Speaks the Nightbird

Woodward didn't reply, but simply closed his eyes and rested his head on the pillows. His breathing was slow and steady, if somewhat ragged-sounding. He opened his eyes and looked directly at Matthew. 'The time has come,' he said.

'Sir?'

'The time,' Woodward repeated, 'has come. To tell you things . . . that perhaps should already have been told. Sit down, if you like.' He nodded toward the chair that was placed close beside the bed, and Matthew sat down upon it.

'Where to begin?' It was a question the magistrate had posed to himself. 'The beginning, of course. When I was a prosperous attorney, I lived in London with my wife, Ann. We had a very fine house. A garden in the back, with a fountain. Oxford had prepared me well.' He gave Matthew a slight, sad smile, and then it went away. 'We had been wed two years when we had a son, whom we named Thomas, after my father.'

'A son?' This was an amazement to Matthew.

'Yes. A good boy he was. Very intelligent, very . . . serious, I suppose. He loved for me to read to him, and he loved to hear his mother sing.' Woodward heard in his mind the woman's sweet soprano and saw shadows on the green Italian tiles that graced the fountain. 'Those were the finest days of my life,' he said as softly as his tortured voice would allow. 'On our fifth anniversary, I presented Ann with a silver music box, and she gave me the gold- striped waistcoat. I remember the moment I opened the wrapping. I recall thinking . . . that no man on earth had ever been so fortunate. So privileged to be alive. There I was, with my loved ones before me, my house, my possessions, my career. I had tasted the full fruit of life and I was a rich man. Rich in so many ways.'

Matthew said nothing, but now he more fully understood the magistrate's anguish at leaving the treasured garment in Shawcombe's hands.

'Four years later,' Woodward continued after a painful swallow, 'Ann and my partners encouraged me to pursue the robe. I passed the necessary examinations . . . became a jurist apprentice. In time I was informed I would advance when the next appointments were made.' He drew a long, suffering breath and let it go. 'I didn't have long to wait. That summer the plague came. Many openings were created.'

Woodward lapsed into silence as the memories came up around him like so many whispering ghosts. 'The plague,' he said, his gaze fixed on nothing. 'Summer ended. A wet and nasty autumn, and the plague remained. It was a visitation of blisters on the flesh, followed by fits and terrible agonies until death. I saw my closest friend die that September. He withered from a sturdy athlete into a weeping skeleton in the space of two weeks. And then . . . one morning in October . . . the maidservant screamed in Thomas's bedchamber. I rushed in. Knowing already. And fearing what I would find.'

His voice had dwindled to a mere whisper and his throat was a burning hellpit, yet he felt the necessity to go on. 'Thomas was twelve years old. The plague cared not for age, nor social position, nor riches nor . . . anything. It set in on Thomas ... as if determined to destroy not only him, but his mother and myself. The best the doctors could do was sedate him with opium. It was not enough to make him stop hurting. Not nearly enough.'

He had to halt once more to swallow, and felt the scum of infection ooze down his throat.

'May I get you something to drink?' Matthew asked, standing up.

'No. Sit down. I must speak while I can.' He waited for Matthew ro settle himself again. 'Thomas fought it,' he said. 'But of course ... he could not win. His skin was so raw he couldn't turn over in bed. Once . . . when a fit struck him, he thrashed so much that the flesh . . . peeled from his back like wet bark from a rotten tree. And everything was blood and pestilence and that smell . . . that smell . . . that death-reeking, hideous smell.'

'Sir,' Matthew said, 'you don't have to—'

Woodward lifted a hand. 'Please hear me out. Thomas lived for ten days after he was afflicted. No, lived is not the correct word. Survived. The days and nights were of indistinguishable damnation for us all. He vomited torrents of blood. His eyes were swollen closed from crying, and he lay in filth because we had no help and ... we could not wash the sheets fast enough. On the last day ... he was seized by uncontrollable fits. So strong he grasped hold of the iron bedstead, and the bowing of his body . . . made the entire bed jump up and down . . . like some demonic toy. I remember his face, in that final hour. His face.' Woodward squeezed his eyes shut, sweat glistening on his cheeks, and Matthew could barely look at him, so awful was the sight of his soul-caged grief.

