Speaks the Nightbird

'What's this, Robert?' Johnstone asked. 'You make it sound so secretive.'

'Please, sit down. All of you.' When his guests were seated, Bidwell put his lantern on the sill of the open window and settled himself in his chair. 'Now, ' he said gravely. 'This problem that I grapple with... has to do with...'

'Questions and answers, ' came a voice from the library's entrance. Instantly Dr. Shields and Johnstone turned their heads toward the door.

'The asking of the former, and the finding of the latter, ' Matthew said, as he continued into the room. 'And thank you, sir, for delivering the cue.'

'My God!' Shields shot to his feet, his eyes wide behind his spectacles. 'What are you doing here?'

'Actually, I've been occupying my room for the afternoon.' Matthew walked to a position so that he might face all the men, his back to the wall. He wore a pair of dark blue breeches and a fresh white shirt. Mrs. Nettles had cut the left sleeve away from the clay dressing. He didn't tell them that when he'd shaved and been forced to regard his bruise-blotched face and the clay plaster on his forehead, he'd been cured of unnecessary glances in a mirror for some time to come.

'Robert?' Johnstone's voice was calm. He gripped the shaft of his cane with both hands. 'What trickery is this?'

'It's not a trick, Alan. Simply a preparation in which Edward and I assisted.'

'A preparation? For what, pray tell?'

'For this moment, sir, ' Matthew said, his face betraying no emotion. 'I arrived back here—with Rachel— around two o'clock. We entered through the swamp, and as I was... um... deficient in clothing and did not wish to be seen by anyone, I asked John Goode to make my presence known to Mr. Bidwell. He did so, with admirable discretion. Then I asked Mr. Bidwell to gather you all together this evening.'

'I'm lost!' Shields said, but he sat down again. 'You mean to say you brought the witch back here? Where is she?'

'The woman is currently in Mrs. Nettles's quarters, ' Bidwell offered. 'Probably eating her dinner.'

'But... but...' Shields shook his head. 'She's a witch, by God! It was proven so!'

'Ah, proof.' Now Matthew smiled slightly. 'Yes, doctor, proof is at the crux of things, is it not?'

'It certainly is! And what you've proven to me is that you're not only bewitched, but a bewitched fool! And for the sake of God, what's happened to you? Did you fight with a demon to gain the witch's favors?'

'Yes, doctor, and I slayed it. Now: if it is proof you require, I shall be glad to satisfy your thirst.' Matthew, for the fourth or fifth time, found himself absentmindedly scratching at the clay plaster that covered his broken ribs beneath the shirt. He had a small touch of fever and was sweating, but the Indian physician—through Nawpawpay —had this morning announced him fit to travel. Demon Slayer hadn't had to walk the distance, however; except for the last two miles, he'd been carried by his and Rachel's Indian guides on a ladder-like conveyance with a dais at its center. It had been quite the way to travel.

'It seems to me, ' Matthew said, 'that we have all—being learned and God-fearing men—come to the conclusion that a witch cannot speak the Lord's Prayer. I would venture that a warlock could neither speak it. Therefore: Mr. Winston, would you please speak the Lord's Prayer?'

Winston drew a long breath. He said, 'Of course. Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done...'

Matthew waited, staring into Winston's face, as the man perfectly recited the prayer. At the 'Amen, ' Matthew said, 'Thank you, ' and turned his attention to Bidwell.

'Sir, would you also please speak the Lord's Prayer?'

'Me?' Instantly some of the old accustomed indignation flared in Bidwell's eyes. 'Why should I have to speak it?'

'Because, ' Matthew said, 'I'm telling you to.'

'Telling me?' Bidwell made a flatulent noise with his lips. 'I won't speak such a personal thing just because someone orders me to!'

'Mr. Bidwell?' Matthew had clenched his teeth. This man, even as an ally, was insufferable! 'It is necessary.'

'I agreed to this meeting, but I didn't agree to recite such a powerful prayer to my God on demand, as if it were lines from a maskers' play! No, I shall not speak it! And I'm not a warlock for it, either!'

