Speaks The Nightbird Part 32

Just before the storm had broken, Mrs. Nettles had answered the front door bell to admit Schoolmaster Johnstone, who inquired if the magistrate was able to see him. She took his black coat and tricorn and hung them near the door, then escorted him into the parlor, where Woodward-still bundled up in coat and scarf as he'd been at the gaol-sat in a chair that had been pulled up close to the fireplace. A tray across Woodward's knees held a bowl of steaming, milky pap that was near the same grayish hue as the color of his face, and Woodward had been stirring his dinner with a spoon to cool it.

"Pardon me. For not rising," Woodward whispered.

"No pardon necessary between Oxford brothers, sir."

"Mr. Bidwell is in his study with Mr. Winston," Mrs. Nettles said. "Shall I fetch 'im?"

"No, I won't disturb their work," Johnstone said, leaning on his cane. Woodward noted he was wigless this evening, his light brown hair shorn close to the scalp. "I have business with the magistrate.

"Very well, sir." She bowed her head in a gesture of respect and left the parlor.

Johnstone watched the magistrate stirring his pap. "That doesn't look very appetizing.

"Doctor's orders. All I can swallow."

"Yes, I had a talk with Dr. s.h.i.+elds this morning and he told me you'd been suffering. I'm sorry you're in such a condition. He bled you, I understand."

Woodward nodded. "More bleeding. Yet to be done."

"Well, it is helpful to drain the corrupted fluids. Might I sit down?" He motioned toward a nearby chair, and Woodward whispered, "Yes, please do." Johnstone, with the aid of his cane, eased himself into the chair and stretched his legs out toward the crackling fire. Rain began to beat at the shuttered windows. Woodward took a taste of the pap and found it just the same as what he'd eaten at midday: entirely tasteless, since his nostrils were so clogged he could not smell even the smoke from the burning pinewood.

"I won't take much of your time," Johnstone said. "I did wish to ask how the trial was coming."

"Over. The last witness has been heard."

"Then I presume your decision will be forthcoming? Tomorrow, perhaps?"

"Not tomorrow. I must review the testimony."

"I see. But your decision will be made by the end of the week?" Johnstone waited for Woodward to nod his a.s.sent. "You have a responsibility I do not envy," he continued. "Sentencing a woman to death by fire is not a kind job."

"It is not," Woodward answered between swallows of pap, "a kind world."

"Granted. We have come a long way from Oxford, the both of us. I imagine we began our careers as s.h.i.+ning lamps. It is unfortunate that life has a way of dirtying the gla.s.s. But tell me this, Magistrate: can you in good conscience sentence Rachel Howarth to death without yourself seeing evidence of her supposed witchcraft?"

Woodward paused in bringing another spoonful of pap to his mouth. "I can. As did the magistrates of Salem."

"Ah, yes. Infamous Salem. But you're aware, of course, that since the incident in Salem there has been much written concerning questions of guilt and innocence." His right hand settled on the misshapen knee and began to ma.s.sage it. "There are some who believe the incident in Salem resulted in the execution of persons who were either mentally unbalanced or falsely accused."

"And some who believe," Woodward hesitated to get a breath, "Christ was served and Satan vanquished."

"Oh, Satan is never vanquished. You know that as well as anyone. In fact, one might say that if a single innocent person died at Salem, the Devil's work was well and truly done, for the souls of the magistrates themselves were corrupted." Johnstone stared into the flames. "I have to confess something," he said at length. "I consider myself a man of the here-and-now, not a man whose opinions are rooted in the beliefs and judgments of the past. I believe in G.o.d's power and I trust in the wisdom of Christ... but I have difficulty with this question of witchcraft, sir. It seems to me a highly doubtful thing."

"Doubtful?" Woodward asked. "You doubt the witnesses, then?"

