Speaks the Nightbird

'Yes,' Matthew said. A long silence stretched. Though he wished to ease her sorrow, Matthew knew of no consolation he could offer that would not sound blatantly foolish.

'Well,' she said at last, her voice carrying a mixture of courage and pain, and that was all.

Matthew lay down in his accustomed place in the straw and folded himself up for warmth. Rain drummed harder on the roof. He listened to its muffled roar and thought how simple life had seemed when he was a child and all he had to fear was the pile of pig dung. Life was so complicated now, so filled with strange twists and turns like a road that wandered across a wilderness no man could completely tame, much less understand.

He was deeply concerned for the magistrate's failing health. On the one hand, the sooner they got away from Fount Royal and returned to the city, the better; but on the other hand he was deeply concerned as well for the life of the woman in the next cell.

And it was not simply because he did think her beautiful to look upon. Paine had been correct, of course. Rachel was indeed—as he had crudely put it—a 'handsome piece.' Matthew could understand how Paine—how any man, really—could be drawn to her. Rachel's intelligence and inner fire were also appealing to Matthew, as he'd never met a woman of such nature before. Or, at least, he'd never met a woman before who had allowed those characteristics of intelligence and fire to be seen in public. It was profoundly troubling to believe that just possibly Rachel's beauty and independent nature were two reasons she'd been singled out by public opinion as a witch. It seemed to him, in his observations, that if one could not catch and conquer an object of desire, it often served the same to destroy it.

The question must be answered in his own mind: was she a witch or not? Before the testimony of Violet Adams, he would have said the so-called eyewitness accounts were fabrications or fantasies, even though both men had sworn on the Bible. But the child's testimony had been tight and convincing. Frighten-ingly convincing, in fact. This was not a situation where the child had gone to bed and awakened thinking that a dream had been reality; this had happened when she was wide awake, and her grasp of details seemed about right considering the stress of the moment. The child's testimony—especially concerning the black cloak, the six gold buttons, and the white-haired dwarf, or 'imp,' as she'd called it—gave further believability to what both Buckner and Garrick had seen. What, then, to make of it?

And there were the poppets, of course. Yes, anyone might have made them and hidden them under the floorboards. But why would anyone have done so? And what to make of Cara Grunewald's 'vision' telling the searchers where to look?

Had Rachel indulged in witchcraft, or not? Had she murdered or wished the murders of Reverend Grove and her husband, the actual killings having been committed by some demonic creature summoned from the bullypit of Hell?

Another thought came to him while he was on this awful track: if Rachel was a witch, might she or her terrible accomplices have worked a spell on the magistrate's health to prevent him from delivering sentence?

Matthew had to admit that, even though there were puzzling lapses of detail in the accounts of Buckner and Garrick, all the evidence taken together served to light the torch for Rachel's death. He knew the magistrate would read the court documents carefully and ponder them with a fair mind, but there was no question the decree would be guilty as charged. So: was she a witch, or not?

Even having read and digested the scholarly volumes that explained witchcraft as insanity, ignorance, or downright malicious accusations, he honestly couldn't say, which frightened him far more than any of the testimony he'd heard.

But she was so beautiful, he thought. So beautiful and so alone. If she was indeed a servant of Satan, how could the Devil himself let a woman so beautiful be destroyed by the hands of men?

Thunder spoke over Fount Royal. Rain began to drip from the gaol's roof at a dozen weak joints. Matthew lay in the dark, huddled up against the chill, his mind struggling with a question inside a mystery within an enigma.

 nineteen

JUST BEFORE THE STORM had broken, Mrs. Nettles had answered the front door bell to admit Schoolmaster Johnstone, who inquired if the magistrate was able to see him. She took his black coat and tricorn and hung them near the door, then escorted him into the parlor, where Woodward—still bundled up in coat and scarf as he'd been at the gaol—sat in a chair that had been pulled up close to the fireplace. A tray across Woodward's knees held a bowl of steaming, milky pap that was near the same grayish hue as the color of his face, and Woodward had been stirring his dinner with a spoon to cool it.

'Pardon me. For not rising,' Woodward whispered.

'No pardon necessary between Oxford brothers, sir.'

'Mr. Bidwell is in his study with Mr. Winston,' Mrs. Nettles said. 'Shall I fetch 'im?'

'No, I won't disturb their work,' Johnstone said, leaning on his cane. Woodward noted he was wigless this evening, his light brown hair shorn close to the scalp. 'I have business with the magistrate.

'Very well, sir.' She bowed her head in a gesture of respect and left the parlor.

Johnstone watched the magistrate stirring his pap. 'That doesn't look very appetizing.

'Doctor's orders. All I can swallow.'

'Yes, I had a talk with Dr. Shields this morning and he told me you'd been suffering. I'm sorry you're in such a condition. He bled you, I understand.'

Woodward nodded. 'More bleeding. Yet to be done.'

'Well, it is helpful to drain the corrupted fluids. Might I sit down?' He motioned toward a nearby chair, and Woodward whispered, 'Yes, please do.' Johnstone, with the aid of his cane, eased himself into the chair and stretched his legs out toward the crackling fire. Rain began to beat at the shuttered windows. Woodward took a taste of the pap and found it just the same as what he'd eaten at midday: entirely tasteless, since his nostrils were so clogged he could not smell even the smoke from the burning pinewood.

'I won't take much of your time,' Johnstone said. 'I did wish to ask how the trial was coming.'

'Over. The last witness has been heard.'

'Then I presume your decision will be forthcoming? Tomorrow, perhaps?'

'Not tomorrow. I must review the testimony.'

'I see. But your decision will be made by the end of the week?' Johnstone waited for Woodward to nod his assent. 'You have a responsibility I do not envy,' he continued. 'Sentencing a woman to death by fire is not a kind job.'

'It is not,' Woodward answered between swallows of pap, 'a kind world.'

'Granted. We have come a long way from Oxford, the both of us. I imagine we began our careers as shining lamps. It is unfortunate that life has a way of dirtying the glass. But tell me this, Magistrate: can you in good conscience sentence Rachel Howarth to death without yourself seeing evidence of her supposed witchcraft?'

Woodward paused in bringing another spoonful of pap to his mouth. 'I can. As did the magistrates of Salem.'

'Ah, yes. Infamous Salem. But you're aware, of course, that since the incident in Salem there has been much written concerning questions of guilt and innocence.' His right hand settled on the misshapen knee and began to massage it. 'Thete are some who believe the incident in Salem resulted in the execution of persons who were either mentally unbalanced or falsely accused.'

'And some who believe,' Woodward hesitated to get a breath, 'Christ was served and Satan vanquished.'

'Oh, Satan is never vanquished. You know that as well as anyone. In fact, one might say that if a single innocent person died at Salem, the Devil's work was well and truly done, for the souls of the magistrates themselves were corrupted.' Johnstone stared into the flames. 'I have to confess something,' he said at length. 'I consider myself a man of the here-and-now, not a man whose opinions are rooted in the beliefs and judgments of the past. I believe in God's power and I trust in the wisdom of Christ . . . but I have difficulty with this question of witchcraft, sir. It seems to me a highly doubtful thing.'

'Doubtful?' Woodward asked. 'You doubt the witnesses, then?'

'I don't know.' The schoolmaster shook his head. 'I can't understand why such elaborate lies should be produced against Madam Howarth—whom I always thought to be, by the way, a very dignified and intelligent woman. Of course she did—and does—have her enemies here. A beautiful, strong-spirited woman as she is could