Speaks The Nightbird Part 23

The rats that were entering the circle now showed signs of lethargy. Feasting on the sugar and opium had clearly robbed them of much of their survival instinct. A few of them still had the speed to escape Linch's blades, but most perished before they could turn tail. Several died so bewildered they didn't even squeal as they were pierced.

After twenty or more executions there was quite a lot of rodent blood in the circle, yet the rats kept coming, too drug-fogged to be daunted from the promise of such treats. Every once in a while Linch would repeat in that soft, singsong tone his little ditty about dandies and candies, but it was such an easy ma.s.sacre that it seemed a waste of breath. Down came the sticker, and rarely did Linch misjudge his aim. Soon the ratcatcher was killing them two at a time.

In forty minutes or so, the number of rodents began to subside. Matthew presumed that either Linch had killed the majority of gaolhouse rats, or that at last the odors of blood and carnage were strong enough to warn them away even through the numbing effects of the-as Linch had put it-"sweet stupidity." The ratcatcher, too, seemed thoroughly fatigued by the slaughter, which had bloodied his gloves and bulged his sack.

One small gray specimen, weaving around like a drunken lord, entered the circle. As Matthew watched, intrigued not by the grisly spectacle but by Linch's speed and surety of dispatch, the little rat nibbled at a kernel of corn and then began to chase its tail with ferocious intent. Around and around it went in a mad spin, with Linch's sticker poised above it waiting to strike. At last the rat gave up the chase and lay on its belly as if exhausted. Matthew expected the sticker to flash down and a blade to bite deep, but Linch stayed his hand.

The ratcatcher gave a long, weary sigh. "You know," he said quietly, "they ain't such terrible creatures. Got to eat, just like anybody. Got to live. They came over on the ships, same as the people did. They're smart beasts; they know that where the people are, that's where they'll find food. No, they ain't so terrible." He leaned over and touched a finger to some of the sugared opium he'd scattered on the floor, and then he pressed the finger to the rat's mouth. Whether it ate the offering or not, Matthew couldn't tell, but the rodent was far too stupified to flee.

"Hey, watch this trick," Linch said. He reached over, picked up the lantern, and began to move it in a slow, sinuous circle above the gray rat. The rodent just lay there, seemingly uninterested, its body stretched out next to a gnawed lump of potato. Linch kept the movement slow and steady, and presently Matthew saw the rat's tail twitch and its head angle up toward the mysterious glow that was circling its theater of night. A minute pa.s.sed. Linch kept moving the lantern around and around, with no discernible reduction or addition of speed. The candlelight glinted red in the eyes of the rat, and ice-white in the eyes of the ratcatcher.

Linch whispered, "Up, my pretty. Up, up, my pretty." The rat's tail continued to twitch, its eyes followed the light, but otherwise it remained stationary.

"Up, up," Linch whispered, again almost in a singsong cadence. "Up, up, my pretty." The lantern went around and around again. Linch bent his head toward the rodent, his untamed brows knitting with concentration. "Up, up," he spoke, a compelling note entering his voice. "Up, up."

Suddenly the rat gave a shiver and stood on its hind legs. Balancing on its tail, it began to circle with the progress of the lantern, like a tiny dog begging for a bone. Matthew watched with absolute fascination, realizing the rat in its bewildered state was transfixed by the candle. The rodent's eyes were directed to the flame, its stubby front legs clawing at the air as if desiring union with that which made such a strange and beautiful illumination. Who knew what the rat was seeing-by benefit of the sugared opium-there at the center of the fire?

"Dance for me," Linch whispered. "A reel, if you please." He circled the lantern a bit faster, and it seemed the rodent turned faster as well, though this might have been Matthew's imagination. Indeed, one might imagine the rat had become a dancer in accord with Linch's command. Its hind legs were shivering, about to collapse, yet still the rat sought communion with the flame.

"Pretty, pretty one," Linch said, in a voice as soft as a touch of mist on the cheek. And then he brought the sticker down, not hurriedly but rather with an air of resignation. Two of the blades pierced the rat's exposed belly and the rodent stiffened and shrieked. It bared its teeth and gnashed at the air, as most of its brothers and sisters had done in their death agonies. Linch put the lantern aside, broke the rat's neck with a quick jerk of his right hand, and the b.l.o.o.d.y carca.s.s went into the sack with the others.

