by Aaron Galvin
Cotton steps away from the books, moving toward me.
“Why, Rebecca?” he asks. “Your true father could have forged such a name. Why did he abandon time when near all other men will die for it? For all my learning and study, I cannot understand this decision. I once thought Salem turned Simon mad, but I knew him for a brilliant mind.”
My lip curls as Cotton kneels to look me full in the face.
“Simon must have found something there,” says Cotton, his voice barely above a whisper. “I beg you tell me now, what secret knowledge did he possess and not share with me?”
I spit on him. “Go to Hell and ask him yourself.”
“They asked me, you know.” Cotton wipes my spit away. “What should we do with those in Salem convicted to die? Simon thought hanging a cleaner death, one that should allow us convict more before the crowd turned. Still, I oft wondered if the old ways were best.”
My gut turns as he glances toward the hearth fire.
“Give me the answer I seek,” says Cotton. “Or taste of the hellfire that awaits you.”
I resign myself to silence.
“It seems I must go to God with more prayer,” Cotton sighs. “Cast her into the fire, Alden.”
Father scoops me into his arms, lifting me from the floor.
“No!” I struggle against my bonds and his hold. “Father, stop!”
He does not, approaching the fire with me fighting all the while.
“Black Pilgrim,” I say in our native tongue.
Still he walks on.
“Priest!”
My back grows warmer with each step he takes. I lurch up, biting his arm.
Blood pours from my nose when he elbows my face.
The move releases his hold for but a moment, my upper body swinging to earth, upturning my view.
The flames lick the hearth, flickering like fingers that bid me join them.
Father grabs hold of my shirt, pulling me back up despite my struggle.
I glimpse his family dagger, sheathed in his belt.
“Cast her into the fire!” Cotton demands.
I strain to reach the hilt, my fingers grazing its top.
Father grunts, kneeling under my weight to lift me onto his shoulder.
It is enough.
I draw the dagger from its sheathe and plunge it between his ribs.
Father cries out, dropping me on my head as he backs away.
Heat engulfs my body as I near roll into the fire, stopped only by the hearth lip.
“Alden!” Cotton shouts. “Kill her!”
Father winces as he draws the dagger from his ribs, blood staining the blade.
I struggle against my bonds to no avail as he turns his glare on me.
“Kill her!”
Father strides toward me, dagger at the ready, his blade tip turned down to end me.
I lean to the fire and fetch the glowing poker in hand. My skin hisses and I scream closing my fingers around it.
“Alden!”
I roll away, swinging the poker free of the fire.
Orange and yellow sparks fly from the embers and into Father’s face.
He stumbles back, dropping his dagger, hands flying to his eyes.
“Wake, Father!” I lay the poker end against his chest and hold it tight.
Father howls under its searing touch. He bats the poker away, rolling toward the fire.
“Father!” I reach out, unable to halt him.
The flames lick up his back and the logs roll beneath his frantic waves and screams. He escapes their clutches, his cloak singed and smoking, raising his skin in bubbled white boils. Father shakes on the ground, his breath rapid.
“Arise, good servant,” says Cotton. “Finish your work.”
I watch in horror as Father climbs to his knees, gasping for breath. He blinks in search of the room, pausing on Ciquenackqua then Cotton.
“Rise!” Cotton commands.
“F-Father,” I say.
His head turns slow, his body wavering like stalks in the wind, holding to its roots, unrelenting. His eyes flicker.
“Father…” I say. “Come back to me.”
“Rise, Alden,” says Cotton.
Father obliges, wincing as he does. He stumbles toward his dagger.
Cotton steps closer to me. “Now finish her.”
I bow my head at Father’s approach, unable to look on him.
He kneels beside me and his fingers touch under my chin, bidding me look up.
My bonds fall away.
I meet his gaze, tears streaming down both our cheeks. “Father.”
He places the dagger in my hand, then collapses.
Blood stains my palm as I tighten my grip of the hilt.
“Alden?” Cotton says.
I throw the dagger at Cotton, its tip burying in his stomach.
His eyes widen as he falls back, his pistol shot firing into the floor.
I wheel to Father. Grunting, I haul him to a seated position.
His breath labored, he places his hand on my cheek. “Rebecca…”
“Father,” I say, kissing his knuckles. “You came back to me.”
His grin melts at Cotton’s groan.
The old reverend crawls toward his bookshelf, a trail of blood in his wake.
“Go.” Father grips my shoulder tight, his face pained. He motions to Cotton. “Go.”
I step away from him, stalking toward our enemy.
His shirt stained red, dagger yet in his belly, the old man chuckles at my approach. “M-my thanks to you, girl,” he says. “A swift death has been my fervent prayer for…many a night now.”
“It will not be swift.” I point to the dagger. “I would have aimed higher if meaning to offer such a gift.”
“A gift nonetheless.” Cotton coughs blood then wipes the traces from his lips. “I have long waited to experience the Invisible World. N-now I shall see it plain.”
“R-Rebecca…” Ciquenackqua calls.
I twist my head around only to witness him collapse once more.
