank some more tea to fortify himself, and continued his reading. Now he was venturing into the testimony of Elias Garrick, and the man's recollection of the night he had awakened and— Wait, he thought. That was odd.

  He read again over the section he had just digested. That night I was feelin' poorly, and I waked up to go outside and spew what was makin' me ill. It was silent. Every thin' was silent, like the whole world was afeared to breathe.

  Matthew sat up from his slouched position in the chair. He reached out and pulled the lantern nearer. Then he turned back through the pages until he found the beginning of Jeremiah Buckner's testimony.

  And there it was.

  Me and Patience went to bed just like usual that night. She put out the lamp. Then... I don't know how long it was later... 1 heard my name spoke. I opened my eyes. Every thin' was dark, and silent. I waited, a'listenin'. Just silent, like there was nothin' else in the whole world makin' a sound but my breathin'. Then... I heard my name spoke again, and I looked at the foot of the bed and seen her.

  With an eager hand, Matthew turned to the beginning of Violet Adams's testimony, as she recounted entering the Hamilton house. He put a finger on the line of importance, his heart starting to slam hard in his chest.

  There wasn't nary a noise. It was silent, like... it was just me breathin' and that was the only sound.

  Three witnesses.

  Three testimonies.

  But the same word: silent.

  And that about breathing being the only sound... what possible coincidence could that be? Also the repeated phrase whole world by both Buckner and Garrick... it defied reason to think both men would speak the exact same words.

  Unless... without knowing it... all three of the witnesses had been told what to say.

  Matthew felt a chill skitter up his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck moved. He realized he had just had a glimpse of the shadow he sought.

  It was a terrifying realization. Because the shadow was larger and darker and more strangely powerful than he had dared believe. The shadow had been standing behind Jeremiah Buckner,

  Elias Garrick, and Violet Adams there in the gaol, all the time they'd been giving their accounts.

  "My God, " Matthew whispered, his eyes wide. Because he had realized the shadow was in their minds, directing their words, emotions, and counterfeit memories. The three witnesses were no more than flesh-and-blood poppets, constructed by the hand of an evil beyond Matthew's imagining.

  One hand. The same hand. A hand that sewed six gold buttons on a Satanic cloak. That created a white-haired imp, a leathery lizard-like manbeast, and a bizarre creature that had a male penis and female breasts. The same hand had created these scenes of sickening depravity, had painted them on the very air to display to Buckner, Garrick, Violet, and probably other citizens, who had fled for their sanity. For that's what the scenes were: air-paintings. Or, rather, paintings that came to life inside the minds that were spelled to accept them as truth.

  That was why Buckner could not recall where he'd put his cane, which he was unable to get around without, or whether he had worn a coat outside in the cold February air, or whether he had taken his shoes off when he'd climbed back into bed.

  That was why Garrick could not recall what clothes he had worn outside to go spew, or whether he had put on shoes or boots, or what pattern the six gold buttons were arranged in though he clearly noted their number.

  That was why Violet Adams had not noticed the reek of a decaying dog's carcass, or the fact that the Hamilton
house was overrun by canines.

  Not one of the three witnesses had actually witnessed anything but these mental paintings, constructed by a shadowy hand that had emphasized some details for the purpose of shock and disgust—the kind of details that would make for damning court testimony—but had omitted other details of a more commonplace nature.

  Except for the pattern of gold buttons on the cloak, Matthew thought. That was where the shadowy hand had been... the only word Matthew could think of was precious.

  The hand had made the oversight of not detailing the arrangement of buttons for Buckner or Garrick, but had attempted to make up for it by providing that detail to Violet, who collected buttons and therefore might be more observant as to their pattern.

  It occurred to Matthew that the shadowy hand might have placed the poppets under the floor of Rachel's house, and then painted the dream by which Cara Grunewald had seen an item of importance hidden there. He would have liked to have spoken to Madam Grunewald, to learn if, when she'd gone to sleep that night, everything was silent, as if the whole world was feared to breathe.

