Salem's Legacy

by Aaron Galvin

  I stare on the powder, my body twitching.

  “What will you do, Rebecca”—Elisabeth reaches the door of my cell—“when the hunger takes full hold of you?”

  Elisabeth shuts the door slowly, the groan of hinges matching the one my body makes in need of powder. She leaves me the torch upon the wall, the light from its flames furthering my torment by the powder that lay beyond my reach.

  -Chapter 15-

  I wake to the hunger.

  The mound of powder Elisabeth left torments me from afar.

  I pull at my chains, struggling to reach but a few grains to sate me.

  Elisabeth knew her work well—the mound remains untouched as pain ravages my body, convulsing me at its whims.

  For every small relief, the seizing overtakes me not long after.

  “Sarah…”

  “Leave me!” I scream to the voices and the pain.

  “As you left me?”

  I open my eyes, finding Sarah seated in the corner.

  “S-sister…” I reach to her. “Sarah, please.”

  “You call her sister?” a familiar spirit whispers in my ear.

  I wheel about, facing Mercy Lewis. My face twists. “You.”

  “Me…” Mercy smiles and raises her dagger.

  I throw myself against her, screaming. Stealing her dagger away, I shove her against the wall and marry the dagger’s blade to her throat, coating the wall red.

  She falls at my feet, face down in a pool of her own blood.

  I nudge Mercy to ensure her dead.

  Her neck turns and her hair falls away, revealing not Mercy…but Sarah.

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

  A weighted ball of fur lands upon my head, shrieking in my ears.

  I glimpse its ringed tail and fight to rid myself of it, feeling the raccoon’s nails dig into my skin, drawing blood. Catching hold of its leg, I fling it free of me, into the woods.

  “Rebecca…”

  I spin to the voices, singing my name in blissful harmony.

  Sarah and Hannah stand upon the banks of some nameless river of blood. Bishop waits with them also, holding the hand of a woman I do not recognize by face. They wave as one, bidding me cross.

  I start toward the waters.

  A lone figure rises from its depths. Blood and blackness coat near the whole of his face and body, all save for his eyes. They glow white as he wades toward me, his presence barring me from joining the company of the dead.

  “Shame…” the voice of Father fears me, growing louder with each step he takes. “Shame!”

  I cower upon the beach. “F-Father…Father, please.”

  He opens his mouth, hissing at me.

  Sand clutches my legs, sucking me into its depths.

  I struggle against its pull. My fight serves only to sink me faster. I flail for Father.

  The demon Black Pilgrim mocks my plight with the glow of his eyes.

  “Shame…” he says.

  Sand fills my nose, scratches my throat.

  The night swallows me whole and darkness wraps me in its icy embrace.

  I wake to a cold sweat. My body trembles with hunger, but not for powder. The whispers continue their call of me, now fainter. The number of spiders lessens, their bite no longer requiring me reach out to halt their scurrying in my flesh.

  “I-I will serve h-him v-vengeance,” I say to the darkness, willing myself take courage and continue beating back the visions.

  Exhaustion casts me in dreamless sleep.

  When I wake again, the voices and spiders have gone. Only a vision of Elisabeth’s waif, standing in the door of my cell, remains. Several hooded men enter at her command. Their shoulders twitch as they release me from the wall.

  I collapse into their arms, my mind reeling from the light.

  They bear me out of the cell and up a dim, stony hall.

  Through the bars of one cell, I glimpse a prisoner’s battered and bloodied face. He lay on his stomach, his mouth gagged. Ropes bind his hands to his feet, keeping all aloft, forcing him arch his back and hold the position.

  “A-Andrew,” I say, struggling to free myself of my keepers.

  Purple bruises litter his body and head, yet still he turns at my voice. Anguish floods his face the moment our eyes meet.

  “Put her in the dark,” says the waif.

  One of her fellows raps me on the head, dizzying me anew.

  Another throws a mildewed bag over my head.

  My stomach heaving, I gag at the bag’s odor and thank the ancestors there be no food in me to vomit.

