by Aaron Galvin
“How do you mean our father bought yours?” I ask.
Betty places her hand atop Susannah’s head, stroking her hair. “What goodly parent would not sacrifice themselves for their child?”
Mary chuckles. “I recall your father and Putnam both were not so inclined. Both gave the lot of you over. Abigail, Mercy, and Ann Putnam too, all lent to Campbell’s plot with little regard for their souls and safekeeping.”
“Let you not speak ill of my father,” says Betty, a raised tone in her voice that I had not recognized before.
“I shall speak all that I desire,” says Mary. “You hold no power over me any longer.”
“You wrong me, Mary,” says Betty. “Let you remember it was never I to exert power over you.”
“No?” Mary asks. “How is it—”
“You were among the oldest of us, older even than Abigail and Mercy. Tell me true, if you could not withstand their willfulness, how should the girl of nine that I were then refuse them and my father both?”
The hearth fire seems to pull Mary’s focus, keeping her tongue.
George clears his throat. “You claim your father loved you.” He spoons a bit of porridge, chewing it thoughtfully before swallowing hard and coughing again. “Why then would he force you into such an evil plot?”
“I would let you ask him,” says Betty. “Had he not passed on near eight year ago now, God rest his soul.”
The reverence in her tone matches the same George shares for our own true father. Still, it be one I have little respect for, safe in the knowledge the man I called Father, the Black Pilgrim, would have never subjugated me to such a ploy.
“The Lord will not save your father’s soul, Betty.” Mary jeers. “God abandoned us the moment we lied on our neighbors and saw them hang for truth.”
“You speak blasphemy, Mary,” says Betty. “Does it not say in the good book the Lord our God is merciful and forgiving, even though we have rebelled against him?”
Mary smirks. “I see you have your father’s gift for scripture, though I suppose it be little wonder a reverend’s daughter learned to quote word and verse as it please her. Was that not your father’s part to play in Salem? To use the good book and his knowledge of it to sway the minds—”
“Cease your prattle, Mary,” says Betty. “Let you count your own sins before speaking on my father’s.”
The outburst takes me aback, as does the fire in her words.
A grin teases the corner of Mary’s lips as she looks on me. “You see?” she asks. “My words strike home with her.”
“Aye, I admit they do,” says Betty. “How should they not when a traitorous wench denounces my father? And that when you, more than any, ever played one side against the other.” Betty glances at me. “Has Mary Warren been honest with you of her works?”
“Somewhat,” I say. “The rest we learned from her actions.”
“And yet you have not condemned her?” Betty asks.
I step closer. “Let you be thankful we have not condemned you yet.”
“Forgive me,” says Betty. “But I do not think you will pass ill judgment upon me. Not when you allow one such as Mary Warren in your company.”
“She be no company to me,” I say. “But my prisoner only.”
“Why?” Betty asks. “What good could she provide you?”
“Who better to learn of rumored witchcraft, than from a witch herself?” I cluck my tongue, eyeing Betty up and down. “And now I have two.”
Betty straightens. “I am no witch.”
“No, you are not.” I grimace. “They all hanged in Salem, if the stories are to be believed.”
“Aye, stories only. The righteous dangled from those gallows,” says Betty. “And my father learned me they now sing with all the angels in Heaven for their sacrifice.”
Metal scraping across the floor draws my attention. Mary Warren stands by the fire, a poker in hand. “My own father taught me but one lesson,” she says, staring on the cold bit of iron. “And that one furthered by my master, John Proctor.”
Mary stokes the fire, scattering the logs and sending bright plumes into the air.
“Speak all you will on the chains of love, Betty.” Mary spits the words as she sets the poker back in its place beside the hearth. “I should gladly bear such shackles all the rest of my days rather than live with the fear men like your father instilled in me.”
“Our father played a part in that also,” says George from the table. “And yet I only ever knew him as a goodly man. People can change.”
“Aye.” Betty acknowledges his claim. “As you say, sir.”
