Speaks the Nightbird

aT HaLF-PaST SEVEN, Van Gundy's tavern was doing a brisk business. On any given Friday night the lamplit, smoky emporium of potables and edibles would have a half-dozen customers, mostly farmers who wished to socialize with their brethren away from the ears of wives and children. On this Friday night, with its celebratory air due to the fine weather and the imminent end of Rachel Howarth, fifteen men had assembled to talk, or holler as the case might be, to chew on the tavern's salted beef and drink draught after draught of wine, turn, and apple beer. For the truly adventurous there was available a tavern-brewed corn liquor guaranteed to elevate the earth to the level of one's nose.



Van Gundy - a husky, florid-faced man with a trimmed gray goatee and a few sprouts of peppery hair that stood upright on his scalp - was inspired by this activity to perform. Taking up his git-tern, he planted himself amid the revelers and began to howl bawdy songs that involved succulent young wives, chastity belts, duplicate keys, and travelling merchants. This cattawago proved so ennobling to the crowd that more orders for strong drink thundered forth and the thin, rather sour-looking woman who tended to the serving was gazed upon by bleary eyes as if she were a veritable Helen of Troy.



"Here is a song!" Van Gundy bellowed, his wind puffing the blue pipe smoke that wafted about him. "I made this up myself, just today!" He struck a chord that would've made a cat swoon and began:



"Hihi ho, here's a tale I know,'tisa sad sad tale I am sure,Concernsthe witch of Fount Royal,andher devilish crew,Tocall her vile is calling shit mannnnure!



Much laughter and tankard-lifting greeted this, of course, but Van Gundy was a fool for music.



"Hihi ho, here's a tale I know, 'tis a sorry sorry tale I know well, For when the witch of Fount Royal, has been burnt to cold gray ash,She'llstill be suckin' Satan's cock way down in Helllllll!"



Matthew thought the roof might be hurled off the tavern by the hurricane of noise generated by this ode. He had chosen his table wisely, sitting at the back of the room as far as possible from the center of activity, but not even the two cups of wine and the cup of apple beer he'd consumed could dull the sickened pain produced by Van Gundy's rape of the ear. These fools were insufferable! Their laughing and gruesome attempts at jokes turned Matthew's stomach. He had the feeling that if he remained much longer in this town he would become an accomplished drunkard and sink to a nadir known only by the worms that thrived in dog dates.



Now Van Gundy turned his talents to tunes concocted on the spot. He pointed at a gent nearby and then walloped a chord:



"Letme sing 'bout old Dick Cushing, Wore out his wife from his constant pushin'Shecalled for an ointment to ease her down there, But all the stuff did was burn off her hair'."



Laughter, hilarity, drinking, and rousting aplenty followed. another customer was singled out:



"Woeto all who cross Hiram abercrombie,Forhe's got a temper would sting a bee,Hecan drink any ten men under a table,andplow their wives' furrows when they are unable!"



Oh, this was torture! Matthew pushed aside the plate of chicken and beans that had served as a not very appetizing dinner. His appetite had been further killed by that unfortunate filth flung at Rachel, who might have silenced this haven of jesters with a single regal glance.



He finished the last swallow of the apple beer and stood up from his bench. at that moment Van Gundy launched into a new tuneless tune:



"allowus to welcome fine Solomon Stiles, Whosetalent in life lies in walking for miles, ThroughIndian woods and beast-haunted glen, Searchin'for a squaw to put his prick in!"



Matthew looked toward the door and saw that a man had just entered. as a reply to the laughter and shouts directed at him, this new arrival took off his leather tricorn and gave a mocking bow to the assembled idiots. Then he proceeded to a table and sat down as Van Gundy turned his graceless wit upon the next grinning victim, by name Jethro Sudrucker.



Matthew again seated himself. He'd realized that an interesting opportunity lay before him, if he handled it correctly. Was not this the Solomon Stiles who Bidwell had told him was a hunter, and who had gone out with a party of men in search of the escaped slavesi He watched as Stiles- - a lean, rawboned man of perhaps fifty years - summoned the serving-woman over, and then he stood up and went to the table.



Just before Matthew was about to make his introduction, Van Gundy strummed his gittern and bellowed forth:



"We should all feel pity for young Matthew Corbett,



I heard beside the spring he was savagely bit.



By that venomous serpent whose passion is pies,



and whose daughter bakes loaves between her hot            thighs!"



Matthew blushed red even before the wave of laughter struck him, and redder yet after it had rolled past. He saw that Solomon Stiles was offering only a bemused smile, the man's square-jawed face weathered and sharp-chiselled as tombstone granite. Stiles had closely trimmed black hair, gray at the temples. From his left eyebrow up across his forehead was the jagged scar of a dagger or rapier slash. His nose was the shape of an Indian tomahawk, his eyes dark brown and meticulous in their inspection of the young man who stood before him. Stiles was dressed simply, in black breeches and a plain white shirt.



