by Aaron Galvin
“Please,” Mary cries.
“And the eunuch said, ‘See, here is water. What doth hinder me to be baptized?’”
“Elisabeth, I beg you!”
I bow my head, praying to the ancestors that Elisabeth performs all only in show. A display meant to fear me, or else give Mary cause to confess further knowledge.
Elisabeth’s voice grows with each passing moment. “And Philip said, ‘If thou believest with all thine heart, thou mayest.’”
“Please!”
“And he commanded the chariot stand still,” says Elisabeth, turning slow, laying her hand on Mary’s shoulder. “And they went down both into the water, both Philip and the eunuch—”
“God save me!” Mary cries to the heavens.
“And he baptized him!”
Elisabeth sends Mary hurtling backward off the bridge, falling through the hole in the ice. A plume of black water rockets skyward and wets me on the shore.
The fight in me blossoms.
Several guards and the waif keep me from rushing out onto the ice.
I fall to my knees, retching air, spittle drooling from my lips, all whilst I watch the hole in the ice, willing Mary breach the surface.
Elisabeth stands upon the bridge, her arms raised to the heavens in praise. “And when they were come up out of the water, the Spirit of the Lord caught away Philip, that the eunuch saw him no more”—she gazes down at the ice-hole—“and he went on his way rejoicing.”
Tuning out her voice, my stare remains on the water long after I know it all for naught.
A spark flames on the opposite bank. It passes on, lighting several others, revealing more of Elisabeth’s followers. They step from the wooded depths, bearing a new prisoner between them, and cast him to his knees. One holds a torch near the prisoner’s face that I might better recognize my father.
The followers look to Elisabeth on the bridge.
So, too, do I, finding she watches me.
Elisabeth grins. “Bring her.”
-Chapter 16-
The witches bear me up the bridge, casting me before Elisabeth.
Father watches me from the opposite bank, the bruise on his eye lessened, granting him full power of his sight. Naked save for a soiled loincloth, traces of the black tar yet line his skin. The remainder of skin be mottled red, scrubbed clean as if by a rake’s end.
“A foul beast,” says Elisabeth. “Isn’t he?”
I look on her face. “Who is he?”
Elisabeth smiles. “Why must you persist with lies? I know all your secrets, girl.” She steps nearer me. “Does it pain you to see the man you name father brought so low?”
“I do not know him.”
“No? Well, let us pray the son of Captain John Alden knows you then.” Elisabeth grabs a clutch of my hair, forcing my face toward Father. “Look to me, bastard!”
Steam pours from Father’s nostrils, the violence in his eyes frighting me.
“Did you think I should not remember your face, Alden?” Elisabeth asks. “Even with your heathen mother’s whore’s blood there be no mistaking the Captain’s traitorous eyes gifted you. Too long your family has held this new world back.”
Father says naught in reply, though quiet rage lights his eyes.
Elisabeth leans close. “Do you think he loves you, dear?” she asks. “My Salem sisters believed he loved them also once, and such affections near broke our company.”
Elisabeth releases her hold on my hair.
“Did Mercy tell you, Alden?” she asks. “Is that what drove this girl here? To find your bastard son and continue the line of savage-lovers and usurpers?”
The wind gives her more answer than Father or I.
“Odd that your son should have become one of us,” she says to him. “Stranger still that your adopted daughter should see him from this world, not that I expect you should care of such news. You abandoned him just as you left my sisters to torment and grief. Aye, just as I warned both that you would. The hearts of men are fickle things, concerned only with what lay in their sight.”
Father’s gaze does not waver.
“Some insist blood runs thicker than water.” Elisabeth strokes my cheek. “I wonder…will the sight of your torment loose his tongue, or will your adopted father keep his unrelenting pride?”
My eyes sting with rage. “Do your work, witch.”
“I am no witch,” says Elisabeth. “Only a servant to dole out the Lord’s justice.”
