Salem's Legacy

by Aaron Galvin

  “Simon Campbell is dead,” I say to the woman. “Murdered near sixteen year ago by Abigail Williams.”

  She looks on me as one in disbelief. “He need not be living for his spirit to haunt me.”

  “My sister speaks truth, Goodwife Barron,” says George. “I have heard it said by others that I bear my father’s likeness, but I assure you, I am my own man.”

  “And a far nobler one,” I say.

  I do not miss the look my brother gives me for the last remark, but he does not scold me for it as he once did. Or at least he will not in present company.

  The woman blinks, casting her gaze between George and I. “You are the son and daughter of Simon Campbell?”

  “We are,” says George.

  His easy admission surprises me at the first. Then I think back on our time in the woods and wonder what deeper game my brother plays.

  “Did you know our father?” George asks the woman.

  “Little enough, though he haunts my dreams to this day,” she says. “God be praised, my father sent me away from Salem to shield me from the evils he foresaw marching upon its doorstep. Near all I learned of Simon Campbell were told me by Mercy Lewis.”

  My hand turns to a fist at her mention. “I should like to hear of what Mercy said.”

  “You know Mercy?” she asks.

  I ignore her question. “Would you hear more, brother?”

  “Aye.” George coughs. “But not here. I tire of this blasted cold, and hunger for more than words alone. You, Goodwife Barron,” he says to the woman. “You have naught to fear should you answer us honestly. We know your husband is gone away for a time. Be there anyone else in your home?”

  I smirk at my brother’s test, knowing she and Susannah alone occupy the home this day.

  The woman glances at Andrew. “M-my daughter, Susannah, only.”

  “And have you food enough for us and others in your home?” George asks.

  Her eyes wander throughout the barn. “How many others?”

  I laugh at her question. “This one is no fool, brother.”

  “No,” says George. “She is not.”

  His tone bids me think we should be warier still of this woman.

  I fidget in studying her. Despite her early surprise at mistaking George for our father, her relative calm since unsettles me.

  “Andrew,” says George.

  “Aye?”

  “Let you fetch the others and bring them to the Barron home. This woman knew our father.” George glances at Susannah’s mother. “It seems we have much and more to discuss outside of your would-be bride.”

  Andrew looks up at me as if expectant I will volunteer to take on his task.

  I give him no such hope.

  He and George share a silent exchange, one reeking of an alpha willing its subordinate to make a claim. Andrew relents without another word. Only when he has gone does my brother speak again.

  “What is your name, Goodwife Barron?” he asks the woman.

  “Betty, sir.”

  George coughs again. “Carry on with your chores, Betty. We will wait.”

  I finger my bowstring when she does not move.

  “Please, sir,” she says. “I must ask, do you mean my daughter harm?”

  “No,” says George. “We seek only truth and a warm meal before moving on.”

  He says it in such a way that even I am inclined to believe him. Still, I cannot forget the harshness I have witnessed overtake him since Hannah’s death. His easy tone belies the relentlessness with which he drove us through wild and open country to reach this moment.

  As Betty Barron carries out her tasks, I mark the coldness in George’s eyes, his gaze following her around the barn. I think if I am the hawk circling the rat, my brother is the tomcat in the bushes, eager to steal my prey and play with his meal ere devouring it.

  I sling my bow across my back then descend the ladder to join George. Once at his side, I lean close, whispering. “Why did you send Andrew to fetch the others rather than me?”

  “Andrew asks me to trust him again,” he replies, his tone mindful of Betty near the hen coop. “How he carries out this task will be telling if he be worthy.”

  “Another test?”

  “Aye,” says George.

  My stomach turns at this stranger before me. I ever thought George cunning as our father, but more and more he reveals the darker side, as Andrew warned. And, in my heart, I wonder how I might save George from such a fate, or if I am meant to.

  We wait in watchful silence as Betty carries out her tasks. Only at the last does George step forward to carry the milk pail for her. He takes the lantern from her and gives it to me, bidding me lead.

