Speaks the Nightbird

by Robert R. McCammon

  “Well, this is quite amazing!” Johnstone said. “The doctor’s potion must have gotten him up!”

  “I believe…you are correct, sir. A dose of that elixir…thrice a day…would surely awaken Lazarus.”

  “Thank God for it!” Matthew pressed his hand to Woodward’s shoulder. “I would never have let you get out of bed, if I’d known you were able, but…this is wonderful!”

  The magistrate put his hand on Matthew’s. “My throat still pains me. My chest as well. But…any improvement is welcome.” He squinted, trying to make out the faces of two men he didn’t know. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”

  Bidwell made the introductions. Neither Brightman nor Smythe stepped forward to shake hands; in fact, Matthew noted, they stayed well on the other side of the room.

  “Some wine, Magistrate?” Bidwell pushed a glass into Woodward’s hand, whether he wanted it or not. “We are so very glad you’ve come out the other side of your ordeal!”

  “No one more glad than I,” Woodward rasped. He sipped the wine, but couldn’t taste a hint of it. Then his gaze went to the preacher, sharpening as it travelled. “In reply to your comment concerning God’s justice, sir…I must say that I believe God to be the most lenient judge…in all of creation…and merciful beyond all imaginings. Because if He were not…you would have found yourself called to His courtroom on a lightning bolt by now.”

  Jerusalem braced himself to make some cutting reply, but he seemed to think better of it. He bowed his head. “I humbly apologize for any remark that might have caused thee distress, sir. It is not mine wish to offend the law.”

  “Why not?” Woodward asked, taking another tasteless drink. “You’ve offended…everyone else hereabouts, it seems.”

  “Uh…pardon, please,” Brightman spoke up, a little nervously. “David and I ought to be going. I mean no offense either, Magistrate. We both wish to hear about your experience with the witch, but…as you might well understand…the ability of a thespian to project lies in the throat. If we should…um…find difficulty, in that area, then—”

  “Oh, I didn’t think!” Woodward said. “Please forgive me. Of course…you don’t wish to risk any health complications!”

  “Exactly, sir. David, shall we go? Mr. Bidwell, thank you for a wonderful dinner and a gracious evening.” Brightman was obviously in a hurry to leave, fearing that any throat affliction might doom his play-acting. Matthew was eager to know more about Linch or Lancaster or whatever his name was, but now was not the time. He decided that first thing in the morning he would seek out Smythe for the rest of the story.

  “I shall join thee!” Jerusalem announced to the two men, and both of them looked further stricken. “It seems we have much to talk over and plan, does it not? Now…concerning these morality scenes. How long are they to be? I ask because I wish to keep a certain…shall we say…rhythm to the pace of my message!”

  “Ahhhh, how magnificent it is…to be free from that bed!” Woodward said, as Bidwell showed his guests and the pest out. “How goes it, Mr. Winston?”

  “Fine, sir. I can’t tell you how gratified I am to see you doing so much better.”

  “Thank you. Dr. Shields should be here soon…for my third dose of the day. The stuff has…burned my tongue to a cinder, but thank God I can breathe.”

  “I have to say, you seemed at a dangerous point.” Johnstone finished his wine and set the glass aside. “Far past a dangerous point, to be more truthful. I’m sure you had no way of knowing this, but there are some—many—who feel Madam Howarth cursed you for handing down the decree.”

  Bidwell entered again, and had heard the last of what Johnstone had said. “Alan, I don’t think it’s proper to mention such a thing!”

  “No, no, it’s all right.” Woodward waved a reassuring hand. “I would be surprised if…people did not say such a thing. If I was cursed, it was not by the witch…but by the bad weather and my own…weak blood. But I’m going to be fine now. In a few days…I shall be as fit as I ever was.”

  “Hear, hear!” Winston said, and raised his glass.

  “And fit to travel, too,” Woodward added. He lifted his hand and rubbed his eyes, which were still bloodshot and bleary. “This is an…incident I wish to put far behind me. What say you, Matthew?”

  “The same, sir.”

