Speaks the Nightbird

THE POWER OF GOD 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 pronouncements 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 passages 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 God 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 glass of the volcanic wasteland his throat had become. again his air passages 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 impassive, 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 God, 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 illustrate 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.



"Magistratei" the woman said. "How goes the casei"



"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."



"Thursdayi 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 correcti"



"Yes, madam, you are."



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



"I can't speak for Matthew, but I will pass 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, Magistratei" 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 iti"



"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 agreei"



"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 assembled 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 bei 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 Royali" 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 bei"



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 bei"



"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 God hast given me: Exodus Jerusalem. I have come many a league to this place, sir."



"For what reasoni"



"Need thou aski I am brought here by the might of God, to do God's bidding." He returned the tricorn to his head, his show of manners finished. "God 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."



"Triali" Jerusalem had snarled it. He looked across the faces of the assembled citizens. "Dost thou not know the woman is a witchi"



"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 triali" Jerusalem asked, his voice becoming something akin to a bludgeoning instrument. "She is in thy gaol, is she noti But whilst she lives, who may say what evil she performsi"



"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 God! Dost thou deny that God's law is greater than the law of fallen adami"



"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 himselfi"



"No! I mean ... we have to do this thing the correct way!"



"and allowing evil to live in thy town for one more minute is, in thy opinion, the correct wayi" Jerusalem grinned tightly and shook his head. "Thyself hath been blighted, sir, along with thy town!" again his attention went to the assembly, which was growing larger and more restless. "I say God is the truest and purest of lawgivers, and what doth God say in regards to witchcrafti Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!"



"That's right!" George Bartow shouted. "God says to kill a witch!"



"God doth not say tarry, nor wait upon the tainted law of humankind!" Jerusalem plowed on. "and any man who serveth such folly is doomed himself to the brimstone pit!"



"He's rousting them!" Bidwell said to the magistrate, and then he called out, "Wait, citizens! Listen to - " but he was hollered silent.



"The time of God's judgment," Jerusalem announced, "is not tomorrow, nor is it the day after! The time is now!" He reached back into the wagon, and his hand emerged clamped to the grip of an axe. "I shall rid thee of thy witch, and afterward we shall pray for God's blessing upon thy homes and families! Who amongst thee will lead me to mine enemyi"



at the sight of the axe, Woodward's heart had started pounding and he was now on his feet. He gave a shout of "No! I won't have such a - " blasphemy against the court, he was going to say, but his tormented voice collapsed and he was left speechless. a half dozen men yelled that they would lead the preacher to the gaolhouse, and suddenly the crowd - which had grown to twenty-five or more - -seemed to Woodward to have been seized by a raging fit of bloodlust. Jerusalem climbed down from the wagon, axe in hand, and surrounded by a veritable phalanx of human hounds he stalked down Harmony Street in the direction of the gaol, his long thin legs carrying him with the speed of a predatory spider.



"They won't get in, the fools!" Bidwell snorted. "I have the keys!"



Woodward managed to croak, "an axe may serve as a key!" He saw it, then, in Bidwell's face: a smug complacency, perhaps, or the realization that Jerusalem's blade might end the witch's life much quicker than the flames of the law. Whatever it was, Bid-well had made his decision on the side of the mob. "Stop them!" Woodward demanded, sweat glistening on his cheeks.



"I tried, sir," came the reply. "You witnessed that I tried."



Woodward thrust his face toward Bidwell's. "If the woman's killed I'll charge every man in that crowd with murder!"



"a difficult charge to prosecute, I would think." Bidwell sat down. He glanced toward the preacher's wagon, where a dark-haired woman of slim build and middle years had emerged from the interior to speak with the young driver. "I fear it's out of my hands now."



"But not out of mine!" Woodward climbed down from the carriage, his blood aboil. Before he could take out after the preacher and the pack, he was stopped by a voice that said, "Magistrate, suhi" He looked up at Goode.



The Negro was offering a thin lash that usually sat in a leather pouch next to the driver's seat. "Protection 'gain the wild beasts, suh," he said.



