Salem's Legacy

by Aaron Galvin

  Salem’s Legacy

  Vengeance Trilogy: Book III

  Aaron Galvin

  Aames & Abernathy Publishing

  for Everett

  Contents

  -Chapter 1-

  -Chapter 2-

  -Chapter 3-

  -Chapter 4-

  -Chapter 5-

  -Chapter 6-

  -Chapter 7-

  -Chapter 8-

  -Chapter 9-

  -Chapter 10-

  -Chapter 11-

  -Chapter 12-

  -Chapter 13-

  -Chapter 14-

  -Chapter 15-

  -Chapter 16-

  -Chapter 17-

  -Chapter 18-

  -Chapter 19-

  -Chapter 20-

  -Chapter 21-

  Acknowledgments

  Book Discounts & Savings

  About the Author

  Also by Aaron Galvin

  -Chapter 1-

  -January, 1728-

  Sudbury, Massachusetts

  The winter chill grants life to my escaping breath. It floats skyward, ghostly in the moonlight, and vanishes. Snow crunches under my weight as I flit to the next tree, embracing its bark, hiding in its shadow. I peek around the old oak.

  A lone farmhouse sits not three hundred yards from my position, smoke drifting from its chimney in curled, white tendrils. These past few days, the same chimney spit healthier, stronger smoke—white men’s smoke, one unafraid of giving away the maker’s location. The chimney will belch more of the same come the dawn, if I judge rightly.

  Another phantom breath escapes into the night air, yet this one hails from further ahead. Did I not know better, I would think the tree itself exhaled.

  I offer up a bird’s whistle at my approach.

  The sentry does not stir, though I take residence behind a neighboring elm. Like my own attire, the furred skins my brother wears blends with the darkness. His gaze never wavers from the home of Susannah Barron.

  “Why have you come?” George whispers from his solace of shadow.

  ”You have held the watch since night fell,” I say. “I thought to relieve you.”

  George scratches his beard. “I came not this far to lose sight of our prize now, Rebecca.”

  “I am Red Banshee—”

  “No,” he says. “In the wilderness, perhaps. Not here.”

  My heart sinks at the rightness in his claim, words that echo those Creek Jumper mentioned months ago upon our departure. I am Red Banshee in spirit, but must learn from my manitous and wear the mask white folk would have of me, especially while traipsing in these stolen lands.

  “Go back, sister,” says George. “Rest while you can. I will keep the watch.”

  “George, I—”

  “Go.” He growls.

  There be no words any may utter that will stir him from his post. As one hunter recognizes another, only the sight of our quarry will call George to action.

  I leave him to his angry patience, fuming that we did not take Susannah Barron and her family days ago. Had George listened to my counsel then, we should all sleep near a warm hearth fire this night rather than freeze in the woods.

  The wind picks up, howling through the woods, clacking tree branches against one another.

  I pull my furred robe around me tighter and continue on.

  The small, leather pouch round my neck hangs heavy.

  I clutch it with my left hand, drawing courage from its contents.

  My companions stir at my return, all huddled together beneath our lean-to. The largest of them, Mary Warren, scarcely glances at me before shielding her face in the furs we gifted her.

  Ciquenackqua alone moves to grant me some little space to sit. “He will not come?”

  “Of course not.” Andrew answers for me. “George is a stubborn ass. And always has been.”

  “Aye. But we here have all supped on some little vengeance for ourselves.” I look at Andrew. “George has not.”

  Anger glitters in Andrew’s eyes. “My love did not betray us,” he says. “Or else not knowingly, at least. It were my fault alone that Mercy tracked us.”

  “The truth of that matters little now,” I say. “Knowingly or no, Mercy claimed it were Susannah’s words that led her to find you, and from there to hunt us.”

  “Mercy ever was a liar,” says Mary, her voice muffled by the robes. “And a cheat, and a whore, and a thousand other black marks the Lord damns sinners to Hell for.”

  My lip curls at her argument, our months of travelling doing little to quell the rage in me at her abandonment in the battle for my brother’s trading post. And while I do not think Mary’s claims unfounded, I am not yet convinced Mercy Lewis lied entirely—especially in her mentions of Mary’s turncoat nature.

  My gaze shifts to Andrew, noting he sits closer to her than me now.

  “Mercy Lewis is dead,” I say to Mary. “As are all those who followed her to hunt us. Her mention of Susannah Barron is all we have to learn the truth of it.”

  “You hold to an enemy’s words as truth.” Andrew spits. “But I ask again, why will you not consider mine? I have long loved you and George both, Rebecca. Aye, and bled beside you.”

  “Your actions—”

  “Were mine own,” Andrew’s voice rises. “Your own true father wrought death and suffering upon us all by his actions. Sarah, Hannah, the people in your village, even mine own sister, Ruth—did they deserve death for Simon Campbell's sins?”

  “No.”

  “Aye,” says Andrew. “No more than Susannah deserves to die for my drunkenness. Do not deal her pain on account of my failings.”

  I shake my head. “Andrew—”

  “Speak to George, Rebecca, I beg you,” says Andrew. “For he will not heed me. Your brother has ever been a better man than I, but let you hear me now—it will be murder if he slays Susannah come the morn. Not vengeance.”

