Salem's Legacy

by Aaron Galvin

  I snap from my transfix when one of the boys throws horse manure at Father. Some in the crowd roar when it strikes him in the face.

  Father keeps his silence, though the crowd encourages the children.

  A few shake their heads and keep on about their business.

  Not one voices disapproval.

  I abandon Betty, pushing through the crowd to reach Father’s side, catching the arm of another boy preparing a second attack. I shove him away and smack at those within reach, near begging any of the others test me.

  The children scatter, disappearing into the crowd or else down unseen alleys.

  I wheel on their elders, finding the faces of those who jeered not a moment ago now also vanished from my sight or else turning their attention elsewhere. My blood rages as I scan the crowd, willing anyone speak out with ill intent.

  Betty alone dares approach me. “Let you quit this now, I beg you,” she says, her voice pleading. “Or else they see fit for you to join this man.”

  “R-Rebecca…”

  The mere call of his voice douses the fire in me. Though rasped and full of sickness, he yet stands tall in the pillory, neither his spirit nor body broken by his bonds, his face dirtied by the elements and the excrement thrown upon him by the crowd.

  I cannot bring myself to answer to his call. A mixture of grief for his current state and elation he yet lives washes over me as I approach him, falling to my knees that he might look me full in the face.

  His jaw clenches, his strength opposing the weakness streaming down my cheeks.

  “How did it come to this?” I ask, tracking my fingers over the R’s branded upon his cheeks. “What have they done to you?”

  His mournful stare tells me my questions matter not.

  “W-water.” He coughs.

  I hurry to a drift of clean snow by the scaffolding and fetch up a handful. Cupping it to Father’s cracked and bloodied lips, I feed the snow into his mouth.

  Betty clutches at my shoulder. “We should be gone from here,” she hisses.

  Father coughs again. The whole of it wracks his body, forcing his wrists and neck to pull at the wooden bonds encasing him, the nails in his ears tearing at his skin.

  “More,” he says.

  I give over several handfuls until he is sated, or else need not ask again. Wetting the sleeve of my dress with snow, I clean the excrement and dirt from his face, then the fresh blood off his ears. Each bit I wipe away revealing more of the man who taught me all the good in life.

  Dried blood clings to the deeper wounds that have worn the flesh from Father’s wrists.

  I move to clean them also.

  Father halts me with a tender touch, despite the roughness of his hand, and guides my face to look on him. “George?” he asks.

  “He and Andrew live,” I say. “Creek Jumper also. Ciquenackqua said you saved them both.”

  “Hannah?” Father wets his lips, his good eye trained on me. “B-Bishop?”

  A new wave of tears takes hold of me. I shake my head and cast my gaze to the ground that he might not see me cry.

  Father’s hand opens to me, grazing my cheeks, wiping the wetness from them.

  I lean my face full into his palm, craving the safety of his touch, feeling him respond. What little endurance remains in me vanishes the moment his fingers tremble.

  “Oh, Father.” I cry, kissing his hand. “I thought you gone from this world with all the rest.”

  Father blinks back the glazing in his eyes, the Black Pilgrim’s stoic nature claiming hold of him. And though it be his body bruised and beaten, and he the one subjected to the elements and scorn of any who chance by, in his stare I yet find vim.

  “Fly,” Father says, holding my attention, his voice hardly above a whisper. “Leave me.”

  “I will not,” I say through gritted teeth. “The others are here too. We will—”

  Father clutches the back of my hair, pulling it tight. “Fly.”

  He releases his hold of me at the approach of fast-moving footsteps.

  I stumble backward, tripping over my dress, falling upon the cobbled road.

  “My humble apologies.” A sharp dressed young soldier stands before me, lean and sturdy. He appears near enough my own age, yet he wears the white hair of an old man. His eyes search my person as he kneels and offers his hand toward me. “Are you all right? I did not mean to fright you.”

  “Aye,” I say, standing of my own merit. “Many thanks for your concern.”

  He averts his lingering gaze when I do not shy away. “That were a most charitable and Christian act you showed this man.” He gestures toward Father. “One I have scarce seen among other folk who pretend at such piety. Do you know him, perchance?”

