Salem's Legacy

by Aaron Galvin

  “They are why I must persist,” I say, fury flowing in my veins. “All who came this far did so only on account of me. I shame them all if I fly now.”

  “It is no shame to desire life,” says Betty. “Come with me. My wagon and horses are gone with the others, but my friend, the good Judge Sewall, will help us flee if we reach him in time.”

  I shake my head. “You have done all that I required of you, Betty. Now I beg you do only one thing more.”

  “What?”

  “Do not sway me from this.” I fix my gaze on her. “Leave this cursed place. Fly back to your home and live the life you so desire with your good daughter. It seems I must first witness death and ruin claim all that I hold dear before it finds me. I have no desire you should join me in learning what awaits at the end of this path.”

  “Do not do this,” she says. “I, too, thought my life ending once. Then the true and merciful love of God were shown me. It may be He yet wishes to shine His light upon you also.”

  “Your god should never look favorably upon me,” I say. “My sister oft read of his book to me many a night when I were young. He would have me turn the other cheek, even now, but I will not. Now go.” I lead her down the hall. “And leave me to my work.”

  Betty hesitates upon the threshold. “You are certain in your want of this?”

  I nod.

  “I will not condone the actions you take,” she says. “But I will pray God for your safe-keeping. Aye, and that you may give yourself to His love rather than allow your hate consume you.”

  “Hate consumed me many months ago,” I say. “I have only its embers now.”

  “Be that as it may,” she says. “I will pray for you.”

  “Save your prayers.” I leave her in the doorway. “I have no need of them.”

  I hurry up the alley, glancing back when nearing its end.

  Betty has vanished from sight, whether back inside the inn or else gone to seek out her Judge Sewall I know not.

  My mind warns me not tarry.

  I hurry on toward the fading sun, back the way she and I came, bound for the pillory. Always, I keep my gaze upon the three hilltops and the steel finger perched highest of all. Each step taken bids me hurry faster, my strides turning longer. I force myself not to run and fright others yet upon the road.

  I am not long to reach the market square.

  Though the last light of day wanes, some merchants yet conduct their trade. Most have gone and those who filled the square with them.

  So, too, do I find the pillory stands empty.

  I run to the hinged boards where Father stood not hours ago. His blood stains the beams and surrounding snow, the blood trail leading off a ways before all is lost to the tracks of the many who since wandered over top it.

  Falling to my knees, my heart lay heavy in knowing I am now well and truly alone.

  -Chapter 11-

  “Move along, wench!” A man shouts at me from atop his wagon perch.

  I roll aside lest his team of horses and wagon run me over.

  The driver swears at me and slaps the reins anew. His wagon creaks by, leading behind it a gaggle of slaves—native and black—all bound together as one. Their heads bowed, they trot to keep up, the clanking rankle of their chains a bitter song to pace them.

  I rise from the snow and muck wetting my knees, giving thanks I am not chained as they are, that I may go both where and when I like at my choosing and commit such acts as I wish.

  Glancing up at the twilit sky, I muse on Father’s teachings and what he might do were our situations reversed. Thoughts of how he and the others were taken plague me. So, too, do I wonder where they might be and if any have shared the same fate as Faith.

  My heart bids me search for them. My mind warns it would be folly with the city so large and I a lone stranger in it. I am feared of inquiring on anyone, believing questions should only draw further attention to me, especially at this late hour.

  Night strengthens its hold on the city as I stir from the square, headed west toward the lone house whose owner I know.

  With daylight banished, the underbelly of Boston wakes to play. I stalk past drunken men who clutch and whistle at near anything that passes them.

  My anger hopes they taunt me in such a way.

  None do.

  Whores walk the streets in pairs, each taking their turn at revealing flesh to the moonlight and cold. Not a few of them twitch and tremble, though I gather not from cold alone. They scratch at their shoulders and cheeks, the need for Devil’s powder living in them.

  For all my fear that one will stop and note my face, the whores care little for me, their sights set on more prized game than me. The sober men leave me walk with little regard, their notice given over to easier prey.

  I am not so fortunate to avoid the packs of street urchins lurking in darkened alleys.

  A few lunge at me. They scurry back quick enough when I flash my blade.

  I feel their eyes follow me long after they vanish from sight.

  I reach Elisabeth Hubbard’s street within an hour and hide in the alley across from her home. Settling in shadow, I press my back into a bricked corner so none might surprise me from behind.

  For several hours I keep watch of Elisabeth’s home, waiting for any hint of light inside, to witness someone leaving or else venturing in.

  The elements wear away my resolve. Brutal, biting cold forces me take shelter inside my robes, drawing it over my face and head. My eyes weigh heavy, bidding me sleep.

  I draw my blade an inch from its sheathe and slice my thumb upon it, using the pain to wake me alert. Yet even its throb cannot stave off the cold sleep beckoning me accept its dark and peaceful gift.

  I raise my head from the fur’s warmth, my lungs shuddering as they breathe in even colder air.

  Neighboring chimneys sputter smoke. Elisabeth Hubbard’s remains barren.

