Salem's Legacy

by Aaron Galvin

  Anger swells in me that George should have held such secrets from me. Still, the longer I stare on the inn, it be little wonder why. “How long has he owned this?”

  “Many a year now,” says Andrew.

  “George has never been to Boston, to my knowledge.”

  “Aye,” says Andrew. “He left the sale and arranging of it all to me.”

  Betty frowns. “And you squandered the opportunity.”

  “Would we be here now if I had?” Andrew asks. “I lost my share, aye, but I yet ensured the property given into safe hands to protect George. Had I not succeeded in placing such a trusted innkeep, we should be left to sleep in the wagon now.”

  “Andrew.” I touch his arm to calm him. “What use would George have in such a place? And here, of all places?”

  “For the same purpose we use it now,” says Andrew. “It were not so many years ago his hate burned bright as yours does. I think he took the loss of your father worse even than Sarah did. Bishop tempered it with council and patient preaching. He wished us become men before we struck out to claim our own vengeance. Now, I think the old man meant only to delay us.”

  I grin at such plots, swearing Bishop would laugh to hear us speak of him now. How his eyes should twinkle that his cunning thwarted my brother to save him.

  “Why wait?” Betty asks. “George is a man grown. Why did he not—”

  “Hannah,” I say.

  Andrew nods. “George loved your father dear and oft spoke of the need to avenge him. But once Hannah came into his life…” Andrew shrugs. “In truth, I think he half expected to leave the wilderness some day and settle here once he knew you and Sarah both were established and happy.”

  “He should have been in the wilderness all his life then,” I say, dwelling on my sister’s misery and my equal love for the hunt and my people.

  “Aye,” says Andrew quietly.

  Mary climbs out the back of the wagon. She gazes up to the windows of the neighboring homes. “I like standing here in the open near as much as riding in the wagon all this way. Might we go in and be warm at least?”

  “Aye,” I say. “Mary has the right of it.”

  “Wait here.” Andrew bounds into the wagon and emerges again a moment later, bearing the crate of our furred robes out the back. He enters the inn with the crate in hand, disappearing from sight.

  The wagon jostles and Ciquenackqua rounds the side of it. His head acts on a swivel, taking in our new surroundings, His knuckles whiten, clenched round his war hammer.

  “Brother,” I say in our native tongue.

  His gaze snaps to mine, whether alert or half-afraid I cannot tell.

  “Come,” I say. “We have further plans to make.”

  Mary approaches me quick. “You would do well to cease speaking in such tongues,” she whispers, motioning upward. “These walls have ears.”

  “Who here should speak our language?” I ask.

  “More than you should suppose,” she says. “And those that do not will be more apt to inquire on you and from where you come.”

  Mary points to fluttering curtains above us.

  A woman vanishes from a window, quick as shadow.

  The inn door opens and Andrew leaves the entry. “Come inside,” he says, climbing into the wagon seat. “Faith keeps the inn here. She waits in the parlor and will see you well attended whilst I am gone.”

  I hesitate. “And where do you go?”

  “You wished to learn more of Cotton,” he says. “I am eager to please.”

  “Then take me with you,” I say, reaching for the wagon.

  Andrew halts me with a touch of his hand. “Women are not welcome among the places I mean to visit.” His eyes gaze into mine. “Especially those as fair in face as you.”

  I pull my hand from the wagon. “Why must you go before we are settled?”

  Andrew watches Betty enter the inn after Mary Warren. His chin dips.

  “Forget her taunts,” I say. “Andrew—”

  “My blessing and my curse is I forget nothing.” Andrew straightens. “I shall return before nightfall.”

  He slaps the reins, leaving me watch him drive away, headed further north.

  Ciquenackqua tugs at my arm. “Come,” he says. “You need not worry on him for now.”

  His easy tone sets me to stir.

  The door yawns open with little light escaping outside the darkened entry. Though tight quartered, the comforting scent of smoke and hot food greets me once setting foot inside.

