Speaks the Nightbird

and next to it Schoolmaster Johnstone's house. A pasture where a small herd of cattle grazed stood next to Lindstrom's farmhouse and barn, and then there was the meeting-house with a flagpole before it from which drooped the British colors. Just a little further on, and Bidwell's pace hastened even faster; there loomed the rough and windowless hardwood walls of the gaol, its single entrance door secured with a chain and iron lock. In front of the gaol was a pillory where miscreants who thieved, blasphemed, or otherwise incurred the wrath of the town council found themselves bound and sometimes pelted with the same substance that currently weighted Winston's right boot.

Past the gaol, a number of houses with barns, gardens, and small fieldplots occupied the last portion of Truth Street. Some of the houses were empty, and one of them had dwindled to a charred shell. Weeds and thorns had overtaken the forlorn gardens, the fields now more frightful swamp than fruitful earth. Bidwell walked to the door of a house almost at the very end of the street and knocked solidly while Winston stood nearby, blotting the sweat from his face with a shirtsleeve.

Presently the door was opened a crack and the grizzled, sunken-eyed face of a man who needed sleep peered out. 'Good afternoon to you, Mason,' Bidwell said. 'I've come to see your wife.'

Mason Barrow knew full well why the master of Fount Royal was at his door; he drew it open and stepped back, his black-haired head slumped like that of a dog about to be whipped. Bid-well and Winston entered the house, which seemed the size of a wig box compared to the mansion they'd recently left. The two Barrow children —eight-year-old Melissa and six-year-old Preston—were also in the front room, the older watching from behind a table and the younger clinging to his father's trouser leg. Bidwell was not an ungracious man; he removed his hat, first thing. 'She's to bed, I understand.'

'Yes sir. Sick to the soul, she is.'

'I shall have to speak to her.'

'Yes sir.' Barrow nodded numbly. Bidwell noted that the two children also looked in need of sleep, as well as in need of a good hot meal. 'As you please.' Barrow motioned toward the room at the rear of the house.

'Very well. Edward, come with me.' Bidwell walked to the open door of the other room and looked in. Alice Barrow was lying in the bed there, a wrinkled sheet pulled up to her chin. Her eyes were open and staring at the ceiling, her sallow face gleaming with sweat. The room's single window was shuttered, but the light was strong because seven tallows were aflame, as well as a clay bowl full of pine knots. Bidwell knew it was a remarkable extravagance for a farmer such as Mason Barrow, whose children must be suffering due to this surplus of illumination. As Bidwell stepped across the threshold, a loose plank squeaked underfoot and the woman looked at him; her eyes widened, she sucked in her breath as if she'd been struck, and shrank away from him deeper into the confines of the bed.

Bidwell immediately halted where he stood. 'Good afternoon, madam,' he said. 'May I have a word with you?'

'Where's my husband?' the woman cried out. 'Mason! Where's he gone?'

'I'm here!' Barrow replied, standing behind the other two men. 'All's well, there's naught to fear.'

'Don't let me sleep, Mason! Promise me you won't!'

'I promise,' he said, with a quick glance at Bidwell.

'What's all this nonsense?' Bidwell asked him. 'The woman's feared to sleep?'

'Yes, sir. She fears fallin' asleep and seein'—'

'Don't speak it!' Alice Barrow's voice rose again, tremulous and pleading. 'If you love me, don't speak it!'

The little girl began to cry, the little boy still clinging to his father's leg. Barrow looked directly into Bidwell's face. 'She's in a bad way, sir. She ain't slept for the past two nights. Cain't abide the dark, not even the day shadows.'

'This is how it begins,' Winston said quietly.

'Rein yourself!' Bidwell snapped at him. He produced a lace-rimmed handkerchief from a pocket of his jacket and wiped beads of sweat from his cheeks and forehead. 'Be that as it may, Barrow, I must speak to her. Madam? May I enter?'

'No!' she answered, the damp sheet drawn up to her terror-stricken eyes. 'Go away!'