“Believe what you will then,” says Mary. “Betty played a role in Salem as much as I.”
“Nor will I deny it,” says Betty. “But I have begged God forgive my transgressions—”
“And not asked the public for theirs,” says Mary.
Betty stiffens. “What good should that do me, but land me in the same grave as Ann Putnam? The Lord knows my heart, Mary. I pray daily for His mercy.”
“I cannot speak for God,” says George, groaning as he rises from the table. “But I do not hold one guilty for their father’s sins, or most of us here should be damned for it.”
“No,” says Mary quietly. “No, I will go to Hell for my own faults.”
I sigh. “I care little for which of you will be damned when and where. There be only one soul I wish to send from this world.”
“Whose?” Betty asks.
My eyes narrow at her response. “Why should you concern yourself with such matters?”
“George!” Andrew’s voice calls my attention, as does the crashing chair and Susannah’s screams.
George lay sprawled upon the wood floor, shuddering. Beads of sweat drip down his forehead and his chest wracks with a deep cough akin to a grumbling bear.
I stand rooted as Andrew falls to his side, feeling his head.
“His skin burns with fever,” says Andrew, more to himself than any of us in the room. “George…stay awake, my friend.”
“Witch,” says Ciquenackqua in our native tongue, drawing me from my trance. He approaches Betty with his father’s weapon in hand—the long-handled war club bearing an eagle’s talon clenched round a wooden ball. He puts the ball at Betty’s chest and backs her against the wall.
“No,” says Susannah. “Leave my mother—”
I snatch her by the arm and pull her back to me.
“Please,” Susannah cries. “Why are you—”
I silence her mewling voice with a jerk of her hair.
Ciquenackqua looks from George to the tabletop, then to me. He motions his head toward the spot George previously sat. “Poison.”
Rage seethes in me at the sight of George’s half-eaten bowl of porridge while my own remains untouched. “You dare poison—”
“No,” says Betty. “No, please, I did no such thing!”
Her claims fall deaf on my ears.
Mary and Andrew argue over George’s condition—Mary backing Ciquenackqua’s claim, Andrew stating it matters not what we believe and that we must fetch cold cloths to bring down the fever.
I shut their voices away, all my focus on Betty. “Will he die, witch?”
“Pl-please,” she says. “I am no witch.”
“Liar! No sooner do we arrive and my brother alone eats from your table then he falls ill. What say you to that?”
Betty glances around the room, her eyes frantic and wild. She settles upon the table where George sat. “Allow me eat from his bowl…”
“What?”
“If you truly believe I poisoned him, allow me eat from his same bowl.”
I study her face, searching for any tell of a lie. “A test, then?”
“A-aye,” says Betty.
Ciquenackqua turns to me, his face questioning.
“A true test it will be then,” I say to Betty.
Susannah squirms in my grip and she shouts when I lead her toward the table.
“W
ait!” Betty calls.
I force Susannah’s face toward George’s bowl and feel her flinch. I glance back to Betty. “Will you allow your beloved daughter to eat of your concoction?”
“Mother!” Susannah cries.
Betty’s mouth works wordlessly open and closed as she takes in my actions.
“Rebecca, let you stop this now!” Andrew shouts.
“No,” I answer, my sight never wavering from Betty. “What will it be?”
“It…it be porridge only,” says Betty, her voice barely above a whisper. “I swear it.”
“Then she will not hesitate,” I say.
Susannah whimpers. “Mother?”
“Eat.” Betty says through her tears.
“Aye,” I say to Susannah. “And quickly.”
The spoon rattles against the bowl as she dips into the remaining porridge then brings the food to her mouth. The spoon wavers.
“Eat,” I say. “Unless you would rather breathe porridge.”
I steel my emotions at Susannah weeping.
She takes the spoon in her mouth then swallows.
The spoon falls from her grasp into the bowl and her body heaves as she sniffles.
“More,” I say.
