Speaks the Nightbird

IN THE DISTaNCE a dog barked. It was a forlorn, searching sound. Matthew looked over the darkened town from the window of the magistrate's room, thinking that even the dogs knew Fount Royal was lost.



Five hours had passed since the suicide of alan Johnstone. Matthew had spent most of that time right here, sitting in a chair by Woodward's bed and reading the Bible in a solemn circle of lamplight. Not any particular chapter, just bits and pieces of comforting wisdom. actually, he read most of the passages without seeing them, and had to read them again to glean their illumination. It was a sturdy book, and it felt good between his hands.



The magistrate was dying. Shields had said the man might not last until morning, so it was best that Matthew stay close. Bidwell and Winston were in the parlor, talking over the recent events like survivors of a soul-shaping battle. The doctor himself was sleeping in Matthew's room, and Mrs. Nettles was up at this midnight hour making tea, polishing silver, and doing odds and ends in the kitchen. She had told Matthew she ought to do some small labors she'd been putting off for a while, but Matthew knew she was standing the deathwatch too. Little wonder Mrs.



Nettles couldn't sleep, though, as it had been her task to mop up all the blood in the library, though Mr. Green had volunteered to put the brains and skull pieces in a burlap bag and dispose of them.



Rachel was downstairs, sleeping - he supposed - in Mrs. Nettles's room. She had come to the library after the sound of the shot, and had asked to see the face of the man who'd murdered Daniel. It was not Matthew's place to deny her. Though Matthew had previously explained to her how the murders were done, by whom, for what reason, and all the rest of it, Rachel yet had to see Johnstone for herself.



She had walked past Winston, Dr. Shields, and Bidwell without a glance. She had ignored Hiram abercrombie and Malcolm Jennings, who'd rushed in at the shot, armed with their axes. Certainly she'd passed Green as if the red-bearded, gap-toothed giant was invisible. She had stood over the dead man, staring down into his open, sightless eyes. Matthew had watched her as she contemplated Johnstone's departure. at last, she had said very quietly, "I suppose... I should rant and rave that I spent so many days in a cell... and he has fled. But..." She had looked into Matthew's face, tears in her eyes now that it was over and she could allow them. "Someone that evil... that wretched... was locked in a cage of his own making, every day of his life, wasn't hei"



"He was, " Matthew had said. "Even when he knew he'd found the key to escape it, all he did was move to a deeper dungeon."



Green had retrieved the pistol, which had belonged to Nicholas Paine. It occurred to Matthew that all the men he and the magistrate had met that first night of their arrival were accounted for in this room. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Green, " Matthew had said. "You were invaluable."



"My pleasure, sir. anythin' to help you." Green had taken to fawning at Matthew, as if the clerk had a giant's stature. "I still can't believe such a blow as you gave me!" He'd massaged his jaw at the memory of it. "I saw you cock the fist back, and then... my Lord, the stars!" He'd grunted and looked at Rachel. "It took a right champion to lay me out, I'll swear it did!"



"Um... yes." Matthew cast a quick glance at Mrs. Nettles, who stood nearby listening to this exchange, her face an unreveal-ing sculpture of granite. "Well, one never knows from where one will draw the necessary strength. Does onei"



Matthew had watched as Jennings and abercrombie had lifted the corpse, placed it facedown on a ladder to prevent any further leakage, and then covered a sheet over the deceased. Its destination, Bidwell told Matthew, was the barn down in the slave quarters. Tomorrow, Bidwell said, the corpse - "foul bastard" were the exact words he used - would be taken into the swamp and dumped in a mudhole where the crows and vultures might applaud his performance.



To end up, Matthew realized, like the dead men in the muck at Shawcombe's tavern. Well: dust to dust, ashes to ashes, and mud to mud.



It was now the impending fact of another death that concerned him. Matthew had learned from Dr. Shields that the stimulating potion had finally reached the limit of its usefulness. Woodward's body had simply given out, and nothing could reverse the process. Matthew didn't beat a grudge against the doctor; Shields had done the best he could do, given the limited medicines at hand. Perhaps the bleeding had been excessive, or perhaps it had been a grievous error to make the magistrate attend his duties while so sick, or perhaps something else was done or not done... but today Matthew had come to accept the hard, cold truth.



Just as seasons and centuries must turn, so too must men -  the bad and the good, equal in their frailty of flesh - pass away from this earth.



He heard a nightbird singing.



Out there. Out in one of the trees that stood around the pond. It was a noontime song, and presently it was joined by a second. For their kind, Matthew mused, night was not a time of sad longing, loneliness, and fear. For them the night was but a further opportunity to sing.



and such a sweetness in it, to hear these notes trilled as the land slept, as the stars hummed in the immense velvet black. Such a sweetness, to realize that even at this darkest hour there was yet joy to be known.



