Speaks the Nightbird

dozen small drawers with ivory pulls constructed along its length, was a glassblower's nightmare of arcane bottles, beakers, jars, and the like, along with a set of measuring scales and various other instruments. On the wall, too, were mounted shelves that held more bottles and jars, many of the vessels murky with fluids and potions.

Shields scrubbed his hands with soap in a waterbowl. 'You've just recently come into this condition? Or was it bothersome before you reached Fount Royal?'

'Just recently. It began as a slight soreness, but now ... I can hardly swallow.'

'Hmmm.' He dried his hands upon a cloth and then opened one of the bench's drawers. 'We must go down into your throat.' He turned toward the magistrate again, and Woodward saw with a start that Shields was holding a pair of clippers suitable for shearing treelimbs.

'Oh,' Shields said with a slight smile at Woodward's alarm. 'What I mean to say is, we must look down into your throat.' With the clippers he snipped a candle in two, then laid the dread shears aside and fitted one of the candle stubs into a small metal holder with a mirror fixed behind the flame so as to amplify its light. He lit the candle from a match, then took another instrument out of a drawer and positioned the desk's chair in front of his patient. 'Open wide, please.'

Woodward did. Shields held the candle near the magistrate's mouth and studied the scene. 'Quite raw, it appears. Are you having difficulty breathing as well?''It is a labor, yes.'

'Lean your head back, let me inspect your nostrils.' Shields gave a grunt as he peered up that formidable proboscis. 'Yes, quite swollen there, too. The right much more than the left, but the passage of air is equally endangered. Your mouth open again.'

This time when Woodward obeyed, the doctor inserted a long metal probe that at its end held a square of cotton secured by a clamp. 'Refrain from swallowing, please.' The cotton swabbed along the back of Woodward's throat, and the magistrate was compelled to squeeze his eyes shut and fight the urge to gag or cry out as the pain was so acute. At last the probe was withdrawn, and Woodward saw—through a veil of tears—that a pasty yellow fluid had soaked the cotton.

'I've seen this ailment before, in varying degrees of severity,' the doctor said. 'Your condition lies at about the midpoint. Such is the price one pays for habitation at the edge of a swamp, enduring fetid air and damp humours. This constriction and drainage is therefore inflicting extreme irritation to your throat.' He stood up and laid the probe and yellow-soaked cotton on the benchtop. 'I'll paint your throat with a tonic that should relieve much of the pain. I have also a remedy for the breathing obstruction.' As he was speaking, he removed the tainted cotton and inserted a fresh square into the clamp.

'Thank God I can find some relief!' Woodward said. 'It was sheer torture having to speak at the testimony today!'

'Ah, the testimony.' Shields selected a bottle from the wall-shelf and removed its stopper. 'Jeremiah Buckner was the first witness? Mr. Winston told me you were beginning with him.''That's correct.'

'I know his story.' Shields returned to his chair, carrying bottle and probe but minus the mirrored candle this time. 'It's enough to shock the hair off a wigstand, isn't it?''I've never heard anything more sickening.'

'Open, please.' Shields dipped the cotton into the bottle and brought it out wet with a dark brown liquid. 'This may sting a bit, but it's the rawness being soothed.' He slid the probe in and Woodward braced himself. 'Steady, now.' The liquid-soaked cotton made contact. Woodward almost bit down on the probe, so fierce was the pain. New tears sprang to his eyes, his hands curled into fists, and he found himself thinking that this must be akin to a burning at the stake but without the smoke. 'Steady, steady,' the doctor said, pausing to dip the cotton into the bottle again. The contest with agony began once more, and Woodward realized his head was starting to twist on his neck in an involuntary effort to escape; thus it was akin, he thought in a fevered sort of humor, to being hanged as well as being burnt.

In another moment, though, the awful pain did begin to subside. Shields kept redipping the cotton into the bottle and swabbing liquid liberally over the back of Woodward's throat. 'You should be feeling some relief by now,' Shields said. 'Are you?' Woodward nodded, tears streaking his face.