She steps back and hooded women approach me, tying a rope around my waist. Securing it, they fan out across the bridge, uncoiling the rope, taking up positions several feet apart.
The stars call me as Elisabeth’s followers lead me toward the ledge and seat me upon the wall.
“Let us give thanks to God,” says Elisabeth. “He welcomed Mary Warren into His fold this night, the truth in her words made known to all when she did not float to the surface.”
I close my eyes as her followers lift their voices in thanks.
“Now, we bring to His judgment this new sinner,” she says. “The spawn of a most evil man and minion of savages. She came seeking our destruction, but the Lord instead delivered her into our hands. Will she accept grace, as Mary Warren did, or will her pagan gods swoop down and free her of the saving waters?”
“Grace!” The followers shout.
“No,” says Elisabeth. “It is not for us sinners here to decide her fate. For that we must trust in the Lord and give her over to His wisdom.” She grins. “Unless, of course, she would confess her sins.”
“You will not fear me as you did Mary,” I say.
Elisabeth leans to my ear. “It is not your fear I seek. Only your breaking”—she glances at Father—“and his.”
“You will have neither.” I hiss.
Elisabeth faces her followers. “Truth and love—the greatest weapons in the Lord’s arsenal. Tonight we weigh their worth.” She turns to me. “Rebecca Campbell, we bid you abandon your savage ways—”
My chest pains at her words.
“Accept the Lord’s salvation and welcome Him into your heart—”
I glance at Father as Elisabeth lays her hands on my shoulders.
“And let your soul fly to Heaven.”
His pained face sticks in my mind as Elisabeth sends me tumbling off the edge.
The drop flutters my stomach, my body somersaulting end over end.
My back slaps hard on the water surface. A frozen blanket wraps the whole of my body, the frigid temperature yanking breath from my lungs.
Darkness and the scattered bubbles of my wasted breath swirl about me.
I twist and churn to free my hands from behind my back.
The rope bindings prevent it. So, too, do the chains shackling my ankles hold my kicks.
The weight of my chains sinks me deeper.
Thin tendrils brush against my legs, tickling my shins with their icy touch, wrapping round me.
I soon learn them no tendrils at all.
Suspended around her, Mary Warren’s hair clears from her face in the wake of my panic. Her eyes lay open in deathly stare, her legs trapped up to her knees in the muck bed, her body tipped back and lain in the same muck my chains carry me into.
The muck sucks at my ankles, pulling me down.
I strive to push off it, swirling a cloud of dark.
The muck sinks me deeper.
I clutch at Mary’s shoulders, attempting to leverage myself free.
My chest thunders for air, my mind popping spots of black and white.
The rope round my waist grows taut. It pulls me from the muck, angling me away, drawing me upward.
I give up my last breath.
The cold invades me. It shudders my throat, closing it full up, gagging me.
My muscles stiffen, my neck twisting in search of air.
The rope pulls harder.
I breach coughing, choking.
Elisabeth’s followers continue their pull of the rope, hauling me o
nto the ice.
I collapse upon its frozen surface, vomiting stream after stream of water. The ice gnaws at my skin. I roll to my back and look on the stars, near weeping at the sight of them, as my body shudders at the blessed, replenishing air.
The waif and my captors lift me under my arms and bear me to the opposite bank.
I do naught to stop them, my toes grazing the ice all the way.
They fall me near Father, dropping me on my knees.
I welcome the pain of each stabbing breath, relishing the taste of air upon my tongue.
A withered hand grasps my chin, forcing me look up.
I glare into the eyes of Cotton Mather.
“None the worse for wear,” he says, more to himself than I. “No doubt she will run free through the fields come spring.”
Cotton releases his hold of me. “There,” he says to Father. “You see, Alden? She lives. I have honored my part.” Cotton draws a vial of liquid from his robes, the contents crimson in the torchlight. He pulls the stopper and extends the vial toward Father. “Now let you keep yours.”