Woodward accepted the lash, fired a glance of disgust at Bid-well, and then - aware that time was of the essence - turned and ran after Preacher Jerusalem and the mob as fast as his suffering bones would allow.



The voracious stride of Jerusalem's legs had already taken him halfway down Harmony Street. along the way he had attracted more moths to his bonfire. By the time he made the turn onto Truth Street, the crowd trailing him had swelled to forty-six men, women, and children, four dogs, and a small pig that was scurrying about to avoid being trampled. Chickens fluttered and squawked, feathers flying, as the mass of shouting humanity and barking mongrels passed in their vengeful parade, and at the forefront Exodus Jerusalem - his sharp-boned chin thrust forward like the prow of a warship - brandished his axe as if it were a glorious torch.



Within the gaol, Matthew and Rachel heard the oncoming mob. He stood up from his bench and rushed to the bars, but Rachel remained seated. She closed her eyes, her head tilted slightly back and her face damp with perspiration.



"It's some kind of uproar!" Matthew said; his voice cracked, for he knew full well what it must mean: the citizens of Fount Royal were about to attack the gaol.



"I might have known" - Rachel's voice was calm, but it did tremble - "they would kill me on a Sabbath."



Outside, Exodus Jerusalem spied the chain that secured the entry, and lifted his axe high. When it came down upon the chain, the iron links held but sparks flew like hornets. again he lifted the axe, and again it fell with tremendous strength. Still the chain held, however, though two of the links had received severe damage. Jerusalem braced himself, gave a mighty swing, and once more sparks flew. He was lifting the axe for a fourth and what might be a final blow, as one link was near parting from its brothers, when suddenly a figure came out of the mob and raised a walking-stick up across Jerusalem's arms.



"What is thisi" Schoolmaster Johnstone demanded. He wore the wine-colored suit and black tricorn that had served him at church. "I don't know who you are, sir, but I ask you to put aside that axe!"



"and I do not know who thee may be, sir," Jerusalem said, "but if thou stand between me and yonder witch, thee must answer for it to God almighty!"



"Stop him, Johnstone!" Woodward pushed through the crowd, his breathing ragged. "He intends to kill her! "



"That's right!" arthur Dawson, who stood at the front of the mob, cried out. "It's time to put her to death!"



"Kill her!" shouted another man, standing beside Dawson. "We're not gonna dawdle no longer!"



The crowd responded with more shouts and cries for the witch's death. Jerusalem said loudly, "Thy people have spoken!" and he brought the axe down again, even more furiously than thrice before. This time the chain broke. Johnstone, hobbling on his bad knee, grabbed at the preacher's arm in an attempt to get the axe away from him. Woodward attacked him from the other side, also trying to gain possession of the axe. Suddenly someone caught Woodward around the throat from behind and pulled him away from the preacher, and another citizen struck at Johnstone's shoulder with a closed fist. The magistrate twisted around and flailed out with the lash, but now the mob was surging forward and several men were upon Woodward before he could use the lash again. a fist caught him in the ribs, and a hand seized the front of his shirt and near tore it from his back. a sea of bodies lifted him from his feet and then he was thrown down to the ground amid the shoals of dangerous boots. He heard thuds and grunts and knew Johnstone was striking in all directions with his cane.



"Go on! Into the gaol!" someone yelled. a boot narrowly missed stomping Woodward's wrist as he tried to gain his footing again.



"Stand back!" he heard a man shout. "Stand back, I said!" There was the sound of a horse's whinny, followed by the sudden jarring crack of a pistol shot. at that noise of authority, the crowd fell back and at last Woodward found space to pull himself up.



He saw Johnstone on the ground, the schoolmaster's body blocking Jerusalem's entrance to the gaol. Johnstone's tricorn hat lay crushed at his side and the preacher stood over him, Jerusalem's own hat also knocked awry but the axe still in his grip-



"Damn, what a sorry sight you are!" Gunsmoke swirled over the head of Nicholas Paine, who had ridden his chestnut stallion into the midst of the vengeful congress. He held aloft the pistol he'd just fired. "What is this insanityi"



"It's no insanity, Nicholas!" spoke an older man Woodward recognized as Duncan Tyler. "It's time for us to come to our senses and put the witch to death!"



