Salem's Legacy

by Aaron Galvin

  “More,” Elisabeth screams. “Bring me more!”

  Only one heeds her, though he brings no bucket.

  Father’s finds me in the crowd, his gaze holding mine, as the Warlock thunders down the steps.

  I step forward. No…

  “Wait.” Father barks in our native tongue.

  His voice halts me again, long enough for me to note there be no crossing the distance and reaching his side without Elisabeth or her minions learning I mean them harm.

  My body quakes as I submit to Father’s want.

  The Warlock brings his dagger up for the killing stroke.

  Father lifts his chin, accepting the blade, his gaze unwavering in the face of death.

  My eyes shut to the tune of cheers.

  -Chapter 13-

  “Wait…” says Elisabeth.

  My eyes flash open, finding her sidled between the two men.

  The Warlock stays his hand. “What say you?”

  Elisabeth dances her fingers across his dagger blade, pushing it away at the last. “I have long waited for such a test as this man offers,” she says.

  “Then you are a fool,” says the Warlock. “This one will not bend nor break. I have seen enough to know.”

  Elisabeth fingers the hem of his cloak. “All men break. Give me time and I will learn where his true pain lies. Aye, and teach him the import of confession.” She turns to the crowd. “Aye, the Lord will lead us to this man’s breaking!”

  The Warlock sheathes his dagger as the crowd sounds anew.

  I release my breath, not realizing I held it back until now.

  “Let the Great Rite begin!” Elisabeth cries.

  The witches surge forward, near knocking me down, all of them pushing to reach the steps first.

  I fall in with them, gazing up the landing as the Warlock and Elisabeth climb the steps and approach the stone table. When they turn back to face us, she holds a silver chalice, the size and weight of it requiring her use both hands to keep it aloft.

  The drums sound anew, their rhythm slow and steady.

  The witches around me chant as one. “Hama shelabedi—hama shelabedi—hama shelabedi—hama shelabedi!”

  Elisabeth raises the offering toward the Warlock. “Mother, Mother, let these who would serve never tire!”

  The drums quicken.

  Tremors run up my spine, my ears filled with the chants of enemies surrounding me.

  “Father, Father, hear my plea,” cries the Warlock, lifting his bone-hilted dagger over top his head. “Let these who would call spirits, come unto thee!”

  The Warlock lowers his blade, dipping it into the chalice.

  The drums crescendo, pipes ringing in shrill whistles, all while the witches chant. “Hama shelabedi—hama shelabedi—hama shelabedi—hama shelabedi!”

  “It is done,” Elisabeth shouts, silencing one and all, lowering the chalice.

  The waif appears from behind her. She kneels before Elisabeth, raising a long silver platelet over her head.

  Elisabeth empties the chalice, raining a mound of Devil’s powder onto the platelet. She gives the chalice away then approaches the steps. “Come, loyal servants,” she beckons those of us at the bottom. “Receive our Lord’s generous bounty.”

  The music sounds again as those around me race up the steps, all fighting to reach the top, slowing the gait of all.

  I join their ranks, each step bringing me closer to the landing where Father resides. Not wishing to give away my presence, I shut my sight of him and will myself further up the steps.

  The girl in front of me twitches with each step taken. “I need it,” she whispers, more to herself than anyone near. “I need it, need it.”

  I follow her example, twitching my head, moving my shoulders in jerked motion so as to not stand out among the others.

  Witches sated by Devil’s powder retreat back down the hill, their faces awestruck. One stops, grabbing at my shoulder.

  “Do you see?” she asks, showing me the back of her hand, turning it back and forth. “Do you see?”

  Traces of powder linger beneath her nose and she laughs to herself, carrying on down the steps before I think to answer.

  The line moves quick and soon I witness the tips of the Warlock’s horns. Two steps further, and the whole of his bison skull looms within my sight. He and Elisabeth stand as one, the pair of them overseeing all who partake.

  Each witch approaches only when beckoned. They kneel before the plate and snort a line of powder offered them by the waif.

