Speaks the Nightbird

'I'm . . . twenty years old,' Matthew was able to answer. His face was absolutely on fire.

'Twenty years and no pussy? How're you able to draw a breath without bustin' your bag?'

'I might ask how old that girl is,' Woodward said. 'She's not seen fifteen yet, has she?'

'What year is this?' Shawcombe asked.

'Sixteen ninety-nine.'

Shawcombe began counting on his fingers. Maude brought to their table a wooden platter laden with chunks of brown cornbread, then scurried away once more. The tavern-keeper was having obvious difficulty with his digital mathematics, and finally he dropped his hand and grinned at Woodward. 'Never you mind, she's ripe as a fig puddin'.'

Matthew reached for the snakebite and near guzzled it.

'Be that as it may,' Woodward countered, 'we shall both pass on your invitation.' He picked up his spoon and plunged it into the watery stew.

'Wasn't no invite. Was a business offer.' Shawcombe drank some more rum and then started in on his stew as well.

'Damnedest thing I ever heard!' he said, his mouth full and leaking at the corners. 'I was rogerin' the girls when I was twelve years old, m'self!'

'Jack One Eye,' Matthew said. It had been something he'd wanted to ask about, and now seemed as good a time as any to get Shawcombe's mind off the current subject.

'What?'

'Earlier you mentioned Jack One Eye.' Matthew dipped a chunk of cornbread into his stew and ate it. The bread tasted more of scorched stones than corn, but the stew wasn't at all objectionable. 'What were you talking about?'

'The beast of beasts.' Shawcombe picked up his bowl with both hands and slurped from it. 'Stands seven, eight feet tall. Black as the hair on the Devil's ass. Had his eye shot out by a redskin's arrow, but just one arrow didn't stop him. No sir! Just made him meaner, is what they say. Hungrier, too. Swipe your face off with a claw and eat your brains for breakfast, he would.'

'Jack One Eye's a fuckin' bear!' spoke up Abner, from where he stood steaming by the hearth. 'Big one, too! Bigger'n a horse! Bigger'n God's fist, what he is!'

'Hain't no burr.'

Shawcombe looked toward the speaker of this last declaration, stew glistening on his grizzled chin. 'Huh? What're you sayin'?'

'Sayin' he hain't no burr.' Maude came forward, silhouetted by the firelight. Her voice was still a mangled wheeze, but she was speaking as slowly and clearly as she could. This subject, both Woodward and Matthew surmised, must be of importance to her.

''Course he's a bear!' Shawcombe said. 'What is he, if he ain't no bear?'

'Hain't jus' a burr,' she corrected. 'I seen 'im. You hain't. I know 'hut he is.'

'She's as addle-brained as the rest of 'em,' Shawcombe told Woodward with a shrug.

'I seen 'im,' the old woman repeated, a measure of force in her voice. She had reached their table and stood next to Matthew. Candlelight touched upon her wizened face, but her deep sunken eyes held the shadows. 'I 'as at the door. Right they, at the door. Me Joseph was comin' home. Our boy too. I watch 'em, comin' out of the woods, over the field. Had a deer hangin' 'tween 'em. I lift up me laneturn, and I start ta holler 'em in . . . and all suddens that thang behind 'em! Jus' rose up, out of nowhar'.' Her right hand had raised, her skinny fingers curled around the handle of a spectral lantern. 'I try ta scream me husband's name . . . but hain't get nothin' out,' she said. Her mouth tightened. 'I try,' she croaked. 'I try . . . but God done stole me voice.'

'Most like it was rotgut liquor stole it!' Shawcombe said, with a rough laugh.

The old woman didn't respond. She was silent, as rain battered the roof and a pine knot popped in the hearth. Finally she drew a long ragged breath that held terrible sadness and resignation. 'Kilt our boy 'fore Joseph could tarn 'round,' she said, to no one in particular. Matthew thought she might be looking at him, but he wasn't certain of it. 'Like take his head off, one swang o' them claws. Then it fell on me husband . . . and weren't nothin' to be dun. I took a'running, threw me laneturn at 'im, but he 'as big. So awful big. He jus' shake them big black shoulders, and then he drag that deer off and leave me with what 'as left. Joseph 'as a-split open from 'is windpipe to 'is gullet, his innards a-hangin' out. Took 'im three days ta die.' She shook her head and Matthew could see a wet glint in her eye sockets.

