Speaks the Nightbird

opportunity. Why the founders of Charles Town didn't elect to build as far south as possible, I don't know. I expect it had to do with the rivers there, and their need for fresh water. But the spring, you see, gives us all the fresh water we need. Plenty enough to fill barrels for thirsty sailors from the Indies, that's a certainty!'

'Uh . . . sir?' Matthew said, scratching at a mosquito bite on his right cheek. 'If these plans of yours are so clear . . . then why is it you haven't yet begun building your docks and warehouses?'

Bidwell glanced quickly at Winston. Matthew thought it was a glance of nervous communication. 'Because,' Bidwell said, directing a hard stare at Matthew, 'first things are first.' He pushed his plate of bones aside and folded his hands on the table. 'It is just like the building of a ship, young man. You do not mount the mast first, you lay the keel. As it will take several years to drain the swampland and prepare the necessary details before construction of the docks can begin, I must make sure that Fount Royal is self- supporting. Which means that the farmers'—here he gave a nod of acknowledgment to Garrick—'are able to raise sufficient crops; that the cobbler, tailor, blacksmith, and other craftsmen are able to work and thrive; that we have a sturdy schoolhouse and church and an atmosphere of purpose and security; and that we have a yearly increase in population.'

He paused after this recitation, and regarded the plate of bones as darkly as if they were the ribs of the burned houses that littered Fount Royal. 'I regret to speak the truth,' he said after a few seconds of grim silence, 'but very few of those conditions have come to pass. Oh, our farmers are doing the best they can, as the weather is doing its worst, but the fight is all uphill. We have the staples—corn, beans, and potatoes—and the game is abundant. But as far as producing a commerce crop such as cotton or tobacco . . . the attempts have not met with success. We are losing our population at a rapid rate, both to illness and ...' Again, he hesitated. He took a pained breath. 'And to fear of the witch,' he went on. Then he looked into Woodward's eyes.

'It is my passionate dream,' Bidwell said, 'to create a town here. To build from it a port city that shall be the pride of my possessions. In truth, sir, I have strained my accounts to see that dream become a reality. I have never failed at anything. Never.' He lifted his chin a fraction, as if daring a blow from the fist of fate. Woodward noticed that on it was a large, reddening insect bite. 'I am not going to fail here,' he said, with iron in his voice, and this time he swept his gaze around the table to take in the rest of his audience. 'I refuse to fail,' he told them. 'No damned witch, warlock, nor cloven-hooved ass shall destroy Fount Royal so long as I have a drop of blood in my body, and that's my vow to all of you!'

'Your vow finds a brother in mine, sir,' Paine said. 'I won't run from a woman, even if she is licking the devil's buttocks.'

'More like sucking his cock,' the doctor said. His voice was a little slurred, indicating that the wine and rum had together overrun his fortifications. 'Isn't that right, Elias?'

The attention of the magistrate and his clerk turned toward Garrick, whose weathered face had blushed a shade red. 'Yes sir, it is,' the farmer agreed. 'I seen the witch on her knees, tendin' to her master in such a way.'

'One moment.' Woodward had felt his heart give a kick. 'You mean to say . . . you actually witnessed such a thing?'

'I did,' came the answer without hesitation. 'I seen Rachel Howarth on her knees, in the dirt. He was standin' in front of her, with his hands on his hips. She had hold of. . .' He stopped, and squirmed uneasily on the bench.

'Go on,' Bidwell urged. 'Tell the magistrate exactly what you saw.'

'It... it was . .. awful big,' Garrick struggled onward, 'and ... it was black and shiny. Wet-lookin', like a snail. And . . . the worst thing was that ... it ...' He glanced for help first to Johnstone and then to Shields, but both those gentlemen had chosen to stare at their plates. Garrick forced himself to look at the magistrate and finish what he'd begun. 'It was covered with thorns,' he said, and instantly he dropped his gaze to his own plate.

