by Aaron Galvin
“I trusted you to return,” I say. “Trust me to do the same now.”
“It is not you we doubt,” says Mary.
I ignore their concerns, striding toward the hearth and Betty. “Will you lead me to your shield?”
Her eyes narrow in response, but she makes to leave.
“Red Banshee.” Ciquenackqua calls, halting both Betty and I. “What would you have of me? Should I follow you and her?”
“No,” I say. “Stay and keep watch of these others. Allow me to learn the lay of these lands before we risk your face in plain sight.” I glance from him to Betty. “But if she and I do not return together before nightfall, take the others and fly from these lands.”
Ciquenackqua nods. “I will see Susannah dead if she returns without you.”
Betty’s glare finds me, hearing her daughter’s name.
I do not hesitate to meet it. “Lead on.”
She storms out of the inn with me trailing behind her.
I match her quick and steady gait up the alley and around the corner, into the flood of Boston scents and sights. Betty turns from the docks and wharves, leading further into the heart of the city.
We pass young men who stink of perfume and wear the white hair of old folk, the poor and ragged begging for coin. A pack of even dirtier children work in tandem to distract the noblemen, whilst another of their gang cuts the purse from the rich man’s belt.
More carriages and wagons press on through the crowds, their steeds adding to the manure already littering the streets. One wagon near runs me over, forcing me to leap from its path.
Still Betty presses on and I in tow with her.
The crowds thin as we press further inland. The homes grow grander with greater spacing between them. Those we pass upon the road dress richer and with more layers on their person. Unlike the dirtied rags of the poor or furred skins worn by traders I witnessed earlier, now both men and women alike wear and carry finery as I have never seen before—ruffled shirts, silver-tipped canes, and gold buttons.
We walk down a quieter road, one with trees lining its streets. I have no doubt they should be beautiful in season, but now their limbs stand barren. With no one near us, I take Betty by the arm, and then duck into an alley between two homes.
“What are you doing?” she demands of me.
“Tell me more of this shield,” I say.
“I did not promise to tell you anything,” says Betty, her cheeks flushing. “Only that I should lead you there.”
I step forward. “And you think I trust you not to lead me into a trap?”
“You, trust?” Betty scoffs. “No. You do no such thing.”
“I do for those who have earned it,” I say. “And you have not yet.”
“How can you speak so? Did my daughter not eat of the bowl you accused me of poisoning?”
“You spoke true then,” I say. “But you yet keep secrets from me and my companions.”
“Aye, I would not risk my protector’s safety to strangers who threaten my family.”
“And I admire your loyalty,” I say. “If you had given up your secret so easy, I should not think to trust you with my own plots now.”
Her expression bids me believe she expects a lie. I think of my manitous, and the masks it would teach me—trickery and deception, cunning and resourcefulness—all traits I must embody now to win my prize.
“I have no need of your shield, Betty,” I say, leaning closer to her. “I am no fool to believe that your Judge Sewall will offer me the same protections he has given you all these many years.”
Her eyes widen at my naming him. “How do you—Mary…” she says, affronted. “But if you knew, then why force me to accompany you? I have naught else to offer.”
“You have much and more,” I say. “Mercy Lewis made many threats when she took both Mary and I captive, but I well remember one threat of note—that she should have killed Mary then and there, but it would not serve to rob the others of their vengeance.” I study Betty’s face. “How many of your Salem sisters yet remain?”
“I—I know not,” she says. “I have not kept in contact—”
I step forward, backing Betty against the brick wall as her eyes wander for an answer. “Andrew named Mercy as Susannah’s aunt. Why should your daughter call Mercy that if you have such little contact with your former allies?”
“Please, I—”
“How many?” I ask.
Betty hesitates. “I-if Mercy is dead, then I know of only one other who yet serves Reverend Mather.”
“Her name,” I demand.
“E-Elisabeth Hubbard.”
“And where does she reside?” I ask. “Here in Boston, mayhap?”