  I am but two witches from the line’s end. Part of me wishes to descend the steps, vanish back into the woods, and trail the Warlock as he leaves.

  My consciousness warns to leave now would be folly. That even if I should escape to the wilderness, I may not track the Warlock again.

  I think of Father, how he endured his pain and welcomed the Warlock’s blade to his throat without flinching.

  My hand grazes his dagger.

  I offer a silent prayer that the ancestors allow me a warrior’s death. That I might die with my dagger in hand.

  The next witch steps forward, leaving only one to separate the short distance between the Warlock and me. He shows the witches little regard, the tilt of his horns bidding me think him weary of the ceremony.

  Alertness lives in Elisabeth. She turns at the approaching witch in front of me.

  Drawing a deep breath, I twitch and reach inside my robe, a show to scratch my side. Instead, my fingers clasp tight around Father’s dagger.

  The witch kneels before the platelet.

  I rush forward, drawing my blade.

  Time slows.

  I step atop the kneeled witch’s back, using her to spring me higher as I fly toward the Warlock, blade raised over my head. The shriek of my war cry draws his attention.

  He turns, too late for defense.

  Using both hands, I plunge my Father’s dagger into the Warlock’s chest, the force of my fall sending us both hurtling backward. His ribs crack as I land all my weight atop him.

  Screams invade my ears.

  I do not allow them halt me, yanking off my hood that Cotton Mather might see my face and know me in our final moments.

  “I am Red Banshee,” I say. “Hear me—”

  “D-De—” he sputters. “Deborah?”

  The name halts me.

  I clutch at the bison skull he wears, shoving off of him, revealing his face.

  Isaac stares on me with dead eyes.

  A lone clap draws my attention.

  I wheel off Isaac’s body, drawing Father’s blade from his chest.

  Elisabeth stands before a host of witches, all of them with daggers drawn. She lowers her hands, grinning. “I want her alive.”

  Her witches rush me as one.

  I hardly have my second blade drawn when the first of them reaches me.

  Her mistake is to not protect her legs.

  I duck beneath her swipe, catching her heel, slicing and tossing her off balance.

  Another dagger whistles over me.

  I stand, catching the second witch in the throat with my blade, shoving her back to ward off the others. Yet for every one I fend off, others close in on me.

  They taunt me with their blades, nicking my skin, bidding me turn to face them instead.

  Their cackled laughter surrounds me.

  I scream back, swiping my blades in wide arcs.

  For each that backs off, another swoops in just after.

  I realize their game before long—the same as a pack of wolves taking on a she-bear. Bit by bit, they seek to tire me with their numbers.

  The Devil’s powder grants them inhuman strength, their blows stronger than my own.

  A weight falls on my back—a witch, snarling and hissing in my ear.

  I duck to throw her off me.

  Another spears my side, driving me to earth. Her companions catch my stabbing attempts. Heavy boots kick me in the ribs.

  The witches cackle as I suck for
air.

  I roll to my stomach, attempting to draw my knees beneath me that I might stand.

  A witch ventures too close.

  I take her by surprise, catching her in the belly with Mercy’s dagger.

  She falls, screaming with it in her side.

  Another pulls at my hair, jerking back to bare my neck. “Pretty.” Her craggy voice whispers, scratching her nails down my cheek, drawing blood. “So pretty.”

  I ignore her taunts. My gaze settles on the full moon and stars. I pray a witch brings a blade to my throat and that I may end my own life rather than allow them take me living.

  None do.

  My body weakens with each blow rained on me, though my resolve remains strong. I scream only when they wrench Father’s dagger from my grasp.

  The witches shriek back.

  A knee to my face sets me tumbling back, my vision blinded, nose spurting blood.

  The burn of rope ties my wrists together, siphoning off my blood flow.

  I pull at it even still and receive another blow to my head in reward.

  Black and red swirl my mind as the witches lift me under the arms, dragging me toward their mistress. They drop me on my knees before her, their strong hands keeping me from falling further.

  “The daughter of Simon Campbell.” Elisabeth gazes down on me. “Welcome.”