'Thorns,' Woodward repeated; he felt a little lightheaded himself, whether from the rum or the impact of this testimony he didn't know.

'Mr. Garrick?' Matthew leaned forward. 'What did the man's face look like?'

'His face?'

'Yes, sir. I presume you saw his face?'

'Well . . .' Garrick frowned, his eyes downcast. 'I was might scared. I don't reckon I got a good look at that part of him.'

'Hell's bells, boy!' Shields said, with a harsh laugh. 'If you'd taken a gander at a woman sucking a foot-long black pecker covered with thorns, would you have looked at the face hanging over it?'

'I don't know,' Matthew replied calmly. 'I've never been in that position before.'

'He was wearing a cloak and a cowl over his head. Isn't that what you told me, Elias?' Bidwell prompted.

'Yes sir, that he was. A black cloak, with gold buttons on the front. I seen 'em shine in the moonlight.' Garrick paused once more; he swallowed thickly, his eyes glassy from the memory of what he'd witnessed. 'Where his face was . . . was just dark, that's all. Like a hole you could look into and not see the bottom of. I was might scared, 'bout to wet my britches. I stood there, starin' at 'em. Both of 'em, right there behind the barn. Then all of a sudden he musta spied me . . . 'cause he said my name. Spoke it like he knew me. He said, 'Elias Garrick, do you like what you see?'' Garrick lifted trembling fingers and ran them across his lips. 'I . . . wanted to run. I tried, but he had me rooted. He made me open my mouth. Made me say 'Yes.' Then he . . . laughed, and he let me go. I ran home, but I was too scared to wake up my 'Becca. I didn't tell her ... I couldn't bear to tell her. But I did go to Mr. Paine, and then he took me to see Mr. Bidwell.'

'And you're positive the woman you saw ... uh ... in service to this creature was Rachel Howarth?' Woodward asked.

'Yes sir, I am. My farm's right next to the Howarth land. That night I had me some stomach trouble, and I woke up and went outside to spew. Then I seen somebody walkin' 'cross the Howarth cornfield, near where Jess Maynard found Daniel's body. I thought it was might strange, somebody walkin' in the dark with no lantern, so I crossed the fence and followed. Went behind the barn, and that's where I seen what I did.'

'You saw the woman's face, then?' Matthew asked.

'Back to the face he goes again!' Dr. Shields scoffed.

'I seen her hair,' the farmer went on. 'I seen . . . well... by the time I'd got there, she was out of her clothes.'

'The woman was naked?' Woodward, on an impulse, reached for the tankard. There was a single drink left in it, which he made disappear.

'Naked, yes sir.' Garrick nodded. 'It was her, all right. Rachel Howarth, the witch.' He looked from Woodward to his host and then back again to the magistrate. 'Who else would it've been?'

'No one else,' Bidwell said flatly. 'Magistrate, you do know your daemoniacals, do you not?'

'I do.'

'The witch has all but admitted a hand in murdering Reverend Grove and her husband. She has the marks, and she cannot recite the Lord's Prayer. She has the evil eye, and—most telling of all—a number of straw poppets that she fashioned to trance her victims were found hidden beneath a floorboard in her house. Rachel Howarth is most certainly a witch, and she along with her black-cocked master have almost succeeded in destroying my town.'

'Mastuh Bidwell?' The voice had come from the kitchen doorway. A man with flesh as black as polished ebony stood there, peering into the dining room. The sight of such a crow coming on the heels of the discussion was startling enough to drive spikes of alarm through both Woodward and his clerk.

'Yes, Goode! Come in, we need your talents!'

The black man entered the room. He was a carrying a wooden box and something bound in a burlap wrapping. Matthew watched as the man—white-haired and ancient but moving with strong purpose and youthful posture—set the wooden box down in a corner. His coarse-clothed suit of thin gray stripes against darker gray was damp, indicating a walk of some distance through the rain. He unwrapped the burlap, exposing a wheaten-colored