Salems Vengeance

by Aaron Galvin

  Laughing, Rebecca shrugs free of me. I watch as she spreads her arms and legs back and forth as one would when making a snow angel. “Sarah, what was his name?”

  The question takes me aback. Odd I gave both strangers mine, but do not remember theirs. “I...I cannot recall.”

  “Do you think they will return?”

  I sit up. Brush the straw from my dress. “I cannot speak to that either. The elder mentioned they had business to attend.”

  “What manner of business?”

  For a moment, I wish Rebecca had been with me last night. She would have asked all these questions I thought not of. “Trappers, I should suppose. The only work requiring them out so late at night.”

  “But you are no trapper and were in the woods.”

  My sister’s words strike further doubt in my heart. What were two strangers to our community doing out so late? Now I think back on it, the older rid me of their company quick enough. Faster still once he learned my name.

  “Mr. Kelly! Mr. Kelly!”

  Rebecca sits up suddenly, a marked concern spreading over her face. “That is Andrew Martin’s voice,” she says.

  Together, we run toward the hayloft door. I have to use all my strength to push open the heavy double doors. Once free, the weight of them makes a booming clatter off the roof eaves.

  Far across the yard, I see Andrew riding a withered mare up our dirt drive. The mare collapses ere it reaches our home, pitching him off. Even still, Andrew rises, yelling hoarsely. “Mr. Kelly!”

  Rebecca points to the fields. “Look!”

  From our high vantage point, I see Father hurrying through the rows. He runs for home with his scythe cutting the wind like an extension of his arm. George trails far behind him, burdened by the weight of his own scythe.

  “Come,” I say to Rebecca.

  We hurry down the ladder, and then to home. By the time we arrive, Andrew is slumped in Father’s arms. He weeps openly, not bothering to wipe his face clean, even upon seeing us girls. His face is flushed, clothes soaked as though he climbed out of the river.

  “Speak to me, Andrew,” Father says.

  “It is...my…sis—sister.” Andrew sputters.

  “Ruth?” I say.

  Andrew nods. “Father says a—d-demon—lives inside her.”

  A demon…I cover my mouth to keep back my guilty moan. Did they wreak some ill spirit upon her because she had no one to witness?

  Mother hurries to take Rebecca inside so her dreams will not be filled with the terrors shrouding Andrew’s face.

  “She moans and flails about,” Andrew says. “Tortured by some evil spirit.”

  George’s face turns to ash when he arrives.

  Father holds strong to keep Andrew from wilting further.

  Andrew chokes on his tears. “Father sent me to fetch you. He would have come. But sh-she is so strong now, Mr. Kelly. Between us, Mother and I could not restrain her. Fa-father said you could aid her.” Andrew gropes at Father’s shoulders. “Please, sir! She is so strong! How can it be so?”

  “Rest now,” Father calms him. “I shall fetch my things and go at once to your family.”

  Father leaves Andrew’s side and runs into our home.

  Mother returns, sans Rebecca. She pushes George aside and helps Andrew to his feet. “Come, dear,” she says, ushering him closer to our door. “Inside with you and rest awhile. My good husband will care for your sister.”

  “She is not my sister!” Andrew cries before entering. “Not anymore. A demon lives in her…poisons her spirit and wracks her body.”

  Father pushes past them. He carries a black satchel with him I have never seen and slings it over his shoulder as he strides to the barn.

  “George,” he calls. “Fetch some water for the Martins’ mare. See her to the stables when she can walk again. Then help your Mother calm your friend. He can do no more good this day.”

  Father’s sternness brings life back to my brother. “Aye, Father.”

  “Sarah...”

  I step forward. “Aye, Father?”

  “Once I ready the wagon, you will come with me,” he says. “I may have need of you.”

  Father leaves me beside the parched mare. I kneel to stroke her sweat-soaked skin. The mare jerks at my touch, as if she too saw what Andrew spoke of and is affrighted. Father has never asked me to accompany him before. What cause has he to do so now? And what aid could I possibly provide he could not do himself?

