Salem's Legacy

by Aaron Galvin

  The parlor doors squeak open.

  I break my stare of the flames, turning to face my enemy, half expecting a demon in my midst.

  Instead, a woman well on fifty years old trains her focus upon me. Were it not for the sharpness lurking in her eyes, her dress and stern face would lead me believe her a Puritan woman as any other.

  “You are Elisabeth Hubbard?” I ask, the hairs on my neck raising.

  “Who are you?” she demands. “And what business have you approaching me in my home?”

  I cast my gaze to the floor, in keeping with Betty’s teachings. “If it please you, I am but a humble servant of Mercy Lewis.”

  “An odd notion, that,” says Elisabeth. “Mercy has ever been anything but humble. Strange that she should keep such followers in her company. Would you prefer to speak plain, or continue your lies?”

  Her tone bids me realize I cannot wear the goodly face of my sister, nor even allow Elisabeth see my hate plain. I must don not only a mask now, but take up the lying tongue of Mercy Lewis.

  I glance up, meeting Elisabeth’s stare in kind. “Aye, I am not humble.”

  “Clearly, else you should not have bothered approach me,” Elisabeth says. “But you are here now. Tell me, why should Mercy not come herself?”

  “She could not. Mercy Lewis is dead.”

  “How?” Her left eyebrow cocks.

  “The savages.” I steel my voice to spit the lie. “Betrayed her at the last when things turned bleak.”

  “Indeed,” she says. “I cannot claim surprise at such tidings. It were always the darkest of tasks Mercy sought most. Still, it pains me that she has gone from this world.” Elisabeth purses her lips. “And how is it Mercy came to die, but you managed a safe return?”

  “The savages crave white flesh,” I say, thinking back on Mercy’s lies and her mention of wooing Two Ravens. “And they have never found a better lover than I.”

  “So, you are both liar and harlot.” Elisabeth quips.

  “I am whatever I need be to survive,” I say. “I should have thought you happy to see me.”

  “A fool also then,” says Elisabeth. “I have never met you before, not even in Mercy’s company. I know naught even of your name, girl.”

  A memory of the days Sarah spent lecturing me of her god and her bible rise in my mind. For all the stories she told of humble, reverent women, one sticks in my memory more than any other, that of a righteous judge and warrior.

  “Call me Deborah,” I say.

  “As if we are old friends?” Elisabeth’s thin lips part in a cruel smile. She chuckles as she swings close the parlor doors, then strides to sit in one of the polished benches, clasping her hands in her lap. “But we are not friends, Deborah…not yet, at least.”

  She opens a drawer from the table before her, removing a vial filled with purplish-black powder. Uncorking its top, she snows the dusky contents upon the table.

  “Here,” Elisabeth says, drawing her hand over the mound of powder. “A gift for your safe return from savage lands.”

  I flinch.

  “Why are you troubled?” she asks. “No doubt you have been long in your travels. I know all too well the pains that come with the absence of Devil’s powder. Do you not ache for it now?”

  “I do,” I say. “But my time upon the road sucked the torturous need from my body. I have little desire to allow it hold sway over me again so soon.”

  Elisabeth clucks her tongue. “Would that I were as strong as you.”

  She leans towards the table, delving her nose full into the powder, snorting near the lot. She shudders and moans as she draws away, her eyes wide with greed. Watching me, she takes a bit of cloth from the sleeve of her dress and wipes clean the lingering traces of powder upon her nose.

  “My servant mentioned you bring me a gift,” she says.

  “I do indeed,” I say. “Mercy mentioned several times over how pleased her Salem sisters—”

  Elisabeth cackles, bending low to snort the remaining powder. “By my count, you look upon the last of us.”

  “And what of Mary Warren?” I ask, cutting her mocking tone short. “Would it not please you to know she yet lives?”

  Elisabeth leans forward, beaming. “Indeed it would. Pray, where is Mary now?”

  “Kept safe at a place of my choosing,” I say. “And will remain so until I receive all that I desire.”