"Mr. Stilesi" Matthew said, his face still flushed. Van Gundy had gone on to skewer another citizen on his gittern spike. "My name is - "



"I'm aware of your name, Mr. Corbett. You are famous."



"Oh. Yes. Well... that incident today was regrettable."



"I meant your scuffle with Seth Hazelton. I attended your whipping."



"I see." He paused, but Stiles did not offer him a seat. "May I join youi"



Stiles motioned toward the opposite bench, and Matthew sat down. "How's the magistrate's healthi" Stiles asked. "Still poorlyi"



"No, actually he's much improved. I have hopes he'll be on his feet soon."



"In time for the execution, possiblyi"



"Possibly, " Matthew said.



"It seems only fitting he should witness it and have the satisfaction of seeing justice done. You know, I selected the tree from which the stake was cut."



"Oh." Matthew busied himself by flicking some imaginary dust from his sleeve. "No, I didn't know that."



"Hannibal Green, I, and two others hauled it and planted it. Have you been out to take a looki"



"I've seen it, yes."



"What do you thinki Does it look sufficient for the purposei"



"I believe it does."



Stiles took a tobacco pouch, a small ebony pipe, and an ivory matchbox from his pocket. He set about filling the pipe. "I inherited the task from Nicholas. That rascal must have gotten down on bended knee to Bidwell."



"Siri"



"Nicholas Paine. Winston told me that Bidwell sent him to Charles Town this morning. a supply trip, up the coast to Virginia. What that rascal will do to avoid a little honest labor!" He fired a match with the flame of the table's lantern and then set his tobacco alight.



Matthew assumed Winston had performed trickery upon the morning watchman to advance this fiction of Paine's departure. Obviously an agreement had been reached that would benefit Winston's pockets and status.



Stiles blew out a whorl of smoke. "He's dead."



Matthew's throat clutched. "Siri"



"Dead, " Stiles repeated. "In my book, at least. The times I've helped him when he asked me, and then he runs when there's sweating to be done! Well, he's a proper fool to go out on that road alone, I'll tell you. He knows better than that. Bidwell must have some intrigue in the works, as usual." Stiles cocked his head to one side, smoke leaking between his teeth. "You don't know what it might be, do youi"



Matthew folded his hands together. He spent a few seconds in thought. "Well, " he said. "I might. It is interesting what one overhears in that house. Not necessarily meaning to, of course."



"Of course."



"I'm sure both Mr. Bidwell and Mr. Winston would deny it, " Matthew said, leaning his head forward in a conspiratorial gesture, "but I might have... or might not have, you understand... overheard the mention of muskets."



"Muskets, " Stiles repeated. He took another draw from his pipe.



"Yes sir. Could it be a shipment of musketsi and that might be what Mr. Paine has gone to negotiatei"



Stiles grunted and puffed his pipe. The serving-woman came with a steaming bowl of chicken stew, a spoon, and a rum cup. Matthew asked for another cup of apple beer.



"I was wondering, " Matthew said after a space of time during which Stiles put aside his pipe and began eating the stew, "if Mr. Bidwell might fear an Indian attack."



"No, not that. He would have told me if he feared the redskins were wearing paint."



"There are Indians near Fount Royal, I presumei"



"Near. Far. Somewhere out there. I've seen their signs, but I've never seen a redskin."



"They're not of a warlike nature, theni"



"Hard to say what kind of nature they are." Stiles paused to take a drink of rum. "If you mean, do I think they'd attack usi No. If you mean, would I go in with a band of men and attack themi No. Not even if I knew where they were, which I don't."



"But they do know where we arei"



Stiles laughed. "Ha! That's a good one, young man! as I said, I've never seen a redskin in these woods, but I have seen them before, further north. They walk on leaves as birds fly on air. They disappear into the earth while you're looking in their direction, and come up again at your back. Oh yes. They know everything about us. They watch us with great interest, I'm sure, but we would never see them unless they wanted to be seen. and they definitely do not."



"Then in your opinion a traveller, say, need not fear being scalped by themi"



"I myself don't fear it, " Stiles said. He spooned stew into his mouth. "Then again, I always carry a musket and a knife and I always know what direction to run. Neither would I go out there alone. It's not the redskins I would fear most, but the wild beasts."



Matthew's apple beer was delivered. He drank some and waited a time before he made his next move. "If not Indians, then, " he said thoughtfully, "there might be another reason for a possible shipment of muskets."



"and what would that bei"



"Well... Mrs. Nettles and I were engaged in conversation, and she made mention of a slave who escaped last year. He and his woman. Morganthus Crispin, I think the name was."



"Yes. Crispin. I recall that incident."



"They tried to reach the Florida country, I understandi"



"Yes. and were killed and half-eaten before they got two leagues from town."



