Matthew saw the charcoal-gray clouds against the lighter gray, and could smell the scent of water in the air. It would soon be above the town, and Matthew welcomed it because it would wash some of this nonsense out of him. And it
He watched the storm clouds fast approaching. In a pasture nearby, the cows began lowing. A man on horseback rode past, his steed visibly nervous and fighting the bit. The smell of rain was stronger now, and the next boom of thunder was like the sound of a kettledrum being pounded. Still Matthew stayed where he was, though he'd begun to wonder about finding better shelter. Then the wind came and made the oak's branches shiver over his head, and so he got up and started walking eastward along Industry Street.
Lightning flared across the sky. Within another moment, large drops of rain began pelting Matthew's back. He picked up his pace, realizing he was in for a thorough soaking. The severity of the rainfall rapidly increased, as did the hard-blowing wind. Matthew had not yet reached the conjunction of streets when the bottom fell out of the bucket with a boom and crash, and the rain descended in a gray torrent that all but blinded him. In a matter of seconds he was as wet as a carp. The wind was fierce, almost shoving him headlong into the mud. He looked desperately around, rain slapping his face, and saw in the aqueous gloom the square of an open doorway. There was no time to beg invitation; lie ran toward the shelter, which proved to be a small barn, and once inside he stepped back from the windblown entrance and shook the rain from himself like one of Fount Royal's bone-chasing mongrels.
Matthew surmised he would be captive here for a while. On a wallpeg hung a lantern, a flame aglow within its bell; Matthew realized someone had been recently here, but where that someone now was he didn't know. There were four narrow stalls, two of them each confining a horse; both horses stared at him, and one rumbled a greeting of sorts deep in the throat. Matthew ran a hand through the stubble of his wet hair and watched the deluge at a prudent distance from the doorway.
The barn was well put together. There were a few pattering raindrops falling from the roof, but not enough to be bothersome. He looked about for a place to rest and saw a pile of hay over against the far wall; going to it, he sat down and stretched his legs out to await the storm's finale. One of the horses nickered, as if asking him what he was doing. Matthew hoped that whoever owned this barn would not be too troubled by his presence here, but he didn't care to drown on the way to Bidwell's mansion. A boom of thunder and flash of lightning made the horses jump and whinny. The rain was still pouring down—if anything, harder than before—and Matthew figured that his stay here would be, unfortunately, longer than he'd planned.
A drop of rain plunked him on the top of the head. He looked up in time to receive another raindrop between his eyes. Yes, he was sitting directly beneath a leak. He moved two feet or so to the left, nearer the wall, and stretched his legs out before him again.
But then he became aware of a new discomfort. Something was pressing into his spine. He reached back, his hand winnowing into the hay, and there his fingers came into contact with a surface of rough burlap. A sack of some kind, he realized as his fingers did their exploring. A sack, buried in the hay.
He pulled his hand away from it. Whatever the sack contained, it was not his business. After all, this was private property. He should be gracious enough not to go looking through private piles of hay, shouldn't he?
He sat there for a moment, watching the rain. Perhaps it had lessened somewhat, perhaps not. The leak that had moved him aside was still dripping. He reached back, almost unconsciously, sank his hand into the hay, and felt the sack's surface once more. Then again withdrew his fingers. Private property, he told himself. Leave it alone.
But a question had come to him. This was indeed private property, so why had its owner felt the need to hide a burlap sack at the bottom of a haypile? And the next question, of course— what did the sack contain that merited hiding?
'It's not my business,' he said aloud, as if saying it could convince him.
He recalled then something else that Mrs. Nettles had said:
Matthew found himself wondering if that burlap sack held one of the things that, as Mrs. Nettles had expressed it, nae wanted to be seen.
If that was so, might it have some bearing on the case of witchcraft? And if it did, was he not bound to investigate it as a representative of Magistrate Woodward?
