Speaks the Nightbird

'I'm afraid mum is not the word. If you're thinking that we have a sack of gold coins that we wish to keep a secret, you're sadly mistaken.'

The coin was in the pocket of Matthew's breeches, and he would've taken it out to show her but he doubted it would do any good but simply set more tongues in motion. 'I really did only find one,' he told her.

'Yes.' Her smile remained constant. 'Of course you did. That's what I certainly shall tell anyone who asks me . . .' She looked hopefully at the magistrate. 'When will the witch swing, sir?'

'Well, I—'

'I would like to know in advance, so I might make some pies to sell. There will be a great number of people there to see it, I'm sure. The whole town, most likely. Where will the gallows be constructed?'

It took Woodward a few seconds to recover from the jarring shock of the woman's rather brusque questions. 'I really don't know, Mrs. Vaughan. But at the moment there are no plans to construct a scaffold.'

'Oh?' Her smile began to fade, a frown tugging at the edges of her cupid's-bow mouth. 'I presumed you were here to carry out an execution.'

'You and many others, evidently. I am here to satisfy justice.'

'I see. So you're saying there will be an execution, but it may be delayed for several days?'

Now it was Woodward's turn to study the ground.

'The witch must swing,' Mrs. Vaughan plowed on. Her initial sweetness had given way to something more sour. 'For the sake of this town and everyone in it, she must be executed as soon as possible. I mean to say, as soon as justice is satisfied. Do you have any idea when that might be?'

'No, I do not.'

'But. . . you're in charge, aren't you? Surely you're not going to suffer the witch to live and keep cursing us too much longer, are you?'

'Magistrate!' Woodward and Matthew saw that Bidwell's carriage had stopped nearby, before it made the turn onto Peace Street. Bidwell had removed his tricorn and held it between both hands, a gesture that Woodward took as contrition. 'Good day there, Mrs. Vaughan! I trust you and your family are well?'

'I'm feeling quite ill after learning Rachel Howarth won't swing anytime soon!' the woman replied, her comely face now stitched tight with disgust. 'What's wrong with this magistrate? Has the witch already claimed him?'

Bidwell decided, at this combustible moment, to deny the powder its flame. 'Magistrate Woodward has the situation well in hand, madam. He operates in a considered and proper judicial manner. Magistrate, may I have a word with you?'

'Good day, Mrs. Vaughan,' Woodward said, and she gave an indignant grunt, lifted her pinched nose in the air, and strode away in the direction she'd come. He walked to the carriage. 'Yes?'

Bidwell stared at his tricorn, his fingers working the curled brim. 'I . . . must make a deepfelt apology, sir. Sometimes I let my impatience guide my tongue.' He glanced quickly up to gauge the magistrate's reaction, then lowered his eyes once more. 'I'm very sorry to have caused you grief. I know this is a difficult situation as it is for all of us. But you do understand my responsibility here, don't you?'

'I do. I trust you understand and will respect mine.'

'Absolutely.'

'In that case, I accept your apology. I'd also like you to know I will do my best to resolve your predicament as soon as possible, within the bounds and necessities of the law.'

'I ask nothing more,' said Bidwell, and then he put his tricorn back on and gave a visible exhalation at the fact that this distasteful business of apology was concluded. 'Might I offer you and your clerk a ride?'

'Yes, I'd certainly accept one. It is terribly humid this morning, isn't it?' Woodward was also grateful that the air had been cleared, since any difficulty with their host would be painful to endure. He stepped up on the carriage's footclimb as Bidwell opened the door for him, and then he eased himself into the seat that faced the other man. He realized that Matthew hadn't moved an inch from his previous position.

'Matthew? Aren't you coming?'

'No, sir, I am not.'

'My apology,' Bidwell said, and now the word tasted like spoiled cheese, 'was directed to your clerk as well as to you, sir.' He was staring at Woodward, not even bothering to lay eyes on the boy.

'I'd rather walk,' Matthew said, before the magistrate was put in the position of having to be a diplomat passing chilly responses between warring powers. 'I would like the chance to think awhile. Also to explore the town.'

'If your clerk desires to walk, he shall walk.' Bidwell raised his voice to deliver a command to his servant: 'Goode! Drive on!'

At once Goode gave the reins a flick, the team of horses responded, and the carriage moved away from Matthew. It turned left onto Peace Street, running out of its path a couple of scruffy-looking dogs who were growling over a muddy bone. Matthew watched with amusement as a third dog—much smaller than the other two —darted in just behind the carriage's wheels, grabbed up the bone, and fled at speed while its rivals seemed to gape in an amazed stupor before they took pursuit.

Matthew was on his own. He began walking again, going no particular place and certainly in no hurry. He crossed the intersection of streets and headed westward on Industry. Strolling past more fields and farmhouses, picket fences and barns, he greeted and was greeted by several people who were either at work on their various labors of living or who were walking to other destinations. Here and there stood groups of oak trees, massive shapes that overhung their branches above the roofs and yards. The number of large treestumps told Matthew that it had been an endeavor of some sweat and toil to clear this land for any kind of use, but the fallen trees had been put to good service in the walls that protected Fount Royal. It had been no easy job to build this town to its present condition, that was a surety; the sheer willpower of the people to settle what not long ago had been thick woods at the edge of a seaboard swamp greatly impressed Matthew, and seeing the number of houses and plowed fields, greened pastures, and gardens made him fully realize the hopes that humans held to be masters of an untamed land.

'Good mornin' to you!' called a man who was mending a broken fence.

'Good morning,' Matthew answered.

'Your magistrate's gonna deliver us from the witch, I hear,' the man said, straightening up from his work.

'The problem is being considered,' was all Matthew felt free to say.

'I hope he does more'n consider it! Sooner she hangs, sooner we can sleep well at night!'

'Yes, sir. I'll be sure to pass that along to the magistrate.' He kept walking, continuing on his westward trek. He expected another response, but the man had returned to his task.

They're ready to hang her, Mrs. Nettles had said. They'd hang her this morn, if they could.

He thought of the shape wrapped in gray sackcloth, huddled in the hay.

What she needs is a champion of truth.

He thought of the way she'd risen to her feet, the slow and sinuous movement that had started his heart beating harder.

Somebody to prove her innocent. . . He thought of the sackcloth coming open, and what was revealed beneath. He saw her lean taut body, her raven-black hair, her heartshaped face and strange gold-hued eyes . . . when ever'body else is again' her.

He had to stop thinking. The thoughts were causing him distress. He heard the dark growl of distant thunder and realized, not without a sense of humor, that he'd grown his own lightning rod. That was a damnable thing, and to be ashamed of. The woman was, after all, a widow. But still she was a woman, and he a man; though he often wore a lightning rod at the sight of some female that might be passing by, he had devised methods of deflating the issue. Reciting by memory Bible verses in Latin, mentally working complex mathematics problems, or observing the patterns of nature; all those had sufficed at one time or another. In this instance, however, neither Deuteronomy nor geometry had the least effect. Therefore he steered himself by the foremast toward the nearest mighty oak and sat down beneath it to ease his passions in study of grass, clouds, and anything else that needed studying.

More rain, that gift of life the people of Fount Royal certainly could live without for a time, was coming.