Salem's Fury (Vengeance Trilogy Book 2)

by Aaron Galvin

  We ride all day, me forced to ride behind my sister’s killer. Her smoke scented hair breezing in my face. I think to cut it from her, but fear I should not stop with trimming it.

  Come the nightfall, we stop to rest.

  My mind cautions I should heed Mercy’s words and keep on, but, as I look on my company, I know we cannot abandon them. Ciquenackqua appears half out of his wits, and Creek Jumper has not woken once during our ride. Our shaman sleeps still, and I think of no reason why I should take him from his horse.

  I give the reins of all three mounts to Ciquenackqua as Mercy slides off behind me. Then I take her to a nearby elm and tie her off.

  Tonight, she does not speak.

  I reckon she knows her words useless on me and would not waste her breath. I leave her at the tree and join the others, not twenty yards away.

  Mary waits awake, though Ciquenackqua has already bedded down.

  I gather he must be grateful to have found me, for he snores in blissful slumber, not thinking I might have needed him take the first watch. I rub my eyes with the ball of my fist as I sit upon the grass.

  I look back on Mercy, my own escape having made me warier still of Mercy’s wily nature. I exhale, thankful she remains captive to the tree.

  “Ah.” Mary winces beside me and rubs her inner thighs.

  “You will be sore for several days,” I say.

  “Aye,” she says. “I remember the pain from my youth. Do not let me trouble you. I would not have you slowed for it.”

  I keep my silence rather than remind her she slowed me already by falling off her mount several times earlier in the day. I wriggle down in the dirt, resting my head upon a stone. Then I look up at the stars and the night sky, wondering if Sarah looks down on me.

  “Thank you,” Mary says quietly, “for not leaving me.”

  I glance in her direction as she continues rubbing her thighs. She will not meet my eyes.

  “I know others should have left me by now,” she says. “Indeed, my own husband threatened it more than once when he were alive. I know not why God made me so fumbling, but I am grateful for your kindness.”

  Her gentle voice bids me scold myself for thinking ill of her.

  I cannot, nor can I bring myself to lie and say she is no trouble.

  “You should sleep, Mary.”

  “No,” she says. “I slept all last night. It is you who should take rest this eve.”

  I shiver from the night chill and wish we might risk a fire. “I do not mind.”

  “Or do you not trust me?”

  Her words strike me like a slap to the cheek and, for all her earlier shyness, I find her looking well on me now. Her eyes search mine, as if she could discern the truth or lie in my answer.

  “I know not who to trust,” I say honestly. “But I will say this. Look you on Mercy and see I keep her bound while you yet walk free.”

  “Aye.” Mary casts her gaze away. “But that is because you fear her. No one fears one such as me.”

  “Why should you wish others to fear you?”

  “Oh, let you not think such ill thoughts of me,” she says quickly. “I meant naught of it, only that there be strength in fear. Great power for those who wield it.”

  I know not what to say to her words, and gather she senses my unease for she fidgets, scratching at her arms.

  “I should not expect you to understand,” she says. “Look at you. Beautiful as a blooming rose, yet with thorns to prick any who dare touch you. I have envied girls like you all my life, often wondering what it must be like to have men’s eyes follow me as I watched them do for Mercy and Abigail in Salem.”

  “I should think it because those two gave men whatever they liked,” I say.

  “No,” she says. “It were not for that alone. I followed God’s word and gave my husband whatever he asked of me, yet I never saw the desire in his eyes he had for you that day at your brother’s post.”

  She laughs then, alarming me.

  “Then again, I never saw such surprise when you near castrated him either.”

  I chuckle with her at that, the pair of us near waking Ciquenackqua, to judge his restlessness.

  “Ah, but that were a fine sight to see,” says Mary. “One I shall never forget.”

  My mind races back to that day, drawing a grin from me. “Nor I. My father taught me words are not enough for some men.”

  “He taught you well then,” she says.

  Her shoulders shake and her breath catches in her throat.

