Salem's Fury (Vengeance Trilogy Book 2)

by Aaron Galvin

  Father swings the butt of it up, catching Two Ravens under the chin, knocking him back.

  My blood rushes as Father dives at his opponent, spearing him to the ground. He rises atop Two Ravens, and the tomahawk whistles as he spins its handle in his hand until its blade again points to the sky.

  Father swings the tomahawk down, burying the blade in earth, an inch from the ear of Two Ravens.

  Silence hangs in the air, broken only when Two Ravens laughs.

  The sound catches me—aye, and my people—with its good-hearted nature.

  My father stands over his opponent.

  Though defeated, Two Ravens smiles. “It seems we both spoke true, peace chief.” His gaze flits to Sturdy Oak. “You took in a white dog.”

  He raises his hand to father in request to help him stand.

  My father yanks him to his feet.

  Two Ravens claps Father on the shoulder. “But he is a wild one.”

  I find the foreign chief’s grin infectious, even while my father keeps his grim façade.

  “And a wild dog I would gladly make the war dance with.” Two Ravens continues. “If he will treat with me and hear what I would say.”

  My father joins me, placing his hand upon my arm, his touch warm and comforting.

  I look into his eyes and feel my spirits rise with pride. I offer him the war belt with both hands.

  He does not take it quickly, only looks on it again with a studiousness I have seen him wear only in the woods. Yet where his eyes appear curious and gay while at study on the hunt, now I think they seem tired, wary of what the beads would call from him and our people.

  His gaze finds mine.

  A shudder runs through me at the volumes his silence speaks. I wonder how my sister does not understand his quiet way and why she would change him if she held such power.

  Father takes the war belt from me.

  I know in my soul how he will answer the call of Two Ravens.

  Our people go to war on the morrow.

  I only hope they think me worthy enough to join them.

  -5-

  I sit beside Numees, the pair of us mending moccasins and hides. My mind turns to the council longhouse where the men of our tribe, and of Two Ravens’, discuss whether or not to make the war dance.

  I look to the night sky, finding the moon not yet at its fullest peak.

  “The hour draws late,” says Numees. “Our men have been at the council fire a long time.”

  “Too long.” I say.

  “Should decisions of war be made quickly?” Numees chuckles. “My husband says your father asks each brave to speak his mind in such council matters.”

  I nod in reply. Remind myself to focus on the task at hand.

  “Deep River thinks your father wise in this,” says Numees. “As do I.”

  “And I also,” I say, lest she think I do not support Father’s decisions.

  Numees elbows me playfully. “But you wish he asked your opinion too.”

  I grin. “I do not care if he should ask my opinion. Only hear my request to follow him on his path.”

  “You are a strange squaw.” Numees laughs.

  I thread a bit of leather through a moccasin. “I have heard other tribes allow their women to make decisions of war and appointing chieftains.”

  “Decisions only. Their squaws do not make the war dance, as you would.” Numees says, not unkindly.

  I look deep into my friend’s amber eyes. “Have you never felt the dance’s call? Does nothing stir when the old ones lay their hands upon the drums?”

  “I feel stirrings, aye, as do all in the tribe. But the battle call?” Numees shakes her head. “I know my place in this world. It is at my husband’s side.”

  My face must give my thoughts away.

  Numees glances away. “Perhaps you find me odd…”

  “I find you happy.” I smile. “And think it must be pleasing to know your path.”

  “It was not always so. When the Mohawk killed my family, my path led to slavery.” She hesitates. “Many a night, I dreamt of ending my life that I might walk the spirit trail with my mother and father.”

  “Why did you not?”

  “I tried,” she says. “Ran one night, thinking their men would find and kill me for disobeying them. Instead, I lost myself to wandering the forest for many days. A dream fast took me one night, and I saw a cloudy sky break with raindrops upon my forehead. I woke to find a shadow carrying me away from that lost place. The same shadow that brought me here.”

  My brow wrinkles at her tale.

  Numees looks at me, her eyes shining. “Your father.”