"How'd you like that?" he asked Matthew, his grin wide and expectant of praise.

"Quite impressive," Matthew said. "You might find employ in a circus, if you would spare the life of your partner."

Linch laughed. He removed a dark-stained cloth from his bag and began to clean the sticker's five blades, which meant the executions had come to an end. "I was in the circus," he said as he blotted away the blood. "Nine, ten years ago back in England. Used rats in my act. Dressed 'em up in little suits, made 'em dance just as you saw. They have a taste of ale or rum-or stronger-and a candle makes 'em think they're seein' G.o.d. Whatever G.o.d is to a rat, I mean."

"How come you to leave the circus?"

"Didn't get on so well with the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who owned it. I was makin' the lion's share of money for him, but he was payin' me lamb's wages. Anyhow, the plague's got so bad over there your audience is all ribs and teeth." He shrugged. "I found me a better way to earn my livin'."

"Ratcatching?" Matthew realized he'd spoken it a shade distastefully.

"Gainful elimination of pests," Linch answered. "Like I told you, every town's got to have a ratcatcher. If there's anythin' on earth I know about, it's rats. And people, too," he added. "I know enough about people to be happy I spend most of my time with rats." He shook the heavy sack full of carca.s.ses. "Even if they are dead ones."

"A delightful sentiment," Matthew said.

Linch stood up, the ratsack attached to his belt. He returned the bloodied cloth to the cowhide bag and slipped its strap around his shoulder. "I been here near two years," he said. "Long enough to know this is a good town, but it ain't got a chance while that witch stays alive." He nodded toward Rachel in her cage. "Ought to take her out come Monday mornin' and finish her off. Put her out of her misery and the rest of us out of ours, too."

"Has she done anything against you?" Matthew asked.

"No. Not yet, I mean to say. But I know what she's done, and what she's like to do 'fore it's over." He held the sticker in his right hand and picked up the lantern with his left. "If I was you, boy, I'd watch my back tonight."

"Thank you for your concern, sir."

"You're so very welcome." Linch gave a mocking bow. When he had straightened up, he narrowed his eyes and looked around the cell. "Believe I've cleaned the place might fairly. Maybe a few more still hidin', but none much to worry about. I'll say good night to you and the witch, then." He left the cell and started off, still carrying the lantern.

"Wait!" Matthew said, his hands clenching the bars. "Aren't you going to leave the light?"

"What, this stub of a candle? Ain't an hour of burnin' left in it. Anyway, how am I supposed to see to lock up? No, I'm takin' it with me." Without a further word Linch walked out of the gaol and the darkness was total. There was the sound of a chain rattling as Linch secured the entrance, and then the awful silence descended.

Matthew stayed exactly where he was for a minute or more, still gripping the bars. He stared toward the gaol's doorway, hoping beyond hope that Linch, or someone, would return with a lantern, because this darkness was a brutally terrible thing. He could smell the blood of rats. He felt his nerves starting to unravel like axe-hacked ropes.

"I told you," Rachel said in a quiet but very calm voice. "The darkness is bad. They never leave a lantern in here at night. You might have known that."

"Yes." His voice sounded thick. "I might have."

He heard her stand up from her bench. He heard her footsteps through the straw. Then there came the rustling of her sackcloth gown and the sc.r.a.pe of a bucket. What followed next was the noise of a stream of water.

One problem, he realized grimly, had been solved.

He would have to bear the dark, though it was almost beyond endurance. He would have to bear it anyway, because if he did not fight its pressure upon his mind, then he might scream or weep, and what good would come of those actions? Surely he could bear it for three nights, if Rachel Howarth had borne it for three months. Surely he could.

From the logwall behind him he heard a squeaking and scurrying. He knew full well that now had come the night that would test his mettle, and if his mettle be found cracked he was lost.

Rachel's voice suddenly came from just beyond the bars that parted them. "Try to sleep, if you can. There's no use in standing up all night."