"The preacher's gonna do it!" Dawson said. "One blow from that axe and we're free of her!"



"No!" Johnstone had regained his hat, and now he was trying to stand but was meeting great difficulty. Woodward reached down and helped his Oxford brother to his feet. "We agreed to honor the law, like civilized men!" Johnstone said when he was balanced on his cane.



Paine stared disdainfully at Jerusalem. "So you're a preacheri"



"Exodus Jerusalem, called by God to set thy town on the righteous path," came the reply. "Dost thou not wish it to be soi"



"I wish for you to put down that axe," Paine said, "or I'll knock your damn brains out."



"ah, here is a bewitched soul!" Jerusalem yelled, his gaze sweeping the crowd. "He threatens a man of God and protects the whore of Satan!"



"I look at you, sir, and see only a common fool attempting to enter Fount Royal's gaol without the proper authority, a situation to which I am held accountable," Paine replied, with what seemed to Woodward marvelous restraint and dignity. "I'll ask you once more to put down the axe."



"Nicholas!" Tyler said, and he grabbed hold of Paine's breeches leg. "Let the man do what has to be done!"



"I have the power of God in me!" bellowed the preacher. "No evil shall stand against its justice!"



"Don't let him do it, Nicholas!" Johnstone implored. "It wouldn't be justice, it would be murder!"



Paine moved his horse, breaking Tyler's grip. He guided his mount through the crowd that stood between him and Jerusalem and pulled up barely three feet from the man's daggerblade of a nose. Paine leaned toward him, the saddle's leather creaking. "Preacher," he said quietly, "my next word to you will be presented at your graveside." He let the solemn promise hang for a few seconds as he and Jerusalem engaged in a staring duel. "Magistrate, will you please accept the gift of the preacher's axei"



"I will," Woodward rasped, and carefully held out his hand. He was prepared to jump aside if Jerusalem took a swing at him.



Jerusalem didn't move. Woodward saw a muscle twitch in the preacher's gray-grizzled jaw. Then a smile that was part sneer and most mockery stole across his face, and in truth that smile was more fearful to look upon than the preacher's expression of righteous anger. "Mine compliments to thee," Jerusalem said, as he turned the axe around and placed its wooden handle into the magistrate's palm as gently as mist might settle to the earth.



"Go home, all of you!" Paine commanded the assembly. "There's nothing more to be seen here!"



"One question for you, Nicholas Paine!" shouted James Reed, who stood next to Tyler. "You and I both saw them poppets in the floor of her house! You know what she's been doin' to this town! are you bewitched, like the preacher saysi You must be, to turn aside an axe from killin' her!"



"James, if you were not my friend I'd have to strike you down!" Paine shouted back at him. "Now listen to me, every one of you!" He wheeled his horse around so he was facing the crowd, which by now numbered near sixty. "Yes, I know what the witch has done to us! But this I know, as well, and mark it: when Rachel Howarth dies - and she will - her wicked life shall be ended by the torch of legal decree, not by a preacher's axe!" He paused, almost daring any man to speak out against him. There were a few halfhearted shouts from the crowd, but they dwindled and perished like little fires. "I too believe she should die for the good of Fount Royal!" he continued. "as long as she lives, there is great danger of further corruption. Some of you may wish to leave before she burns, and that is your right and privilege to do so, but . . . listen, listen!" he commanded another heckler, who fell silent.



"We're building more than a town here, don't you understand thati" Paine asked. "We're building new lives for ourselves, in what will someday be a city! a city, with a courthouse of its own and a permanent magistrate to occupy it!" He scanned the crowd from one side to the other. "Do we wish to say in the future that the very first trial held in Fount Royal was interrupted by a preacher's axei Let me tell you, I have seen mob justice before, and it is a sight to sicken a dog! Is that the first timber we wish to lay for our courthousei"



"There'll be no courthouse!" Reed hollered. "There'll be no town, no city, nothin' here but ruins unless she's put to death!"



