Speaks The Nightbird Part 58

Neither could he prove that Rachel had been chosen as the perfect candidate to paint as a witch by two persons-possibly more?-who both were masters of disguise.

Certainly he couldn't prove that Linch was Lancaster and Lancaster had been murdered by his accomplice, and that Satan himself didn't scrawl that message on the door.

Now Matthew truly felt close to weeping. He knew everything-or almost everything-of how it had been done, and he felt sure he knew why it had been done, and he knew the name of one of the persons who'd done it...

But without proof he was a beggar in the house of justice, and could expect not a single sc.r.a.p.

Another wagon pa.s.sed along Industry Street, carrying a family and their meager belongings away from this accursed town. The last days of Fount Royal had come.

And Matthew was keenly aware that Rachel's last hours were pa.s.sing away, and that on Monday morning she would surely burn and for the rest of his life-the rest of his miserable, frost-souled life-only he would know the truth.

No, that was wrong. There would be one other, who would grin as the flames roared and the ashes flew, as the houses emptied and the dream perished. Who would grin as the thought came clear: All the silver, gold, and jewels... all mine now... and those fools never even knew.

Only one fool knew. And he was powerless to stop either the flow of time or the flow of citizens fleeing Fount Royal.

Thirty-Five.

And now the whole world was silent. Or at least it seemed so, to Matthew's ears. In fact, the world was so silent that the sound of his feet creeping on the hallway's floorboards sounded to him like barely m.u.f.fled cannonades, and the errant squeak of a loose timber like a high-pitched human shriek.

He had a lantern in hand. He was dressed in his bedclothes, as he had retired to sleep several hours ago. In reality, though, he had retired to ponder and wait. The time had arrived, and he was on a journey to Bidwell's upstairs study.

It was now the Sabbath morning. He reasoned it was sometime between midnight and two o'clock. The previous day had truly been nightmarish, and this current day promised to be no less an ordeal.

Matthew had himself seen eight more wagons departing Fount Royal. The gate had been opened and closed with a regularity that would have been comical had it not been so tragic. Bidwell had remained in his bedchamber all day. Winston had gone in to see him, as had Dr. Shields, and once Matthew had heard Bidwell's voice raving and raging with a frightful intensity that made one believe all the demons of h.e.l.l had ringed his bed to pay their ghastly respects. Perhaps in Bidwell's tortured mind they had.

During the course of the day Matthew had sat at the magistrate's bedside for several hours, reading the book on English plays and attempting to keep his mind from wandering to the Florida country. He was also there to guard against the magistrate finding out what had occurred this morning, as it might cause Woodward deep grief that would sink him again into sickness. The magistrate, though certainly able to communicate more clearly and feeling positive about his chances of improvement, was yet weak and in need of further rest. Dr. Shields had administered three more doses of the powerful medicine, but had been wise enough during his visits not to mention anything that could harm his patient's outlook. The medicine did what it was meant to do: it sent Woodward to the dreamer's land, where he could not know what tumult was taking place in reality.

Fortunately, the magistrate had been asleep-or, rather, drugged-when Bidwell had carried out his raging. In the evening, as darkness called upon Fount Royal and many fewer lamps answered than the night before, Matthew had asked Mrs. Nettles for a deck of cards and played a dozen or so games of five and forty with the magistrate, who was delighted at the chance to challenge his sluggish mind. As they played, Matthew made mention of Woodward's dream of Oxford, and how Johnstone had also seemed to enjoy the recollections.

"Yes, " Woodward had said, studying his cards. "Once an Oxford man... always so."

"Hm." Matthew had decided to let another hand go by before he mentioned the schoolmaster again. "It is a shame about Mr. Johnstone's knee. Being so deformed. But he does get around well, doesn't he?"

A slight smile had crept across the magistrate's mouth. "Matthew, Matthew, " he'd said. "Do you never quit?"

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"Please. I am not... so ill and... weak-minded that I can't see through you. What is this now... about his knee?"

"Nothing, sir. I was just making mention of it, in pa.s.sing. You did say you saw it, did you not?"

"I did."

"At close quarters?"

"Close enough. I could smell nothing... because of my condition... but I recall that Mr. Winston was... quite repelled... by the odor of Mr. Johnstone's hogsfat liniment."

"But you did clearly view the deformity?"