  I do not have long to ponder. I hear the creaking of our wagon ere George can return from the well. Our draft horses, Moses and Hickory, barrel out of the barn, near tipping the wagon over as Father drives them.

  The Martins’ mare screams at the thunderous beating of their hoofs. She tries to find her footing. I throw my body over her side to keep her from rising until George can arrive.

  Father will not permit me to stay. “Come, Sarah,” he commands. “Now.”

  I climb into the wagon, and sit beside him in place of Mother. Father cracks the reins across their backs so hard I think he will draw blood. Unused to such rough treatment at Father’s hands, Moses and Hickory tug hard at their straps. They drag us along faster than ever I have seen the wagon go. More than a few times, I fear a wheel will break for Father scarcely bothers to steer us from striking rocks.

  On and on he drives us. To the point I think our horses will collapse.

  It takes near an hour for us to reach the Martins’ homestead—a smaller one than our own, but still respectable in the community. Ahead, I can see the two youngest Martins standing in the yard with no one to keep watch over them.

  Six-year-old Henry’s arms wrap about his wailing younger sister, despite he too cries. I hear Ruth’s screams even before we turn down their dirt lane.

  “I need it! Give it to me!”

  Keeping the reins in hand, Father leaps from the wagon ere it stops. He loosely ties the horses off to the Martin’s wooden stable post. “Sarah! Look to the children. Do not bring them inside!”

  “Aye, Father,” I say, though I know he does not hear me.

  He bid me come to keep watch over children?

  The Martins instantly recognize me. Both children run to join me. I pick Mary up, and clutch her close. Henry wraps his arms about my waist.

  “Help me, Father!” Ruth screams from inside their home. “I need it!”

  I feel a jerk on my apron. “Sarah…”

  “Yes, Henry?”

  “Is Ruth going to die?”

  I lead both children further from the house. “No. Ruth will be well again,” I say. “My father will aid her.”

  “Give it to me!”

  “Why don’t we play a game?” I suggest.

  “But what shall we play?” Henry asks.

  “Do you know hide-and-seek?”

  Mary wipes away her tears with the hem of her dress. Flashes her white legs for me to see. Like her brother, she too grins at the prospect of a game.

  I smile back. “You two hide. I shall count.”

  “Help meee!”

  I ignore the shouting as I walk to the nearest tree and cover my face. I count loudly in an attempt to drown out Ruth’s screams. “One…”

  “No! No! Nooo!”

  “Two!” I peek between my fingers to ensure the children are hiding. I see Henry take his sister by the hand and run for their small barn.

  “I need it! My soul…they can keep it!”

  I leave the tree the moment I see both children disappear into the barn. The Martins’ home is only a single-story, unlike mine. Lucy, Ruth’s mother, sobs at their dining table near the open door. I swing toward the back window wherein I know Ruth shares a room with her siblings.

  Her father, Timothy Martin, stands in the window. His arms straight and face red, he struggles against a thrashing figure dressed in white.

  “Damn you, Father!”

  A thick headboard slides to block my view. The sound of wood screeching makes me cover my ears. Ruth writhes so mightil
y she moves the bed with even her father’s weight atop it.

  Father appears in the window next to Timothy with a leather belt in hand.

  “Nooo!” Ruth howls.

  Father swivels, dodging her kick at his face. He does not shrink away. Father bends, disappearing from my sight. The belt is gone when he rises. I watch him leave the window; return a moment later opening his satchel.

  “Nooo!”

  Father removes something from within it. What it is I cannot see for the bed shakes more mightily still, further blocking my view of Father and Mr. Martin.

  “Damn you to Hell, Paul Kelly!”

  Father sneers as he descends upon the bed.

  My cheeks sting with hot tears. I shut my eyes, and cover my ears with my hands. Even that cannot deafen Ruth.

  “Get away from meee!”

  The screaming stops suddenly.

  I open my eyes.

  Mr. Martin’s face is white as the painted siding of our home. He breathes like one short of breath.

  Father pats him on the back. Looks up and sees me.