"There'll be ruins aplenty if she's hauled out and murdered!" Paine answered, just as vehemently. "The first thing to fall to ruin will be our honor! That I've seen men lose as well, and once lost they are as weak as scarecrows against the wind! We have agreed to allow Magistrate Woodward to carry out the trial and sentencing, and we cannot now give over that task to artemis Jerusalem!"



"Exodus Jerusalem, if thy please!" The preacher had an astounding gift, Woodward rhought; he could mimic thunder with hardly an effort. "I would remind thee, citizens," Jerusalem stormed on, "that the Devil's tongue is formed of silver!"



"You!" Paine snapped at him. "Shut . . . your . . . hole."



"Best heed my hole, or thou shalt perish in one that has no bottom!"



"I think yours has no bottom!" the schoolmaster said. "Or perhaps it's your bottom that's become confused with your top!"



Woodward knew this statement could not have been delivered with better timing or in better elocution on the Shakespearian stage. Its effect was to visibly cause the preacher to stumble in his search for a suitable riposte, his jaw working but no words yet formed; and at the same time, it urged laughter from several persons who had a moment earlier been scowling. The laughter rippled out across the crowd, breaking the aura of solemnity, and though most did not crack a smile, the mood of all had definitely been changed.



To his credit, Exodus Jerusalem recognized the value of a dignified retreat. He made no further entreaties to the assembly, but rather crossed his slim arms over his chest and glowered at the ground.



"Go home!" Paine presently repeated to the citizens. "The afternoon's entertainment has ended!"



Glances were exchanged, words were spoken, and the mob found its passions diminished. at least for today, Woodward thought. The crowd began to drift apart. The magistrate saw that Bidwell sat in his carriage just up the way, his legs crossed at the ankles and one arm resting across the seatback. Now, as it was apparent Rachel Howarth would not die this afternoon, Bidwell got down from the carriage and began to approach the gaol.



"Thank you, Nicholas," Johnstone told him. "I dread to think what might have happened."



"You." Paine was speaking to the preacher, and Jerusalem looked up at him. "Did you really intend to go in there and kill heri"



"I intended to do just what was done," he answered, his normal voice much more restrained. "Whati Cause a commotioni"



"Thy citizens know Exodus Jerusalem has arrived. That is well enough for now."



"I think we've been honored by the performance of a thes-pian," Johnstone said.



He saw Bidwell approaching. "Robert, here stands someone you should meet."



"We have met." Bidwell frowned as he regarded the broken chain. "There's work for Hazelton, I see. //his injury permits it." His eyes speared the preacher. "Damage to the property of Fount Royal is a serious offense, sir. I would say the payment of a guinea should be in order."



"alas, I am simply a poor travelling man of God," Jerusalem replied, with a shrug. "The Lord provideth food, clothing, and shelter, but English gold not a pence."



"You're a beggar, you mean!"



"Oh, not a beggar. a diviner, if thy will. I divine that my stay here shall be of great importance."



"Your stay herei I think not!" Bidwell said. "Nicholas, will you escort this man to the gate, make sure he boards his wagon and - "



"One moment." Jerusalem lifted a long, thin finger. "I have journeyed here from Charles Town, whence I learned of thy plight. The witch is being discussed there on the streets. a visit to the council office also told me thy have need of a preacher."



"The council officei In Charles Towni" Bidwell's brow wrinkled. "How did they know we don't have a ministeri"



"They know of Grove's murder," Johnstone supplied. "It was all written out in the requesr for a magistrate that Nicholas and Edward carried to them."



"That may be so, but they received rhat letter in March. The council presumes we haven't found a minister to replace a man who was murdered last Novemberi" His frown deepened. "It seems to me someone has loose lips concerning our business."



"Dost thou have a preacher or noti" Jerusalem asked.



"We do not. But we don't need one at the present time, thank you."