  I glance at Father, hesitant on what to say.

  Betty steps to my side. “If it please, sir, my niece meant no offense. She has ever held a soft place in her heart for beggars and thieves, Mister…”

  He blushes. “It seems I must beg your forgiveness once again,” he says. “Isaac is my name. And there be no offense to my eyes. No doubt the Lord wishes more in this city gifted such mercy toward sinners and the poor in spirit.”

  “Aye, no doubt,” says Betty.

  “Pray, what is this man’s charge?” I ask Isaac.

  “Niece,” Betty scolds. “Let you not inquire further of this good man.”

  “It is of little consequence,” says Isaac. “I, too, were curious of his crimes when first I saw him delivered to this ghastly device.”

  “What are his crimes?” I ask, willing my voice not break.

  Isaac pulls at his collar. “I know only what I have heard, and those black sins that should not be spoke aloud in the presence of such goodly women as you and your aunt.”

  “I would still hear them,” I say. “Sir.”

  Isaac blinks. “As you wish,” he says, casting his gaze on Father. “I have heard my fellows name him Black Pilgrim, in keeping with the name given him by the savages. They claim he hath no loyalty to the crown or any manner of person in these parts. Indeed, it has been said he forsakes God’s tender mercy, for he will not beg forgiveness nor confess his transgressions.”

  “And so you deem him criminal for it?” I ask.

  “I am no judge, only another poor sinner as all men are,” says Isaac, motioning toward the market’s crowd. “This man’s pride alone keeps him here. Surely you, a goodly woman, believe this?”

  “Forgive her youthful spirit, sir,” says Betty before I speak further. “I assure you she is over zealous in her want to keep our Lord’s commandments.”

  “Indeed.” Isaac brightens. “It were her fervor for such work that first drew my attention. Have I seen either of you at church?”

  “Not any here,” says Betty. “We hail from Andover and have come only to visit for a time.”

  “Ah,” he says. “I might have thought as much. My men oft say I have a gift for faces and I could not recall witnessing either of yours before. Perchance you both should be here come the Lord’s Day, I should welcome you to attend at the Old North with me.”

  “Many thanks,” says Betty. “But we should be gone from Boston before then.”

  “Shame,” says Isaac. “I should have liked to introduce your niece to my good friend, the Reverend Mather.”

  I stir at the name, my pulse quickening. “Cotton?”

  “Oh no. His son, Samuel,” says Isaac. “He and others have recently taken over his father’s pulpit. No doubt my good friend would enjoy learning of such charitable acts as you have shown.”

  “You know him well then?” I ask.

  “Aye, Sammy and I attended at Harvard together,” says Isaac. “And his father, Cotton, showed me much favor also. A goodly family of high esteem, the Mathers. I warrant you will find none greater in this city.”

  His tone bids me think of a warbling turkey, his eagerness for compliment snatching any response from my tongue.

  “Isaac is a learned man, niece,” says Betty quickly
. “Forgive us, sir, for keeping you from your work.”

  “There be no need for forgiveness, I assure you,” says Isaac, turning his attention to me. “Your act was a welcome respite. One I should be fortunate to encounter again.”

  Betty stirs at my silence. “We thank you for your kindness, sir. If indeed our business should keep us, you may look for us in attendance at church.”

  Isaac beams. “Very well,” he says. “I shall hope to see you then, Miss…”

  “Deborah, sir,” I say, failing at a curtsy. “Deborah Martin.”

  “A fierce and wise name, for an equally lovely young woman,” he says. “I bid the both of you good day then.”

  “Good day.” Betty curtsies.

  Isaac continues into the crowd and though I should quit my watch of him, I cannot bring myself to do so. Not even when he glances back.

  “That were a foolish thing you did,” says Betty, drawing my attention. “Deborah Martin.”

  “What?” I ask.

  Betty leans close. “None here know your name or face, but there yet be those who may know mine. Let your good Aunt Betty do the speaking should next someone require it. Elsewise, let you bow your head and keep silent. That were a very forward man, just now.” Betty grimaces. “One we should do well to steer clear of.”