At last Matthew reluctantly loosened his grip on the iron and made his way past the desk to the place in the straw where he'd decided to sleep. That had been before the light had been taken, of course. He knelt down, feeling around to make sure no rats were waiting to attack him. There were none, though they sounded alarmingly near. He lay on his side and curled himself up into a tight ball, his arms around his knees. It seemed eons until the dawn.

He heard the woman lie down in the straw. Then silence reigned, except for the rodents. He clenched his teeth together and squeezed his eyes shut. Perhaps he made a noise of despair-a gasp, a moan, something-but he wasn't sure.

"May I call you Matthew?" Rachel asked.

It wasn't proper. Wasn't proper at all. He was the magistrate's clerk, and she the accused. No, such familiarity was not proper.

"Yes," he said, his voice strained and near cracking. "Good night, Matthew."

"Good night," he answered, and he almost said Rachel but he closed his mouth before the name could emerge. He did speak it, though, in his innermost voice.

He waited, listening. For what, he did not know. Perhaps the buzz of a luminous, witch-directed fly. Perhaps the cold laughter of a demon who had come to visit for obscene purposes; perhaps the sound of raven's wings flitting in the dark. None of those sounds occurred. There were just the furtive noises of the surviving rodents and then, a while later, the soft breathing of Rachel Howarth in sleep.

What she needs is a champion of truth, he thought.

And who in this town could be that champion but himself? But the evidence... the apparent evidence... was so d.a.m.ning.

d.a.m.ning or not, there were so many questions. So many whys, he could scarce list them all in his mind.

One thing was certain: if the woman was not a witch, someone in Fount Royal-perhaps more than a single person-had gone to great and evil effort to paint her as one. Again the question: why?

In spite of his trepidations, his body was relaxing. He felt sleep coming nearer. He fought it by going over in his head the testimony of Jeremiah Buckner. At last, though, sleep was the victor, and he joined Rachel in the land of forgetting.

Fifteen.

The power of G.o.d was the subject of Robert Bidwell's lecture at the Anglican church on Sabbath morn, and during its second hour-as Bidwell paused to drink a cup of water and renew his vigor-the magistrate felt his eyes drooping as if drawn down by leaden weights. It was a sensitive situation, as he was seated in the front pew of the church, and thus being in the seat of honor Woodward was subject to the stares and whispers of the congregation. Such would not be worrisome to him if he were in firmer health, but as he'd slept very poorly and his throat was once more ravaged and swollen, he might have chosen a rack-and-wheel over the torture of this predicament.

Bidwell, to be so eloquent and forceful face-to-face, was a wandering wastrel at the pulpit. Between half-cooked p.r.o.nouncements simmered long pauses, while the congregation steamed in the close, hot room. To add even more injury, Bidwell didn't know his Good Book very well and continually misquoted what to Woodward were pa.s.sages every child had memorized by the age of baptism. Bidwell asked the congregation to join him in prayer after prayer concerning the well-being and future of Fount Royal, a task which became truly laborious by the fifth or sixth amen. Heads nodded and snores grumbled, but those who dared to sleep were slapped awake by the glove that Mr. Green-who was acting just as much gaol-keeper here as at the gaol-had fixed to a long wooden pole capable of reaching the cheek of any sinner.

At last Bidwell came to his dutiful conclusion and went to his seat. Next arose the schoolmaster, who limped up to the pulpit with his Bible beneath his arm, and asked that there be another prayer to secure the presence of G.o.d among them. It went on for perhaps ten minutes, but at least Johnstone's voice had inflection and character and so Woodward was able-with an effort of will-to avoid the glove.

Woodward had risen from his bed at first light. From his shaving mirror stared the face of a sick man, hollow-eyed and gray-fleshed. He opened his mouth wide and caught sight in the gla.s.s of the volcanic wasteland his throat had become. Again his air pa.s.sages were thickened and blocked, which proved that Dr. Shields's remedy was less a cure than a curio. Woodward had asked Bidwell if he might see to Matthew before the beginning of Sabbath service, and a trip to Mr. Green's house had secured the key, which had been returned to him after its use by the ratcatcher.

