Salems Vengeance

by Aaron Galvin

  “George!” Mother screams at the sound.

  Smoke blankets the area and fills my nostrils. The horses whinny.

  I clutch back on the reins to keep them from running off.

  The smoke clears.

  A dagger, only a single hair’s breadth away from George’s face, twitches in the windowsill. It takes me a moment to realize the labored breathing I hear is my own.

  The young stranger’s left hand drifts to hide beneath his tunic. He does not seem nearly so tired, or passive, now. His eyes dance in wait for Father to move.

  “Oi, lad!” the old man shouts. “Do ye want the Kellys to run us off ere we’ve had a wee bit a supper?”

  The intensity from the young stranger vanishes. He dismounts and strides toward our home where he dislodges his dagger from the windowsill.

  “Colonial bastard,” the older man mutters ere taking another drink. “Now…what’s say we put all this aside?”

  Father watches the young stranger swing back astride his stallion. Then he turns his dangerous gaze on the old man. “You swear to not harm my family?”

  “Us?” the older man’s voice cracks. “I do believe yer lot fired upon this sorry lad that follows me everywhere I go. But, aye.” He nods. “Ye have me word. Neither of us are here to harm yer family. Came to warn ye, in truth.”

  “Warn me?” Father says. “Pray, about what?”

  The old man waves a stubby finger. “Ah, Mr. Kelly, ye squirrely devil. Why, if I told ye, here and now, I’d ne’er taste yer wife’s stew! And I’ve a fearsome hunger to match yer curious mind.”

  The corners of Father’s lips turn down. He looks toward the window where my brother and Andrew yet hide. “Boys,” he calls. “Get you to the barn, and Rebecca with you.”

  Andrew Martin does as he is told. Even takes my sister gently by the hand once outside. My brother lingers. A dark cloud over his face speaks to one who knows he is yet considered a boy in his Father’s eyes. Even I can tell it will not be long ere the cloud thunders.

  Father must sense it too. He reaches for his belt.

  To prove some little defiance, George climbs out the window rather than use the door. He does not look at Father on his slow march to the wagon, yet I notice he is careful to give the young stranger a wide berth. George climbs into the wagon next to the other two. Taking up the reins, he quenches his anger on horseflesh, driving them faster than Father would approve of.

  “Sarah…” Father calls me back to the situation at hand. “Help your Mother.”

  “Aye, Father.”

  I walk past the old man. He pays me no heed. I am thankful he does not give away we have met before. Still, it strikes me as odd neither of the strangers has once looked at me since we arrived.

  Upon entering our home, I see the table already placed for seven. By my count, we will have eight to share the meal with us. I go to Mother’s favorite cabinet; the one Father had specially shipped from England to gift her for Christmas five year ago. I remove the extra bowl and cup carefully.

  A dragging footstep scoots over our floor. I turn round to see the old man take his seat upon the wooden bench typically reserved for us children. He has tracked dirt into the house.

  It does not escape Mother’s notice. If any of us did so, we would be clapped round the ears and forced to clean. Instead, I watch Mother busy herself about the hearth. No doubt she nibbles her tongue to a near nubbin to keep her silence.

  I go to her that she may ladle stew into the bowls I give over.

  She thrusts them back so fast she nearly spills them.

  I take the bowls to the table, and lightly set one before the old man.

  “Thank ye kindly, lass,” the old man says jovially. He dips his head low toward the venison stew and closes his eyes. At first, I believe he means to pray. He inhales the scent so deeply it almost seems as though he is snoring. “This truly does smell the right side a Heaven, Mrs. Kelly.”

  Mother mutters a reply. I do not for a moment believe them words of gratitude as I hand her the eighth and final bowl to ladle.

  “No need for it, lass,” the old man interrupts. “Ye’ve enough here already.”

  I count them again. Father, Mother, Rebecca, George, Andrew, myself, and the two strange—I cease my count. The young stranger has not graced the inside of our home.

  Father takes his seat at the head of the table. “Your friend will not join us?”

  The old man motions over his shoulder. “Him?” He snorts. Shakes his head. “He don’t like houses.”

