Robert McCammon - Speaks the Nightbird

"More than any man should have to pay," Woodward said, and then he pointedly moved his chair a few inches away from Shawcombe and left the tavern-keeper's fingers groping the air.

"Clear room! Watchyer elbows, there!" Maude slapped two wooden bowls, both filled with a murky brown stew, onto the table in front of Shawcombe and the magistrate. Matthew's bowl was brought by the girl, who set it down and quickly turned away to retreat to the hearth again. As she did, her clothes brushed his arm and the wind of her passage brought a strong scent to Matthew's nostrils: the scent of an unwashed body, yes, but another odor that overpowered the first. It was musky and sweetly sour, a compelling pungency, and it hit him like a fist to the chest that it was the aroma of her private region.

Shawcombe inhaled deeply, with a raucous noise. He looked at Matthew, whose eyes had widened slightly and were still tracking the girl. "Hey, there!" Shawcombe barked. "What're you gawkin' at?"

"Nothing." Matthew averted his gaze to the stew bowl.

"Uh huh."

The girl returned, bringing with her their wooden spoons. Once more her skirt brushed his arm, and he moved it with a twitch as if his elbow had been hornet-stung. That smell wafted to his nostrils. His heart was beating very hard. He picked up his spoon and realized his palm was damp. Then he realized Shawcombe was staring intensely at him, reading him like a broadsheet.

Shawcombe's eyes glittered in the candlelight. He wet his lips before he spoke. "She's a fair piece, do y'think?"

"Sir?"

Shawcombe smiled slightly, a mean and mocking smile. "A fair piece," he repeated. "You fancy a look at her oyster basket?"

"Mr. Shawcombe!" Woodward grasped the situation, and it was not acceptable to him. "If you don't mind-"

"Oh, you both can have a go at her, if you please. Won't cost you but a guinea for the two of you."

"Certainly not!" Woodward's cheeks had flamed. "I told you, I'm a married man!"

"Yeah, but she's in London, ain't she? Don't mean to tell me you got her name tattooed on your cock now, do you?"

If the storm had not been raging outside, if the horses had not been in the barn, if there were anywhere else in the world to spend this night, Woodward might've gotten to his feet with all the dignity he could summon and bade farewell to this coarse-minded lout. What he really wanted to do, deep in his soul, was to strike an open-handed blow across Shawcombe's leering face. But he was a gentleman, and gentlemen did no such things. Instead, he forced down his anger and disgust like a bucketful of bile and said tersely, "Sir, I am faithful to my wife. I would appreciate your understanding of that fact."

Shawcombe replied by spitting on the floor. He riveted his attention on the younger man again. "Well, how 'bout you then? You care for a toss? Say ten shillin's?"

"I… I mean to say-" Matthew looked to Woodward for help, because in truth he didn't know what he meant to say.

"Sir," Woodward said, "you force us into a difficult position. The young man… has lived in an almshouse for much of his life. That is…" He frowned, deciding how to phrase the next thing. "What you must realize is… his experience is very limited. He hasn't yet partaken of-"

"Great sufferin' mother!" Shawcombe broke in. "You mean he ain't never been fucked?"

"Well… as I say, his experience hasn't yet led him to-"

"Oh, quit that foamin' at the mouth! He's a fuckin' virgin, is that what you're tellin' me?"

"I believe your way of expressing that is a contradiction of terms, sir, but… yes, that's what I'm telling you."

Shawcombe whistled with amazement, and the way he regarded Matthew made the younger man blush blood-red. "I ain't never met one of your breed before, sonny! Damn my ears if I ever heard such a thing! How old are you?"

"I'm… twenty years old," Matthew was able to answer. His face was absolutely on fire.

"Twenty years and no pussy? How're you able to draw a breath without bustin' your bag?"

"I might ask how old that girl is," Woodward said. "She's not seen fifteen yet, has she?"

"What year is this?" Shawcombe asked.