“Yes,” says Cotton. “Look on him and learn your truth…the veiled legacy Simon and I leave this world.”
I face him that he will know the face of Red Banshee.
Cotton grins. “Did you not wonder why I had your savage delivered here to my study?”
“You are the savage,” I say.
“History will argue elsewise.” Cotton coughs. “They will debate my triumphs and failures, but none should ever recognize that”—he points at Ciquenackqua—“my finest contribution to this new world.” He groans. “Though I shall not live to see it played out. Such is the f-fate of great men.”
“There is no greatness in you,” I say.
“Aye, not me.” Cotton shakes his head. “All my finest works…stolen from the minds of men greater than I. Simon…and even the Iroquois.”
I step back. “What do you know on the people of the longhouse?”
“Their confederacy be six nations strong now.” Cotton raises his hand, his fingers open. “What happens when they come together as one?”
Cotton grins as he closes his hand, forming a fist.
“So it will be with this new nation I have fathered.” His voice cracks. “For what are these new colonies but nations unto themselves, full of fear and doubt? They act as children now, but each year their defiance grows. In time, they will strike against those who seek to control them from across the sea. A new Rome…such is the world I envision this nation to be. All thanks to the fear Simon and I unleashed in Salem…a show to reveal the awesome might wielded by the powerless when gifted opportunity.”
I point to the dagger in his belly. “Let that be your proof of those who seek control over others.”
I rise and leave him to a slow death.
“Aye, so it is,” says Cotton. “So it shall ever be. But like the phoenix, a new power will rise from my ashes and the world shall tremble in its wake. All th-thanks to my work.”
I ignore his taun
ts, fetching up my hatchet, venturing to Ciquenackqua’s side.
“Re-Rebecca,” he says.
“Easy,” I say. Sawing through his bindings, my eyes light on the silver platter and Devil’s powder. I free Ciquenackqua of the collar and remaining bonds.
Father ambles toward us. He touches me light upon the shoulder, then motions to the opened entry doors.
Those who stood with us in Judge Sewall’s crowd into the library, pointing and whispering at Cotton. Susannah stands among them, her pale face painted with the blood of others.
My heart drops when she runs across the room and flings her arms about me.
“What is it?” I ask.
“George…he—”
“No…” I say, my lip quivering. “Let you not say he is—”
“He saved us,” she gushes. “George saved us all. I wanted to come for you, but he…Oh, forgive me, Rebecca, for not coming—”
“Where is George?” I shake her.
Susannah points to the entry. “There.”
I find my brother and Betty the last to enter through the doors. He leans on her, limping as he walks.
I run to him, flinging myself into his arms. “George, I thought you—”
“Dead?” His grin broadens. “I came not all this way to die, sister.”
Again, I hug him close, reveling in his returned embrace.
“Ciquenackua?” George pulls away and kneels beside Susannah. “Is he—”
“He will live, I think,” she says. “Though we should see his wounds nursed soon.”
“Rebecca…” Betty points to the crowd, gathered round Cotton.
George stands, his face grim. “Is he dead?”
“Not yet,” I say.
My brother starts forward.
“Wait,” I say.
“No,” says George. “He does not deserve breath for the pain he has wrought.”
“Cotton will die soon enough. Why should he not live a while longer?” I pick up the tray of Devil’s powder. “Wait here.”
George narrows his eyes. “For what?”
“For me to call your name.”
Father leads me on, the crowd parting before his stare. They whisper as I pass them, some wondering why I carry the powder, others retreating at the sight of it.
Cotton pants as I bear toward him.
“Would you see spirits, old man?” I ask stopping shy of him.
His lip curls. “I-I will be one soon enough.”
“But what of the answer you sought?” I ask. “Do you not wish to know why Father abandoned you?”
“I-I do,” says Cotton.
“Then let you peer into the Invisible World now. Perhaps you will find your answer.”
At my nod, Betty and Susannah fall to restrain Cotton.
I kneel before him, raising the plate to his face.
“No,” he says. “Cease this now!”
Father grabs Cotton by the hair. The wig pulls off in his hand.
“Leave me my dignity at least,” Cotton pleads with him. “For God’s sake—”
Father shoves Cotton’s face into the powder, holding him there until the old man chokes.
Cotton pulls away, gasping, his eyes widening, shoulders twitching.
I expect the crowd to taunt him and jeer.
They say naught as Cotton shrinks like a frightened child.
“Mercy, spirits,” he says. “I beg you, have mercy.”
“George,” I say.
Cotton’s eyes widen when George appears in the crowd. “Simon,” Cotton’s chin wavers, his tears a river. “Simon, my old friend!”
George steps back, looking on me with question.
“No, Simon,” says Cotton. “Do not go! Do not leave me to darkness again.”
George glances at me.
“Simon, why will you not speak to me?” Cotton asks. “Why not comfort me with the answer I seek?”
“He cannot,” I say, kneeling beside Cotton. “His soul has moved on.”
The old man draws away from me, wincing. “Wh-who are you, spirit?”
“I am Red Banshee,” I say. “Come to sing the final song.”