  Johnstone cleared his throat. “I should be going myself, now. Robert, thank you for the evening. We shall…um…have to discuss the future of the schoolhouse at a later date.”

  “That brings something to mind!” Woodward said. “Alan…you should find this of interest. In my delirium…I had a dream of Oxford.”

  “Really, sir?” Johnstone wore a faint smile. “I should say many former students suffer deliriums of Oxford.”

  “Oh, I was there! Right there, on the sward! I was…a young man. I had places to go…and much to accomplish.”

  “You heard the tolling of Great Tom, I presume?”

  “Certainly I did! One who hears that bell…never forgets it!” Woodward looked up at Matthew and gave him a weak smile that nevertheless had the power to rend the clerk’s heart. “I shall take you to Oxford one day. I shall show you…the halls…the great rooms of learning…the wonderful smell of the place. Do you recall that, Alan?”

  “The most singular aroma of my experience was that of the bitter ale at the Chequers Inn, sir. That and the dry aroma of an empty pocket, I fear.”

  “Yes, that too.” Woodward smiled dreamily. “I smelled the grass. The chalk. The oaks…that stand along the Cherwell. I was there…I swear it. I was there as much as…any flesh and blood can be. I even found myself at the door of my social fraternity. The old door…of the Carleton Society. And there…right there before me…was the ram’s head bellpull…and the brass plaque with its motto. Ius omni est ius omnibus. Oh, how I recall that door…that bellpull, and the plaque.” He closed his eyes for a few seconds, taking in the wondrous memory. Then he opened them again and Matthew saw that Woodward’s eyes had grown moist. “Alan…your society was…what did you say it was?”

  “The Ruskins, sir. An education fraternity.”

  “Ah. Do you recall your motto?”

  “Certainly I do. It was…” He paused, gathering it from the mist. “The greatest sin is ignorance.”

  “There’s a fitting motto for an educator…is it not?” Woodward asked. “As a jurist, I might…disagree with it…but then again, we were all young and yet to be schooled…at the university of life, were we not?”

  “Oxford was difficult,” Johnstone said. “But the university of life is well nigh impossible.”

  “Yes. It does…grade rather harshly.” The magistrate gave a long sigh, his newfound strength now almost spent. “Pardon me…for my rambling. It seems that when one is ill…and so near death…the past becomes paramount…to ease the dwindling of one’s future.”

  “You need never ask apology of me to reflect on Oxford, Magistrate,” Johnstone said with what seemed to Matthew an admirable grace. “I too still walk those halls in my memory. Now…if you’ll please forgive me…my knee also has a memory, and it is calling for liniment. Good night to you all.”

  “I’ll walk with you, Alan,” Winston offered, and Johnstone accepted with a nod. “Good night, Mr. Bidwell. Magistrate. Mt. Corbett.”

  “Yes, good night,” Bidwell replied.

  Winston followed as Johnstone limped out of the room, leaning even more than usual on his cane. Then Bidwell poured himself the last few swallows of wine from the decanter and went upstairs to avoid any discourse or possible friction with Matthew. As Woodward half-dozed in the chair, Matthew awaited the arrival of Dr. Shields.

  The question of Linch/Lancaster was uppermost in Matthew’s mind. Here, at last, might be some hope to cling to. If Smythe could positively identify Linch as this other man, it would be a starting point to convince Bidwell that a fiction had been created around Rachel. Was it too much to hope for that all this might be accomplished on the morrow?

  thirty
-four

  A PASSING THUNDERSHOWER had wet the earth just before dawn, but Saturday’s sun shone through the dissipating clouds, and the blue sky again reappeared before the hour of eight. By then Matthew had finished his breakfast and was on his way to the maskers’ camp.

  He discovered—by sense of hearing before sense of sight—Phillip Brightman in discourse with two other thespians, all of them sitting in chairs behind a canvas screen, reading over and reciting pages from one of their morality scenes. When Matthew asked where he might find David Smythe, Brightman directed him to a yellow awning set up to protect a number of trunks, lanterns, and sundry other prop items. Beneath it Matthew found Smythe inspecting some brightly hued costumes that one of the troupe’s women was adorning with rather used-looking peacock feathers.