Fearing the worst, Woodward discovered that his clerk had actually enjoyed a better rest in the harsh straw than he himself had endured at the mansion house. Matthew had had his tribulations, to be sure, but except for finding a drowned rodent in his waterbucket this morning he'd suffered no lasting harms. In the next cage, Rachel Howarth remained cloaked and impa.s.sive, perhaps a pointed response to Bidwell's presence. But Matthew had come through the first night without being transformed into a black cat or a basilisk, and seemed to have undergone no other entrancements, as Woodward had feared might happen. Woodward had vowed he would return again in the afternoon, and so had reluctantly left his clerk in the company of the cloaked harridan.

The magistrate had expected to smell the dust of a hundred dry sermons when the schoolmaster took the pulpit to speak, but Johnstone was at ease before the congregation and therefore earned more ears than had Bidwell before him. In fact, Johnstone was quite a good speaker. His message was faith in the mysterious ways of G.o.d, and over the course of an hour he skillfully wove that topic into a parallel with the situation faced by the citizens of Fount Royal. It was clear to Woodward that Johnstone relished public speaking, and used his hands in grand gestures to ill.u.s.trate the verses of scripture that were his emphasis. Nary a head nodded nor a snore sounded while the schoolmaster held forth, and at the end of Johnstone's lesson the prayer that followed was short, concise, and the final "Amen" delivered like an exclamation point. Bidwell rose to say a few more words-perhaps feeling a bit upstaged by the schoolmaster. Then Bidwell called upon Peter Van Gundy, proprietor of the tavern, to dismiss the service, and at long last Mr. Green rested his glove-on-a-pole in a corner as the congregation took their leave of the sweatbox.

Outside, beneath the milky sky, the air was still and damp. Beyond Fount Royal's walls mist hung low over the forest and draped the taller treetops with white shrouds. No birds sang. As Woodward followed Bidwell to the carriage where Goode waited to drive them home, the magistrate's progress was interrupted by a tug on his sleeve. He turned to find Lucretia Vaughan standing there, wearing her somber black Sabbath gown as did the other women, yet hers had a touch of lace decorating the high bodice that seemed to Woodward a bit ostentatious. Behind her stood her blonde daughter Cherise, also in black, and a slim man of short stature who wore a vacant smile and had equally vacant eyes.

"Magistrate?" the woman said. "How goes the case?"

"It goes," he answered, his voice little more than a raspy croak.

"Dear me! You sound in need of a salt gargle."

"The weather," he said. "It disagrees with me."

"I'm very sorry to hear that. Now: I would like-that is, my husband and I would like-to offer an invitation to our table on Thursday night."

"Thursday? I'll have to wait and see how I'm feeling by then."

"Oh, you misunderstand!" She flashed him a bright smile. "I mean an invitation to your clerk. His sentence will be done by Tuesday morning, as I hear. He'll receive his lashes at that time, am I correct?"

"Yes, madam, you are."

"Then he should be up to joining us on Thursday evening. Say at six o'clock?"

"I can't speak for Matthew, but I will pa.s.s your invitation along."

"I would be oh so grateful," she said, with a semblance of a curtsey. "Good day, then."

"Good day."

The woman took her husband's arm and guided him along- a shocking sight, especially on the Sabbath-and the daughter followed a few paces behind. Woodward pulled himself up into the waiting carriage, lay back against the cushioned seat across from Bidwell, and Goode flicked the reins.

"You found the service of interest, Magistrate?" Bidwell asked.

"Yes, very much."

"I'm pleased to hear it. I feared my sermon was rather on the intellectual side, and most of the citizens here are-as you know by now-charmingly rustic. It wasn't too deep for them, was it?"

"No, I think not."

"Ah." Bidwell nodded. His hands folded in his lap. "The schoolmaster has an agile mind, but he does tend to speak in circles rather than to a point. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes," Woodward said, realizing what Bidwell desired to hear. "He does have an agile mind."

"I've told him-suggested to him-that he keep his message more grounded in reality than abstract concepts, but he has his own way of presentation. I myself find him somewhat tiresome, though I do try to follow his threads."

"Um," Woodward said.

"You would think that, being a teacher, he might be also a better communicator. But I suspect his talents lie in other areas. Not thievery, however." He gave a brief laugh and then attended to the straightening of his ruffled cuffs.

