Part 33 (1/2)
”A little more, a little more,” Dr. s.h.i.+elds said, as the blood continued to drip from the lancet cuts.
While Woodward was being so attended, Matthew lay in the dark on his pallet of straw and grappled with his own fears. It would not be seemly if tomorrow morning, at the delivering of the lashes, he should lose control and disgrace himself before the magistrate. He had seen criminals whipped before, and knew that sometimes they couldn't hold their bodily functions, so great was the pain. He could stand three lashes; he knew he could. Rather, he hoped hoped he could. If that giant Mr. Green put his strength into the blows... well, it was best not to think about that right now, or he'd convince himself that his back would be split open like a ripe melon. he could. If that giant Mr. Green put his strength into the blows... well, it was best not to think about that right now, or he'd convince himself that his back would be split open like a ripe melon.
Distant thunder sounded. The gaol had taken on a chill. He wished for a coat to cover himself, but of course there was nothing but these clothes that were-from the smell and stiffness of them-fit to be boiled in a kettle and cut into rags. Instantly he thought how petty were his own discomforts, as Rachel's sackcloth robe was surely torment to her flesh by now and the punishment she faced was far more terrible-and more final-than a trio of whipstrikes.
So much was whirling through his mind that it seemed hot as a hearth, though his body was cold. He might wish for sleep, but he was his own hardest taskmaster and such relief was withheld. He sat up, folding his arms around himself, and stared into the dark as if he might see some answer there to the questions that plagued him.
The poppets. The testimony of Violet Adams. The three Devil's familiars who could not have sprung from the rather simple mind of Jeremiah Buckner. And how to explain the dwarf-creature-the ”imp”-that both Buckner and Violet Adams had seen at different times and locales? What also of the cloak with six b.u.t.tons? And the Devil's commandment to the child to ”tell them to free my Rachel”? Could there be any more d.a.m.ning a decree?
But another thing kept bothering Matthew: what the child had said about hearing a man's voice, singing in the darkness of another room at that house. Was it a fragment of nothing? Or was it a shadow of great importance?
”You're awake.” It had been a statement, not a question.
”Yes,” Matthew said.
”I can't sleep either.”
”Little wonder.” He listened to the noise of rain dripping from the roof. Again there came the dull rumble of thunder.
”I have remembered something,” Rachel said. ”I don't know how important it is, but at the time I thought it was unusual.”
”What is it?” He looked toward her shape in the darkness.
”The night before Daniel was murdered... he asked me if I loved him.”
”This was an unusual question?”
”Yes. For him, I mean. Daniel was a good man, but he was never one to speak speak of his feelings... at least not where love was concerned.” of his feelings... at least not where love was concerned.”
”Might I ask what was your reply?”
”I told him I did love him,” she answered. ”And then he said that I had made him very happy in the six years of our marriage. He said... it made no matter to him that I had never borne a child, that I was his joy in life and no man could change that fact.”
”Those were his exact words, as best you recall?”
”Yes.”
”You say he was not normally so concerned with emotions? Had anything occurred in the previous few days that might have made him wish to express such feelings? A quarrel, perhaps?”
”I recall no quarrel. Not to say that we didn't have them, but they were never allowed to linger.”
Matthew nodded, though he realized she couldn't see it. He laced his fingers around his knees. ”You were both well matched, would you say? Even though there was such a difference in ages?”
”We both desired the same things,” Rachel said. ”Peace at home, and success for our farm. As for the difference in our ages, it mattered some at the beginning but not so much as the years pa.s.sed.”
”Then he had no reason to doubt that you loved him? Why would he ask such a question, if it was against his usual nature?”
”I don't know. Do you think it means anything?”
”I can't say. There's so much about this that begs questions. Things that should fit don't, and things that shouldn't fit do. Well, when I get out of here I plan on trying to find out why.”
”What?” She sounded surprised. ”Even after the child's testimony?”