"Hm, " Matthew said. So it was true, after all. "Well, " he went on, "I wonder if possibly... just possibly, mind you... Mr. Bid-well might be concerned that other slaves could follow Crispin's example, and that he wishes the muskets as a show of... shall we say... keeping his valuables in their place. Especially when he brings in younger and stronger slaves to drain the swamp." He took a stiff drink and then set the cup down. "I'm curious about this, Mr. Stiles. In your opinion, could anyone... a slave, I mean... actually reach the Florida countryi"



"Two of them almost did, " Stiles answered, and Matthew sat very still. "It was during Fount Royal's first year. Two slaves - a brother and sister - escaped, and I was sent after them with three other men. We tracked them to near a half-dozen leagues of the Spanish territory. I suppose the only reason we found them is that they lit a signal fire. The brother had fallen in a gully and broken his ankle."



"and they were brought back herei"



"Yes. Bidwell held them in irons and immediately arranged lor them to be shipped north and sold. It wouldn't do for any slave to be able to describe the territory or draw a map." Stiles relit his pipe with a second match from the ivory matchbox. "Tell me this, if you are able, " he said as he drew flame into the pipe's bowl. "When Mrs. Nettles mentioned this to you, in what context was iti I mean to ask, have you seen any indication that Bid-well is concerned about the slavesi"



Matthew again took a few seconds to formulate a reply. "Mr. Bidwell did express some concern that I not go down into the quarters. The impression I got was that he felt it might be... uh... detrimental to my health."



"I wouldn't care to go down there in any case, " Stiles said, his eyes narrowing. "But it seems to me he might be in fear of an uprising. Such a thing has happened before, in other towns. Little wonder he'd wish to keep such fears a secret! Coming on the heels of the witch, an uprising would surely destroy Fount Royal!"



"My thoughts exactly, " Matthew agreed. "Which is why it's best not spoken to anyone."



"Of course not! I wouldn't care to be blamed for starting a panic."



"and neither would I. My curiosity again, sir... and pardon me for not knowing these things an experienced hunter as yourself knows... but I would think you might lose your way on such a long journey as from here to the Florida country. How far exactly is iti"



"I judge it to be a hundred and forty-seven miles, by the most direct route."



"The most direct routei" Matthew asked. He took another drink. "I am still amazed, though, sir. You must have an uncanny sense of direction."



"I pride myself on my woods craft." Stiles pulled from the pipe, leaned his head slightly back, and blew smoke toward the ceiling. "But I must admit I did have the benefit of a map."



"Oh, " Matthew said. "Your map."



"Not my map. Bidwell's. He bought it from a dealer in Charles Town. It's marked in French by the original explorer - that's how old it is - -but I've found it to be accurate."



"It so happens I read and speak French. If you have need of a translation, I'd be glad to be of service."



"You might ask Bidwell. He has the map."



"ah, " Matthew said.



"Van Gundy, you old goat!" Stiles shouted toward the tavern-keeper, not without affection. "Let's have some more rum over here! a cup for the young man, too!"



"Oh, not for me, thank you. I think I've had my fill." Matthew stood up. "I must be on my way."



"Nonsense! Stay and enjoy the evening. Van Gundy's going to be playing his gittern again shortly."



"I hate to miss such an experience, but I have some reading to be done."



"That's what's wrong with you legalists!" Stiles said, but he was smiling. "You think too much!"



Matthew returned the smile. "Thank you for the company. I hope to see you again."



"My pleasure, sir. Oh... and thank you for the information. You can be sure I'll keep it to myself."



"I have no doubt, " Matthew said, and he made his way out of the smoke-filled place before that deadly gittern could be again unsheathed.



On his walk back to the mansion, Matthew sifted what he'd learned like a handful of rough diamonds. Indeed, with luck and fortitude, it was possible to reach the Florida country. Planning the trip - taking along enough food, matches, and the like -  would be essential, and so too would be finding and studying that map. He doubted it would be in the library. Most likely Bidwell kept the map somewhere in his upstairs study.



But what was he consideringi Giving up his rights as an Englishmani Venturing off to live in a foreign landi He might know French and Latin, but Spanish was not a point of strength. Even if be got Rachel out of the gaol - the first problem - and out of the i own - the second problem - and down to the Florida country -  i lie third and most mind-boggling problem - then was he truly prepared never to set foot again on English earthi



Or never to see the magistrate againi



Now here was another obstacle. If indeed he surmounted the first two problems and set off with Rachel, then the realization of what Matthew had done could well lay the magistrate in his grave. He might be setting his nightbird free at the cost of killing the man who had opened his own cage from a life of grim despair.



That's what's wrong with you legalists. You think too much.



