Speaks the Nightbird

Who was the man who ventured at night into the swamp, carrying a dark lantern and a bucket? Why was a coin of Spanish gold in the belly of a turtle? And Goode's question: How come Satan don't talk German nor Dutch and he don't talk to us darks neither?

Mysteries within mysteries, Matthew thought. Unravelling them would be a task fit for a far greater champion than he—but he was all Rachel had. If he did not answer these questions, then who would? The answer to that was simple: no one.

twenty-one

THE WARM BATH—taken in a tub room beside the kitchen—had turned out to be chilly and his shaving razor had nicked his chin, but otherwise Matthew found himself to be invigorated as he dressed in clean clothes. He had consumed a breakfast of eggs, sausage, and salted ham, put away two cups of tea and a jolt of rum, and so was eager to get out and about as the morning progressed.

His knock on the magistrate's door was not answered, but the door was unlatched. When he looked in, he saw Woodward asleep with the box of court papers beside him on the bed. The magistrate had obviously begun reading through them, as there were some papers lying in disarray near his right hand, but his illness had stolen him away. Matthew quietly entered the room and stood at the bedside, staring at Woodward's pallid yellow-tinged face.

The magistrate's mouth was open. Even in sleep he suffered, for his breathing was a harsh, painful wheeze. Matthew saw the brown stains on the pillowcase under his left ear. The room had a thick, sickly smell, an odor of dried blood and wet pus and . . . death? Matthew thought.

Instantly his mind recoiled. Such a thought should not be allowed. No, no, neither allowed nor dwelt upon! He looked down at the scuffed floorboards for a moment, listening to the magistrate's struggle with the very air.

At the orphanage, Matthew had seen boys grow sick and wither away in such a fashion. He suspected Woodward's illness might have begun with the cold rain that had pelted them on their flight from Shawcombe's tavern, the thought of which made him again damn that murderous villain to the innermost fires of Hell. And now Matthew was tormented by worry, because the magistrate's condition was only likely to worsen if he was not soon gotten back to Charles Town; he presumed Dr. Shields knew what he was doing—he presumed—but by the doctor's own admission the town of Fount Royal and its cemetery were becoming one and the same. Also, Matthew kept thinking about something the magistrate had said concerning Dr. Shields: What prompted him to leave what was probably a well-established urban practise for a task of extreme hardship in a frontier village?

What, indeed?

Woodward made a noise, a combination of a whisper and a groan. 'Ann,' he said.

Matthew lifted his gaze to the man's face, which appeared fragile as bone china in the light of the room's single lamp.

'Ann,' Woodward spoke again. His head pressed back against the pillow. 'Ohhhhhh.' It was an exclamation of heart-wrenching agony. '... hurting . . . he's hurting, Ann . . . hurting . . .' The magistrate's voice dwindled away, and his body relaxed once again as he fell into a deeper and more merciful realm of sleep.

Carefully Matthew came around the bed and straightened the papers into a neat stack, which he left within reach of Woodward's right hand.

'Sir? Are ye in need of anythin'?' Matthew looked toward the door. Mrs. Nettles stood on the threshold, and had spoken quietly so as not to disturb the sleeper. He shook his head.

'Very well, sir.' She started to withdraw, but Matthew said, 'A moment, please,' and followed her out into the hallway after closing the door behind him.

'Let me say I did not mean to accuse you of stealing my coin,' he told her. 'I was only pointing out that a woman might have done the job as equally as a man.'

'You mean, a woman a' my size, do ye not?' Mrs. Nettles's ebony eyes bored holes through him.

'Yes, that's exactly right.'

'Well, I did nae steal it, so think what ye please. Now, if you'll pardon me, I ha' work to do.' She turned away and walked toward the stairs.

'As do I,' Matthew said. 'The work of proving Rachel Howarth innocent.'

Mrs. Nettles halted in her advance. She looked back at him, her face mirroring a confusion of amazement and suspicion.

'That's right,' Matthew assured her. 'I believe Madam Howarth to be innocent and I plan on proving it so.'

'Proviri it? How?'

'It would be improper for me to say, but I thought you might like to know my intentions. Might I now ask you a question?' She made no response, but neither did she walk away. 'I doubt much goes on here that escapes your attention,' he said. 'I'm speaking of Fount Royal as well as this house. You certainly heard the tales concerning Madam Howarth's supposed witchcraft. Why is it, then, that you so adamantly refused to believe her to be a witch, when the majority of the citizens are convinced she is?'

Mrs. Nettles glanced toward the stairs, marking that no one was close enough to overhear, before she offered a guarded reply. 'I ha' seen the evil done by misguided men, sir. I saw it takin' shape here, long ere Mistress Howarth was accused. Oh yes sir, it was a thing waitin' to happen. After the rev'rend was laid low, it was bound an' sealed.'

'You mean that a scapegoat was found for the murder?'

'Aye. Had to be Mistress Howarth, y'see. Had to be someone different—someone who was nae welcomed here. The fact that she's dark-skinned and near a Spaniard ... it jus' had to be her accused of such crimes. And whoever murdered the rev'rend killed Mr. Howarth, too, and hid those poppets in the house to make sure Mistress Howarth fell to blame. I nae care what Cara Grunewald said about visions from God and th' like. She was ha' crazy and the other ha' dumb. How the tricks were done, I canna' say, but there's a true fox in our coop. Do y'see, sir?'

'I do,' Matthew said, 'but I'd still like to know why you believe Rachel to be innocent.'

The woman's mouth was set in a tight, grim line. Again, she checked the staircase before she spoke. 'I had an elder sister by the name a' Jane. She married a man named Merritt and come over here, settled in the town a' Hampton, in the Massachusetts colony. Jane was a wonderful spinner. She could sit at the wheel and spin most anythin'. She could read the weather by the clouds, and foretold storms by the birds. She took to bein' a midwife, as well, after Mr. Merritt died of fever. Well, they hanged her in 1680 up there in Hampton, for bein' a witch an' spellin' a woman to give birth to a Devil's baby. So they said. Jane's own son—my nephew—was accused of evils and sent to prison in Boston, and he passed away there a year later. I've tried to find their graves, but no one knows where they're lyin'. No one cares where they're lyin'. You know what my sister's great sin was, sir?' Matthew said nothing, but simply waited.

'She was different, do y'see?' Mrs. Nettles said. 'Her readin' of the clouds, her spinnin', and her midwifery made her different. In Hampton they put her neck in a noose for it, and when our father read the letters and found out how she'd died, he fell sick too. Our mother and me worked the farm, best we could. He got better, and he lived another four year, but I canna' say I ever saw him smile ag'in, 'cause Jane's hangin' was always there in that house. It was always there that she had been killed as a witch, when we all knew she had a sweet, Christian soul. But who was there to defend her, sir? Who was there to be her champion of justice?' She shook her head, a bitter smile pinching her mouth.

'Nae, not a single man nor woman stood up for her, for they must'a feared the same thing as we fear in this town: anyone who speaks up in defense must be also bewitched and fit for the hangin' tree. Yes sir, he knows that, too.' Mrs. Nettles again stared through Matthew with fierce intensity. 'The fox, I mean. He knows what happened in Salem, and in a dozen other towns. No one's gonna speak out for Mistress Howarth, for fear of their own necks. They'd rather quit this town and drag a guilty shadow. I'd quit it m'self, if I had the courage to turn my back on Mr. Bidwell's coin . . . but 1 do not, and so there you have it.'

'The witnesses insist that what they've seen is neither dream nor phantasm,' Matthew said. 'How would you