Speaks The Nightbird Part 45

Matthew reached the end of the doc.u.ments. He had found nothing. He realized he was looking for a shadow that may or may not exist, and to find it-if it was discoverable-he must concentrate on reading between the lines. He ran a weary hand over his face, and began once more from the beginning.

Twenty-Eight.

Isaac Woodward inhabited a realm that lay somewhere between twilight and Tartarus. The agony of his swollen throat had spread now through his every nerve and fiber, and the act of breathing seemed itself a defiance toward the will of G.o.d. His flesh was slick with sweat and sore with fever. Sleep would fall upon him like a heavy shroud, bearing him into blessed insensibility, but while he was awake his vision was as blurred as a candle behind soot-filmed gla.s.s. In spite of all these torments, however, the worst was that he was keenly aware of his condition. The deterioration of his body had not yet reached his mind, and thus he had sense enough to realize he was perilously close to the grave's edge.

"Will you help me turn him over?" Dr. Shields asked Matthew and Mrs. Nettles.

Matthew hesitated, his own face pallid in the light from a double candleholder to which was fixed a circle of reflective mirror. "What are you going to do?"

Dr. Shields pushed his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose. "The afflicted blood is pooling in his body, " he answered. "It must be moved. Stirred up from its stagnant ponds, if you will."

"Stirred up? How? By more bleeding?"

"No. I think at this point the lancet will not perform its necessary function."

"How, then?" Matthew insisted.

"Mrs. Nettles, " the doctor said curtly, "if you'll please a.s.sist me?"

"Yes sir." She took hold of Woodward's arm and leg on one side and Shields took the opposite side.

"All right, then. Turn him toward me, " Shields instructed. "Magistrate, can you help us at all?"

"I shall try, " Woodward whispered.

Together, the doctor and Mrs. Nettles repositioned Woodward so he lay on his stomach. Matthew was torn about whether to give a hand, for he feared what Dr. Shields had decided to do. The magistrate gave a single groan during the procedure, but otherwise bore the pain and indignity like a gentleman.

"Very well." Dr. Shields looked across the bed at Mrs. Nettles. "I shall have to lift his gown up, as his back must be bared."

"What procedure is this?" Matthew asked. "I demand to know!"

"For your information, young man, it is a time-tested procedure to move the blood within the body. It involves heat and a vacuum effect. Mrs. Nettles, would you remove yourself, please? For the sake of decorum?"

"Shall I wait outside?"

"No, that won't be necessary. I shall call if you're needed." He paused while Mrs. Nettles left the room, and when the door was again closed he said to Woodward, "I am going to pull your gown up to your shoulders, Isaac. Whatever help you may give me is much appreciated."

"Yes, " came the m.u.f.fled reply. "Do what is needed."

The doctor went about the business of exposing Woodward's b.u.t.tocks and back. Matthew saw that at the base of the magistrate's spine was a bed sore about two inches in diameter, bright red at its center and outlined with yellow infection. A second, smaller, but no less malignant sore had opened on the back of Woodward's right thigh.

Dr. Shields opened his bag, brought out a pair of supple deerskin gloves, and began to put them on. "If your stomach is weak, " he said quietly to Matthew, "you should follow Mrs. Nettles. I need no further complications."

"My stomach is fine, " Matthew lied. "What... is the procedure?"

The doctor reached into the bag again and brought out a small gla.s.s sphere, its surface marred only by a circular opening with a p.r.o.nounced curved rim. The rim, Matthew saw with sickened fascination, had been discolored dark brown by the application of fire. "As I said before... heat and vacuum." From the pocket of his tan waistcoat he produced the fragrant piece of sa.s.safras root, which he deftly pushed to the magistrate's lips. "Isaac, there will be some pain involved, and we wish your tongue not to be injured." Woodward accepted the tongue-guard and sank his teeth into the accustomed grooves. "Young man, will you hold the candles, please?"

Matthew picked up the double candlestick from the table beside Woodward's bed. Dr. Shields leaned forward and stroked the sphere's rim from one flame to the other in a circular motion, all the time staring into Matthew's eyes in order to gauge his nerves. As he continued to heat the rim, Shields said, "Magistrate, I am going to apply a blister cup to your back. The first of six. I regret the sensation, but the afflicted blood will be caused to rise to the surface from the internal organs and that is our purpose. Are you ready, sir?"