  Something in his tone suggests it is no mere dislike. I gaze out the window to see he watches us even now. Does he stay to keep watch? Or some other reason his companion neglects to mention?

  The old man licks his dry lips as Mother pours the small beer. He drains the draught with a single swig, picks up his spoon, and eats without waiting for Father to say grace. He eats voraciously, stopping only to pour himself more beer.

  Mother looks at him with disdain ere she places a freshly baked loaf of bread upon the table.

  “Ah!” The old man quickly tears a hunk off. He dabs the bread into his stew, stuffs it into his mouth. “Wouldn’t go so far as to call us friends neither,” he says between bites. “He just follows me around is all. Aye, and the term friends carries with it a sort of, er, attachment, ye might say.”

  The old man pauses to guzzle his beer, then places the now empty cup back upon the table with a satisfying sigh. “I don’t do attachments. Least not anymore.”

  I cannot imagine why. The mere sound of him slurping the last bits of broth from his bowl makes me not want to eat of my own. When he takes the bowl away, I see a bit of the dark, greasy liquid lingering in his beard. He quickly cleans it away with the back of his mottled hand.

  “I’ll take another, if ye’ve more of it,” he says.

  Mother shudders when the old man takes up his fork to pick his teeth.

  It is Father who takes up the stranger’s bowl and carries it to the hearth. Taking the poker in hand, he pulls the blazing iron rod the black kettle hangs upon away from the fire. “You are welcome to it, Mr.—”

  “Oh,” the old man winces. I suspect he pricked his gums with the fine point of his fork. He takes it from his mouth. “I don’t hold with names either.”

  “Odd you have no name,” Father says as he ladles the stew.

  “Augh,” the old man says. “Of course I have a name, sir. Me muther, God rest her blessed soul, granted me with a right fine one. I just don’t use it’s all.”

  Father lightly sets the bowl before the stranger. “And what cause would a man have to not use his name? Be you ashamed of it?”

  The old man picks up his spoon. “I’m ashamed a nuthin’. Names carry attachment.” He brandishes the spoon as if a wand to conjure stew. “And I don’t do attachments, I remind ye. ‘Askin’ for names nearly always leads to trouble,’ me pappy oft said to me. ‘So steer clear of ’em, lad.’ Sounder advice I’ve ne’er been given.”

  He pauses then to scratch his head. “Then again, he also told me don’t go round pissin’ on leprechauns’ heads. The wee bastards are an unforgivin’ lot, or so he claimed. I’ve ne’er had the pleasure a meetin’ one meself. But who’s to say I won’t still find one to grant me three wishes, eh, Kelly?”

  The old man laughs himself into a coughing fit, as a man in his cups is wont to do. In truth, I wish to join him in laughter. Never have I crossed paths with a man who could sit before Father so comfortably and make sport. This stranger must be mad indeed.

  “A man’s name,” Father says, “his character, and words are all he truly has in this world.”

  The old man settles himself, nodding at the last. “Aye, therein lies the issue as I see it. A man’s name, why, it follows him, it does. Now, while I’ve no shame, I can imagine lotsa reasons why a man wouldn’t use his own name.” His grey eyes twinkle. “Or mayhap take another.”

  For a moment, I think Father’s face darkens.

  The old
man stabs a bit of potato and holds it aloft. “However, bein’ of sound mind, I can appreciate how havin’ a name makes a person more familiar and easier to trust. Ye be church goin’ folk, are ye not?”

  “We are,” Father says. “As any goodly soul ought be.”

  The old man takes a bite of his potato. “Right, then. Why don’t ye call me…Bishop.” He points his spoon at the window. “And the lad outside, the one who ne’er shuts his mouth long enough for anyone to get a wee word in, ye might call him Priest.”

  “Pardon, sir. But we are not Catholic here,” Mother says staunchly. “Nor do we hold with those who are.”

  Bishop seems to weigh her words thoughtfully before swallowing his last bite. “Well, none of us are perfect, Mrs. Kelly.”

  Oddly, he laughs himself into another coughing fit.

  The boys and Rebecca enter the house together, their expressions not hiding the intrigue of laughter in our home. Mother takes Rebecca as far away from Bishop as possible. The boys sit on the bench with me. Bishop’s laugh is soon infectious, and the two boys begin to chuckle, though they have no common cause to.

