by Aaron Galvin
“What are you doing now?” I ask.
He answers by throwing one of the cloth dresses upon my lap. Andrew then sheds his fur robes and exchanges it for a thick, lined jacket, dyed green and wool spun.
I grimace at the ugly heap of rags in my lap.
Andrew chuckles. “Best don that now,” he says, packing his furred robe into the crate. “We are not much longer for the road and the folk of Boston will not take kindly to a girl warrior such as you look to me now.”
“They will not look kindly on me in any manner,” I say.
“Aye, they will not,” says Andrew. “Not with the long face you wear. Let you change that also.”
“How?” I ask.
He thinks on his answer and, for a moment, I think the answer is lost upon him also. When he looks on me again, it is not without some little pity. “Let you think of my Susannah and aspire to her manner,” he says. His chin dips, his voice quiet. “Or Hannah.”
“Or my sister,” I say quietly, my mind recalling her once gay demeanor. “Sarah as she once was.”
“Aye,” says Andrew. “Think of Sarah.”
He climbs through the gap, resuming his seat before shutting the leather flap to blind his sight of me.
Closing my eyes, I think of my manitous and the masks it would have me wear. Fixing the memory of Sarah in my mind, I turn my back to Ciquenackqua and shed my furs and the belt my daggers hang from.
The cold nips at my bare skin.
I dwell on the laughter Sarah and I once shared. The way she smiled whilst crafting the straw dolls for me, or else when we played scotch-hopper. I stir the muscles in my cheeks from a position long kept, forcing them practice at the memory.
I clutch for my belt and clasp it around my bare waist, needing the weight of my daggers at my side. Then I slip the dress over my head, push my arms through its sleeves.
“That were a dress of mine once,” Betty whispers.
The muscles in my cheeks relax, finding the familiar sternness quick and sure.
Betty eyes my body up and down, nodding. “It fits you well, though your hair needs doing.” Betty motions to the wagon floor in front of her. “Sit.”
There be no malice in her eyes or voice, but I do not sit without first waking Ciquenackqua.
Betty shows no sign if my actions displease her. Her fingers work deftly through my hair, soft as she gathers it behind my shoulders, then gliding down, tugging to work out the knots binding the strands together.
I welcome the slight pain, Sarah’s face fixed in my mind, recalling the days when she fashioned my hair. All the while, I think how it must be Sarah’s essence that I channel while entering these enemy lands.
“Live within me, sister,” I pray in the native tongue of my people. “Lend me your spirit and your goodness.”
Betty calls me from prayer by tying my hair tight in a bun that pains my scalp.
I turn to snarl at her, but the gentle touch of her hand upon my back bids me take no offense.
“You look a wolf in sheep’s clothing if ever I saw one," she says. “You must work harder if hoping to fool anyone.”
The wagon floor bounces beneath us, clattering loud.
“Could you unlearn a lifetime as a wolf in a single day?”
“Even a wolf lowers his head to track a scent.” Betty glowers. “And a righteous woman casts her gaze upon the ground. She does not meet the stare of others in public, especially men.”
Her words ring true in my ears, though I do not wish to hear them. “And what other lessons would you give, Betty Barron?”
“Turn back now,” she says, her tone low. “Allow your brother’s good health return and then leave off to the wilds from whence you came. The good book says damnation waits for those with a vengeful heart. Let you forget your hate and forgive—”
“I cannot forgive the wrongs done against my family,” I bristle at her pitiful speak. “Nor would I.”
“Aye, there be the truth of the matter,” says Betty. “You will not.”
“You would not either had you witnessed loved ones tortured and slain.”
Betty tsks. “I well know the difficulty of what I ask. The hardest task of all is accepting none of us be worthy of God’s love and forgiveness. But if we truly seek to humble ourselves before His mercy, He will grant it.”
“And you believe your god has forgiven your past?”
“Aye,” she says. “What I fear are the sins you would soon force me commit.”