Perhaps so. Then again, perhaps not. He was torn between his curiosity and his respect for private property. Another moment passed, during which the frown of deliberation never left Matthew's face. Then he made his decision: he would clear away enough hay to get a good look at the sack, and thereafter dictate his actions.
When the job was done, Matthew saw that it was simply a plain dark brown grainsack. Touching it, however, indicated that its content was not grain; his fingers made out a circular shape that seemed to be made of either wood or metal. More study was needed. He grasped the sack and, in attempting to dislodge it, quickly learned how heavy it was. His shoulders protested the effort. Now all reluctance to pierce this mystery had fled before the attack of Matthew's desire to know; he gave the sack a mighty heave and succeeded in pulling it free about half of its length. His hands felt another circular shape, and the folds and creases of some unknown material. He got a firm grip on the thing, in preparation of dragging it out so he might inspect its other—and presumably open—end.
One of the horses suddenly gave a snort and a whuff of air. Matthew felt the small hairs move on the back of his neck and he knew in an instant that someone else had just entered the barn.
He started to turn his head. Before he could, he heard the crunch of a boot on the earthen floor and he was grasped by two hands, one around the back of the neck and the other seizing his right arm just above the elbow. There was a garbled cry that might have been a curse with God's name in it, and an instant after that Matthew was picked up and thrown through the air with terrifying force. He had no time to prevent a bad landing; on the journey his right shoulder grazed a wooden post and then he collided with the gate that secured one of the empty stalls. The breath was knocked from his lungs and he fell to the floor, his bones having suddenly become unjointed and less solid than as objects of pliable putty.
He was struggling to get his breath when his attacker loomed over him again, and now a hand took hold of his shirt and pulled him up and another hand clamped upon his throat. The pressure was such that Matthew feared his eyeballs would explode from their sockets. 'You sneakin' bastard, you!' the man was shouting. With a violent twisting motion the man threw Matthew once more, this time into the wall with such force that the entire barn trembled and old dust blew from the chinks. The stunned clerk felt his teeth bite into his tongue, and as he sank to the ground again in a haze of pain he tasted bitter blood.
The man came after him. 'I'll kill you, you damn sneak!' he raged, and he swung a booted foot directly at Matthew's head. Matthew knew in a flash that if he didn't move, his skull would be bashed in, so he scrabbled forward and at the same time threw up an arm to ward off the blow. The kick got him on the right shoulderblade, bringing a cry of pain from his bloody lips, but he kept frantically crawling and pulled his legs underneath himself before the man could get balanced to kick him again. Matthew staggered up, his knees buckled, but he forced them to hold true with sheer willpower, and then he turned to face his attacker, his back pressed against the wallboards.
By the lantern's light he recognized the man. He'd seen this fellow in passing yesterday morning, when he and the magistrate had met Paine at the public stables behind the blacksmith's foundry. It was indeed the blacksmith; by name, according to the sign of his business, Seth Hazelton. The smithy was a squat, round-bellied man of middle age, with a wet gray brush of hair and a coarse and dripping gray beard. His face was as rugged as weathered rock, his nose a hooked precipice. At the moment his intense blue eyes were lit with the fire of sheer, white-hot fury, and the knotty veins stood out in relief on his bull-thick neck. He paused in his onrush, as if recognizing Matthew as the magistrate's clerk, but the respite was only for a few seconds; his face flamed anew and, bellowing a cry of mingled wrath and anguish, he hurtled forward again.
Matthew was fast when he needed to be. He gauged Hazel-ton's swinging blow, ducked under the fist, and ran for the way out. The smithy, however, was also quick of foot when it deemed him to be so; he bounded after Matthew like a corpulent hound and caught the boy's shoulder in a grip fashioned hard by the contest with iron. Matthew was spun around, two hands set upon his throat, he was lifted off his feet and carried backward to slam once more into the wall with a force that near shattered his spine. Then the hands began to squeeze with deadly