  I duck to the side of the house, and shrink beneath the windows. I know he spotted me. He will scold me later for not doing as he bid. Perhaps even strap me.

  “Is it gone, sir?” Mrs. Martin asks.

  “For now,” Father replies.

  “Oh, bless you!”

  “Pray,” Mr. Martin says, “what stone did you give our Ruth?”

  “Not a stone,” Father says. “Medicine to help her to sleep. I confess, however, I know not how long it shall last. My stores were old. Time might well have lessened the potency.”

  “Do you fear it witchery such as Reverend Corwin mentioned?” Mrs. Martin asks, her voice trembling.

  “It be hard to say. I know naught the face of witchery.” Father sighs. “I warrant something has afflicted her—”

  I hear Mrs. Martin moan.

  She is afflicted! Could it be the powder to give her such fits?

  I hear laughter not far away, the children running in my direction.

  “Sarah!” Henry stops and calls from afar. “You could not find us!”

  “I could not,” I say brightly. “You both hid very well!”

  “Come.” Henry waves. “Play a new game with us!”

  “I—”

  “Did the Lord strike you deaf, daughter?”

  I look up to the window. See Father glaring down at me, his face red with anger.

  “I told you to keep the children away, did I not?”

  I cast my gaze to the ground. “Aye.”

  “Then go. I would speak with the Martins in private.”

  “A-aye, Father.”

  Trembling, I leave to join the children. Still, I cannot help but glance back at Ruth’s window and question whether I heard those same pains Thomas Putnam wrote of witnessing.

  And if Ruth is afflicted, as those in Salem were, what dark days lie ahead for the Winford community?

  -7-

  The morning has worn into afternoon ere I see Father leave the Martin household. The children laze upon the grass around me, long since weary of the tasks I set their hands to hours ago.

  I rise upon watching Father and Mr. Martin shake hands in the doorway and run to join them.

  “I fear your son nigh killed your mare in reaching me,” says Father.

  “I care not for a mare in this grave hour,” Mr. Martin says. “Is there naught we can do further, sir? Nothing to drive this evil spirit from her?”

  “Pray God take it from her,” Father says. “My family and I shall do the same.”

  “Thank you, sir,” says Lucy. “For all that you have done for us.”

  “Fear not, madam,” Father says kindly. “God is on our side.”

  Father leaves their house. He frowns upon seeing me so close to their home and turns back to Ruth’s parents. “Madam, would you allow us to care for the children? Sarah could stay if you like…”

  “No,” Mr. Martin says. “Our thanks for your offer. Ruth will want to see them when she…”

  It is a hard thing to see a man cry. Harder still for him to do it publicly, or so Father has said in times past. I look away to not shame Mr. Martin further.

  “Once she is well again,” Mr. Martin finishes.

  Father nods. He briskly walks toward our wagon.

  I cannot say why, but I find myself drawing near to Ruth’s family. I take Mrs. Martin’s hands in mine. “Please, tell her I visited. Ruth has a spirit like none other. I know she will be well again.”

  My words seem to comfort her. She grips my hands strongly. Even Mr. Martin forces a smile.

  “Sarah…” Father calls.

  I rejoin him at the wagon. If I judge his demeanor rightly, the ride home will not go pleasant for me. I bid farewell to the Martins ere climbing into our wagon.

  Father clicks his tongue. Moses and Hickory heave their massive bodies at his familiar signal. The wagon rolls steadily forward.

  The Martins wave to us.

  I give them a likewise reply, my gaze again drawn to the window wherein Ruth lies. Ne’er have I heard such wretched cries as she screamed earlier. I wonder how long it will be until I can forget them.

  I scoot closer to Father, wrapping the coarse blanket about my shoulders tight. “Father…”

  “Aye?”

  “Will Ruth ever be well again?”

  “You are not certain she will?” he asks.

  “In truth, I am not.”

  He clears his throat. “Then you should not have said otherwise to the Martins. A lie remains a lie. No matter your goodly intent.”

  “Aye,” I say quietly.