“Let you rest easy then,” I say. “When the time comes, I will not leave you the task of claiming vengeance.”
Betty turns silent at my reply, though, for once, her face speaks plain that she wrestles with our sparring.
Rather than remain with her, I stand and pull back the leather flap shielding us from the cold. Icy needles strike my face, warning me rethink my actions.
I brave them anyway.
“I have drunk my fill of hiding,” I say, climbing aboard the driver’s bench, joining Andrew. My gaze sweeps across the snow-capped hills, my breath given phantom life by the cold. “I would learn these new lands.”
Andrew gives the reins another slap.
The wagon pulls faster as the horses heave in their bridles.
“You have yet to say anything of note on your plans to me, Rebecca,” says Andrew.
I glance over my shoulder into the wagon bed at Mary Warren, her head dipping between her shoulders each time the wagon bounces beneath us.
Betty sits near her, though she hesitates little to hide her scorn for me.
“Aye,” I say to Andrew, turning my attention back to the road.
“Will you share them now?” he asks. “We are soon to reach the neck of Boston. It would draw suspicion if you were to have us enter only to then retreat.”
“What would you suggest?” I ask.
“You look to me for advice now?” Andrew laughs. “I should never have dreamed to see this day in all my life.”
I redden at his tone. “Then forget my—”
“Peace, Rebecca,” he says. “It were only some little sport. Surely you may allow me that after I have tolerated your angry nature these past few months.”
We ride without speaking for a time, me preferring the wheels crushing snow and thunking of horse hooves upon the road to Andrew’s mocking of me.
More people stir from their homes every moment we draw further up the road. Boys less than ten years of age bound for the wilderness with their father’s flintlocks, men splitting wood in the yard, girls in thinner dress than mine cradling eggs between their arms as they wade through snowdrifts back to their homes.
We do not pass without they take notice of us. Several raise a hand in acknowledgment. Most do not.
I shift in my seat at the sight of their dirtied and hardened faces.
“Rest easy,” says Andrew. “These are but common folk, as we are. If these few here fear you—”
“I am not feared,” I say.
“I were, when first I delivered furs to Boston.” He casts a sidelong glance at me. “You have never seen such sights as you will this day, Rebecca. That I swear you.”
“Would that I had seen them already.” I mutter.
“Aye,” he says. “But as you have not yet, let us speak of where your thoughts lie on our lodging. This blasted cold seeps me to my bones. I long for a fire and a full belly.”
“Did you not store enough provisions to last us?” I ask.
“Aye, provisions,” he says. “But none of us should sleep another night under this cold, unless you would have us all laid ill as George.”
“We have no money or trade for an inn,” I say.
“No money for most inns.” Andrew grins. “Think of me as a drunken fool if you will, Rebecca. You may yet find much of my time spent in inns and taverns a boon to our cause.”
I keep my silence rather than debate with him on the worth of such claims.
We ride for near another hour before the dawn. As we reach th
e precipice of a hilltop, the sun frights the night away, affording me my first glimpse of the city and something far greater still—a place where the earth turns bluish-grey and stretches into the horizon, moving in grey ripples crested white.
The ocean. A memory of the life before reminds me.
My eyes glaze at the sight, one I have not seen since I were a girl in Winford. I recall the stories Bishop oft told me by the fire of his many crossings, both as a slave and a free man. My heart near breaks at the thought, wishing he were at my side to hold my hand and tell me grand stories again in such a way as only he could tell. I swallow hard against the lump in my throat.
Andrew slaps the reins again as if the sight beckons him speed faster also.
My gaze shifts to the uncountable hulking, wooden beasts riding out the waves, rocking in the gentle wake, their canvases stretched from pole to pole like white sheets of laundry hung upon the drying line.
Ships, scattered memories of the life before whisper. Ships from beyond this world.
We draw closer and the ocean, ships, and city swell larger. All while I grow smaller, weaker in their looming shadows.
“There.” Andrew points to a small strip of land separating the ocean, the lone bridge connecting city and countryside. “The Neck.”