  The waif and her company drag me onward.

  I count several flights of steps—some wood, others stone—before the air turns colder and my feet graze snow. My breath quickens at the whinny of horses and creaking of wagon wheels. My captors lead me step through drifts up to my naked knees.

  “All right, lads,” cries the waif. “Get her in.”

  Strong arms lift me from the snow.

  In blind waves, I kick and punch as best my shackles will allow. My blows graze off their persons.

  They heave me away.

  My stomach flutters with weightlessness. I land upon a wooden base that steals my breath. Unknown hands chain me to a new wall whilst I suck for air.

  Hinges and leather squeak. A door slams closed. Voices call out orders.

  The floor jerks beneath me to creaking wheels and the footfalls of horses.

  I tug the hooded bag off my head and find similar dark.

  A rustled movement hails from the opposite corner.

  “W-who are you?” I ask.

  “A traitor, the same as you—”

  I gasp at her voice.

  “Though you, at least, have courage.”

  “Mary,” I say, my bonds pulled taut as I attempt drawing near her. “Or are you another spirit sent to haunt me?”

  “I am yet flesh and blood,” she says. “Though I fear soon we shall both be two more souls given to the Invisible World.”

  “What cause have you to believe such things?”

  “What cause have you not to?” Mary asks.

  My gut wrenches with the thought.

  The wagon continues bumping beneath us, bearing us away.

  “They have no need to kill us,” I say. “This is but more sport for Elisabeth only. No doubt she means to fear us with the unknown.”

  “The known fears me now,” says Mary.

  “Death?” I ask.

  “Aye,” she says. “But death would be a welcome release from the torture Elisabeth visits on me noon and night. Have you seen the others?”

  “Andrew only,” I say. “Bound and gagged, but living.”

  “And Betty?” she asks. “What of her?”

  “Gone.”

  Mary sighs. “I saw them drag Ciquenackqua away days ago. The guards returned alone.” Her tone drops. “Brave lad, he was. Aye, but he should have left Andrew and me when they came for us. God knows he could have slipped away in the chaos of it all.”

  My head leans against the wall.

  “Why did he not run?” Mary asks, her voice shattered. “Foolish boy. He should have run, as any sane person ought do. Instead, he fought to save me. Just as Andrew quit his own fight on their promise to spare my life.”

  “Aye,” I say, imagining Ciquenackqua leaping down the steps, his father’s war club singing against the skulls of those invading the inn. “I imagine they both did.”

  “But why?” asks Mary. “I have asked myself that all these long hours since. I were no kin to them, nor even friend. Still they fought. Why?”

  “You were among our company. Mayhap they believed you were true to our cause.” I struggle with the words. “As I should have believed in you also.”

  The wagon rumbles beneath us, forcing me hold tight against the wall before leveling off anew.

  “Forgive me, Mary,” I say, after a time. “It were wrong of me to force your company all this way.”r />
  “I have wronged many in this life,” she says. “No doubt their souls wait for me at the gates of hell. I would not add yours to their company for the wrongs I have done you.”

  “What wrongs?” I ask.

  She keeps her silence for a time, though her sobs cut through the winds whistling through the cracks of our wagon, singing their cold song.

  “I told.” Mary sputters. “Confessed all your secrets but one. F-forgive me my anger, Rebecca, I beg you. I held such plans and plots of yours for days until Elisabeth told me of your intent to give me over.”

  I sit up. “I swear on my soul that I never meant to give you over, Mary. Only meant to draw her out with the promise of you.”

  “Only,” she says. “If ever there were a word God should banish from our tongues it be that one. I only meant to join my Salem sisters at the dance. Aye, sought welcome among them and friendly gossip. All that has befallen me in my whole life came on account of only.”

  My chin dips at her words, the phantom voice ringing in my head. Shame…

  “Such things matter little now, I suppose,” says Mary. “We are both betrayers riding to our doom. I pray that God allows me keep the last of your secrets before the end.”

