by Aaron Galvin
A creaking bench draws my gaze—Betty rising from her chair near the fire. She walks to join me at the table, approaching as one unafraid even when my hand drifts to my side.
Betty grimaces as she sits. “My daughter remains well.”
“Aye, so it seems.”
“And yet you loathe to trust us.”
“Trust be a delicate thing,” I say. “Strengthened with time, yet easily broken.”
“I wish my daughter knew as you do,” says Betty. “Susannah has ever given of herself with little thought she might be taken in by others. My husband believes it a mark of her goodliness.”
“And you?” I ask, noting she holds to the wooden cross around her neck. “What do you think on such matters?”
“I pray she learns wisdom before life teaches her otherwise. Still, her innocence gives me hope.”
“Does it?”
“Oh, aye,” says Betty. “Even when broken, trust can yet be mended and made near whole again. But innocence…” She toys with the wooden cross. “The Lord may wash our sins away, but nothing in this world can restore innocence once stolen.”
“Your words remind me of another,” I say. “My sister, Sarah.”
“There is another of you?” Betty asks. “A third child of Campbell?”
“No longer. Your friend Mercy Lewis sent her from this world.”
Betty casts her gaze to the floor. “Mercy was no friend to me, as I have told you.”
“I have been told many things this past season.” I glance to her bedroom door wherein Mary Warren sits with George. “Few of which I know to be true.”
“I am sorry for your loss.” Betty takes my hand in hers then kisses the back of it.
I recoil.
“Forgive me,” says Betty. “I too know what heartache the loss of a sister brings.”
“What could you know of my pain?” I ask, bitterness thick in my throat. “Did a witch raid your village and take your sister’s scalp while she yet lived and screamed your name to save her?”
“Not a witch.” Betty looks on me, her eyes shining. “A fallen angel. I heard it said she were a most beautiful and terrible sight to see, her skin singed from her descent, and her hair afire. Those who witnessed claimed it could only be God sent her from heaven to rid this world of she who I once named sister.”
My mind recalls a memory of that fateful night. I remember the cold blade pressed against my throat in an attempt to lure my sister from the flaming barn.
“The sister you speak of were Hecate,” I say. “Abigail Williams, no?”
“Aye,” says Betty.
“But Mary Warren claimed you were family.”
“Cousins by blood,” she says. “But sisters in spirit, raised alongside one another in my father’s home. For a time, I desired nothing more than to be like Abby. I followed her every whim until Father sent me away.”
Her small smile tempts sympathy from me, as I too recall the struggles only a younger sibling may know—half desiring to walk in the footsteps of our elders, the other wishing nothing more than to carve our own path.
“Aye,” Betty sighs. “Sent me to save me.”
“And now the men who gave us life are gone,” I say. “Leaving us to play out the evil sport they crafted.”
“Abby painted fate a cruel mistress,” says Betty. “I oft wonder what fate may have dealt us had our situations been reversed. Would I have turned to evil means, as Abby did—”
I note her long stare at Susannah and her fingers again clutching to the cross.
“Or did I yet hold some child’s innocence that should have shielded me?”
My mind drifts to Sarah, lingering in our wikiami, watching her spirit fade, all while doing naught to revive the liveliness she once held.
George’s coughing from the other room draws my focus away from the past.
“Who can say?” I ask. “We must live in the here and now.”
“Aye, you have the right of it,” says Betty, turning again to face me. Staring in my eyes in such a way that I might see her pain lives there also. “There be no way for you to trust my words, but you will soon understand I am a true friend to you and your brother.”
“If you were, you would speak plain with me about this shield you have mentioned. What power does it hold to hide us from the Reverend Mather’s sight? How it has kept you safe in his reach all these years? You have said naught of how this shield will help us.”
“And I will say no more for now,” says Betty. “Nor lead you anywhere so long as Mary Warren is near. Only when you send her from your company will I agree to help you.”
“Strong words.” I saunter toward Susannah. “But I think you will take me to this shield if you love your daughter well.”
“No,” says Betty. “I owe my life and Susannah’s, aye, the lives of all my children and their children to follow after, to this secret. I will not risk its safe-keeping with a traitor in our midst.”
Betty’s conviction tempts me to believe her, though my mind bids me not let her sway me. Her earlier words of tricks and guises give me pause to study the former Salem sister with renewed interest. Unlike Mary Warren, Betty does not flinch to meet my gaze.
Squeaking hinges distract my attention.
I stand when the door to Betty’s room opens.
Ciquenackqua crosses the threshold, his eyes finding mine. The silence hanging between us forces me to hold my breath.
I thank the ancestors at my brother’s cough, and slump back to the table.
“He would speak with you,” says Ciquenackqua to me, his gaze flitting to Andrew and Susannah. “And her alone.”
Andrew’s hurt slaps me from across the room, the lovesick mongrel I thought him now glancing away like one kicked by its owner. His gaze follows me to the bedroom door, his pain turned scornful.
I halt outside the room, my feet hesitant to carry me but a bit further.
Ciquenackqua squeezes my shoulder.