  Father and Mother do not share their sentiment.

  I watch Bishop’s face turns a light shade of purple from laughter. He takes another swig of small beer and nearly chokes as he dabs at his forehead with the torn sleeve of his shirt. “Ye have to understand, Mrs. Kelly, attachment’s no good for anyone in me and the lad’s line of work. In truth, it proves fatal.”

  George picks up his spoon. “What manner of work are you in, sir?”

  Bishop leans across the table like he means to share a gravitas secret with my brother and Andrew. “I hunt witches, lads.”

  George grins. “Witches?”

  “George!” Father says.

  Andrew shifts beside me. “My sister is a witch,” he says meekly.

  Bishop sits back. He takes another bite of stew, chewing it slowly this time. “Is she now?”

  “George,” Father speaks. “Andrew. Take your bowls outside, and Rebecca with you. Stay there until I bid you come otherwise.”

  “But why not Sarah too?” Rebecca asks.

  “Your sister is almost a woman. She must needs learn how we treat guests,” Father says. “Even unwelcome ones.”

  Rebecca does naught to hide her disappointment.

  I think it must be hard for her to look upon Father sweetly and not receive her way. I cannot recall if ere it has happened before.

  I watch Bishop eat. His gaze never leaves Andrew Martin. Only when the door closes behind them does he push his bowl away. “We heard a girl named Ruth Martin afflicted by witchery. That lad’s her brother, isn’t he?”

  “We do not hold with gossip, nor rumors, in this household,” Father says. “Pray, where did you hear such talk?”

  Bishop shrugs. “Rumors come, and rumors go, but is it seeds of truth or fear they sow?” he asks, his gay demeanor in full swing again. “It don’t matter where I heard it, does it, Kelly? What matters is I heard it.”

  Father folds his arms.

  “Did the girl convulse? Seize uncontrollably?” Bishop savors each question more so than even the bowls of stew I watched him put down. He looks at me queerly. “Were her eyes the color a blood? Aye, and did a feverish fire burn through her?”

  Father stirs. “Mr.—”

  Bishop turns back Father. “And did ye find her…stronger than any woman, nay, any person ought be? Tell me. Did it take several of ye to hold her down?”

  “Aye,” Father says as one realizing it will be less painful to rip a scab off rather than peel it back. “It did.”

  Bishop scratches his neck. “Well, then. I’d say there indeed be witches in Winford.”

  “Witches…” Mother says in disbelief.

  “Aye,” Bishop says. “There still be witches in the world causin’ mischief about. The hailed Reverend Cotton Mather can preach all he likes about the invisible world, but they’re in the here and now as plain as day. I ought to know. Killed a fair lot of ’em. The wee bitches keep comin’ though.”

  Father stands. “You will mind your tongue in my house, sir.”

  “Beggin’ ye ladies’ pardon,” Bishop says to Mother and me. “But what would ye have me call ’em, Kelly? These aren’t the same lot ye’ve heard tale of from Salem. They’re not wee lasses what point the finger and accuse they been witched. This lot’s happy enough to do the killin’ themselves.” He points to the scar over his eye. “Aye…ones that would flay yer family before yer very eyes and cackle whilst all ye can do is scream.”

  Mother gasps.

  “Mark this, Kelly,” Bishop says grimly. “Ye and all yer house. Bitches from the depths of hell is what they are. I’ve tracked their lot ‘cross an ocean. Up and down yer colonies and stood toe-to-toe with ’em. Until ye’ve done the same and can tell me different…bitches is what I call ’em.”

  “I would rather you not speak of such to frighten my family,” Father says. “Even if you truly believe witchery exists.”

  Bishop shakes his head. “We both know it does. And I’m tellin’ ye they’re already here.”

  Mother shudders. “The last witch hanged in Salem when I was but newly a woman.”

  “Salem,” Bishop scoffs. “To tell it true, there weren’t ne’er a witch in Salem, only greed and spite. But yer noble husband coulda told ye that, couldn’t he?”

  Father’s hand is dangerously close to the knife by his right hand.

  “Father…” I say.

  Bishop grins at me, then Father. “Ye haven’t told her, have ye?”