  I straighten, tugging against my bonds. “What be that, Mary?”

  “George,” she says. “Elisabeth teased all knowledge from me, but his safekeeping.”

  Thoughts of my brother visit me as the wagon rolls along, bumping through the snow and over hill. His last words of placing my trust in others haunt me now Mary speaks of her loyalty to him. I ponder on whether to make known Betty’s betrayal to Mary or no.

  Her pride for safeguarding my brother bids me keep such knowledge quiet.

  “You are a good woman, Mary Warren,” I say. “A far better one than I ever credited you.”

  “A coward only,” says Mary. “Craven as Judas himself. Even now, I know in my heart that I should give George up in exchange for my own life,” she says through her tears. “And all after both he and Hannah ever showed me naught but kindness. Did George ever share with you the time he beat my husband to a bloodied mess?”

  “No.”

  “Aye, he did,” says Mary. “Beat him until he could not walk upon noting the bruises on my face, then warned my husband the next fist he landed upon me would be his death. Never in my whole life has such a man looked after me, as your brother did. Yet even now I think how I should betray him to save my own soul.”

  “And yet you have not,” I say. “Nor will you.”

  “Aye,” says Mary. “Only for distrust of Elisabeth. Were she an honest woman to make such promises, I have little doubt I should accept her offer.”

  “I do not believe that.”

  Mary barks a laugh. “You know me better than I know myself?”

  “Not I.”

  “Who then?”

  “George,” I say. “He bid me put my trust in you before we left Betty’s home. Asked that I believe in your goodness.” My voice cracks at hearing her cry. “Would that I had done then as I believe in it now.”

  “Only a fool would put their faith in me,” she says, after a time. “I am a coward.”

  “You are not,” I say.

  “I am,” says Mary. “Have been the whole of my years. All know me as such. My master, John Proctor, knew I should wilt with only the threat of his fists, just as my husband did. Aye, just as your father saw fit to make example of me to the other girls.”

  “And yet it were you alone of all the girls to break from their company and speak truth to the people of Salem,” I say. “You to name them liars.”

  “I did,” says Mary. “And then all those innocent in Salem hung when I wilted anew, their necks stretched as I looked on.”

  “Those days were not this one, Mary,” I say.

  “Aye,” she says. “This be the last of them.”

  The quiet grows between us as the wagon rolls on. I pray to the ancestors, begging them allow me make a brave end of my life and keep safe those of my friends who yet live.

  The wagon rolls to a stop. A leather flap opens, revealing a clear night sky and Elisabeth’s witches. They climb into the wagon, unarmed, approaching us slowly.

  Mary struggles against them.

  The witches taunt her when she cries out at their touch.

  I give them no such pleasure. My gaze turns to the stars as the witches untie my bonds, freeing me of the wagon side, hauling me to the edge. I shrug off their clutches, leaving the wagon of my own free will.

  A line of torches leads toward a stone bridge. Elisabeth waits at its middle, surrounded by her followers.

  “Come on then,” says the waif to me. “Haven’t got all night, have we?”

  My legs wobble for lack of use as my feet settle into snow. I cling to the wagon side, then force myself stand tall.

  “Lead on,” I say to the waif.

  She grins and turns on her heel, waving us follow.

  Witches surround Mary and me, jabbing us move forward.

  The desire to fight them lives strong in me. A voice of reason tells me this lot should relish such an opportunity. I walk on.

  The stars call back my gaze. Memories of Bishop’s stories flood my mind, his words that stars were the spirits of good men and women, shining their light to guide us and ward off even the darkest nights. The thought of seeing him and Sarah again gives me courage to trudge the snowy path with my head held high.

  The waif halts before we step onto the bridge, stopping us upon the banks.

  The river lay near iced over save for a single, gaping hole, its waters black.

  Mary’s panted breath sets the frozen hairs on my skin to standing, her fear calling me join her in it.

  I fight against such notions, willing my body not bend nor break.

  Elisabeth strides forward, her gaze wavering between the pair of us. She stops shy of the bridge end, her focus settling on me. She grins. “Bring her.”