Candles and lamps were ablaze at the mansion. Obviously the festivity was still under way. Matthew entered the house and heard voices from the parlor. He was intent on unobtrusively walking past the room on his way to the stairs when someone said, "Mr. Corbett! Please join us!"



alan Johnstone had just emerged on his cane from the dining room, along with the gray-bearded man that Matthew had assumed was the acting troupe's leader. Both men were well dressed - Johnstone certainly more so than the masker - and held goblets of wine. The schoolmaster had adorned his face with a dusting of white powder, just as he'd done the night of Matthew's and the magistrate's arrival. The men appeared fed and satisfied, indicating that dinner had just recently adjourned.



"This young man is Matthew Corbett, the magistrate's clerk, " Johnstone explained to his companion. "Mr. Corbett, this is Mr. Phillip Brightman, the founder and principal actor of the Red Bull Players."



"a pleasure!" Brightman boomed, displaying a basso voice powerful enough to wake cemetery sleepers. He shook Matthew's hand with a grip that might have tested the blacksmith's strength, but he was in fact a slim and rather unassuming-looking fellow though he did have that commanding, theatrical air about him.



"Very good to meet you." Matthew withdrew his hand, thinking that Brightman's power had been seasoned by a life of turning a gruelling wheel between the poles of the maskers' art and the necessity of food on the table. "I understand your troupe has arrived somewhat early."



"Early, yes. Our standing engagements in two other communities were... urn... unfortunately cancelled. But now we're glad to be here among such treasured friends!"



"Mr. Corbett!" Winston strolled out of the parlor, wineglass in hand. He was clean, close-shaven, relaxed and smiling, and dressed in a spotless dark blue suit. "Do join us and meet Mr. Smythe!"



Bidwell suddenly appeared behind Winston to toss in his two pence. "I'm sure Mr. Corbett has matters to attend to upstairs. We shouldn't keep him. Isn't that right, Mr. Corbetti"



"Oh, I believe he should at least step in and say hello, " Winston insisted. "Perhaps have a glass of wine."



Bidwell glowered at Matthew, but he said with no trace of rancor, "as you please, Edward, " and returned to the parlor.



"Come along, " Johnstone urged, as he limped on his cane past Matthew. "a glass of wine for your digestion."



"I'm full up with apple beer. But may I ask who Mr. Smythe isi"



"The Red Bull's new stage manager, " Brightman supplied. "Newly arrived from England, where he performed excellent service to the Saturn Cross Company and before that to James Prue's Players. I wish to hear firsthand about the witch, too. Come, come!" Before Matthew could make an excuse to leave -  since he did have a matter to attend to upstairs concerning a certain French-drawn map - Brightman grasped him by the upper arm and guided him into the parlor.



"Mr. David Smythe, Mr. Matthew Corbett, " Winston said, with a gesture toward each individual in turn. "The magistrate's clerk, Mr. Smythe. He delivered the guilty decree to the witch."



"Reallyi Fascinating. and rather fearful too, was it noti" Smythe was the young blond-haired man Matthew had seen sitting beside Brightman on the driver's plank of the lead wagon. He had an open, friendly face, his smile revealing that he'd been blessed with a mouthful of sturdy white teeth. Matthew judged him to be around twenty-five.



"Not so fearful, " Matthew replied. "I did have the benefit of iron bars between us. and Mr. Bidwell was at my side."



"Fat lot of good I might have done!" Bidwell said mirthfully, also in an effort to take control of this conversation. "One snap from that damned woman and I would've left my boots standing empty!"



Brightman boomed a laugh. Smythe laughed also, and so did Bidwell at his own wit, but Winston and the schoolmaster merely offered polite smiles.



Matthew was stone-faced. "Gentlemen, I remain unconvinced that - " He felt a tension suddenly rise in the room, and Bidwell's laugh abruptly ended. " - that Mr. Bidwell would have been anything less than courageous, " Matthew finished, and the sigh of relief from the master of Fount Royal was almost audible.



"I neither recall meeting the woman nor her husband last year, " Brightman said. "Did they not attend our play, I wonderi"



"Likely not." Bidwell crossed the parlor to a decanter of wine and filled his own glass. "He was a rather quiet... one might say reclusive... sort, and she was surely busy fashioning her own acting skills. Uh... not to infer that your craft has anything whatsoever to do with the infernal realm."



Brightman laughed again, though not nearly so heartily. "Some would disagree with you, Mr. Bidwell! Particularly a reverend hereabouts. You know we had occasion to oust a certain Bible-thumper from our camp this afternoon."



"Yes, I heard. Reverend Jerusalem possesses a fire that unfortunately sears the righteous as well as the wicked. Not to fear, though: as soon as he applies the rite of sanctimonity to the witch's ashes, he'll be booted out of our Garden of Eden."



Oh, the wit overflowed tonight! Matthew thought. "The rite of sanctimonityi" He recalled hearing Jerusalem use that phrase when the preacher had first come to the gaol to confront his "enemy mine."



"What kind of nonsense is thati"



"Nothing you would understand, " Bidwell said, with a warning glance.



