Part 65 (2/2)
The motion of that lifted chin was enough to cause the torso to swing slightly on its cords. Matthew heard the ropes squeak up in the rafters, like the rats that had plagued Shawcombe's tavern.
Back and forth, and back and forth.
The lipless mouth stretched open. They had spared his tongue, so that he might cry for mercy with every knife slash, hatchet blow, and kiss of flame.
He spoke, in a dry rattling whisper that was almost beyond all endurance to hear. ”Papa?” The word was as mangled as his mouth. ”Wasn't me killed the kitten, was Jamey done it.” His chest shuddered and a wrenching sob came out. The bulging eyes stared at nothing. His was the small, crushed whine of a terrified child: ”Papa please... don't hurt me no more...”
The brutalized bully began to weep.
Matthew turned-his eyes seared by smoke and sight-and fled lest his own mind be broken like Lucretia Vaughan's pie dish.
He got outside, was further blinded and disoriented by the glare. He staggered, was aware of more naked children ringing him, jumping and chattering, their grins joyful even as they danced in the shadow of the torture hut. Matthew nearly fell in his attempts to get away, and his herky-jerky flailing to retain his balance made the children scream with laughter, as if they thought he was joining in their dance. Cold sweat clung to his face, his insides heaved, and he had to bend over and throw up on the ground, which made the children laugh and leap with new energy.
He staggered on, the pack of little revelers now joined by a brown dog with one ear. A fog had descended over him, and he knew not if he was going in the right direction amid the huts. His progress attracted some older residents who put aside their seed-gathering and basket-weaving to accompany the merry throng, as if he were some potentate or n.o.bleman whose fame rivaled the very sun. The laughter and hollering swelled as did the numbers of his followers, which only served to heighten Matthew's terror. Dogs barked at his heels and children darted underfoot. His ribs were killing him, but what was pain? In his dazed stupor he realized he had never known pain, not an ounce of it, compared to what Shawcombe had suffered. Beyond the grinning brown faces he saw sunlight glitter, and suddenly there was water before him and he fell to his knees to plunge his face into it, mindless of the agony that seized his bones.
He drank like an animal and trembled like an animal. A fit of strangulation struck him and he coughed violently, water bursting from his nostrils. Then he sat back on his haunches, his face dripping, as behind him the throng continued its jubilations.
He sat on the bank of a pond. It was half the size of Fount Royal's spring, but its water was equally blue. Matthew saw two women nearby, both filling animal-skin bags. The sunlight glittered golden off the pond's surface, putting him in mind of the day he'd seen the sun s.h.i.+ne with equal color on Bidwell's fount.
He cupped his hand into the water and pressed it to his face, letting it stream down over his throat and chest. His mind's fever was cooling and his vision had cleared.
The Indian village, he'd realized, was a mirror image of Fount Royal. Just like Bidwell's creation, the village had probably settled here-who could say how long ago-to be so near a water supply.
Matthew was aware that the crowd's noise had quietened. A shadow fell over him, and spoke. ”Na unhuh pah ke ne!”
Two men grasped Matthew, careful to avoid his injuries, and helped him to his feet. Then Matthew turned toward the speaker, but he knew already who'd given that command.
Nawpawpay stood four inches shorter than Matthew, but the height of the judicial wig gave the chief the advantage. The waistcoat's gold stripes glowed in this strong sunlight. Add to that the intricate tattoos, and Nawpawpay was an absorbing sight as well as a commanding presence. Rachel stood a few feet behind him, her eyes also the color of Spanish coins.
”Forgive my people, ” Nawpawpay said in the tongue of kings. He gave a shrug and a smile. ”We don't often entertain visitors.”
Matthew still felt faint. He blinked slowly and lifted his hand to his face. ”Is... what you've done to... Shawcombe... the white fish... part of your entertainment?”
Nawpawpay looked shocked. ”Oh, no! Surely not! You misunderstand, Demon Slayer! You and your woman are honored guests here, for what you've done for my people! The white fish was an unclean criminal!”
”You did such to him for murder and thievery? Couldn't you finish the task and display some mercy?”
Nawpawpay paused, thinking this over. ”Mercy?” he asked. He frowned. ”What is this mercy?”
Evidently it was a concept the French explorer who'd pa.s.sed himself off as a king had failed to explain. ”Mercy, ” Matthew said, ”is knowing when...” He hesitated, formulating the rest of it. ”When it is time to put the sufferer out of his misery.”