Woodward nodded, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Shields held the cup's opening directly over the flames for perhaps five seconds. Then, rapidly and without hesitation, he pressed the hot gla.s.s rim down upon Woodward's white flesh a few inches upward from the virulent bedsore.

There was a small noise-a snake's hiss, perhaps-and the cup clamped tightly as the heated air within compressed itself. An instant after the hideous contact was made, Woodward cried out around the sa.s.safras root and his body shivered in a spasm of pure, animal pain.

"Steady, " Shields said, speaking to both the magistrate and his clerk. "Let nature do its work."

Matthew could see that already the flesh caught within the blister cup was swelling and reddening. Dr. Shields had brought a second cup from his bag, and again let the flames lick its cruel rim. After the procedure of heating the air inside the cup, the gla.s.s was pressed to Woodward's back with predictable and-at least to Matthew-spine-crawling result.

By the time the third cup was affixed, the flesh within the first had gone through the stages of red to scarlet and now was blood-gorged and turning brown like a maliferous poison mushroom.

Shields had the fourth cup in his gloved hand. He offered it to the candle flames. "We shall see a play directly, I understand, " he said, his voice divorced from his actions. "The citizens do enjoy the maskers every year."

Matthew didn't answer. He was watching the first brown mushroom of flesh becoming still darker, and the other two following the path of swollen discoloration.

"Usually, " the doctor went on, "they don't arrive until the middle of July or so. I understand from Mr. Brightman-he's the leader of the company-that two towns they customarily play in were decimated by sickness, and a third had vanished altogether. That accounts for their early arrival this year. It's a thing to be thankful for, though, because we need a pleasant diversion." He pressed the fourth blister cup onto Woodward's back, and the magistrate trembled but held back a moan. "My wife and I used to enjoy the theater in Boston, " Shields said as he prepared the fifth implement. "A play in the afternoon... a beaker of wine... a concert on the Commons." He smiled faintly. "Those were wonderful times."

Matthew had recovered his composure enough to ask the question that at this point naturally presented itself. "Why did you leave Boston?"

The doctor waited until the fifth cup was attached before he replied. "Well... let us say I needed a challenge. Or perhaps... there was something I wished to accomplish."

"And have you? Accomplished it, I mean?"

Shields stared at the rim of the sixth cup as he moved it between the flames, and Matthew saw the fire reflected in his spectacles. "No, " he said. "Not yet."

"This involves Fount Royal, I presume? And your infirmary?"

"It involves... what it involves." Shields glanced quickly into Matthew's eyes and then away again. "You do have a fetish for questions, don't you?"

If this remark was designed to seal Matthew's mouth and turn aside his curiosity, it had the opposite effect. "Only for questions that go unanswered."

"Touche, " the doctor said, and he pressed the sixth blister cup firmly onto Woodward's back. Again the magistrate trembled with pain but was steadfastly silent. "All right, then: I left Boston because my practise was failing there. The city has a glut of doctors, as well as lawyers and ministers. There must be a dozen physicians alone, not to mention the herbalists and faith-healers! So I decided that for a s.p.a.ce of time I would leave Boston-and my wife, whose sewing enterprise is actually doing quite well- and offer my services elsewhere."

"Fount Royal is a long distance from Boston, " Matthew said.

"Oh, I didn't come directly here. I lived for a month in New York, spent a summer in Philadelphia, and lived in other smaller places. I always seemed to be heading southward." He began peeling off his deerskin gloves. "You may put the candles down now."

Matthew returned the double candlestick to the table. He had seen-though he certainly didn't let his eyes linger on the sight, or his imagination linger on what the sensation must be- that the flesh gripped by the first two cups had become hideous, blood-swollen ebony blisters. The others were following the gruesome pattern.

"We shall let the blood rise for a time." Dr. Shields put the gloves into his bag. "This procedure breaks up the stagnant pools within his body, you see."

Matthew saw nothing but grotesque swellings. He dared not dwell on what pressures were inflicted within the magistrate's suffering bones. To keep his mind from wandering in that painful direction, he asked, "Do you plan on staying in Fount Royal very much longer?"

"No, I don't think so. Bidwell pays me a fee, and he has certainly built a fine infirmary for my use, but... I do miss my wife. And Boston, too. So as soon as the town is progressing again, the population healthy and growing, I shall seek to find a replacement for myself."