  “Forgive me my trespasses against you, Rebecca,” says Mary. “I had not thought to alert Mercy and her guards to your escape.”

  I sigh, not wishing her further pain, though not wishing to lie either.

  “And when I saw you and him brought back…” She wipes her nose with the back of her hand, pauses to compose her voice. “I know not why God made me so weak. I have often asked Him why He hates me so.”

  We two sit awhile—she crying softly, me thinking on what to say.

  “My sister asked the same many a night,” I say finally. “Sarah was her name.”

  “Aye,” says Mary. “Hannah spoke of you both often while we toiled at her hearth this past winter. She said your sister could not give up her guilt for the night that brought you all into these lands, much the same as Andrew Martin could not.”

  I nod. “She believed your god punished her for those actions.”

  “I thought He did the same to me for my part in Salem,” says Mary. “But His scorn for me were there long before the trials. Let Mercy blather about her master, Thomas Putnam, chasing her skirt around the house. I should have welcomed such a master as he rather than the one God led me to serve.”

  She turns to me of a sudden, takes my hand in hers.

  “I heard Mercy on the road say Putnam kept a journal. That it was in your sister’s keeping for a time.”

  “Aye,” I say. “It were given Sarah by Abigail Williams.”

  Mary’s eyes seem round and bright as I look on them, her gaze more curious than ever I have witnessed in a person.

  “And did you read it also?”

  I hesitate, wondering what draws her interest so keenly. “Aye, I read the entries.”

  “Did he…” Mary wets her lips. “Did he ever mention my name in his writings? Do you recall that from your readings?”

  “Mary—”

  “Please, Rebecca,” she says. “Please, I must know.”

  “Aye,” I say. “You were mentioned somewhat.”

  “And?” she asks. “What did Putnam say?”

  I struggle to recall the words rightly. I think back on the days Father bid me study the journal, burning each name in my head in the event there ever came such a day as this. I remember believing him foolish then, one of the only times in my life to ever think so. Yet now as I sit beside one of the Salem accusers, and look on another tied twenty yards away, I realize him all the wiser still.

  “Putnam said his daughter mentioned you were eager to join the afflicted girls.”

  “Aye,” Mary says, her voice small and quiet. “All I ever desired were for them to befriend me. I often prayed for but one kind word from them. For Mercy or Abigail to look on me with fondness, rather than lead the others in mocking me. Can you believe I thought my prayers answered the night they asked me join them in the woods?”

  “You danced with them then?”

  “Oh, aye,” she says, her voice near bursting from the memory. “If ever I were happy a night in my life it was then when they took me by the hand and led me around the fire. I can still see their happy faces in my dreams and hear my laughter twinning theirs.”

  She hangs her head then, a sight to sadden me also.

  “I should have known then it were all a show,” says Mary. “I did know. Only did not care. They gave me Devil’s powder, and that I took gladly. Not to see spirits,” she says quickly, seeing me look on her oddly. “No. Only that it were what they would have from me in friendship…and then Joh
n Proctor took it all from me.”

  A dusky edge haunts her voice, one that makes me wonder if it indeed came from Mary.

  “He was your master?”

  “Aye. He knew the claims we gave were false and would not have me lie or risk despoiling his good name and household.” Mary spits. “Much as I recall the night Mercy and Abigail asked me join them, I can recall with equal measure John Proctor’s threats against me.”

  Mary looks on me, her face washed with grief and anger.

  “Have you ever seen the glow of tongs or brands pulled from the fire?” she asks. “Heard them sizzle when pressed against an animal’s hide?”

  “Aye,” I say. “I have helped George with his own beasts before.”

  Mary nods. “Imagine the man whose roof you live beneath threatening to feed those fiery tongs to you. Promising he should force them down your throat if you keep up your pretense.”

  “No,” I say, remembering the animals’ stir when I held them for George that he might brand them.

  “Aye,” Mary insists. “That is the horror John Proctor swore me if I did not recant.”

