Speaks the Nightbird mc-1

by Robert R. McCammon

  "Wine, " Stewart said. "Yes, wine! Would you care for a taste, Mr. Corbett?" He proceeded to a round table on which was placed a rather ostentatious green glass decanter and three cuplike glasses of the same emeraude. Before Matthew had answered "Yes, " the decanter was unstoppered and the pouring begun. Stewart passed a glass to Matthew and set in on his own with the gusto of a salt-throated sailor.

  Matthew had no sooner taken his first sip of what was rather a bitter vintage when from the rear doorway two feminine voices, determined to overpower each other, rose in volume, tangled like the shrieks of harpies, and then fell to abrupt silence as if those winged horrors had dashed themselves upon jagged rocks.

  Stewart cleared his throat. "I myself have never been whipped, " he said. "I imagine it is a less than pleasant experience?"

  "Less than pleasant, " Matthew agreed, glancing now and again at the doorway as at a portal beyond which an infernal struggle raged. "But more than instructive."

  "Oh yes! I would think so! You committed an injury to the blacksmith, I understand? Well, I'm sure you must have had a reason. Did you see him treating a horse with less than affection?"

  "Um..." Matthew took a sturdier drink of wine. "No, I believe Mr. Hazelton has a strong affection for horses. It was... let us say... a matter best kept stabled."

  "Yes, of course! I've no wish to pry." Stewart drank again, and after a pause of three or four interminable seconds he laughed. "Oh! Stabled! I get your jest!"

  Lucretia emerged once more, her radiance undiminished by the wrangling that had just occurred. "My apologies, " she said, still smiling. "Cherise is... having some difficulty with her hair. She wishes to make a good presentation, you see. She is a perfectionist, and so magnifies even small blemishes."

  "Her mother's daughter, " Stewart muttered, before he slid his lips into the glass.

  "But what would this world be without its perfectionists?" Lucretia was addressing Matthew, and deigned not to respond to her husband's comment. "I shall tell you: it would be all dust, dirt, and utter confusion. Isn't that right, Mr. Corbett?"

  "I'm sure it would be disastrous, " Matthew replied, and this was enough to put a religious shine in the woman's eyes.

  She made a sweeping gesture toward the table. "As Cherise may be some moments yet, we should adjourn to dinner, " she announced. "Mr. Corbett, if you will sit at the place that has a pewter plate?"

  There was indeed a pewter plate on the table, one of the few that Matthew had ever seen. The other plates were of the common wooden variety, which indicated to Matthew the importance the Vaughans gave to his visit. Indeed, he felt as if they must consider him royalty. He sat in the appointed chair, with Stewart seated to his left. Lucretia quickly donned an apron and went about spooning and ladling food from the cooking pots into white clay serving bowls. Presently the bowls were arranged on the table, containing green stringbeans with hogsfat, chicken stew with boiled potatoes and bacon, corncakes baked in cream, and stewed tomatoes. Along with a golden loaf of fresh fennel-seed bread, it was truly a king's feast. Matthew's glass was topped with wine, after which Lucretia took off her apron and seated herself at the head of the table, facing their guest, where by all rights of marriage and household the husband ought to be.

  "I shall lead us in our thanks, " Lucretia said, another affront to the duties of her husband. Matthew closed his eyes and bowed his head. The woman gave a prayer of thanksgiving that included Matthew's name and mentioned her hope that the wretched soul of Rachel Howarth find an angry God standing ready to smite her spectral skull from her shoulders after the execution stake had done its work. Then the fervent "Amen" was spoken and Matthew opened his eyes to find Cherise Vaughan standing beside him.

  "Here is our lovely daughter!" Lucretia exclaimed. "Cherise, take your place."

  The girl, in a white linen gown with a lace bodice and sleeves, continued to stand where she was and stare down at Matthew. She was indeed an attractive girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, her waves of blonde hair held fixed by a series of small wooden combs. Matthew imagined she must closely resemble her mother at that age, though her chin was longer and somewhat more square and her eyes almost as pale blue as her father's. In these eyes, however, there was no suggestion of a watery constitution; there was instead a haughty chill that Matthew instantly dropped his gaze from, lest he shiver from a December wind on this May night.