Cotton gulps. “Pray, spirit. T-tell me why? Why did he abandon me?”
My thoughts turn to Sarah and her beliefs, her teachings of the life before and strict adherence to them. One such verse plays in my mind as I place one hand behind Cotton’s head, the other upon Father’s dagger. I lean close, whispering.
“No man can serve two masters. For either he will hate the one, and love the other, or else he will hold to the one and despise the other,” I say. “You gave your life’s pursuit to legacy, Reverend. Simon turned from such a path to save his soul. None will know his name, but his soul will fly to heaven.”
I twist the dagger.
“Yours is damned,” I say as he trembles in the throes of death. “I swear on my soul that my tribe and others will fight to stave off this dream of yours. We have our own legacy to forge, a proud people who will not go silently into the night as you do now.”
The grimness of those around us catches within me, my spirit moved to give them some revenge also before he passes.
“F-forgive me,” Cotton gasps.
“They will not,” I say. “Look well on the faces of those around you now. None will forget your trespasses. They will see your name stained, old man.” I whisper. “Aye, the legacy of Cotton Mather, linked to Salem forever more.”
I pull away and join the others, the lot of us witnessing his last, gurgled breaths.
No one cheers when at last Cotton gives up the ghost. Several weep and whisper the names of their loved ones. Most wander away, vanishing out the doors.
I remain, my stare lingering on Cotton.
“What do we do now?” Susannah asks behind me.
Glancing back, I watch George place his arm about her shoulders and pull her close. “We live.”
-Chapter 21-
-19th day of February, 1728-
Boston, Massachusetts
My breath steams on the cold and cloudy morn.
“You are certain she lay in this direction?” George asks.
Father nods.
Seated between them, I clutch the leather pouch around my neck as George drives the Barron’s wagon up a lonely street. My gaze darts up every alley we pass, and I look to each window, never sighting a single soul. “Where is everyone?”
“The funeral procession,” says George. “Judge Sewall expects the whole of Boston will gather to pay their final respects this morn. I pity the man.”
“Cotton?” I ask.
“Sewall,” says George. “His position requires him make an appearance. Some say he may even speak on Cotton’s behalf. I know not how Sewall lived two lives all these many years, but I am grateful for his aid.”
I glance back into the wagon, smiling at the sight of Ciquenackqua sleeping. Fresh bandages wrap round his head and his body covered full up with blankets upon the straw bales.
“Betty also,” I say, turning my focus back to the road.
“Aye,” says George. “Would that she and Susannah might have stayed with us a while longer in Sewall’s home.”
Father’s grin sets me to laughing.
“You mean Susannah, rather,” I say. “You will see her again soon enough.”
George shifts in his seat. “I should think to see her for longer than a brief stay. Betty thinks her husband will take a liking to me.” He pauses, chewing his lip. “Aye, and might be intrigued in my managing his trade here in Boston.”
I sink deeper into the bench. “You would stay then?”
“Aye,” says George, pulling on the reins, driving the horses west. “Though I did not come to the decision easily. Priest and I spoke on the topic long last night around the fire. He agrees.”
I glance to Father and find his gaze elsewhere. “But why, George? Why would you—”
“Naught but pain awaits me in the wild, sister,” says George. “I am sick and to death o
f warring tribes, the fights between French and English. My post is gone, both my wife and partner dead. I have naught to my name. But here,” George sighs. “Here, at least, I may find some hope of life again.”
He turns his gaze from the road, looking on me.
“Do you not wish that for me?” George asks.
“I do,” I say quietly, moving closer to him, resting my head against his shoulder. “Though I will miss you sore.”
“Aye.” The weight of his head rests against mine. “And I you.”
I keep my hold of George, drinking in his scent, as he drives us through the streets of Boston. I close my eyes, listening to the cry of gulls and the creaking wagon, losing all sense of time.
“Whoa,” George says to the horses after a time, pulling on the reins.
Our wagon rests at the base of a hill with the sea in sight. Crossed, wooden markers and stones litter the snow-covered pasture ahead.
George jumps from the wagon and retreats to the back as I climb down after him. He returns a moment later, shovel in hand.
We wait for Father to lead us into the cemetery. Though his gait be stilted and slow, he marches with purpose through the drifts.
The contents of the leather pouch drag heavier with each step I take.
I stave off my tears, promising them their time comes soon.
Father halts before what looks only a large stone, its top covered with snow.
I kneel beside it, sweeping off the snow, and gaze on the name crudely engraved in it. The first tear of many caresses my cheek. “You did find her.”
Father nods.
I wipe the tear away then dip my hands into the snow bank, pulling it toward me.
George joins in my effort until our fingers strike naught but earth.
I sit back as George plunges the shovel end, splitting up the frozen ground, and then tossing each scoop behind us. Each time its blade scratches earth, my thoughts go out to all those we loved and had no time to bury, praying they forgive us.
George quits his work. “It is ready, sister.”
I kneel again to the fresh hole. Untying the leather string that holds the pouch, I offer my voice in song.
Come, fair lass, just you and me.
We’re bound for them colonies, far o’er the sea.