"I'm sure he would, " Johnstone countered. "The preacher plans to administer some kind of ridiculous rite over Madam Howarth's ashes to keep her spirit, phantasm, or whatever from returning to haunt Fount Royal. If you ask me, I think Jerusalem has studied Marlowe and Shakespeare at least as much as he's studied adam and Moses!"



"Oh, you speak the names of our gods, sir!" Brightman said, with a huge smile. His smile, however, quickly faded as a more serious subject came to mind. "I do heavily regret the passing of another reverend, though. Reverend Grove was a man who saw a noble place for theatrical endeavors. I do miss seeing him this trip. David, you would have liked the man. He was of good humor, good faith, and certainly good reason. Mr. Bidwell, I'm sure your community is diminished by his absence."



"It most certainly is. But after the witch is dead - and thank God it will be soon - and our town back on an even keel, we shall endeavor to find a man of similar sterling qualities."



"I doubt you shall find a reverend who was a better player at chess!" Brightman said, smiling again. "Grove trounced me soundly on two occasions!"



"He trounced us all, " Johnstone said, with a sip of his wine. "It got to the point I refused to play him."



"He once beat me in a game that took all of five minutes, " Winston added. "Of course, with him calling out all his moves in Latin and me being a dunce at that language, I was befuddled from the opening pawn."



"Well, " Brightman said, and he lifted his wineglass. "Let me propose a toast to the memory of Reverend Grove. and also the memory of so many others who have departed your town, whether by choice or circumstance."



all but Matthew, who had no glass, participated in the toast. "I do miss seeing others I recall, " Brightman continued, sadness in his voice. "a stroll around town told me how much the witch has hurt you. There weren't nearly so many empty houses, were therei Or burned onesi"



"No, there were not, " Winston said, with either admirable pluck or stunning gall.



"Demonic doings, I gatheri" Brightman asked Bidwell, who nodded. Then the thespian turned his attention to Johnstone. "and the schoolhouse burned tooi"



"Yes." The schoolmaster's voice held an angry edge. "Burned to the ground before my eyes. The sorriest sight of my life. If our fire fighters had been at all trained and a great deal less lazy, the schoolhouse might have been saved."



"Let us not delve into that again, alan." It was obvious to Matthew that Bidwell was trying to soothe a terribly sore point. "We must let it go."



"I'll not let it go!" Johnstone snapped, his eyes darting toward Bidwell. "It was a damned crime that those so-called firemen stood there and allowed that schoolhouse - my schoolhouse - to burn! after all that work put into it!"



"Yes, alan, it was a crime, " Bidwell agreed. He stared into his glass. "But all the work was done by others, so why should you be so angryi The schoolhouse can be - and shall be - rebuilt." Brightman nervously cleared his throat, because again a tension had entered the room.



"What you mean to say, Robert, is that due to my deformity I simply stood aside while others did the labori" Johnstone's anger was turning colder. "Is that your meaningi"



"I said... and meant... nothing of the sort."



"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Brightman's smile was intended to return warmth to the gathering. "Let us not forget that Fount Royal faces the morning of a wondrous new day! I have no doubt the schoolhouse and all the rest of the structures shall be returned to their former glory, and that those houses vacated by past friends shall be soon inhabited by new ones." Still the chilly air lingered between Bidwell and Johnstone. Brightman looked to Smythe. "David, what was that you were telling me this afternooni You recall, before that preacher stormed ini Mr. Bidwell, you might find this of interest!"



"Yesi" Bidwell raised his eyebrows, while Johnstone hobbled away to refill his glass.



"Oh... about the man, " Smythe said. "Yes, this was peculiar.



a man came to the camp today. He was looking about. I know it sounds very odd, but... I found something familiar about him. His walk... his bearing... something."



"and you know who it wasi" Brightman asked Bidwell. "Of all people, your ratcatcher!" at the mere mention of the man, Matthew's throat seemed to clutch.



"Linchi" Bidwell frowned. "Was he over there bothering youi"



"No, not that, " Smythe said. "He seemed to be just... inspecting us, I suppose. We'd had several visitors who just strolled around the camp. But this man... well, it does sound very strange, but... I watched him for a moment or two, and then I approached him from behind. He had picked up a blue glass lantern that is used in one of our morality scenes. The way his fingers moved over the glass... the way he turned the lantern this way and that... I thought I had seen such movements before. and I also thought I knew who the man was, yet... he was dressed in filthy clothes, and he was so very changed from the last time I'd seen him, when I was perhaps... oh... sixteen or seventeen years old."



"Pardon me, " Matthew said, his throat still tight. "But who did you think Mr. Linch might have beeni"



"Well, I spoke the name. I'm sure I sounded incredulous. I said: 'Mr. Lancasteri' and he turned around." Smythe put a finger to his mouth, as if determining whether to continue this tale or not.



"Yesi" Matthew prodded. "What theni"



"I... know this is absolutely ridiculous... but then again, Mr. Lancaster did have an act in the circus that involved trained rats, so when Mr. Brightman explained to me that the man was Fount Royal's ratcatcher, then... it's all very puzzling."



