Speaks the Nightbird

Matthew picked up the silver coin, which was obviously old and so worn that most of the stamping had been wiped clean. Still, there was the barest impression of a Dei Grat.

He looked up at Goode, who stood over him. 'Where did these come from?'

'Turtle bellies,' Goode said.

'Pardon?'

'Yes suh.' Goode nodded. 'They come from turtle bellies. The spoon and silver piece came out of one I caught last year. The blue clay came out of one I got . . . oh . . . must'a been two month ago.'

'And the gold coin?'

'The first night you and the magistrate was here,' Goode explained, 'Mastuh Bidwell asked me to catch a turtle for your supper the next night. Well, I caught a big one. There's his shell hangin'. And that gold piece was in his belly when I cut it open.'

'Hm,' Matthew grunted. He turned the gold coin between his fingers. 'You caught these turtles out of the spring?'

'The fount. Yes suh. Them turtles like to be eatin' the reeds, y'see.'

Matthew put the coins down upon the table and picked up the silver spoon. It was tarnished dark brown and the stem was bent, but it seemed remarkably preserved to have spent any length of time in a turtle's stomach. 'Very strange, isn't it?' he said.

'I thought so too, suh. When I found that gold piece, and hearin' that yours was thieved a few days after'ard . . . well, I didn't know what to think.'

'I can understand.' Matthew looked again at the gold coin's date, and then studied the fragment of blue pottery before he replaced it and the other items in the wooden jar. He noted that May appeared very much relieved. 'And I do promise not to tell anyone. As far as I'm concerned, it's no one's business.'

'Thank you, suh,' she said gratefully.

Matthew stood up. 'I have no idea why turtles should have such things in their bellies, but it is a question that begs an answer. Goode, if you catch a turtle and happen to find anything else, will you let me know?'

'I will, suh.'

'All right. I'd best return to the house. No need taking the carriage up, I'll be glad to walk.' He watched as Goode put the lid back on the jar and returned it to the shelf.

'Let me ask you a question now, and please answer truthfully: do you think Rachel Howarth is a witch?'

He responded without hesitation. 'No suh, I don't.'

'Then how do you account for the witnesses?'

'I can't, suh.'

'That's my problem,' Matthew confided. 'Neither can I.'

'I'll walk you out,' Goode said. Matthew offered a goodbye to May, and then he and the old man left the house. On the walk back toward the stable, Goode shoved his hands into the pockets of his brown breeches and said quietly, 'May's got it in her mind we're gon' run to the Florida country. Take them gold and silver pieces and light out some night. I let her think it, 'cause it eases her. But we're long done past our runnin' days.' He looked at the muddy earth beneath his shoes. 'Naw, I come over when I was a boy. First mastuh was Mastuh Cullough, in V'ginia. Seen eight children sold. Seen my brother whipped to death for kickin' a white man's dog. I seen my little daughter's back branded, and her beggin' me to make 'em stop. That's why I play that fiddle Mastuh Bidwell give me; it be the only sound keep me from hearin' her voice.'

'I'm sorry,' Matthew said.

'Why? Did you brand her? I ain't askin' nobody to be sorry. All I'm sayin' is, my wife needs to dream 'bout the Florida country, just like I need to play my music. Just like anybody needs anythin' to give 'em a reason to live. That's all. Suh,' he added, remembering his place.

They had reached the stable. Matthew noticed that Goode's pace had slowed. It seemed to him that there was something else the slave wanted to express, but he was taking his time in constructing it. Then Goode cleared his throat and said in a low, wary voice, 'I don't believe Mistress Howarth is a witch, suh, but that ain't to say not some strange goin's-on here'bouts.'

'I would certainly agree.'

'You may not know the half of it, suh.' Goode stopped walking, and Matthew did the same. 'I'm speakin' of the man who goes out to the swamp now and again, after it's long past dark.'

Matthew recalled the figure he'd seen here in the slave quarters that night the lightning had been so fierce. 'A man? Who is it?'

'Couldn't see his face. I heard the horses cuttin' up one night and come out here to ease 'em. On the way back, I seen a man walkin' out to the swamp. He was carryin' a lantern, but it weren't lit. Walkin' quick, he was, like he had somewheres to go in a hurry. Well, I was spelt by it so I followed him. He slip past the watchman there and go on out through them woods.' Goode motioned toward the pines with a tilt of his head. 'The man that Mastuh Bidwell has watchin' at night does poorly. I've had call to wake him up m'self come dawn.'

'The man who went out to the swamp,' Matthew said, much intrigued. 'Did you find out what his business was?'

'Well suh, nobody with right business to do would go out there, seein' as how that's where the privy wagon gets carted to and dumped. And it's a dangerous place, too, full a' mucks and mires. But this man, he just kept on goin'. I did follow him a ways, though, but it's hard travel. I had to turn 'round and come on home 'fore I seen what he was up to.'

'When was this?'

'Oh . . . three, four month past. But I seen him again, near two week ago.'

'He walked out to the swamp again?'

'I seen him on his way back. Both Earlyboy and me seen him, 'bout run right into him as we come 'round a corner. Bullhead—he's Ginger's man—has got some cards. We was over at his house, playin' most the night, and that's why it was such a small hour. We seen the man walkin', but he didn't see us. This time he was carryin' a dark lantern and a bucket.'

'A bucket,' Matthew repeated.

'Yes suh. Must'a been sealed, though. It was swingin' back and forth, but nothing was spillin' out.'

Matthew nodded. He'd remembered that he had also seen something in the man's possession that might have been a bucket.

'Earlyboy was scairt,' Goode said. 'Still is. He asked me if we'd seen the Devil, but I told him I thought it was just a man.' He lifted his thick white eyebrows. 'Was I right, suh?'

Matthew paused to consider it. Then he said thoughtfully, 'Yes, I think you were. Though it might have been a man with some Devil in him.'

'That could be any man under the sun of creation,' Goode observed. 'I swear I can't figure why anybody would go out to that swamp, particular at night. Ain't nothin' out there a'tall.'

'There must be something of value. Whatever it is, it can be carried in a bucket.' Matthew looked back toward the watch-tower for a moment; the watchman still had his feet up on the railing, and even now appeared to be sleeping. He doubted that anyone who wanted to get past at night would have much difficulty, especially if they weren't showing a light. Well, he felt in dire need of breakfast and a hot bath to wash off the gaol's filth. 'Thank you again for the liniment,' he told Goode.

'Yes suh, my pleasure. Luck to you.'

'And you.' Matthew turned away and walked along Peace Street, leaving the slave quarters behind. He had more things to think about now, and less time to sort them all out if indeed they could be sorted. He felt that someone—perhaps more than one person—had woven a tangled web of murder and deceits in this struggling, rough-hewn town, and had gone to great and inexplicable lengths to paint Rachel as the servant of Satan. But for what purpose? Why would anyone go to such labors to manufacture a case of witchcraft against her? It made no sense.

But then again, it must make sense—somehow, to someone.

And it was up to him to use his mind and instincts to uncover the sense of it, because if he did not—and very soon—then he could bid Rachel farewell at the burning pyre.