Woodward was listening to the creak of the wheels when another sound intruded. The signal bell at the front gate's watch-tower began to ring. "Hold, Goode!" Bidwell commanded, and he looked toward the tower as Goode reined in the horses. "Someone's approaching, it seems." He frowned. "I can't think of anyone we're expecting, though. Goode, take us to the gate!"

"Yes sir," the servant answered, and he maneuvered the team around to change direction.

On this afternoon, Malcolm Jennings was again atop the watchtower. A group of citizens had already a.s.sembled to see who the visitor might be. As Jennings saw Bidwell's carriage stop on the street below, he leaned over the railing and shouted, "A covered wagon, Mr. Bidwell! Young man at the reins!"

Bidwell scratched his chin. "Well, who could it be? Not the maskers; it's way too early yet for them." He motioned toward a rawboned pipesmoker who wore a straw hat. "Swaine, open the gate! You there, Hollis: help him with the timber!"

The two men Bidwell had spoken to drew the latching log from its position of security and pulled the gate open. When the gate was drawn wide, the covered wagon Jennings had announced rumbled across the threshold, hauled by two horses-a piebald and a roan-that appeared but several ragged breaths away from the pastepot. The wagon's driver reined in the team as soon as the vehicle had cleared the entrance, and he surveyed the onlookers from beneath a battered brown monmouth cap. His gaze settled on the nearest citizen, which was John Swaine. "Fount Royal?" he inquired.

"That it is," Swaine answered. Bidwell was about to direct a question of his own about who the young man might be, when suddenly the wagon's canvas was whipped open with the speed of revelation and another man emerged from the interior. This man, who wore a black suit and a black tricorn hat, stood on the seat plank next to the driver, his hands on his hips, and scanned the vista from left to right with the narrowed eyes of an arrogant emperor.

"At last!" The thunder of his voice made the horses jump. "The Devil's own town!"

This statement, delivered so loudly and imperially, sent a terror through Bidwell. Instantly he stood up in the carriage, his face flushed. "Sir! Who might you be?"

The dark eyes of this new arrival, which were hooded with flesh in a long-jawed, gaunt face that seemed a virtual patchwork quilt of deep lines and wrinkles, fixed upon Bidwell. "Who might thee be?"

"My name is Robert Bidwell. I am the founder of Fount Royal, as well as its mayor."

"Mine condolences, then, in thy time of tribulation." He removed his hat, displaying a shockpate of white hair that was much too unruly to be a wig. "I am known by the name G.o.d hast given me: Exodus Jerusalem. I have come many a league to this place, sir."

"For what reason?"

"Need thou ask? I am brought here by the might of G.o.d, to do G.o.d's bidding." He returned the tricorn to his head, his show of manners finished. "G.o.d hast compelled me to this town, to smite thy witch dead and do battle with demons infernal!" Bid-well felt weak in the knees. He had realized, as had Woodward, that the gates had been opened to allow the entrance of a travelling preacher, and this one sounded steeped in the blood of vengeance.

"We have the situation in hand, Mr... uh... Jerusalem. Well in hand," Bidwell said. "This is Magistrate Woodward, from Charles Town." He pointed a finger at his companion. "The witch's trial is already under way."

"Trial?" Jerusalem had snarled it. He looked across the faces of the a.s.sembled citizens. "Dost thou not know the woman is a witch?"

"We know it!" shouted Arthur Dawson. "We know she's cursed our town, too!" This brought up a chorus of angry and frustrated voices, which Woodward noted made the preacher smile as if he were hearing the sweet refrains of chamber music.

"Then of what need is a trial?" Jerusalem asked, his voice becoming something akin to a bludgeoning instrument. "She is in thy gaol, is she not? But whilst she lives, who may say what evil she performs?"

"One moment!" Bidwell hollered, motioning with both arms for the onlookers to settle themselves. "The witch will be dealt with, by the power of the law!"

"Foolish man!" Jerusalem, a human cannon, blasted at the top of his leathered lungs. "There is no power greater than the law of G.o.d! Dost thou deny that G.o.d's law is greater than the law of fallen Adam?"

"No, I do not deny it! But-"

"Then shall thou depend upon the law of fallen Adam, knowing it to be tainted by the Devil himself?"