"Puzzlingi" Johnstone had returned with his fresh glass of wine. "How soi"



"I could swear the man was Jonathan Lancaster, " Smythe said. "In fact, I would swear it. He turned toward me and looked me right in the face... and I saw his eyes. Such eyes... pale as ice... and piercing to the soul. I have seen them before. The man is Jonathan Lancaster, but..." He shook his head, his blond brows knit. "I... had not planned on mentioning this to anyone but Mr. Brightman. I intended first to locate Mr. Lancaster -  your ratcatcher, I mean - and find out for myself, in private, why he has... um... sunken to such a low profession."



"My pardon, please!" Brightman said. "I didn't realize this was a personal matter!"



"Oh, that's all right." He gave Brightman a rather vexed glance. "Once a cat is out of a bag, sir, it is very difficult to put it back in again."



"The same might be said of a fox, " Matthew offered. "But tell me: did Linch - or Lancaster - speak to youi Did he seem to recognize you as welli"



"No, I saw no recognition on his part. as soon as I spoke his name, he hurried away. I was going to follow him, but... I decided he might be ashamed to be seen dressed in rags. I wished not to intrude on his privacy until I had considered if I was mistaken or not."



"Gwinett Linch has always been Gwinett Linch, from what I know, " Bidwell contended. "Who is this Jonathan Lancasteri"



"Mr. Lancaster was employed at the circus at the same time my father was its manager, " Smythe said. "I had the run of the place, and I helped where my father directed me. as I said, Mr. Lancaster had an act that involved trained rats, but he also - "



The door's bell rang with such ferocity that it must have been near pulled off its hinge. Before two seconds had passed, the door burst open and the visitor announced himself with a soul-withering shout: "How dare ye! How dare ye do me such an injury!"



"Oh my Lord!" Brightman said, his eyes wide. "The storm returns!"



Indeed the black-clad, black-tricorned whirlwind entered the room, his gaunt and wrinkled face florid with rage and the cords standing out in his neck. "I demand to know!" Exodus Jerusalem hollered, aiming his mouth at Bidwell. "Why was I not invited to thy preparationsi"



"What preparationsi" Bidwell fired back, his own temper in danger of explosion. "and how dare you enter my house with such rudeness!"



"If thee wisheth to speak of rudeness, we might speak of the rudeness thou hast not only shown to me, but also shown to thy God almighty!" The last two words had been brayed so loudly the walls seemed to tremble. "It was not enough for thee to allow such sinful filth as play-actors into thy town, but then thou forceth me to abide within nostril's reach of them on the same street! God warrant it, I should have given thy town up as lost to Hell's fires that very instant! and I still wouldst, if not for the rite of just lay-ment!"



"The rite of just laymenti" Bidwell now exhibited a suspicious scowl. "Hold a moment, preacher! I thought you said it was the rite of sanctimonity!"



"Oh... yes, it is also called such!" Jerusalem's voice had faltered, but already it was gathering hot wind again for another bellow. "Wouldst thou believe that so important a rite wouldst only have one namei Even God Himself is also called Jehovah! Lord above, deliver thy servant from such blind pride as we vieweth aplenty in this room!"



Matthew was not so blind as to fail to realize that Jerusalem, as was his nature, had taken center stage in the prideful parlor. Brightman and Smythe had retreated for the safety of their ears, Bidwell had backed up several paces, and even the stalwart schoolmaster had staggered back, the knuckles of his cane-gripping hand white with pressure.



Winston, however, had stood his ground. "What's the meaning of bursting in on Mr. Bidwell's private affairsi"



"Sir, in God's great kingdom there are no private affairs!" Jerusalem snapped. "It is only Satan who craveth secrecy! That is why I am so amazed and confounded by the fact that thou wouldst hide this meeting with the play-actors from mine eyes!"



"I did not hide anything from you!" Bidwell said. "anyway, how the hell... I mean... how on earth did you find out the actors were even herei"



"I wouldst have remained unenlightened had I not ventured to the play-actors' camp - as a man who loveth peace and brotherhood - to speak with their leader. and then I learneth from some fat thespian whose saint must surely be gluttony that Mr. Brightman is here with thee! and I kneweth exactly what must be transpiring!"



"and exactly what is transpiringi" Winston asked.



"The planning, as thou well knoweth!" It was spoken with dripping sarcasm. "To cut me out of the execution day!"



