Speaks the Nightbird

by Robert R. McCammon

  “Whilst thee is thinking,” Jerusalem said, “might I view mine enemy?”

  “No!” Woodward said. “Certainly not!”

  “Magistrate,” he answered in a silken voice, “from the sound of thee, I should say the witch hath already struck thee ill. Might she also hath struck ill your judgment?” He turned his attention again to Bidwell. “I request to view her, please. So that I may know the depth of Satan’s infestation in her soul.”

  Woodward thought that Bidwell looked near fainting. The master of Fount Royal had come to his weakest moment. He said, “All right. I cannot see the harm in it.”

  “I can!” Woodward protested, but Bidwell moved past him and pulled open the gaol’s door. Jerusalem bowed his head slightly to acknowledge Bidwell’s gesture and then walked inside, his boots clumping on the boards.

  At once Woodward followed him, desirous to contain whatever damage the preacher might do. Bidwell entered too, as well as Johnstone, while Paine seemed to have come to the end of his interest in the matter and remained on horseback. The gaol’s dim interior was illuminated only by the milky light that came through the roof’s hatch, which Woodward himself had opened that morning.

  Matthew and Rachel had heard the commotion, Paine’s speech, and the voices of the men outside the door, so they knew what to expect. Exodus Jerusalem first paused before Matthew’s cage and peered through the bars. “Who art thee?”

  “My clerk,” Woodward said, his voice all but vanished.

  “He is present to keep watch o’er the witch?”

  “I’m present,” Matthew said, “because I have been sentenced for three days due to an incident I regret.”

  “What?” Jerusalem pursed his lips. “A magistrate’s clerk hast become a criminal? This too must be the witch’s doing, to undermine the trial.” Before Matthew could reply, Jerusalem’s head swivelled toward the other cell and his gaze fell upon Rachel, who sat on her bench with her sackcloth cloak pulled around her but her face exposed.

  There was a long silence.

  “Ah, yes,” Jerusalem said at last. “I see a deep pool of sin in that one.” Rachel gave no reply, but she did return his stare.

  “Look how she glowers,” Jerusalem said. “Like a hot flame, eager to burn mine heart to a cinder. Wouldst thou delight in flying me to Hell on the wings of a crow, woman? Or wouldst thou be content to drive nails through mine eyes and split mine tongue in two?” She didn’t answer, choosing to shift her gaze to the straw. “There! Dost thou see? The evil in her quakes before me, and she cannot bear to look longer upon mine face.”

  “You are half right,” Rachel said.

  “A taunt, it seems! She’s a witty bitch.” Jerusalem walked past Matthew’s cell and stood next to the bars of the other cage. “What is thy name?”

  “A witty bitch,” she answered. “You have already named me.”

  “Her name is Rachel Howarth,” Bidwell said, standing behind the preacher. “Needless to say, she is very uncooperative.”

  “They always are.” Jerusalem curled his long, slender fingers around the bars. “As I say, I have had much experience with witches. I know the evil that hath eaten their hearts and blackened their souls. Oh yes, I know.” He nodded, his eyes fixed on Rachel. “This one hath committed two murders, is that correct?”

  “Yes. She first murdered our Anglican reverend and then her own husband,” Bidwell answered.

  “No, thou art wrong. This witch became the bride of Satan when she spilled the blood of a reverend. She hath also bewitched thy crops and the minds of thy citizens?”

  “Yes.”

  “Conjecture,” Matthew had to say. “So far unproven.”

  Jerusalem looked sharply at him. “What sayest thou?”

  “The evidence is not yet complete,” Matthew said. “Therefore the charges against Madam Howarth are still unproven.”

  “Madam Howarth, didst thou say?” Jerusalem gave a slight, chilly smile. “Thou dost refer to the witch with respect?”

  Woodward managed to speak: “My clerk has a liberal mind.”

  “Thy clerk may well have a diseased mind, made infirm by the power of this witch. It is quite dangerous to leave him here, in such close quarters. Wouldst there not be another place to confine him?”

  “No,” Bidwell said. “Nowhere else.”

  “Then the witch should be confined elsewhere. In strict solitude.”

