Speaks the Nightbird

on her face. Her right arm was lifted and swinging forward, a gesture of violence that made Matthew shout, 'Magistrate!'

The shout itself most possibly caused Woodward to lose the remaining few hairs on his scalp. He twisted his head around as well, and Buckner gave a garbled cry of terror and raised a hand to protect his face from what he was sure would be Satanic flame.

There was a loud crack! at the end of the woman's blow against the bars. Fragments of dark reddish-brown clay fell into the straw. Matthew saw that in her right hand was the cup's grip, the rest of it smashed to smithereens.

'I am done with my tea,' Rachel said. She opened her hand and dropped the largest bit of the cup into their cell. 'That is how Lucretia Vaughan wanted it returned, is it not?'

'Yes, it is. And thank you, Matthew, for your help in emptying my bladder. Will you collect those pieces for me, please?' The magistrate blotted his face with his sleeve and attempted mightily to control his galloping heart. Matthew had to bend down on his knees and reach into the woman's cell to gather up all the shards. She stood over him, an intimidating presence to begin with but now—due to farmer Buckner's tale—absolutely fearsome, even though Matthew had the benefit of clear-headed reasoning.

'Wait,' she said as he started to rise. Her hand came down and plucked up a small piece he'd missed. 'Take this one, too.'

She placed it in his outstretched palm, which he immediately withdrew between the bars.

Woodward put the fragments into Madam Vaughan's basket. 'Let us continue, please, though my mind is as shambled as that broken cup.' He rubbed his temples with both hands. 'Matthew, do you have any questions for the witness?'

'Yes, sir, I do,' he answered readily, and then he prepared to scribe his own inquiry. 'Mr. Buckner, how long have you depended on that cane?'

'My cane? Oh . . . eight, nine year. My bones are poorly.'

'I understand that you were terrified that night in the orchard. Terror can strengthen a man's legs, I know. But when the person behind you said, 'Jeremiah, run home,' did you actually run?'

'I don't know. But I must'a, 'cause I got back to my bed.'

'You don't recall running? You recall no pain to your legs?'

'No,' Buckner said. 'I don't recall.'

'By which door did you enter your house?'

'Which door? Well... I reckon the back door.'

'You don't remember which door?'

'Jus' two doors,' Buckner said with a snort. 'Back 'n front. I was behind the house, so I must'a gone in the back un.'

'Was it cold that night?' Matthew asked, as he dipped the quill once more.

'It was February, like I say.'

'Yes, sir. But my question to you is: was it cold that night?'

'Sure it was. Had to be cold, a February night!'

'You don't know for certain whether it was cold or not? You don't recall it being cold?'

'I'm not on trial here, am I?' Buckner looked to the magistrate for help. 'What's he poundin' the nail for?'

'Is there some point to this, Matthew?'

'es, sir, there is. If you'll bear with me?'

'All right, then.' Woodward nodded. 'But please remember that Mr. Buckner is a witness, not a defendant.'

'Mr. Buckner, when you rose from bed to go outside in the cold February night, did you pause to put on any outer garments?'

'Outer garments? What're you goin' on about?'

'A coat,' Matthew said. 'A cloak. A hat. Gloves. Surely you paused to at least put on shoes.'

Buckner scowled. 'Well... of course I put on shoes!'

'And a coat?'

'Yes, I reckon I put on a coat too! Do you think me a fool?'

'No, sir, I do not. But you don't sound very certain about those details. Tell me this, then: when you heard the cock crow, were you lying in bed with your shoes and coat still on?'

'What?'

'You testified that you were lying in bed, sweating and shaking. Did you pause at some point to remove your shoes and coat before you got into bed?'

'Yes.' It was said with faint conviction. 'I must'a.'

'You don't recall?'

'I was scairt. Like I said, scairt half dead!'

'What about your cane?' Matthew asked. 'You did take your cane outside with you, did you not?'

'I did. I cain't hardly get 'round wirhout it.'

'Where did you put your cane when you returned from the orchard?'

'I . . . put it. . .' He pressed his fingers against his mouth. 'I put it... in the corner next to the bed, I reckon. Where it always is put.'

'Then that's where it was when morning came?'

'Yes. Right there in that corner.'

'Where did you put your coat and shoes?'

'I . . . took off my coat, and laid it and my shoes ... at the foot of the bed, I believe.'

'That's where they were the next time you had need of them?'

'Wait,' Buckner said, his forehead deeply creased. 'No. I must'a hung up my coat on the hook by the front door. That's where it was.'

'By the front door? Yet you entered by the back door? Was there a lantern lit within the house, or was it dark?'

'Dark. I don't recall no light.'

'You were—as you put it—scared half dead, a witness to demonic wickedness, and yet you walked from one side of the house to the other in the dark to hang your coat on its proper hook?' Matthew held up a finger before Buckner could respond. 'Ah! You did so because you didn't wish your wife to know you'd been outside, could that be correct?'

'Yes, it could.' He nodded vigorously. 'That must be the why of it.'

'Sir, if you had decided to do so, why did you believe you took it off and laid it at the foot of the bed? Is it so unclear in your mind where you left your coat?'

'I was conjured! Must'a been. Like I say, after what I seen I ain't right in the head no more.'

'Mr. Buckner?' Matthew stared forcefully into the man's eyes. 'You have given us a story of amazing details, seen without the benefit of illumination. Why is it, then, that your grasp of details is so hazy both before and after the incident in the orchard?'

Buckner's face tightened. 'You think I'm lyin', don't you?'

'Mr. Buckner,' Woodward spoke up, 'no one has said that.'

'Don't have to say it! I can read it in these damn questions you're askin' me! All this 'bout coats and shoes, and did I have my cane and whatnot! I'm a honest man, you can ask anybody!'

'Please, sir, there's no need for an outburst.'

'I ain't no liar!' Buckner had fairly shouted it. He hobbled to his feet and pointed at Rachel Howarth. 'There's the witch I seen with them three demons from Hell! I seen it was her, no mis-takin' it! She's evil to her black heart, and if you think I'm lyin' she's conjured you, too!'

'Sir,' Woodward said quietly, trying to calm the man. 'Please. Won't you sit down and—'

'No, I will not! I won't be called a liar, not even by a magistrate! God knows I'm tellin' the truth, and He's the only judge matters!'

'In Heaven, yes,' Woodward said, feeling a bit wounded by this last remark. 'In the courts of Earth, however, justice is the responsibility of mortals.'