"I don't know." The schoolmaster shook his head. "I can't understand why such elaborate lies should be produced against Madam Howarth-whom I always thought to be, by the way, a very dignified and intelligent woman. Of course she did-and does-have her enemies here. A beautiful, strong-spirited woman as she is could not fail to have enemies. Constance Adams is one of them. Granny Lawry was another who spoke with a vehement tongue, but she pa.s.sed away in late March. A number of citizens were outraged when Madam Howarth attended church, she being Portuguese and of such dark coloring. They wanted her to go wors.h.i.+p in the slave quarters."

"The slaves have a church?"

"A shed that serves the purpose. Anyway, since the day Madam Howarth set foot in church, she was the object of bitter resentment. The citizens were looking for a reason to openly despise her. The nature of her heritage-and the fact that she'd married a much older and reasonably wealthy man-had made her a target of scorn since she and Daniel arrived here."

"Howarth was wealthy?" Woodward asked, his pap-loaded spoon poised near his mouth.

"Yes. Though not in the sense of Bidwell's wealth, of course. The Howarth land is larger than most of the other farms. He did have some money, as I understand."

"Money from what source?"

"He was a wine merchant in Virginia. From what I heard, he'd suffered some bad luck. A s.h.i.+pment was lost at sea, another s.h.i.+pment was delivered foul, and evidently there was a continuing problem with a tax collector. As I understand, Daniel simply sickened of laboring beneath the threat of losing his business. He was married to another woman at that point, but I don't know if she died or returned to England. Some women can't stand the New World, you know."

"Your own wife being an example?" Woodward whispered before he slid the spoon of pap into his mouth.

"Yes, my own Margaret." Johnstone offered a thin smile. "Ben told me you'd been asking questions. He said that somehow-he couldn't quite recall-you had wandered onto that field where Margaret lies buried. Figuratively speaking, of course. No, Margaret lives with her family now, south of London." He shrugged. "I suppose she does, if they haven't locked her up in Bedlam yet. She was-to be kind-mentally unstable, a condition that the rigors of life in Fount Royal made only worse. Unfortunately, she sought balance in the rum barrel." Johnstone was silent, the firelight and shadows moving on his thin-nosed, aristocratic face. "I expect Ben-knowing Ben as I do-has told you also of Margaret's... um... indiscretions?"

"Yes."

"The one in particular, with that Noles b.a.s.t.a.r.d, was the worst. The man is an animal, and for Margaret-who when I married her was a virgin and comported herself as a proper lady-to have fallen to his level was the final insult to me. Well, she had made no secret of hating Fount Royal and everyone in it. It was for the best that I took her where she belonged." He looked at Woodward with a pained expression. "Some people change, no matter how hard one tries to deny it. Do you understand what I mean?"

"Yes," Woodward answered, in his fragile voice. His own face had taken on some pain. He stared into the fire. "I do understand."

The schoolmaster continued to rub his deformed knee. Sparks popped from one of the logs. Outside, the sound of rain had become a dull roar. "This weather," Johnstone said, "plays h.e.l.l with my knee. Too much damp and I can hardly walk. You know, that preacher must be getting his feet wet. He's camped up on Industry Street. Last night he gave a sermon that I understand sent a few people into spasms and separated them from their coins as well. Of course, the subject of his speech was Rachel Howarth, and how her evil has contaminated the whole of Fount Royal. He mentioned you by name as one of those so afflicted, as well as your clerk, Nicholas Paine, and myself."

"I'm not surprised."

"At the risk of verifying the preacher's opinion of me," Johnstone said, "I suppose I'm here to plead for Madam Howarth. It just makes no sense to me that she would commit two murders, much less take up witchcraft. I'm aware that the witnesses are all reliable and of good character, but... something about this is very wrong, sir. If I were you, I'd be wary of rus.h.i.+ng to pa.s.s sentence no matter how much pressure Bidwell puts upon you."

"I am not rus.h.i.+ng," rus.h.i.+ng," Woodward replied stiffly. "I set my own pace." Woodward replied stiffly. "I set my own pace."

