by Aaron Galvin
“The pair of ye are brother’s,” says Bishop. “In soul, if not in blood. Remember that night so long ago and all he did for ye and yer family then. Know he’ll do the same again if they come this night for us.”
My brother’s hesitation leads me believe he may well thrash Andrew.
“He loves ye, lad,” says Bishop quietly. “Loves ye with everything in him, else he’d have eaten a bullet from the end of his rifle long ago.”
My brother trembles as he releases Andrew and backs away to the opposite side of the stable, collapsing.
“I don’t understand,” says Andrew. “What did I—”
“Damn ye to Hell, lad, shut yer fool mouth,” says Bishop. “Yer the one what led this Mather bitch here.” He looks on Mercy. “Isn’t he?”
“Aye,” she says. “But you speak true, old man. Andrew does indeed love this family with all his heart.”
I glare at her, even as she continues to speak.
“You will have further need of him to live out the night,” says Mercy. “As you shall also have need of me.”
“We’ve no use for wenches here,” says Bishop.
“Perhaps not,” says Mercy. “But by my count, the witches I left behind to hunt down any who escaped us will arrive here this eve, if they stuck true to commands.”
“If and perhaps,” Bishop grunts. “I’ve some of me own to share with ye. If some of yer powder-snortin’ bitches and savage lovers happen to come here, then perhaps I’ll get me wish to kill more of them.”
I grin at the conviction in his voice, the edge of a thrill I have not heard in him for many years.
“There will be more of them and to spare, old man,” says Mercy. “They will overrun this place.”
“Well, now.” Bishop limps closer to her, putting a hand to his ear. “I don’t hear the banshee wailin’ me name just yet. Methinks I’ll be around a lil longer. Though it’s a shame ye won’t be seein’ yer friends tonight.”
“You would be wise to trade me,” she says.
“I’d be wise to string yer lyin’ carcass up in the middle of the yard,” says Bishop. “Hang a dead crow and ye scare off the others. Think it might work for witches, lass?”
“Aye,” I reply.
Mercy looks me in the face. “You have kept me alive for a reason and know well what heads this way. Cotton ordered only that I bring back the offspring of Simon Campbell.” Her eyes flit to George. “Give me to my people and let you and your brother come with me to Boston.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I will see to it the others here will live,” says Mercy. “Andrew, Hannah, the savage boy, and even this old man.”
“Don’t ye be listenin’ to her, lass,” says Bishop. “A bleedin’ harpie in disguise is all she is.”
I stare into Mercy’s eyes and the black painted line across them. I think on my manitous, of Mercy’s earlier words she adapts to each situation, and what such words might mean for my family and I now. What lessons I might learn from her.
“What of Two Ravens?” I ask. “You said he comes for us also.”
“Aye,” she says. “Have you ever heard it said, ‘The enemy of my enemy is friend to me,’ girl?”
I nod.
“Good,” says Mercy. “Agree to my terms. Swear that you and your brother will follow me to Boston should we survive, and my people will fight alongside yours against Two Ravens and his men.”
“The words of a lyin’ Salem wench,” says Bishop. “What’s that worth?”
I turn and look on him, and George and Andrew also. I think of Sarah and the night Hecate came for us, how my family lives only thanks to her sacrifice.
I study Mercy’s face, thinking on the night she destroyed my village. Of Two Ravens and all his men.
“You will not fight,” I tell her. “I would have you beside me the whole battle, bound and gagged, to keep your witches loyal.”
Mercy’s eyes glitter with my words, even as she seems to ponder them. “They will fight and die for me,” she says. “And when the dead lie in the dust and we three remain, swear that you and George will go to Boston.”
“I swear it,” I say.
Mercy flinches, as if I mean to trick her. “Swear it on your sister’s soul.”
I take the blade from Mercy’s throat, run it over her hand, and draw blood. Then I do the same to my own, slicing my palm, watching both hers and mine ooze red.
I grip Mercy’s hand tight, letting our blood mix, binding my pact.