"And what then would be the accomplishment you crave, sir?"

Dr. Shields c.o.c.ked his head to one side, a hint of a smile on his mouth but his owlish eyes stony. "You're a regular goat amid a briar patch, aren't you?"

"I pride myself on being persistent, if that's your meaning."

"No, that is not my meaning, but I'll answer that rather meddlesome question in spite of my reluctance to add pine knots to your fire. My accomplishment-my hoped-for accomplishment, that is-would be twofold: one, to aid in the construction of a settlement that would grow into a city; and two, to have my name forevermore on the t.i.tle of Fount Royal's infirmary. I plan on remaining here long enough to see both those things come to pa.s.s." He reached out and gently grasped the first blister cup between thumb and forefinger, checking its suction. "The influence of Rachel Howarth, " he said, "was an unfortunate interruption in the forward motion of Fount Royal. But as soon as her ashes are buried-or scattered or whatever Bidwell's going to do with them-we shall put an end to our calamities. As the weather has turned for the better, the swamp vapors have been banished. Soon we shall see an increase in the population, both by people coming in from elsewhere and by healthy babies being born. Within a year, I think Fount Royal will be back to where it was before this ugly incident ever happened. I shall do my best to aid that growth, leave my mark and name for posterity, and return to Boston and my wife. And, of course, the comfort and culture of the city."

"Admirable aims, " Matthew said. "I expect having your name on the mast of an infirmary would help your standing in Boston, as well."

"It would. A letter from Bidwell stating that fact and his appreciation for my services could secure me a place in a medical partnership that ordinarily I might be denied."

Matthew was about to ask if Bidwell knew what the doctor intended when there was a knock at the door. Shields said, "Who is it, please?"

"Nicholas, " came the reply. "I wanted to look in on the magistrate."

Instantly Matthew sensed a change in Dr. Shields's demeanor. It was nothing radical, but remarkable nevertheless. The doctor's face seemed to tighten; indeed, his entire body went taut as if an unseen hand had gripped him around the back of his neck. When Shields answered, even his voice had sharpened. "The magistrate is indisposed at the moment."

"Oh... well, then. I'll return later."

"Wait!" Woodward had removed the sa.s.safras root from his mouth, and was whispering in Matthew's direction. "Ask Mr. Paine to come in, please."

Matthew went to the door and stopped Paine before he reached the stairs. When Paine entered the room, Matthew watched the doctor's face and saw that Shields refused to even cast a glance at his fellow citizen.

"How is he?" Paine inquired, standing at the door.

"As I said, indisposed, " Shields replied, with a distinct chill. "You can see for yourself."

Paine flinched a little at the sight of the six gla.s.s cups and the ebony blisters they had drawn, but he came around to Matthew's side of the bed for a view of the magistrate's face. "Good evening, " he said, with as much of a smile as he could summon. "I see... Dr. Shields is taking care of you. How are you feeling?"

"I have felt... much superior, " Woodward said.

"I'm sure." Paine's smile faltered. "I wanted to tell you... that I approve heartily of your decree, sir. Also that your efforts-and the efforts of your clerk, of course-have been nothing short of commendable."

"My thanks, " Woodward replied, his eyes heavy-lidded.

"Might I get you anything?"

"You might leave, " Shields said. "You're taxing him."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I don't wish to do any harm."

"No harm." Woodward gasped for a breath, a green crust around his nostrils. "I appreciate... your taking... time and effort... to come and see me."

"I also wanted to tell you, sir, that the stake has been cut. I understand Mr. Bidwell hasn't yet decided where the execution shall take place, but the likelihood is in one of the unused fields on Industry Street."

"Yes." Woodward swallowed thickly. "That would do."

Shields grasped the first blister cup and popped it free. Woodward winced and bit his lower lip. "I think you should depart now, " the doctor said to Paine. "Unless you'd like to give a hand in this procedure?"

"Uh... yes, I'd best be going." Paine, for all his manly experiences, appeared to Matthew to be a little green around the gills. "Magistrate, I'll look in on you at a later time." He glanced at Matthew with a pained expression of commiseration and took a step toward the door.

"Mr. Paine?" Woodward whispered. "Please... may I ask you something?"