"Surely you do, and forgive me for stating otherwise. But it appears appears there is some pressure being put upon you. I understand how Bidwell feels Fount Royal is so endangered, and it's certainly true that the town is being vacated at an alarming rate. These fires we've been suffering don't help matters. Someone is trying to paint Madam Howarth as having the power of destruction beyond the gaol's walls." there is some pressure being put upon you. I understand how Bidwell feels Fount Royal is so endangered, and it's certainly true that the town is being vacated at an alarming rate. These fires we've been suffering don't help matters. Someone is trying to paint Madam Howarth as having the power of destruction beyond the gaol's walls."

"Your opinion."

"Yes, my opinion. I'm aware that you have more experience in these matters than do I, but does it not seem very strange to you that the Devil should so openly reveal himself about town? And it seems to me quite peculiar that a woman who can burn down houses at a distance can't free herself from a rusty lock."

"The nature of evil," Woodward said as he ate another spoonful of the tasteless mush, "is never fully understood."

"Agreed. But I would think Satan would be more cunning than illogical. It appears to me that the Devil went to great pains to make certain everyone in town knew there was a witch among us, and that her name was Rachel Howarth."

After a moment of contemplation, Woodward said, "Perhaps it is is strange. Still, we have the witnesses." strange. Still, we have the witnesses."

"Yes, the witnesses." Johnstone frowned, his gaze fixed upon the fire. "A puzzle, it seems. Unless... one considers the possibility possibility that-as much as I might wish to deny it-Satan is indeed at work in Fount Royal, and has given Madam Howarth's face to the true witch. Or warlock, as the case might be." that-as much as I might wish to deny it-Satan is indeed at work in Fount Royal, and has given Madam Howarth's face to the true witch. Or warlock, as the case might be."

Woodward had been about to eat the last swallow of his pap, but he paused in lifting the spoon. This idea advanced by Johnstone had never occurred to him. Still, it was was only an idea, and the witnesses had sworn on the Bible. But what if the witnesses had been themselves entranced, without knowing it? What if they had been led to believe they were viewing Madam Howarth, when indeed it was not? And when Satan had spoken Madam Howarth's name to Violet Adams, was he simply attempting to s.h.i.+eld the ident.i.ty of the true witch? only an idea, and the witnesses had sworn on the Bible. But what if the witnesses had been themselves entranced, without knowing it? What if they had been led to believe they were viewing Madam Howarth, when indeed it was not? And when Satan had spoken Madam Howarth's name to Violet Adams, was he simply attempting to s.h.i.+eld the ident.i.ty of the true witch?

No! There was the evidence of the poppets found in Madam Howarth's house! But, as Matthew had pointed out, the house was empty for such a period of time that someone else might have secreted them there. Afterward, Satan might have slipped the vision into Madam Grunewald's dreams, and thereby the poppets were discovered.

Was it possible-only by the slimmest possibility-that the wrong person was behind bars, and the real real witch still free? witch still free?

"I don't wish to cloud your thinking," Johnstone said in response to the magistrate's silence, "but only to point out what damage a rush to execute Madam Howarth might do. Now, that being said, I have to ask if you have progressed any in your search for the thief."

"The thief?" It took Woodward a few seconds to s.h.i.+ft his thoughts to the missing gold coin. "Oh. No progress."

"Well, Ben also informed me that you and your clerk had questions about my knee, and if I was able to climb the staircase or not. I suppose I could, if I had to. But I'm flattered that you would consider I could move as quickly as the thief evidently did." The schoolmaster leaned forward and unb.u.t.toned his breeches leg at the knee. "I wish you to judge for yourself."

"Uh... it isn't necessary," Woodward whispered.