  Opening the door and stepping outside grants me a quick reminder how thankful I ought be of the warm relief of the barn. I trudge through the snow, carving a new path to the Barron home.

  I reach the front door without consequence and stand aside to allow Betty first entry. It pleases me when she does not hesitate to pull at the latch. I swing to follow her, finding blessed heat awaits us inside, and I breathe deep of the scents wafting through the home—porridge and crackling bacon, burning wood, and spices I cannot rightly name.

  The hearth burns bright, its fire glowing beneath a small cauldron hung over its flames. A slender young woman dressed in green stands beside it, stirring the contents, her hair red-gold, like her mother’s, unbound and spilling over her shoulders.

  The girl turns at hearing us enter and drops the stirring spoon at the sight of me.

  My hand drifts to my side, grazing the hilt of my father’s dagger. Before I can speak, George urges me forward to rid us of the cold. He slams the door still faster, shutting out the wind.

  “Mother,” says the girl. “Who are these?”

  “Guests,” says Betty. “Aye, friends of Andrew Martin.”

  “Andrew?” the girl’s voice rises. “Pray, where is he? Where is my love?”

  “Are you so eager to see him?” I ask. “Or do I mark surprise in your tone that he might well be with us?”

  She steps back, her green eyes quizzical. “Y-you are Rebecca Kelly, are you not?” She looks past me. “And you must be George.”

  Anger seethes through me that she calls our names so easily and could only have learned of us from Andrew’s tales. George halts me ere I can make toward the girl and learn what other songs Andrew sang the scrawny sparrow that stands before us.

  “We are.” George steps closer. “And you must be Susannah.”

  “A-aye,” she says. “Andrew has spoken of me to you then?”

  “Often.” George replies.

  “Too often,” I say lowly. “Indeed, it seems Andrew shares all our names with little regard for we might keep them to ourselves.”

  “Rebecca,” says George. “We are guests here.”

  I think to remind my brother of our true purpose, one of vengeance rather than being taken with a young maiden, as he seems to me now. I wish to think better of my brother, yet womanly instinct warns few men could look on Susannah Barron’s face without it captivating them.

  “Aye. You have the right of it, brother.” I look to Susannah. “Forgive my impatience. I am weary of nights spent upon the road and with little to sup on.”

  Susannah smiles at me, though her demeanor remains meek. “We have plenty here and to spare,” she says. “Especially for friends of my husband-to-be.”

  “Andrew Martin will be no husband to you.” Betty Barron steps past me and walks to the cauldron. “Your father will not permit it. Nor will I.”

  Though Susannah bows her head, I do not miss her lingered gaze on my brother’s face.

  I move between them.

  “Sit,” says Betty, from the hearth. “And eat, if you will.”

  “Aye, we shall,” says George. “You have our thanks for it.”

  My brother clenches the upper part of my arm as he passes by. The gesture confuses me—I know not whether he means to calm me to our surrounding
s, or does so in warning to let his game play out.

  The pair of us sit at opposite ends to keep apprised of our surroundings. Memories of the life before rise within me as I settle onto the wooden bench, the sights and smells of the Barron’s home bidding me recall a time when I, too, lived in such a place. All before Cotton Mather sent his witches to steal it away.

  I glance at Susannah and wonder if I, too, should have been such a meek and delicate creature had Father and Bishop not rescued me from such a fate. Had it been such a humble life alone taken, perhaps I could have forgiven Hecate and her ilk.

  But the faces of those I buried not six months past linger in my mind also. The blade at my side reminds me of a blood debt owed.

  My fingers close around the hilt of Father’s dagger as Betty Barron approaches me with a bowl of steaming porridge. My muscles tense in wait to learn if she means to spill its boiling contents on me.

  Betty does not hesitate to study my face. She places the bowl before me. “You look tired and dirty, child. Shall I heat a bucket of water for you to bathe with?”

  My stomach grumbles at the smell of piping hot food. I fight the hunger away, not wishing to seem desperate for my first taste of a warm meal in weeks.