“Rebecca, cease this folly!” Andrew yells from the floor. “She ate of the porridge. What more would you have from her?”
I glance down at the half-eaten bowl. “She will finish it.”
“Please,” Betty cries. “It be porridge only.”
“Then let her eat the lot!” My grip tightens on Susannah. “For I will be sure of your claims, false or otherwise.”
“R-Reb-Rebecca…” George’s weak voice calls me. I find his eyes glazed, his hair wet and slick, face pale. Slowly, he lifts his hand toward me. “N-no…no more.”
I forget Susannah when George’s hand drops to his side and his head lolls upon Andrew’s shoulder.
“George!” I cry.
Mary rushes to his side, falling next to the pair of them. She paws at his clothes. “We must rid him of these,” she says. “I fear his nights in the snow have soaked them through and his skin with it.”
“Take him to my bed,” says Betty. “You will find blankets and a change of my husband’s clothes in the trunk. There be a hearth also, though it sits cold and empty now. I will fetch wood—”
“No.” I say. “Let you stay here and allow Mary fetch the wood. Andrew and Ciquenackqua will move my brother and strip him of his clothes.”
“Rebecca,” says Andrew. “These are goodly people who mean no harm. Let them help us.”
“No.” I hear the weakness in me as I tear my gaze away from George’s face. “They have yet to earn my trust.” Rage burns through me at the sight of Betty. “Liar, witch, or neither at all. She and her daughter will not touch my brother until I learn the truth of them.”
“Rebecca, I beg you—”
“Andrew, if ever you loved George, help him now,” I say. “I will keep watch of these two.”
For a moment, I think us at an impasse. Then Ciquenackqua leaves his guard of Betty and moves to lift George’s feet.
“Aye, I will fetch the wood,” says Mary, fracturing the stare between Andrew and I. “But if there be an evil spell on him, I know not how to break it.”
“There be no spells here, Mary,” says Betty. “As you well know.”
Mary gives me a curious glance. “See George stripped before placing him into the bed.”
My brother’s body and build be larger than either man struggling to lift and bear him into the next room. Both waddle backward, their faces red.
I fight the rising panic in me at the sight of George swaying between them.
The howling winds bid me take note Mary exits out into the cold, shutting the home of winter, leaving me alone with the Barron mother and daughter. For a moment, I think my plan daft—if ever Mary wished to again abandon us, she could do now.
My mind races with whether I should call for Ciquenackqua to follow her, or no. I take comfort in Mary’s earlier claim that she has a face known to many in these lands. Despise her as I do, even I recognize she should be a fool to leave our company now.
“I did not poison your brother,” says Betty, her soft voice drawing me from my conflict. “I swear it on my daughter’s soul.”
I forget my distrust of Mary, focusing rather on the Salem sister in my midst. “Perhaps not,” I say, picking up the silver spoon and placing it back into Susannah’s hand. “But we will all know the truth of that before long.”
“Why do you distrust me without cause?” Betty asks. “What have I done to deserve such ill treatment?”
I rest my palm on the hilt of father’s dagger, and watch her eyes drift toward it. “I have lost near all my family to Salem sisters, Betty Barron. My brother is all that I have left in this world. If he dies in your home, whether poisoned or no, I swear it will be the end of you also.” I focus on Susannah. “You will eat all that remains in my brother’s bowl.”
“Aye, let you do as she commands,” says Betty to her daughter.
Susannah dips the spoon quick, swallowing the porridge without second thought.
I step back. “Why—”
“And when Susannah yet lives,” says Betty, standing. “Will you trust us then, daughter of Campbell, and allow us help you in your quest for vengeance?”
My fingers close around the dagger hilt. “What would you know of my vengeance?”
“Nothing of your own,” she says. “But by your brother’s tone, it strikes me the events in Salem changed both our fathers for the better. And I well know what it is to be a daughter living with such secret guilt.”
Her words stir a chord in me.