  “I would have to protest that action,” Matthew said quickly. “As the trial is taking place here, it is Madam Howarth’s right to be present during the questioning of witnesses.”

  The preacher was silent, staring at Matthew. Then he said, “Gentlemen, I fear we are witnesses to the corruption of a young man’s soul. No clean Christian wouldst protect the rights of a witch.” He let that sentence linger before he went on. “It is a witch’s evil desire to drag into Hell as many persons as demonically possible. In the Old World, entire towns were burned to the ground and their citizens hanged because they were corrupted by a single witch.”

  “That may be so,” Matthew replied, “but this is the New World.”

  “Old World or New, the eternal battle between God and Satan remaineth the same. There is no middle ground. Either thou art a Christian soldier on one side…or a pawn of the Devil on the other. Where dost thou stand?”

  It was a nice trap, Matthew realized. He also, for the first time, realized the convolutions of warped logic that had been brought to bear against Rachel. “If I say I stand on the side of truth,” he answered, “does that make me a soldier or a pawn?”

  Jerusalem gave a quiet laugh. “Now here, gentlemen, thy see the beginnings of Adam’s fall: to emulate the serpent, first in thought, then in word, and finally in deed. Young man, be wary. Executions allow no such slippery maneuvers.”

  “If you please!” Woodward rasped. “My clerk is not on trial!”

  “Thy clerk,” Jerusalem said, “may no longer be truly thine.” He directed his attention once more to Rachel. “Witch!” he said, with the thunder returning to his voice. “Hast thou willed a spell on this young man’s tender soul?”

  “I’ve willed no spell on any soul,” she replied. “Tender or otherwise.”

  “Time shall tell, I think. Oh, thou art a brassy whore, full of lies and enchantments! But thou art caged now, art thy not? And every day’s dusk is one less day remaining for thy sin to take root!” He looked at Bidwell. “This one shalt not go easy to the gallows, that is a surety.”

  “Her death will be by burning,” Bidwell told him. “The magistrate’s decreed it.”

  “Ahhhhh, burning.” Jerusalem spoke it with such reverence it might be the very balm of life. “Yes, that would be suitable. Still, even ashes need the rite of sanctimonity.” He gave Rachel another chilly smile. “Enemy mine,” he said, “thy face changeth from town to town, but thou art always the same.” Then, to Bidwell again, “I have seen enough now. Mine sister and nephew wait for me. Art we free to camp on some available plot of land?”

  “Yes,” Bidwell said, with only a minor hesitation. “I’ll direct you.”

  “I’m against it!” Johnstone spoke up. “Is there nothing I can say to dissuade you, Robert?”

  “I think we need Jerusalem as much as we need the magistrate.”

  “You’ll think differently when he sets off another riot! Good day to you!” Johnstone, obviously angry and frustrated, limped out of the gaol with the aid of his cane.

  “Alan will come ’round,” Bidwell said to the preacher. “He’s our schoolmaster, but he’s also a sensible man.”

  “I trust thy schoolmaster is not being led astray in the same fashion as this clerk. Well sir, I am at thy disposal.”

  “All right, then. Come with me. But we’ll have no further…uh…disturbances, I hope?”

  “Disturbance is not mine cause, sir. I am here in the cause of deliverance.”

  Bidwell motioned for Jerusalem to proceed from the gaol, and then he followed. Just short of the doorway, he turne
d back toward Woodward. “Magistrate? I suggest you come along, if you wish to ride in my carriage.”

  Woodward nodded. He cast a sad-eyed look at Matthew and said weakly, “I shall have to rest, and so won’t be back before the morning. Are you all right?”

  “I am. You should ask Dr. Shields for another tonic, I think.”

  “I plan to.” He stared grimly at Rachel. “Madam?” he said. “Do not believe that because my voice is weak and my body impoverished that I shall not continue this trial to the best of my ability. The next witness will be heard on schedule.” He took two steps toward the door and hesitated again. “Matthew?” he said, in an agonized whisper. “Take care that your senses not become as feeble as my health.” Then he turned away and followed Bidwell.