"Whati" Bidwell saw that Mrs. Nettles and two serving-girls had come to peer into the room, perhaps fearing violence from the wall-shaking volume. He waved them away. "Preacher, I fail to understand what you're - "



"I went to see thee, brother Brightman, " Jerusalem interrupted, addressing the other man, "for the purpose of creating an agreement. I understand that thou planneth a play after the witch hath been burned. That evening, as I hear. I mineself have intentions that very eve to deliver a message to the citizens upon the burning battleground. as an observer of debased human nature, I fully realize there are more misguided sinners who wouldst attend a pig-and-bear show than hear the word of God almighty, no matter how compelling the speaker. Therefore I wished - as a peaceful, brotherly man - to offer up mine services to enricheth your performance. Say... a message delivered to the crowd between each scene, building to a finale that will hopefully enricheth us alli"



a stunned quiet reigned. Brightman broke it, with thunder. "This is outrageous! I don't know from where you hear your faulty information, but we're planning no play on the night of the witch's burning! Our plans are to exhibit morality scenes several nights afterward!"



"and from where do you get this information, preacheri" Winston challenged.



"From a fine woman of thy town. Madam Lucretia Vaughan came to speak with me earlier this evening. She wisheth to afford the crowd with her breads and pies, a sample of which she was most delighted to give." Matthew had to wonder if that was the only sample the woman had given the lecherous rogue.



"In fact, " Jerusalem went on, "Madam Vaughan hath created a special bread to be offered at the burning. She calleth it 'Witch Riddance Loaf. '"



"For God's justice!" Matthew said, unable to hold his silence an instant longer. "Get this fool out of here!"



"Spoken as a true demon in training!" Jerusalem retorted, with a sneering grin. "If thy magistrate knew anything of God's justice, he would have a second stake prepared for thee!"



"His magistrate... does know God's justice, sir, " came a weak but determined voice from the parlor's doorway.



Every man turned toward the sound.



and there - miraculously! - stood Isaac Temple Woodward, returned from the land of the near-dead.



"Magistrate!" Matthew exclaimed. "You shouldn't be out of bed!" He rushed to his side to offer him support, but Woodward held out a hand to ward him off while he gripped the wall with his other.



"I am sufficiently able... to be out, up, and about. Please... allow me room in which to draw a breath."



Not only had Woodward climbed out of bed and negotiated the staircase, he had also dressed in a pair of tan breeches and a fresh white shirt. His thin calves were bare, however, and he wore no shoes. His face was yet very pallid, which made the dark purple hollows beneath his eyes darker still; his scalp was also milk-pale, the age-spots upon his head a deep red in contrast. Gray grizzle covered his cheeks and chin.



"Please! Sit down, sit down!" Bidwell recovered from his shock and motioned to the chair nearest Woodward.



"Yes... I think I shall. The stairs have winded me." Woodward, with Matthew's aid, eased to the chair and sank down onto it. Matthew felt no trace of fever from the magistrate, but there was still emanating from him the sweetish-sour odor of the sickbed.



"Well, this is quite amazing!" Johnstone said. "The doctor's potion must have gotten him up!"



"I believe... you are correct, sir. a dose of that elixir... thrice a day... would surely awaken Lazarus."



"Thank God for it!" Matthew pressed his hand to Woodward's shoulder. "I would never have let you get out of bed, if I'd known you were able, but... this is wonderful!"



The magistrate put his hand on Matthew's. "My throat still pains me. My chest as well. But... any improvement is welcome." He squinted, trying to make out the faces of two men he didn't know. "I'm sorry. Have we meti"   '



Bidwell made the introductions. Neither Brightman nor Smythe stepped forward to shake hands; in fact, Matthew noted, they stayed well on the other side of the room.



"Some wine, Magistratei" Bidwell pushed a glass into Woodward's hand, whether he wanted it or not. "We are so very glad you've come out the other side of your ordeal!"



"No one more glad than I, " Woodward rasped. He sipped the wine, but couldn't taste a hint of it. Then his gaze went to the preacher, sharpening as it travelled. "In reply to your comment concerning God's justice, sir... I must say that I believe God to be the most lenient judge... in all of creation... and merciful beyond all imaginings. Because if He were not... you would have found yourself called to His courtroom on a lightning bolt by now."



Jerusalem braced himself to make some cutting reply, but he seemed to think better of it. He bowed his head. "I humbly apologize for any remark that might have caused thee distress, sir. It is not mine wish to offend the law."



"Why noti" Woodward asked, taking another tasteless drink. "You've offended... everyone else hereabouts, it seems."



"Uh... pardon, please, " Brightman spoke up, a little nervously. "David and I ought to be going. I mean no offense either, Magistrate. We both wish to hear about your experience with the witch, but... as you might well understand... the ability of a thespian to project lies in the throat. If we should... um... find difficulty, in that area, then - "



"Oh, I didn't think!" Woodward said. "Please forgive me. Of course... you don't wish to risk any health complications!"



"Exactly, sir. David, shall we goi Mr. Bidwell, thank you for a wonderful dinner and a gracious evening." Brightman was obviously in a hurry to leave, fearing that any throat affliction might doom his play-acting. Matthew was eager to know more about Linch or Lancaster or whatever his name was, but now was not the time. He decided that first thing in the morning he would seek out Smythe for the rest of the story.



