Speaks the Nightbird

It was bad fortune to become so ill without benefit of a real hospital, Woodward thought. A city hospital, that is. Well, the task here would be soon finished. Of course he didn't look forward with great relish to that trip back to Charles Town, but neither would he care to remain in this swamphole more than another week.

He hoped Matthew could bear the lashes. The first one would be a shock; the second would likely tear the flesh. Woodward had seen hardened criminals break into tears and cry for their mothers after the whip had thrice bitten their backs. But soon the ordeal would be over. Soon they could both take leave of this place, and Satan could fight the mosquitoes for its ruins as far as he cared.

Does it not seem very strange to you, Johnstone had said, that the Devil should so openly reveal himself about town? Woodward squeezed his eyes shut more tightly. . . . consider the possibility that Satan is indeed at work in Fount Royal, and has given Madam Howarth's face to the true witch. Or warlock, as the case might be.

No! Woodward thought. No! There were the witnesses, who had sworn truth on the Bible, and the poppets that were even now sitting atop the dresser! To consider that there was some other witch would not only delay his decision in regards to the prisoner but would also result in the complete abandonment of Fount Royal. No, Woodward told himself. It was sheer folly to march down that road!

'Pardon?' Dr. Shields said. 'Did you say something, Isaac?' Woodward shook his head. 'Forgive me, I thought you did. A bit more in the bowl and we'll be done.'

'Good,' Woodward said. He could sleep now, if his throat were not so raw. The sound of his blood dripping into the bowl was nearly a strange kind of lullaby. But before he gave himself up to sleep he would pray for God to endow strength to Matthew, both to resist that woman's wiles and to endure the whip with the grace of a gentleman. Then he would add a prayer to keep his own mind clear in this time of tribulation, so that he might do what was right and proper in the framework of the law.

But he was sick and he was troubled, and he had also begun to realize that he was afraid: of sinking into deeper illness, of Rachel Howarth's influence over Matthew, of making a mistake. Afraid on a level he hadn't known since his last year in London, when his whole world had been torn asunder like a piece of rotten cloth.

He feared the future. Not just the turn of the century, and what a new age might bring to this strife-burnt earth, but tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. He feared all the demons of the unknown tomorrows, for they were creatures who destroyed the shape and structure of yesterday for the sake of a merry fire.

'A little more, a little more,' Dr. Shields said, as the blood continued to drip from the lancet cuts.

WHILE WOODWARD WAS BEING SO ATTENDED, Matthew lay in the dark on his pallet of straw and grappled with his own fears. It would not be seemly if tomorrow morning, at the delivering of the lashes, he should lose control and disgrace himself before the magistrate. He had seen criminals whipped before, and knew that sometimes they couldn't hold their bodily functions, so great was the pain. He could stand three lashes; he knew he could. Rather, he hoped he could. If that giant Mr. Green put his strength into the blows . . . well, it was best not to think about that right now, or he'd convince himself that his back would be split open like a ripe melon.

Distant thunder sounded. The gaol had taken on a chill. He wished for a coat to cover himself, but of course there was nothing but these clothes that were—from the smell and stiffness of them—fit to be boiled in a kettle and cut into rags. Instantly he thought how petty were his own discomforts, as Rachel's sackcloth robe was surely torment to her flesh by now and the punishment she faced was far more terrible—and more final—than a trio of whipstrikes.

So much was whirling through his mind that it seemed hot as a hearth, though his body was cold. He might wish for sleep, but he was his own hardest taskmaster and such relief was withheld. He sat up, folding his arms around himself, and stared into the dark as if he might see some answer there to the questions that plagued him.

The poppets. The testimony of Violet Adams. The three Devil's familiars who could not have sprung from the rather simple mind of Jeremiah Buckner. And how to explain the dwarf-creature—the 'imp'—that both Buckner and Violet Adams had seen at different times and locales? What also of the cloak with six buttons? And the Devil's commandment to the child to 'tell them to free my Rachel'? Could there be any more damning a decree?

But another thing kept bothering Matthew: what the child had said about hearing a man's voice, singing in the darkness of another room at that house. Was it a fragment of nothing? Or was it a shadow of great importance?

'You're awake.' It had been a statement, not a question.

'Yes,' Matthew said.

'I can't sleep either.'

'Little wonder.' He listened to the noise of rain dripping from the roof. Again there came the dull rumble of thunder.

'I have remembered something,' Rachel said. 'I don't know how important it is, but at the time I thought it was unusual.'

'What is it?' He looked toward her shape in the darkness.

'The night before Daniel was murdered ... he asked me if I loved him.'

'This was an unusual question?'

'Yes. For him, I mean. Daniel was a good man, but he was never one to speak of his feelings ... at least not where love was concerned.'

'Might I ask what was your reply?'

'I told him I did love him,' she answered. 'And then he said that I had made him very happy in the six years of our marriage. He said ... it made no matter to him that I had never borne a child, that I was his joy in life and no man could change that fact.'

'Those were his exact words, as best you recall?'

'Yes.'

'You say he was not normally so concerned with emotions? Had anything occurred in the previous few days that might have made him wish to express such feelings? A quarrel, perhaps?'

'I recall no quarrel. Not to say that we didn't have them, but they were never allowed to linger.'

Matthew nodded, though he realized she couldn't see it. He laced his fingers around his knees. 'You were both well matched, would you say? Even though there was such a difference in ages?'

'We both desired the same things,' Rachel said. 'Peace at home, and success for our farm. As for the difference in our ages, it mattered some at the beginning but not so much as the years passed.'

'Then he had no reason to doubt that you loved him? Why would he ask such a question, if it was against his usual nature?'

'I don't know. Do you think it means anything?'

'I can't say. There's so much about this that begs questions. Things that should fit don't, and things that shouldn't fit do. Well, when I get out of here I plan on trying to find out why.'

'What?' She sounded surprised. 'Even after the child's testimony?'

'Yes. Her testimony was—pardon my bluntness—the worst blow that could have been dealt to you. Of course you didn't help your case by violating the Holy Book. But still. . . there are questions that need answers. I can't close my eyes to them.'

'But Magistrate Woodward can?'

'I don't think he's able to see them as I do,' Matthew said. 'Because I'm a clerk and not a jurist, my opinions on witchcraft have not been formed by court records and the articles of de-monology.'

'Meaning,' she said, 'that you don't believe in witches?'

'I certainly do believe in the power of the Devil to do wickedness through men—and women. But as for your being a witch and having murdered Reverend Grove and your husband ...' He hesitated, knowing that he was about to throw himself into the flames of commitment. 'I don't believe it,' he said.

Rachel said something, very quietly, that gave him a twinge deep in his stomach. 'You could be wrong. I could be casting a spell on you this moment.'

Matthew considered this point carefully before he answered. 'Yes, I could be wrong. But if Satan is your master, he has lost his grip on logic. He wishes you released from the gaol, when he personally went to great