"Oh, but it is! I want you to see." He pulled the breeches leg back and then rolled his stocking down. A bandage had been secured around the knee, and this Johnstone began to slowly unwrap. When he was finished, he turned his leg so as to offer Woodward a clear view of the deformity by the firelight. "There," Johnstone said grimly. "My pride."

Woodward saw that a leather brace was buckled around Johnstone's knee, but the kneecap itself was fully exposed. It was the size of a knotty fist, gray-colored and glistening with some kind of oil. The bone itself appeared terribly misshapen, bulging up in a ghastly ridge along the top of the kneecap and then forming a concavity at the knee's center. Woodward found himself recoiling from the sight.

"Alan! We heard the bell, but why didn't you announce yourself?" Bidwell had just entered the parlor, with Winston a few steps behind him.

"I had business with the magistrate. I wished to show him my knee. Would you care to look?"

"No, thank you," Bidwell said, as politely as possible.

But Winston came forward and craned his neck. He wrinkled up his nose as he reached the fireside. "My Lord, what's that smell?"

"The hogsfat ointment Ben sells me," Johnstone explained. "As the weather is so damp, I've had to apply it rather liberally tonight. I apologize for the odor." Woodward, because his nostrils were blocked, could smell nothing. Winston came a couple of steps closer to view the knee but then he retreated with as much decorum as he could manage.

"I realize it's not a pretty sight." Johnstone extended his index finger and moved it along the bony ridge and down into the concavity, an exploration that made the magistrate's spine crawl. Woodward had to look away, choosing to stare into the fire. "Unfortunately, it is part of my heritage. I understand my great-grandfather-Linus by name-was born with a similar defect. In good weather it has decent manners, but in such weather as we've been enduring lately it behaves rather badly. Would you care for a closer inspection?"

"No," Woodward said. Johnstone gave his knee an affectionate pat and wrapped the bandage around it once more.

"Is there a point to this, Alan?" Bidwell asked.

"I am answering the magistrate's inquiry as to whether my condition would allow me to take your staircase at any speed."

"Oh, that." Bidwell came over to the fireplace and offered his palms to the heat, as the schoolmaster pulled his stocking back up and reb.u.t.toned the breeches leg. "Yes, the magistrate's clerk advanced one of his rather dubious theories concerning your knee. He said-"

"-that he wondered if my knee was really deformed, or if I were only shamming," Johnstone interrupted. "Ben told me. An interesting theory, but somewhat flawed. Robert, I've been in Fount Royal for-what?-three years or thereabouts? Have you ever seen me walk without the aid of my cane?"

"Never," Bidwell said.

"If I were shamming, what would be the reason for it?" Johnstone was addressing this question to Woodward. "By G.o.d's grace, I wish I could could run down a staircase! I wish I could walk without putting my weight on a stick!" Heat had crept into the schoolmaster's voice. "I cut a fine figure at Oxford, as you can imagine! There the prizes always belonged to the young and the quick, and I was forced to carry myself like a doddering old man! But I proved myself in the cla.s.sroom, that's what I did! I could not throw myself down the playing field, but I did throw myself into my studies, and thereafter I became president of my social club!" run down a staircase! I wish I could walk without putting my weight on a stick!" Heat had crept into the schoolmaster's voice. "I cut a fine figure at Oxford, as you can imagine! There the prizes always belonged to the young and the quick, and I was forced to carry myself like a doddering old man! But I proved myself in the cla.s.sroom, that's what I did! I could not throw myself down the playing field, but I did throw myself into my studies, and thereafter I became president of my social club!"

"The h.e.l.lfires, I presume?" Woodward asked.

"No, not the h.e.l.lfires. The Ruskins. We emulated the h.e.l.l-fires in some things, but we were rather more studious. Quite a bit more timid, to be truthful." Johnstone seemed to realize he had displayed some bitterness at his condition, and his voice was again under firm control. "Forgive my outburst," he said. "I am not a self-pitier and I wish no pity from anyone else. I enjoy my profession and I feel I am very good at what I do."