  I stand, my muscles aching with stiffness, and rub the soreness from my legs. Then I will myself onward, using the alleys to maneuver round the back of Elisabeth’s home. With the night as my ally, I skulk toward a low window, trying my hand to open it, finding it locked or else froze shut.

  Stifling my cough, I draw my dagger and shatter one of the windowpanes with its hilt.

  The glass tinkles as it falls.

  I scan the area for any who might have heard.

  No one comes, nor do I hear any signal someone means to seek me out.

  I reach my hand through the newly made hole and fumble at the latch, opening the window slow, careful for it not to groan or shriek at too quick a movement. I slip inside the home and lower the window closed.

  My heart beats quickly as I stand in the pitch of dark. My mind sports Elisabeth and her coven may hide inches away and I should not see them until they desire it.

  With night robbing my sight and the house deathly quiet, the scent of smoke guides me. Crouched low, I feel along the wall with one hand, my dagger drawn in the other. I slink toward the scent, my ears perked for the slightest sound I am discovered.

  Though slow, I feel my way around and note my eyes adjusting to the dark.

  A flight of stairs stands before me, the same that thundered under the waif’s small weight.

  I abandon them, moving to the parlor.

  The smallest of embers yet glow in the hearth.

  My shoulders tremble at the notion of stoking the flames anew and giving away my presence. I approach the hearth warily, kneeling beside it, extending my hands to scoop up any offered heat.

  The embers grant me little in return, most more cool than warm.

  The skills Father taught me in the wild bid me understand this fire cannot have been fed since I left Elisabeth’s company yesterday afternoon.

  My mind churns with the thought.

  With the weather turned frigid, how can it be they have not fanned the flames? I wonder. Why should they allow the fire wane without they had not thought to be here?

  I wrestle with the notion I
am alone—both Elisabeth and her waif gone for the night.

  But to where?

  I am not lost to the notion Elisabeth may have lied of the gathering’s time and place, or mayhap there were no gathering at all. Still, I will myself away from such thoughts, fearing what I should do if the truth of my situation lay in the answer.

  Fear and doubt eat at my insides. That I have broken my oath to George by distrusting those in my company, and forgotten Father’s teachings to lay in wait rather than give myself over to action.

  I forbid myself to sulk in the event I am wrong—that Elisabeth or her waif yet reside upstairs. Instead, I sheathe my blade and take up several coals in hand, sucking the heat from them whilst plots and plans dance in my head.

  My blood warming, I think more on Father and how I should emulate his quiet and patient ways. I scoot my back against the wall, pressing along its side until reaching the safety of a corner.

  All night I wait, not stirring until the coming dawn lightens the room.

  I set the cold embers aside and draw both my blades, making for the stairwell. Their steps do not thunder beneath my feet and squeak but a little.

  My spirit grows bolder with each step taken, my breath calm as I ascend.

  I reach the landing and find several closed doors.

  The first, to my left, hangs open. It holds naught inside but a barren, wood floor covered with thick dust.

  I step closer to the second door, nudging it open.

  The door squeals on its hinges.

  I tense in wait, my gaze darting to the slowly opening door and to the yet closed door down the hall.

  No one comes.

  I cross the threshold into a room of meager fare. A quilt adorns the bed and an ewer sits upon the dresser beside a mound of Devil’s powder. What lay beyond the powder intrigues me more—a black candle, burned near to a nub, all its wax dry, pooled around it like a bed sheet folded upon itself in swirled waves. Behind the candle, a hand-drawn portrait of a face calls a memory in me from the life before.

  Though the portrait depicts him young as I, there be no mistaking the face of a man who once wore many masks. Mercy and her brood named him Simon Campbell, whilst I think of him only as Paul Kelly.

  I approach the dresser, taking up the portrait in hand.

  The drawn, stern eyes threaten me submit and the life before bids me recall in equal measure the voice in which he cowed George and Sarah with. Other memories take hold also—how his laughter set my spirit to soar, the power in his embrace.

  A moan from the adjoining room yanks me from such musings.

  I tuck the portrait into my pocket and creep toward the door, peeking around the corner.

  The moan comes again.

  I slip out of the room and onto the landing, stealing toward the closed door at the hall’s end. My breath sets me to panic as I reach for the handle.

  It turns easy enough.

  I press my back against the wall then open the door, its sharp-squealed hinges paining my ears. My body strains in wait of a war cry, a witch scream, anything.

  Only silence waits.

  Peeking into the room, my gasp ruins the quiet.

  Putrid stench punches me hard in the nose, forcing me step back.

  Iron cages line either side of the room, their bars running from floor to ceiling. A small wooden alley exists down the middle—a safe haven from the reach of those in cages.

  I traipse inside the room, snorting the stench away with each step.

  Rotted bodies lay inside several cells, their frames withered near to the bone, skin black and covered with sores and scars. Buckets stand full to the brim with foulness, pushed to the furthest edges of the cage as if the captives wished to distance themselves from the odor even in death.

  My throat chokes on it and I turn to flee the room.

  A raggedy, pale hand shoots from between the bars of a cage.

  I fall back against the opposite cages, the hand waving in search of me.

  “M-Mercy…” the woman pleads, her hand shaking more than her voice. “Mercy, please!”

