Speaks The Nightbird Part 22

When the magistrate stood from his chair, his legs almost betrayed him. His head was swimming and strange lights seemed to dance behind his eyes. But the pain in his throat had all but vanished, and his breathing was miraculously cleared. The doctor's remedy, he thought, was surely a wonder drug.

"Sometimes the smoke does play tricks with the balance," s.h.i.+elds said. "Here, take my arm and a'tavern we shall go!"

"A tavern, a tavern!" Woodward said. "My kingdom for a tavern!" This struck him as riotously funny, and he began to laugh at his own wit. The laughter was a little too loud and a little too harsh, however, and even in his lightened state of mind he knew what he was trying to cloak.

Fourteen.

With the fading of the light, the rats grew bold. Matthew had heard their squeakings and rustlings all the afternoon, but they'd not yet made an appearance. He'd been relieved to find that the rodents had not emerged to attack either his lunch or supper-meager beef broth and two slices of black bread, humble but stomach-filling-but now, ever since Green had closed the roof hatch and left only a single lantern burning on its hook, the creatures were creeping out of their nooks and crannies to claim the place.

"Watch your fingers," Rachel told him, sitting on her bench. "They'll give you a bite if you try to strike them. If one crawls on you tonight, it's best to lie perfectly still. They'll be sniffing at you, that's all."

"The one that bit your shoulder," Matthew said. He was standing up, his back against the wall. "Was it only sniffing?"

"No, I tried to get that one away from my waterbucket. I found out they can jump like cats, and I also learned they're going to have your water no matter what you do."

Matthew picked up his own bucket of water, which Green had recently filled from a larger container, and he drank copiously from it. Enough, he hoped, to quench his thirst for the night.

Then he placed the bucket on the floor in the opposite corner, as far away from his bed of straw as possible.

"Green only brings fresh water every other day," Rachel said, watching him. "You won't mind drinking after the rats when you get thirsty enough."

Another quandary had presented itself to Matthew, far worse than the problem of the rodents and the waterbucket. Green had also brought in a fresh bucket to be used for elimination. Matthew had realized he was going to have to pull down his breeches and use it-sooner or later-right in front of the woman. And, likewise, she would be using her own without benefit of a shade or screen. He thought he might endure two more lashes added to his sentence if he could have at least a modic.u.m of privacy, but it was not to be.

Suddenly a dark shape darted from a small crevice in the wall of Matthew's cell and went straight for the bucket. As Matthew watched, the rodent-black-furred, red-eyed, and as long as his hand-climbed swiftly up the bucket's side and leaned over its rim to lap the water, its claws gripping the wood. A second one followed, and then a third. The things interrupted their drinking to chatter like washerwomen trading gossip at the common well, and then they broke ranks and squeezed their bodies again into the crevice.

It was going to be a very long night.

Matthew had several books on hand, courtesy of the magistrate, who'd brought the tomes from Bidwell's library that afternoon, but as the light was so meager there would be no reading tonight. Woodward had told him he'd had an interesting conversation with Dr. s.h.i.+elds, and would reveal more when Matthew was set free. Now, though, Matthew felt the walls and bars closing in upon him; without proper light by which to read or write, and with rats scratching and scurrying in the logs, he feared he might lose his grip on his decorum and shame himself before Rachel Howarth. It shouldn't matter, of course, because after all she was an accused murderess-and much worse-but still he desired to present himself as a st.u.r.dy oak, not the thin willow he felt to be.

It was warm and steamy in the gaol. Rachel cupped her hands into her waterbucket and dampened her face, was.h.i.+ng off the salty perspiration that had collected on her cheeks and forehead. She cooled her throat with the water as well, and paid no heed when two rats squeaked and fought in the corner of her cage.

"How long is it that you've been here?" Matthew asked, sitting on his bench with his knees pulled up to his chin. "This is the second week of May, is it not?"

"Yes."

"I was brought here on the third day of March."

Matthew flinched at the very thought of it. No matter what she might have done, she was made of sterner stuff than he. "How do you stand it, day after day?"

She finished bathing her throat before she replied. "Do I have any choice but to stand it? I suppose I could become a gibbering fool. I suppose I could break down, fall to my knees, and confess witchcraft at the boots of fine Mr. Bidwell, but should I go to my death that way?"

"You could recite the Lord's Prayer before him. That might win you some mercy."