"Matthew."



He heard the feeble gasp and immediately turned toward the bed.



It was very hard now to look upon the magistrate. To know what he had been, and to see what he had become in the space of six days. Time could be a ruthless and hungry beast. It had consumed the magistrate down to bones and angles.



"Yes, sir, I'm here." Matthew pulled his chair nearer the bed, and also moved the lantern closer. He sat down, leaning toward the skeletal figure. "I'm right here."



"ah. Yes. I see you." Woodward's eyes had shrunken and retreated. They had changed from their once energetic shade of ice-blue to a dull yellowish gray, the color of the fog and rain he had journeyed through to reach this town. Indeed, the only color about the magistrate that was not a shade of gray was the ruddy hue of the splotches on his scalp. Those jealous imperfections had maintained their dignity, even as the rest of Woodward's body had fallen to ruin.



"Would you... hold my handi" the magistrate asked, and he reached out in search of comfort. Matthew took the hand. It was fragile and trembling, and hot with merciless fever. "I heard it, " Woodward whispered, his head on the pillow. "Thunder. Does it raini"



"No, sir." Perhaps it had been the shot he'd heard, Matthew thought. "Not yet."



"ah. Well, then." He said nothing more, but stared past Matthew toward the lamp.



This was the first time the magistrate had surfaced from the waters of sleep since Matthew had been in the room. Matthew had come in several times during the day, but except for a few brief murmurs or a pained swallow the magistrate had been unresponsive.



"It's dark out, " Woodward said.



"Yes, sir."



He nodded. around his nose glistened the pine-oil - based liniment Shields had smeared there to clear his air passages. On his thin and sunken chest was a plaster, also soaked in the liniment. If Woodward noticed the clay dressing on Matthew's arm and the bandage - of cloth, which Dr. Shields had applied after Johnstone's departure - on his clerk's forever-to-be-scarred forehead, he made no mention of it. Matthew doubted the magistrate could see his face as anything but a blur, as the fever had almost destroyed the man's vision.



Woodward's fingers tightened. "She's gone, then."



"Siri"



"The witch. Gone."



"Yes, sir, " Matthew said, and didn't think he was telling an untruth. "The witch is gone."



Woodward sighed, his eyelids fluttering. "I... am glad... I didn't witness it. I might have to... pass the sentence... but... don't have to watch it... carried out. Ohhhhh, my throat! My throat! It closes up!"



"I'll get Dr. Shields." Matthew attempted to stand, but Woodward steadfastly refused to release him.



"No!" he said, tears of pain streaking his cheeks. "Stay seated. Just... listen."



"Don't try to talk, sir. You shouldn't - "



"I shouldn't!" Woodward blustered. "I shouldn't... I can't... mustn't! Those are the words that... that put you... six feet under!"



Matthew settled into his chair again, his hand still grasping the magistrate's. "You should refrain from speaking."



a grim smile moved quickly across Woodward's mouth and then was gone. "I shall have. Plenty of time... to refrain. When my... mouth is full of dirt."



"Don't say such as that!"



"Why noti It's true... isn't iti Matthew, what a short rope... I have been given!" He closed his eyes, breathing fitfully. Matthew would have thought he'd drifted to sleep again, but the pressure on his hand had not relaxed. Then Woodward spoke again with his eyes still closed. "The witch, " he whispered. "The case... pains me. Still pains me." His fog-colored eyes opened. "Was I right, Matthewi Tell me. Was I righti"



Matthew answered, "You were correct."



"ahhhhh, " he said, like an exhalation of relief. "Thank you. I needed... to heat that, from you." He squeezed Matthew's hand more firmly. "Listen, now. My hourglass... is broken. all my sand is running out. I will die soon."



"Nonsense, sir!" Matthew's voice cracked and betrayed him. "You're just tired, that's all!"



"Yes. and I shall... soon sleep... for a very long time. Please... I may be dying, but I have not... become stupid. Now... just hush... and listen to me." He tried to sit up but his body had shut that particular door to him. "In Manhattan, " he said. "Go see... Magistrate Powers. Nathaniel Powers. a very... very good man. He knows me. You tell him. He will find a place for you."



"Please, sir. Don't do this."



"I fear... I have no choice. The judgment has been... has been passed down... from a much higher court. Than ever I presided over. Magistrate Nathaniel Powers. In Manhattan. Yesi" Matthew was silent, the blood thrumming through his veins. "This will be... my final command to you, " Woodward said. "Say yes."