”Yes. Her testimony was-pardon my bluntness-the worst blow that could have been dealt to you. Of course you didn't help your case by violating the Holy Book. But still... there are questions that need answers. I can't close my eyes to them.”
”But Magistrate Woodward can?”
”I don't think he's able to see them as I do,” Matthew said. ”Because I'm a clerk and not a jurist, my opinions on witchcraft have not been formed by court records and the articles of demonology.”
”Meaning,” she said, ”that you don't believe in witches?”
”I certainly do believe in the power of the Devil to do wickedness through men-and women. But as for your being a witch and having murdered Reverend Grove and your husband...” He hesitated, knowing that he was about to throw himself into the flames of commitment. ”I don't believe it,” he said.
Rachel said something, very quietly, that gave him a twinge deep in his stomach. ”You could be wrong. I could be casting a spell on you this moment.”
Matthew considered this point carefully before he answered. ”Yes, I could be wrong. But if Satan is your master, he has lost his grip on logic. He wishes you released from the gaol, when he personally went to great lengths to put you here. And if his aim is to destroy Fount Royal, why doesn't he just burn the whole town in one night instead of an empty house here and there? I don't think Satan would care if a house was empty before it burned, do you? And what are these tricks of bringing the three demons out to parade them as if in a stageplay? Why would you appear to Jeremiah Buckner and invite him to view a scene that would certainly send you to the stake?” He waited for a response but there was none. ”Buckner may have sworn truth on the Bible, yes. He may believe believe that what he saw was the truth. But my question is: what is it that two men-and a little girl-may see that appears to be true but is in reality a cunning fiction? It must be more than a dream, because certainly Violet Adams was not dreaming when she walked into that house in the afternoon. Who would create such a fiction, and how could it possibly be disguised as the truth?” that what he saw was the truth. But my question is: what is it that two men-and a little girl-may see that appears to be true but is in reality a cunning fiction? It must be more than a dream, because certainly Violet Adams was not dreaming when she walked into that house in the afternoon. Who would create such a fiction, and how could it possibly be disguised as the truth?”
”I can't see how any man could do it,” Rachel said.
”I can't either, but I believe it has somehow been done. My task is to find out first of all how. how. Then to find out the Then to find out the why why of it. I hope from those two answers will come the third: of it. I hope from those two answers will come the third: who.” who.”
”And if you can't find them? What then?”
”Then...” Matthew paused, knowing the reply but unwilling to give it, ”that bridge is best crossed when it is reached.”
Rachel was silent. Even the few rats that had returned to the walls after Linch's ma.s.sacre had stilled themselves. Matthew lay down again, trying to get his thoughts in order. The sound of thunder was louder; its power seemed to shake the very earth to its deepest foundations.
”Matthew?” Rachel said.
”Yes?”
”Would you... would you hold my hand?”
”Pardon?” He wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly.
”Would you hold my hand?” she asked again. ”Just for a moment. I don't like the thunder.”
”Oh.” His heart was beating harder. Though he knew full well that the magistrate would look askance on such a thing, it seemed wrong to deny her a small comfort. ”All right,” he said, and he stood up. When he went to the bars that separated them, he couldn't find her.
”I'm here.” She was sitting on the floor.
Matthew sat down as well. Her hand slipped between the bars, groping, and touched his shoulder. He said, ”Here,” and grasped her hand with his. At the intertwining of their fingers, Matthew felt a shock of heat that was first intense and then softened as it seemed to course slowly up his forearm. His heart was drumming; he was surprised she couldn't hear it, as surely a military march was being played next to her ear. It had occurred to him that his might be the last hand ever offered her.
The thunder again announced itself, and again the earth gave a tremble. Matthew felt Rachel's grip tighten. He couldn't help but think that in seven days she would be dead. She would be bones and ashes, nothing left of her voice or her touch or her compelling presence. Her beautiful tawny eyes would be burnt blind, her ebony hair sheared by the flames.
In seven days.