Nawpawpay's frown deepened. ”Misery? What is that?”
”How you felt when your father died, ” Matthew answered.
”Ah! That! You're saying then the white fish should be slit open and his innards dug out and fed to the dogs?”
”Well... perhaps a knife to the heart would be faster.”
”Faster is not the point, Demon Slayer. The point is to punish, and let all who see know how such crimes are dealt with. Also, the children and old people so enjoyed hearing him sing at night.” Nawpawpay stared at the pond, still deliberating. ”This mercy. This is how things are done in Franz Europay?”
”Yes.”
”Ah, then. This is something we should seek to emulate. Still... we'll miss him.” He turned to a man standing next to him. ”Se oka pa neha! Nu se caido na kay ichisi!” At the last hissed sound he made a stabbing motion... and, then, to Matthew's chagrin, a twist and a brutal crosscutting of the invisible blade. The man, who had a face covered with tattoos, ran off hollering and whooping, and most of the onlookers-men, women, and children alike-ran after him making similar noises.
Matthew should have felt better but he did not. He turned his mind to another and more important subject. ”A courage sun, ” he said. ”What is that?”
”What the water spirit gives, ” Nawpawpay answered. ”Also moons and stars from the great G.o.ds.”
”The water spirit?”
”Yes.” Nawpawpay pointed at the pond. ”The water spirit lives there.”
”Matthew?” Rachel asked, coming to his side. ”What's he saying?”
”I'm not sure, ” he told her. ”I'm trying to-”
”Ah ah!” Nawpawpay wagged a finger at him. ”The water spirit might be offended to hear mud words.”
”My apologies. Let me ask this, if I may: how does the water spirit give you these courage suns?”
In answer, Nawpawpay walked into the water. He set off from sh.o.r.e, continuing as the water rose to his thighs. Then Nawpawpay stopped and, steadying the wig on his head with one hand, leaned over and searched the bottom with the other. Every so often he would bring up a handful of mud and sift through it.
”What's he looking for?” Rachel asked quietly. ”Clams?”
”No, I don't think so.” He was tempted to tell her about Shawcombe, if just to relieve himself of what he'd seen, but there was no point in sharing such horror. He watched as Nawpawpay waded to a new location, a little deeper, bent over, and searched again. The front of Woodward's waistcoat was drenched.
After another moment, the chief moved to a third location. Rachel slipped her hand into Matthew's. ”I've never seen the like of this place. There's a wall of trees around the whole village.”
Matthew grunted, watching Nawpawpay at work. The protective wall of trees, he thought, was a further link between the village and Fount Royal. He had a feeling that the two towns, untold miles apart, were also linked in a way that no one would ever have suspected.
The nearness of her and the warmth of her hand put their lovemaking in mind. As if it were ever really a stone's toss from the center of his memory. But it had all been an illusion. Hadn't it? Of course it had been. Rachel would not have climbed up on a pallet to give herself to a dying man. Not even if he had saved her life. Not even if she had thought he was not much longer for this earth.
But... just a speculation... what if by then it was known he was on the road to recovery? And what if... the doctor had actually encouraged such physical and emotional contact, as an Indian method of healing akin to... well... akin to bloodletting?
If that were so, Dr. s.h.i.+elds had a lot to learn.
”Rachel?” Matthew said, his fingers gently caressing her hand. ”Did you...” He stopped, not knowing how to approach this. He decided on a roundabout method. ”Have you been given any other clothes to wear? Any... uh... native clothing?”
She met his gaze. ”Yes, ” she said. ”That silent girl brought me a garment, in exchange for the blue dress that was in your bag.”
Matthew paused, trying to read her eyes. If he and Rachel had actually made love, her admittance of it was not forthcoming. Neither was it readable in her countenance. And here, he thought, was the crux of the matter: she might have given her body to him, as a gesture of feeling or as some healing method devised by the doctor, who sounded to Matthew to be cut from Exodus Jerusalem's cloth; or it might have been a wishful fantasy induced by fever and drugged smoke.
Which was the truth? The truth, he thought, was that Rachel still loved her husband. Or, at least, the memory of him. He could see that, by what she would not say. If indeed there was something to be said. She might hold a feeling for him, Matthew thought, like a bouquet of pink carnations. But they were not red roses, and that made all the difference.
He might ask what color the garment was. He might describe it for her exactly. Or he might start to describe it, and she tell him he could not be more wrong.
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