Speaks the Nightbird mc-1

by Robert R. McCammon

  "Excellent advice." Winston gave a slight bow of his head. "I shall attend to it this afternoon. And I am very gratified, sir, that you did not leave this particular rope unknotted."

  "Mr. Winston is a useful man, " Matthew said to Bidwell. "You should be pleased to have him in your employ."

  Bidwell puffed his cheeks and blew out. "Whew! Don't I know it!"

  As Matthew turned away and started out with the treasure box, the master of Fount Royal had to ask one last question: "Matthew?" he said. "Uh... is there any way... any possible way at all... that... the fortune might be recovered?"

  Matthew made a display of thought. "As it has flowed along a river to the center of the earth, " he said, "I would think it extremely unlikely. But how long can you hold your breath?"

  "Ha!" Bidwell smiled grimly, but there was some good humor in it. "Just because I build ships and I'm going to station a grand navy here... does not mean I can swim. Now go along with you, and if Edward thinks he's going to convince me to give you a free horse and saddle, he is a sadly mistaken duke!"

  Matthew left the mansion and walked past the still waters of the spring on his way to the conjunction of streets. Before he reached the turn to Truth, however, he saw ahead of him the approach of a black-clad, black-tricorned, spidery, and wholly loathsome figure.

  "Ho, there!" Exodus Jerusalem called, lifting a hand. On this deserted street, the sound fairly echoed. Matthew was sorely tempted to run, but the preacher picked up his pace and met him. Blocked his way, actually.

  "What do you want?" Matthew asked.

  "A truce, please." Jerusalem showed both palms, and Matthew unconsciously held more securely to the treasure box. "We are packed and ready to leave, and I am on my way to give my regards to Mr. Bidwell."

  "Art thou?" Matthew lifted his eyebrows. "Thy speech has suddenly become more common, Preacher. Why is that?"

  "My speech? Oh... that!" Jerusalem grinned broadly, his face seamed with wrinkles in the sunlight. "It's an effort to keep that up. Too many thees and thous in one day and my lips near fall off."

  "It's part of your performance, you mean?"

  "No, it's real enough. My father spoke such, and his father before him. And my son—if I ever have a son—shall as well. Also, however, the widow Lassiter detests it. Gently, of course. She is a very gentle, very warm, very giving woman."

  "The widow Lassiter? Your latest conquest?"

  "My latest convert, " he corrected. "There is quite a difference. Ah yes, she's a wonderfully warm woman. She ought to be warm, since she weighs almost two hundred pounds. But she has a lovely face and she can surely mend a shirt!" He leaned in a little closer, his grin lecherous. "And she has quite the toll in her skirt, if you catch my meaning!"

  "I would prefer not to, thank you."

  "Well, as my father always said, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. The one-eyed, stiff beholder, I mean."

  "You are a piece of work, aren't you?" Matthew said, amazed at such audacity. "Do you do all your thinking with your private parts?"

  "Let us be friends. Brothers under the warming sun. I have heard all about your triumph. I don't fully understand how such a thing was done—the Satan play, I mean—but I am gratified to know that a righteous and innocent woman has been cleared, and that you are also found guiltless. Besides, it would be a damn sin for a looker like that to bum, eh?"

  "Excuse me, " Matthew said. "And farewell to you."

  "Ah, you may say farewell, but not goodbye, young man! Perchance we'll meet again, further along life's twisting road."

  "We might meet again, at that. Except I might be a judge and you might be at the end of a twisting rope."

  "Ha, ha! An excellent joke!" Now, however, a serious cast came over the wizened face. "Your magistrate. I—honestly—am very sorry. He fought death to the end, I understand."

  "No, " Matthew said. "In the end he accepted it. As I did."

  "Yes, of course. That, too. But he did seem a decent man. Too bad he died in a hole like this."

  Matthew stared at the ground, a muscle working in his jaw.

  "If you like, before I leave I might go to his grave and speak a few words for his eternal soul."

