Speaks The Nightbird Part 65

"Your woman, sad to say, is not civilized like you and I, " Nawpawpay ventured. "She speaks mud words like that white fish we caught."

"White fish?" Matthew asked. He motioned for Rachel to remain quiet. "What white fish?"

"Oh, he's nothing. Less than nothing, for he's a murderer and thief. The least civilized beast I have ever had the misfortune to look upon. Now: can you tell me anything more of the village of Franz Europay?"

"I'll tell you everything I know of that place, " Matthew answered, "if you'll tell me about the white fish. Did you... find your present clothing... and your headdress, at his hut?"

"These? Yes. Are they not wonderful?" He spread his arms wide, grinning, so as to better display the gold-striped waistcoat.

"May I ask what else you found there?"

"Other things. They must have some use, but I just like to look at them. And... of course... I found my woman."

"Your woman?"

"Yes, my bride. My princess." His grin now threatened to slice his face in two. "The silent and lovely one. Oh, she shall share all my treasures and give me a hut full of sons! First, though, I'll have to make her fat."

"And what of the white fish? Where is he?"

"Not far. There were two other fish-old ones-but they have gone."

"Gone? To where?"

"Everywhere, " Nawpawpay said, spreading his arms wide again. "The wind, the earth, the trees, the sky. You know."

Matthew feared that he did know. "But you say the white fish is still here?"

"Yes, still here." Nawpawpay scratched his chin. "You have a nature full of questions, don't you?"

"It's just that... I might know him."

"Only uncivilized beasts and dung buzzards know him. He is unclean."

"Yes, I agree, but... why do you say he's a murderer and thief?"

"Because he is what he is!" Like a child, Nawpawpay put his hands behind himself and began to bounce up and down on his toes. "He murdered one of my people and stole a courage sun. Another of my people saw it happen. We took him. Took them all. They were all guilty. All except my princess. She is innocent. Do you know how I know that? Because she was the only one who came willingly."

"A courage sun?" Matthew realized he must mean the gold coin. "What is that?"

"That which the water spirit gives." His bouncing ceased. "Go visit the white fish, if you like. See if you know him, and ask him to tell you what crimes he's committed."

"Where can I find him?"

"This direction." Nawpawpay pointed to Matthew's left. "The hut that stands nearest the woodpile. You will know it."

"What's he pointing to, Matthew?" Rachel asked. "Does he want us to go somewhere?" She started to stand.

"Ah, no no!" Nawpawpay said quickly. "A woman doesn't stand before me in this place."

"Rachel, please stay where you are." Matthew rested his hand on her shoulder. "Evidently it's the chief's rule." Then, to Nawpawpay, "Might she go with me to see the white fish?"

"No. That hut is not a woman's territory. You go and come back."

"I'm going to go somewhere for a short time, " he told her. "You'll need to stay here. All right?"

"Where are you going?" She grasped his hand.

"There's another white captive here, and I want to see him. It won't take long."

He squeezed her hand and gave her a tight but rea.s.suring smile. Rachel nodded and reluctantly let go.

"Oh... one other thing, " Matthew said to Nawpawpay. "Might I have some clothing?"

"Why? Are you cold on such a hot day as this?"

"Not cold. But there is a little too much air here for my comfort." He gestured toward his exposed p.e.n.i.s and t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es.

"Ah, I see! Very well, I shall give you a gift." Nawpawpay stepped out of his own loincloth and offered it.

Matthew got the thing on with a delicate balancing act, since he was able only to use one arm. "I'll return presently, " he told Rachel. Then he retreated from the hut, out into the bright sun.

The hut and the woodpile were not fifty paces from the chief's abode. A small band of chattering, giggling children clung to his shadow as he walked, and two of them ran round and round him as if to mock his slow, pained progress. When he neared the hut, however, they saw his destination, fell back, and ran away.

Nawpawpay had been correct, in saying that Matthew would know the place.

Blood had been painted on the outside walls, in strange patterns that a Christian would say was evidence of the Indians' Sa Satanic nature. Flies feasted on the gore paintings and buzzed about the entrance, which was covered with a black bearskin.

Matthew stood outside for a moment, steeling himself. This looked very bad indeed. With a trembling hand, he pulled aside the bearskin. Bitter blue smoke drifted into his face. There was only a weak red illumination within, perhaps the red embers of a past fire still glowing.

"Shawcombe?" Matthew called. There was no answer. "Shawcombe, can you hear me?" Nothing.

Matthew could make out only vague shapes through the smoke. "Shawcombe?" he tried again, but in the silence that followed he knew he was going to have to cross the dreadful threshold.

He took a breath of the sulphuric air and entered. The bearskin closed behind him. He stood where he was for a moment, waiting for his eyes to grow used to such darkness again. The awful, suffocating heat coaxed beads of sweat from his pores. To his right he could make out a large clay pot full of seething coals from which the light and smoke emitted.

Something moved-a slow, slow shifting-there on his left.