"Yes, " Woodward had said. "Clearly, and... it was a viewing... I would not care to repeat. Now... may we return to our game?"

Not long after that, Dr. Shields had arrived with the magistrate's third dose of the day, and Woodward had been sleeping calmly ever since.

Matthew had, in the afternoon, taken the opportunity for a quick look into Bidwell's study, so now in the middle of the night he had no problem getting inside. He closed the door behind him and crossed the gold-and-red Persian rug to the large mahogany desk that commanded the room. He sat down in the desk's chair and quietly pulled open the topmost drawer. He found no map there, so he went on to the next drawer. A careful search through papers, wax seals with the scrolled letter B, official-looking doc.u.ments and the like revealed no map. Neither did the third drawer, nor the fourth and final one.

Matthew stood up, taking his lantern to the study's bookshelves. On the way, the squeal of a loose pinewood floorboard made his flesh crawl. Then he began to methodically move all the leatherbound books one from another, thinking that perhaps the map might be folded up and stored between two of them. Of course, the map might also be folded up inside one of the books, which was going to necessitate a longer search than he'd antic.i.p.ated.

He was perhaps near midway in his route through the bookshelves when he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He hesitated, listening more intently. The footsteps reached the top of the stairs and also hesitated. There was a s.p.a.ce of time in which neither Matthew nor the person in the hallway moved. Then he heard the footsteps approaching and he saw lantern light in the s.p.a.ce between door and floorboards.

Quickly he opened the gla.s.s of his own lamp and blew out the flame. He retreated to the protection of the desk and crouched down on the floor.

The door opened. Someone entered, paused for a few seconds, and then the door was closed again. Matthew could see the ruddy glow of the person's lantern upon the walls as it moved from side to side. And then the voice came, but cast low so as not to leave the room: "Mr. Corbett, I know ye just blew out a candle. I can smell it. If you'd show y'self, please?"

He stood up and Mrs. Nettles centered her lamplight on him. "Ye mi' care to know that my own quarters are 'neath this room, " she said. "I heard someone walkin' and 'sumed it must be Mr. Bidwell, as this is his private study."

"Pardon me, I didn't mean to wake you."

"I'm sure you didn't, but I was already waked. I was plannin' on comin' up and lookin' in on 'im, since he was in such an awful bad way." She approached him and set the lantern down on the desktop. She wore a somber gray nightcap and a nightgown of similar hue, and on her face was a smoothing of ghastly green-tinted skin cream. Matthew had to believe that if Bidwell saw Mrs. Nettles in this state, he might think a froggish phantasm had crawled from its h.e.l.lish swamp. "Your intrusion in this room, " she said sternly, "canna' be excused. What're you doin' in here?"

There was nothing to be done but tell the truth. "I understand from Solomon Stiles that Bidwell has a map of the Florida country, drawn by a French explorer. I thought it might be hidden in this room, either in his desk or on the bookshelves."

Mrs. Nettles made no reply, but simply stared holes through him. "I am not saying I've decided, " Matthew continued. "I'm only saying I wish to see the map, to gain some idea of what the terrain is like."

"It would kill you, " she said. "And the lady too. Does she know what you're wantin'?"

"No."

"Don't ye think askin' her oughta be the first thing, a'fore ye start the plannin'?"

"I'm not planning. I'm only looking."

"Plannin", lookin'... whate'er. Mi' be she doesn't care ta perish in the jaws of a wild beast."

"What, then? She'd rather perish by burning? I think not!"

"Keep your voice reined, " she warned. "Mr. Bidwell mi' be mind-sick, but he's nae ear-deaf."

"All right. But... if I were to continue my search for this map... would you leave the room and forget you saw me here? This is my business and my business alone."

"Nae, you're wrong. It's my business too, for it was my urgin' brought you into this. If I'd kept my tongue still, then-"

"Pardon, " Matthew interrupted, "but I must disagree. Your urging, as you put it, simply alerted me to consider that not all was as it seemed in this town. Which, whether you realize it or not, was a grand understatement. I would have had serious doubts as to Rachel's being a witch even if you had been one of the witnesses against her."

"Well then, if her innocence is all so clear to you, why canna' the magistrate see it?"

"A complicated question, " he said. "The answer involves age and life experience... both of which, in this case, seem to be liabilities to cleat thinking. Or rather, I should say, liabilities to thinking beyond the straight furrow in a crooked field, which you so elegantly pointed out on our first meeting. Now: Will you allow me to search for the map?"