  I follow the winding, dim hall. Around the corner, a fire blazes in a black-stained hearth. Betty warms her hands and scarcely bothers meet my gaze before resuming her stare of the flames.

  Mary sits to table nearest a wall lined with barrels of varied sizes. Earthenware jars stock the shelves above them and dried meats dangle from hooks nailed in the rafters.

  A dark-skinned woman, lean and strong, with kempt, braided hair, approaches from around the corner, setting a plate of sausage, bread, and cheese in front of Mary. She takes a towel from her dress, cleaning her hands with it as she looks on Ciquenackqua and I with fierce grey eyes.

  “You are Faith?” I ask.

  “Aye,” she says. “And you my honored guests, or so Mister Andrew says.”

  “We are,” I say. “Or so he tells me.”

  Faith turns her attention on Ciquenackqua, studying him close. “He your slave?”

  Ciquenackqua stirs beside me.

  I halt him before he can make for her.

  Faith does not waver.

  “No,” I say. “Why should he be?”

  Faith blinks. “The pair of you hungry?”

  “Aye, famished,” I say. “Though we would not trouble you.”

  “No trouble,” says Faith. “Don’t want none, don’t seek none. May I say the same for all of you?”

  Her tone crackles with the same heat as the popping logs in the fire.

  “Our business is our own,” I say, “though Andrew named you worthy of trust.”

  “Wouldn’t have no business at all, if it weren’t for Mister Andrew, now would I?” Faith asks. “You can keep yours to your own self. I pray only you allow me keep mine.”

  I nod. “You have my word.”

  Faith chews on my promise for a time then leaves behind the counter.

  I sit to table with Ciquenackqua and Mary, my stomach growling at the steaming food heaped on her plate.

  Faith returns with the same fare for Ciquenackqua and I. She sets the plates before us then brings a pitcher and cups of dirtied and dented metal.

  “I’ve a need to launder the sheets yet,” she says. “Weren’t supposing Mister Andrew would drop in so soon and with guests too. Said he wouldn’t be back till spring, last I saw of him ‘fore today.”

  “Pray,” says Betty, stirring from her position. “Did he ever keep a young woman in his company when he stayed here?”

  Faith draws the pitcher close to her chest. “No, ma’am. Mister Andrew, he never once slept here. Not a night in his life.”

  “Why should he not?” I ask.

  “Can’t say,” Faith says. “But he a good man, Mister Andrew. Never met one better in all my days. Took me in off the streets and gave me new life. Even my name.”

  “You had no name before?” I ask.

  “Only one some master gave,” she says. “Mister Andrew found me begging in the streets and offered me work. When he asked on my story, I told him faith set me free. Then when I begged him grant me a new name later on, why, Faith is what I got.”

  “A goodly name,” says Mary, stirring for the first time since we arrived. “All should be so fortunate to receive such kindness from their master.”

  “Aye,” says Faith. “But he is no master to me.”

  “I beg pardon then,” says Mary.

  “No need,” says Faith, her gaze frequenting Ciquenackqua’s face. “Few of my color ever taste such a life as mine and I mean to repay the debt I owe. Now, should none of you need any
thing further, I ought turn to laundering them sheets.”

  She leaves our company in humble silence.

  I devour the meal she offered. My stomach near bursting, I rise from the table and wander through the inn. Barren walls welcome me at every turn with little findings of note anywhere.

  Despite myself, I cannot help but leave out the inn and stand upon the stoop, watching the ships, listening to gulls cry. My soul begs me venture out of the alley and stand upon the dock that I might stare on the ocean for as long as I am able. Still, my head and my promise to George urges me trust in Andrew and keep to the inn’s safety.

  Only when the sky darkens do I return inside. I find the others much as I left them—Betty staring into the fire, Mary threading a needle through a dress from the crate Andrew left us.

  My cheeks pull in a wan smile at the crackling of logs and the firelight playing across Ciquenackqua’s face as he sharpens his father’s war hammer. Lone reminders of home in unfamiliar lands and those soothing to my soul.