  "Cherise?" Lucretia repeated, gently but firmly. "Take. Your. Place. Please."

  The girl sat down—slowly, at her own command—on Matthew's right. She wasted no time in reaching out and spooning chicken stew onto her plate.

  "Are you not even going to say hello to Mr. Corbett?"

  "Hello, " she answered, pushing the first bite of food into her cupid's-bow mouth.

  "Cherise helped prepare the stew, " Lucretia said. "She has been desirous to make certain it was to your liking."

  "I'm sure it's excellent, " Matthew answered. He spooned some of the stew onto his plate and found it as good as it appeared, then he tore off a hunk of bread and sopped it in the thick, delicious liquid.

  "Mr. Corbett is a fascinating young man." This was spoken to Cherise, though Lucretia continued to gaze upon him. "Not only is he a sophisticated gentleman and a judicial apprentice from Charles Town, but he fought off that mob of killers and thieves who attacked the magistrate. Armed only with a rapier, I understand?"

  Matthew accepted a helping of stewed tomatoes. He could feel three pairs of eyes upon him. Now was the moment to explain that the 'mob' consisted of one ruffian, an old crone, and an infirm geezer... but instead his mouth opened and what came out was, "No... I... had not even a rapier. Would you pass the corncakes, please?"

  "My Lord, what a night that must have been!" Stewart was profoundly impressed. "Did you not have a weapon at all?"

  "I... uh... used a boot to good advantage. This is an absolutely wonderful stew! Mr. Bidwell's cook ought to have this recipe."

  "Well, our Cherise is a wonderful cook herself, " Lucretia assured him. "I am currently teaching her the secrets of successful pie baking. Not an easy subject to command, I must say."

  "I'm sure it's not." Matthew offered a smile to the girl, but she was having none of it. She simply ate her food and stared straight ahead with no trace of expression except, perhaps, absolute boredom.

  "And now... about the treasure chest full of gold coins you found." Lucretia laid her spoon and knife delicately across her plate. "You had it sent back to Charles Town, I understand?"

  Here he had to draw the line. "I fear there was no treasure chest. Only a single coin."

  "Yes, yes... of course. Only a single coin. Very well, then, I can see you are a canny guardian of information. But what can you tell us of the witch? Does she weep and wail at the prospect of burning?"

  The stew he was about to swallow had suddenly sprouted thorns and lodged in his throat. "Mrs. Vaughan, " he said, as politely as possible, "if you don't mind... I would prefer not to talk about Rachel Howarth."

  Suddenly Cherise looked at him and grinned, her blue eyes gleaming. "Oh, that is a subject I find of interest!" Her voice was pleasingly melodic, but there was a wickedly sharp edge to it as well. "Do tell us about the witch, sir! Is it true she shits toad-frogs?"

  "Cherise!" Lucretia had hissed the name, her teeth gritted and her eyes wide with alarm. Instantly her composure altered with the speed of a chameleon's color change; her smile returned, though fractured, and she looked down the table at Matthew. "Our daughter has... an earthy sense of humor, Mr. Corbett. You know, it is said that some of the finest, most gracious ladies have earthy senses of humor. One must not be too stiff and rigid in these strange times, must one?"

  "Stiff and rigid, " the girl said, as she pushed a tomato into her mouth and gave a gurgling little laugh. Matthew saw that Lucretia had chosen to continue eating, but red whorls had risen in her cheeks. Stewart drank down his glass of wine and reached for the decanter.

  No one spoke for a time. It was then
that Matthew was aware of a faint humming sound, but he couldn't place where it was coming from. "I might tell you, as a point of information, " he said, to break the wintry silence, "that I am not yet a judicial apprentice. I am a magistrate's clerk, that's all."

  "Ah, but you shall be a judicial apprentice in the near future, will you not?" Lucretia asked, beaming again. "You are young, you have a fine mind and a desire to serve. Why should you not enter the legal profession?"

  "Well... I probably shall, at some point. But I do need much more education and experience."

  "A humble soul!" She spoke it as if she had found the Grail itself. "Do you hear that, Cherise? The young man stands on the precipice of such political power and wealth, and he remains humble!"

  "The problem with standing on a precipice, " he said, "is that one might fall from a great height."