  I feel Ciquenackqua’s eyes upon me. The look he gives mirrors my own twisted feelings on the matter as Andrew continues his plea.

  “If ever you had some little love for me, Rebecca, convince George,” says Andrew. “Your words alone can repel the darkness in him now. Susannah is a goodly soul. I know in my heart she would never betray or wish ill upon any person. Do not allow the loss of Hannah to damn George’s soul for this grievous sin he plots.”

  I weigh his words, despite the knowledge that convincing George be a lost cause.

  “Let your god determine whether my brother’s actions be sins or no,” I say. “I will not dissuade him should he choose to take vengeance for his wife—”

  “Rebecca—”

  “But I will hear truth from Susannah’s lips ere he claims it.”

  Andrew’s shoulders sag at my words. “She is an innocent, Rebecca. On that I swear my soul.”

  “Perhaps,” I say. “And we shall discover the truth of it come the dawn.”

  I bury my face inside my furs, as Mary did, to warm my cheeks. Sleep does not come easy and, when it finds me, brings naught but night terrors and the faces of murdered loved ones. Always my dreams include the vision from my dream fast—one of Father coated in darkness. He reaches out for me, blackness dripping from his hand onto my skin. It feels hot to the touch, near scalding, and bids me cry out.

  I do not relent, even when he takes hold of my shoulder and grips it hard.

  “Rebecca.” Ciquenackqua wakes me, his face blistery red with cold.

  Blinking sleep from my eyes, I notice Andrew gone.

  I start to my feet.

  “Rest easy.” Ciquenackqua whispers. “He waits with your brother outside.”

  “Why?”

  “Perhaps their god heard Andrew’s prayers.”

  I chew on his words and cast my g
aze to the heap of furs shielding Mary Warren from the cold.

  “I will stay and guard her,” says Ciquenackqua, his hand clutched tight around his father’s war club.

  “Do not trouble yourself with such thoughts that I might run.” Mary lifts her head. “These lands are filled with Mather spies and my face well known to many of them. Trust me when I say—”

  “I do not.”

  I clasp forearms with Ciquenackqua then sling my bow and quiver across my back before exiting into the sharp, winter cold. The wind kicks snow in my face, swirling and howling like the banshee the Wyandot named me for, limiting my sight.

  Andrew’s deep tracks leave an easy trail for me to follow, especially with the approaching dawn to light my way. His strides be longer than mine, but they aid me speed through the woods to find both my companions halted near the edge.

  A violet hue creeps across the horizon. We must abandon our woodland safety if hoping to surprise the Barron family. Already stronger smoke fuels out their chimney than when last I visited George.

  “What be your plan, brother?” I ask, settling next to him.

  George scarcely looks at me, his gaze trained on the Barron’s barn. “These past few morns, it were Susannah who worked the chores. We will await her there.”

  “I slept in that barn many a night in secret,” says Andrew. “Her father oft came out first.”

  George turns his sharp eyes on Andrew. “I watched her father leave yesterday from this very spot,” he says lowly. “And overheard men at the pub say Benjamin Barron were soon off to New York to visit his associates.”

  Andrew’s face pales.

  “They are alone,” says George, casting his gaze back to the Barron homestead. “Or so they believe.”

  “George, please,” says Andrew. “Spare her. Let me go and speak with her.”

  “Aye, I intend you to,” says George. “Do you truly believe me so cold-hearted that I would slay an innocent woman on the claims of a traitorous witch?”

  Andrew’s expression proves telling to my mind.

  “You wrong me again, old friend,” says George. “I will have you go and speak to this woman you hope to marry, but Rebecca and I shall be there also, listening in the shadows. Let you inquire on the words Susannah and Mercy Lewis last spoke to one another. Pray I find her answers pleasing.”

  Andrew clutches my brother’s shoulder. “You shall,” he says. “I swear it, George. She is a pious woman, as you will come to understand.”

  George nods. “Then let us be off. You lead.”

  Andrew obeys, springing from the snow, bound toward the barn.

  “You think me a fool?” George draws my attention.

  “He will give the game away,” I say. “Whatever she think of him, he loves her true.”

  “Lust only.” My brother sneers. “Andrew knows little of love, and lesser still the bond between man and wife.”

  I choose my words carefully. “Still, I believe he means to save her, no matter the cost to himself. We should have left him with Mary and brought Ciquenackqua instead. No doubt we three could have taken the Barrons while they slept.”

  “Perhaps,” says George. “But our father oft told me a man catches more flies with honey than vinegar. If she be innocent, it might be we learn more secret truths through Andrew’s affections than all the fearful lies your blade’s edge would fetch from her.”

  My brother claps me on the shoulder then pushes me to follow Andrew’s lead.

  I sprint through the snow, racing for fear someone might catch sight of me and ruin George’s plot. Andrew waits at the barn, his head peeked around the side in careful watch.

  I fling myself against the side to join him, panting and shuddering as the frigid air invades my lungs.