  I spit blood in her direction.

  Elisabeth grins, wiping it away. “Shall we begin your breaking, child?”

  She stands and claps her hands.

  I close my eyes to right my mind from spinning and pray that I make an honorable death, as Father would. Yet when I look out on the world again, I face no dagger or noose. No hammer or axe.

  Only the waif.

  She kneels before me, holding the silver platelet aloft.

  I blanch at the mound of Devil’s powder.

  “The Invisible World awaits,” says Elisabeth. “Pray, let you breathe deep of our Lord’s bounty and see spirits.”

  I grit my teeth, glaring up at her.

  At her nod, the witches push my head down, forcing me toward the powder.

  I blow hot breath at the mound, scattering much of it.

  Elisabeth grabs a clutch of my hair and shoves my face well into the powder. “Breathe.”

  I struggle to raise my head.

  Elisabeth kicks me in the ribs, obliging me take breath.

  Powder shoots up my nostrils and invades my lungs.

  My body rages against the ambush, wracking me upon the ground. I gag at the bitter taste choking down my throat, its sand-like grains scratching my insides.

  “Yes,” Elisabeth coos. “Breathe…”

  I hack at the burning in my throat and nose.

  The witches release me.

  My body seizes. My eyes feeling as though they pop from my skull.

  Cackled laughter surrounds me, their voices like the stories of harpies Bishop once frighted me with. Their faces twist before me, melting like candles, their eyes glowing red.

  I attempt to crawl away, my heart racing in panic.

  Their laughter grows and turns deep, startling me all the more.

  Elisabeth kneels in front of me. “Do you see?” she asks, her words slurring in my mind, as she lifts my hand.

  Light pours from my fingertips in patterned waves. I sit on my heels, awestruck.

  “Do you see?” Elisabeth asks, showing me her own hand, turning it over and around in sweeping movement.

  I gasp at such beauty—all the colors of the rainbow dancing in her palm.

  “The Invisible World,” she says. “Within our grasp.”

  I reach to touch the vision in Elisabeth’s hand, stopping short when my sister steps out of the crowd.

  “S-Sarah?” I say.

  Her hair gone, blood dripping down her forehead, a raccoon sits perched on her shoulder. “Why did you allow them take me, sister?” Sarah asks.

  “Sarah,” I cry. “I-I didn’t—”

  “Sssssshame…” The raccoon hisses at me. “Sssssshame…”

  I scream at the sight of its blood-tainted fangs, and fall backward to the tune of more laughter.

  “Why, Rebecca?” Sarah asks.

  “Sssssshame…” Its voice follows me no matter where I turn.

  Light touches race up my arms and legs like fingers grazing my skin.

  I glance down—hundreds of spiders litter my body. They delve into my skin, moving in scattered, boiled lumps.

  “Sarah, I’m sorry,” I cry, rolling to my back, scratching to rid my skin of the spiders. “Father, save me! Father—”

  The raccoon appears above me, perched on Sarah’s shoulder, their eyes glowing red like all others in the crowd.

  A demon approaches my sister, wrapping its arm about her.

  “Sssssshame…” the raccoon hisses. “Sssssshame…”

  My screams live on.

  “Oh, yes,” says the demon with Elisabeth’s voice. “I will enjoy your breaking.”

  -Chapter 14-

  Time does not exist in the hell Elisabeth keeps me in. No light to count the passing of day or night. No food or drink. She leaves me with only darkness and whispers.

  “Sssssshame…” says one from the corner.

  “Why, sister?” Sarah asks. “Why did you allow them take me?”

  I clutch my knees close, resting my forehead upon them, my hands held over my ears to shut out the voices. The cold of the iron manacles clapped round my wrists and ankles seeps through the whole of my body. The chains allow me but enough leave of the wall to reach the bucket her waif left me for my bodily waste.

  I have grown numb to the stench wafting from it. For every use of the bucket, my thoughts drift to those overflowing in the cells inside Elisabeth’s home and the memory of caged corpses. I think on the mad woman often, regretting I did not grant her plea, more in wonder how much time passed before madness overtook her.