  "And a wit as well!" Lucretia seemed near swooning with delight. "You know how wit charms you, Cherise!"

  Cherise stared again into Matthew's eyes. "I desire to know more about the witch. I have heard tell she took the cock of a black goat into her mouth and sucked on it."

  "Umph!" A rivulet of wine had streamed down Stewart's chin and marred his gray jacket. He had paled as his wife had reddened.

  Lucretia was about to either hiss or shriek, but before she could, Matthew met the girl's stare with equal force and said calmly, "You have heard a lie, and whoever told you such a thing is not only a liar but a soul in need of a mouth-soaping."

  "Billy Reed told me such a thing. Shall I find him tomorrow and tell him you're going to soap his mouth?"

  "That thug's name shall not be uttered in this house!" The veins were standing out in Lucretia's neck. "I forbid it!"

  "I will find Billy Reed tomorrow, " Cherise went on, defiantly. "Where shall I tell him you will meet him with your soap?"

  "I beg your pardon, Mr. Corbett! I beg a thousand pardons!" In her agitation, the woman had spilled a spoonful of corncake and cream on the front of her gown, and now she was blotting the stain with a portion of the tablecloth. "That thug is James Reed's miscreant son! He's near an imbecile, he has the ambition of a sloth... and he has wicked designs on my daughter!"

  Cherise grinned—or, rather, leered—into Matthew's face. "Billy is teaching me how to milk. In the afternoons, at their barn, he shows me how to hold the member. How to slide my hand up and down... up and down... up and down..." She displayed the motion for him, much to his discomfort and her mother's choked gasp. "Until the cream spurts forth. And a wonderful hot cream it is, too."

  Matthew didn't respond. It did occur to him that—absolutely, positively—he'd lately been hiding in the wrong barn.

  "I think, " Stewart said, rising unsteadily to his feet, "that the rum bottle should be unstoppered."

  "For God's sake, stay away from that rum!" Lucretia hollered, oblivious now to their honored guest. "That's the cause of all our troubles! That, and your poor excuse for a carpentry shop!"

  Matthew's glance at Cherise showed him she was eating her dinner with a smirk of satisfaction upon her face, which was now not nearly so lovely. He put his own spoon and knife down, his appetite having fled. Stewart was fumbling in a cupboard and Lucretia was attacking her food with a vengeance, her eyes dazed and her face as red as the stewed tomatoes. In the silence that fell, Matthew heard the strange humming sound again. He looked up.

  And received a jolt.

  On the ceiling directly above the table was a wasp's nest the size of Mr. Green's fist. The thing was black with wasps, all crowded together, their wings folded back along their stingers. As Matthew watched, unbelieving, he saw a minor disturbance ripple across the insects and several of them commenced that angry humming noise.

  "Uh... Mrs. Vaughan, " he said thickly. "You have..." He pointed upward.

  "Yes, wasps. What of it?" Her manners—along with her composure, her family, and the evening—had greatly deteriorated.

  Matthew realized why the nest must be there. He'd heard of such a thing, but he'd never before seen it. As he understood, a potion could be bought or made that, once applied to an indoor ceiling, enraptured wasps to build their nests on the spot.

  "Insect control, I assume?" he asked.

  "Of course, " Lucretia said, as if any fool on earth knew that. "Wasps are jealous creatures. We suffer no mosquitoes in this house."

  "None that will bite her, anyway, " Stewart added, and then he continued suckling from the bottle.

  This evening, Matthew thought, might have been termed a farce had there not been such obvious suffering from all persons involved. The mother ate her dinner as if in a stunned trance, while the daughter now set about consuming her food more with fingers than proper utensils, succeeding in smearing her mouth and chin with gleaming hogsfat. Matthew finished his wine and a last bite of the excellent stew, and then he thought he should make his exit before the girl decided he might look more appealing crowned with a serving-bowl.

  "I... uh... presume I'd best go, " he said. Lucretia spoke not a word, as if her inner fire had been swamped by her daughter's wanton behavior. Matthew pushed his chair back and stood up. "I wish to thank you for the dinner and the wine. Uh... no need to walk me back to the mansion, Mr. Vaughan."

  "I wasn't plannin' on it, " the man said, clutching the rum bottle to his chest.

  "Mrs. Vaughan? May I... uh... take some of that delicious bread with me?"