  “Father?”

  I watch him move his hand away from the knife.

  Father seems calmer now and clears his throat before he speaks. “Mr. Bishop, you strike me as a man on a quest for vengeance.”

  “Aye,” Bishop’s eyes gleam. “And ne’er will ye meet a man more bent on it than I. Save for the lad outside.”

  Father nods and leaves the table. A moment later, he returns with his Bible. Pursing his lips, he turns through its pages. “Do you know what the Lord says of vengeance, sir?”

  “Why, I can’t rightly recall the last time I had a proper lecture from the Good Book,” Bishop says. “But do preach on.”

  Father stops, placing his finger upon an earmarked page. “Romans, chapter twelve, verse nineteen; Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written. Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” Father turns the open Bible toward Bishop. He motions for him to read the verse himself. “You understand its meaning, I trust?”

  “A good verse that, but I’ve another for ye.” Bishop absent-mindedly flips through Father’s Bible. He stops, places his finger upon the page. “To me belongeth vengeance, and recompence. Their foot shall slide in due time for the day of their calamity is at hand,” Bishop’s voice rises. “And the things that shall come upon them make haste.”

  Bishop thumps Father’s Bible closed and pushes it back to him. “Deuteronomy thirty-two; verse thirty-five.”

  “Father!” George’s voice comes from the yard. “Come quick!”

  I see the young stranger, Priest, ride his horse away from our home.

  Bishop’s limp does not hinder him from beating Father out the door. I am the last outside. I see Rebecca. She cries in the yard with only Andrew to comfort her ere Mother reaches her.

  Priest has George by the wrist and examines what is in my brother’s hand. I cannot see what it might be from so far away, but it shines in the sun’s rays. I watch him release my brother, shield his brow with his hand and look to our cornfield. Suddenly, he leaps atop his mount and with a swift kick, drives the beast toward the field.

  Now close, I see my brother holds a crude, bone-hilted dagger in his hand. The base of it is carved into a skull with two strings—one black, the other red—tied from either eye socket. They run down its cheeks as if the skull weeps colors.

  Bishop wrenches it away. He turns the blade over in the palms of
his hands. “Where did ye find this, lad?” he asks.

  “Pray, what is it?” Mother asks.

  “I-I…”

  Bishop grabs George by the shoulders. “Where?”

  “S-stuck in the barn…in a milking stool.”

  I wait for Father to place his hands upon Bishop. Shake him to the ground for seizing George so roughly.

  Father does not. His face is pale, and the whole of his body trembles.

  The dagger holds his gaze.

  I see Priest gallop back to us. His long hair trails behind him in a wave of black. I wait for him to look upon me.

  He never does.

  Bishop releases my brother. “Did ye see the ribbons?” he growls at his companion.

  Priest nods.

  “The lad says he found it in the barn…”

  Priest wheels his stallion. Spurs it away in the direction of our barn.

  Mother pulls Rebecca close. “Pray, sir, what is this meaning of this dagger? Why does it upset you so?”

  Bishop ignores her. He scans the tree line, murmurs to himself words I cannot understand. Then he turns to me. He takes the dagger from George. Points it at me. “Lass! Have ye ever seen this before? Ever seen its equal?”

  I shrink beneath his stare.

  “Did ye take the Devil’s powder?” he asks. “Is that why ye went in the woods? Goin’ to meet ‘em?”

  I shake my head no.

  “Sir!” Mother shouts. “I will not have you speak to my daughter so! If you do so again, my husband shall—”

  Bishop turns the dagger’s point to Father. “He’ll do nuthin’ but run, Mrs. Kelly, if he be who I think he is.”

  Even at the taunt, Father does not stir. Indeed, he blocks out all sense of what occurs around him after having seen the dagger.

  “Please, sir,” I say, near on the verge of crying. “What is the meaning of this? Why do you torment my Father so?”

  “What? Yer goodly father ne’er told ye about the witches in Salem carryin’ these?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Oh?” Bishop’s face contorts into a man gone insane. “That’s because there weren’t any witches in Salem! All those sent to the gallows and prisons…the men, and women, and the child—” Bishop ceases his rant. His fists quake. “The wee children locked away!”