'This is my own mixture: Jesuit's Bark, limonum, and opium, made more firm by a base of oxymel. It's shown very excellent results in the past. I'm even considering applying for a label.' He made a few more applications of the tonic and then, satisfied that the magistrate's throat was well done, sat back with a smile. 'There! I wish all my patients were as sturdy as you, sir! Ah, just a moment!' He got up, went to one of the drawers, and returned with a linen cloth. 'You might wish to use this.'

'Thank you,' Woodward croaked. He used the cloth as it was intended, to blot his tears.

'If your condition worsens in the next few days, we shall apply the tonic again at a greater strength. But I expect you'll feel much more yourself by tomorrow evening. . . . Elias Garrick is to be your next witness?''Yes.'

'He's already told you his story. Why do you need to see him?''His testimony must be spoken onto the record.'

Dr. Shields peered over his spectacles, looking every bit the barn owl. 'I must warn you that prolonged speaking will further harm your throat. You should rest it, by all means.'

'I'm seeing Garrick on Monday. I'll have the Sabbath to rest.'

'Even Monday might be too soon. I'd recommend a week of as little speech as absolutely necessary.'

'Impossible!' Woodward said. 'I'd be a fine magistrate who couldn't speak!'

'Be that as it may, I'm simply giving you my advice.' He again went to the workbench, where he put aside the probe and opened a blue ceramic jar. 'This remedy will aid your air passages,' he said, returning to Woodward with the jar. 'Take one.'

Woodward looked into the jar and saw what appeared to be a dozen or so small brown sticks, each perhaps two inches in length. 'What are they?'

'A botanical remedy, from the hemp plant. I grow and cure the weed myself, as it seems to be one of the few crops that will thrive in this atrocious climate. Go ahead; you'll find it quite a useful drug.'

Woodward selected one of the sticks, which had a rather oily texture, and started to slide it into his mouth, intending to chew it. 'No, no!' Shields said. 'It's smoked, much as one would puff a pipe.''Smoked?'

'Yes. Except for one difference: the smoke is pulled deeply into the lungs, let settle, and then slowly exhaled.' Shields brought the candle over. 'Put it between your lips and draw on it.' The magistrate obeyed, and Shields touched the candle's flame to the stick's slightly twisted end. A thin plume of bluish smoke began to rise. 'Draw it in,' Shields instructed. 'It will do you no good if you don't.'

Woodward inhaled as deeply as possible. He felt the bitter-tasting smoke sear his lungs, and then the bout of coughing that burst forth from him brought fresh tears. He bent over, coughing and weeping.

'The first several inhalations are difficult,' the doctor admitted. 'Here, I'll show you how it's done.' He seated himself, chose one of the hemp sticks, and lit it. Then he inhaled with a familiar ease. After a slight pause, he let the smoke exit his mouth. 'You see? It does take some practise.'

Even so, Woodward noted that Shields's eyes were glistening. He tried it again, and again was attacked by a coughing fit.

Shields said, 'You may be taking in too much smoke. Small doses are the better.''Do you insist I suffer this remedy?'

'I do. You'll breathe so much more freely.' Shields inhaled again, uptilted his chin, and let the smoke drift toward the ceiling.

Woodward tried it a third time. The coughing was not so severe. The fourth time, he coughed only twice. By the sixth inhalation, there did seem to be some lessening of the pressure in his head.

Dr. Shields had almost smoked his down to the halfway point. He regarded the burning tip, and then he stared fixedly at Woodward. 'You know, Magistrate,' he said after a long silence, 'you're a very fine man.''And why is that, sir?'

'Because you take Robert Bidwell's bluff and bluster without complaint. You must be a fine man. By God, you must be verging on sanctity.''I think not. I'm just a servant'

'Oh, more than a servant! You're master of the law, which makes you Bidwell's superior, since he so desperately needs what only you can supply.'

'But I might say the same for you, sir,' Woodward answered. He inhaled deeply, let settle, and then exhaled. The smoke, as it rose, seemed to him to break apart, merge, and break apart again like the movement of a