"No," she said, and she aimed those fierce amber eyes at him, "it would not. As I told you, I refuse to recite something that has no meaning in this town. And my recitation of it would change no one's mind about my guilt." She cupped her hands again and this time let the water flow through her wild mane of ebony hair. "You heard what the magistrate said. If I spoke the Lord's Prayer, it might be a trick of the Devil to save my skin."

Matthew nodded. "I grant you, you're right. Bidwell and the others have made their opinions about you, and nothing will shake them."

"Except one thing," she said firmly. "Discovering who really murdered the reverend and my husband, and who plotted this evil against me."

"Discovery is only half the solution. The other half would be the presentation of proof, without which discovery is hollow."

When Matthew was silent again he was aware of the noises the rats were making, so he chose to speak in an effort to keep his mind busied. "Who would have cause to commit those crimes? Do you have any idea?"

"No."

"Did your husband anger someone? Did he cheat someone? Did he-"

"This is not about Daniel," she interrupted. "It is about me. me. I was chosen as the object of this farce because of the very reasons I was hounded from their church. My mother was Portuguese, my father a dark Irishman. But I have my mother's color and her eyes. They mark me as surely as a raven among doves. I alone am of this color, here in this town. Who would not look upon me as someone different... someone to be I was chosen as the object of this farce because of the very reasons I was hounded from their church. My mother was Portuguese, my father a dark Irishman. But I have my mother's color and her eyes. They mark me as surely as a raven among doves. I alone am of this color, here in this town. Who would not look upon me as someone different... someone to be feared, feared, because I am different?" because I am different?"

Matthew had thought of another reason, as well: her exotic beauty. He doubted that a woman more comely than Rachel Howarth had ever set foot in Fount Royal. Her nigrescent coloring was surely objectionable to many-if not most-in this society of pallid whitebreads, but that very same hue was as the burnished flesh of a forbidden fruit. He'd never in his life seen anyone the equal of her. She seemed more proud animal than suffering human, and he thought that this quality too could stir the fire of a man's l.u.s.t. Or fan the crackling embers of another woman's jealousy.

"The evidence against you," he said, and quickly amended himself: "The apparent apparent evidence against you is overwhelming. Buckner's story may be riddled with holes, but he believes what he said today to be true. The same with Elias Garrick. He firmly believes he witnessed you in... shall we say... intimate accord with Satan." evidence against you is overwhelming. Buckner's story may be riddled with holes, but he believes what he said today to be true. The same with Elias Garrick. He firmly believes he witnessed you in... shall we say... intimate accord with Satan."

"Lies," she said.

"I have to disagree. I don't think they're lying."

"So you do do believe me to be a witch, then?" believe me to be a witch, then?"

"I don't know what I believe," he said. "Take the poppets, for instance. They were found under a floorboard of your kitchen. A woman named Cara-"

"Grunewald," Rachel said. "She pinched her husband's ear for speaking to me, long before any of this happened."

"Madam Grunewald saw the location of the poppets in a dream," Matthew continued. "How do you account for that?"

"Simply. She made the poppets and put them there herself."

"If she hated you so deeply, then why did she leave Fount Royal? Why did she not stay to testify before the magistrate? Why did she not satisfy her hatred by remaining here to watch your execution?"

Now Rachel was staring at the floor. She shook her head.

Matthew said, "If I I had made the poppets and hidden them beneath the floorboard, I would make certain to be in the crowd on the day of your departure from this earth. No, I don't believe Madam Grunewald had a hand in creating them." had made the poppets and hidden them beneath the floorboard, I would make certain to be in the crowd on the day of your departure from this earth. No, I don't believe Madam Grunewald had a hand in creating them."

"Nicholas Paine," Rachel said suddenly, and looked again at Matthew. "He was one of the three men who broke down my door that March morning, bound me with ropes, and threw me into the back of a wagon. He also was one of the men who found the poppets."

"Who were the other two men who took you into custody?"

"Hannibal Green and Aaron Windom. I never shall forget that dawn. They dragged me from my bed, and Green locked his arm around my throat to stop my screaming. I spat in Windom's face and got a slap for it."

"Paine, Garrick, James Reed, and Kelvin Bonnard discovered the poppets," Matthew said, recalling what Garrick had said on the night of their arrival. "Can you think of any possible reason Paine or any of those others might have fas.h.i.+oned them and hidden them there?"