  Matthew turned through the pages to another point he recalled of Garrick's account. It was when he had challenged Garrick concerning the arrangement of the six gold buttons, and had pressed his question to the man's obviously confused agitation.

  Garrick's response had been a whispered It was a silent town. Silent. The whole world, afeared to breathe.

  Matthew realized that what he had heard was Garrick repeating a phrase supplied to him by the owner of the shadowy hand. Garrick had been unable to answer the question, and had unwittingly fixed on that somnambulistic phrase in a moment of great stress because it was one of the clearest things he did remember.

  And now there was the question of Linch's voice, singing in the dark at the Hamilton house. If Violet had not actually set foot in the house, how could she have heard the ratcatcher singing his grotesque ditty from the back room?

  Matthew put aside the documents and finished his cup of tea, staring out the window toward the slaves' quarters and the darkness beyond. He might have decided that Violet had been dreaming the involvement of Linch as well as the rest of it, but his own exploration of Linch's dwelling told Matthew the ratcatcher had concealed the secrets of his identity behind a cleverly constructed front.

  Linch was literate and obviously cunning. Was it possible his was the shadowy hand that had guided the three witnesses?

  But why? And how? By what form of sorcery had Linch—or whomever—caused three individuals to see similar apparitions and believe without a doubt they had been viewing reality? It had to be black magic, of a sort. Not the kind popularly associated with Satan, but the kind that evolves from a corrupt and twisted human mentality. But also a mentality that was well ordered and precise, as Linch's must be.

  Matthew couldn't understand how Linch, or anyone else, might have done it.

  Such a thing—the guiding of three minds toward a common fiction—seemed to be absolutely impossible. Nevertheless, Matthew was certain that was exactly what had occurred.

  And what of the question of motive? Why go to such lengths—and such incredible risk—to paint Rachel as being a servant of the Devil? It had to be much more than simply covering the tracks that led away from the murders of Reverend Grove and Daniel Howarth. In fact, those killings seemed to Matthew to have been committed to add weight of suspicion upon Rachel.

  So the point was to create a witch, Matthew thought. Rachel was already disliked by many of the citizens before Grove was murdered. Her dark beauty could not have aided her popularity among the other women, and her Portuguese heritage reminded the men of how close the Spanish territory lay to their farmland. She had a tongue, a willful spirit, and courage that ruffled the feathers of the church-guarding hens. Therefore Rachel was from the beginning a perfect candidate.

  Matthew chewed on another biscuit. He looked at the stars that glittered above the ocean, and at the candle that burned within the lantern's glass. The light of understanding was what he sought, yet it was a difficult illumination to unveil.

  Why create a witch? What possible reason was there for it? To hurt Bidwell? Was all this engineered by the jealous ravens of Charles Town to destroy Fount Royal before it could grow to rivalry?

  If that were so, wouldn't Winston have known Rachel was innocent? Or had the Charles Town elders planted another traitor or two within Fount Royal's midst and for the sake of security not informed Winston?

  And then there was the question of the mysterious surveyor, and what might lie in the mud at the fount's bottom. It struck him that tomorrow night—very late, after the last lantern had gone out and the final celebrants swept from Van Gundy's tavern—he might try his strength at some underwater swimming.

  Though the tea was certainly sturdy enough, Matthew still felt weariness pulling at him. It was his mind that needed rest just as much—if not more so—than his body. He needed to climb into bed, sleep until dawn, and awaken ready for a fresh appraisal of what he suspected, what he knew, and what he had yet to learn.

  Matthew relieved himself at the chamberpot, then undressed and lay down upon the bed. He left the lantern burning, as his realization of the shadowy hand's strange and compelling power had made him somewhat less than easy with the dark.

  He tossed and turned in the first bout of what would be a nightlong grappling with the hot gearwheels of his brain. At last, though, he relaxed enough to sleep for a time, and except for the occasional barking of a mongrel the town was ruled by silence.

  twenty-nine

  UPON AWAKENING AT FIRST LIGHT and the rooster chorale, Matthew hurriedly pulled on his breeches and crossed the hall to look in on the magistrate.