Father takes a deep breath, staring on me. He nods.
I glance between them, not deciphering his meaning.
“It appears this man loves you more than his own life.” Cotton lifts the open vial to Father’s lips. “Drink.”
“Father,” I say in our native tongue, my voice panicked. “What is this?”
He opens his mouth, though not in answer to me.
Cotton puts the vial to Father’s lips and upends it.
Father chokes it down. He coughs then pitches forward, gasping.
I lunge forward. “Father!”
My captors catch and restrain me.
The whole of Father’s body seizes on the ground. Blood seeps from his nose, staining the snow. He reaches for me, his hand trembling.
“Father!”
He collapses, his body continuing its tremble.
“Interesting,” says Elisabeth. “He lasted far longer than the others.”
“Aye,” says Cotton. “Perhaps on account of his savage mother’s blood. Their species is not given to its power so easily.”
“Rise.” I croak, my gaze fixed on Father’s fingertips, inches from me.
Cotton clears his throat. “See Alden’s son from here, Elisabeth. I would have Rebecca ride—”
“Murderer,” I shout at him. “You are a murderer!”
Firm hands clap my ears and force a sweat-ridden gag in my mouth, tying it off behind my head. I scream curses at my captors as they bear me up the hill to a waiting carriage. Elegant and polished black with glass windows, the waif hurries before us to open the door.
The inside beams bright with lighted lamps and shades to cover the windows.
With great effort, my captors lift me inside and lay me upon a pillowed bench. They tie my wrists to a handle above my head and bind my feet to a post at the other end.
I continue my fight, knowing their work done well, my struggle all for naught.
They abandon the carriage quick.
Cotton climbs the step a moment later. He sits opposite me, his gaze studious, a grin teasing the corners of his lips.
The waif shuts the door then raps her knuckles against its side.
The carriage pulls forward.
“My dear,” says Cotton. “You must be dreadful cold.”
He slips off his outer robe and covers me with it, drawing it close to my neck.
“There,” he says. “That should warm you.”
I keep my quiet, willing my body not shudder at his lingering hand on my shoulder.
“My but you are indeed a beauty. Were I a younger man, I scarcely believe I could rebuke such temptation.” Cotton retires against the plush backing of his seat. “Then again, you are the daughter of my greatest friend.”
He crosses his leg and draws the shades as the carriage bumps along.
“You are cross with me,” says Cotton. “I know the look well. My father oft wore such a face, though, admittedly, his were often more disappointment than anger. I believe he rightly saw in me a usurper to his legacy.” He tsks. “But what is legacy in compare to the true love and affections of one’s father?” Cotton smiles ruefully. “I speak of ghosts long gone now. And we two here but mortals yet.”
He removes his white wig.
I stiffen, expectant he should move near me again.
Yet the old man only eases back, stroking his bald and splotched head.
“Vanity,” he says, laying the wig beside him. “No matter how I fast or pray, God will not remove it, no more than He takes the other sinful lusts that live in me. Pray, Rebecca, do your pagan gods bid you strike such impurities from your heart and mind?”
I narrow my eyes in response.
“No,” he says. “I should think not. Theirs is a simpler way of unlawful freedom. Better, mayhap. God demands obedience, despite harping on forgiveness and love. A duel nature to match the one He gifted us, His imperfect creation.”
Cotton clasps his hands in his lap. “I have such a nature. In my heart I desire naught but to serve God’s will, but my mind, Rebecca…mine has ever been a curious one, requiring answers to sate its unending questions.” Cotton’s chin dips. “Oh, that I should give my soul to live with the quiet ignorance your people embody.”
He leans forward, his eyes wide like a child.
“I have often wondered what it must be like to forego knowledge of the Invisible World, aye, to lead an inconsequential existence as near all men do. Sadly, your father damned me to the madness of learning its secrets, even as he abandoned me to explore it alone.” Cotton pauses. “Did he ever speak of me and our partnership?”