  “Good morning, Mr. Smythe,” Matthew said. “May I have a word with you?”

  “Oh…good morning, Mr. Corbett. What may I help you with?”

  Matthew glanced quickly at the seamstress. “May we speak in private, please?”

  “Certainly. Mrs. Prater, these are coming along very well. I’ll speak with you again when the work is further advanced. Mr. Corbett, we might go over there if you like.” Smythe motioned toward a stand of oak trees about sixty feet behind the encampment.

  As they walked, Smythe slid his thumbs into the pockets of his dark brown breeches. “I think an apology is in order for our behavior last night. We left so abruptly…and for such an obvious reason. At least we might have tempered it with a more diplomatic excuse.”

  “No apology is necessary. Everyone understood the reason. And better the truth than a false excuse, no matter how diplomatic.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your candor.”

  “The reason I wished to speak to you,” Matthew said as they reached the oak trees’ shade, “concerns Gwinett Linch. The man you believe to be Jonathan Lancaster.”

  “If I may correct you, not believe to be. As I said last night, I would swear to it. But he appears…so different. So changed. The man I knew would not be…well, would not be caught dead in such dirty rags. In fact, I recall he had a marked affinity for cleanliness.”

  “And order?” Matthew asked. “Would you say he had an affinity for that as well?”

  “He kept his wagon neat enough. I remember one day he complained to my father about not having a supply of wheel grease on hand to silence a squeak.”

  “Hm,” Matthew said. He leaned against the trunk of an oak and crossed his arms. “Exactly who was…I mean, who is…Jonathan Lancaster?”

  “Well, I mentioned he had an act that involved trained rats. He had them jump through hoops and run races and such. The children loved it. Our circus travelled through most of England, and we did play London on several occasions but we found ourselves restricted to a very bad part of the city. So we mostly travelled from village to village. My father was the manager, my mother sold tickets, and I did whatever needed doing.”

  “Lancaster,” Matthew said, guiding Smythe back to the subject. “He made his living with this trained rat show?”

  “Yes, he did. None of us were exactly wealthy, but…we all pulled together.” Smythe frowned, and Matthew could tell he was forming his next statement. “Mr. Lancaster…was a puzzling man.”

  “How so? Because he worked with rats?”

  “Not only that,” Smythe said. “But because of the other act he performed. The one that was done…well…that was done only behind closed curtains, for a small audience of adults—no children allowed—who wished to pay an extra coin to see it.”

  “And what was that?”

  “His display of animal magnetism.”

  “Animal magnetism?” Now it was Matthew’s turn to frown. “What is that?”

  “The art of magnetic manipulation. Have you not heard of such a thing?”

  “I’ve heard of the process of magnetism, but never animal magnetism. Is this some theatrical whimsy?”

  “It’s been more popular in Europe than in England, I understand. Particularly in Germany, according to what my father told me. Mr. Lancaster was once a leading light of the cult of magnetism in Germany, though he was English-born. This is also according to my father, who if nothing else has a fortune of friends in the craft of public entertainment. That was, however, in Mr. Lancaster’s younger years. An incident occurred that caused him to flee Germany.”

  “An incident? Do you know what it was?”

  “I know what my father told me, and wished me to keep secret.”

  “You are no longer in England and no longer under your father’s jurisdiction,” Matthew said. “It is vital that you tell me everything you know about Jonathan Lancaster. Particularly the secrets.”

  Smythe paused and cocked his head to one side. “May I ask why this is so important to you?”

  It was a fair question. Matthew said, “I’m going to trust you, as I hope you will trust me. Obviously Lancaster has hidden his true identity from Mr. Bidwell and everyone else in this town. I wish to know why. Also…I have reason to believe that Lancaster may be involved with the current situation in which this town finds itself.”

  “What? You mean the witch?” Smythe offered a nervous smile. “You’re joking!”

  “I am not,” Matthew said firmly.

  “Oh, that can’t be! Mr. Lancaster may have been strange, but he wasn’t demonic. I’d venture that his closed-curtain talent appeared to some to be witchcraft, but it was evidently based on principles of science.”