  I think on such a picture as she paints in my mind, wondering how a man could threaten such a thing to a lowly girl. Then the familiar anger swells inside at what I should do if someone gave me such a warning.

  “Let Mercy and the others say what they will of me, that I were weak and a traitor to their cause,” says Mary. “But I knew Proctor well. Nothing kept him from standing by his word. That be why I gave those magistrates the truth of it.”

  Mary sobs anew, and I cannot help but place my arm about her broad shoulders.

  “And then I were cast out,” she says. “The only one to bear the hate from all sides. No more friendship from the other girls. No fear of my power from those in the village. And worse, Dr. Campbell would give me no more of his Devil’s powder.”

  I think again on the man Sarah would name as our real father. Hearing Mary speak so of him gives me further reason to hate his shared blood flowing in my veins and that his actions warranted such loss upon so many, continuing its reach even to this night.

  “Proctor beat me for what he wrongly supposed a lazy nature in me,” Mary says. “But it were only agony from the lack of powder. The pain it caused me were so great I again betrayed my earlier words. I rejoined the girls not for friendship, or even to see spirits again, only that the powder should remove the pain. Would that I knew then what I do now.”

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “That had I only endured awhile longer, the pain should leave my body and find my wits returned again,” says Mary. “Though at least the second time it came upon me, I did not also have to bear Proctor’s fists. I may hate Abigail and Mercy all the rest of my days, but I will be forever grateful they named Proctor a witch and that I saw his neck break for it.”

  I look on Mary with new understanding and not a little appreciation for the cold way she speaks of Proctor’s death. It mirrors my own thoughts of how I should feel upon taking Mercy’s life.

  “I am glad Thomas Putnam wrote of me,” says Mary quietly. “I did not think he knew my name.”

  Her words sadden me, that she should speak so proud of the mere mention in a stranger’s journal, and even then in not a goodly light. Still, she smiles at me as I take my arm from her shoulders.

  “Let you sleep now, Mary,” I say. “And I will take the watch.”

  “Aye,” she says. “If you insist.”

  “I do. Your body needs rest to heal the pain in your legs. We should reach my brother’s post tomorrow, but it will yet be a long day’s ride.”

  She takes my hand and brings it to her lips, kissing my knuckles. “Thank you for all your kindness.”

  “You are most welcome,” I say. “Now, sleep. The morrow will come before we know it.”

  She takes her hand from mine and lies upon the ground, her snores echoing not long after,

  The night sky and the star guide my Father learned me to plot and follow calls my name.

  A lone wolf howls in the distance. Its echo meant to warn others of its presence, yet its sound brings me comfort.

  I close my eyes and offer a prayer to the ancestors, bidding them keep safe watch over Father and our people, wherever they may be. My thoughts dwell on my companions; hate for Mercy, mourning for Ciquenackqua, and concern for Creek Jumper.

  I think on Mary last, of her thanks for my kindness.

  The wolf’s howl echoes again, bidding me wonder if it would not be a greater kindness to grant her the silent, merciful death we gave Mercy’s guards.

  The moon sits directly over me ere the thought leaves me. Then I wake Ciquenackqua and bid him keep the remainder of the nightly watch. Once assured he has fully woken, and after he wanders into the night to relieve himself, I nestle down close to Mary, feel her warmth against my back, and let sleep take me.

  My dreams fill with my manitous and the path it would lead me down.

  -13-

  Ciquenackqua shakes me awake. Tears stain where war paint coated his face yesterday.

  I sit up, shielding my eyes as the sun peeks at me from the horizon and bids us rise with it for a new day.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Creek Jumper is dead.”

  I look to the white mare, and see our shaman yet tied where we left him. I climb to my feet and hurry toward the beast.

  The mare spins from me. I catch its reins in hand, then soothe it with my voice and stroke its jawline. I touch my fingers to Creek Jumper’s neck, finding it cold and stiff.

