Speaks the Nightbird

'He must be a dedicated teacher, to have returned so soon to Fount Royal.'

'That he is. He's taken it upon himself to educate not only the children here, but many of the farmers who can't read. And of course the salary Bidwell pays him is hardly enough to buy a needle and thread, but as I say the schoolmaster has money of his own.'

Woodward nodded, drawing once more on his hemp stick; it had burned quite well down, and he could feel its heat between his fingers. In fact, he felt very warm all over now, and was perspiring. This was a good thing, he thought. It must mean that he was sweating out the bad humours. His eyes felt heavy-lidded, and without much prompting he could lie down and take a nap. 'What about Winston?' he asked.'What of him?''I mean, what do you know about him?'

Shields grinned, smoke leaking between his teeth. 'Am I on the witness stand, sir?'

'No, and I don't intend to sound like a magistrate. I'd simply like to know more about the people here.'

'I see,' Shields said, though from his tone of voice it was clear he still believed court was in session. After a pause of deliberation, he said, 'Edward Winston is a loyal mule. You know that Winston was Bidwell's office manager in London, don't you? He's an excellent administrator, organizer, and bean counter. He, too, keeps quite to himself. I think in his case he's a bit uncomfortable around people. But it was his idea to bring the maskers here.'

'The maskers?'

'Yes. The actors, that is. Bidwell's fond of the theater. For the past three summers, a travelling company has come to enact a morality play. It does seem to bring some culture and civilization out here in the wilderness. At least, the citizens have something to look forward to every year. They come in mid-July, so it's a pity you won't be present to see them.' Shields took one last puff and realized he had reached the end of his stick. 'Then again,' he said, 'Fount Royal may not be here in mid-July, either.'

'What of Nicholas Paine?' Woodward asked. 'Do you know him well?'

'Nicholas Paine,' the doctor repeated. He smiled slightly. 'Yes, I do know him well.'

'He seems an able man.' Woodward was thinking of that term Paine had used: black-flagger. 'What do you know of his history?''I know he has one. A history, I mean.'

'I'd call that a cryptic remark,' Woodward said when Shields lapsed into silence.

'Nicholas is a very private man,' Shields offered. 'He has been a jack-of-all-trades. Was a seaman for a number of years, I understand. But he's not open to discussing his past at much length.''Is he married? Does he have a family?'

'He was married, when he was a younger man. His wife perished from an illness that caused her to suffer fits until she died.'

Woodward had lifted the small stub to his mouth for a final inhalation; now, however, his hand froze. 'Fits?' he said. He swallowed thickly. 'What kind of fits?'

'Convulsions, I suppose.' The doctor shrugged. 'Some form of fever, most probably. Or the plague. But it was long ago, and I'm sure Paine wouldn't care to speak about it. In fact, I know he would not.'

'The plague,' Woodward repeated. His eyes had become glazed, not entirely from the bitterly compelling smoke of his remedy.

'Isaac?' Shields, noting the other man's vacant stare, touched the magistrate's sleeve. 'What is it?'

'Oh, forgive me.' Woodward blinked, waved some of the fumes away from his face, and brought himself back to his surroundings. 'I was thinking, that's all.'

Shields nodded, a sly smile twisting his mouth. 'Yes. Thinking of whom you might ask questions about me, is that correct?''No. About something else entirely.'

'But you are planning on inquiring about me, are you not? It would only be fair, since you've pumped the well concerning the schoolmaster, Mr. Winston, and Mr. Paine. Ah, I believe you're done with that! May I?' He took the burnt-down stub from Woodward's hand and placed it, along with the remnant of his own, into a small pewter jar, which he then closed with a hinged lid. 'Are you feeling better now?''Yes. Remarkably so.'

'Good. As I said, you might have to repeat the treatment according to your constitution. We shall see.' Shields stood up. 'Now allow me to escort you to Van Gundy's tavern for a cup of his excellent hard cider. Also he has a stock of peanuts on hand, as I'm feeling quite hungry. Will you join me?''I would be honored.'

When the magistrate stood from his chair, his legs almost betrayed him. His head was swimming and strange lights seemed to dance behind his eyes. But the pain in his throat had all but vanished, and his breathing was miraculously cleared. The doctor's remedy, he thought, was surely a wonder drug.

'Sometimes the smoke does play tricks with the balance,' Shields said. 'Here, take my arm and a'tavern we shall go!'

'A tavern, a tavern!' Woodward said. 'My kingdom for a tavern!' This struck him as riotously funny, and he began to laugh at his own wit. The laughter was a little too loud and a little too harsh, however, and even in his lightened state of mind he knew what he was trying to cloak.

 fourteen

WITH THE FADING of the light, the rats grew bold. Matthew had heard their squeakings and rustlings all the afternoon, but they'd not yet made an appearance. He'd been relieved to find that the rodents had not emerged to attack either his lunch or supper—meager beef broth and two slices of black bread, humble but stomach-filling—but now, ever since Green had closed the roof hatch and left only a single lantern burning on its hook, the creatures were creeping out of their nooks and crannies to claim the place.

'Watch your fingers,' Rachel told him, sitting on her bench. 'They'll give you a bite if you try to strike them. If one crawls on you tonight, it's best to lie perfectly still. They'll be sniffing at you, that's all.'

'The one that bit your shoulder,' Matthew said. He was standing up, his back against the wall. 'Was it only sniffing?'

'No, I tried to get that one away from my waterbucket. I found out they can jump like cats, and I also learned they're going to have your water no matter what you do.'

Matthew picked up his own bucket of water, which Green had recently filled from a larger container, and he drank copiously from it. Enough, he hoped, to quench his thirst for the night.

Then he placed the bucket on the floor in the opposite corner, as far away from his bed of straw as possible.

'Green only brings fresh water every other day,' Rachel said, watching him. 'You won't mind drinking after the rats when you get thirsty enough.'

Another quandary had presented itself to Matthew, far worse than the problem of the rodents and the waterbucket. Green had also brought in a fresh bucket to be used for elimination. Matthew had realized he was going to have to pull down his breeches and use it—sooner or later—right in front of the woman. And, likewise, she would be using her own without benefit of a shade or screen. He thought he might endure two more lashes added to his sentence if he could have at least a modicum of privacy, but it was not to be.

Suddenly a dark shape darted from a small crevice in the wall of Matthew's cell and went straight for the bucket. As Matthew watched, the rodent—black-furred, red-eyed, and as long as his hand—climbed swiftly up the bucket's side and leaned over its rim to lap the water, its claws gripping the wood. A second one followed, and then a third. The things interrupted their drinking to chatter like washerwomen trading gossip at the common well, and then they broke ranks and squeezed their bodies again into the crevice.

It was going to be a very long night.

Matthew had several books on hand, courtesy of the magistrate, who'd brought the tomes from Bidwell's library that afternoon, but as the light was so meager there would be no reading tonight. Woodward had told him he'd had an interesting conversation with Dr. Shields, and would reveal more when Matthew was set free. Now, though, Matthew felt the walls and bars closing in upon him; without proper light by which to read or write, and with rats scratching and scurrying in the logs, he feared he might lose his grip on his decorum and shame himself before Rachel Howarth. It shouldn't matter, of course, because after all she was an accused murderess—and much worse—but still he desired to present himself as a sturdy oak, not the thin willow he felt to be.

It was warm and steamy in the gaol. Rachel cupped her hands into her waterbucket and dampened her face, washing off the salty perspiration that had collected on her cheeks and forehead. She cooled her throat with the water as well, and paid no heed when two rats squeaked and fought in the corner of her cage.