Robert McCammon - Speaks the Nightbird

He passed the gaol. He did not give the odious place a single glance, though his gut tightened as he stepped on its shadow.

And then he came to her house.

Rachel had been busy. She had pulled into the yard much of the furniture, and a washtub of soapy water stood at the ready. Also brought into the cleansing sun were clothes, bedsheets, a mattress, kettles and skillets, shoes, and just about everything else a household contained.

The door was wide open, as were all the shutters. Airing the place out, he thought. Intending to move in again, and make it a home. Indeed, Rachel was more like Bidwell in her tenacity-one might say foolhearted stubbornness-than ever he'd imagined. Still, if elbow grease alone could transform that rat-whiskered shack to a livable cottage again, she would have a mansion of her own.

He crossed the yard, winding between the accumulated belongings. Suddenly his progress was interrupted by a small chestnut-brown dog that sprang up from its drowsing posture beside the washtub, took a stance that threatened attack, and began to bark in a voice that surely rivaled the preacher's for sheer volume.

Rachel came to the threshold and saw who her visitor was. "Hush!" she commanded. "Hush!" She clapped her hands to get the mongrel's attention. The dog ceased its alarms and, with a quick wag of its tail and a wide-mouthed yawn, plopped itself down on the sun-warmed ground again.

"Well!" Matthew said. "It seems you have a sentinel."

"She took up with me this morning." Rachel wiped her dirty hands on an equally dirty rag. "I gave her one of the ham biscuits Mrs. Nettles made for me, and we are suddenly sisters."

Matthew looked around at the furniture and other items. "You have your labors ahead of you, I see."

"It won't be so bad, once I finish scrubbing the house."

"Rachel!" Matthew said. "You don't really plan on staying here, do you?"

"It's my home, " she answered, spearing him with those intense amber eyes. She wore a blue-printed scarf around her head, and her face was streaked with grime. The gray dress and white apron she wore were equally filthy. "Why should I leave it?"

"Because…" He hesitated, and showed her the box. "Because I have something for you. May I come in?"

"Yes. Mind the mess, though."

As Matthew approached the door, he heard a whuff of wind behind him and thought the mighty sentinel had decided to take a bite from his ankle. He turned in time to see the brown dog go tearing off across the field, where it seized one of two fleeing rats and shook the rodent between its jaws in a crushing deathgrip.

"She does like to chase them, " Rachel said.

Within the bare house, Matthew saw that Rachel had been scraping yellow lichens from the floorboards with an axeblade. The fungus and mildew that had spread across the walls had bloomed into strange purple and green hues only otherwise to be seen in fever dreams. However, Matthew saw that where the sunlight touched, the growths had turned ashen. A broom leaned against the wall, next to a pile of dust, dirt, rat pellets, and bones. Nearby was a bucket of more soapy water, in which a scrub brush was immersed.

"You know, there are plenty of houses available, " Matthew said. "If you really insist on staying here, you might move into one only recently abandoned and save yourself all this work. As a matter of fact, I know a very comfortable place, and the only labor involved would be clearing out a wasp's nest."

"This is my home, " she answered.

"Well… yes… but still, don't you think-"

She turned away from him and picked up a rolling pin that lay on the floor near the broom. Then she walked to a wall and put her ear against it. Following that, she whacked the boards three times and Matthew could hear the panicked squeaking and scurrying from within.

"Those defy me, " Rachel said. "I've run out most of them, but those-right there-defy me. I swear I'll clean them out. Every last one of them."

And at that moment Matthew understood.

Rachel, he believed, was still in a state of shock. And who could fault her? The loss of her husband, the loss of her home, the loss of her freedom. Even-for a time at least, as she prepared herself for the fires-the loss of her will to live. And now, faced with the daunting-and perhaps impossible-task of rebuilding, she must concentrate on and conquer what she perceived as the last obstacle to a return to normality.

But who, having walked through such flames, could ever erase the memory of being singed?

"I regret I have nothing to offer you, " she said, and now that he was looking for it he could see a certain burnt blankness in her eyes. "It will be a time before my cupboard is restocked."

"Yes, " Matthew said. He gave her a sad but gentle smile. "I'm sure. But… nonetheless, it will be restocked, won't it?"

"You may put faith in it, " she answered, and then she pressed her ear to the wall again.

"Let me show you what I've brought." He approached her and offered the box. "Take it and look inside." Rachel laid down the rolling pin, accepted the box, and lifted its lid.

Matthew saw no reaction on her face, as she viewed the coins and the other items. "The little bag. Open that too." She shook the gems out into the box. Again, there was no reaction.

"Those were found in Johnstone's house." He had already decided to tell her the truth. "Mr. Bidwell asked me to give them to you."

"Mr. Bidwell, " Rachel repeated, without emotion. She closed the lid and held the box out. "You take them. I have already received from Mr. Bidwell all the gifts that I can stand."

"Listen to me. Please. I know how you must feel, but-"

"No. You do not, nor can you ever."

"Of course you're right." He nodded. "But surely you must realize you're holding a true fortune. I daresay with the kind of money you could get in Charles Town from the sale of those jewels, you might live in Mr. Bidwell's style in some larger, more populous city."

"I see what his style is, " she countered, "and I detest it. Take the box."

"Rachel, let me point out something to you. Bidwell did not murder your husband. Nor did he create this scheme. I don't particularly care for his… um… motivations, either, but he was reacting to a crisis that he thought would destroy Fount Royal. In that regard, " Matthew said, "he acted properly. You know, he might have hanged you without waiting for the magistrate. I'm sure he could have somehow justified it."

"So you're justifying him, is that right?"

"Since he now faces a guilty verdict from you in a tragedy for which he was not wholly responsible, " Matthew said, "I am simply pleading his case."

Rachel stared at him in silence, still holding out the box to him. He made no move to accept it.

"Daniel is gone, " Matthew told her. "You know that. Gone, too, are the men who murdered him. But Fount Royal-such as it may be-is still here, and so is Bidwell. It appears he intends to do his best to rebuild the town. That is his main concern. It seems to be yours as well. Don't you think this common ground is larger than hatred?"

"I shall take this box, " Rachel said calmly, "and dump it into the spring if you refuse it."

"Then go ahead, " he answered, "because I do refuse it. Oh: except for one gold piece. The one that Johnstone stole from my room. Before you throw your fortune and future away to prove your devotion to Daniel in continued poverty and suffering, I will take the one gold piece." There was no response from her, though perhaps she did flinch just a little.

"I understand Bidwell's position, " Matthew said. "The evidence against you was overwhelming. I too might have pressed for your execution, if I believed firmly enough in witchcraft. And… if I hadn't fallen in love with you."

Now she did blink; her eyes, so powerful a second before, had become dazed.