  I put down my moccasin. “Why have you never told me this before?”

  “I felt no need,” she says. “I tell you only tonight because you seem troubled.”

  “I am.”

  “With your sister?” she asks.

  “With many things,” I reply. “My own path most of all.”

  Numees finishes her mending and takes up another moccasin. “Creek Jumper says paths are ever-changing. Snaking through woods or rivers, but always leading us.”

  I dwell on her words a moment and think on their wisdom, especially as her mention hails from our shaman.

  “When I was younger,” I say, “I tried looking back on what events led me to this place, but in truth, I do not recall most of it. Creek Jumper says I buried memories of the life before to shield my mind.”

  “You remember nothing?”

  “Some things,” I say. “Screaming faces…fire…fear...and—”

  I look up and see my sister, far across the gathering place.

  Sarah limps around the fire, leaning on a wooden crutch fashioned special for her. She wipes her brow and brushes aside strands of dark hair she claims were gifted her by our true father.

  I think on how Sarah oft claims I am the prettier sister, yet looking on her now, I know myself the lesser.

  “Sacrifice,” I tell Numees. “Great sacrifice.”

  Sarah catches me watching her.

  I avert my gaze back to mending the moccasins.

  To her credit, Numees asks me to speak no more of my sister, or of the night that caused Sarah’s infirmity.

  “The manitous demand great sacrifices from us all,” she says, after a time. “Perhaps yours will learn you what it would have in exchange for its gifts.”

  While I ponder on her words, Numees hums a Mohican tune I have oft heard her sing while around her home fire.

  My thoughts question what form my manitous will take. More than anything, I hope it will be a wild spirit—a snarling she-bear, perhaps, or a cunning wolf.

  The wafting scents of food distract my hopes and set my stomach to rumbling anew.

  I curse the delicious odors and that we must sit so near the cook fires. I had chosen to aid in mending moccasins and hides to avoid such temptation. Instead, I smell Three Sisters stew—corn, beans, and squash—and see the golden hue of cornbread set aside for feasting. Bits of elk roast over the fire, dripping fat licked by the flames.

  Tonight, all will feast.

  All save me.

  My sight meanders to the sweat lodge near the council longhouse. Again, I ponder on what spirit will seek me out to guide me on my path.

  The weakness in my flesh warns the answer comes soon.

  I drive away the scents of food by pricking my finger. The bone needle I use to thread the moccasins cuts sharp and serves my purpose well. I rub the blood droplets with my fingers and look on its scarlet color in the firelight. The mere sight forces me to swoon and calls my spirit to a different hunger, one not slaked by feasting on Three Sisters stew or even elk meat.

  “Becca…” says Numees.

  I look away from my finger and follow her point.

  Our shaman, Creek Jumper, has left the council longhouse. His gait steady and sure, he looks at no one as he leaves the gathering place, carrying a bundled fox pelt in hand.

  I stand with the others in my tribe. We
gather around as Two Ravens and his men empty out of the longhouse. Not a one gives any sign as to the council’s decision.

  Anger swells within me as Ciquenackqua emerges, his head held high. His father, Whistling Hare, follows him out, acknowledging our people with a curt nod.

  Sturdy Oak and Father exit last. Like the horned owl whose feathers he wears tied in his hair, Father masks his emotions with fierceness. He strides toward Two Ravens, holding the calumet in his left hand.

  “My people,” says Sturdy Oak, calling my attention. “We have met with our cousin tribe and listened to all they would say. Two Ravens asks us to make war on a mighty people and avenge those we do not know. I counsel we, too, are like to have no people if we fight such a powerful nation.”

  I expect such from our peace chief, yet having sat with Father at Sturdy Oak’s fire many a night, I know him wise where others might deem him cowardly. Our peace chief must believe we cannot win this fight.

  “We are a fierce and proud people,” Sturdy Oak continues. “But even the strongest bear cannot withstand a pack of wolves. We are one nation. The Iroquois are six united, since the Tuscarora joined them five years past.”

