by Aaron Galvin
“Go to him, child,” Watawa said.
Chidi saw him still aiding the Silkstealer along, the sight of a Mako shark never leaving the Sea Lion’s side almost comical. A little hope swelled in her as she swam beside Quill and nudged his hand with her seal nose. She opened her mouth and felt his fingers take hold of her upper lip, peel back the changes from seal to her human form.
She stood in Salt up to her chin.
Quill shifted his gaze westward toward the shore and waded in. “Come with me.”
Chidi followed.
The beach looked mostly abandoned. Some few cars parked in the distance. Teens threw Frisbees, while families lay on blankets. Chidi even saw a few splashing in the Salt, blissfully unaware of the watery world from whence she came.
“Look at them,” said Quill. “Would you live as they do, Chidi? Live without fear or real worry?”
Chidi hesitated.
“Of course you would,” said Quill. “As would I, if given half a chance. Our world won’t allow it yet, but some day…some day we might again live as they do. I often wonder if the Ancients welcomed your kind among us Salt Children as a lesson.”
Chidi wished to ask him more, but kept quiet.
Quill faced her. “I am ready to listen and learn, if you will teach me.”
“I-I don’t know what I could teach.” Chidi swallowed. “And I told your brother I know of no treasure.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t point the way.”
“B-but how?” Chidi asked. “How can I if I don’t know where you want to go?”
“When I first saw you in Crayfish Cavern, we were in the company of an Orc.”
Garrett Weaver, Chidi thought.
Quill studied her. “He mentioned seeing your face once before. Far from the Salt and near his home… You were among the Selkie crew who captured him, weren’t you?”
Chidi nodded.
“Good.” Quill helped Chidi step from the Salt onto the Hard. “Then you remember where you found him.”
“Aye,” said Chidi.
Quill grinned. “Take me there.”
###
Thank you for reading Taken With A Grain of Salt. If you enjoyed the book, please consider leaving a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads to help spread the word about this exciting new series.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Malik Blackfin’s associate mentioned an Orc is nothing without his pod.
I say an author is nothing without readers. Thank you, dear reader, for breathing life into these characters.
Thanks also to an incredibly talented team—Annetta Ribken, Jennifer Wingard, Valerie Bellamy, and Greg Sidelnik—for navigating these treacherous waters alongside me. I could not have accomplished this without each of you.
For my crew of Selkie beta readers—Gene, Debbie, Sarah, Whit, and Amber—thank you all for your invaluable insight and your honesty. I appreciate it more than you know.
To my parents, siblings, and the countless family and friends who have followed my crazy antics all this way, my sincerest gratitude for your continued patience and support.
Last, but never least, all my love to Karen and our little Silkie. Thank you both for putting up with me on grumpy Lenny days, gifting me time to write, and believing in me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Aaron Galvin first cut his chops writing stand-up comedy routines at age thirteen. His early works paid off years later when he co-wrote and executive produced the award-winning indie feature film, Wedding Bells & Shotgun Shells.
He is also an accomplished actor. Aaron has worked in everything from Hollywood blockbusters, (Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight, and Clint Eastwood’s Flags of Our Fathers), to starring in dozens of indie films and commercials.
Aaron is a native Hoosier, graduate of Ball State University, and a proud member of SCBWI. He lives in Southern California with his wife and daughter.
Now, here’s a sample chapter of Salem’s Vengeance
book one of Aaron Galvin’s Vengeance trilogy
-1-
-October, 1712-
Winford, Carolina Territory
My freedom comes with the moonlight. A dim ray, broken and scattered by my wooden shutters, spreads over the pine floor of my room. My toes tingle with anticipation beneath the heavy checkered quilt Mother sewed for Rebecca and me. The time for dancing draws nigh.
Clink!
The rock striking our window ledge quickens my heartbeat.
Something is wrong. The moonlight should be spread over four boards, not one, ere it would be the proper time to leave.
A quiet voice floats through my window. “Sarah!”
“Shh!” Another hushes.
Rebecca stirs beside me on the straw pallet we share.
I stroke her flaxen hair ere she awakens further. “All is well, sweet sister,” I soothe. “Go back to sleep.”
She rubs her tired eyes with balled fists. “But I wish to join you and the others,” she says.
Clink!
My limbs tense anew. Father will surely wake to their voices soon. I wait, listening. He can be silent as a barn owl in flight when he chooses. Still, even he cannot rise from his rickety bed without it creaking under the movement.