'Oh, my God, his face,' the magistrate rasped. His eyes opened, and Matthew saw they had gone red with the memory of such torment. 'The pox . . . had consumed most of his face. At the end, he . . . hardly appeared human. As he was dying . . . being racked by those fits ... he gripped the bedstead with all his remaining strength. I saw his fingers tighten . . . tighten . . . and he looked at me.' Woodward nodded, marking the moment. 'He couldn't speak, but I saw him ask a question of me, as if I had been God Almighty. He asked me: Why? And to that question— that unknown, unfathomable question—I was mute. Hardly ten minutes later ... he let loose a groan, and at last he left us. I had such plans for him. Such plans. And I loved him, more than I had even known.

'His death . . . the way he died . . . could not help but taint the rest of our days,' Woodward said. 'Ann had always been fragile .. . now her mind was blighted. Her spirit grew dark, as did mine. She turned against me. She could no longer bear to live in that house, and she began to suffer violent rages. I think . . . she was so frustrated ... so angry against God . . . that she was reduced to the impulses of an animal.' He paused and swallowed. 'Took to drink. Took to being seen in unsavory places . . . with unsavory people. I reached out for her, tried to get her into church, but that made things worse. I believe . . . she needed someone to hate on this earth as much as she hated the Lord. Finally, she left the house. I was told that Ann had been seen drunk in a certain neighborhood, in the company of a man of ill repute. My career began to suffer. It was rumored that I was a drunk as well—which was sometimes true—and that I was open to bribes. Which was never true. A convenient lie for some persons who wished me harm. My debts came due, as debts will when a man is down. I sold most of what I owned. The house . . . the garden, the fountain, the bed upon which Thomas had died ... all of it was repugnant to me, anyway.'

'But you kept the waistcoat,' Matthew said.

'Yes. Because ... I don't know why. Or perhaps I do. It was one item of my past. . . that remained clean and unblemished. It was ... a breath of yesterday, when all the world was fragrant.'

'I'm sorry,' Matthew said. 'I had no idea.'

'Well, why would you? Over time . . . the cases I heard grew fewer. I must say much of my disgrace was my fault, as I allowed Brother Rum to accompany me to the bench. I decided ... as my future appeared to be dim in London, I might try my torch in the colonies. But before I left ... I tried to find Ann. I heard she'd fallen in with other women of her class who had . . . experienced the deaths of their husbands by the plague, and who had become . . . rumpots and flesh merchants by necessity. By this time, she was completely gone to me. Gone to herself, as well.' He gave a labored sigh. 'I think that's what she wished. To lose her identity, and thus the past.' He stared past Matthew, into the incalculable distance. 'I believe I saw her. In a crowd at the harbor. I wasn't sure. I didn't care to be sure. I walked away Later I boarded a ship . . . and hence to a new world.'

Woodward lay his head back and closed his eyes again. He swallowed pus and tried to clear his throat, to no avail. His voice was all but gone now, yet he forced himself on because he feared so for Matthew's soul and wished him to understand these things. 'Imagine my surprise ... to find that Manhattan was not paved with gold. I found that the New World ... is no different from the Old. There are the same passions and crimes. The same sins and scoundrels. Only here . . . there's so much more opportunity to sin . . . and so much more space in which to do it. God only knows what the next century will bring.'

'I spoke with Goode about that,' Matthew said, offering a trace of a smile. 'His wife believes the world will be destroyed by fire, while he believes it might be—as he put it—a 'century of wonders.''

Woodward opened his bloodshot eyes. 'I don't know . . . but I do believe it will be a wonder if Fount Royal reaches the new century. This town will surely die if Rachel Howarth is not executed.'

Matthew's smile vanished. 'Is the future of this settlement your basis for putting a woman to death, sir?'

'Of course not. Not entirely, I mean. But the evidence is there . . . the witnesses . . . the poppets . . . her own blasphemous demeanor. Not to mention her grip on you.'

'What grip? I fail to see how my interest in the truth can be construed as—'

'Cease and desist,' Woodward said. 'Please. The more you go on, the less you convince anyone . . . least of all me. I daresay it is not only Jerusalem who has designs on the woman . . . though I believe it's actually she who has designs on you.'