  Our peace chief raises his arms as if imploring us to heed him.

  “Two Ravens says the French will join our cause.” Sturdy Oak shakes his head. “I say the English will rally to the Iroquois. All this and more we spoke over the smoke pipe. I would keep our men from this fight, but this is matter of war. Its final decision lies with my son and war chief, Black Pilgrim. He will decide.”

  Father steps forward, and my eyes flit to Sarah. Her face resigned, as if it matters not what the decision will be.

  My heart turns icy at her resignation and that she does not stand supportive as any good wife should do. My stare swivels from her and back to Father.

  He stands between Sturdy Oak and Two Ravens, his gaze locked on the calumet.

  I wonder what answers he believes lay in the pipe for it to hold his attention.

  He looks up, and I believe he searches for Sarah, yet he passes over her with little regard. Only when his eyes find mine does he hesitate. His eyes squint, and his face sets in grim determination.

  His left hand shoots to the sky, holding the calumet high over his head.

  Someone in our crowd shouts a war cry. Others take up its echo until I swear even my brother at his trading post will hear.

  A broad grin breaks across the face of Two Ravens. He and Father grasp each other’s forearms, symbolizing the new union betwixt our tribes.

  Drums mix with the jubilant war cries, and I smile at their combined meaning.

  Numees takes my hand. She and I join our tribe, gathering round the bonfire. Together we sit among other familiar faces, all of us awaiting the ceremony to come. I search around the circle and see myself not the only one enthralled.

  The young ones watch the old in eager wait. Not a few of the elderly keep time with the drums. Some nod their heads. Others pat the backs of their grandchildren’s hands, teaching them the beat.

  My soul warms at the sight, recalling Sturdy Oak’s wife once teaching me to keep rhythm in a likewise manner. The memory changes upon noticing my sister limping away from the circle, back to our home I suppose.

  I shake my head at her disapproval. Alter my attention, looking through the flames at Father.

  Seated amongst the braves, he does not stand out so easily. The old ones say even the sun recognizes him as Miamiak and that it turned Father’s skin copper to better suit his place among the people. Father stares into the blaze, his stoicism unchecked, while the other men congratulate one another.

  I, too, look on the fire as if it might reveal to me the answer my father seeks.

  But even its flames seem subject to the beating of drums as the old ones sing the ancient song, their withered voices falling in time with the drum cadence.

  The power of the collective resonates in my soul.

  Like long shadows in the waning hours of day, four figures rise to make their presence known. They dance—bending and bowing, rising and falling—their movements keeping time as one.

  My friend and Numees’ husband dances closest to us. Firelight sheens off his shaved head as he deftly spins around the circle, marking him an experienced brave who has long practiced the war dance. The first to reach the striking pole, he gashes it with his long dagger.

  “I am Deep River,” he says, pounding his chest. “And gladly walk the warpath with my brothers. I ask they allow me first into battle. Like the name my father gives me, I will drown the Iroquois in a deep river of blood.”

  I cheer with Numees and several others as he steps aside for Ciquenackqua’s father.

  Whistling Hare moves in longer strides, sweeping ‘round the fire. He looks a crazed person, to my mind, yet I find myself drawn to his determination for the dance. He strikes the pole hard with a long wooden club, its end fashioned like eagle talons grasping a smooth, stone ball.

  “It is only right that I draw first blood from the Iroquois,” he says. “I do not dance tonight that any brave here might steal my glory. I fight only so more people might witness the greatness of Whistling Hare.”

  I laugh with the many others in my tribe at such a bold statement.

  “This will be my son’s first time upon the war path,” says Whistling Hare. “Let him dance now. For one day, others will hear his name and tremble.”

  With his club, Whistling Hare ushers Ciquenackqua follow his example.

  Unlike the two before him, I find my rival’s dance lacking. His gait stilted and unsure, he attempts to distract our attention by waving his arms over his head.

  It serves only to raise my ire further. My mind shouts to stand and show our people that I, too, can make the war dance. Aye, and dance it better than he, for I have oft practiced when alone in the wood.