'My Lord!' Woodward said. 'Wasn't there a neighbor to come to your aid?'

'Naybarr?' she said, incredulously. 'Hain't no naybarrs out 'chere. Me Joseph 'as a trapper, dun some Injun tradin'. Tha's how we live. What I'm tellin' you is, Jack One Eye hain't jus' a burr. Ever'thin' dark 'bout this land . . . ever'thin' cruel and wicked. When you think your husband 'n son are comin' home and you liftin' a light and 'bout to holler 'em in. Then that thang rises up, and all sudden you hain't got nothin' no more. Tha's what Jack One Eye is.'

Neither Woodward nor Matthew knew how to respond to this wretched tale, but Shawcombe, who had continued slurping stew and pushing cornbread into his mouth, had his own response. 'Aw, shit!' he cried out and grasped his jaw. His face was pinched with pain. 'What's in this bloody bread, woman?' He reached into his mouth, probed around, and his fingers came out gripping a small dark brown object. ''Bout broke my tooth on this damn thing! Hell's bells!' Realization had struck him. 'It is a fuckin' tooth!'

'I 'spect it's mine,' Maude said. 'Had some loose 'uns this mornin'.' She grabbed it from his hand, and before he could say anything more she turned her back on them and went to her duties at the hearth.

'Damn ol' bitch is fallin' to pieces!' Shawcombe scowled. He swigged some rum, swished it around his mouth, and started in on his supper once more.

Woodward looked down at a chunk of cornbread that he'd placed in his stewbowl. He very politely cleared his throat. 'I believe my appetite has been curtailed.'

'What? You ain't hungry no more? Here, pass it over then!' Shawcombe grabbed the magistrate's bowl and dumped it all into his own. He had decided to disdain the use of his eating utensils in favor of his hands, stew dripping from his mouth and spattering his shirt. 'Hey, clerk!' he grunted, as Matthew sat there deciding whether to risk chewing on a rotten tooth or not. 'You want a go with the girl, I'll pay you ten pence to watch. Ain't like I'll see a virgin ridin' the wool every day.'

'Sir?' Woodward's voice had sharpened. 'I've already told you, the answer is no.'

'You presumin' to speak for him, then? What are you, his damn father?'

'Not his father. But I am his guardian.'

'What the hell does a twenty-year-old man need with a fuckin' guardian?'

'There are wolves everywhere in this world, Mr. Shawcombe,' Woodward said, with a lift of his eyebrows. 'A young man must be very careful not to fall into their company.'

'Better the company of wolves than the cryin' of saints,' Shawcombe said. 'You might get et up, but you won't die of boredom.'

The image of wolves feasting on human flesh brought another question to Matthew's mind. He pushed his stewbowl toward the tavern-keeper. 'There was a magistrate travelling to Fount Royal from Charles Town two weeks ago. His name was Thymon Kingsbury. Did he happen to stop here?'

'No, ain't seen him,' Shawcombe answered without pause in his gluttony.

'He never arrived at Fount Royal,' Matthew went on. 'It seems he might have stopped here, if he—'

'Prob'ly didn't get this far,' Shawcombe interrupted. 'Got hisself crowned in the head by a highwayman a league out of Charles Town, most like. Or maybe Jack One Eye got him. Man travellin' alone out here's a handshake away from Hell.'

Matthew pondered this statement as he sat listening to the downpour on the roof. Water was streaming in, forming puddles on the boards. 'I didn't say he was alone,' Matthew said at last.

Shawcombe's chewing might have faltered a fraction. 'You just spoke the one name, didn't you?'

'Yes. But I might not have mentioned his clerk.'

'Well, shit!' Shawcombe slammed the bowl down. The fury had sparked in his eyes again. 'Was he alone or