The ratcatcher gave a long, weary sigh. 'You know,' he said quietly, 'they ain't such terrible creatures. Got to eat, just like anybody. Got to live. They came over on the ships, same as the people did. They're smart beasts; they know that where the people are, that's where they'll find food. No, they ain't so terrible.' He leaned over and touched a finger to some of the sugared opium he'd scattered on the floor, and then he pressed the finger to the rat's mouth. Whether it ate the offering or not,
Matthew couldn't tell, but the rodent was far too stupified to flee.
'Hey, watch this trick,' Linch said. He reached over, picked up the lantern, and began to move it in a slow, sinuous circle above the gray rat. The rodent just lay there, seemingly uninterested, its body stretched out next to a gnawed lump of potato. Linch kept the movement slow and steady, and presently Matthew saw the rat's tail twitch and its head angle up toward the mysterious glow that was circling its theater of night. A minute passed. Linch kept moving the lantern around and around, with no discernible reduction or addition of speed. The candlelight glinted red in the eyes of the rat, and ice-white in the eyes of the ratcatcher.
Linch whispered, 'Up, my pretty. Up, up, my pretty.' The rat's tail continued to twitch, its eyes followed the light, but otherwise it remained stationary.
'Up, up,' Linch whispered, again almost in a singsong cadence. 'Up, up, my pretty.' The lantern went around and around again. Linch bent his head toward the rodent, his untamed brows knitting with concentration. 'Up, up,' he spoke, a compelling note entering his voice. 'Up, up.'
Suddenly the rat gave a shiver and stood on its hind legs. Balancing on its tail, it began to circle with the progress of the lantern, like a tiny dog begging for a bone. Matthew watched with absolute fascination, realizing the rat in its bewildered state was transfixed by the candle. The rodent's eyes were directed to the flame, its stubby front legs clawing at the air as if desiring union with that which made such a strange and beautiful illumination. Who knew what the rat was seeing—by benefit of the sugared opium—there at the center of the fire?
'Dance for me,' Linch whispered. 'A reel, if you please.' He circled the lantern a bit faster, and it seemed the rodent turned faster as well, though this might have been Matthew's imagination. Indeed, one might imagine the rat had become a dancer in accord with Linch's command. Its hind legs were shivering, about to collapse, yet still the rat sought communion with the flame.
'Pretty, pretty one,' Linch said, in a voice as soft as a touch of mist on the cheek. And then he brought the sticker down, not hurriedly but rather with an air of resignation. Two of the blades pierced the rat's exposed belly and the rodent stiffened and shrieked. It bared its teeth and gnashed at the air, as most of its brothers and sisters had done in their death agonies. Linch put the lantern aside, broke the rat's neck with a quick jerk of his right hand, and the bloody carcass went into the sack with the others.
'How'd you like that?' he asked Matthew, his grin wide and expectant of praise.
'Quite impressive,' Matthew said. 'You might find employ in a circus, if you would spare the life of your partner.'
Linch laughed. He removed a dark-stained cloth from his bag and began to clean the sticker's five blades, which meant the executions had come to an end. 'I was in the circus,' he said as he blotted away the blood. 'Nine, ten years ago back in England. Used rats in my act. Dressed 'em up in little suits, made 'em dance just as you saw. They have a taste of ale or rum—or stronger—and a candle makes 'em think they're seein' God. Whatever God is to a rat, I mean.'
'How come you to leave the circus?'
'Didn't get on so well with the bastard who owned it. I was makin' the lion's share of money for him, but he was payin' me lamb's wages. Anyhow, the plague's got so bad over there your audience is all ribs and teeth.' He shrugged. 'I found me a better way to earn my livin'.'
'Ratcatching?' Matthew realized he'd spoken it a shade distastefully.
'Gainful elimination of pests,' Linch answered. 'Like I told you, every town's got to have a ratcatcher. If there's anythin' on earth I know about, it's rats. And people, too,' he added. 'I know enough about people to be happy I spend most of my time with rats.' He shook the heavy sack full of carcasses. 'Even if they are dead ones.'
'A delightful sentiment,' Matthew said.
Linch stood up, the ratsack attached to his belt. He returned the bloodied cloth to the cowhide bag and slipped its strap around his shoulder. 'I been here near two years,' he said. 'Long enough to know this is a good town, but it ain't got a chance while that witch stays alive.' He nodded toward Rachel in her cage. 'Ought to take her out come Monday mornin' and finish her off. Put her out of her misery and the rest of us out of ours, too.'
'Has she done anything against you?' Matthew asked.
'No. Not yet, I mean to say. But I know what she's done, and what she's like to do 'fore it's over.' He held the sticker in his right hand and picked up the lantern with his left. 'If I was you, boy, I'd watch my back tonight.'
'Thank you for your concern, sir.'
'You're so very welcome.' Linch gave a mocking bow. When he had straightened up, he narrowed his eyes and looked around the cell. 'Believe I've cleaned the place might fairly. Maybe a few more still hidin', but none much to worry about. I'll say good night to you and the witch, then.' He left the cell and started off, still carrying the lantern.
'Wait!' Matthew said, his hands clenching the bars. 'Aren't you going to leave the light?'
'What, this stub of a candle? Ain't an hour of burnin' left in it. Anyway, how am I supposed to see to lock up? No, I'm takin' it with me.' Without a further word Linch walked out of the gaol and the darkness was total. There was the sound of a chain rattling as Linch secured the entrance, and then the awful silence descended.
Matthew stayed exactly where he was for a minute or more, still gripping the bars. He stared toward the gaol's doorway, hoping beyond hope that Linch, or someone, would return with a lantern, because this darkness was a brutally terrible thing. He could smell the blood of rats. He felt his nerves starting to unravel like axe-hacked ropes.
'I told you,' Rachel said in a quiet but very calm voice. 'The darkness is bad. They never leave a lantern in here at night. You might have known that.'
'Yes.' His voice sounded thick. 'I might have.'
He heard her stand up from her bench. He heard her footsteps through the straw. Then there came the rustling of her sackcloth gown and the scrape of a bucket. What followed next was the noise of a stream of water.
One problem, he realized grimly, had been solved.
He would have to bear the dark, though it was almost beyond endurance. He would have to bear it anyway, because if he did not fight its pressure upon his mind, then he might scream or weep, and what good would come of those actions? Surely he could bear it for three nights, if Rachel Howarth had borne it for three months. Surely he could.
From the logwall behind him he heard a squeaking and scurrying. He knew full well that now had come the night that would test his mettle, and if his mettle be found cracked he was lost.
Rachel's voice suddenly came from just beyond the bars that parted them. 'Try to sleep, if you can. There's no use in standing up all night.'
At last Matthew reluctantly loosened his grip on the iron and made his way past the desk to the place in the straw where he'd decided to sleep. That had been before the light had been taken, of course. He knelt down, feeling around to make sure no rats were waiting to attack him. There were none, though they sounded alarmingly near. He lay on his side and curled himself up into a tight ball, his arms around his knees. It seemed eons until the dawn.
He heard the woman lie down in the straw. Then silence reigned, except for the rodents. He clenched his teeth together and squeezed his eyes shut. Perhaps he made a noise of despair—a gasp, a moan, something—but he wasn't sure.
'May I call you Matthew?' Rachel asked.
It wasn't proper. Wasn't proper at all. He was the magistrate's clerk, and she the accused. No, such familiarity was not proper.
'Yes,' he said, his voice strained and near cracking. 'Good night, Matthew.'