  "Preacher, " Matthew said in a strained voice, "all is well with his eternal soul. I suggest you go give your regards to Mr. Bidwell, get in your wagon with your witless brood, and go to—wherever you choose to go. Just leave my sight." He lifted his fierce gaze to the man, and saw the preacher flinch. "And let me tell you that if I but see you walking in the direction of Magistrate Woodward's grave, I will forget the laws of God and man and do my damnedest to put my boot so far up your ass I will kick your teeth out from the inner side. Do you understand me?"

  Jerusalem backed away a few steps. "It was only a thought!"

  "Good day, goodbye, and good riddance." Matthew sidestepped him and continued on his way.

  "Ohhhhh, not goodbye!" Jerusalem called. "Farewell, perhaps! But not goodbye! I have a feeling thou shalt lay eyes on me at some future unknown date, as I travel this ungodly, debased, and corrupted land in the continual—continual, I say—battle against the foul seed of Satan! So I say to thee, brother Matthew, farewell... but never goodbye!"

  The voice—which Matthew thought could strip paint off wood if Jerusalem really let it bray—was fading behind him as he turned onto Truth Street. He dared not look back, for he didn't care to become a pillar of salt today.

  He passed the gaol. He did not give the odious place a single glance, though his gut tightened as he stepped on its shadow.

  And then he came to her house.

  Rachel had been busy. She had pulled into the yard much of the furniture, and a washtub of soapy water stood at the ready. Also brought into the cleansing sun were clothes, bedsheets, a mattress, kettles and skillets, shoes, and just about everything else a household contained.

  The door was wide open, as were all the shutters. Airing the place out, he thought. Intending to move in again, and make it a home. Indeed, Rachel was more like Bidwell in her tenacity—one might say foolhearted stubbornness—than ever he'd imagined. Still, if elbow grease alone could transform that rat-whiskered shack to a livable cottage again, she would have a mansion of her own.

  He crossed the yard, winding between the accumulated belongings. Suddenly his progress was interrupted by a small chestnut-brown dog that sprang up from its drowsing posture beside the washtub, took a stance that threatened attack, and began to bark in a voice that surely rivalled the preacher's for sheer volume.

  Rachel came to the threshold and saw who her visitor was. "Hush!" she commanded. "Hush!" She clapped her hands to get the mongrel's attention. The dog ceased its alarms and, with a quick wag of its tail and a wide-mouthed yawn, plopped itself down on the sun-warmed ground again.

  "Well!" Matthew said. "It seems you have a sentinel."

  "She took up with me this morning." Rachel wiped her dirty hands on an equally dirty rag. "I gave her one of the ham biscuits Mrs. Nettles made for me, and we are suddenly sisters."

  Matthew looked around at the furniture and other items. "You have your labors ahead of you, I see."

  "It won't be so bad, once I finish scrubbing the house."

  "Rachel!" Matthew said. "You don't really plan on staying here, do you?"

  "It's my home, " she answered, spearing him with those intense amber eyes. She wore a blue-printed scarf around her head, and her face was streaked with grime. The gray dress and white apron she wore were equally filthy. "Why should I leave it?"

  "Because..." He hesitated, and showed her the box. "Because I have something for you. May I come in?"

  "Yes. Mind the mess, though."

  As Matthew approached the door, he heard a whuff of wind behind him and thought the mighty sentinel had decided to take a bite from his ankle. He turned in time to see the brown dog go tearing off across the field, where it seized one of two fleeing rats and shook the rodent between its jaws in a crushing deathgrip.

  "She does like t
o chase them, " Rachel said.

  Within the bare house, Matthew saw that Rachel had been scraping yellow lichens from the floorboards with an axeblade. The fungus and mildew that had spread across the walls had bloomed into strange purple and green hues only otherwise to be seen in fever dreams. However, Matthew saw that where the sunlight touched, the growths had turned ashen. A broom leaned against the wall, next to a pile of dust, dirt, rat pellets, and bones. Nearby was a bucket of more soapy water, in which a scrub brush was immersed.

  "You know, there are plenty of houses available, " Matthew said. "If you really insist on staying here, you might move into one only recently abandoned and save yourself all this work. As a matter of fact, I know a very comfortable place, and the only labor involved would be clearing out a wasp's nest."