  Instead, I remain seated, forced to watch his lance glance off the pole.

  “I-I am Ciquenackqua.” His voice breaks.

  “Louder, boy.” Whistling Hare roars. “I did not grant you such a name that you would hide inside your shell.”

  Not a few laughs rise from the men Two Ravens brought.

  Our people keep silent, showing respect even to one who might not give the same in return.

  “I am Ciquenackqua,” he says, his voice near shouting. “Like the great snapper, I will tear our enemy to pieces.”

  Our tribe shouts approval.

  Ciquenackqua retires to his father’s side, all his former pride restored and then some.

  The raucous cheers cease as the final dancer strides round the fire.

  His movements more fluid and sure than any before him, Father dances with the quiet grace and stealth of a mountain lion. To judge his expression, I gather he has shut himself from this world, his very soul possessed by the drums.

  I have often witnessed him wear a similar look while on the hunt.

  The fire and the dance are all that matter to him now, and I hold no pretense he sees me at all as he passes.

  Father buries his tomahawk into the war pole, leaving its blade stuck deep for all to see.

  I smirk at the stunned faces on the foreign tribe and note the eyes of Two Ravens round as a great owl’s.

  Unlike the others, Father makes no impassioned speech, nor claim. He only looks around the circle that all might know he will never be first to shy away. When he steps aside, a cry to dwarf those gone before him rises from both tribes.

  I add my voice to all the others as a fifth dancer emerges from the crowd—our shaman, Creek Jumper.

  I understand now why he left our midst after the council decision—he has painted the whole of his face white with red tears upon his cheeks. He dances faster than the others, chanting. Pulling small bones from the leather pouch worn round his neck.

  One by one, Creek Jumper fells each of the former dancers with the power he keeps hidden in the bones. Only when he finishes his victory circle does he bring each dancer back to life with the
charms granted him.

  I lean forward, anxious to learn what gifts the warriors will offer as Creek Jumper unclasps his buckskin cloak and lays it upon the ground.

  He backs away, clutching his leather pouch, muttering prayers as the dancers step forward to present their offerings.

  Deep River is first to produce his gift, laying a lock of his wife’s hair upon the cloak before rejoining us.

  Next, Whistling Hare empties a small bag of tobacco.

  For all his early pride, I take note that Ciquenackqua warily approaches the cloak and our shaman’s watchful eyes. Dropping to his knee, he places a small turtle shell upon the cloak then hastens to his father.

  Again, I find myself envying the boy. Not only is he permitted to make the war dance, he knows the form his manitous takes. I will the weakness in my flesh to quicken the dream fast that I too might recognize my guardian spirit and provide a worthy gift.

  For all my desire, I am forced to wait and watch.

  Father steps last to the cloak, his hands cupped around his contribution. His fingers open slowly, sifting a dusky snow between them to cloud over the other offerings.

  Creek Jumper nods as Father rejoins the circle. “Tonight we welcome Two Ravens and our new brothers in war. We thank our manitous and ask that they lend us their strength. Pray they guide our paths that we might do them and our people honor.”

  My stomach pains as he wanders into the circle.

  “Tonight we dance and feast.” Creek Jumper’s voice rises. “Tomorrow, we walk the warpath.”

  Our people offer another onslaught of joyous cries.

  The drums bang anew, louder.

  My stomach retches with empty hunger. My head swoons with delirium, my vision altering black and red as I sway.

  “These four have provided gifts for such favors,” says Creek Jumper. “Let others come also and make their offerings. Come…Come!”

  Still the drums speak to me. Their beat calling…

  Calling…

  Calling…

  I rise to answer.

  The earth tilts.

  I keep my feet and resign myself to the music.

  Dance. The drums command me. Dance…Dance…

  Committing my body to their bidding, I circle the fire and feel its heat upon my brow and the cold to my back. My body aches with bliss, even as I fight to keep my balance. I offer up my voice, singing the old songs. The drums and dance are all that matter until the striking pole looms before me, surrounded in shadow.