I shake my head, my spirit gladdening at the dismay that crosses his face.
“No,” he says. “Of course not. In his life with you, he too lived out his duel-nature, safe in his alias and the knowledge no one of consequence should note his face or name. A bastard son of no one—your father’s shame and his blessing.” Cotton’s lip curls. “Would that I were born of such lowly origins. No one expects them to rise above their station.”
The wagon rattles as the horses lead uphill to judge by the pull tempting me roll back.
Cotton too feels it, resting his hands against the carriage side to brace himself before the pull levels off. He turns his baleful stare on me. “Was Simon happy in his quiet life with you and your family? Did he find peace?”
I blink in reply. I will give you nothing.
Cotton smiles. “I wished that for him, though I envied the notion he should have it.” He pauses. “Do you understand why I speak these things to you, Rebecca? Why I bare my soul now?”
I shake my head.
“There is power in confession,” he says. “The whole of time will grant me honor for a forward-thinker, a man beyond my years.” He chortles. “Who could ever believe that to save a man from the pox, you must first infect him with but a small dose of it? That it were no grace of God, nor any pagan idol, but science only. Aye, the inner workings of the Invisible World living in the here and now, within the very grasp of those few minds who understood the obtaining of its secrets.”
My mind warns the madness has taken him, his voice rising and falling as if I am not even among his company.
“But who should believe such heresy?” Cotton asks. “Who should consider the spectral evidence good men and women afflicted by witchcraft gave against such wretched hags as Goody Glover.”
I straighten at the name of Bishop’s wife, pausing Cotton from his rant.
“You know her name?” he asks. “How? She were dead and buried long before you could have been born into this world.”
I work at the gag, attempting to use my tongue to push it free.
It relents no more than Cotton.
“Such things matter little now, I suppose,” he says. “She were but one more lost soul given to the Devil’s company. Had she confessed, mayhap she should yet live. Instead, she kept her pride, fool woman.�
��
He dons his wig anew, straightening it upon his head as the carriage slows to a halt.
“Will you confess to me now, Rebecca?” he asks. “I beg you once more, answer me why your father abandoned my company. Allow me learn that peace before my death takes me.”
I turn away from him, staring at the carriage ceiling.
“You believe you have suffered at Elisabeth’s hands?” he asks. “Her torments of your mind and body are nothing compared to those I should visit on your soul. Tell me, do you think I should have truly killed the man you name father, Alden’s bastard son, after I have so long sought him out also?”
I roll back.
“No.” Cotton smiles. “He will die a thousand deaths before I finish my work. This night served only for him to trade your place. He would never relent for want of his own life. Only love shatters such spirit as his.” He leans close. “And now that I have broken him, perhaps I shall break your brother in likewise fashion. Ah, but you, my dear,” he pulls at a strand of my hair. “You, I will save for last.”
Cotton raps his cane against the door.
It opens quick with the waif outside it. “My Lord?”
“Let her rot for now,” Cotton says. “But see that she is kept alive, aye, fed and watered too. She will need her strength returned for that to come.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
The waif climbs inside, untethering my feet.
I kick at her face, striking her back.
She draws her baton.
I do not wilt as she cracks the end of it upon my skull, dazing me.
My hands fall free when she cuts them loose, her men dragging me out of the carriage.
One throws me over his shoulder and carries me toward an open door. Then he descends the stairs, bearing me back into the depths of hell.
-Chapter 17-
“Hungry?” The waif sets a plate of steaming mash before me.
My stomach grumbles at the smell, hating me for not devouring the mash on sight.
“Come on now,” says the waif. “Want your health, don’t you? Miss Elisabeth has big plans for you.”
I kick the plate away, scattering the mash.
The waif grins. “Told’em you wouldn’t eat, I did. Your kind never does. Savages,” she says. “Miss Elisabeth says your lot has true magic in them. Not the sort Mister Cotton conjures.”