“Please,” she says. “Do not force me—”
“Forget your Judge Sewall,” I say. “I would meet her instead.”
“But why?” Betty shakes in my grasp. “Why would you reveal yourself?”
“Who am I?”
Betty looks on me as one confused.
I grin. “I am a stranger to these parts. A face among the crowd…and one forgotten as easily.”
“Y-you do not know Elisabeth,” says Betty. “There be no telling what she might do if guessing your truth.”
“Do you suppose I came all this way thinking of how I might return?” I shake my head. “I care little for my own life, but vengeance aplenty.”
Betty wraps her shawl tighter. “An easy claim when you yet have choices before you.”
“I have made my choice.”
“Aye,” says Betty. “And I would counsel you rethink it whilst you still can.”
I snort. “Do you think I have not long thought on such matters during my trek? Even if Elisabeth were to guess my intent, she would not kill me.”
“How can you speak so?”
“For all her blood lust, Mercy Lewis spared Mary and I several times over. So, too, could Hecate have taken mine and my sister’s life when we were girls, yet she did not either. Why?”
“I know not,” says Betty. “How could I?”
“Someone does,” I say, releasing my hold of her. “Mayhap Elisabeth will have the answer to why Cotton Mather has so long sought out my family.”
Betty rubs her arm, shivering as we stand in the snow. “Even if Elisabeth knows, she would not tell you.”
“She may yet,” I say. “No doubt she will be thankful for my gift.”
Betty’s face speaks plain she has no idea to the gift of which I speak.
“Take me to Elisabeth Hubbard,” I whisper. “And I will give her Mary Warren.”
-Chapter 9-
“Give her over?” Betty says. “You speak of Mary like she is a beast of the field.”
“I value a beast all the higher,” I say. “They, at least, sustain others with the milk of their udders and meat off their bones. Even their hides give warmth. What has Mary Warren provided to any in this life, but misery? Think you I dragged Mary all this way for her good company?”
Betty’s lip quavers in answer.
I sneer. “For every step we traveled, I thought to send Mary out in plain sight once we arrived. Aye, learn what ill manner of creature the scent of her should flush out.” I cast my gaze around the surrounding homes. “Today I learn the truth of it.”
“I cannot do this,” says Betty. “You would have me commit a grievous sin.”
“And yet it was you who asked me to rid her of our company or else you would not share your secret shield,” I say. “Would you rather I have killed her in your home and been done with her treachery?”
I keep careful watch of Betty’s face for any hint she will step into the trap I have laid. Should she agree murder would be the best course, I will know her pretense as a good-hearted and forgiving Puritan woman for lies.
“I would rather have lived my life not knowing either of you.” Betty casts her gaze to the ground, proving herself too smart a creature for such snares. “And I would not wish murder upon anyone. Punishment, aye, but murder?�
�� She shakes her head. “Never.”
“You think yourself above murder, Betty?”
“I am a sinner,” she says. “As all others in this world, but I have enough ghosts to haunt my dreams. I would not add another to their company. Not even the soul of Mary Warren.”
“To say such a thing, you must believe Elisabeth Hubbard will kill her then,” I say.
“I know not what Elisabeth will do,” says Betty. “Only that I do not believe Mary would come to this place if she did not place her faith in you. She has abandoned others all her life, yet she followed you here.”
“Perhaps,” I say. “But her abandonment led to the death of my sister-in-law and my father’s. I care near as little for what faith she places in me as for your thoughts on sin.”
Betty recoils. “Who are you to plan such lies and schemes as these?”
The ugliness in her tone stokes my unease of being in her company, yet the fire in me would have her understand our unease should be of equal measure.
I stand straighter, looking down on her. “I am Red Banshee, and I have a song for those who wronged my family. Would you prefer I sing it for you?”
Betty glances out into the street as if hopeful someone will chance upon us. “Mary will give you and the others up once she is taken, the same as she turns on everyone.”
“Can one speak without a tongue?” I ask.
