Speaks the Nightbird

'Exactly.'

'What action do you propose, then?'

'I propose ... to serve my sentence and scribe the answers of the witnesses. Then I propose to endure the whip as best I can, and hope I neither weep in public nor soil my breeches. I propose for you to visit Dr. Shields and ask for a tonic.'

'Matthew, I told you that I'm—-'

'You're ill, sir,' Matthew said firmly. 'And you might worsen, without help. I shall not retreat on this subject.'

Woodward made a sound of exasperation. He knew the young man could be as tenacious as a dockside dog trying to gnaw through a crab's shell. 'All right,' he relented. 'I'll go.'

'Tomorrow.'

'Yes, yes. Tomorrow.'

'Your visit should be twofold,' Matthew said. 'One, to aid your health. Two, to make some inquiries—subtle, of course— about Mr. Paine, Mr. Winston, and Schoolmaster Johnstone.'

'The schoolmaster? It can't be him, Matthew! His deformed knee!'

'I should like to know if Dr. Shields has ever inspected it.'

'You're accusing an Oxford brother,' Woodward said, with an uptilt of his chin. 'I find that objectionable.'

'I'm accusing no one, sir. But I would wish to know the schoolmaster's history, just as I would wish to know the histories of Mr. Winston and Mr. Paine.'

'And what of Dr. Shields's history?'

'His, too. But I think the doctor may be less than candid about his own life, therefore other sources will have to be tapped.'

'All this is well and good.' Woodward eased himself to his feet. 'However, we can't forget our main purpose here. We're primarily concerned with a witch, not a spy.'

'A woman accused of witchcraft,' Matthew corrected. He had spoken it a little too sternly, and he had to amend his tone. 'Sir,' he said.

'Of course.' The magistrate nodded, his eyelids drooping. 'Good night.'

'Good night, sir.' Matthew let him start walking away before he decided, on an impulse, to say the next thing that left his lips. 'Magistrate? Who is in pain when you call to Ann?'

Woodward stopped as if he had collided with a wall. He stood very still.

'I couldn't help but overhear. But it's not something I haven't heard before, sir.' There was no response. 'Forgive my intrusion. I had to ask.'

'No.' Woodward's voice was tight. 'You did not have to ask.' He remained standing exactly as he was, his back toward the young man. 'This is one why you should leave be, Matthew. Heed what I say. Leave it be.'

Matthew said nothing more. He watched as the magistrate walked out of the parlor, his back ramrod- straight.

And thus the night ended, with more questions and no answers.

 eleven

A SMALL BUT IMPORTANT MIRACLE greeted Matthew as he awakened, responding to the insistent fist of Robert Bidwell upon his chamber door: the sun had appeared.

It was a weak sun, yes, and in imminent danger of being clouded over by the jealous sky, but there it was all the same. The early light, a misty golden sheen, had brought forth Fount Royal's roosters in fine trumpeting form. As Matthew shaved and dressed, he listened to the orchestra of cocks vying for vocal dominance. His gaze kept slipping down to where the Spanish coin had been resting atop the dresser, and he couldn't help but wonder whose boots had crossed the floor to steal it. But today another matter was supreme. He would have to forswear his mind from the subject of the coin and the spy and concentrate fully on his task—which was, after all, his raison d'etre.

A breakfast of eggs, fried potatoes, and corncakes filled Matthew's belly, all washed down with a cup of sturdy dark brown tea. Woodward was late to the table, his eyes swollen and his breathing harsh; he appeared to have either slept not at all for the remainder of the night or suffered dreams that prevented rest. Before Matthew could speak, Woodward lifted a hand and said in a croaking voice, 'I promised I would visit Dr. Shields today, and I shall. As soon as we have interviewed Mr. Buckner.'

'Surely you're going to interview more than one witness today, aren't you? As tomorrow is the Sabbath, I mean.' Bidwell was sitting at the head of the table, his breakfast platter already scraped clean. Though he'd been severely tried by the recent events, he was clean-shaven, freshly washed, and dressed in a tan-colored suit. The ringlets of his lavish wig cascaded down around his shoulders.

'I will interview Mr. Buckner this morning.' Woodward seated himself on the bench across the table from Matthew. 'Then I'm going to visit Dr. Shields. If I am up to the task, I will interview Mr. Garrick in the afternoon.'

'All right, then. Just so there is some movement, I should be satisfied.'

'I, too, should be satisfied with a movement,' Woodward said. 'My system has been clogged by these country meals.' He pushed aside his breakfast dish, which had been loaded with food by a servant girl in preparation for his arrival. Instead he reached for the green ceramic teapot and poured a cup, which he drank down with several noisy swallows.

'You'll be feeling better before long,' Bidwell assured him. 'The sun cures all ills.'

'Thank you, sir, but I do not desire platitudes. Will we have the proper furnishings on hand when we reach the gaol?'

'I've arranged for Mr. Winston and Mr. Green to take care of what you need. And I must say, there's no reason to be snappish. This is a great day, sir, for the history of Fount Royal.'

'No day is great when murder is involved.' Woodward poured a second cup of tea and that, too, went down his hatch.

It came time to leave. Bidwell announced that Goode was already waiting in front with the carriage, and he wished them both—as he put it—'good hunting.' Woodward felt positively feeble as he left the house, his bones heated and flesh clammy, his throat paved by Hell's burning brimstone. It was all he could do to suck in a breath, as his nostrils were so constricted. But he would have to carry on, and hopefully Dr. Shields could relieve his discomfort later in the day.

Clouds had moved in, obscuring the blessed sun, as Goode flicked the reins and the carriage wheels began to turn. But as they passed the spring—where two women were already drawing water into buckets—the sun's rays slipped their bondage and shone down upon the surface. Matthew saw the spring suddenly glow golden with a marvelously beautiful light. Around the water, the green tops of oak trees were cast with the same gilded lumination, and for a moment Matthew realized the power that Fount Royal held over its citizens: a place carved from the wild, fenced and tamed, baptized in sweat and tears, made useful by sheer human will and muscle. It was a dream and a damnation too, this desiring to control the wilderness, to shape it with axe-blade and shovel. Many had perished in the building of this town; many more would die before it was a harbor city. But who could deny the temptation and challenge of the land?

In some old Latin tome on philosophy he'd read, Matthew recalled that the author had assigned all reflection, peace, and piety to God; to the Devil had been assigned the need of man to go forth and conquer, to break asunder and rework, to question and reach beyond all hope of grasping.

It seemed to him, then, that according to that philosophy the Devil was indeed at work in Fount Royal. And the Devil was indeed at work in him, because the question of why was rooted in the tree of forbidden fruit. But what would this land—this world—be without such a question? And where would it be without those instincts and needs—seeds from the Devil, some might say—that caused men to wish for more than God had given them?

The clouds shifted, and suddenly yet again the sun had vanished. Matthew looked up and saw patches of blue amid the gray, but they were becoming slimmer and smaller. In another moment, the gray clouds held dominion once more.