  My feet fail me. I land hard upon the ground and gaze up into his wizened face.

  His eyes closed in blissful sleep, I almost think him smiling down on me from atop his mount.

  Ciquenackqua sits beside me. “So many dead,” he says. “Why?”

  I say nothing in reply, unable to take my eyes off our shaman.

  “Did he say anything to you?” I ask. “Before he slept?”

  “Only that I must continue on and his potion would make him sleep awhile, but I should not worry.”

  Ciquenackqua’s words call more tears from me. I know full well our shaman understood that he would not wake in this life again. But even in death, Creek Jumper would not allow a boy to believe himself left alone.

  “What should we do with him?” Ciquenackqua asks.

  “We will take his body to the post and give it a proper burial.” I hand the reins over. “Stay with him while I rouse the others.”

  Before leaving, I brush Creek Jumper’s hair aside and kiss his cold brow, allowing my lips linger there, though it seems as if it were a stone. I offer a prayer that he not take Ciquenackqua or me with him on the spirit path, then leave them both.

  I nudge Mary awake and hear her groan with morning pain.

  Mercy keeps her quiet at my approach, and while I loosen her bonds. I lead her to our mount. She wrinkles her nose at the sight of Creek Jumper.

  “Thought I smelled death—”

  I unsheathe my father’s dagger and knock Mercy over the head with its hilt.

  She falls to the ground unconscious, and I find myself shaking.

  “Do it,” says Mary. “Or give me the blade”—her open hand reaches out to me—“and I shall do it for you.”

  “Ciquenackqua,” I say, sheathing the dagger in my belt. “Help me lay her across my horse.”

  He listens without question, smirking at the sight of Mercy laid out.

  “Why do you keep her alive?” Mary asks.

  I look on the streak of black painting Mercy’s eyes. “I would learn more from her.”

  I swing astride the horse. Ciquenackqua lifts her limp body while I pull, the two of us placing her across my lap.

  The horse paces beneath me, seemingly eager to set off for my brother’s post or else sensing the evil spirit upon its back.

  Thoughts of George cloud my mind as we ride. I drive my mount harder with each passing hour, worrying what I should find at the post,
wondering if Mercy spoke true, and plotting what we should do if finding the post sacked by a second raiding party.

  All afternoon, I look to the horizon and hope not to find a billowing cloud of smoke.

  My fears go mercifully unwarranted as I witness familiar white smoke rising from George and Hannah’s chimney.

  No one stands in the yard.

  The dogs still wander, as do the livestock inside their fencing.

  All seems well to my eye, yet I cannot fight the fear clutching my insides. My mind swarms with images of Sarah slain in the village, our people dragged away and Father with them, even Creek Jumper, dead upon our mare in our company.

  I slide off my horse and give the reins over to Ciquenackqua.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “Stay here,” I say.

  “Why? Where are you going?”

  I do not tell him that I must know, that I must be certain what little family I have left still lives.

  I sprint through the forest, drawing my tomahawk and Father’s dagger from my belt. My muscles tense as I near the edge of the woods and take shelter against an oak.

  I peek around the tree, but see nothing in the yard.

  My heart beats faster, thankful I have not found any trace of war. Still, I worry what I might find inside the houses.

  I push off the tree and make for the back of George’s home. I throw myself against the side. Slowly, I raise my head and peek inside.

  A rifle cocks behind me.

  “Rebecca?”

  George stands in the woods behind me. He sets his rifle to lean against a tree.

  “Rebecca, what are you—”

  I give him no time to finish his words, throwing myself into his arms, crying until I have no tears left in me.

  “She is dead,” I say. “S-Sarah is dead.”

  George pulls away. “How?”

  I tell him everything, my tongue loosing a dam of words on him like I have never before spoke. All the while, he listens, never interrupting. With each bit of news I pass onto him, his face sours, his shoulders and body sagging until I fear he will fall over.

  “We had no word of it,” he says after I have finished. “No word at all.”