I think it aptly named—the thin, earthen tract teems with people, livestock, and carriages, the flow of traffic feeding and leaving the city in endless cycle. And to the south, outside the pair of wooden gates, corpses dangle from the gallows.
Andrew leans close. “Welcome to Boston.”
-Chapter 7-
The dead men hold my gaze as we pass by the gallows.
Crows rest upon the scaffold, cawing at one another and all those like me who must first travel around them. They scatter when a pack of boys run up the platform steps. Grabbing hold of the dead men’s arms, the boys laugh and spin the corpses round.
Though an armed guard chases the boys off, the taut ropes continue their groan, swaying with new life.
Beside the gallows, a pair of upright and hinged boards hold another man—forced to stand, his head and hands slipped through the wooden holes in the boards. Whip-stroked rags hang from his person, tattered and bloodied, his face wan and withered.
“Andrew,” I say. “What is this manner of torture?”
“The stretch-neck some call it. Others the pillory.” Andrew grimaces as we pass. “Its cousin is the stocks, but that be a lesser punishment, to my mind. Those given over to stocks at least may sit and bow their head. The pillory affords the condemned no mercy.”
The prisoner’s sunken eyes follow me as we approach the pair of gates.
Those who walk enter through one gate in front of a watchful line of soldiers, whilst all in wagons, carriages, or those leading livestock enter through the other.
My shoulders twitch when we pass beneath the gate, my mind warning I leave all that I know behind. Indeed, even the air differs—filled with the blended stench of waste and sickness alongside the sweeter scent of sea and foam.
Andrew tosses the reins into my lap then leaps from the wagon. He takes one of the horse bridles in hand, leading the team around a carriage, its wheel shattered and cabin tipped in the snow. Clear of the traffic, Andrew climbs back into the wagon bench with me and takes the reins anew.
I give them over gladly, my eyes wandering over all the sights before me. High to the north, a symbol from my youth stands tall—a wooden cross, perched high atop a steeple. To the west, three hills tower over the cityscape, one of them bearing what seems a tall iron finger.
“Andrew,” I say. “What is that?”
“Beacon Hill,” he says. “Light a torch atop its peak and all will see it for miles. Soldiers train and cattle graze to its southern slopes.”
“And the northern?”
Andrew blushes. “I know only what I have heard.” He glances back into the wagon, lowering his tone for me alone to hear. “But others in the taverns oft name it Mount Whoredom.”
I recoil at Andrew’s eager tone as he drives the horses onward.
“Think poorly of whores, do you?” he asks.
“You do not?”
“Not at all,” he says. “They are people as you and I, no better or worse than most.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “No doubt your intended should enjoy learning as much. Perhaps I should tell her mother and spare you all the trouble.”
“Betty is a prayerful woman, aye,” says Andrew, checking over his shoulder once more as if expectant to find her lurking. “And, as most I have met, more like to cast judgment on the whores, wretches, and drunks of this world rather than speak with them.”
“Is that how you came to understand whores?” I ask. “By speaking with them?”
Andrew grins. “There were many a night I had talk alone from them. Most scorn such folk, believing them only woeful sinners.” He glances on me. “Those same folk would name you and Ciquenackqua savages.”
“Whores are not the same as we,” I say. “They choose their lot.”
“Do they?” Andrew asks. “What person should sell their flesh to strangers if afforded any other choice? Bishop sold his life for a time into slavery that he and his wife might come to these colonies. Would he have done so if not desperate for new life?”
“He did not sell his body as whores do,” I say. “Only traded his life in service for a time.”
Andrew tugs on the reins, driving the horses east toward the stretching ocean and largest of ships bobbing in the harbor.
“Aye,” he says. “Sometimes our flesh is all we have to offer in this world.”
I glance over my shoulder, back into the wagon. “The wise find more to offer than that.”
“Speak wisdom to me then,” says Andrew. “What did you bring in offer to aid us to achieve our ends?”
