Robert McCammon - Speaks the Nightbird

The noise of the blow was like an axeblade striking oak; somewhere in it was the crunch of Shawcombe's nose breaking. Shawcombe gave a strangled cry and stumbled backward, intent on grabbing at his wounded face instead of seeing the color of the magistrate's brain. Matthew stepped forward to wrest the mallet away, but suddenly he was attacked by the shrieking old hag, who grabbed at his coat collar with one hand and with the other shoved the candleflames toward his eyes.

Matthew reflexively struck at her, hitting her in the face, but he had to retreat to get away from her, and now Abner was coming into the room with his lantern and his pitchfork.

"Kill 'em!" Shawcombe whined, a nasal sound; he'd met the wall and slid down to the floor, his hands clamped across his face and the mallet lying beside him. Blood, black in the ochre light, was leaking between his fingers. "Abner! Kill 'em both!"

The old man, rain dripping from his beard, lifted the pitchfork and stepped toward Woodward, who was still groaning and trying to straighten himself up.

Matthew was aware of the open window behind him. His mind worked, faster than his body could react. He said, "Thou shalt not kill."

Abner stopped in his tracks. He blinked as if stunned. "What?"

"Thou shalt not kill," Matthew repeated. "It's in the Bible. You do know the Lord's word, don't you?"

"I… the Lord's word? Yeah, I reckon I-"

'Abner! Goddamn it, kill 'em!" Shawcombe bawled.

"It's in the Bible, is it not? Mr. Woodward, would you go out the window, please?" The magistrate had tears of pain streaming down his face. He'd regained enough sense, however, to realize he should move quickly.

"Shit! Lemme up!" Shawcombe tried getting to his feet, but both eyes were already turning purplish and starting to swell. He had a harder time than he'd expected finding his balance, and it yet eluded him. He sank back down to the floor. "Maude! Don't let 'em get out!"

"Gimme 'at damn pigsticka!" Maude grabbed the pitchfork and tugged at it, but Abner resisted her.

"The boy's right," Abner said; his voice was calm, as if a great truth had been revealed to him. "It's in the Bible. Thou shalt not kill. That's the Lord's word."

"Ya damn fool! Give it 'ere!" Maude tried, unsuccessfully, to wrench the pitchfork out of his hands.

"Hurry," Matthew said, as he helped the magistrate over the windowsill and out. Woodward fell into the mud like a flour sack. Then Matthew started climbing out.

"You ain't gettin' far!" Shawcombe promised, his voice tight with pain. "We'll hunt ya down!"

Matthew glanced back into the room to make sure Maude didn't have the pitchfork. Abner was still holding on to it, his face furrowed with thought. Matthew figured the old man wouldn't remain in that state of religious piety much longer, though; he was as much of a murderer as the other two, and Matthew had only rolled a stone in his path. Before Matthew let go of the sill, he saw another figure standing in the doorway. It was the girl, her face pale, the dark and dirty hair hanging in her eyes. Her arms were clasped around herself, a protective gesture. He had no idea if she was as mad as the rest of them, or what would become of her; he knew for certain, though, that she was beyond his help.

"Go on and run like a dog!" Shawcombe taunted. The blood was dripping between his fingers to the floor, his eyes becoming narrow, puffed slits. "If you're thinkin' to get that sword was in your wagon, it's done been got! Damn blade ain't sharp enough to cut a fart! So go on and see how far ya get!"

Matthew released the sill and jumped down into the mud beside Woodward, who was struggling to his feet. Maude began flailing Abner with curses, and Matthew knew they'd better put as much distance between them and the tavern as they could before the pursuit started. "Can you run?" he asked the magistrate.

"Run?" Woodward looked at him incredulously. "You might ask if I could crawl!"

"Whatever you can do, you'd best do it," Matthew said. "I think we should get into the woods, first thing."

"What about the horses and the wagon? We're not just going to leave them here!"

"There's no time. I expect they'll be after us in a few minutes. If they come at us with an axe or a musket-"

"Say no more." With an effort, Woodward began slogging toward the woods across the road from the tavern. Matthew followed close at his side, watchful in case he staggered.

The lightning flashed, thunder clapped, and rain fell upon their heads. Before they reached the forest, Matthew looked back at the tavern but saw no one yet following. He hoped Shawcombe had lost-at least for the moment-the desire to rouse himself and come out in this storm; he doubted if the old man and woman were very self-motivated without him. Probably Shawcombe was too busy dealing with his own pain to inflict it on anyone else. Matthew thought about going back for the horses, but he'd never saddled and bridled a mount in his life and the situation was volatile. No, he decided, it was best to head into the forest and follow the road in the direction they'd been going.

"We left everything," Woodward said disconsolately as their feet sank into the quagmire of mud and pine needles at the forest's edge. "Everything! My clothes, my wigs, my judicial robes! Dear Christ, my waistcoat! That animal has my waistcoat!"

"Yes, sir," Matthew answered. "But he doesn't have your life."

"And a sorry thing that will be, from this day forward! Ahh-hhh, that man almost made me a soprano!" He peered into the utter darkness that lay ahead. "Where are we going?"

"Fount Royal."

"What?" The magistrate faltered. "Has that man's madness impressed you?"

"Fount Royal is at the end of the road," Matthew said. "If we keep walking, we might be there in a few hours." An optimistic appraisal, he thought. This swampy earth and the pelting rain would slow them considerably, but it would also hinder their pursuers. "We can return here with their militia and retrieve our belongings. I think it's our only choice."

Woodward was silent. It was indeed their only choice. And if he could get his waistcoat back-and see Shawcombe kicking at the end of a noose-it would be worth a few hours of this vile indignity. He could not help thinking that once a man fell into the pit of disfavor with God, the hole was bottomless. He had no shoes, his balls were bruised and aching, his head was naked to the world, and his nightshirt was sopping and covered with mud. But at least they did both have their lives, which was more than he could say of Thymon Kingsbury. Execution is not one of my duties, he'd told Shawcombe. Well, that just might have to be amended.

He would come back here and get that waistcoat if it was the last thing he did on this earth.

Matthew was moving a little faster than the magistrate, and he paused to wait for Woodward. In time, the night and the storm swallowed them up.

Four

At last the afternoon sun had cleaved a path through the clouds and shone now on the drenched earth. The weather had warmed considerably, compared to the chill of the night before. This was more like the usual May, though the clouds-dark gray and swollen with more ghastly rain-were still looming, slowly converging together from all points of the compass to overtake the sun again.

"Go on," said the heavyset, lavishly bewigged man who stood at a second-floor window of his house, overlooking the vista. "I am listening."

The second man in the room-which was a study lined with shelves and leather-bound books, a gold-and-red Persian rug on the pinewood floor-sat on a bench before a desk of African mahogany, a ledger book open in his lap. He was the visitor here, however, as the bewigged man had recently lifted his 220-pound bulk from his own chair, which stood on the other side of the desk facing the bench. The visitor cleared his throat and placed a finger upon a line written in the ledger. "The cotton plants have again failed to take root," he said. "Likewise the tobacco seedlings." He hesitated before he delivered the next blow. "I regret to say that two-thirds of the apple trees have been blighted."