"Oh, it is quite apparent thou dost not need a preacher." Jerusalem gave a slim smile. "a witch in the gaol and Satan in the town. God only knows what other wickedness thrives. No, thou dost not need a preacher. Thou art in need of a second coming." His dark, flesh-hooded eyes in that grotesquely wrinkled face pierced Bidwell. "Thy fellow on horseback dost make a pretty point concerning laws, houses of court, and cities. But let me ask this: who speaketh here over the dead and the newborni"



"Whomever wishes to!" Paine answered.



"Yet whomever wishes cannot walk into thy gaol and deliver the stroke of an axei Is the life of a witch to be valued more than the burial services of thy Christian citizens and the redemption of thy little infantsi Thou sendeth the dead and the newborn alike off on journeys of dark despair without proper blessingsi The shame of it!"



"We'll find a minister after the witch is dead!" Bidwell said. "But I won't have anyone in my town who within five minutes of their arrival causes a near-riot! Nicholas, would you please show this man to the - "



"Thou shalt weep bitter tears," Jerusalem said, so quietly that it caught Bidwell by surprise. "Dost thou not know the power of a witch to rise from the gravei"



"From the gravei What are you jabbering abouti"



"When thou dost kill the witch and bury her without the proper rite of sanctimonity, thou shalt be jabbering aplenty thyself. In mortal terror, I might add."



"Sanctimonityi" Johnstone said. "I've never heard of such a thing!"



"are thee a preacher, siri Dost thou have experience with witches, the Devil, and the demons of nighti I have administered the rite over the graves of the notorious witches Elizabeth Stockham, Marjorie Ballard, and Sarah Jones, as well as the infamous warlocks andrew Spaulding and John Kent. In so doing, I sealed them into the depths of Hell where they might enjoy the ticklings of the eternal fires. But without such a rite, sirs, thy witch will flee the grave and continue her wickedness as a phantasm, hellhound, or . . ." He shrugged again. "Who can sayi Satan has a creative mind."



"I think it's not only Satan whose mind is creative," Johnstone said.



"Wait!" a sheen of sweat had begun to glisten on Bidwell's face. "You mean to say the witch could be put to death and we'd still not be rid of heri"



"Not," Jerusalem said grimly, "without the rite of sanctimonity."



"That's pure nonsense!" the schoolmaster scoffed, and then he said to Bidwell, "I suggest you run this man out of town at once!"



From his pained expression, Bidwell was obviously caught on the horns of a dilemma. "I've never heard of such a rite," he said, "but that's not to say it doesn't exist. What's your opinion, Magistratei"



"The man has come here to cause difficulty," Woodward croaked. "He's a flame in a powderhouse."



"I agree!" Paine spoke up.



"Yes, yes, I also agree." Bidwell nodded. "But what if such a rite is needed to secure the witch's phantasm in her gravei"



"It most surely is, sir," Jerusalem said. "If I were thee, I should wish all possible precautions to be taken."



Bidwell reached for a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted the moisture from his face. "I'll be damned!" he finally said. "I'm feared to let him stay and feared to make him leave!"



"If I am made to leave, it is not only thee who should be damned but thy entire enterprise." Jerusalem, with theatrical drama, motioned with a sweeping gesture across the vista of Fount Royal. "Thou hast created a most pleasing town here, sir. The work that hast gone into its creation is most evident. Why, building that fortress wall must have consumed untold energies, and these streets are far better laid than those in Charles Town. I did note, in passing, that thy cemetery is also well laid. It would give a sadness to God for all that work to have been done, and all those souls to have perished, for naught."



"You can dismount the podium now, preacher," Johnstone told him. "Robert, I still say he should go."



"I must think on it. Better to err on the side of God than against Him."



"Whilst thee is thinking," Jerusalem said, "might I view mine enemyi"



"No!" Woodward said. "Certainly not!"



"Magistrate," he answered in a silken voice, "from the sound of thee, I should say the witch hath already struck thee ill. Might she also hath struck ill your judgmenti" He turned his attention again to Bidwell. "I request to view her, please. So that I may know the depth of Satan's infestation in her soul."



Woodward thought that Bidwell looked near fainting. The master of Fount Royal had come to his weakest moment. He said, "all right. I cannot see the harm in it."