I keep my quiet, focusing on the ships sailing out of the harbor. Sailors work at their nets, their songs echoing across the water. Their tune sings to my soul, though not their bawdy verse.
“Keep your secrets then,” says Andrew. “But I trust mine to you.”
“You have plans of your own then?” I ask.
Andrew’s cheeks tighten. “I have little doubt we should find the Reverend Mather, but there were others used in his plots that may yet abide also. This city is not so unlike the wilderness, Rebecca. One may be killed by a pack of wolves, or else a single bear. Aye, and both the city and the wild hoard secrets easily found if one knows where to look.”
“And you do?”
Andrew nods. “The rich and powerful oft believe they keep their plots well hid, but sit in a tavern long enough, speak with those others deride at, and you learn of their whispered words quick enough. Whatever secrets Cotton may keep, those in Mount Whoredom will know.”
I shrug. “Perhaps,” I say. “Or else they may be in league with Cotton. Mercy claimed herself a whore and kept many among her company. Who is to say those same folk you name friendly will not betray you?”
“Then at least you will have tracks to follow.” Andrew pouts. “We have none now.”
The wagon batters us as its wheels leave the muddied road for sturdier fare—cobbled stone that sets us to rising and falling with its unevenness. The road leads away from the relative quiet of orchards and farms, emptying into a loud market.
Noise pervades everywhere—children screaming, merchants shouting out their wares, dogs barking up unseen alleys. Signs creak from rusted hinges against the salt-blasted wood and brick-sided buildings. Men load and unload cargo whilst beggars approach any who meet their eye.
I long for the quiet, peaceful ways of my people, though my eyes and ears continue to seek out each new onslaught to my senses. Memories of the life before stir in my mind, riding in a similar wagon with Simon Campbell and Sarah.
Some natives walk the streets also, dressed in white men’s clothes.
I tug at the dress Betty forced me wear, wishing I might rend it off in favor of my furred skins, and
I wonder if Ciquenackqua looks on me in the shameful way.
Andrew drives us into the crowd’s midst, turning north.
Ahead, a wooden dock stretches near half a mile off the land and into the ocean, where even the largest of ships bob off its sides in deeper waters. The ships tug at their bindings, ropes thicker than any man.
I wonder what it must be like to walk a gangway, step aboard one, and sail across the deep waters to Bishop’s homeland.
“The Long Wharf,” says Andrew, noting my stare. “Impressive, no?”
I say naught, drowning in the constant movement and noise of the seaside market.
Andrew turns west against again, down a crooked and shadowed alley. He leans close, pulling back the leather flap to view our other companions. “We have arrived, my friends.”
“Where?” Betty asks, peeking her head through to take in our new surroundings.
“An inn of ill repute,” Andrew says, glancing at me. “So ill the owner dare not trouble naming it at all, in fact.”
A squat and square home stands not ten yards from our wagon, crafted half of red brick and half unpainted, wooden siding. Similar derelict buildings and homes occupy the whole alley. None hold glass in their windows and few curtains either. Their thatched roofs sag in disrepair. Not a few vagabonds lurk in darkened doorways and vanish around hidden corners when I do not shy my gaze from them.
“Fool,” says Betty. “Who is to say the innkeep be no Mather songbird?”
Andrew laughs. “I assure you, the innkeep here be friendly to our cause. She should go unemployed elsewise.”
“Where have you brought us, Andrew?” I ask.
Andrew waves his hand toward the squat structure before me. “Your brother’s inn.”
I give him a sideways look. “George owns an inn?”
“Aye.” Andrew kicks at a pebble in the road. “Though it should have belonged to both he and I, had I not—”
“Drank and whored your keep away, I shouldn’t wonder.” Betty climbs out of the wagon.
Andrew paces under a broke and blackened sign. Hung askew above the door, it bears no name.
“But why would George not speak of this?” I ask. “Our entire trek, he said not a word of owning an inn.”