“I swear it on the good soul of my sister, Sarah,” I say. “We will go to Boston and meet your master.”
“Then it is done,” says Mercy.
“Aye,” I say. “It will be.”
I release my hold on her and take my leave of the stable. The others follow me out of the barn, out of hearing distance. One of them grabs my shoulder, spins me to face them.
George narrows his eyes. “What did you do? She will betray us—”
“I know what she is,” I say. “And what we are not. Believe me when I say that we cannot defeat Two Ravens and his men with us alone.”
“But, Rebecca,” George says. “If—”
“I were there, George,” I say. “Watched them take our village. And Ciquenackqua saw them defeat Father and our men on the shore of Wah-Bah-Shik-Ka. We shall need all the help we can if we are to survive this.”
Andrew helps Bishop along, the pair of them joining us. “I daresay yer sister’s right in this, lad.”
“How can you speak so?” George asks. “You have ever been one for the fight, Bishop.”
“Aye. That I have,” says Bishop. “But I’m an old man now and not like to survive much longer anyway. I daresay that I won’t be of much help this time around.”
“We yet have three of us,” says George. “And Ciquenackqua.”
“It will not suffice,” I say. “Even with Bishop’s tricks and your rifles.”
George folds his arms. “I will not go to Boston, Rebecca. No matter if Mercy keeps her word or not. Let the pair of you remember it were you who swore the oath. Not I.”
“We must survive the night first,” I say. “Then let us worry about what oaths I swore. For now, we should make ready our defenses.”
“You seem to have a plan already.” George grimaces. “Would you make it to known to us, little sister?”
“Aye.” I look to the cabins. “Have Mary load all the rifles and Hannah store caches of powder and shot in each house. Let Ciquenackqua make fires in each of their hearths and fetch enough wood to keep them burning.”
Bishop grins. “You’d have them think there’s more of us then?”
“Aye.”
“Andrew, bar the windows and doors,” says George. “We have enough timber to make short work of it. I’ll be along presently to help you. I would tell Hannah all that’s happened.”
“A-aye,” says Andrew. “George…I never…”
“Let you make no apologies here and now,” says my brother. “We need work done and little time to accomplish it.”
“Aye,” says Andrew, slipping away to attend the task set him.
Andrew leaves us, glad, no doubt, for a reason to leave our company for a time and think on his actions.
“How am I to forgive him?” George asks.
“Me father oft said time heals many a thing,” says Bishop. “Less’n it’s some foul disease a whorin’ wench gave ye. So steer clear of ‘em.”
He laughs himself into a coughing fit, one I should join in with him, if I did not recognize the darkness in my brother’s eyes.
“But his sin were betrayal,” says George.
“He wouldn’t be here, lad, if it were true betrayal.” Bishop claps him on the shoulder. “Come now. Let you go tell your wife and the others our plan.”
“She’ll not be happy,” says George, eyeing his and Hannah’s cabin.
“No doubt,” says Bishop. “Most married women aren’t. And who can blame ‘em? Married to poor bastards l
ike us, eh? Let ye tell her anyway.”
George hesitates, despite Bishop urging him on. “Where will you be, little sister? I heard no mention of what you mean for yourself in this.”
I open my mouth to speak, but Bishop guesses my intent and says it for me.
“She’ll be out rangin’ then, won’t she,” he says. “Just as I’d have sent Priest to do.”
George looks on me with little regard. “You can’t. What if—”
“I move more silent than you, brother,” I say.
“I cannot allow it,” says George. “If Mercy’s witches or the natives await—”
“I have killed more natives and witches in the last two days than you in the past ten years.” I step close to my brother that he might learn truth from my eyes. “And I led others here and brought us a captive in tow. Your trade is in hoarding and bargaining weapons and pelts. Mine is using those weapons to hunt such creatures and bring their skins to you.”
My brother steps back.
“I am your younger sister, it is true,” I say. “But I am not helpless.”