"Hear, hear!" Winston said. "Magistrate, Alan has shown himself to be an excellent schoolmaster. Before he came, school was held in a barn and our teacher was an older man who didn't have near Alan's qualifications."

"That's right," Bidwell added. "Upon Alan's arrival here, he insisted a schoolhouse be built and regular lessons begun in the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic. He's taught many of the farmers and their children how to write their own names. I must say, though, that Alan's opening of the schoolhouse to the female children is a bit too liberal for my tastes!"

"That is is liberal," Woodward remarked. "Some might even say misguided." liberal," Woodward remarked. "Some might even say misguided."

"Females are becoming more educated in Europe," Johnstone said, with the slightly wearied sound of someone who has defended a position time and again. "I believe at least one member of every family should be able to read. If that is a wife or a female child, then so be it."

"Yes, but Alan's had to pry some of these children away from their families," Winston said. "Like Violet Adams, for one. Education goes against the grain of these rustics."

"Violet approached me wanting to learn to read the Bible, as neither of her parents were able. How could I refuse her? Oh, Martin and Constance at first were set against it, but I convinced them that reading is not a dishonorable exercise, and thereby Violet would please the Lord. After the child's experience, however, she was forbidden to attend school again. A pity, too, because Violet is a bright child. Well... enough of this horn blowing." The schoolmaster braced himself with his cane and stood up from the chair. "I should be on my way now, ere this weather gets any worse. It was a pleasure speaking with you, Magistrate. I hope you're soon feeling better."

"Oh, he shall!" Bidwell spoke up. "Ben's coming by tonight to tend to him. It won't be long before Isaac is as fit as a racehorse!"

Woodward summoned a frail smile. Never in his life had he been a racehorse. A workhorse, yes, but never a racehorse. And now he was Isaac Isaac to the master of Fount Royal, since the trial had ended and sentencing was imminent. to the master of Fount Royal, since the trial had ended and sentencing was imminent.

Bidwell walked with Johnstone to get his coat and tricorn before he braved the rain. Winston came forward to stand before the fire. The flames reflected off the gla.s.s of his spectacles. "A chill wind in May!" he said. "I thought I'd left such a thing behind in London! But it's not so bad when one has a house as grand as this in which to bask, is it?" Woodward didn't know whether to nod or shake his head, so he did neither.

Winston rubbed his hands together. "Unfortunately, my own hearth smokes and my roof will be leaking tonight like an oar-boat. But I shall endure it. Yes, I shall. Just as Mr. Bidwell has said at times of business crisis: whatever tribulations may come, they mold the character of the man."

"What say, Edward?" Bidwell had entered the parlor again, after seeing Johnstone off.

"Nothing, sir," Winston replied. "I was thinking aloud, that's all." He turned from the fire. "I was about to point out to the magistrate that our sorry weather is one more evidence of the witch's spellcraft against us, as we've never been struck with such damp misery before."

"I think Isaac is already well aware of Witch Howarth's abilities. But we won't have to endure her but a day or two longer, will we, Isaac?"

Bidwell was waiting for a response, his mouth cracked by a smile but his eyes hard as granite. Woodward, in order to keep the peace and thereby get to his bed without an uproar, whispered, "No, we won't." Instantly he felt shamed by it, because indeed he was dancing to Bidwell's tune. But at the moment he was too sick and tired to give a d.a.m.n.

Winston soon said good night, and Bidwell summoned Mrs. Nettles and a servant girl to help the magistrate upstairs. Woodward, ill as he was, protested against the girl's efforts to disrobe him and insisted on preparing himself for bed. He had been under the sheet for only a few minutes when he heard the doorbell ring. Presently Mrs. Nettles knocked at his door, announcing the arrival of Dr. s.h.i.+elds, and the doctor came in armed with his bag of potions and implements.