  Wispy white hair hangs off her scalp in patchwork fashion. Her vacant eyes search the room, as if she does not see me, but gathers someone is near. She looks a living corpse to my eyes, the same pox upon the other dead covering her skin as well.

  “Mercy,” she says. “Mercy…please, mercy.”

  “Mercy Lewis?” I ask.

  “Pl-please…” the woman says. “Mercy, p-please.”

  “Mercy is dead,” I say.

  The woman continues her same plea, over and over, until I gather she knows naught of anything else in this world. She vacates the bars, falling into the corner, whimpering as she tucks her knees to her chest and rocks back and forth. “Mercy…Mercy…”

  Pity bids me call out to her and end her suffering.

  My mind warns doing so would leave evidence of my intrusion should Elisabeth or her waif return. I give the cell a wide berth, moving to leave the room.

  A strong hand catches my hair and jerks me back against the bars.

  “The Devil waits for us,” a man hisses in my ear.

  Fear hardens me. I lunge away, leaving a handful of my hair in his grip, and wheel about to his scorned laughter.

  “His servants come soon.” His eyes mad and teeth rotted black, he pushes his face full between the bars. “To coat me with sin in matching the dark of my soul. Come,” he reaches his hand out the bars. “Come give yourself over also.”

  “Mercy!” the woman takes up her cry again. “Mercy, pl-please!”

  I run from the room, her pleas and his laughter ringing in my ears as I slam the door closed behind me. I waste little time in flying down the steps and then fleeing out the window I sneaked through.

  I hasten down the alley, their voices rampant in my mind.

  I reach for the hilt of Father’s dagger, my fingers trembling upon it, my breath rapid.

  You are outmatched. Betty’s words linger in my memory, as does Father’s insistence that I flee, both their warnings resonating clear. No small part of me desires to flee south and inquire where to find her Judge Sewall. Aye, and beg his humble aid that he might see me safely away from this cursed city.

  Fear swells within me, forcing me imagine Father and my other companions accosted and given to the horrors Elisabeth Hubbard visits upon those kept hidden inside her home.

  My nails draw blood in my palm, wetting the hilt of Father’s dagger. I will myself to strike fear from my heart, revisit the home, and give the mad woman the mercy she begged of me rather than leave her to suffer.

  Then I witness the waif.

  Strolling up the street, yawning as she comes, she enters the house with little regard that I watch her.

  I ease back into the alley, questioning whether I should approach or no. The fear I felt gives over to hate, bidding me unleash a frenzy upon her.

  Thoughts of Father caution elsewise, urging me lie in patient wait for Elisabeth to arrive or else allow the waif lead me to her.

  I settle into the corner, my gaze leveled on the doorway, waiting.

  The day passes with neither the waif leaving, nor Elisabeth returning. The door does not open until the sun fades and only then do I witness the waif again.

  She locks the door, a scarlet, hooded garment tucked under her arm.

  I follow her west.

  She abandons the last piece of road and scurries across an open field toward the ocean.

  The field provides me little cover, forcing me wait until she disappears opposite the hill before continuing my pursuit.

  Even then, I keep my distance, careful not to give her any sight of me. I fall to my belly at the hillcrest, crawling toward the top and peeking over.

  Fog crawls across the water, creeping onto land, near blinding my sight of the waif.

  She hurries toward the rocky beach, pushing one of several small boats into the water. She leaps inside then takes up its oars, rowing out to sea.

  The
fog swallows her and the boat whole.

  I count to twenty then rush down the hill, hauling one of the other boats toward the water. Unlike the waif, I am well practiced and avoid wading into the ocean. I shove off the land and leap inside the boat at the last, my weight carrying the boat into deeper water. The pair of oars feels foreign in my hands, the canoe I oft shared with Father requiring me use but one oar and allow him the steering.

  I fit the oars into the metal rings and tug at them, testing their movement. Then I dip my oars deep and pull hard at them, remembering the words of my Father and our people—the water rewards skill, not panic.

  Slowly, the shoreline fades, the fog enveloping me from its sight.

  The gentler waves soon give way to others that buck beneath me. They raise me up and down, setting my stomach to lurch. Water crashes around me, soaking my robes.

  My muscles ache and arms tire against the relentless power of the sea. The fog clouds my judgment, bidding me wonder if I have traveled a few feet off the coast or else a hundred leagues.

  Still I row, hate fueling every muscle, every pull of the oars.

  Mather. I imagine their groans saying. Mather.

  I count the time with each row. My gaze wanders skyward in silent prayer. I long for a glimpse of the heavens that I might use the star bearings Father taught me.

  The ancestors do not answer quick, yet they do lift the fog after a time.

  At first, I believe the approaching shoreline that I left.

  Then I witness a sight more pleasing than stars or sky.

  Shadows darken the horizon, the tops of trees sway like skeletal fingers.

  Deep in the forest, something glows—a rising fire, its flames pulsing to the tune of drums.

  The gathering begins.

  -Chapter 12-

  I crouch low in my boat, peeking over the side for any sight of those upon the shore.

  Several other boats lay turned over fifty yards up the beach.

  There be no sign of their owners.