Susannah spoons the last bit of porridge into her mouth and places the silverware upon the table. She forces a smile as she looks on me, and, for a moment, I swear there be more playful devilishness in her eyes than first I noticed.
“I have no guilt,” I say, inching my blade from its sheathe as Betty approaches me.
“No,” she says. “But vengeful thoughts aplenty. I too harbor much of that in my heart for the man who brought low my father’s name.”
“My father—”
“I do not speak of Dr. Simon Campbell now,” says Betty. “I speak of the evil one who sent him to Salem. The blasphemer who walks blameless among the people, safe in the knowledge his honor goes unquestioned and untouched, unafraid his legacy will live on long after we here are dead and gone.”
“Speak his name then,” I say. “If you be so unafeared of him.”
Betty’s face sours. “The Reverend Cotton Mather,” she says. “You journeyed all this way risking both the wild and the savages to reach him, did you not?”
I raise my chin at the easy manner in which she marks my people. “The wild is my home and the only savages we encountered came when stepping into these stolen lands. But what care you for that which I have risked? You who have lived long in Mather’s shadow and done nothing to claim this vengeance you desire?”
“The good book teaches patience is a virtue,” says Betty. “I have long hoped for a means to fulfill the wish my father asked of me on his deathbed. Today, the Lord answered our prayers, bringing me those of a similar mind.” She looks on my dagger. “And one better suited to the task.”
“Your god did not bring us here,” I say.
“He did.” Betty clutches the wooden cross around her neck. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. We should be fools not to see the signs lain before us.”
“Does your god teach you to follow bad omens?” I glance to the room where my brother lay. “I can think of no worse sign than my brother falls ill before we reach the end of our path.”
“Your brother shares your father’s face,” says Betty. “Others from Salem will recognize it as well as I did. Perhaps he was not meant to go further and give you away.”
The mere thought brings rage to my heart. “If he dies—”
“I cannot speak to if he will
or no,” says Betty. “But I did not poison him, as you will see when my daughter does not share his sickness.”
Susannah steps around me to join Betty. She stands tall, her face flushed with life and bearing no trace of the evil spell that George suffers.
“Perhaps soon you will trust us and see we share a similar goal,” says Betty, her green eyes transfixing me.
“And if you speak true,” I say. “What then?”
Betty studies me up and down. “Your guise and face hold little secret as to your true nature. Believe what you will when first you catch sight of the Reverend Mather. He speaks all manner of religious zeal, but he is a monster who learned his tricks from the Devil himself. He will see through you.”
I cluck my tongue. “He is still a man of flesh and blood, no?”
“Aye, I believe so,” says Betty. “For time has not been kind to him. I heard it said he suffers even now.”
“I will end that suffering.” I draw my father’s dagger, its gleam a reminder of the glint in Father’s eyes for those who trespassed him in life. “If it be the last act I do on this earth.”
“You speak like a man.” Betty chuckles. “It may have served you well in the wild, girl, but here you must learn the ways of a devout woman. Aye, and of her secret tricks.”
Her words bid me think of my dream fast, the vision of my manitous and the masks it would teach me. A shiver runs up my spine as I look between the mother and daughter, recalling Mercy Lewis once echoed similar words.
Betty steps closer. “In the good book of Matthew, our Lord savior reminded us we should not suppose He came to bring peace to the earth, but a sword. You brought the blade,” Betty says. “I will lead you to a shield.”
-Chapter 4-
Susannah Barron meets my stare from across the room. Three hours passed and she has yet to show any sign of the sickness that overtook George. Indeed the only thing she reveals is affection for Andrew. Despite her mother’s presence, Susannah whispers secrets with him like children playing at a foolish game.
Andrew looks a dog, to my mind, lapping for food and approval whilst his master sports with him.
I turn my attention instead on the room where Mary and Ciquenackqua stay with George. My heart would have me go attend him also, but I fear what the sight of him expiring may do to my soul. I cling to each cough from beyond the closed door and pray to the ancestors for my brother not to quit this life.