  "This is my home, " she answered.

  "Well... yes... but still, don't you think—"

  She turned away from him and picked up a rolling pin that lay on the floor near the broom. Then she walked to a wall and put her ear against it. Following that, she whacked the boards three times and Matthew could hear the panicked squeaking and scurrying from within.

  "Those defy me, " Rachel said. "I've tun out most of them, but those—right there—defy me. I swear I'll clean them out. Every last one of them."

  And at that moment Matthew understood.

  Rachel, he believed, was still in a state of shock. And who could fault her? The loss of her husband, the loss of her home, the loss of her freedom. Even—for a time at least, as she prepared herself for the fires—the loss of her will to live. And now, faced with the daunting—and perhaps impossible—task of rebuilding, she must concentrate on and conquer what she perceived as the last obstacle to a return to normality.

  But who, having walked through such flames, could ever erase the memory of being singed?

  "I regret I have nothing to offer you, " she said, and now that he was looking for it he could see a certain burnt blankness in her eyes. "It will be a time before my cupboard is restocked."

  "Yes, " Matthew said. He gave her a sad but gentle smile. "I'm sure. But... nonetheless, it will be restocked, won't it?"

  "You may put faith in it, " she answered, and then she pressed her ear to the wall again.

  "Let me show you what I've brought." He approached her and offered the box. "Take it and look inside." Rachel laid down the rolling pin, accepted the box, and lifted its lid.

  Matthew saw no reaction on her face, as she viewed the coins and the other items. "The little bag. Open that too." She shook the gems out into the box. Again, there was no reaction.

  "Those were found in Johnstone's house." He had already decided to tell her the truth. "Mr. Bidwell asked me to give them to you."

  "Mr. Bidwell, " Rachel repeated, without emotion. She closed the lid and held the box out. "You take them. I have already received from Mr. Bidwell all the gifts that I can stand."

  "Listen to me. Please. I know how you must feel, but—"

  "No. You do not, nor can you ever."

  "Of course you're right." He nodded. "But surely you must realize you're holding a true fortune. I daresay with the kind of money you could get in Charles Town from the sale of those jewels, you might live in Mr. Bidwell's style in some larger, more populous city."

  "I see what his style is, " she countered, "and I detest it. Take the box."

  "Rachel, let me point out something to you. Bidwell did not murder your husband. Nor did he create this scheme. I don't particularly care for his... um... motivations, either, but he was reacting to a crisis that he thought would destroy Fount Royal. In that regard, " Matthew said, "he acted properly. You know, he might have hanged you without waiting for the magistrate. I'm sure he could have somehow justified it."

  "So you're justifying him, is that right?"

  "Since he now faces a guilty verdict from you in a tragedy for which he was not wholly responsible, " Matthew said, "I am simply pleading his case."

  Rachel stared at him in silence, still holding out the box to him. He made no move to accept it.

  "Daniel is gone, " Matthew told het. "You know that. Gone, too, are the men who murdered him. But Fount Royal—such as it may be—is still here, and so is Bidwell. It appears he intends to do his best to rebuild the town. That is his main concern. It seems to be yours as well. Don't you think this common ground is larger than hatred?"

  "I shall take this box, " Rachel said calmly, "and dump it into the spring if you refuse it."

  "Then go ahead, " he answered, "because I do refuse it. Oh: except for one gold piece. The one that Johnstone stole from my room. Before you throw your fortune and future away to prove your devotion to Daniel in continued poverty and suffering, I will take the one gold piece." There was no response from her, though perhaps she did flinch just a little.

  "I understand Bidwell's position, " Matthew said. "The evidence against you was overwhelming. I too might have pressed for your execution, if I believed firmly enough in witchcraft. And... if I hadn't fallen in love with you."

  Now she did blink; her eyes, so powerful a second before, had become dazed.

  "Of course you recognized it. You didn't want me to. In fact, you asked me to—as you put it—go on about my life. You said— there in the gaol, after I'd read the magistrate's decree—that the time had come to embrace reality." He disguised his melancholy with a faint smile. "That time has now come for both of us."