  “No,” I answer her, then look to George. Anger swells within me upon finding him more mindful of Susannah than her mother at my side. “We have little time for baths. Do we, brother?”

  George glances up. “I should like a bath. My sister may prefer the grime and smell of the wild, but I would shut my nose of it.” He grins at Susannah. “And her.”

  Susannah smiles in such a manner that I would smack from her face if given the chance. “I shall fetch some water for you then, sir, if it please you.”

  “It would,” said George. “My thanks for your kindness.”

  As she rises from the table, I note my brother’s gaze follows her. No sooner is she gone than George looks on me, his eyes turned hollow again. A wolfish grin teases his lips, one to let me know he only sports with this young maiden’s affections.

  “Why have you come here?” Betty Barron places a bowl of porridge before George. The thud it makes upon the table speaking she did not do so without purpose. “Truly?”

  “We have told you—”

  “You and your sister have both said I am no fool,” she says. “Must you persist in treating me as one? I am not so old and blind to see you look favorably on my daughter, sir.”

  “Her face is fair, I grant you,” says George. “A gift from her mother, by the look of you.”

  “So you have come for her then?” Betty steps back.

  “Aye,” says George. “To speak with her.”

  Her eyes narrow at his reply. “If your purpose were true, why wait until my husband were gone from our home?”

  “You name me liar, woman?” George rises, as I do in following his lead.

  Betty earns not a little of my respect when she does not wilt before us.

  “I said naught of lies,” she answers. “Only inquired of you, sir.”

  “You may not like the answer,” I say.

  “I will hear truth,” says Betty. “Even if I despise it. I have heard enough of lies in my life.” She looks on George. “Speak truth to me now then, son of Campbell, I beg you. Did Andrew Martin tell you we would not accept his proposal?”

  George coughs, deep and hoarse. He winces. “Aye.”

  Betty’s shoulders quiver. “And now you come to steal my daughter whilst my husband is away?”

  My brother’s face tightens at the strain in her voice. Yet, like me, I gather she has impressed George too with her elsewise steely manner.

  “As I said in the barn to you, Goodwife Barron, I too seek answers,” says George. “Much as I fear that I will despise them. Whatever you may think, or know, of my father, he learned me truth harms less than a lie.”

  “What truth could my daughter know that brought you all this way if not for ill purpose?” Betty asks.

  “Mercy Lewis mentioned Susannah’s name before her death,” I say.

  Betty gasps. “Mercy is dead then? You are certain?”

  “Aye,” I say. “Killed by mine own hand for her lying tongue and evil ways.”

  The tears welling in Betty’s eyes take me aback. She runs at me before I recover from my shock.

  Her body trembles upon embracing me.

  “Thank Heaven for you, child,” she cries. “May God bless you for ridding this world of her malicious ways.”

  George looks on me, his face puzzled as I suspect my own seems to him. “You knew her then?”

  “Aye.” Betty pulls away from me, lifting her apron to wipe her face. “All too well.”

  “In what time?” he asks.

  “Since I were naught but a girl of nine,” she says. “When I lived in Salem.”

  I pull away, staring into tear-stained eyes. “Who are you? Truly?”

  Pain flushes across her face as Betty opens her mouth to speak.

  The door behind me slams open and a cold blast of wind chills my backside.

  “Mother, look! Andrew has”—Susannah stops short inside the entry, holding a bucket of snow in one hand, and clutching to Andrew with the other—“returned.”

  She approaches the table, her gaze flitting betwixt Betty and I.

  “Mother, why do you weep?”

  Boots stomp upon the wooden floor and the door shuts again. Ciquenackqua escorts Mary Warren around the corner. Their cheeks flushed from the cold, their hair and furred robes covered in snow.

  “Mary Warren?”

  Betty’s voice draws my attention.

  “Can it really be you?”

  Scorn flames across Mary’s face at the question.

  “You know this woman?” I ask her.

  “Aye,” says Mary. “And by your tone, I gather she has not been wholly honest with you as to who she is.”