"Nae, " she answered. "If you're so all-fired to find it, I'll point it out." She picked up the lantern and directed its glow to the wall behind the desk. "There it hangs."

Matthew looked. Indeed on the wall hung a brown parchment map, stretched by a wooden frame. It was about fifteen inches or so across and ten inches deep, and it was positioned between an oil portrait of a sailing ship and a charcoal drawing of what appeared to be the London dockside. "Oh, " he said sheepishly. "Well... my thanks."

"Best make sure it's what you're needin'. I know it's French, but I've never paid much mind to it." She offered him the lantern.

Matthew found in another moment that it was indeed what he was needing. It actually appeared to be part of a larger map, and displayed the country from perhaps thirty miles north of Fount Royal to the area identified, in faded quill pen, as Le Terre Florida. Between Fount Royal and the Spanish territory the ancient quill had drawn a representation of vast forest, broken here and there by clearings, the meandering of rivers, and a number of lakes. It was a fanciful map, however, as one lake displayed a kraken-like creature and was named by the mapmaker Le Lac de Poisson Monstre. The swamp-identified with symbols of gra.s.s and water instead of tree symbols-that stretched along the coastline all the way from Fount Royal to the Florida country was t.i.tled Marais Perfide. And there was an area of swamp in the midst of the forest, some fifty or sixty miles southwest of Fount Royal, that was named Le Terre de Brutalitie.

"Is it he'pful to ye?" Mrs. Nettles asked.

"More daunting than helpful, " Matthew said. "But yes, it does do some some good." He had seen what looked to be a clearing in the wilderness ten or twelve miles southwest of Fount Royal that stretched for what might have been-by the strange and skewed dimensions of this map-four miles in length. Another clearing of several miles lay to the south of the first, and in this one was a lake. A third, the largest of the three, was reachable to the southwest. They were like the footprints of some primordial giant, and Matthew thought that if indeed those cleared areas-or at least areas where the wilderness was not so good." He had seen what looked to be a clearing in the wilderness ten or twelve miles southwest of Fount Royal that stretched for what might have been-by the strange and skewed dimensions of this map-four miles in length. Another clearing of several miles lay to the south of the first, and in this one was a lake. A third, the largest of the three, was reachable to the southwest. They were like the footprints of some primordial giant, and Matthew thought that if indeed those cleared areas-or at least areas where the wilderness was not so perfide perfide-existed, then they const.i.tuted the route of least resistance to the Florida country. Perhaps this was also the "most direct route" Solomon Stiles had mentioned. In any case, it appeared somewhat less tasking than day after day of negotiating unbroken woodland. Matthew also noted the small scratchings of Indien Indien? at three widely separate locations, the nearest being twenty miles or so southwest of Fount Royal. He a.s.sumed the question mark indicated a possible sighting of either a live Indian, the discovery of an artifact, or even the sound of tribal drums.

It was not going to be easy. In fact, it would be woefully hard.

Could the Florida country be reached? Yes, it could. By the directions of southwest, south, southwest and the linking together of those less-wooded giant's footprints. But, as he had previously considered, he was certainly no leatherstocking and the merest miscalculation of the sun's angle might lead him and Rachel into the Terre Brutalitie.

Then again, all of it was terre brutalitie, was it not?

It was insane! he thought as the frustration of reality hit him. Absolutely insane! How could he have ever imagined doing such a thing? To be lost in those terrible forests would be death a thousand times over!

He handed the lantern back to Mrs. Nettles. "Thank you, " he said, and he heard the defeated resignation in his voice.

"Aye, " she said as she took the lamp, "it does seem a beast."

"Mote than a beast. It seems impossible."

"You're puttin' it out of mind, then?"

He ran a hand across his brow. "What am I to do, Mrs. Nettles? Can you possibly tell me?"

She shook her head, looking at him with saddened compa.s.sion. "I'm sorry, but I canna'."

"No one can, " he said wearily. "No one, except myself. The saying may be that no man is an island... but I feel very much like at least a solitary dominion. Rachel will be led to the stake within thirty hours. I know she is innocent, yet I can do nothing to free her. Therefore... what am I to do, except devise outlandish schemes to teach the Florida country?"