"Sixteen ninety-nine."

Shawcombe began counting on his fingers. Maude brought to their table a wooden platter laden with chunks of brown cornbread, then scurried away once more. The tavern-keeper was having obvious difficulty with his digital mathematics, and finally he dropped his hand and grinned at Woodward. "Never you mind, she's ripe as a fig puddin'."

Matthew reached for the snakebite and near guzzled it.

"Be that as it may," Woodward countered, "we shall both pass on your invitation." He picked up his spoon and plunged it into the watery stew.

"Wasn't no invite. Was a business offer." Shawcombe drank some more rum and then started in on his stew as well.

"Damnedest thing I ever heard!" he said, his mouth full and leaking at the corners. "I was rogerin' the girls when I was twelve years old, m'self!"

"Jack One Eye," Matthew said. It had been something he'd wanted to ask about, and now seemed as good a time as any to get Shawcombe's mind off the current subject.

"What?"

"Earlier you mentioned Jack One Eye." Matthew dipped a chunk of cornbread into his stew and ate it. The bread tasted more of scorched stones than corn, but the stew wasn't at all objectionable. "What were you talking about?"

"The beast of beasts." Shawcombe picked up his bowl with both hands and slurped from it. "Stands seven, eight feet tall. Black as the hair on the Devil's ass. Had his eye shot out by a redskin's arrow, but just one arrow didn't stop him. No sir! Just made him meaner, is what they say. Hungrier, too. Swipe your face off with a claw and eat your brains for breakfast, he would."

"Jack One Eye's a fuckin' bear!" spoke up Abner, from where he stood steaming by the hearth. "Big one, too! Bigger'n a horse! Bigger'n God's fist, what he is!"

"Hain't no burr."

Shawcombe looked toward the speaker of this last declaration, stew glistening on his grizzled chin. "Huh? What're you sayin'?"

"Sayin' he hain't no burr." Maude came forward, silhouetted by the firelight. Her voice was still a mangled wheeze, but she was speaking as slowly and clearly as she could. This subject, both Woodward and Matthew surmised, must be of importance to her.

'"Course he's a bear!" Shawcombe said. "What is he, if he ain't no bear?"

"Hain't jus' a burr," she corrected. "I seen 'im. You hain't. I know 'hut he is."

"She's as addle-brained as the rest of 'em," Shawcombe told Woodward with a shrug.

"I seen 'im," the old woman repeated, a measure of force in her voice. She had reached their table and stood next to Matthew. Candlelight touched upon her wizened face, but her deep sunken eyes held the shadows. "I 'as at the door. Right they, at the door. Me Joseph was comin' home. Our boy too. I watch 'em, comin' out of the woods, over the field. Had a deer hangin' 'tween 'em. I lift up me laneturn, and I start ta holler 'em in… and all suddens that thang behind 'em! Jus' rose up, out of nowhar'." Her right hand had raised, her skinny fingers curled around the handle of a spectral lantern. "I try ta scream me husband's name… but hain't get nothin' out," she said. Her mouth tightened. "I try," she croaked. "I try… but God done stole me voice."

"Most like it was rotgut liquor stole it!" Shawcombe said, with a rough laugh.

The old woman didn't respond. She was silent, as rain battered the roof and a pine knot popped in the hearth. Finally she drew a long ragged breath that held terrible sadness and resignation. "Kilt our boy 'fore Joseph could tarn 'round," she said, to no one in particular. Matthew thought she might be looking at him, but he wasn't certain of it. "Like take his head off, one swang o' them claws. Then it fell on me husband… and weren't nothin' to be dun. I took a'running, threw me laneturn at 'im, but he 'as big. So awful big. He jus' shake them big black shoulders, and then he drag that deer off and leave me with what 'as left. Joseph 'as a-split open from 'is windpipe to 'is gullet, his innards a-hangin' out. Took 'im three days ta die." She shook her head and Matthew could see a wet glint in her eye sockets.