"I can!" Woodward protested, but Bidwell moved past him and pulled open the gaol's door. Jerusalem bowed his head slightly to acknowledge Bidwell's gesture and then walked inside, his boots clumping on the boards.



at once Woodward followed him, desirous to contain whatever damage the preacher might do. Bidwell entered too, as well as Johnstone, while Paine seemed to have come to the end of his interest in the matter and remained on horseback. The gaol's dim interior was illuminated only by the milky light that came through the roof's hatch, which Woodward himself had opened that morning.



Matthew and Rachel had heard the commotion, Paine's speech, and the voices of the men outside the door, so they knew what to expect. Exodus Jerusalem first paused before Matthew's cage and peered through the bars. "Who art theei"



"My clerk," Woodward said, his voice all but vanished.



"He is present to keep watch o'er the witchi"



"I'm present," Matthew said, "because I have been sentenced for three days due to an incident I regret."



"Whati" Jerusalem pursed his lips. "a magistrate's clerk hast become a criminali This too must be the witch's doing, to undermine the trial." Before Matthew could reply, Jerusalem's head swivelled toward the other cell and his gaze fell upon Rachel, who sat on her bench with her sackcloth cloak pulled around her but her face exposed.



There was a long silence.



"ah, yes," Jerusalem said at last. "I see a deep pool of sin in that one." Rachel gave no reply, but she did return his stare.



"Look how she glowers," Jerusalem said. "Like a hot flame, eager to burn mine heart to a cinder. Wouldst thou delight in flying me to Hell on the wings of a crow, womani Or wouldst thou be content to drive nails through mine eyes and split mine tongue in twoi" She didn't answer, choosing to shift her gaze to the straw. "There! Dost thou seei The evil in her quakes before me, and she cannot bear to look longer upon mine face."



"You are half right, " Rachel said.



"a taunt, it seems! She's a witty bitch." Jerusalem walked past Matthew's cell and stood next to the bars of the other cage. "What is thy namei"



"a witty bitch," she answered. "You have already named me."



"Her name is Rachel Howarth," Bidwell said, standing behind the preacher. "Needless to say, she is very uncooperative."



"They always are." Jerusalem curled his long, slender fingers around the bars. "as I say, I have had much experience with witches. I know the evil that hath eaten their hearts and blackened their souls. Oh yes, I know." He nodded, his eyes fixed on Rachel. "This one hath committed two murders, is that correcti"



"Yes. She first murdered our anglican reverend and then her own husband," Bidwell answered.



"No, thou art wrong. This witch became the bride of Satan when she spilled the blood of a reverend. She hath also bewitched thy crops and the minds of thy citizensi"



"Yes."



"Conjecture," Matthew had to say. "So far unproven."



Jerusalem looked sharply at him. "What sayest thoui"



"The evidence is not yet complete," Matthew said. "Therefore the charges against Madam Howarth are still unproven."



"Madam Howarth, didst thou sayi" Jerusalem gave a slight, chilly smile. "Thou dost refer to the witch with respecti"



Woodward managed to speak: "My clerk has a liberal mind."



"Thy clerk may well have a diseased mind, made infirm by the power of this witch. It is quite dangerous to leave him here, in such close quarters. Wouldst there not be another place to confine himi"



"No," Bidwell said. "Nowhere else."



"Then the witch should be confined elsewhere. In strict solitude."



"I would have to protest that action," Matthew said quickly. "as the trial is taking place here, it is Madam Howarth's right to be present during the questioning of witnesses."



The preacher was silent, staring at Matthew. Then he said, "Gentlemen, I fear we are witnesses to the corruption of a young man's soul. No clean Christian wouldst protect the rights of a witch." He let that sentence linger before he went on. "It is a witch's evil desire to drag into Hell as many persons as demonically possible. In the Old World, entire towns were burned to the ground and their citizens hanged because they were corrupted by a single witch."



"That may be so," Matthew replied, "but this is the New World."