  Rachel looked down at the floor. She had taken hold of the box with both hands, and Matthew saw an ocean's worth of conflicting tides move across her face.

  He said, "I'm leaving in the morning. I will be in Charles Town for a few weeks. Then most likely I will be travelling to New York. At that time I can be reached through Magistrate Nathaniel Powers, if you ever have need of me."

  She lifted her gaze to his, her eyes wet and glistening. "I can never repay you for my life, Matthew. How can I even begin?"

  "Oh... one gold coin will do, I think."

  She opened the box, and he took the coin. "Take another, " she offered. "Take as many as you like. And some of the jewels, too."

  "One gold coin, " he said. "That's my due." He put the coin into his pocket, never to be spent. He looked around the house and sighed. He had the feeling that once the rats were run out and her home was truly hers again, she might embrace the reality of moving to a better abode—further away from that wretched gaol.

  Rachel took a step toward him. "Do you believe me... when I say I'll remember you when I'm an old, old woman?"

  "I do. And please remember me, if at that point you're seeking the excitement of a younger man."

  She smiled, in spite of her sadness. Then she grasped his chin, leaned forward—and kissed him very softly on the forehead, below the bandage that covered what would be his grandchildren's favorite story.

  Now was the moment, he realized. It was now or never.

  To ask her. Had she actually entered that smoke-palled medicine lodge? Or had it been only his feverish—and wishful—fantasy?

  Was he still a virgin, or not?

  He made his decision, and he thought it was the right one.

  "Why are you smiling that way?" Rachel asked.

  "Oh... I am remembering a dream I think I had. One more thing: you said to me once that your heart was used up." Matthew looked into her dirt-streaked, determined face, forever-more locking her remarkable beauty of form and spirit in his memory vault. "I believe... it is a cupboard that only need be restocked." He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, and then he had to go.

  Had to.

  As Matthew left the house, Rachel followed him to the door.

  She stood there, on the threshold of her home and her own new beginning. "Goodbye!" she called, and perhaps her voice was tremulous. "Goodbye!"

  He glanced back. His eyes were stinging, and she was blurred to his sight. "Farewell!" he answered. And then he went on, as Rachel's sentinel sniffed his shoes and then returned to its rat-catching duties.

&
nbsp; Matthew slept that night like a man who had rediscovered the meaning of peace.

  At five-thirty, Mrs. Nettles came to awaken him as he'd asked, though the town's remaining roosters had already performed that function. Matthew shaved, washed his face, and dressed in a pair of cinnamon-colored breeches and a fresh white shirt with the left sleeve cut away. He pulled up his white stockings and slid his feet into the square-toed shoes. If Bidwell wanted back the clothes he had loaned, the man would have to rip them off himself.

  Before he descended the stairs for the last time, Matthew went into the magistrate's room. No, that was wrong. The room was Bidwell's again, now. He stood there for a while, staring at the perfectly made bed. He looked at the candle stubs and the lantern. He looked at the clothes Woodward had worn, now draped over the back of a chair. All save the gold-striped waistcoat, which had gone with the magistrate to worlds unknown.

  Yesterday, when he'd gone to the graveside, he'd had a difficult time until he'd realized the magistrate no longer suffered, either in body or mind. Perhaps, in some more perfect place, the just were richly rewarded for their tribulations. Perhaps, in that place, a father might find a lost son, both of them gone home to a garden.

  Matthew lowered his head and wiped his eyes. Then he let his sadness go, like a nightbird. Downstairs, Mrs. Nettles had prepared him a breakfast that might have crippled the horse he was to ride. Bidwell was absent, obviously preferring to sleep late rather than share the clerk's meal. But with the final cup of tea, Mrs. Nettles brought Matthew an envelope, upon which was written Concerning the Character and Abilities of Master Matthew Corbett, Esq. Matthew turned it over and saw it was sealed with a red blob of wax in which was impressed an imperial B.

  "He asked I give it to ye, " Mrs. Nettles explained. "For your future references, he said. I'd be might pleased, for compliments from Mr. Bidwell are as rare as snowballs in Hell. ''