  “A mountain of Devil’s powder?” Elisabeth laughs, shrill and hysteric. “That you may never feel pained by the loss of it again?”

  “To take Mercy’s place in your coven”—I step closer—“and become a Salem sister.”

  Elisabeth straightens. “Why should you seek such an honor?”

  Her tone warns me choose my next words carefully.

  “Mercy spoke highly on the bonds of your sisterhood,” I say. “One to shape the world and leave a righteous legacy. Is it wrong of me to desire welcome among your company, that I might leave my mark on the whole of history also?”

  “Only those who triumphed in Salem may join that sisterhood.” Elisabeth folds her hands in her lap. “But we may yet find a place for you among our coven, should you prove your worth.”

  “Does my gift not prove it?”

  “It should suffice,” says Elisabeth, scratching at her face. “But I am troubled. With Mercy gone, why should you bring Mary all this way?”

  “In keeping my oath to Mercy,” I say. “And a show of my good faith to you.”

  “A show, aye,” Elisabeth scowls as she eases back into her seat, her gaze never leaving mine. “Perhaps there be the truth of it. No doubt you believe such a gift will gain my trust.”

  “Mary is all I have in offering.” I open my hands to her. “Let you think of my intentions as you will.”

  “I am yet uncertain as to your intent,” says Elisabeth. “But I think you bring me more than Mary Warren alone, girl.”

  My pulse quickens. “What else could I have?”

  “Much and more.” Elisabeth studies me. “I cannot say whether you be fool or no, but you have my intrigue.” She looks on the flames, smiling. “And I should very much like to meet with Mary Warren again.”

  Her voice trails as one lost in a memory and, for a moment, I fear the snorting of Devil’s powder has forced her forget my presence. Then she chuckles in a way I like not at all, her eyes finding me once more.

  “Let you deliver Mary to me this night—”

  “No,” I say. “I did not suffer her presence to give up my prize that you alone might receive the praise.”

  “Then why come at all if you will not share the glory?”

  “Mercy oft told us followers only the Reverend Mather could truly welcome us into your order.” I meet her stare. “I will give Mary Warren to him alone, that he might deem me worthy.”

  “Mercy told you much.” Elisabeth scowls. “Alas, death treads closer to the Reverend Mather with each passing day. We cannot trouble him with such trifling matters as these. Let you bring her to me instead, and I shall—”

  “No,” I say, noting scorn draw across her face at my rudeness. “You think me a fool? I will give her over to him or else slit her throat and be done with it.”

  “As you will,” says Elisabeth. “We should only want her to see the deed done ourselves.”

  “Very well then.” I walk for the parlor doors.

  “Wait.” Elisabeth calls as I touch the ringed, metal handles.

  I halt, turning back toward her.

  She rises from her bench, approaching me slow, scratching at her neckline. “Why do you desire so keenly to meet with the Reverend Mather?”

  “Mercy spoke of him as a great man,” I say.

  “A man? No.” Elisabeth treads closer to me, transfixing me with her gaze. “Words alone cannot describe what he is. Father, reverend, sage—powerful titles in this world, but they mean naught to those who walk the boundary between this realm and the next.”

  Her reverent tone turns my blood cold.


  “He is the Devil’s Warlock. The keeper of all knowledge in the Invisible World, bending its secrets to his whims and wishes.” Elisabeth closes her eyes, shuddering. “You will never in this life, or the next, meet such a being as he.”

  “As you say.”

  “You doubt me?” Elisabeth asks.

  “I doubt all that I have not witnessed.”

  “Then we will help you see,” Elisabeth says, her bloodshot eyes crazed as they train on me. “Tomorrow eve, we meet to dance and make sacrifice beneath our Mother Moon. Bring me Mary Warren before the night falls, prove your worth, and together we will journey to the gathering circle.”

  “I will bring her,” I say. “And deliver her only to him.”