  Woodward was still sleeping on his stomach, his breathing harsh but steady. Matthew was curious as to the state of the blisters on Woodward's back, and so carefully lifted the gown to view them.

  Instantly he wished he had not. The blisters had flattened into ugly ebony bruises surrounded by circles of mottled flesh. Streaks of red ran underneath the skin, attesting to the pressures that the magistrate's body had endured. It occurred to Matthew that this procedure of heat and blister cups was more suited for the torture chamber than the sickbed. He lowered Woodward's gown again, then dipped a cloth into the bowl of water that sat atop the dresser and spent a moment wiping away the green crust that had accumulated around the magistrate's nostrils. The magistrate's face was damp and swollen, the fever radiating from him like the calidity from a bellows-coaxed blaze.

  "What..." Woodward whispered, his eyelids fluttering. "What is the day?"

  "Thursday, sir."

  "I must... get up... and about. Can you help me?"

  "I don't think it's wise to get up quite yet, sir. Possibly later in the day."

  "Nonsense. I... shall miss court... if I don't get up." Matthew felt something as keen as an icy dagger pierce his guts. "They... already think me... lax in my duties, " Woodward continued. "They think... I am more fond... of the rumpot... than the gavel. Yes, I saw Mendenhall yesterday. That peacock. Laughing at me... behind his hand. What day is it, did you say?"

  "Thursday." Matthew's voice was hushed.

  "I... have a larceny trial to hear. This morning. Where are my boots?"

  "Sir?" Matthew said. "I fear... that court has been postponed for the day."

  Woodward was quiet. Then, "Postponed?"

  "Yes, sir. The weather being so bad." Even as he spoke it, he could hear birds singing in the trees around the spring.

  "Ahhhhh, the weather, " Woodward whispered. His eyes had never fully opened, but remained hidden behind the fever-inflamed lids. "Then I shall stay indoors today, " he said. "Shall light a fire... drink a hot rum."

  "Yes, sir, I think that would be best."

  Woodward said something that was more gibberish than language, as if he were losing control over even his speech, but then he spoke clearly enough for Matthew to make out the words, "My back. Pains me."

  "I
t will be well soon. You must lie still and rest."

  "A bottle, " Woodward said, drowsing off once more. "Will you... bring me a bottle?"

  "I shall, yes, sir." It seemed a small but helpful untruth. The magistrate's eyelids had ceased their war against gravity and he lay quiet again, his breathing returned to its accustomed rasp like that of a rusted hinge being slowly worked back and forth.

  Matthew finished his task of carefully cleaning Woodward's nostrils. When he left the room, he was stricken in the middle of the hallway by what might have been a crushing weight suddenly applied to his shoulders. At the same time, the icy dagger that had entered his entrails seemed to twist toward his heart. He stood short of his own door, one hand clasped to his mouth and above it his eyes wide and brimming with tears.

  He was trembling, and wished to make it cease but could not. A sensation of utter powerlessness had come upon him, a sensation of being a leaf stripped from a tree in a high wind and blown through a terrifying altitude of lightning and rain.

  He had realized that every day—every hour—brought the magistrate closer to death. It was not now a question of whether the magistrate might die, but when. Matthew was sure this bleed-ing-and-blistering treatment was not sufficient; indeed, he doubted the ability of Dr. Shields to heal a man who was only half as ill as the magistrate. If Woodward could be gotten to Charles Town, to the attentions of the urban doctors who commanded fully equipped infirmaries and a benefit of medicines, then there was a chance—be it however diminished—that he might be cured of this savage malady.

  Yet Matthew knew that no one here would volunteer to carry Woodward the long distance to Charles Town, especially if it meant denigrating the abilities of their own doctor. If he undertook to convey Woodward there, he would lose at the very least two vital days from his investigation, and by the time he returned here Rachel would likely be a black smudge on a charred stake. Woodward might not be his father, it was true, but the man had served in as near that capacity as was humanly possible, saving him from the drear almshouse and setting him on a path of purpose. Did he not, then, owe the magistrate at least something?