'Thank you.' Bidwell walked to her bedside and stood there, looking down at her with both hands gripping his hat. Winston followed behind him, but Mason Barrow remained in the other room to comfort the crying little girl. 'Madam,' Bidwell said, 'you must desist in your spreading of tales about these dreams. I know you've told Cass Swaine. I would ask—'

'I told Cass 'cause she's my friend!' the woman said behind her sheet. 'I told others of my friends too! And why shouldn't I? They should know whatIknow, if they value their lives!'

'And what is it that makes your knowledge so valuable, madam?'

She pushed the sheet away and stared defiantly up at him, her eyes wet and scared but her chin thrust toward him like a weapon. 'That whoever lives in this town is sure to die.'

'That, I fear, is only worth a shilling. All who live in any town are sure to die.'

'Not by his hand! Not by fire and the torments of Hell! Oh, he told me! He showed me! He walked me through the graveyard, and he showed me them names on the markers!' The veins in her neck strained, her brown hair lank and wet. She said in an agonized whisper, 'He showed me Cass Swaine's marker! And John's too! And he showed me the names of my children!' Her voice cracked, the tears coursing down her cheeks. 'My own children, laid dead in the ground! Oh, sweet Jesus!' She gave a terrible, wrenching moan and pulled the sheet up to her face again, her eyes squeezed shut.

With all the candle flames, the pine knot smoke, and the humidity seeping in, the room was a hotbox. Bidwell felt as if drawing a breath was too much effort. He heard the rumble of distant thunder, another storm approaching. A response to Alice Barrow's phantasms was in order, but for the life of him Bidwell couldn't find one. There was no doubt a great Evil had seized upon the town, and had grown in both murky day and blackest night like poisonous mushrooms. This Evil had invaded the dreams of the citizens of Fount Royal and driven them to frenzies. Bidwell knew that Winston was correct: this indeed was how it began.

'Courage,' he offered, but it sounded so very weak.

She opened her eyes; they had become swollen and near-scarlet. 'Courage?' she repeated, incredulously. 'Courage again' him? He showed me a graveyard full of markers! You couldn't take a step without fallin' over a grave! It was a silent town. Everybody gone ... or dead. He told me. Standin' right at my side, and I could hear him breathin' in my ear.' She nodded, her eyes staring straight through Bidwell. 'Those who stay here will perish and burn in Hell's fires. That's what he said, right in my ear. Burn in Hell's fires, forever and a day. It was a silent town. Silent. He said Shhhhhhhh, Alice. He said Shhhhhhhh, listen to my voice. Look upon this, he said, and know what I am.' She blinked, some of the focus returning to her eyes, but she still appeared dazed and disjointed. 'I did look,' she said, 'and I do know.'

'I understand,' Bidwell told her, trying to sound as calm and rational as a man at the bitter end of his rope possibly could, 'but we must be responsible, and not so eager to spread fear among our fellows.'

'I'm not wantin' to spread fear!' she answered sharply. 'I'm wantin' to tell the truth of what was shown me! This place is cursed! You know it, I know it, every soul with sense knows it!' She stared directly at one of the candles. The little girl in the other room was still sobbing, and Alice Barrow said with small strength in her voice, 'Hush, Melissa. Hush, now.'

Bidwell, again, was lost for words. He found himself gripping his tricorn with a force that made his fingers ache. The distant thunder echoed, nearer now, and sweat was crawling down the back of his neck. This hotbox room seemed to be closing in on him, stealing his breath. He had to get out. He abruptly turned, almost bowling Winston over, and took the two strides to the door.

'I saw his face,' the woman said. Bidwell stopped as if he'd run into a brick wall. 'His face,' she repeated. 'I saw it. He let me see it.'

Bidwell looked at her, waiting for the rest of what she had to say. She was sitting up, the sheet fallen aside, a terrible shiny anguish in her eyes. 'He was wearin' your face,' she said, with a savage and half-crazed grin. 'Like a mask, it was. Wearin' your face, and showin' me my children laid dead in the ground.' Her hands came up and covered her mouth, as if she feared she might let loose a cry that would shatter her