My brother’s jaw works back and forth. “No,” he says finally. “I see that now. In truth, you have not been for many years.”
George touches his hand to my shoulder. I return the gesture.
“Keep safe, Rebecca,” he says.
“And you. I will return.”
As my brother leaves us, my mind berates me for speaking to him so, out of turn and disrespectfully. Still, my spirit soars that I spoke truth and he were man enough to accept it.
“And me, lass?” Bishop asks. “What would ye set an old wily bastard like me to do?”
“What you do best,” I say. “String Mercy up so the witches see her when they come to shore.”
“And if they don’t do as she bids, I’ll kill her, eh?”
“Aye.”
He laughs himself into a coughing fit then. As he marches toward the barn, I sprint for the forest, hearing him sing a refrain from his favorite tune.
‘Come on, lad,’ says I. ‘We’ll hunt us some witches.’
All o’er we went and by God killed us them bitches.
-15-
The sun descends on the horizon as I stalk through the wilderness, circling the edges of my brother’s property.
Hammering echoes wander throughout the dale from George and Andrew attending their tasks. The sound travels far and wide, and I harbor little doubt any native presence near will recognize it for the noise of white men.
My eyes flit from tree to tree, ever in search of movement and danger.
Gripping the handles of my weapons, no small part of me hopes Two Ravens does come for me. My conscience reminds he might use my love for Father and Numees against us.
I think of Father’s teachings, recall his willingness in the woods that I should run free while he returned to certain capture. Even now, I wonder if I could make the same sacrifice.
Thoughts of Father comfort me. It would please him to see me ranging, as he often did, and make him happier still that I carried his blade rather than let Mercy claim it.
I glance down at the Alden name upon its blade, wishing I could take it for my own as his adopted daughter.
A cracking branch ahead pulls the thought from me.
I duck low at the sound, slink behind a rocky outcropping, and peek around its stony edge to learn whether animal or man makes such a noise.
Ahead, the painted skin of a native brave captures my attention. Not so young as Ciquenackqua, but not so old as me. Red paints his upper body and shaved head, and silverworks bead his ears. A plume of hawk feathers are tied in his hair, each sent out in different ways. He carries a bow slung across his back, and it is then I see what he carries in hand—a bone-hilted dagger with two ribbons, one black, the other red.
He halts of a sudden, and looks the way he came, almost as if he senses my presence.
I tuck behind the outcropping, count to three before risking another peek.
The brave moves on, walking toward my brother’s post.
I grit my teeth and follow him. I move from tree to tree in cautious haste, all the while keeping alert to the sights and sounds in the forest, careful not to become prey to any of his fellows that may lurk about.
I speed myself close on him the nearer we approach the trade post.
Already I spy the back of Bishop’s home—nailed boards claim the windows, though George and Andrew left some little opening for any shooter inside.
The brave gives the cabin little regard, wandering closer.
My gaze drops to the dagger in his hand. Seeing its ribbon flutter calls memories of Sarah and Mercy, knowing the dagger as their means of marking the houses.
I rush forward with little thought, screaming a war cry.
The brave spins toward me, his face plain with he had no thought of being followed.
Knocking him to the ground before he can react, I step on his wrist and hold the edge of my tomahawk to his face. “Drop your dagger.”
He looks at me confused, and utters words foreign to my ear.
It matters little. Father taught me long ago all men understand one universal language. I lean forward on the brave’s wrist, my added weight sending the message.
The brave releases his dagger.
I step away and bid him rise with my tomahawk. The look he gives surprises me—not one of anger or ill intent, but genuine confusion. I cannot rightly determine why, whether he be so confused by my taking him unawares, or else another point unknown to me.
I keep my eye upon him as I kneel and pick up the bone dagger. Sheathing it through my belt, I look to the other cabins. Smoke rises from each of their chimneys, the filtered light glowing through cracks in the boarded windows.
A shiver runs through me at the ruse we mean to fool Two Ravens with. I only pray it works.
The brave continues his watch of me, and he follows my gaze to the cabins.
