Robert McCammon - Speaks the Nightbird

"My Lord!" Woodward said. "Wasn't there a neighbor to come to your aid?"

"Naybarr?" she said, incredulously. "Hain't no naybarrs out 'chere. Me Joseph 'as a trapper, dun some Injun tradin'. Tha's how we live. What I'm tellin' you is, Jack One Eye hain't jus' a burr. Ever'thin' dark 'bout this land… ever'thin' cruel and wicked. When you think your husband 'n son are comin' home and you liftin' a light and 'bout to holler 'em in. Then that thang rises up, and all sudden you hain't got nothin' no more. Tha's what Jack One Eye is."

Neither Woodward nor Matthew knew how to respond to this wretched tale, but Shawcombe, who had continued slurping stew and pushing cornbread into his mouth, had his own response. "Aw, shit!" he cried out and grasped his jaw. His face was pinched with pain. "What's in this bloody bread, woman?" He reached into his mouth, probed around, and his fingers came out gripping a small dark brown object. '"Bout broke my tooth on this damn thing! Hell's bells!" Realization had struck him. "It is a fuckin' tooth!"

"I 'spect it's mine," Maude said. "Had some loose 'uns this mornin'." She grabbed it from his hand, and before he could say anything more she turned her back on them and went to her duties at the hearth.

"Damn ol' bitch is fallin' to pieces!" Shawcombe scowled. He swigged some rum, swished it around his mouth, and started in on his supper once more.

Woodward looked down at a chunk of cornbread that he'd placed in his stewbowl. He very politely cleared his throat. "I believe my appetite has been curtailed."

"What? You ain't hungry no more? Here, pass it over then!" Shawcombe grabbed the magistrate's bowl and dumped it all into his own. He had decided to disdain the use of his eating utensils in favor of his hands, stew dripping from his mouth and spattering his shirt. "Hey, clerk!" he grunted, as Matthew sat there deciding whether to risk chewing on a rotten tooth or not. "You want a go with the girl, I'll pay you ten pence to watch. Ain't like I'll see a virgin ridin' the wool every day."

"Sir?" Woodward's voice had sharpened. "I've already told you, the answer is no."

"You presumin' to speak for him, then? What are you, his damn father?"

"Not his father. But I am his guardian."

"What the hell does a twenty-year-old man need with a fuckin' guardian?"

"There are wolves everywhere in this world, Mr. Shawcombe," Woodward said, with a lift of his eyebrows. "A young man must be very careful not to fall into their company."

"Better the company of wolves than the cryin' of saints," Shawcombe said. "You might get et up, but you won't die of boredom."

The image of wolves feasting on human flesh brought another question to Matthew's mind. He pushed his stewbowl toward the tavern-keeper. "There was a magistrate travelling to Fount Royal from Charles Town two weeks ago. His name was Thymon Kingsbury. Did he happen to stop here?"

"No, ain't seen him," Shawcombe answered without pause in his gluttony.

"He never arrived at Fount Royal," Matthew went on. "It seems he might have stopped here, if he-"

"Prob'ly didn't get this far," Shawcombe interrupted. "Got hisself crowned in the head by a highwayman a league out of Charles Town, most like. Or maybe Jack One Eye got him. Man travelin' alone out here's a handshake away from Hell."

Matthew pondered this statement as he sat listening to the downpour on the roof. Water was streaming in, forming puddles on the boards. "I didn't say he was alone," Matthew said at last.

Shawcombe's chewing might have faltered a fraction. "You just spoke the one name, didn't you?"

"Yes. But I might not have mentioned his clerk."

"Well, shit!" Shawcombe slammed the bowl down. The fury had sparked in his eyes again. "Was he alone or not? And what does it matter?"

"He was alone," Matthew said evenly. "His clerk had taken ill the night before." He watched the candle's flame, a black thread of smoke rising from its orange blade. "But then, I don't suppose it really matters."

"No, it don't." Shawcombe darted a dark glance at Woodward. "He's got an itch to ask them questions, don't he?"

"He's an inquisitive young man," Woodward said. "And very bright, as well."

"Uh huh." Shawcombe's gaze turned on Matthew again, and Matthew had the distinct and highly unsettling sensation of facing the ugly barrel of a primed and cocked blunderbuss. "Best take care somebody don't put out your lamp." Shawcombe held the penetrating stare for a few seconds, and then he started in on the food Matthew had pushed aside.

The two travelers excused themselves from the table when Shawcombe announced that Abner was going to play the fiddle for their "entertainment." Woodward had tried mightily to restrain his bodily functions, but now nature was shouting at him and he was obliged to put on his coat, take a lantern, and venture out into the weather.

Alone in the room, rain pattering from the roof and a single candle guttering, Matthew heard Abner's fiddle begin to skreech. It appeared they would be serenaded whether they liked it or not. To make matters worse, Shawcombe began to clap and holler in dubious counterpoint. A rat scuttled in a corner of the room, obviously as disturbed as was Matthew.

He sat down on the straw mattress and wondered how he would ever find sleep tonight, though he was exhausted from the trip. With rats in the room and two more caterwauling out by the hearth, it was likely to be a hard go. He decided he would create and solve some mathematics problems, in Latin of course. That usually helped him relax in difficult situations.

I don't suppose it really matters, he'd told Shawcombe in regard to Magistrate Kingsbury's travelling alone. But it seemed to Matthew that it did matter. To travel alone was exceptional and-as Shawcombe had correctly stated-foolhardy. Magistrate Kingsbury had been drunk every time Matthew had seen the man, and perhaps the liquor had enfeebled his brain. But Shawcombe had assumed that Kingsbury was alone. He had not asked Was he alone or Who was travelling with him. No, he'd made the statement: Man travelin’ alone…

The fiddling's volume was reaching dreadful heights. Matthew sighed and shook his head at the indignity of the situation. At least, however, they had a roof over them for the night. Whether the roof held up all night was another question.

He could still smell the girl's scent.

It came upon him like an ambush. The scent of her was still there, whether in his nostrils or in his mind he wasn't sure. Care for a toss?

Yes, Matthew thought. Math problems. She's ripe as a fig puddin'. And definitely in Latin.

The fiddle moaned and shrieked and Shawcombe began to stomp the floor. Matthew stared at the door, the girl's scent summoning him.

His mouth was dry. His stomach seemed to be tied up in an impossible knot. Yes, he thought, sleep tonight was going to be a hard go.

A very, very hard go.

Three

Matthew's eyes opened with a start. The light had dwindled to murky yellow, the candle having burned itself to a shrunken stub. Beside him on the harsh straw, Woodward was snoring noisily, mouth half ajar and chin flesh quivering. It took Matthew a few seconds to realize that there was a wetness on his left cheek. Then another drop of rainwater fell from the sodden ceiling onto his face and he abruptly sat up with a curse clenched behind his teeth.

The sudden movement made a rodent-a very large one, from the sound-squeal in alarm and scurry with a scrabbling of claws back into its nest in the wall. The noise of rain falling from the ceiling onto the floor was a veritable tenpence symphony. Matthew thought the time for building an ark was close at hand. Perhaps Abner was right about it being the end of the world; the year 1700 might never be marked on a calendar.