  “I think otherwise,” I say. “He claims ties to the Mathers. I deem that a friend worth having.”

  “I deem my head worth having,” says Betty. “And it warns we should leave from here now, else you would share this man’s fate, whoever he may be.”

  I ignore her concerns, my gaze locking on Father. My heart urges me not abandon him, though knowing I can do naught for him given the time of day and bustling square. Nor do I trust Betty to rejoin my companions.

  “Go,” he says.

  I kneel beside him. “Aye, I will fly from here for now. But I shall return to free you.”

  He grimaces. “Rebecca—”

  “Warn me all you will,” I whisper to him. “But hear me now, Father. Freedom and the hunting grounds wait for us, George and Creek Jumper and many others among our people also. You and I will leave this place together before the end.”

  “Rebecca,” he says.

  I pull away, staring into his good eye. “Aye, Father?”

  “Fly…”

  “For now.” I rise and stride away, fearful looking back on him will turn me craven.

  Betty falls in beside me. She takes me light by the arm, guiding me down the rat’s nest of alleys. After a time, she pulls me aside in a corner where none may see.

  “Let you hide those now,” she says of my tears.

  “I-I cannot,” I say. “He were dead and gone to my mind not an hour ago. Now I see him living, his pain made a show for all to see and mock. How should I quit my sorrow at witnessing him so—”

  “You think he is the first to be given over for mockery and shame?” Betty asks. “Those pillories and stocks, aye, even the gallows he stands near, they were not crafted special for him. These are dark times, girl, and it has ever been the way of pain for those who will not bow nor break for the pleasure of powerful men.”

  I glance back in the pillory’s direction. “He has committed no trespass.”

  “He has,” says Betty. “Silence is his trespass. Not against God, but man. It is the same for all who hold to their own way rather than seek haven among the many. So it has been for all of time. So it will be long after you and I are dead and gone.”

  I lean against the alley’s cold brick wall, my head pounding with anger and sorrow.

  A winter wind shrieks past us, chilling me deep, reflecting the name given me by my native brothers.

  “I am Red Banshee.” I say to the wind. “And I will see him freed.”

  “Perhaps,” says Betty. “But it will not be this day. Come.” She tugs at my wrist. “The others await.”

  I allow her lead, and stumble after, uncaring of where she takes me. My thoughts dwell only on Father, my hands trembling with what I will visit upon those who wronged him.

  By the time we near the inn, the sun dips behind us, casting our long shadows up the alley. Each step we take fills me with thoughts of freeing Father of his confines, seeing him back to the inn, warmed and fed. I wonder how he came to be in Boston and what roads or paths he traveled.

  Still, my head warns my questions matter little. All I need concern myself with is his safe release. The mere thought of being in his presence, sharing fire and stories with him, soothes my spirit.

  Such thoughts vanish when Betty halts, her left arm shooting across my chest to stop me also.

  I glance up the alley toward the inn.

  The door hangs askew from a single hinge. Blood darkens the stoop.

  I rush forward without thinking.

  “Rebecca, wait!” Betty calls.

  I dash up the alley and leap through the threshold, pausing only to hike my dress. I draw both my father’s dagger and the bone-handled blade I took from Mercy Lewis.

  A blood trail leads up the hall.

  I pause at the scuffling noise from the adjoining room. Pressing my back flat against the wall, I inch toward the parlor entrance, my heart thundering against my chest. Both daggers slip in my grip, my hands turned cold and clammy. I force my fingers close tight round their hilts, near drawing blood in my palms.

  Pained moans wait for me around the corner.

  I pause near the doorway, glancing up the stairs for any hint someone lay in wait, finding no one.

  I am a Miamiak. I breathe deep. We do not fear.

  The moans continue.

  Leaning around the corner, I peek into the parlor room.

  Blood pools upon the floor, chairs lay splintered, tables overturned and broken. The fire burns bright in the hearth, illuminating the woman who stands before its flames.

  Her arms stretch across the mantle beam, held in place by the bone-handled daggers driven through her wrists in a mocking show of the wooden cross hung upon the wall.