“Move.” I point the way ahead, urging him forward with the end of my tomahawk.
His fearlessness to enter an enemy camp without hassle cautions me to glance over my shoulder. Concern draws over my face as we leave the woods, fear that I have missed something, though my eyes find no trace of a clue.
I usher my captive around the cabin and find my family and friends still toiling away at their tasks—all but Bishop. He has tied Mercy to a pole in the middle of the yard and sits nearby, the point of his rifle aimed at her head.
“Ah, what’s this?” He asks upon my approach. “Where did ye find this hound?”
“Sniffing around your home,” I say. “He had this on him.”
I show the bone dagger in my belt.
Mercy’s eyes go round as she wriggles upon the pole. “They are here then.”
“I saw no one else—”
“Nor should you,” she says. “This one you’ve found belongs to Two Ravens, a scout to learn your defenses, no doubt. The others will be here soon.” Mercy looks to the tree line. “You would be wise to free me now.”
Bishop laughs himself into a coughing fit. “Not likely.”
My Native hostage looks at us each then speaks in his foreign tongue.
“What’s he blatherin’ on about then?” Bishop asks.
“I do not know,” I say. “I—”
“He wishes to know why this white woman is tied up.”
I turn at the familiar voice.
Creek Jumper leans on Ciquenackqua for support. Poultices bind the wounds upon his chest and neck, yet life burns in his wizened face.
“You—you’re alive.” I fight the sudden tears in my eyes. “How?”
“The grandfathers would have me repay the wrongs done our people,” he says. “Their potion made me sleep long and healed my wounds. They bid me return to guide you on that yet to come. Are we all that remains?”
“Aye,” I say. “Your son…”
Creek Jumper raises his hand, silencing me. “Linnipinja gave me back my son as a babe. I thank the w
ater panther for the many years he allowed me keep Deep River at my side. Now he walks the spirit path. It might be some of us should join him soon,” Creek Jumper says. “But it will not be this night.”
Creek Jumper speaks to our hostage in the unfamiliar tongue.
“You understand him?” I ask.
Creek Jumper nods. “He is a Wyandot warrior and claims the Iroquois asked his tribe to hunt for the rogue Mohawk war chief, Two Ravens, who would break the peace between their tribes by raiding without leave.”
Our hostage points at Mercy and mumbles in his language.
“And the white women traveling with them,” says Creek Jumper. “He asks why we have this woman bound.”
“Your hostage lies,” says Mercy. “Let you kill him now.”
“Be silent, wench,” says Bishop.
My mind swirls with the opposing stories from the native and Mercy. “Creek Jumper,” I say. “Let you tell him this woman killed my sister, and were wed to Two Ravens.”
“Liar.” Mercy’s lip curls as Creek Jumper relays my words. “I were never married to that heathen, nor should I ever have been.”
I pay her no mind, my focus on the discussion between Creek Jumper and the native hostage.
“He says his people have traveled far to find Two Ravens,” says Creek Jumper. “He said also the war party passed near their village. They left some of their people fighting evil spirits and craving potion given them by white women.”
“Do not believe him, Rebecca,” said Mercy. “Did Two Ravens himself not come among you at your own village? No doubt this one’s master sent him as another wolf in sheep’s clothing. Keep him at your peril, I warn you.”
I look from the hostage brave to her, wondering how I might learn the truth of either. The stern features of the native remind me of a younger Sturdy Oak, his inherent stoic nature. There be no lie in his eyes, nor do I sense he bears us ill will. Still, Mercy’s words also bring truth—Two Ravens did indeed come among my people fearlessly and lead them astray.
The end of Bishop’s rifle wanders toward the brave’s back, and the old man’s eyes speak that I need only give him a word to carry out the action.
My gaze wanders over the native’s body. Few scars line him, though many tattoos. One adorning his left pectoral catches my eye—the drawn animal lay on its back, its black eyes staring at me from behind its dark mask, and its ringed-tail draped between its legs, hanging down the brave’s abdomen.