  Matthew sat down on his bench. The arrival of Exodus Jerusalem added a highly combustible element to this tinderbox. But Matthew found himself most presently concerned about the magistrate’s failing health. It was clear that Woodward should be abed, under the care of a physician. And certainly he shouldn’t be spending any time in this rank gaol, but his pride and sense of duty dictated that he see this trial through without delay. Matthew had never known the magistrate to be so fragile of voice and spirit, and it frightened him.

  “The magistrate,” Rachel suddenly said, “is very sick, isn’t he?”

  “I fear he is.”

  “You’ve been serving him a long time?”

  “Five years. I was a child when I met him. He has given me great opportunity to make something of myself.”

  Rachel nodded. “May I be forward?” she asked.

  “As you please.”

  “When he looks at you,” she said, “it is a father looking at a son.”

  “I’m his clerk, nothing more,” Matthew answered curtly. He clasped his hands together, his head bent down. There was a hollow pain in the vicinity of his heart.

  “Nothing more,” he said again.

  sixteen

  NEAR FOUR-THIRTY on Monday morning, the lamps were lit in Robert Bidwell’s mansion. Soon afterward a negress servant girl emerged from the house into the drizzling rain and quickly walked to the home of Dr. Shields on Harmony Street. Hers was an errand of urgency, and she wasted no time in ringing the bell at the doctor’s door. Within fifteen minutes—long enough for Dr. Shields to dress himself and gather the necessary implements into his carrying case—the doctor was hurrying through the rain, his tricorn hat pulled low over his eyes and water dripping from the curled brim.

  He was admitted to Bidwell’s house by Mrs. Nettles. Bidwell was in the parlor, still wearing his silk nightclothes, an expression of deep concern on his face. “Thank God!” Bidwell said when Shields crossed the threshold. “Upstairs! Hurry!”

  Mrs. Nettles climbed the stairs with the speed of a mountain goat, all but carrying the diminutive doctor in the wake of her black skirt. Before Shields reached the magistrate’s closed door, he could hear the man gasping for air. “A pan of hot water and a cloth!” he commanded Mrs. Nettles, who relayed the order to a servant girl. Then Mrs. Nettles opened the door and Shields entered the chamber, where three lamps had been lit around the bed. Instantly Shields picked up one of them and shone the candlelight onto Woodward’s face. What he saw made him flinch, if only imperceptibly.

  The magistrate’s face was the yellowish-gray hue of old parchment. Darker hollows had formed beneath his eyes, which were glassy and wet with the labor of breathing. But by no means was the effort going well; crusted mucus had all but sealed his nostrils, and a foam of saliva had gathered in the corners of his gaping mouth and glistened on his chin. His hands gripped the sodden sheet that lay around him, beads of sweat standing on his cheeks and forehead.

  “Be calm,” was the first thing that Dr. Shields could think to say. “It’s going to be all right.”

  Woodward trembled, his eyes wild. He reached up and caught the sleeve of Shields’s coat. “Can’t breathe,” he gasped. “Help me.”

  “I shall. Mrs. Nettles, will you hold this lamp?” He gave it to her and quickly shrugged out of his coat. He took his tricorn off as well, and put his leather carrying case atop a stool next to the bed.

  “I heard him cry out.” Bidwell had entered the room, and stood near the door. “Wasn’t but a little while ago. I had the girl go fetch you as soon as I realized he was so ill.”

  Shields had removed a small blue bottle and a spoon from the case. He shook the bottle well and then proceeded to pour some oily dark brown liquid from it onto the spoon. “You did the proper thing. Magistrate, drink this please.” He poured the liquid into Woodward’s mouth, then loaded up the spoon again and repeated the dose. The magistrate, who was just on the edge of panic, could neither taste nor smell anything but he was aware of the thick fluid sliding down his tortured throat.

  His chest hitched as he fought to find air, his fingers once more entwined in the sheets. “Am I…am I dying?”

  “No! Of course not! Lie easy now. Mrs. Nettles, might I have that lamp, please?” He took it from her and held the light toward Woodward’s mouth. “Open as wide as you can, magistrate.”

  Woodward did, the effort making a tear run from each eye. Shields held the lamp as close as possible to the magistrate’s face and peered down into the man’s throat.