  George joins us a moment later. He takes hold of Andrew’s cloak and pulls him near. “Lead on,” he commands Andrew before turning to me. “Keep watch. Knock three times should anyone leave their home.”

  At my nod, George pushes Andrew toward the pigsty, both of them climbing the fenced enclosure and crawling through the small entry space. I lean around the barn’s edge enough to grant a sightline on the Barron home.

  My heart thuds against my chest as I wonder what answers Susannah Barron may give us, or if such knowledge could sate my brother. Aye, and what actions might need be taken to bid her give over such answers if we find her unwilling.

  The wind picks up anew, shrieking past me, kicking snow in my face. Blinding me. When it dies, I see a shrouded figure staggering toward the front of the barn.

  I rap my knuckles against the barn siding then slog through the drifting snow to reach the pigsty. The scent of half-frozen swine muck fills my nostrils as I poke my head through.

  Pitched into darkness, I rely on my other senses until my eyes adjust. Warmth coats my hands along with bits of sticky straw. I snort the foul stench away and continue on. Several pigs grunt at my invading their home and flee to the opposite end as I crawl, feeling my way around.

  A familiar whistle calls my attention.

  I follow its sound, my head thumping against a fence post. I duck beneath it, slinking to firmer ground and promises of sweeter smells—hay bales and cows, oats and horses.

  Movement on the wall opposite me draws my attention—a massive shadow shuffling in its pen. Two figures crouch near it—George and Andrew.

  The rattling of the barn door latch opening calls me to flee.

  I tread back, thinking to leave the way I entered. Instead, my hand grazes a ladder. I test its sturdiness, then fly up its rungs and roll onto the landing, scattering loose hay and dust, frightening cats and rodents who made the loft their respite from the bitter cold.

  Hinges squeak. A wooden door slams against the barn side, then silences the outside winds when closing again.

  I crawl to the edge and look down on the barn’s newest visitor.

  She strikes a flint to her lantern. Scattered light illuminates the barn and banishes the shadows to flee high into the rafters where they lie in eager wait for darkness to return.

  The woman knocks the bits of snow off her person then takes down the shawl from her hair and face.

  My stomach twists.

  George and Andrew cannot see what I do. The woman joining us in the barn be no maid at all, but a lady near old as Father to judge by the greyed lines in her elsewise red-gold hair.

  I gnaw my lip when Andrew rises in the stall and steps into the light, making himself known to her.

  “Susannah—”

  The woman gasps, drawing back. But even at my high vantage, there be no mistaking her true feelings for Andrew Martin once past her first shock.

  “What brings you here?” she demands of him.

  Andrew also seems startled, to my mind, though slower to recover. “I…I—”

  The woman steps forward. “Why have you returned?”

  Quiet and slow, I unsling my bow from across my back.

  “Where is your daughter?” Andrew asks. “I-I must speak with her.”

  “If anyone, you’ll speak with my husband—”

  “Your husband is gone,” says Andrew, some little bit of his courage regained. “Off to New York, or so I heard tell.”

  “My husband—”

  “Where is Susannah?” Andrew asks, his tone deeper.

  “It matters not,” says the woman. “We have no want of you in this family. I too have heard tales and know of the black company you keep, Andrew Martin.”

  I nock an arrow to my bow and hold the end of it between two fingers, my body rigid in wait.

  “An unspeakable name,” she continues. “One I had not thought to hear again in this life, nor the next, if God grants me His mercy.”

  “Pray, tell me what you have heard,” says Andrew. “And of who would speak such lies.”

  The woman draws on her shawl anew. “Let you be gone from here and beg me that I do not speak with the other men in town. You will have no answers from me.”

  I rise
in the loft as she makes to leave and let fly my arrow. It shoots through the hem of her dress and thunks in the barn floor.

  She shrinks at the sound, spinning like a startled cat.

  “Perhaps you will speak with us.” I call her attention and nock another arrow.

  Her eyes draw wide at the sight of me, calling a smirk to tease my lips.

  “Wh-who are you?” she asks.

  “I am a banshee. Would you hear my song?” I lower my aim to her heart. “Or will you sing for me all the secrets I would have from you?”

  “Rebecca—”

  My brother’s voice draws my focus as he makes himself known to the woman.

  “—cease your threats.”

  At the sight of George, the woman screams in such a manner that I swear she will wake the whole countryside. She leaps toward Andrew, cowering behind his body.

  “Away with you, foul spirit!” she shrieks. “Away!”

  I relax my bow arm at her reaction.

  George opens his palms to her, approaching her slow. “Peace between us, Goodwife,” he says, his voice calm and soothing.

  The woman falls to her knees, trembling. “God in Heaven, pray show me Your mercy. Please, Lord, I beg You. Do not allow this devil ensnare me a second time.”

  I share a concerned look with George as Andrew kneels to hold the frightful woman.

  “What fears you so?” Andrew asks her.

  “It is written…th-the Devil make take any form.” She clutches Andrew closer.

  “There be no devil here,” says Andrew.

  “You lie! He stands before us now,” she cries, her eyes mad. She raises a quivering hand, pointing her finger at my brother. “And in the guise of Dr. Simon Campbell.”

  -Chapter 2-