  The furred robes inside the crates call to me and bid me take on the smells of the wild rather than the dress that reeks of Betty’s house. Instead, I reach for a shawl to match the one she wears, wrapping it about my shoulders. I bask in its odor, forcing myself pretend at her guise. Then I fill my mind with thoughts of Sarah, and keep careful watch of both Betty and Mary in the hopes I might glean their humble ways and adopt them for my own.

  Faith returns after the sun has set with an even larger supper—potted meat and potatoes, beans, and corn pudding. She pleases me further still when accepting my invitation to sit and eat with us, regaling us for a time with stories of her homeland, the West Indies.

  The looming shadow of Andrew’s whereabouts revisits us no sooner than the meal ends and all the stories cease.

  While the others retire to bed, I return to the stoop in wait of Andrew.

  Though stars blanket the night sky and the moon nearly full, I take little comfort in their light. The neighboring brick walls remind me I am a stranger in foreign lands, as do the lamps and naked candles lit in windows throughout the alley.

  Before long, the night’s cold and my thin dress force me abandon the stoop.

  I venture into the inn and take up a new post by the dwindling fire. There I wait, long after its embers fade to a dim glow. My back turns sore from the rigid chair and sleep threatens to overtake me.

  Andrew never returns.

  -Chapter 8-

  Faith places a bowl of steaming porridge before me.

  I scarcely look on it.

  The clanking of a spoon against a bowl side learns me Betty shares not half my concern for Andrew.

  “Where is Ciquenackqua?” I ask Mary.

  “He keeps watch of the alley from an upstairs window,” she says, dipping a spoon into her bowl. “I told him it all for naught should any wish us harm, but he will not stir.”

  “And do you suppose those folk will come?” I ask. “Those seeking harm upon us?”

  Betty rises from the table in a huffed manner. “Talk of such plans all you wish,” she says. “They matter little now. Andrew took the wagon and with it any hidden escape we might make.”

  “Then it seems we must make other plans,” I say.

  Mary looks up from her bowl. “You would abandon him so easily?”

  “He swore to return before nightfall,” I say. “It is a new day and still he has not returned.”

  “Patience,” says Mary, returning to her food. “There may be a hundred things that keep him. Drunkenness be my first thought.”

  “Aye,” I say. “Another might be our enemies have found him out. If he is captured, I would not wait for them to break him and learn of us also.”

  Betty laughs. “You mean to rescue him if he is captured?”

  My gaze narrows. “If I am able to find him, aye.”

  “And how will you?” Mary asks. “You know nothing of this city, and have said well that I may not show my face for fear of similar capture.”

  I look on Betty.

  “No,” she says, turning to the fire. “I should sooner search out my wagon and horses rather than look for him.”

  “I do not mean for you to search him out alone,” I say. “Perhaps your shield will aid us. You have said it has protected you these many years. No doubt someone of such power and influence should prove capable of learning the whereabouts of a captured man.”

  Mary rises also. “Rebecca, let you rethink this, I beg you. Have you forgotten what we spoke of not two nights past?”

  “No,” I say. “I have thought long on the promise I made George to trust in Betty’s goodness.”

  “Then your trust is misplaced,” says Mary. “Let you rather wait here awhile longer for Andrew.”

  “Have you ever witnessed fear take hold of an animal, Mary? Fear so great it bids them hold their position even when a hunter knows its prey should flee?” I ask.

  “We are not in the wild now.” Mary wrings her hands.

  “We are. This is but a foreign hunting ground and one with larger game. I will not sit idly by in fear and wonder.”

  “Nor did Andrew,” says Mary, pacing the floor. “Perhaps had he thought to stay awhile, we might all have discussed our plans plainly and seen them through as one.”

  Ire rages in me at her belittling tone. “You do not—”

  The stairs thunder as Ciquenackqua runs down them, catching himself in the door.

  My hands fly to my daggers at the sight of him. “What is it?”

  “Andrew,” he says.

  A door slams against the shared wall separating us from the entry. Andrew stumbles into view a moment later, his hair and dress disheveled, his body reeking of smoke and alcohol.