"Old World or New, the eternal battle between God and Satan remaineth the same. There is no middle ground. Either thou art a Christian soldier on one side ... or a pawn of the Devil on the other. Where dost thou standi"



It was a nice trap, Matthew realized. He also, for the first time, realized the convolutions of warped logic that had been brought to bear against Rachel. "If I say I stand on the side of truth," he answered, "does that make me a soldier or a pawni"



Jerusalem gave a quiet laugh. "Now here, gentlemen, thy see the beginnings of adam's fall: to emulate the serpent, first in thought, then in word, and finally in deed. Young man, be wary. Executions allow no such slippery maneuvers."



"If you please!" Woodward rasped. "My clerk is not on trial!"



"Thy clerk," Jerusalem said, "may no longer be truly thine." He directed his attention once more to Rachel. "Witch!" he said, with the thunder returning to his voice. "Hast thou willed a spell on this young man's tender souli"



"I've willed no spell on any soul," she replied. "Tender or otherwise."



"Time shall tell, I think. Oh, thou art a brassy whore, full of lies and enchantments! But thou art caged now, art thy noti and every day's dusk is one less day remaining for thy sin to take root!" He looked at Bidwell. "This one shalt not go easy to the gallows, that is a surety."



"Her death will be by burning," Bidwell told him. "The magistrate's decreed it."



"ahhhhh, burning." Jerusalem spoke it with such reverence it might be the very balm of life. "Yes, that would be suitable. Still, even ashes need the rite of sanctimonity." He gave Rachel another chilly smile. "Enemy mine," he said, "thy face changeth from town to town, but thou art always the same." Then, to Bidwell again, "I have seen enough now. Mine sister and nephew wait for me. art we free to camp on some available plot of landi"



"Yes," Bidwell said, with only a minor hesitation. "I'll direct you."



"I'm against it!" Johnstone spoke up. "Is there nothing I can say to dissuade you, Roberti"



"I think we need Jerusalem as much as we need the magistrate."



"You'll think differently when he sets off another riot! Good day to you!" Johnstone, obviously angry and frustrated, limped out of the gaol with the aid of his cane.



"alan will come 'round," Bidwell said to the preacher. "He's our schoolmaster, but he's also a sensible man."



"I trust thy schoolmaster is not being led astray in the same fashion as this clerk. Well sir, I am at thy disposal."



"all right, then. Come with me. But we'll have no further . . . uh . . . disturbances, I hopei"



"Disturbance is not mine cause, sir. I am here in the cause of deliverance."



Bidwell motioned for Jerusalem to proceed from the gaol, and then he followed. Just short of the doorway, he turned back toward Woodward. "Magistratei I suggest you come along, if you wish to ride in my carriage."



Woodward nodded. He cast a sad-eyed look at Matthew and said weakly, "I shall have to rest, and so won't be back before the morning. are you all righti"



"I am. You should ask Dr. Shields for another tonic, I think."



"I plan to." He stared grimly at Rachel. "Madami" he said. "Do not believe that because my voice is weak and my body impoverished that I shall not continue this trial to the best of my ability. The next witness will be heard on schedule." He took two steps toward the door and hesitated again. "Matthewi" he said, in an agonized whisper. "Take care that your senses not become as feeble as my health." Then he turned away and followed Bidwell.



Matthew sat down on his bench. The arrival of Exodus Jerusalem added a highly combustible element to this tinderbox. But Matthew found himself most presently concerned about the magistrate's failing health. It was clear that Woodward should be abed, under the care of a physician. and certainly he shouldn't be spending any time in this rank gaol, but his pride and sense of duty dictated that he see this trial through without delay. Matthew had never known the magistrate to be so fragile of voice and spirit, and it frightened him.



"The magistrate," Rachel suddenly said, "is very sick, isn't hei"



"I fear he is."



"You've been serving him a long timei"



"Five years. I was a child when I met him. He has given me great opportunity to make something of myself." Rachel nodded. "May I be forwardi" she asked. "as you please."



"When he looks at you," she said, "it is a father looking at a son."



"I'm his clerk, nothing more," Matthew answered curtly. He clasped his hands together, his head bent down. There was a hollow pain in the vicinity of his heart.



"Nothing more," he said again.