The bleeding bowl was readied. The hot lancet bit true and deep through the crusted wounds of the morning's bloodletting. As Woodward lay with his head over the edge of the bed and the sound of his corrupted fluids pattering into the bowl, he stared up at the ceiling where Dr. s.h.i.+elds's shadow was thrown by the yellow lamplight.

"Not to fear," the doctor said, as his fingers worked the cuts to keep the blood running. "We'll banish this sickness."

Woodward closed his eyes. He felt cold. His stomach had clenched-not because of the pain he was suffering, but because he'd thought of the three lashes that would soon be inflicted upon Matthew. At least, though, after the las.h.i.+ng was done Matthew would be free to go from that filthy gaol; and thankfully he would be free also from Rachel Howarth's influence.

The blood continued to flow. Woodward felt-or imagined he felt-that his hands and feet were freezing. His throat, however, remained fiery hot.

He entertained himself for the moment with musings on how wrong Matthew had been in his theory concerning the Spanish spy. If indeed there was such a spy, Alan Johnstone was not the man. Or, at least, Johnstone was not the thief who'd taken Matthew's coin. Matthew was so c.o.c.ksure of his theories that sometimes the boy became insufferable, and this was a good opportunity to remind him that he made mistakes just like the rest of mankind.

"My throat," he whispered to Dr. s.h.i.+elds. "It pains me."

"Yes, we'll tend it again after I've finished here."

It was bad fortune to become so ill without benefit of a real hospital, Woodward thought. A city hospital, that is. Well, the task here would be soon finished. Of course he didn't look forward with great relish to that trip back to Charles Town, but neither would he care to remain in this swamphole more than another week.

He hoped Matthew could bear the lashes. The first one would be a shock; the second would likely tear the flesh. Woodward had seen hardened criminals break into tears and cry for their mothers after the whip had thrice bitten their backs. But soon the ordeal would be over. Soon they could both take leave of this place, and Satan could fight the mosquitoes for its ruins as far as he cared.

Does it not seem very strange to you, Johnstone had said, Johnstone had said, that the Devil should so openly reveal himself about town? that the Devil should so openly reveal himself about town? Woodward squeezed his eyes shut more tightly... Woodward squeezed his eyes shut more tightly... consider the possibility that Satan is indeed at work in Fount Royal, and has given Madam Howarth's face to the true witch. Or warlock, as the case might be. consider the possibility that Satan is indeed at work in Fount Royal, and has given Madam Howarth's face to the true witch. Or warlock, as the case might be.

No! Woodward thought. No! There were the witnesses, who had sworn truth on the Bible, and the poppets that were even now sitting atop the dresser! To consider that there was some other witch would not only delay his decision in regards to the prisoner but would also result in the complete abandonment of Fount Royal. No, No, Woodward told himself. It was sheer folly to march down that road! Woodward told himself. It was sheer folly to march down that road!

"Pardon?" Dr. s.h.i.+elds said. "Did you say something, Isaac?" Woodward shook his head. "Forgive me, I thought you did. A bit more in the bowl and we'll be done."

"Good," Woodward said. He could sleep now, if his throat were not so raw. The sound of his blood dripping into the bowl was nearly a strange kind of lullaby. But before he gave himself up to sleep he would pray for G.o.d to endow strength to Matthew, both to resist that woman's wiles and to endure the whip with the grace of a gentleman. Then he would add a prayer to keep his own mind clear in this time of tribulation, so that he might do what was right and proper in the framework of the law.

But he was sick and he was troubled, and he had also begun to realize that he was afraid: of sinking into deeper illness, of Rachel Howarth's influence over Matthew, of making a mistake. Afraid on a level he hadn't known since his last year in London, when his whole world had been torn asunder like a piece of rotten cloth.

He feared the future. Not just the turn of the century, and what a new age might bring to this strife-burnt earth, but tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. He feared all the demons of the unknown tomorrows, for they were creatures who destroyed the shape and structure of yesterday for the sake of a merry fire.