"I shall join thee!" Jerusalem announced to the two men, and both of them looked further stricken. "It seems we have much to talk over and plan, does it noti Now... concerning these morality scenes. How long are they to bei I ask because I wish to keep a certain... shall we say... rhythm to the pace of my message!"



"ahhhh, how magnificent it is... to be free from that bed!" Woodward said, as Bidwell showed his guests and the pest out. "How goes it, Mr. Winstoni"



"Fine, sir. I can't tell you how gratified I am to see you doing so much better."



"Thank you. Dr. Shields should be here soon... for my third dose of the day. The stuff has... burned my tongue to a cinder, but thank God I can breathe."



"I have to say, you seemed at a dangerous point." Johnstone finished his wine and set the glass aside. "Far past a dangerous point, to be more truthful. I'm sure you had no way of knowing this, but there are some - many - who feel Madam Howarth cursed you for handing down the decree."



Bidwell entered again, and had heard the last of what Johnstone had said. "alan, I don't think it's proper to mention such a diing!"



"No, no, it's all right." Woodward waved a reassuring hand. "I would be surprised if... people did not say such a thing. If I was cursed, it was not by the witch... but by the bad weather and my own... weak blood. But I'm going to be fine now. In a few days... I shall be as fit as I ever was."



"Hear, hear!" Winston said, and raised his glass.



"and fit to travel, too, " Woodward added. He lifted his hand and rubbed his eyes, which were still bloodshot and bleary. "This is an... incident I wish to put far behind me. What say you, Matthewi"



"The same, sir."



Johnstone cleared his throat. "I should be going myself, now. Robert, thank you for the evening. We shall... um... have to discuss the future of the schoolhouse at a later date."



"That brings something to mind!" Woodward said. "alan... you should find this of interest. In my delirium... I had a dream of Oxford."



"Really, siri" Johnstone wore a faint smile. "I should say many former students suffer deliriums of Oxford."



"Oh, I was there! Right there, on the sward! I was... a young man. I had places to go... and much to accomplish."



"You heard the tolling of Great Tom, I presumei"



"Certainly I did! One who hears that bell... never forgets it!" Woodward looked up at Matthew and gave him a weak smile that nevertheless had the power to rend the clerk's heart. "I shall take you to Oxford one day. I shall show you... the halls... the great rooms of learning... the wonderful smell of the place. Do you recall that, alani"



"The most singular aroma of my experience was that of the bitter ale at the Chequers Inn, sir. That and the dry aroma of an empty pocket, I fear."



"Yes, that too." Woodward smiled dreamily. "I smelled the grass. The chalk. The oaks... that stand along the Cherwell. I was there... I swear it. I was there as much as... any flesh and blood can be. I even found myself at the door of my social fraternity. The old door... of the Carleton Society. and there... right there before me... was the ram's head bellpull... and the brass plaque with its motto, lus omni est ius omnibus. Oh, how I recall that door... that bellpull, and the plaque." He closed his eyes for a few seconds, taking in the wondrous memory. Then he opened them again and Matthew saw that Woodward's eyes had grown moist. "alan... your society was... what did you say it wasi"



"The Ruskins, sir. an education fraternity."



"ah. Do you recall your mottoi"



"Certainly I do. It was..." He paused, gathering it from the mist. "The greatest sin is ignorance."



"There's a fitting motto for an educator... is it noti" Woodward asked. "as a jurist, I might... disagree with it... but then again, we were all young and yet to be schooled... at the university of life, were we noti"



"Oxford was difficult, " Johnstone said. "But the university of life is well nigh impossible."



"Yes. It does... grade rather harshly." The magistrate gave a long sigh, his newfound strength now almost spent. "Pardon me... for my rambling. It seems that when one is ill... and so near death... the past becomes paramount... to ease the dwindling of one's future."



"You need never ask apology of me to reflect on Oxford, Magistrate, " Johnstone said with what seemed to Matthew an admirable grace. "I too still walk those halls in my memory. Now... if you'll please forgive me... my knee also has a memory, and it is calling for liniment. Good night to you all."



"I'll walk with you, alan, " Winston offered, and Johnstone accepted with a nod. "Good night, Mr. Bidwell. Magistrate. Mt. Corbett."



"Yes, good night, " Bidwell replied.



Winston followed as Johnstone limped out of the room, leaning even more than usual on his cane. Then Bidwell poured himself the last few swallows of wine from the decanter and went upstairs to avoid any discourse or possible friction with Matthew. as Woodward half-dozed in the chair, Matthew awaited the arrival of Dr. Shields.



The question of Linch/Lancaster was uppermost in Matthew's mind. Here, at last, might be some hope to cling to. If Smythe could positively identify Linch as this other man, it would be a starting point to convince Bidwell that a fiction had been created around Rachel. Was it too much to hope for that all this might be accomplished on the morrowi