The markings of our people on his face embolden me. He seems a man grown, though I know him younger than all who occupy the Barron home. And while George lay ill, the look Ciquenackqua gives me in return proves I yet have a brother beside me now.
Ciquenackqua turns his gaze on the Barrons and Andrew. “I will keep watch of them,” he says in our native tongue. “Let your heart stand with your brother now rather than worry of these.”
I clap his arm then step inside the smaller room.
The warmth of the hearth near forces a gasp from me no sooner than I walk to the bed. George lay covered to the neck with checkered quilts piled upon him. Though his face is blocked from my sight, the rise and fall of the blankets sets my heart at ease.
Mary Warren stands near the corner, wringing a bit of wet cloth over a bucket. She swaps the sopping cloth for the used one upon George’s forehead at my approach.
George glows with defiance, though his face is pale and his breathing labored.
I rush to his side, placing my hand upon his feverish cheek. “Brother.”
“Aye,” he says. “I-I yet live, sister.”
“Not for long, should you risk the cold again,” says Mary. “Fool.”
George forces his cough to become a chuckle. “H-Hannah often said the same of me. But you will see, Mary Warren.” He coughs anew, the sound of it deep as the drums my people beat for the war dances. “Th-that same stubbornness will save me from this illness now.”
“Rest will save you,” says Mary, turning to me. “He cannot leave here, unless we would risk death upon him.”
“How long?” I ask.
“I know not,” says Mary. “A few days at the least, perhaps a week.”
George falters in his attempts to sit up. He falls back, coughing anew. “You do not speak for me—”
“No,” says Mary. “Your body speaks. Believe me, I would have us gone from this place now if you were able. I am not yet convinced Betty did not work some spell on you, George.”
“She did not,” I say.
“Susannah ate of the same bowl and has not fallen ill.”
“Aye.” Mary snorts. “And she need not, if her mother did not wish the illness upon her.”
“Mary,” says George, his voice soft. “Give me a moment…with my sister.”
Her demeanor gives no indication she wishes to grant his request. Then she fetches up the bucket and used cloths, taking them from the room without another word spoken.
“She is angry with me.” George’s grin fades to more coughing.
“I care little for her happiness,” I say. “Let her glower all she will. It will not sway my feelings.”
“You wrong her,” says George. “Mary Warren means us no harm.”
“She need not mean us harm for her to cause it,” I say, my voice shaking. “Let you remember she abandoned us in our time of need—”
“And yet she cares for me now,” he says quietly. “Staying by my side all this while with a tender and guiding hand.”
I shake my head. “I think she does so only to not share a room with Betty.”
“Perhaps,” says George. “Or mayhap not to share a room with you.”
His words tease a grin from me. “Am I so difficult?”
“Aye,” he says, wincing as he closes his eyes, adjusting his head upon the pillow. “As is your nature.”
“You would not speak so candid if you were well,” I say. “You say so only now, safe in the knowledge I would not risk harm upon a sickly man.”
He smiles. “Believe what you will, little sister. When this sickness has gone, I will yet speak the same to you.”
“Then may you hurry to be well,” I say, sporting with him. “I would not wait for spring to arrive.”
“Aye.” George’s eyes flutter open, fixing a stare on me. “And you will not…you must keep on without me, Rebecca.”
“George…no—”
“Aye, you will,” he says. “I know not how long this sickness will plague my spirit. In truth, I cannot say if it will not be the death of me.”
My heart plummets. “George, let you not speak so and instead recall how stubborn you truly are. The words spoke to Mary and me.”
“Hopes and half-truths.” He coughs again. “Yet I am not so stubborn to neglect the harsh ones. I will fight this, Rebecca, but no man can withstand God’s will. If He call my name, then I must go.”
My eyes sting. “I do not believe in your god.”
“And yet truth exists whether we believe in it or not,” says George, struggling to sit.
I reach to hold his hand.
“Betty Barron’s husband will return,” says George, resting his head against the wall. “And when he arrives, you and the others must be gone from here.”
I lean toward George. “When Benjamin Barron returns, we will hold him hostage until you are well.”
“No. This is his home, Rebecca, and he did not wrong our family.”
“But his wife and daughter—”
George waves me silent. “Let you cease this hate, sister.” He licks his cracked lips. “God save you, but let you listen to me for once in your life.”
“Perhaps I would, if you spoke sense,” I say. “The more I hear, the more I believe Mary has the right of it. An evil spell has been worked on you.”
“I yet keep hate in my heart,” says George. “But not for any folk here in this home.” He squeezes my hand. “Nor should you.”
“How can you say these things?” I ask, drawing my hand from his. “It were you beside me these past months, driving us hard to reach this place.”
“Aye,” says George. “That I might hear from Susannah’s lips the truth or lies of such things as Mercy Lewis told. Did Susannah knowingly sway Andrew and betray us with such knowledge as she learned of us from him?” George shakes his head. “I needed to know. Aye, and see it in Susannah’s eyes.”
“And you believe her?” I deride him. “After but an hour in her company?”
