Speaks the Nightbird

silence stretched, as the magistrate and his clerk stared at each other.

Woodward's throat was ravaged, his air passages swollen, and his bones aching in the damp, close heat. He had just heard a reliable witness relate a story of both fascination and horror that brought a woman—a human being, even if she was a notorious witch—nearer the stake. He felt sick to his very marrow, and now this audacity added to his freight was enough to lay him low. 'You've forgotten your place,' he rasped. 'You are a clerk, not a magistrate. Not even—though you seem to wish it—an attorney. Your duty is as a scrivener, not a questioner. The former you do very well, the latter undoes you.'

Matthew didn't respond except for the flush of shame on his face. He realized that he'd spoken completely out of turn and was better off embracing silence.

'I will ascribe this incident to our surroundings and the miserable weather,' Woodward decided. 'Therefore we shall put this behind us like gentlemen. Agreed?'

'Yes, sir,' Matthew said, though he still thought it was appropriate—no, vital— to interview Buckner's wife.

'Very good, then.' Woodward picked up the basket in preparation of leaving. 'I'll ask Mr. Green to come in and move you to one of the cells over there.' He nodded toward the opposite cages. 'I would prefer that you not be in such close proximity to Madam Howarth.'

'Uh ... I'd like to stay where I am, sir,' Matthew countered quickly. 'I'd appreciate the benefit of the desk.'

'Why? You won't be needing it.'

'It. . . makes the place seem not such a cage.'

'Oh. Yes, I see. Then I'll have Madam Howarth moved.'

'There's no need for that, sir,' Matthew said. 'The distance of one or two cages hardly matters, if indeed she employs such witchcraft. And I do have this.' He held up the leatherbound Bible. 'If this isn't strong enough to protect me, nothing can.'

The magistrate paused, glancing from his clerk to Rachel Howarth and back again. This whole situation— Matthew being forced to remain in this wretched place with a woman who'd known such wickedness—gnawed at his nerves. Who knew what Matthew would witness in the dead of night? He damned himself for passing sentence on the boy, but what other choice had there been? It crossed his mind to occupy one of the other cages for the night, on some pretext of keeping an eye on Madam Howarth's activities, but he knew Bidwell and everyone else would see through the flimsy gauze and realize him to be quite less the taskmaster than he appeared.

At the bottom of his pond, far down from the light of public inspection, he was afraid. Fearful of Rachel Howarth, and of what she might do to the boy. Fearful also that once he left Matthew alone with this Devil's doxy, the boy might never again be the same. The witch's pleasure would be in destroying innocence, would it not?

'I shall be all right,' Matthew said, reading some of these thoughts in the magistrate's anguished expression. 'Just go to Dr. Shields and ask for a tonic.'

Woodward nodded, but still he couldn't bear to leave. The time, however, had come. 'I'll return this afternoon and see to you,' he said. 'Can I bring you anything? Books from Mr. Bidwell's library?'

'Yes, that would be fine. Any books will do.'

'I'm sure you will be fed before long. If you're displeased at the meal, I'll be glad to bring you—'

'Whatever the meal is, it will be good enough,' Matthew told him. 'Just go see Dr. Shields.'

'Yes, I shall.' Woodward turned his attention to the woman, who had resumed sitting on her bench. 'Your actions toward my clerk will be watched and noted, madam,' he said sternly. 'I strongly suggest you keep your distance.'

'My actions needn't cause you worry,' she replied. 'But the rats in here are not subject to strong suggestions.'

There was nothing more that Woodward could do. Matthew would have to fend for himself, and the Lord God be with him. Woodward, basket in hand, left the gaol. In another moment Green entered, closed and locked the door of Matthew's cage, and then he too retreated.

Matthew stood at the bars, staring up toward the open hatch. His fingers were gripping the iron. The sound of the cell's door being shut had made him think of the iron gate clanging at the almshouse, and sickness roiled in his stomach.

'You've not been in here very long to feel the loss of freedom,' Rachel said quietly. 'What is your sentence?'

'Three days.'

'An age!' She gave a harsh laugh that sounded biting. 'I've never been in a gaol before. At least, not on this side of the bars.'

'Neither had I. It's not so bad here, in the daylight. But the darkness is not kind.'

'Three days,' Matthew repeated. 'I can bear it.'

'What kind of foolishness is this?' Her tone had sharpened. 'Do you think I don't know you've been placed in here to spy on me?'

'You're wrong. I am here because I . . . offended the blacksmith.'

'Oh, of course you did! Well, what shall I do to conjure you tonight? Shall I become a raven and flit from cage to cage? Shall I dance a jig on the air, while Satan plays the fiddle? Ah! Why don't I turn you into a piece of cheese and let the rats tear you apart! Would that impress your magistrate?'

'I'm sure it might,' Matthew said evenly. 'But it would do neither of us any good, for if I were crumbs by dawn you would be ashes by noon.'

'Some noon I shall be ashes. Why should it not be tomorrow?'

Matthew looked through the bars at Rachel Howarth, who had drawn her legs up beneath herself. 'Not all in this town believe you to be a witch.'

'Who does not?'

'One, at least. As for the name, I don't feel I should betray the confidence.'

'One.' She smiled thinly. 'That one is not the magistrate, is it?'

'No.'

'Well then? It is you?'

'I have an open mind on such subjects.'

'And your magistrate does not?'

'Magistrate Woodward,' Matthew said, 'is a man of honor and conviction. No matter his reaction today, he will act in a tempered fashion. You'll notice no flames around your feet yet, and after Mr. Buckner's tale I think the magistrate might be justified in lighting the torch.'

'Buckner!' Rachel spoke it like a spit. 'He's insane. I was neither in his home nor in the orchard. I hardly know the man; perhaps I've spoken a dozen words to him altogether.'

Matthew walked over to his desk and began to arrange the papers into a neat stack. 'He seems to know you well enough. After your display here yesterday, I must wonder if your natural inclination is not to shed your clothing and walk the town.'

'I shed my clothing for my husband,' she said. 'No one else. Certainly not in public, and certainly not... for the vile purposes Buckner imagined.'

'Was that it, then? The imaginings of an old man?'

'Yes! Of course.'

Matthew located a particular sheet of paper and read from it. 'Regarding the incident in the orchard, Mr. Buckner says as follows: I didn't tell nobody, not even after I heard what Elias Garrick seen. Then Lester Crane told me Stephen Dunton seen such a thing— them three creatures with the witch, 'cept they was doin' their wickedness inside the house where the Poole family used to live, right next to Dun-ton's farm.' He looked up at her. 'How could it be the imaginings of two men, at two different times and two different places?'

She didn't answer; her face seemed darker and she stared straight ahead.

'The testimony of Elias Garrick on Monday morning will add more sticks to your pyre,' Matthew said. 'Are you aware of what he's going to say?' There was no reply. 'I take it that you are. Then we shall hear from a child by the name of Violet Adams. I have no knowledge of what she will testify. Do you?' Silence met his question. 'Whatever it is, it will be doubly damning coming from a child. The magistrate is very sensitive to the testimony of