  My gaze homes on their dangling ribbons, red and black, and their gleamed hue in the firelight.

  Faith shudders, glancing on a third dagger plunged in her chest. A rasped and labored breath escapes her lips. She weakly lifts her head, eyes glazed and wet. “F-forgive me, Miss R-Rebec…ca.”

  I sheathe my blades, rushing toward her.

  She cries out, wincing, as I touch my hand to the bone-hilted dagger in her wrist.

  I stare on her wounds, knowing any attempt to remove them will be for naught.

  “Th-they c-came of a sudden,” she says. “D-demons in human flesh.”

  “Faith,” I say, touching her face. “Where are the others?”

  “G-gone,” she says. “Mister Andrew…gave himself o-over when they threatened M-Miss Mary. T-took both in chains, last I saw.”

  Her eyes roll back and her chin dips toward her chest.

  “Faith,” I cry, placing my hands to her cheeks, holding her head up. “Faith!”

  Her head snaps back, her gaze blinking back to life. “He a good man, M-Mister Andrew.”

  “Where—” I struggle for the words, my chest drawing tight. “Where is Ciquenackqua?”

  “So strong…” Faith’s voice falls to a whisper, her head lolling in my hands. “How were they…s-so strong?”

  “What of Ciquenackqua?”

  Her eyelids droop closed.

  “Faith.”

  “Aye, f-faith set me free,” she says quietly. “F-faith is…a-all I got…”

  I catch her body from sagging as she breathes her last breath.

  Her head rolls against mine.

  Betty gasps in the entry, her face pale, hand clapped over her mouth.

  Gently, I release my hold of Faith and back away, careful to ensure the daggers will hold her weight.

  Betty approaches, clutches at my hand. “What beasts should commit such evil as this?”

  “Not beasts,” I say, my thoughts turning to the stories Bishop oft told me of their exi
stence in the Old World, his tracking of them across the ocean and throughout the colonies. A hunt I mean to finish. “Bitches from the depths of hell.”

  Betty gasps at my swearing, though I do not take it back. “We must take her down from here,” she says.

  “No.”

  “How can you speak so?” she asks. “Let us at least grant her some small dignity.”

  “Take her down and you make her but a nameless corpse among the many,” I say, thinking back to the dead men swaying near the Boston Neck. “Leave her and allow any who enter in see what the scourge of this city made of her.”

  “None will see her,” says Betty. “None but the thieves and vagabonds who come in the night to steal that which others have not took already. I doubt most should even learn her name. If she were a man, perhaps, but a woman, aye, and dark of skin also?”

  “Aye,” I say, taking in her meaning. “She will go unknown with all the rest. Her name lost to this world the moment we abandon her.”

  Betty looks on me. “Allow us show her some little courtesy, I beg you.”

  I stare on Faith, burning the image of her waylaid in my mind. “She wears her faith even now.” I point to the wooden cross on the wall. “Think you they hung her this way for any other reason? She stays as they left her.”

  I leave Betty, drawing my own blades again, moving out into the hall and up the stairwell, quick and quiet. Sneaking into each room, I find them all the same—beds overturned, clothes and sheets torn and tossed.

  My bow lay snapped in pieces upon the floor, my quiver and all the arrowheads taken also. Mary’s cloak, worn and threadbare, lay strewn across a broken chair. I don it over my dress then leave out of the room, hurrying down the steps.

  Betty waits for me at the bottom. “What do you intend?” she asks.

  “Much and more that I would not force you witness,” I say. “I know not how they learned of our presence here, but I will discover the truth of it.”

  “Does it matter now?” she asks. “Say they followed Andrew, or else listened on conversation in the alley. Spies mayhap, saw us on the road. There be any number of manner for Cotton Mather to learn of your presence here.”

  I move to pass her.

  Betty clutches at me. “Rebecca, this is folly. You are outmatched,” she says. “Look you only throughout this inn if you would see the truth of my words. Whoever worked such evil on Faith will surely do the same to the others. Aye, and you also if you persist.”