  “Where have you been?” I growl.

  “Cease your shrieking, Rebecca,” he says, rubbing his temples as he wanders past me and sits hard to table. “I have some bit of note for you.”

  I snort at the smell of him. “You are drunk.”

  “Not as of now, which is half my trouble.” He glances around the room. “Where is Faith? Mary, find her, I beg you. I have need of food and ale if I am to see straight once more.”

  Mary grants his request easily enough, leaving out of the room to fetch Faith.

  “Where have you been, Andrew?” I ask.

  “Searching for all you desire,” he says. “Is that not deserving of some little thanks?”

  “We half thought you taken or worse,” I say. “You swore to return by nightfall.”

  Andrew rubs his face, yawns. “Aye, but let you ask yourself if you would rather I had honored that oath, or else bring you the news I learned last eve? The creatures of shadow oft loosen their tongues the longer night wears on.”

  Betty crosses her arms. “And you wonder why both my husband and I deem you unfit to wed our daughter.”

  “Susannah sees me as no one else does.” Andrew’s eyes blaze.

  “I see you plain enough,” says Betty.

  I sit opposite Andrew, drawing his attention lest he loose his anger on her. “What have you learned?”

  Andrew fumes as he turns from Betty. “Cotton lives to the north end of Boston, near the wharves around Fleet and Ship streets.” He clears his throat. “The commoners say he lay sick and dying, aye, and claim he has not left his home in three weeks now.”

  My lip curls at the thought of Cotton dying from anything other than my blade, even if it were a slow death of old age and pain.

  “And what do those that required you drink until the dawn say of such rumors?” I ask.

  “The Reverend plays at death.” Andrew grins. “Tired of a goodly front, he desires to see his remaining time spent on matters of far more import than the saving of earthly souls.”

  “News you say.” Betty belittles him. “I call them stories and rumors such as wretches live to spread.”

  “In my experience, even the wildest of tales have grains of truth in them,” says Andrew. “I admit that I, too, thought these stor
ies, such as they are, on the right side of mockery.” He glances at me. “Then I visited his home.”

  “You did so without me?” I ask.

  “Aye,” says Andrew. “For fear my claims would go unfounded by a certain person among us.”

  Betty humpfs.

  “But what I found there rang of truth,” Andrew continues. “More than a few cloaked strangers visited the Reverend’s home in the night. Aye, and none left either that I saw.”

  I sit back, thinking on his words as Faith brings food and drink for him.

  Andrew gulps his first cup of cider then takes down half a second cup before turning on his eggs. “None that I spoke with, or else listened on, could speak to what the good Reverend works at, but all agreed they have not seen him.” He drains the remainder of his cup. “I suppose we must find a way inside if you are to claim your vengeance.”

  “Perhaps,” I say, mulling on what I next intend.

  “Rebecca,” says Mary, her voice meek and quiet as she makes herself known to me. “Cotton is an old man now. Believe what you will of Andrew’s tales, but it may be the truth of these are sickness and age do indeed beckon Cotton to death’s door. Perhaps all you need do is wait to attain your vengeance.”

  “I am done with waiting.” I say, rising from the table.

  Andrew sets his fork down. “You are displeased with me.”

  “No,” I say. “I only wish to consider all my options before acting.”

  “A wise plan,” he says. “Why not speak of your intent aloud for all us here? I have shared my news with you, why will you not show me the same courtesy unless you think I should disapprove?”

  “Aye, you might,” I say, making to leave.

  Andrew catches me by the arm. “I promised George to keep safe watch of you.”

  “And so you have,” I say, pushing his arm away. “But Betty promised to take me alone to meet her shield.”

  Mary steps closer. “Perhaps you should ask yourself why it must be you alone.”

  “The answer is plain,” says Betty. “I do not trust the lot of you.”

  “Then why Rebecca?” Ciquenackqua asks.

  “Mayhap I see promise in her,” says Betty.

  Andrew looks on me with concern. “Do not do this. I beg you.”