  “Ah.” Matthew nodded, his heartbeat quickening. “Now we approach the light, Mr. Smythe. What exactly was his closed-curtain talent?”

  “Manipulation of the mind,” Smythe answered, and Matthew had to struggle to suppress a victorious grin. “By the application of magnetic force, Mr. Lancaster could deliver mental commands to some members of his audience, and cause them to do, believe, and say things that…um…would probably not suit the eyes and ears of children. I have to admit; I sneaked behind the curtains and watched on more than a few occasions, because it was a fascinating show. I recall he would cause some to believe day was night, and that they were getting ready for their beds. One woman he caused to believe was freezing in a snowstorm in the midst of July. A particular scene I remember was a man he caused to believe had stepped into a nest of biting ants, and how that man jumped and hollered was nothing short of ludicrous. The other members of the audience laughed uproariously, but that man never heard a giggle of it until Mr. Lancaster awakened him.”

  “Awakened him? These people were put to sleep in some way?”

  “It was a sleep-like state, yet they were still responsive. Mr. Lancaster used various objects to soothe them into this state, such as a lantern, a candle, or a coin. Anything that served to secure their attention. Then he would further soothe and command them with his voice…and once you heard his voice, it was unforgettable. I myself would have fallen under his magnetism, if I hadn’t known beforehand what he was doing.”

  “Yes,” Matthew said, staring past Smythe in the direction of Fount Royal. “I can well understand that.” He directed his gaze back to the man. “But what is this about magnetism?”

  “I don’t quite fathom it, but it has to do with the fact that all bodies and objects hold iron. Therefore a skilled practitioner can use other objects as tools of manipulation, since the human body, blood, and brain also contain iron. The attraction and manipulation is called magnetism. That, at least, is how my father explained it when I asked him.” Smythe shrugged. “Evidently it was a process first discovered by the ancient Egyptians and used by their court magicians.”

  Matthew was thinking I have you now, Sir Fox.

  “This must be very important to you indeed,” Smythe said, dappled sunlight falling through the oak branches and leaves onto his face.

  “It is. As I said, vital.”

  “Well…as you also said, I am no longer in England or under my father’s jurisdiction. If it’s so vital that you know…the secret my father as
ked me to keep concerns Mr. Lancaster’s career before he joined the circus. In his younger years he was known as a healer of sorts. A faith-healer, I suppose, in that he could use magnetism to deliver people from illnesses. Apparently he travelled to Europe to practise this art, and drew the attention of a German nobleman who wished Mr. Lancaster to teach him and his son how to be magnetizers themselves. Now…be aware that all this I recall my father telling me, and I might have garbled it in the retelling.”

  “I shall,” Matthew said. “But please continue.”

  “Mr. Lancaster did not speak German, though his host spoke a little English. There was a translation problem. Whether that had anything to do with the results, I don’t know, but my father told me Mr. Lancaster had fled Germany because the nobleman and his son were adversely affected by their studies. The latter killed himself with a poisoned dagger, and the former went half-mad. Which I suppose testifies to the power of magnetism falling into the wrong hands. In any case, a bounty was offered on Mr. Lancaster’s head and so he returned to England. But he obviously was a changed man, too, and he sank to the level of trained rats and a few magnetist’s tricks behind closed curtains.”

  “Possibly he wished to keep a low profile,” Matthew said, “for fear that someone would seek him out and claim the bounty.” He nodded. “Yes, that explains a lot. As, for instance, why Goode told me no Dutchmen or Germans had seen the Devil. It was because Lancaster feared Germans and likely is limited to only the English tongue.”

  “Goode?” Smythe asked, looking perplexed. “I’m sorry, I’m not following you.”

  “My apologies. My thoughts became words.” Matthew, his nervous energy at high flux, began to pace back and forth. “Tell me this, if you will: what caused Lancaster to leave the circus, and when was this?”

  “I don’t know. My family and I left before Mr. Lancaster did.”

  “Oh. Then you haven’t seen Lancaster since?”

  “No. Certainly we didn’t wish to return to that circus.”