Robert McCammon - Speaks the Nightbird

A breeze moved across Fount Royal on this warm and darkening eve. It rippled the waters of the fount, and kissed the roofs of lightless houses. It moved along Industry Street, where it had been sworn that the phantasm of Gwinett Linch had been seen, hurrying along with its rat sticker and its torn throat, warning in a ghastly cry that the witches of Fount Royal were hungry for more souls… more souls…

The breeze stirred dust from Harmony Street, and whirled that dust into the cemetery where it had been sworn a dark figure was seen walking amid the markers, counting numbers on an abacus. The breeze whispered along Truth Street, past the accursed gaol and that house-that witch's house-from which sounds of infernal merriment and the scuttling of demons' claws could be heard, if one dared approach too closely.

Yes, it all was very clear now to the citizens, who had responded to this clarity of vision by fleeing for their lives. Seth Hazelton's house lay empty, the stalls of his barn bare, his forge cold. The hearth at the abandoned Vaughan house still held the perfume of baked bread, but the only movement in that forsaken domicile was the agitation of the wasps. At the infirmary, bags and boxes had been packed in preparation for departure, the glass vials and bottles nestled in cotton and waiting for…

Just waiting.

They were almost all gone. A few stalwarts remained, either out of loyalty to Robert Bidwell, or because their wagons had to be repaired before a trip could be undertaken, or because-the rarest cases-they had nowhere else to go and continued to delude themselves that all would be well. Exodus Jerusalem remained in his camp, a fighter to the end, and though the audience at his nightly preachings had dwindled he continued to assail Satan for the appreciation of his flock. Also, he had made the acquaintance of a certain widow woman who had not the benefit of male protection, and so after his feverish sermons were done he protected her at close quarters with his mighty sword.

But lanterns still glowed in the mansion, and light sparkled off four lifted wineglasses.

"To Fount Royal, " Bidwell said. "What it was, I mean. And what it might have been." The toast was drunk without comment by Winston, Johnstone, and Shields. They stood in the parlor, in preparation to go into the dining room for the light dinner to which Bidwell had invited them.

"I deeply regret it's turned out this way, Robert, " Shields said. "I know you-"

"Hush." Bidwell lifted the palm of his free hand. "We'll have no tears this evening. I have travelled my road of grief, and wish to go on to the next destination."

"What, then?" Johnstone asked. "You're going back to England?"

"Yes, I am. In a matter of weeks, after some business is finished. That's why Edward and I went to Charles Town on Tuesday, to prepare for our passage." He drank another sip of his wine and looked about the room. "My God, how shall I ever salvage such a folly as this? I must have been mad, to have dumped so much money into this swamp!"

"I myself must throw in my cards, " Johnstone said, his face downcast. "There's no point in my staying any longer. I should say in the next week."

"You did a fine job, Alan, " Shields offered. "Fount Royal was graced by your ideas and education."

"I did what I could, and thank you for your appreciation. As for you, Ben… what are your plans?"

Shields drank down his wine and walked to the decanter to refill his glass. "I will leave… when my patient departs. Until then, I will do my damnedest to make him comfortable, for that's the very least I can do."

"I fear at this point, doctor, it's the most you can do, " Winston said.

"Yes, you're right." Shields took down half the fresh glass at a swallow. "The magistrate… hangs on from day to day by his fingernails. I should say he hangs on from hour to hour." Shields lifted his spectacles and scratched his nose. "I've done everything I could. I thought the potion was going to work… and it did work, for a while. But his body wouldn't accept it, and it virtually collapsed. Therefore: the question is not if he will pass, but when." He sighed, his face strained and his eyes bloodshot. "But he is comfortable now, at least, and he's breathing well."

"And still he's not aware?" Winston asked.

"No. He still believes Witch Howarth burned on Monday morning, and he believes his clerk looks in on him from time to time, simply because that's what I tell him. As his mind is quite feeble, he has no recollection of the passage of days, nor of the fact that his clerk is not in the house."

"You don't intend on telling him the truth, then?" Johnstone leaned on his cane. "Isn't that rather cruel?"

"We decided… I decided… that it would be supremely cruel to tell him what has actually happened, " Bidwell explained. "There's no need in rubbing his face in the fact that his clerk was bewitched and threw in his lot with the Devil. To tell Isaac that the witch did not burn… well, there's just no point to it."

"I agree, " Winston said. "The man should be allowed to die with peace of mind."

"I can't understand how that young man could have bested Green!" Johnstone swirled the wine around his glass and then finished it. "He must have been either very lucky or very desperate."

"Or possessed supernatural strength, or had the witch curse Green to sap the man's power, " Bidwell said. "That's what I think."

"Pardon me, gentlemen." Mrs. Nettles had come. "Dinner's a'table."

"Ah, yes. Good. We'll be there directly, Mrs. Nettles." Bid-well waited for the woman to withdraw, and then he said quietly to the others, "I have a problem. Something of the utmost importance that I need to discuss with all of you."

"What is it?" Shields asked, frowning. "You sound not yourself."

"I am not myself, " Bidwell answered. "As a matter of fact… since we returned from Charles Town and I have taken stock of my impending failure, I am changed in a way I would never have thought possible. In fact, that is what I need to discuss with all of you. Come, let's go into the library where voices don't carry as freely." He picked up a lamp and led the way.

Two candles were already burning in the library, shedding plenty of light, and four chairs had been arranged in a semicircle. Winston followed Bidwell in, then the doctor entered, and lastly Johnstone limped through the doorway.

"What's this, Robert?" Johnstone asked. "You make it sound so secretive."

"Please, sit down. All of you." When his guests were seated, Bidwell put his lantern on the sill of the open window and settled himself in his chair. "Now, " he said gravely. "This problem that I grapple with… has to do with…"

"Questions and answers, " came a voice from the library's entrance. Instantly Dr. Shields and Johnstone turned their heads toward the door.

"The asking of the former, and the finding of the latter, " Matthew said, as he continued into the room. "And thank you, sir, for delivering the cue."

"My God!" Shields shot to his feet, his eyes wide behind his spectacles. "What are you doing here?"

"Actually, I've been occupying my room for the afternoon." Matthew walked to a position so that he might face all the men, his back to the wall. He wore a pair of dark blue breeches and a fresh white shirt. Mrs. Nettles had cut the left sleeve away from the clay dressing. He didn't tell them that when he'd shaved and been forced to regard his bruise-blotched face and the clay plaster on his forehead, he'd been cured of unnecessary glances in a mirror for some time to come.

"Robert?" Johnstone's voice was calm. He gripped the shaft of his cane with both hands. "What trickery is this?"

"It's not a trick, Alan. Simply a preparation in which Edward and I assisted."

"A preparation? For what, pray tell?"