"Yes, surely." Paine returned to the bedside and stood close, leaning toward the magistrate, the better to hear him clearly.

Shields removed the second blister cup. Again Woodward winced, and now his eyes were wet. He said, "We share... a commonality."

"We do, sir?"

"Your wife. Died of fits, I understand. I wanted you to know... my son... perished of fits... suffered by the plague. Was your wife... also plague-stricken?"

Dr. Shields's hand had seized the third blister cup, but had not yet removed it.

Nicholas Paine stared into Woodward's face. Matthew saw a pulse beating at Paine's temple. "I fear you're mistaken, sir, " Paine said, in a strangely hollow voice. "I have never been married."

"Dr. Shields told me, " Woodward went on, with an effort. "I know... such things are difficult to speak of. Believe me, I do know."

"Dr. Shields, " Paine repeated, "told you."

"Yes. That she suffered fits until she died. And that... possibly it was the plague."

Shields removed the third cup and placed it almost noiselessly into his bag.

Paine licked his lower lip. "I'm sorry, " he said, "but I fear Dr. Shields is just as mistaken as-" He chose that instant to look into the doctor's face, and Matthew was a witness to what next occurred.

Something pa.s.sed between Paine and Shields. It was something intangible, yet absolutely horrific. For the briefest of seconds Matthew saw the doctor's eyes blaze with a hatred that defied all reason and logic, and Paine actually drew back as if from a threatening physical presence. Matthew also realized that he'd witnessed very little direct communication between Dr. Shields and Paine. It dawned on Matthew that it was the doctor who preferred to keep his distance from Paine, yet the feeling had been so well disguised that Paine might not even have been aware of a void between them.

However, now an ugly animosity was clearly revealed if only for that fleeting second. Paine perhaps recognized it for the first time, and his mouth opened as if he might exclaim or protest against it. Yet in the next heartbeat Paine's face froze as tightly as the doctor's and whatever he might have said remained unborn.

Shields held the dark bond between them for only a second or two longer, and then he very calmly returned his attention to his patient. He removed the fourth blister cup, and into the bag it went.

Matthew looked questioningly at Paine, but the other man had blanched and would not meet his gaze. Matthew realized a piece of information had been delivered from Dr. Shields to Paine in that brief hateful glare, and whatever it was had almost buckled Paine's knees.

"My wife, " Paine's voice was choked with emotion. "My wife."

"My son... died, " Woodward said, oblivious to the drama. "Fits. From the plague. Pardon my asking you... but I wished you to know... you were not alone in your grief."

"Grief, " Paine repeated. Shadows lay in his eye sockets, and his face appeared to have become more gaunt and aged by five years in as many seconds. "Yes, " he said quietly. "Grief."

Dr. Shields pulled the fifth blister cup free, none too gently, and Woodward winced.

"I should... tell you about my wife, " Paine offered, his face turned toward the window. "She did perish from fits. But not caused by the plague. No." He shook his head. "Hunger was the killer. Hunger... and crushing despair. We were very young, you see. Very poor. We had a baby girl who was sick, as well. And I was sick in the mind... and very desperate."

No one spoke. Even the magistrate, in his cloudy realm on the edge of delirium, realized Paine had dropped his mask of st.u.r.dy self-control and was revealing heart's blood and fractured bones.

"I think I understand this, " Paine said, though that strange remark itself was a puzzle to Matthew. "I am... quite overcome... but I must tell you... all of you... that I never intended... the result of what happened. As I said, I was young... I was brash, and I was frightened. My wife and my child needed food and medicine. I had nothing... but an ability I had learned from hunting cruel and violent men." He was silent for a time, during which Dr. Shields stared intently at the sixth blister cup but made no attempt at removing it.

"I did not fire the first shot, " Paine went on, his voice tired and heavy. "I was first struck myself. In the leg. But you must know that already. Something I had been taught by the older men... during my career at sea... was that once a weapon- pistol or rapier-was aimed at you, you fired or slashed back with grievous intent. That was our creed, and it served to keep us- most of us-among the living. It was a natural reaction, learned by watching other men die wallowing in their own blood. That was why I could not-could not-spare Quentin Summers in our duel. How can a man be taught the ways of a wolf and then live among sheep? Especially... when there is hunger and need involved... and the specter of death knocking at the door."