  Elisabeth steps closer, placing her arms about my shoulders. “This life is but circles within circles, girl. Aye, with gatekeepers at the entrance of each.” Her eyes flame in a way I like not at all. “Deliver Mary Warren and I grant you passage into the next realm wherein the Devil’s Warlock awaits you. Perhaps he will reveal your true purpose in this life. Aye, the same as he once revealed mine.”

  I nod. “Until tomorrow then.”

  Elisabeth grins and claps her hands.

  The parlor doors swing open with the waif behind them. Before I can speak a word, the waif takes me by the arm and near trots me out of the room. She leads me toward the entryway, opening the front door. The waif bows her head, revealing bald patches I had not previously noticed upon her scalp where her locks have been picked clean.

  Her shoulders twitch as I pass.

  My mind warns she did not do so of her own choosing.

  The door closes the moment I stand upon the stoop, the knob near striking me in the back. I waste little time leaving off to distance myself from the home.

  Betty sighs at the sight of me when I round the corner. “Truly I had not thought to see you again,” she says as I stalk past her up the alley. “What did Elisabeth say?”

  “Many things.” I say. “As did I.”

  “And how many of those do you suppose were true?” Betty asks.

  “One of mine, at least.” I say, thinking on my promise to deliver Mary Warren. “Come. We need return to the others.”

  Betty leads at a spry pace, each turn and step taken with deliberation.

  Despite her confident direction, unease settles within me. Tingles run down my spine as if unseen eyes linger upon my back, their phantom gaze watchful from the window of every shop and home we pass.

  I run ahead of her, forcing her to halt, when she attempts to lead me south, rather than east to the inn.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask.

  “To Judge Sewall’s,” she says.

  “No,” I say. “I have no need to meet him now.”

  “I made a promise to you in my home,” says Betty. “I will see it kept.”

  “Consider it honored,” I say. “There is no need for you to venture further. Not when we should return to the others and lay further plans.”

  “Aye, you should.” Betty attempts to push past me.

  I do not relent.

  “You have forced this recklessness upon me,” says Betty. “Please allow me this small kindness, I beg you. I would know my daughter will be kept safe no matter the outcome of your fool plot with Elisabeth.”

  “Susannah will be safe,” I say. “I made no mention of you or her.”

  “For now.” Betty’s jaw quivers. “I will see it remain so.”

  Again she moves to pass me.

  Again I halt her. “We need rejoin—”

  “Will you draw your blade and strike me down, here upon the road?” Betty glances up at the surrounding homes and their windows. “Or will I first scream so loud that others might hear and hurry to my aid?”

  Her meek mask dropping, I recognize the farce in my attempts at donning such guises.

  “You are but a girl, and I a woman grown,” she says, her face livid. “Aye, and one well versed in this game you play at.”

  I rise to her scolding.

  Betty studies me up and down. “What should some guard, or soldier, find if I bid them search you now?”

  My hands fly to the hidden hilts of my blades. “You would not…”

  “Won’t I?” Betty asks. “You do not know, nor trust, me well. How can you say what I will or will not do both when and at my choosing? You have only how you respond to alter the minds of those who should come to aid me.”

  I stumble for words at the new woman standing before me.

  Betty pulls me into a near alley, her gaze cautious for any who might chance near us. “Should I call out, it would be the goodliest of men to heed my plea, those seeking righteous defense of the weak. And how should I respond in kind?”

  “You—”

  “I would be grateful, no?” Betty asks. “Aye, to hear the reverends preach, one might think I should bow before every whim and wish of such men, for what are we women to them but servants?”

  My lip curls at such a thought. “I am no servant.”

  “Then you are truly a fool,” says Betty. “For all the nonsense our reverends preach, there be plenty wisdom in the good book for those who know where to find it. To kneel before the master—”

  Betty steps close enough to embrace me. Instead, she touches the hilt of my father’s dagger, digging it into my side.

  “Means you draw near him.”

  A horse-drawn carriage approaches us.