  First of all, there was the smell. Shields knew the sickly sweet odor of pestilence, and here it was on the magistrate’s breath. The candlelight showed him what he had already expected to find, yet much worse: the interior of Woodward’s throat was red—blood-red, the red of seething caverns in the infernal landscape of Hell. Down in the folds of crimson flesh, which had swollen to such a degree as to almost completely close together over the esophagus, were ugly yellow blisters of pus and yellow streaks where previous blisters had burst. It was like viewing a platter of raw meat that had become infested with vermin, and Shields knew the pain of such a condition must be absolutely horrendous.

  “Mrs. Nettles,” he said, his voice tight, “please go and hurry the hot water. Also fetch me a drinking cup with two hands of salt in it.”

  “Yes sir.” Mrs. Nettles left the room.

  “Easy, there,” Shields said, as the magistrate began to groan with the effort of breathing. “We shall have your air passages cleared directly.” He clasped his free hand to Woodward’s shoulder to give him some measure of comfort.

  “Ben?” Bidwell came to the bedside. “He will live, won’t he?”

  “Yes, yes!” Shields had seen the magistrate’s watery eyes tick toward Bidwell. “This is a serious condition, but treatable. No need to be concerned with mortality here.” He looked at Bidwell over the rims of his spectacles. “The magistrate will be abed for quite some time, however.”

  “What do you mean, ‘quite some time’? Exactly how long?”

  “I can’t say. A week, perhaps. Two weeks.” He shrugged. “It depends on the strength of the patient.”

  “Two weeks?” Bidwell had spoken it in a tone of horrified amazement. “Are you saying he can’t continue the trial for two weeks?”

  “I am, yes. Please keep your voice down; it does no good to heighten the magistrate’s discomfort.”

  “He can’t stay in bed! He has to finish the trial and have Rachel Howarth burned and done with!”

  “Impossible, Robert. I doubt he’s able to sit upright in a chair, much less pose questions to witnesses.”

  Bidwell pushed his face toward the doctor’s, whorls of red flaring in his cheeks. “Then make him able!”

  Woodward—though his throat was afire, his lungs starved for air, and his very bones and tendons ached as if stretched on a medieval torture wheel—was not oblivious to the words being spoken about him, even if the pressure in his ears muffled the voices. “I can do my job!” he roused himself to whisper.

  “I will suspect delirium has set in if you repeat such a declaration,” Shields told him sternly. “You just lie there and quiet yourself.”

  Bidwell grasped the doctor’s arm. “Come h
ere a moment.” He guided Shields over to a far corner of the room and stood with his back toward the magistrate. Bidwell pitched his voice low, but he might have been shouting for the force of it: “Ben, listen to me! We can’t afford to let him lie in bed for two weeks! Not even one week! Did you know that Winston told me we lost three more families after that house burning the other night? One of them was the Reynolds clan, and you know Franklin had vowed he wouldn’t let a witch run him off his farm! Well, Meredith talked him into going and now it’s empty over there! He was the last tobacco planter! Do you realize what that means?”

  “I do,” Shields said, “but that does not alter the fact that Magistrate Woodward is gravely ill.”

  “We are scraping bottom, and our sails are near collapse. In two more weeks, we may have a ghost town! And who will come to live here, with those bastards in Charles Town spreading tales of the witch far and wide?”

  “My sentiments are with you, Robert, but—”

  “Give him something,” Bidwell said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Give him something to get him on his feet. Something strong enough to allow him to finish the trial. Surely in your bag of tricks there’s a potion to shock a man out of bed!”

  “I’m a doctor, not a magician.”

  “You know what I mean. Give him drugs powerful enough to stand him up.”

  “I have no stimulants. I have only opium, which is a calming drug. Besides, I just gave him a dose of opium in that tonic.”

  “Ben, I am begging you. Get that man on his feet, no matter what it takes!”

  “I can only do what I’m able.”

  “You can do much more,” Bidwell said, his face only a few inches away from the doctor’s. “How much money would you like to be sent to your wife?”

  “What?”

  “Your wife. A seamstress in Boston. Surely she is in need of some money? And your ledger at Van Gundy’s tavern has become quite heavy, I understand. I shall be glad to erase your debt and arrange that your thirst for rum not be interrupted. Be a good friend to me, Ben, and I shall be a good friend to you.”