  I do not think myself near that brink yet, nor do I believe myself inside Elisabeth’s home. Here the walls and floor are stone carved, ice-cold.

  My shoulders twitch at the spiders continued crawl up my neck and into my cheeks.

  “No…” I say to the dark, crossing my arms, turning my hands to fists beneath my pits, refusing the need to claw at my skin.

  After a time, my skin feels raw from deep digging to pluck them free.

  The spiders elude me always.

  Hours pass. Or minutes.

  My body continues seizing. I ball up upon the scattered remnants of soiled straw and scream my pain and fury.

  Neither aids my cause.

  No one answers. No one comes.

  The all-consuming dark and whispered voices blur the lines of sleeping and wake.

  A new vision visits me when a thick, wooden door swings open, the light blinding and yet a welcome respite from the dark. I cringe at the onslaught to my eyes and raise an arm to shield them.

  A clamor of wood against stone echoes—the waif sets a chair near me—then her footsteps retreat to the doorway.

  My eyes adjusting, I risk peeking out.

  From where the chair is placed, I gather my chains will not allow me reach it.

  “How fare you, child?” Elisabeth stands in the door, holding the torch aloft.

  I scream at her, my chains pulling taut in a failed attempt to reach her.

  “That well?” she mocks, resting the torch in a hook upon the wall. She walks to the chair, only several feet away. She looks around my cell. “I should have given you far warmer and brighter accommodations had you not stolen into my home.”

  Elisabeth reaches into her coat, removing the drawn portrait of my blood father, Simon Campbell. “Could it be you have forgotten the good doctor’s face after all these years?”

  My silence fills the void between us.

  “Yes.” Elisabeth says. “I thought so. You cannot have been more than a child when he was taken from you. Here”—she tosses the portrait at my feet—“let you keep it then. I have little
need of such a thing. He lives in my mind, your father. His face never far from recall.”

  I push the portrait away.

  “You scorn my gift?” she asks. “No matter. I bring another for you…and a visitor.”

  I look past her at the echo of approaching footsteps.

  An unshapely shadow turns the corner into my cell, pausing in the doorway. Gasping at the smell, he pulls a kerchief from his pocket. He brings it to his nose in passing the waif.

  “Mind your manners now, girl.” Elisabeth draws my attention. “You sit in the presence of greatness.”

  “Come, dear,” he says. “This one knows who I am. She came to find me…and I have so long waited to meet her.”

  “My Lord.” Elisabeth bows her head, backing away. “The Reverend Cotton Mather.”

  Cotton limps into the room, more decrepit corpse than the demon I so long imagined him. Wincing, he groans in easing into the chair with Elisabeth’s aid. His lips purse as he looks down his nose at me, the motion giving birth to several layers of fatty cheeks upon his neck.

  I lunge.

  My chains restrain me within inches of him. Their frigid bite tears the scabs on my wrist anew. The warm of my blood staves off the cold as I stare on Cotton Mather.

  “Indeed, this is a feral thing you have brought me,” he says, his gaze studying the whole of me. He turns to Elisabeth. “Pray, does it speak?”

  My head pounds that the chains will not allow me bring him to his end.

  “She will.” Elisabeth leers at me. “In time.”

  “Ah, but will you fetch truth from her or lies, my dear?” Cotton asks.

  “No doubt she will be like all the others come before her,” says Elisabeth. “A shrieking hatchling at the first. A beautiful songbird thereafter.”

  I raise my chin, daring her approach.

  Cotton sighs. “Would that it need not come to such torments.” He coughs, hacking up bloody phlegm, spitting it at the last. “My body grows weary of this world.”

  “You will find a way, my Lord,” says Elisabeth. “A means to fend off your sickness as you did the pox on all of Boston.”

  “No. Not this time. To say elsewise would be a lie.” Cotton collapses back into the chair, dabbing his mouth with the kerchief, clearing his throat. “And lies are but the masks we don in public, a show for pretenders of likewise piety. None reveal their true face to the world.”