I hear nothing but my own heart pounding.
“Sarah!” the quiet voice calls again.
It must be Emma. An ever-present fear has clouded her since she heard tell of the Tuscarora Indians who raided and slaughtered throughout the Carolina territory. I suppose it hardly matters to her most of the savages were put down a year ago September past.
Rebecca tugs at the sleeves of my lace nightgown. “Please, Sarah,” she whispers. “Please, take me.”
I kiss the top of her forehead. “You are much too young for the dance.”
Rebecca wrenches away from me to pout.
I sweep our quilt of muted blue and white over her head. The breeze from the open window tickles my bare feet and drifts up my thighs like a feather tracing against my skin.
I shudder, and revel in its chill; the same feelings I hope to continue at the moon dance. I gather my thin leather shoes in hand. Turn toward my escape. Though my windowsill is but three quick steps away, my path holds creaky floorboards that will betray my otherwise silent movements. I step over the first of them, and leap sideways to avoid the next two.
Rebecca giggles quietly. It must seem to her I play scotch-hopper.
The fresh scent of strung, dried lilacs from my room dissipates the moment I poke my head out our window. Odors of farm life—sweet-smelling heifers, excrement-sowing swine, and the like—blend together in the night air. Fifty yards away, our four-storied barn is a hulking gravestone casting its long shadow over our homestead.
The nearly full moon is perfect to dance beneath. Not so, however, for one seeking to flee without being seen. To reach the barn will be only a quick sprint. But my friends are not as fast as I, nor as cautious. I wish I had the sliver moon and less light to escape beneath.
Across the yard, Mother’s dogwood shrub shakes. A slender, trembling girl in a dull blue dress emerges from behind it, her narrow face accentuated only by the roundness of her eyes. This eve, they are near the size of tea saucers.
“Sarah!” Emma says.
I raise a finger to my lips.
Another girl leaps from the shrub and yanks Emma into hiding. “Be silent!” she hisses.
Ruth…At least she has the good sense to know they stand before Paul Kelly’s household.
Father is quick with the strap. I harbor no misgivings he would whip the daylights from both my friends if roused by their noise.
Carefully, I swing my leg wide over the window ledge to not snag my gown. I lean forward to jump when there comes a rustling from our corn shuck mattress.
“I shall tell…”
I wheel to face my sister. “You shall not!”
Rebecca raises a rebellious eyebrow.
“Sarah…” Emma calls.
I glance over my shoulder and
out the window. Emma again emerges from the shrubbery. The fool stands in plain view of Mother and Father’s window.
I wave her away to hide.
Emma nervously clutches her apron with one hand. She points to our barn with the other. “Ruth leaves us!”
At times, I wonder if Emma were born daft. When Ruth once told her keeping chicken bones in our aprons would ward off evil spirits, Emma carried them for nigh on a year. And when I warned her mythical snipes lived in our barn beneath the hay, she never again ventured inside. How has Emma not yet realized Ruth’s favorite custom is to hide amidst the corn to scare her?
It next occurs to me, for all Ruth’s many virtues, patience is most lacking. She is ever the one who misses dancing most. Mayhap she means to make good on her threat of going alone. I imagine her running down the rows of corn, off into the woods without me.
I snort the thought away. It would not stand for her to share the night whilst I remain here, thwarted by the threat of an eight-year-old.
I turn to face my sister again. “Rebecca…”
Her arms cross, like Mother oft does when in a foul temper. “Take me,” she says. “Or work my chores.”
I dig my fingernails into the windowsill. “No!”
Rebecca dangles her tiny bare feet inches from the floor in warning. “Then I shall wake Father and tell.”
“Saaaarah…” Emma whines.
My sister’s smile is evident in the dim light. Even at such a tender age, she knows time is on her side this night.
“I will do one of your chores,” I reply.
“You will milk the cows?” She says it so quickly I wonder how long she has planned to force this upon me.
I grit my teeth. “Agreed.”
My sister yawns in victory and happily scratches her head, content in her victory.
I pull my gown up past my knees, and drop below ere Rebecca coerces me further. I pause to listen for any stirrings inside my home. Spreading my toes, I take the dewy grass between them to cool my nerves.
A minute passes with no noise; Father sleeps soundly.