"Shawcombe?" Matthew said, his eyes burning. He moved toward the left, as currents of smoke undulated before him.

Presently, with some straining of the vision, he could make out an object. It looked like a raw and b.l.o.o.d.y side of beef that had been strung up to dry, and in fact was hanging from cords that were supported further up in the rafters.

Matthew neared it, his heart slamming.

Whatever hung there, it was just a slab of flayed meat with neither arms nor legs. Matthew stopped, tendrils of smoke drifting past his face. He couldn't bear to go any further, because he knew.

Perhaps he made a sound. A moan, a gasp... something. But-as slowly as the tortures of the inner circle of h.e.l.l-the scalped and blood-caked head on that slab of meat moved. It lolled to one side, and then the chin lifted.

His eyes were there, bulging from their sockets in that hideously swollen, black-bruised, and black-bloodied face. He had no eyelids. His nose had been cleaved off, as had been his lips and ears. A thousand tiny cuts had been administered to the battered torso, the genitals had been burned away and the wound cauterized to leave a glistening ebony crust. Likewise sealed with terrible fire were the hacked-off stumps of arms and legs. The cords had been tied and knotted around those gruesomely axed ruins.

If there was a description for the utter horror that wracked Matthew, it was known only by the most profane demon and the most sacred angel.

The motion of that lifted chin was enough to cause the torso to swing slightly on its cords. Matthew heard the ropes squeak up in the rafters, like the rats that had plagued Shawcombe's tavern.

Back and forth, and back and forth.

The lipless mouth stretched open. They had spared his tongue, so that he might cry for mercy with every knife slash, hatchet blow, and kiss of flame.

He spoke, in a dry rattling whisper that was almost beyond all endurance to hear. "Papa?" The word was as mangled as his mouth. "Wasn't me killed the kitten, was Jamey done it." His chest shuddered and a wrenching sob came out. The bulging eyes stared at nothing. His was the small, crushed whine of a terrified child: "Papa please... don't hurt me no more..."

The brutalized bully began to weep.

Matthew turned-his eyes seared by smoke and sight-and fled lest his own mind be broken like Lucretia Vaughan's pie dish.

He got outside, was further blinded and disoriented by the glare. He staggered, was aware of more naked children ringing him, jumping and chattering, their grins joyful even as they danced in the shadow of the torture hut. Matthew nearly fell in his attempts to get away, and his herky-jerky flailing to retain his balance made the children scream with laughter, as if they thought he was joining in their dance. Cold sweat clung to his face, his insides heaved, and he had to bend over and throw up on the ground, which made the children laugh and leap with new energy.

He staggered on, the pack of little revelers now joined by a brown dog with one ear. A fog had descended over him, and he knew not if he was going in the right direction amid the huts. His progress attracted some older residents who put aside their seed-gathering and basket-weaving to accompany the merry throng, as if he were some potentate or n.o.bleman whose fame rivaled the very sun. The laughter and hollering swelled as did the numbers of his followers, which only served to heighten Matthew's terror. Dogs barked at his heels and children darted underfoot. His ribs were killing him, but what was pain? In his dazed stupor he realized he had never known pain, not an ounce of it, compared to what Shawcombe had suffered. Beyond the grinning brown faces he saw sunlight glitter, and suddenly there was water before him and he fell to his knees to plunge his face into it, mindless of the agony that seized his bones.

He drank like an animal and trembled like an animal. A fit of strangulation struck him and he coughed violently, water bursting from his nostrils. Then he sat back on his haunches, his face dripping, as behind him the throng continued its jubilations.

He sat on the bank of a pond. It was half the size of Fount Royal's spring, but its water was equally blue. Matthew saw two women nearby, both filling animal-skin bags. The sunlight glittered golden off the pond's surface, putting him in mind of the day he'd seen the sun shine with equal color on Bidwell's fount.

He cupped his hand into the water and pressed it to his face, letting it stream down over his throat and chest. His mind's fever was cooling and his vision had cleared.

The Indian village, he'd realized, was a mirror image of Fount Royal. Just like Bidwell's creation, the village had probably settled here-who could say how long ago-to be so near a water supply.

Matthew was aware that the crowd's noise had quietened. A shadow fell over him, and spoke. "Na unhuh pah ke ne!"

Two men grasped Matthew, careful to avoid his injuries, and helped him to his feet. Then Matthew turned toward the speaker, but he knew already who'd given that command.

Nawpawpay stood four inches shorter than Matthew, but the height of the judicial wig gave the chief the advantage. The waistcoat's gold stripes glowed in this strong sunlight. Add to that the intricate tattoos, and Nawpawpay was an absorbing sight as well as a commanding presence. Rachel stood a few feet behind him, her eyes also the color of Spanish coins.

"Forgive my people, " Nawpawpay said in the tongue of kings. He gave a shrug and a smile. "We don't often entertain visitors."

Matthew still felt faint. He blinked slowly and lifted his hand to his face. "Is... what you've done to... Shawcombe... the white fish... part of your entertainment?"