"You are ta forget her, " Mrs. Nettles said. "You are ta go on about your own life, and let the dead be dead."

"That is the sensible response. But part of me will die on Monday morning too. The part that believes in justice. When that dies, Mrs. Nettles, I shall never be worth a d.a.m.n again."

"You'll recover. Ever'one goes on, as they must."

"Everyone goes on, " he repeated, with a taint of bitter mockery. "Oh, yes. They go on. With crippled spirits and broken ideals, they do go on. And with the pa.s.sage of years they forget what crippled and broke them. They accept it grandly as they grow older, as if crippling and breaking were gifts from a king. Then those same hopeful spirits and large ideals in younger souls are viewed as stupid, and petty... and things to be crippled and broken, because everyone does go on." He looked into the woman's eyes. "Tell me. What is the point of life, if truth is not worth standing up for? If justice is a hollow sh.e.l.l? If beauty and grace are burnt to ashes, and evil rejoices in the flames? Shall I weep on that day, and lose my mind, or join the rejoicing and lose my soul? Shall I sit in my room? Should I go for a long walk, but where might I go so as not to smell the smoke? Should I just go on, Mrs. Nettles, like everyone else?"

"I think, " she said grimly, "that you do nae have a choice." He had no response for this, which by its iron truth crushed him.

Mrs. Nettles sighed, her face downcast and her shadow thrown huge by the lamplight. "Go ta bed, sir, " she said. "There's nae any more can be done."

He nodded, retrieved his dark lantern, and took the first two steps to the door, then hesitated. "You know... I really thought, for a brief while at least, that I might be able to do it. That I might be able, if I dared hard enough."

"Ta do what, sir?"

"To be Rachel's champion, " he said wistfully. "And when Solomon Stiles told me about the two slaves who'd escaped-the brother and sister-and that they'd nearly reached the Florida country... I thought... it possible. But it's not, is it? And it never was. Well. I do need to get to bed, don't I?" He felt as if he could sleep for a year, and awaken bearded and forgetful of time. "Good night. Of rather... good morning."

"The brother and sister?" Mrs. Nettles said, with a perplexed expression. "You mean... the two slaves who ran away... oh, I s'pose it must'a been the verra first year."

"That's right. Stiles told me it was the first year."

"Those two got near ta the Florida country? Mr. Corbett, they were but children!"

"Children?"

"Yes sir. Oakley Reeves and his sister, Dulcine. I recall they ran away after their mother died. She was a cook. The boy was all of thirteen, sir, and the girl no older'n twelve."

"What? But... Stiles told me they were put in irons. I a.s.sumed they were adults!"

"Oh, they were held in irons, even though the boy was lamed. They were both put on a wagon and taken away. I knew they'd run a piece, but I had nae an idea they'd gotten so far."

"Children, " Matthew repeated. He blinked, stunned by this revelation. "My G.o.d. If two children could make it that distance..." He took the lantern from her hand and again studied the French explorer's map, this time with a silent intensity that spoke volumes.

"They were desperate, " Mrs. Nettles said.

"No mote so than I."

"They cared nae if they lived or died."

"I care that Rachel lives. And myself as well."

"I'm sure they had someone helpin' 'em. An older slave, gatherin' what they needed."

"Yes, " Matthew said. "They probably did." He turned toward her, his eyes glittering with fierce resolve. "Would you perform such a function for me, Mrs. Nettles?"

"Nae, I wouldn't!" she answered. "I'm dead set against it!"

"All right, then. Would you betray me if I myself gathered the necessary items? Some of them would be matches and a flint, a knife, clothing and shoes both for myself and Rachel, and a supply of food. I would have to take those items from the household."

Mrs. Nettles did not reply. She scowled, her froggishly green face nothing short of fearsome.

"I ask only of you what you once asked of me, " he said.

"The Lord my witness, I canna' bear ta see ye go on such a folly and lose your young life. And what of the magistrate? Would you abandon him?"

"I thank the same Lord who is your witness that Magistrate Woodward is on the path to recovery. There is nothing I can do to speed his progress."

"But leavin' him like this can ruin it. Have you thought on that?"

"I have. It is a bitter choice to have to make, between the magistrate and Rachel. But that's where I find myself. I intend on writing a letter to him, explaining everything. I must hope that he reads that letter and fully understands my reasoning. If not... then not. But I hope-I believe-the magistrate will."