Betty gasps. “You would not…”
“There are few things I would not do,” I say. “Lead me to your Salem sister now or—”
“I am not one of them.” Betty’s tone rises. “Have not been since the day my father sent me away, as I have told you.”
“And yet you know the way to Elisabeth’s home.” I reach for Betty’s face, feel her flinch as I caress her cheek. “You claim a godly life now. Kept safe by your protector all these many years, as I were kept safe for a time by mine.”
My thoughts turn to Father, the memory of Mary Warren giving our presence away and the sight of him beaten and dragged away for his sacrifice to save me. The Black Pilgrim dead and gone on her account.
“And then my shield were taken from me.” I hiss in Betty’s ear. “Along with all else I held dear in this world, save my brother’s life.”
I reach into my robes and unsheathe the bone-handled dagger I took from Mercy Lewis, the same dagger that took the lives of my sister, Sarah, and Bishop. I bury its tip in the wall beside Betty’s ear.
“Look upon the hilt,” I motion to the dangling red and black ribbons. “Do these strike a chord in you?”
She trembles in my grip.
“Aye, of course not,” I say, my tone dripping with disdain. “Allow me share with you what I have learned—”
“Pl-please. I know what they mean. M-Mercy told me the same day she delivered a similar dagger into mine own hands.” Betty sniffles. “Aye, the morning after Ann Putnam confessed her sins and begged public pardon for her part in Salem. ‘The ribbons are a warning,’ she said, ‘of the blade you will find in Susannah’s chest if committing an act of likewise contrition.’”
I pull away. “But you and Mercy were—”
“I am not one of them,” says Betty. “Why do you believe I wept when you told me of Mercy’s death? Your vengeance would free me of their threats.” Betty’s voice pains with truth at the last, one I find difficult to now allow sway me. “Aye, and Susannah too. Only do not force this upon me, I beg you. Let us go instead to Judge Sewall—”
“After, perhaps,” I say. “For now, I would look into the eyes of an enemy.”
“But Elisabeth…she…” Betty shudders. “You do not know what she is capable of.”
“She can be no worse than Mercy.”
“Mercy were a dagger in the dark, aye,” says Betty. “I never questioned she should make good on her threats, as I doubt you would make good on yours, but Mercy, at least, would grant a quick death.”
“No, she would not,” I say, my thoughts turning to the night Mercy took my sister’s life. The blade pressed against Sarah’s forehead, her lifeless body in the dirt, and the bone-hilted dagger that nailed her scalp to the striking pole.
“Please.” Betty wrings her hands. “Do not force this on me.”
Her fear sets my jaw to clench. I touch my fingers to Betty’s chin, bidding her look into my face that she might understand fierceness. “Lead on.”
Though hesitant, Betty relents to my demands.
I follow her out of the alley, heading northwest. Gulls cry overhead, not a few of them swooping down to harass any patrons carrying bread from shops in the market.
After near a mile of treading the street maze of Boston, we reach the northern slopes Andrew spoke of upon our arrival. Seedier folk than any I have yet met in Boston loaf in the alleys. I feel the gazes of men wander up my bodice, not a one showing the decency to avert their hunger when I catch sight of them leering at me.
The fall of hammers upon anvils and the fiery sparks they birth upon the striking call me back to my true purpose.
We pass a smithy as he takes a still glowing bit of iron and douses it in a near bucket. The hiss and steam it gives bids me wish my own anger were cooled so easily, that I could do as Betty asked me, to forget my hate and return to wait out George’s ailment before heading back to the wild and reshaping our lives.
Forgetting myself, I reach for the pouch once hung round my neck, only to recall I lent it to George for the same power.
“We are nearly there,” says Betty, pausing to wake me from my trance. “Elisabeth lives but the next street over. Are…are you certain of this plan? We may yet turn back.” Her eyes round in search of the area. “Aye, we should return from whence we came.”
“Keep on,” I say, though my heart races with each step taken, beating so hard I fear the whole of Boston will hear.