  My muscles tense in wait for the witches to take hold of me.

  They take Mary instead.

  “Rebecca,” she calls, her feet stumbling as they drag her up the bridge.

  “Stay strong, Mary!” I shout. “You can—”

  The waif knocks me down with a rap of her baton to the back of my knees. “Shut your ‘ole,” she commands. “It’s not your time yet.”

  Witches lift me from the ground, keeping their hold to stop me from falling again.

  “Mary Warren,” says Elisabeth, “you are charged with blasphemy against our Lord—”

  “Lies!” Mary shouts.

  “Conspiring murder of the Reverend Cotton Mather—”

  “Elisabeth, please!”

  “And practicing the dark arts,” Elisabeth finishes. “Will you confess to these crimes and save your soul?”

  “A-aye,” says Mary. “I have done them all.”

  Elisabeth nods. “And did you sign your name to the Devil’s book?”

  “I did,” says Mary. “The same night as you, Elisabeth Hubbard. The same as you all here have!”

  I glance to the stars, praying Mary keep her dignity.

  Elisabeth clears her throat. “Our sins are not those in question this night.”

  “I have confessed my sins,” says Mary. “Is that not enough to save my soul?”

  “You know the good book as well as I, Mary,” says Elisabeth. “Confession is but the first step to salvation. Only those who are baptized may receive God’s grace.”

  My heart pounds as two men move Mary near the bridge edge.

  “Without baptism,” says Elisabeth, “we are damned—”

  “My soul were damned long ago,” says Mary. “Not even holy water may save it now.”

  “If you will not save your soul, mayhap you would keep your life instead.” Elisabeth cocks her head. “Such as it is.”

  “Aye, I would keep it,” says Mary.

  “Good.” Elisabeth purrs before turning her gaze on me. “Are there any here among us who
joined you in signing the Devil’s book, Mary Warren?”

  Mary’s eyes flirt toward me. “N-no.”

  Elisabeth grins. “You know this game well, Mary. I cannot allow you go free if you will not confess all you know.”

  Mary meets my stare, her jaw trembling. “Th-those days are not this one, Elisabeth.”

  “What say you?” Elisabeth asks.

  “The dead of Salem cry out for righteous vengeance,” says Mary, her voice growing louder. “They sing our names even now, bidding a banshee carry us to the depths of hell.”

  “It will be you alone to visit there,” says Elisabeth. “Unless you con—”

  “I will not name her!”

  “Pride cometh before the fall, sister,” says Elisabeth. “If you will not confess, you leave me little choice as to how I might ascertain your guilt or innocence. Perhaps a test be the surest way.”

  My stomach pains as Elisabeth backs away.

  “Mary Warren,” she says. “You stand accused of many crimes, consorting with spirits and witchcraft chief among them.”

  “I am no witch,” says Mary. “Only a fool who played at one.”

  “Aye, a fool who betrayed us,” says Elisabeth. “We Salem sisters carried out the good Lord’s work while it were you that confessed to witchery in the courts. This night we will have the truth of it.”

  At Elisabeth’s nod, one of the hooded men knocks the wind from Mary.

  Witches descend on her, binding her feet to her hands.

  “No…” I say at the realization of what they intend for her.

  “Quiet.” The waif slaps the back of my head.

  Mary pulls against her bonds, cursing.

  The witches finish their chore.

  The hooded men lift her to sit on the stone wall, keeping her balanced, halting her fall.

  “Please, Elisabeth.” Mary shudders, casting her gaze over the bridge side toward the gaping hole in the ice.

  Elisabeth steps close. “Baptism is the only way to salvation, Mary.”

  “Not this way,” Mary sobs. “Not like this.”

  “Leave her,” I shout at Elisabeth. “I am the one you want.”

  Again, the waif silences me, rapping me harder.

  My captors jerk me stand, overpowering me.

  Elisabeth turns to her followers. “And as they went on their way, they came unto a certain water—”