  I listen to the bustling leather straps tighten to their limits as we roll along. I have heard some families place bells upon the harnesses. Father says to do so is both folly and prideful. Folly because the bells sing to any nearby Indian a rich man drives by who could not, most like, defend himself. Prideful to show your horses bear more riches upon their backs than the indentured servants working in the fields.

  I turn my thoughts to the changing of seasons. Most of the leaves are already turned. The reds, yellows, and oranges blend together in a collage of beauty I much prefer to the greens of summer. It occurs to me then God must love color; He changes His palette so often. Soon, all will be replaced by wintery nothingness.

  “Father, is it true what Andrew said? Does Ruth indeed have a demon inside her?”

  I watch his face tighten. “Something lived within her, aye,” he says. “Whether it be a demon or no I am uncertain, but her brother spoke true of her strength.”

  “Have you ever seen such things before?”

  The horses whinny at the sudden choke of their reins. Our wagon rolls forward, striking both Moses and Hickory in their hind legs.

  Father looks at me warily. “And where am I to have witnessed such evil before?”

  He knows. I cast my gaze to the ground. “I—I…overheard you speaking with Mother. She said you were…in Salem at one time.”

  The leather reins creaks in Father’s grip. “Damn that town,” he mutters. “And its people with it. Will I never be rid of its curse?”

  Ne’er have I heard Father swear before this day. I try to conceal my alarm.

  Father takes my hand in his. I look into his face and see no trace of anger there.

  “Hear me, Sarah,” he says softly. “But speak naught of this to others. I was there for a time, aye. I rid my conscience of the evils done there and locked any memories of that wretched place away long ago. I mean to keep them buried.”

  I debate whether to tell him of the journal. Surely if Father were in Salem, he would have crossed paths with Thomas Putnam. Perhaps he could tell me more then, being safe in the knowledge I took him into my confidence also.

  My conscience is quick to remind Father will ask how I came by such a journal. It would not take him long to tease a confession out of me.

  I gather Father senses I struggle with my dilemma, yet he does not
ask me of it. Whether he does not care, or fears to hear the truth, I cannot tell.

  He releases my hands to take up the reins again. “We will speak no more of this. Nor of Salem,” he spits the word.

  “Aye, Father.”

  He does not speak the remainder of our journey.

  The silence and long ride gives me much time to ponder what memories plague him. It must be sore memories indeed for Father to shy away from speaking them.

  It is late afternoon ere we arrive home. Outside our cabin, a dappled grey mare waits. Alongside it, the young stranger sits upon his stallion’s back. He puts two fingers to his mouth at seeing our wagon and whistles.

  Father cracks the reins so hard it sounds like a quick clap of thunder. He drives us straight at the stranger.

  The younger man does not flinch. Not even when Father pulls at the choke. Our wagon halts within an inch of him.

  “What brings you to my land unbidden?” Father growls.

  The stranger yawns and looks away.

  Father throws the reins into my lap. “I said—”

  “I think the lad heard ye…”

  I glance toward our cabin. The old man I met in the woods stands in our doorway. He holds one of Mother’s tulip-painted cups in his right hand and lifts it as if to toast Father’s good health. “And how are ye today, Mr. Kelly?”

  “What business have the pair of you here?” Father asks.

  “Thought we might have a wee chat,” the old man says. “It were awfully loud yesterday with the other men shoutin’. I feared ye might not a heard me warnin’.” He takes a drink. Licks his lips. “My that’s good and proper hot. Would ye like to come inside, Mr. Kelly? Yer wife’s cookin’ up a fine stew. I dare say ‘twill be the best I tasted since me own wife’s, nigh on thirty years ago.”

  Mother appears in the doorway. She is physically unharmed, or as best I can tell, but her arms shield Rebecca from leaving the house. She casts a fearful look at the older man, and then to Father.

  From the front window, I see the barrel of Father’s flintlock slowly extend outward. The top of George’s head breaches the sill. He aims at the young stranger.

  Before I can shout a word of warning, the young stranger’s hand flies to his waist. I see a flash of silver as he flicks his wrist.

  George’s rifle barks.