  "All you wish, " she murmured, staring into space. "The rest of it, if you like."

  Matthew accepted what was perhaps half a loaf. "My appreciation."

  Lucretia looked up at him. Her vision cleared, as she seemed to realize that he actually was leaving. A weak smile flickered across her mouth. "Oh... Mr. Corbett... where are my manners? I thought... hoped... that after dinner... we might all play atlanctie loo."

  "I fear I am without talent at card games."

  "But... there are so many things I wished to converse with you about. The magistrate's condition being one. The state of affairs in Charles Town. The gardens... and the balls."

  "I'm sorry, " Matthew said. "I don't have much experience with either gardens or balls. As to the state of affairs in Charles Town, I would call them... somewhat less interesting than those in Fount Royal. The magistrate is still very ill, but Dr. Shields is administering a new medicine he's concocted."

  "You know, of course, " she said grimly, "that the witch has cursed your magistrate. For the guilty decree. I doubt he shall survive with such a curse laid on him."

  Matthew felt his face tighten. "I believe differently, madam."

  "Oh... I... I am being so insensitive. I am only repeating what I overhead Preacher Jerusalem saying this afternoon. Please forgive me, it's just that—"

  "That she has a knife for a tongue, " Cherise interrupted, still eating with graceless fingers. "She only apologizes when it cuts herself."

  Lucretia leaned her head toward her daughter, much in the manner of a snake preparing to strike. "You may leave the table and our presence, " she said coldly. "Inasmuch as you have disgraced yourself and all of us, I do hope you are happy."

  "I am happy. I am also still hungry." She refused to budge from her place. "You know that you were brought here to save me, do you not?" A quick glance was darted at Matthew, as she licked her greasy fingers. "To rescue me from Fount Royal and the witless rustics my mother despises? Oh, if you are so sophisticated you must have known that already!"

  "Stop her, Stewart!" Lucretia implored, her voice rising. "Make her hush!"

  The man, however, tilted the bottle to his mouth and then began peeling off his suit jacket.

  "Yes, it's true, " Cherise said. "My mother sells them breads and pies and wishes them to choke on the crumbs. You should hear her talk about them behind their backs!"

  Matthew stared down into the girl's face. Her mother's daughter, Stewart had said. Matthew might have recognized the streak of viciousness. The pity, he mused, was that Cherise Vaughan seemed to be highly intelligent. She had recogn
ized, for instance, that speaking of Rachel Howarth had caused him great discomfort of a personal nature.

  "I will show myself out, " Matthew said to Mrs. Vaughan. "Again, thank you for the dinner." He started toward the door, carrying the half-loaf of fennel-seed bread with him.

  "Mr. Corbett? Wait, please!" Lucretia stood up, a large cream stain on the front of her gown. Again she appeared dazed, as if these verbal encounters with her daughter sapped the very life from her. "Please... I have a question for you."

  "Yes?"

  "The witch's hair, " she said. "What is to become of it?"

  "Her... hair? I'm sorry, I don't understand your meaning."

  "The witch has such... shall I say... attractive hair. One might say beautiful, even. It is a sadness that such thick and lovely hair should be burnt up." Matthew could not have replied even if he'd wished to, so stunned was he by this direction of thinking.

  But the woman continued on. "If the witch's hair should be washed... and then shorn off, on the morning of her execution... there are many, I would venture—who might pay for a lock of it. Think of it: the witch's hair advertised and sold as a charm of good fortune." Her countenance seemed to brighten at the very idea of it. "It might be heralded as firm evidence of God's destruction of Evil. You see my meaning now?"

  Still Matthew's tongue was frozen solid.

  "Yes, and I would grant you a portion of the earnings as well, " she said, mistaking his amazed expression as approval. "But I think it best if you washed and cut the hair yourself, on some pretext or another, as we wouldn't wish too many fingers in our pie."

  He just stood there, feeling sick. "Well?" she urged. "Can we consider ourselves in company?"

  Somehow, he turned from her and got out the door. As he walked away along Harmony Street, a cold sheen of moisture on his face, he heard the woman calling him from her doorway: "Mr. Corbett? Mr. Corbett?"

  And louder and more shrill: "Mr. Corbett?"

  thirty-one