I slip my shoes on as fast as possible and hurry to join Emma. She makes a tiny yelp at my sudden pull of her hand. Hand-in-hand, we run toward the barn. Her clumsiness slows my pace, but I will not let go. If she falls, it would not happen silently.
When she does eventually stumble on the cold and slippery grass, I slip my arm under her armpit to keep her afoot. Emma tugs away as we near the barn. No doubt she desires to give it a wider berth ere a snipe emerges to drag her within.
Cornfields lie before us. The stalks stand only six feet tall, yet the dark makes them appear larger. Like a foreboding wall of spears, we must pass into their protection to reach our destination.
I release my grip on Emma. Plunge ahead, five rows deep.
The dry leaves scratch at my skin; a small sacrifice for the joyous reunion to come. A few stalks lie broken near their shafts. I shall need to scold Ruth later. Father will know neither deer nor Indians bent them in such a way.
Emma whimpers behind me. I watch her gently push the stalks aside as if the mere touch of them will taint her perfect skin. “Why did you not come sooner?” she asks. “With Ruth gone, I feared you abandoned me to journey alone.”
“Alone?” I ask. “But where is Charlotte?”
Emma shakes her head. “Her father suspects she has danced.” Her voice trembles. “I fear mine does also.”
I frown. It is not like Charlotte to miss a gathering. Especially not when the last occurred three months past.
The corn crackles three rows over like teeth chattering in the grip of a January nor’easter. Emma draws closer to me.
I step forward. “Who comes?”
“One who has no fear of the darkness.”
An apparition brushes the stalks aside. Ruth’s skin, pale even in daylight, is luminous by night. She has discarded her white bonnet and scandalously tied back her raven hair with a scarlet ribbon. Ruth closes her eyes, tilts her head back to inhale the night air. “Art thou ready to dance, sisters?”
Emma releases her hold on my dress. “You should not have left me!”
“You should not have remained behind,” Ruth replies curtly. “The moon dance waits for no one—nor do I.”
A cold wind harrows through the corn, confirming Ruth’s claims, ushering us ahead. I step in the earthen path between the rows. The hard dirt warns of a frost soon to come. I am glad of it. The solidity will not reveal our tracks so easily as in the wet spring or dry summer.
“Come,” I say to my friends. “We should not tarry.”
We walk for nigh half an hour to our destination. Emma is a constant shadow at my side. Holding my hand all the way, she frequently glances skywards as if she fears witches on broomsticks will fly over us. Ruth tromps in the next row. Her fingers run over the corn ears as she quietly hums a tune I have never heard.
“Emma,” I say. “What shall you wish for tonight?”
“A safe journey home,” she replies, casting another furtive glance at the moon.
“I shall wish for a night that never ends!” Ruth shouts.
I laugh with her. Even Father cannot hear from this far away.
The sound makes Emma jump with fright. Her grip stiffens. “You should not speak so loud. My father would—”
“Your father sleeps at home.” Ruth lazily swats at the corn.
“A-aye. H-H-He would be very displeased to find me here,” Emma shakes her head like a horse with flies at its ears.
“What if he knew you journeyed to a gathering of witches!” Ruth says.
A shudder runs through me. “Enough, Ruth. You should not jest of such things,” I say. “You beckon the darkness upon yourself.”
Ruth grins. “As well I should. I am sister to the moon. A lover of night!” She loosens her ribbon. Her dark hair spills about her shoulders as she lifts her arms. “For why dance if not to beckon the darkness into our hearts?”
Emma looks at me as one betrayed. “Y-you said dancing was innocent. N-not a sin.”
“Dancing is innocent,” I reply. “I said naught of what Ruth speaks to.”
Ruth scoffs. “I thought you were a fellow lover of the night, Sarah.”
“I am.”
“Then why do you come this eve?” Ruth asks. “Dancing can be done by the light of day.”
“A-aye,” says Emma. “I think it best we only dance by day henceforth. My father—”
“Why, Sarah?” Ruth asks. “Why do you come?”
“Only at night am I truly free,” I say. “Free to do as I will with no one to speak otherwise, or—”
“Listen!” Emma says.
I hear it too; the quiet beginnings of a measured symphony wandering over the night sky. The gay pipes call to the wood spirits of Pan. Each hypnotic beating of drums beckons us to venture further.
The gathering starts without us.
Ruth and I grin at one another.
“Race you to the woods!”
***
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