Betty leads me down a new alley, halting before we step out onto the road before us. “There,” she says, pointing to a home near fallen in upon itself.
I nod. “Wait here.”
She clutches at my dress. “What if you should not return? Your native friend mentioned my daughter’s name. Why?”
“Let you wait here for me, or else learn firsthand what I told him in another time and place,” I say. “Though I doubt you should find it agreeable.”
“Aye.” Betty grimaces. “I will wait.”
I cross the street, pausing at the steps of Elisabeth Hubbard’s home. Stained lace hangs in the windows, their adornment matching the darkened panes reflecting the greys of winter. I climb the stone steps and knock upon the door. Then I wait, shuddering with cold and the unknown to come, recalling my manitous and the masks I must don.
The door creaks open, answered by a waifish woman, her pale cheeks scarred and picked at. Indeed, her sickly frame and thin, bedraggled yellow hair first bid me think of her as weak. Her gaze warns I wrong her with such assumptions.
“Who calls?” she asks, her voice deep and throaty.
“Are you the keeper of this home?” I ask. “Miss Elisabeth Hubbard?”
“Who are you?” The waif scratches at a mole on her neck. “Miss Elisabeth hadn’t gone by Hubbard in ages. Been a Bennett nigh on twenty years now, in keeping with her late husband’s surname.”
“I care little for what her name is now, only that I would see her.” I say. “Pray, let you tell your mistress I bring her news of Mercy Lewis.”
“Don’t know no Mercy Lewis.” The waif scratches her shoulder. “And Miss Elisabeth don’t take strange callers.”
“She would do well to suffer me,” I say. “I bring her a gift of great import.”
The waif at the door looks down her crooked nose at me, maneuvering to look around me. “Don’t see no gift.”
“Nor will you,” I say. “It is for her alone.”
My mind warns I should do as Betty taught and not meet the waif’s stare. Despite her teachings, I cannot bring myself to look away.
“What good could you want with Miss Elisabeth?” she asks
.
“That is for she and I to discuss.”
The waif snorts. “Won’t speak with her at all less’n I let you in, now will you? Don’t suppose Miss Elisabeth’d mind if I let you freeze out here in the snow. You’ve a bit of mischief to you, I expect. Look the right side of trouble, you do.”
“And you seem a dog to my eyes,” I say, moving up the steps.
The waif steps back into the darkened home, but she does not flee. Instead, she takes up her former position in the door, reclaiming herself from the cravenness I worked on her.
“Go,” I say. “Run and fetch your mistress. Tell her a follower of Mercy Lewis visits her now. Aye, and brought one of her Salem sisters with me.”
The waif’s eyes flash at my mention of Salem, setting her to stir from the door faster than if I threatened her life.
“Come in, come in,” she says, bowing out of the entryway, opening the door wide for me to enter. “Meant no offense, truly I didn’t.”
I step past her and into the blessed heat emanating throughout the home. As the waif closes the door behind me, the hunter in me warns I have no other means of escape. I feel the walls close and my heart flutters with panic, the need for open air and sky.
“Might I wait by your fire?” I ask. “The winter cold has sapped my spirit.”
“As you like,” says the waif, ushering me enter. “There’s a hearth in the parlor there round the corner. Mind you take some warmth of it whilst I speak with Miss Elisabeth.”
She leads me into the next room where a roaring fire crackles beneath an open stone hearth. Despite the ruin outside the home, inside is another matter. The furniture gleams of polished mahogany, unlike the dull tones in Betty’s house. So too does Elisabeth’s sitting room have more space than even Betty’s kitchen.
The waif fumbles at a curtsy then turns and makes her leave. Though she cannot weigh more than a hundred pounds, the wood floor creaks beneath her. She scurries into the next room and out of sight. A moment later, she thuds up the stairwell.
I take a deep breath then approach the hearth. A pair of unlit tallow candles stands to either side of a lone wooden cross atop the mantle. I turn my gaze instead on the fire, extending my hands, allowing its heat warm not only the numbness in them, but my soul also.