  “No,” says Betty. “I have not. No more than I reckon you were, Mary. We Salem sisters find it hard to shed the stain of our past, do we not? Though I were about to tell them of mine.”

  Mary grimaces. “Aye. Convenient that you should do so only at the sight of me.”

  More lies. I cross the distance between us, grabbing Betty Barron by her arm, yanking her to her feet. More secrets.

  Susannah’s screams ring in my ears as I draw my father’s dagger and hold it to her mother’s throat.

  “Keep your bride quiet, Andrew.” I glare at Betty. “Who are you? You question our honesty and lie to us—”

  “Please,” she says. “Please, I beg—”

  I silence her by lifting her chin with the edge of my blade. “Speak one more untruth to me and I open your throat as I did Mercy Lewis’s.”

  Betty trembles in my grasp.

  I draw my blade away but a little, enough for her to look me in the eye. “How do you know Mary Warren?”

  “W-w were Salem sisters, she and I,” she says. “Along with Mercy Lewis.”

  George coughs so deeply it forces him to sit. He clears his throat and blinks. “You were a witch then?”

  “I-I thought to be,” says Betty. “But my father saved me from such a fate, thank God.”

  “Aye.” Mary steps toward the hearth to warm her hands. “Saved you and condemned the rest of our souls to hellfire.”

  “Cease with these riddles,” I shout, silencing them both. “I would—”

  “S-she speaks true,” says Betty.

  I draw back.

  “My father sent me away before things turned darkest,” says Betty. “And he abandoned the others to the whims of evil men.”

  “Your father was one of those evil men,” says Mary. “No better than Thomas Putnam and Dr. Griggs.”

  “A-aye,” says Betty. “I will not deny it, though my father loved me with all his heart.”

  “Who are you?” I ask her through gritted teeth. “I will not ask again.”

  Betty wets her lips. “M-my maiden name were P-Parris. I am the daughter of the Revere
nd Samuel Parris.” Her eyes find mine. “Your father and mine worked their evil on Salem together.”

  I glance from George to Mary.

  “She speaks true,” says Mary. “Though she has said naught of another person who may be of some little intrigue to you.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  Mary’s gaze falls on Betty, her lip curling. “Betty is kin to the woman who slew your father.” Mary turns her icy stare on me. “The cousin of Abigail Williams.”

  -Chapter 3-

  “Please,” Betty shouts at my tightened grip. “Have mercy on me…”

  “Rebec—” George coughs several times over. “Rebecca, stop.”

  I squint at my brother. “Why should I? This snake has fed us lies, as Mary Warren said.”

  “I never lied,” says Betty. “Only—”

  George pounds his fist against the table. He sits, harder than I believe he aims to, and rubs sweat from his forehead. “I would hear her story. God knows she is not the lone snake in this pit.”

  Mary snorts when our eyes connect. “Think what you will of me,” she says. “But I have ever been honest with each of you on my cowardice. I betrayed you when I ran for fear of my life, as I have ran since cast out of Salem. But this one”—Mary waves at Betty—“she has never known fear as we here have. Protected all her life.”

  Betty’s green eyes offer no denial in them but fear aplenty.

  “Let you ask yourself why she felt no need to run nor hide after Salem,” Mary continues. “How has she lived so long within the reach of Cotton Mather when all other Salem sisters were either swayed to his service or silenced.”

  “I have been both swayed and silenced, Mary,” says Betty quietly.

  “Bought, rather,” says Mary.

  “Aye.” Betty casts her gaze on Susannah at the table with Andrew. “My loyalty fetched for the same price Dr. Campbell had from my father.”

  I lower my dagger. “You love your daughter.”

  “All my children, aye,” says Betty. “But Susannah has ever held my affections most.”

  “Oh, Mother,” says Susannah, her words choked as she scurries into Betty’s embrace.

  I find it hard for their apparent love not to sway me, reminding me of bonds I once shared with those now dead and gone. I clutch the leather pouch round my neck.