  Betty steps away as quick, donning her pious mask again in humble bow.

  I grin the moment she looks up. “You are more than I first thought you, Betty Barron.”

  “Aye,” she says. “And you are the same as I first thought you. Prove me wrong now and allow us visit my true friend.”

  “No,” I say. “You did not wish me involve him, and so I will not now. Lead me back to the others. There is much to discuss and you will need your rest. You and Andrew have a long ride come the morrow.”

  “What say you?” she asks.

  “You have done all I required, Betty,” I say. “Now I would ask one final favor before you go.”

  “If it means you will release me—”

  “I will,” I say. “If you aid me convince the others we met with your Judge Sewall.”

  Her face pinches in question. “Why?”

  “That matters not,” I say. “Only that they believe it. Aid me sway them and I send you on your way home tomorrow.”

  “And I am to trust you in this?” she asks. “You, who I have seen now lie to both friends and enemies alike.”

  I shift on my heels. “Ciquenackqua knows of my true intent. Andrew and Mary do not,” I say. “They cannot.”

  “Why not Andrew?” she asks.

  I sigh. “However you might think him, he is a man of good intent. In my heart, I know he should disapprove of the acts I would commit in the name of vengeance.”

  “Such thoughts should sway you against them then,” says Betty, the corners of her eyes wrinkling.

  “They will not,” I say. “And I will not suffer his disagreement with the actions I take. There be no way for me to know how events should fare tomorrow night, but I will not force you or Andrew to play a further part in them.”

  “He will not leave you,” says Betty.

  “He will,” I say. “For the love he bears your daughter.”

  “Then you are even more foolish than first I thought.” Betty huffs. “I have seen the way he looks on you. However you might ignore him, Andrew Martin loves you more than anything in this world.”

  “All the more reason for me to send him away,” I say. “I would offer him naught but further heartache.”

  “There be one of the first truths you have uttered in a long while, I think,” says Betty.

  I shake my head. “I speak truth now—aid me again and let us say we mean to meet with Sewall again tomorrow. Then your part is finished in this.”

  “So you say.” Betty sighs. “My part in Salem ended long ago, yet here I stand,
caught still between the forces of this world and the invisible one.”

  “By tomorrow eve, one of them at least will cease its pull on you.”

  “Perhaps,” says Betty, her tone doubtful. She turns on her heel with little delay and leads onward at a brisker pace than ever she has previously led me.

  I take in the sights, searching for any buildings of note to mark my surroundings in the event I should become lost. Still, Betty leads at a frantic pace, turning up alleys and rounding corners so that I cannot discern my bearings.

  We reach an open market, bustling with commoners and rich alike. As we wander through their midst, I catch sight of another pillory, built before the gallows in twin to those outside the Neck gates.

  Dirtied and half-dressed children play below the platform. One by one, they rush the pillory, laughing as they strike at the board.

  Or so I first believe.

  Only when they pause to talk among themselves do I learn it be no board they strike at, but a man—forced to stand, his head and wrists inserted through the holes to secure him from escape.

  The letter R stands out against each of his cheeks, the raised skin and discolored scars marking both as recently branded. His crudely shorn head and the accompanying scabs adorning it speak to an untrained barber’s hand or else one who cared not for the work and sharpness of their blade. Nails pin the imprisoned man’s ears to the wooden beam, forcing him look upon the crowd, uncaring that a purplish-black bruise near closes his right eye full up. Yet for all the scars and bruises, hate lives in his one good eye.

  I witness it extinguished the moment he looks on me.

  My hand flies to Betty, willing her keep me from falling.

  “What is it?” she asks. “What troubles you?”

  My chest draws tight, my stomach churning, knees weak. I glance at the imprisoned man once more. My hand flies to stave the anguished cry threatening to escape my lips.

  Betty follows my stare to the prisoner. “Do you know him?”

  My body shudders in reply.

  “Who is he?” she asks.

  “F-Father.”

  -Chapter 10-