'Well, it appears you and Rachel Howarth share stubborn natures, does it not?' Matthew raised his eyebrows, but Bidwell didn't respond further. 'We shall return to you, then.'

'You may return to me a hundred times, and it won't matter!'

'Dr. Shields?' Matthew said. 'Would you please cooperate with me in this matter, as one of us refuses to do, and speak the Lord's Prayer?'

'Well... yes... I don't understand the point, but... all right.' Shields ran the back of his hand across his mouth. During Winston's recitation he'd finished the rest of his drink, and now he looked into the empty glass and said, 'I have no more wine. Might I get a fresh glass?'

'After the prayer is spoken. Would you proceed?'

'Yes. All right.' The doctor blinked, his eyes appearing somewhat glazed in the ruddy candlelight. 'All right, ' he said again. Then: 'Our Father... who art in heaven... hallowed be Thy name; Thy kingdom come; Thy... will be done... on earth as it is... is in heaven.' He stopped, pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his sand-colored jacket and blotted moisture from his face. 'I'm sorry. It is warm in here. My wine... I do need a cooling drink.'

'Dr. Shields?' Matthew said quietly. 'Please continue.'

'I've spoken enough of it, haven't I? What madness is this?'

'Why can you not finish the prayer, doctor?'

'I can finish it! By Christ, I can!' Shields lifted his chin defiantly, but Matthew saw that his eyes were terrified. 'Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our... forgive us our trespasses... as we forgive those who... who trespass... trespass...' He pressed his hand to his lips and now he appeared to be distraught, even near weeping. He made a muffled sound that might have been a moan.

'What is it, Ben?' Bidwell asked in alarm. 'For God's sake, tell us!' Dr. Shields lowered his head, removed his glasses, and wiped his damp forehead with the handkerchief. 'Yes, ' he answered in a frail voice. 'Yes. I should tell it... for the sake of God.'

'Shall I fetch you some water?' Winston offered, standing up. 'No.' Shields waved him down again. 'I... should... tell it, while I am able.'

'Tell what, Ben?' Bidwell glanced up at Matthew, who had an idea what was about to be revealed. 'Ben?' Bidwell prompted. 'Tell what?'

'That... it was I... who murdered Nicholas Paine.' Silence fell. Bidwell's jaw might have been as heavy as an anvil.

'I murdered him, ' the doctor went on, his head lowered. He dabbed at his forehead, cheeks, and eyes with small, birdlike movements. 'Executed him, I should say.' He shook his head slowly back and forth. 'No. That is a pallid excuse. I murdered him, and I deserve to answer to the law for it... because I can no longer answer to myself or God. And He asks me about it. Every day and night, He does. He whispers... Ben... now that it's done... at long last, now that it's done... and you have committed with your own hands the act that you most detest in this world... the act that makes men into beasts... how shall you go on living as a healer?'

'Have you... lost your mind?' Bidwell thought his friend was suffering a mental breakdown right before his eyes. 'What are you saying?'

Shields lifted his face. His eyes were swollen and red, his mouth slack. Saliva had gathered in the corners. 'Nicholas Paine was the highwayman who killed my elder son. Shot him... during a robbery on the Philadelphia Post Road, just outside Boston eight years ago. My boy lived long enough to describe the man... and also to say that he'd drawn a pistol and shot the highwayman through the calf of his leg.' Shields gave a bitter, ghastly smile. 'It was I who told him never to travel that road without a prepared pistol near at hand. In fact... it was my birthday gift to him. My boy was shot in the stomach, and... there was nothing to be done. But I... I went mad, I think. For a very long time.' He picked up the wineglass, forgetting it was empty, and started to tip it to his mouth before he realized the futility of it.

Shields drew a long, shuddering breath and released it. All eyes were on him. 'Robert... you know what the officers in these colonies are like. Slow. Untrained. Stupid. I knew the man might lose himself, and I would never