Robert McCammon - Speaks the Nightbird

"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 hand?" 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 rain?"

"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."

"Sir?"

"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 not? It's true… isn't it? 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, Matthew? Tell me. Was I right?"

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. Yes?" 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. Matthew?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Would it… sound very strange to you… if… I said I was ready to dance?"

"No, sir, it would not."

"I am. Ready. I am."

"Sir?" 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 it?"

"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.

"Where?" the magistrate whispered. "How?"

"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 tiles? 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 afternoon? Who was to say he did not feel the small hand of his son, clutching to that of a good father?