"No."

"All right, then." Matthew saw another dark streak go across the floor. He watched the rat climb up the side of the waterbucket and drink. "Let us say that Paine, for whatever reason, did make the poppets and put them under the floorboard. Why should it be Madam Grunewald who saw their location in a dream? Why should it not be Paine himself, if he was so eager to present physical evidence against you?" He pondered the question and thought he might have an answer. "Did Paine have... uh... a relations.h.i.+p with Madam Grunewald?"

"I don't think so," Rachel replied. "Cara Grunewald was as fat as a pig and had half her nose eaten away by the pox."

"Oh." Matthew pondered some more. "Less reason she should leave Fount Royal, then, if she had made the poppets and knew you to be falsely accused. No, whoever fas.h.i.+oned them is still here. Of that I'm positive. A person who would go to the effort of such deceit would make sure he-or she-had the satisfaction of watching you die." He glanced through the bars at her. "Pardon my bluntness."

Rachel said nothing for a while, as the rats continued to squeak and scurry in the walls. Then, "You know, I'm really beginning to believe you've not been sent here to spy on me."

"You should. I'm here-unfortunately-on a criminal offense."

"Involving the blacksmith, did you say?"

"I entered his barn without permission," Matthew explained. "He attacked me, I injured his face, and he desired satisfaction. Therefore the three-day sentence and three lashes."

"Seth Hazelton is a very strange man. I wouldn't doubt that he attacked you, but what was the reason?"

"I discovered a sack hidden in the barn that he desired not to have brought to light. According to him, it was full of his wife's belongings. But I think it was something else altogether."

"What, then?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, but I do intend to find out."

"How old are you?" she asked suddenly. "Twenty years."

"Have you always been so curious?"

"Yes," he answered. "Always."

"From what I saw today, the magistrate doesn't appreciate your curiosity"

Matthew said, "He appreciates the truth. Sometimes we arrive at it from different routes."

"If he chooses to believe what's claimed about me, he is lost in the wilderness," she said. "Tell me why it is that you-a clerk-seem to grant me more innocence than does a learned magistrate of the law."

Matthew thought about this point before he gave a reply. "Perhaps it's because I never met a witch before."

"And the magistrate has?"

"He's never tried a witch, but he does know judges who have. I think also that he was more impressed by the Salem trials than I, since I was only thirteen years at the time and still in an almshouse." Matthew rested his chin upon one of his knees. "The magistrate has in his sphere of learning all the acc.u.mulated knowledge of English law," he said. "Some of that knowledge is built on a framework of medieval belief. As I am a lowly clerk and have not yet been immersed in such knowledge, I do not hold so strongly to its conceptions. You should realize, however, that Magistrate Woodward is indeed a liberal jurist. If he were entirely of the medieval mind, you would be burnt by now."

"What's he waiting for, then? If I'm going to burn anyway, why hear these witnesses?"

"The magistrate wants to give you an opportunity to answer all the charges. It's the proper way of procedure."

"d.a.m.n the procedure!" Rachel snapped, and she stood up. "d.a.m.n the charges! They're all lies!"

"Profanity will not help your position," Matthew said calmly. "I'd suggest you refrain from it."

"What will help my position?" she demanded, approaching the bars. "Shall I fall on my knees and beg mercy for crimes I haven't committed? Shall I sign over my husband's land and all my possessions and swear upon the Bible that I shall never bewitch the citizens of Fount Royal again? Tell me! What can I possibly do to save my life?"

It was a good question. So good, in fact, that Matthew was unable to supply an answer. The best he could manage was: "There is some hope."

"Ah, hope!" Rachel said bitterly. Her hands curled around the bars. "Perhaps you're not a spy, but you're a liar and you know you are. There is no hope for me. There never was any hope, not since that morning I was dragged from my house. I am going to be executed for crimes I have not committed, and the murderer of my husband will go free. Where's the hope in that?"

"Hey, there! Quiet down!" It was Hannibal Green, thundering from the entrance. He came into the gaol, bearing a lantern, and behind him trudged the filthy, ragged figure Matthew had last seen by the light of a burning house. Gwinett Linch had his ratsack at his side, a cowhide bag over his shoulder, and his sticker in his hand.

"Brought you some company," Green rumbled. "Gonna clean this hole up a bit."

Rachel didn't respond. Tight-lipped, she returned to her bench and sat down, then she covered her head and face with her cowl again.