Nawpawpay looked shocked. "Oh, no! Surely not! You misunderstand, Demon Slayer! You and your woman are honored guests here, for what you've done for my people! The white fish was an unclean criminal!"

"You did such to him for murder and thievery? Couldn't you finish the task and display some mercy?"

Nawpawpay paused, thinking this over. "Mercy?" he asked. He frowned. "What is this mercy?"

Evidently it was a concept the French explorer who'd pa.s.sed himself off as a king had failed to explain. "Mercy, " Matthew said, "is knowing when..." He hesitated, formulating the rest of it. "When it is time to put the sufferer out of his misery."

Nawpawpay's frown deepened. "Misery? What is that?"

"How you felt when your father died, " Matthew answered.

"Ah! That! You're saying then the white fish should be slit open and his innards dug out and fed to the dogs?"

"Well... perhaps a knife to the heart would be faster."

"Faster is not the point, Demon Slayer. The point is to punish, and let all who see know how such crimes are dealt with. Also, the children and old people so enjoyed hearing him sing at night." Nawpawpay stared at the pond, still deliberating. "This mercy. This is how things are done in Franz Europay?"

"Yes."

"Ah, then. This is something we should seek to emulate. Still... we'll miss him." He turned to a man standing next to him. "Se oka pa neha! Nu se caido na kay ichisi!" At the last hissed sound he made a stabbing motion... and, then, to Matthew's chagrin, a twist and a brutal crosscutting of the invisible blade. The man, who had a face covered with tattoos, ran off hollering and whooping, and most of the onlookers-men, women, and children alike-ran after him making similar noises.

Matthew should have felt better but he did not. He turned his mind to another and more important subject. "A courage sun, " he said. "What is that?"

"What the water spirit gives, " Nawpawpay answered. "Also moons and stars from the great G.o.ds."

"The water spirit?"

"Yes." Nawpawpay pointed at the pond. "The water spirit lives there."

"Matthew?" Rachel asked, coming to his side. "What's he saying?"

"I'm not sure, " he told her. "I'm trying to-"

"Ah ah!" Nawpawpay wagged a finger at him. "The water spirit might be offended to hear mud words."

"My apologies. Let me ask this, if I may: how does the water spirit give you these courage suns?"

In answer, Nawpawpay walked into the water. He set off from sh.o.r.e, continuing as the water rose to his thighs. Then Nawpawpay stopped and, steadying the wig on his head with one hand, leaned over and searched the bottom with the other. Every so often he would bring up a handful of mud and sift through it.

"What's he looking for?" Rachel asked quietly. "Clams?"

"No, I don't think so." He was tempted to tell her about Shawcombe, if just to relieve himself of what he'd seen, but there was no point in sharing such horror. He watched as Nawpawpay waded to a new location, a little deeper, bent over, and searched again. The front of Woodward's waistcoat was drenched.

After another moment, the chief moved to a third location. Rachel slipped her hand into Matthew's. "I've never seen the like of this place. There's a wall of trees around the whole village."

Matthew grunted, watching Nawpawpay at work. The protective wall of trees, he thought, was a further link between the village and Fount Royal. He had a feeling that the two towns, untold miles apart, were also linked in a way that no one would ever have suspected.

The nearness of her and the warmth of her hand put their lovemaking in mind. As if it were ever really a stone's toss from the center of his memory. But it had all been an illusion. Hadn't it? Of course it had been. Rachel would not have climbed up on a pallet to give herself to a dying man. Not even if he had saved her life. Not even if she had thought he was not much longer for this earth.

But... just a speculation... what if by then it was known he was on the road to recovery? And what if... the doctor had actually encouraged such physical and emotional contact, as an Indian method of healing akin to... well... akin to bloodletting?

If that were so, Dr. Shields had a lot to learn.

"Rachel?" Matthew said, his fingers gently caressing her hand. "Did you..." He stopped, not knowing how to approach this. He decided on a roundabout method. "Have you been given any other clothes to wear? Any... uh... native clothing?"

She met his gaze. "Yes, " she said. "That silent girl brought me a garment, in exchange for the blue dress that was in your bag."

Matthew paused, trying to read her eyes. If he and Rachel had actually made love, her admittance of it was not forthcoming. Neither was it readable in her countenance. And here, he thought, was the crux of the matter: she might have given her body to him, as a gesture of feeling or as some healing method devised by the doctor, who sounded to Matthew to be cut from Exodus Jerusalem's cloth; or it might have been a wishful fantasy induced by fever and drugged smoke.

Which was the truth? The truth, he thought, was that Rachel still loved her husband. Or, at least, the memory of him. He could see that, by what she would not say. If indeed there was something to be said. She might hold a feeling for him, Matthew thought, like a bouquet of pink carnations. But they were not red roses, and that made all the difference.

He might ask what color the garment was. He might describe it for her exactly. Or he might start to describe it, and she tell him he could not be more wrong.