Matthew looked into the near-sightless eyes. Into the face that seemed to be aging and crumbling even as he regarded it.



Seasons, and centuries, and men. The bad and the good. Frailty of flesh.



Must pass away. Must.



a nightbird, singing outside. In the dark. Singing as at full sunlit noon.



This one word, so simple, was almost impossible to speak.



But the magistrate was waiting, and the word must be spoken. "Yes." His own throat felt near closing up. "Sir."



"That's my boy, " Woodward whispered. His fingers released Matthew's hand. He lay staring up toward the ceiling, a half-smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "I remember... my own father, " he said after a moment of reflection. "He liked to dance. I can see them... in the house... dancing before the fire. No music. But my father... humming a tune. He picked my mother up. Twirled her... and she laughed. So... there was music... after all."



Matthew heard the nightbird, whose soft song may have reawakened this memory.



"My father, " the magistrate said. "Grew sick. I watched him... in bed, like this. Watched him fade. One day... I asked my mother... why Papa didn't stand up. Get out of bed. and dance a jig... to make himself feel better. I always said... always to myself... that when I was old... very old... and I lay dying. I would stand up. Dance a jig, so that... I might feel better. Matthewi"



"Yes, siri"



"Would it... sound very strange to you... if... I said I was ready to dancei"



"No, sir, it would not."



"I am. Ready. I am."



"Siri" Matthew said. "I have something for you." He reached down to the floor beside the bed and picked up the package he had put there this afternoon. Mrs. Nettles had found some brown wrapping paper, and decorated it with yellow twine. "Here, sir." He put the package into the magistrate's hands. "Can you open iti"



"I shall try." after a moment of struggling, however, he could not succeed in tearing the paper. "Well, " he frowned, "I am... lower on sand... than I thought."



"allow me." Matthew leaned toward the bed, tore the paper with his good hand, and drew what was inside out into the lamplight. The gold threads caught that light, and shone their illumination in stripes across the magistrate's face.



His hands closed into the cloth that was as brown as rich French chocolate, and he drew the waistcoat to him even as the tears ran from his dying eyes.



It was, indeed, a gift of fantastic worth.



"Wherei" the magistrate whispered. "Howi"



"Shawcombe was found, " Matthew said, and saw no need to elaborate.



Woodward pressed the waistcoat against his face, as if trying to inhale from it the fragrance of a past life. Matthew saw the magistrate smile. Who was to say that Woodward did not smell the sun shining in a garden graced by a fountain of green Italian tilesi Who was to say he did not see the candlelight that glowed golden on the face of a beautiful young woman named ann, or hear her soprano voice on a warm Sunday afternooni Who was to say he did not feel the small hand of his son, clutching to that of a good fatheri



Matthew believed he did.



"I have always been proud of you, " Woodward said. "always. I knew from the first. When I saw you... at the almshouse. The way you carried yourself. Something... different... and indefinable. But special. You will make your mark. Somewhere. You will make... a profound difference to someone... just by being alive."



"Thank you, sir, " Matthew answered, as best he could. "I... also... thank you for the care you have shown to me. You have ... always been temperate and fair."



"I'm supposed to be, " Woodward said, and managed a frail smile though his eyes were wet. "I am a judge." He reached out for Matthew and the boy took his hand. They sat together in silence, as beyond the window the nightbird spoke of joy seized from despair, of a new beginning reached only at an ending.



Dawn had begun to light the sky when the magistrate's body became rigid, after a difficult final hour of suffering.



"He's going, " Dr. Shields said, the lamplight aglow in the lenses of his spectacles. Bidwell stood at the foot of the bed, and Winston just within the door. Matthew still sat holding Woodward's hand, his head bowed and the Bible in his lap.



The magistrate's speech on this last portion of his journey had become barely intelligible, when he could speak through the pain. It had been mostly murmurs of torment, as his earthly clay transfigured itself. But now, as the silence lingered, the dying man seemed to stretch his body toward some unknown portal, the golden stripes of the waistcoat he wore shining on his chest. His head pressed back against the pillow, and he spoke three unmistakable words.



"Whyi Whyi" he whispered, the second fainter than the first.



and the last and most faint, barely the cloud of a breath:



"Whyi"



a great question had been asked, Matthew thought. The ultimate question, which might be asked only by explorers who would not return to share their knowledge of a new world.



The magistrate's body poised on the point of tension... paused... paused... and then, at last, it appeared to Matthew that an answer had been given.



and understood.



There was a soft, all but imperceptible exhalation. a sigh, perhaps, of rest.



Woodward's empty clay settled. His hand relaxed. The night was over.