"Which one'll do ye?" Green asked of the ratcatcher, and Linch motioned toward the cage opposite Matthew's. Linch entered the cell and used his foot to brush aside the layer of dirty straw from the floor in a small circle. Then he reached into a pocket of his breeches and his hand emerged to throw a few dozen dried kernels of corn into the circle. Again his hand went into his pocket, and then a number of small pieces of potato joined the corn kernels. He produced a wooden jar from the cowhide bag, out of which he shook a brown powdery substance around the circle's perimeter. The same brown powder was shaken here and there in the straw, and applied at the base of the cell's walls.

"You gonna need me?" Green asked.

Linch shook his head. "I mi' be a while."

"Here, I'll give you the keys. You can lock up when you're done. Remember to put out the lantern."

The exchange of the keys was made, after which Green hurried out. Linch shook more of the brown powder into the straw, making trails between the corners of the walls and the circle.

"What is that?" Matthew inquired. "Some kind of poison?"

"It's most ground sugar," Linch answered. "With a teech of opium mixed to it. Got to get them rats drowsy, slow 'em down some." He returned the lid to the wooden jar and put it back in the cowhide bag. "Why? You thinkin' of robbin' my job?"

"I think not."

Linch grinned. He was listening to the squeakings and squealings of the rats, which had obviously caught scent of the feast that was being offered to them. Linch put on his deerskin gloves and then with smooth familiarity removed the piece of wood that secured the single blade at the end of his sticker. From his bag he brought out a fearsome appliance that had five curved blades, much like small scythes, and this he twisted into position on the sticker's tip. Two metal clips were forced into grooves to lock the ugly implement, and then Linch regarded it with obvious pride. "Ever see such a thing, boy?" he asked. "I can strike two or three at a time with this. Thought it up myself."

"An artful device, I'm sure."

"A useful device," Linch corrected. "Hazelton fas.h.i.+oned it for me. He's an inventor, once he puts his mind to a task." He c.o.c.ked his head toward a rustling in the corner.

"Ah, listen to 'em! Fightin' to eat their last meal!" His grin widened. "Hey, witch!" he called to Rachel. "You gonna give me a tumble 'fore you burn?"

She didn't dignify his request with a reply or even a movement.

"You get over close to her, boy, and stick out your c.o.c.k," Linch said. "She mi' suck it for you." He laughed as Matthew's face bloomed red, and then he pulled the cell's bench next to the cleared-off circle. When it was situated as he pleased, Linch left the cell to pluck the lantern from its hook and he brought it into the cage with him. He put it down on the floor a few feet away from the circle, then he sat upon the bench with his legs crossed beneath him and the five-bladed sticker held in a two-handed grip. "Won't be long now," he announced. "They're gettin' 'em-selves a taste of that sweet stupidity."

Matthew saw the ratcatcher's luminous pale gray eyes glitter in the dim candlelight. They might have been the icy eyes of a specter rather than those of a human being. Linch spoke again, in a low, soft, almost singsong cadence: "Come out, come out, my dames and dandies. Come out, come out, and taste my candies." He repeated it twice more, each time becoming softer and more song than speech.

And then, indeed, a large black rat did enter the deadly circle. It sniffed at a piece of potato, its tail twitching; then it grabbed up a corn kernel between its teeth and fled for the darkness again.

"Come out, come out," Linch sang, all but whispering. He stared at the circle, waiting for the rodents to appear in his field of vision. "Come out, come out, and taste my candies."

Another rat appeared, grabbed up a corn kernel, and fled. But the third rat that entered the circle moved more sluggishly, and Matthew knew it must be feeling the effects of Linch's sugared opium. This benumbed rodent chewed on one of the potatoes for a moment, then stood up on its hind legs to stare at the candleflame as if it were a celestial light.

Linch was very fast. The sticker whipped down in a blur of motion and there was a high-pitched squeal as the rat was impaled. At once Linch snapped the small beast's neck, then plucked the carca.s.s from its blade and made a deposit in his sack. All of this had taken only a very few seconds, and now Linch held the sticker ready again and he was softly singing. "Come out, come out, my dames and dandies. Come out, come out, and taste my candies..."

Within a minute, Matthew had witnessed two more executions and a near-miss. Linch might be disgusting, Matthew thought, but he was certainly proficient at his task.