George nods. “My life’s work has been in fair dealing with all manner of folk who would war on one another. Trading with rival tribes, the French and English, be a dangerous game, sister, as you well know. I should have been dead long ago had I not learned to spot truth in the faces and words of others.”
“I do not doubt in your skills,” I say, “only that this illness blinds you.”
“Perhaps, but you are a warrior thirsting for vengeance. Mayhap your lust for it blinds you.” George again reaches for me. “Believe me, sister, when I say we have no enemies here. Not unless we make them.”
I rise from the bedside. “We are surrounded by enemies.”
“The Reverend Cotton Mather does not live in this home,” George says. “Nor has he walked beside us all the way from the wilderness.”
“You came all this way—”
“I learned the truth I sought.” His voice rises. “Now let you understand it also.”
“What truth be that?”
“There yet be goodness in this world, sister,” says George. “We knew that in the wild for a time before it were stolen again from us. Indeed, darkness has so long loomed over our family I think we scarce recall what life means without it.”
“Aye, and we have come to strike that dark away for all time,” I say. “Do not ask me to do so without you.”
“I would ask many things of you,” George says. “And the first will be the hardest. I cannot force it on you, but hear my plea, Rebecca. Do not let this hate consume you. Unleash it upon the man who earned it of his own actions. Not those he has likewise hurt.”
George grips my hand harder.
“We have a common enemy,” he says. “Let our hate for him bring us together rather than divide us.”
I wish agreement with George that he might know his words are not lost on me. But the bitterness living in our sister, Sarah, lingers in me also.
“Why, George?” I ask. “Why do you trust these people so?”
“Because those I love have told me I can,” he says. “Ciquenackqua left not only his people but his world behind to follow you, even when you cautioned against it. Do you doubt him?”
“No,” I say. “But Andrew—”
George silences me with a wave of his hand. “Those first years in the wild, you and Sarah looked to each other and Priest for solace.” George sighs. “I had Andrew.”
“George—”
“He is my brother, Rebecca,” says George. “And for all his faults, I love him still. Look you no further than the next room if you would yet mistrust him. He knew I would make good on my promise to harm Susannah if she were dishonest and yet he never halted me.”
“He did,” I say. “He said—”
“Aye, words only. But had I raised my hand against her, I have no doubt he would have risen against me. Andrew spoke with the hope I might hear truth.” George fights another coughing fit. “I needed look into her eyes to learn it true. Now I understand Susannah is indeed a goodly woman. Aye, as good as Hannah.”
“Do not compare your late wife with the blushing girl in the next room,” I say.
George grins. “My wife were a blushing girl once also. It were only life with me that hardened her, just as life with Priest hardened you.”
I shake my head. “And what of Mary Warren? You believe in her now too?”
“Aye,” says George.
“Why?” I ask, my voice dripping. “How can you—”
“Hannah trusted her,” he says, his eyes watering. “When first Mary came to our post, I doubted her husband’s intentions, but it were Hannah who convinced me otherwise. She spoke that Mary were a goodly, if frightened, soul whom we should show kindness.”
“Hannah is dead, George,” I say. “In part on account of Mary Warren.”
“No,” he says. “She is gone because the Lord called her home. And if my wife were here now, she would ask you forgive Mary for this sin you wrongly heap upon her shoulders.”
“How can you ask this of me?” I clench the blankets upon the bed. “What do we have le
ft to us if not claiming vengeance for those whom we loved?” My jaw clenches. “I cannot forgive her, George.”
“Then you wrong yourself also, sister,” says George. “We must trust in others, if we hope to bring our enemy to his end.”
“But how?” I cry. “How am I to accomplish that without you?”
“You will find an answer. Priest learned you his secret ways. I have little doubt you came all this way without a plan to see your own stubborn will carried out.” George smiles weakly. “Now allow me rest, sister, if you would see me rise from this bed again.”
I remain by his side, listening to his rasped breathing and the crackling fire. Though I recall our father were a large man, George stands in my mind larger still. The sight of him laid so low at the sickness coursing through him weakens my soul.
George’s words race through my mind, my love for him and what he would have of me toying with the mistrust I hold for the Barrons and Mary and even Andrew. I know not how long I sit at his side, only that I keep close watch of the rise and fall of the blankets upon him.
I clutch the pouch around my neck, feeling its weight, praying its contents keep my brother safe. After a time, I slip the pouch off my neck and place it over George’s head, resting it upon his chest.
Then I lean close to his ear, hoping even in sleep he will hear my voice.
“You asked of me many things, brother. I will work to do them all, if you but grant me one wish of mine.” I clutch at his hand, making no effort to halt my tears. “Do not quit this world, George, I beg you. Do not leave me alone to mourn your loss with all the others gone before.”
My brother stirs, his fingers gently grasping mine.
-Chapter 5-
A soft rap at the door breaks me from the war within. Ciquenackqua enters the room.
Wax pools around the nubbin of candle that yet remains. I blink my sleep away and rub my eyes.
Ciquenackqua gently closes the door behind him to not wake George then pads toward me. “The others grow restless,” he says in our native tongue.
