by Aaron Galvin
Mercy sneers. “I recognized a traitor.”
“Mercy, please—”
“I warned the others you could not be trusted, Mary Warren,” says Mercy. “That you would wilt before John Proctor, that old goat you called master. But we, your Salem sisters, set him right. We taught him what happens to men who raise their fists against frightened, pig-faced girls like you. Didn’t we, Mary?”
“Aye,” says Mary. “And I were glad Proctor hanged with all the rest. Believe me.”
“I do not,” says Mercy. “Nor will I ever. You near gave us all up when you confessed to a witch. You should be dead already if I were selfish as you. I only allow you live now because it would not serve for me to rob the others of their vengeance.”
“Oh, Mercy, please,” says Mary. “I could not bear the others. Let you kill me now instead.”
“No,” says Mercy. “I would rather you think on your sins all the way to Boston. Perhaps your lying tongue will think of more untruths to tell once there, but I shall hear no more of them. And rest assured, Mary Warren, after the others have dealt you their blows and sated their vengeance, it will be me that sees you from this world.”
Mercy comes again to my side of the tree. She kneels in front of me and holds a skin of water to my cracked lips.
“Drink,” she commands.
I look away.
“You think I mean to poison you?” Mercy drinks deep of the skin. “I should have killed you already, if I wished you dead. Let you drink now.”
I look her in the eye. Let her witness my hate plain. “All I would have from you is your life.” I glance up at her tangled mess of hair. “And that dirtied pelt upon your head.”
Mercy grins at me. “A kindred spirit indeed.”
She drinks again of the water skin, smacks her lips with satisfaction.
“We leave at dawn,” she says. “Take what rest you can. Tomorrow is a long march.”
She leaves me to darkness, her torch wandering toward the campfires. Several times, I attempt to engage Mary, yet my words fall upon deaf ears and she remains a mute to my questions.
Sleep does not come easy. My back and limbs ache with stiffness, and I cannot stretch them despite my efforts. Even when sleep takes me, death haunts my dreams.
I wake before dawn, shivering from the cold. Frost covers the earth, and my breath steams as it leaves my lips. I look out across the forest, noting the campfires burned low.
A lone torch makes its way toward me—Mercy bringing dried strips of venison.
“Eat,” she says.
I spurn her attempts to feed me, though my body preaches I must eat soon if I am to keep my strength. The thought of Sarah allows me stave such hunger off.
“Let you starve then,” says Mercy.
I say nothing as she feeds my scraps to Mary then leaves us.
“You would do well to heed her,” says Mary. “You cannot avenge others if you starve upon the road.”
“Is that why you eat?” I ask, my eyes never leaving Mercy’s backside. “To avenge your husband?”
“No. I do not mourn the loss of him. He was never good to me,” says Mary. “Not that any man has ever been.”
“But you married him.”
“Aye,” she says. “He helped me escape Salem. Sheltered me when others would hunt me down.”
“Then he was good to you,” I say.
“Fool girl,” Mary says. “His protection did not come without cost, I assure you. No man’s does.”
I think of Father then, though I say naught to Mary of him. She speaks with such conviction that I know my words would be lost on her.
Mercy and Two Ravens return not an hour later, leading a painted mare.
They keep Numees among them. Her face is scratched and dirty, but elsewise unharmed to my eye. My friend maintains her proud spirit, never breaking, despite Two Ravens’ rough handling of her.
“We march now,” Mercy says to me. “Look you to your friend here. Test me in any way, and I take her pretty hair the same as I did your sister’s.”
I glance at Numees. The cold in her eyes speaks she would welcome such a fate, rather than again be made a slave to our enemies.
Mercy must sense the same, for she kicks Numees to her knees and brings a knife to my friend’s forehead. “Shall I dispense of her now and prove my words?”
“No,” I say. “I will follow if you leave her be.”
Two Ravens shakes his head. “You disappoint me, girl. I thought you a warrior.”
“I am happy to disappoint you,” I say, watching Mercy sheathe her dagger and aiding Numees stand.
“Come now, lover.” Mercy says to Two Ravens. “Let you not judge her too hastily. Would you not do the same for me?”
He grunts in reply as he approaches me.
I keep my eyes on Numees, a reminder not to flinch or fight as Two Ravens unties me from the tree. He gives me little time to stretch, jerking me up and walking me closer to the horse ere tying me off again.
Mercy stands so near I can smell her breath.
My eyes flit to the knives at her belt.
“Do it.” She whispers in my ear. “We have far too many mouths to feed. I should gladly rid myself of one more.”
I look her in the eye.
“Or perhaps I need not kill her quickly,” says Mercy. “Mayhap I should only take her eye to remind you. Or would you prefer her ear instead? Learn you to listen?”
I glance away to the tune of Mercy’s laughter and stare at the tree line to calm myself.
Two Ravens reappears, hauling Mary Warren. She stumbles next to me, barely catching herself, as our captor ties her to the same mount. He takes Numees next, his hand grabbing her roughly by the arm.
My friend says nothing as he leads her away, nor does she bother look on me.
I know not how to feel of what Numees might wish of me. Whether she truly desired me oppose Mercy and have her killed for it, or if she, too, is numb to our predicament. I have little time to ponder, as Mercy swings astride the mare.
“Let us be gone from here.”
She kicks the mare’s ribs. The rope between my hands grows taut and tugs me to walk behind it. As if to prove her point, Mercy leads us through the camp forcing me witness the faces of those who yet live from my village.
They too are bound, though not behind any mount. Leather thongs tie their hands and necks to branches that keep them in line with one another.
A few struggle to stand, and the collective suffer for it. My heart goes out to them, though some of the younger ones look on me with disdain at the special treatment Mary and I receive.
I hang my head that they might know I suffer with them, in spirit if not in body.
All day we march northeastward. I stare at the back of Mercy’s head, all the while imagining myself taking her scalp living as she took Sarah’s. The lone thought keeps me going. Step after step, even when thirst and hunger bid me fall.
By nightfall, I find even vengeful thoughts tiresome.
I collapse beside the tree Two Ravens leads me to, thankful to sit and rest. He gives me his skin of water. I guzzle it down and near retch for drinking it too quick.
Again, he ties Mary opposite me before abandoning us.
I gather she and I will not speak much this night, to judge by her labored breathing. Despite it all, I think her stronger than first I credited, for I, too, am wearisome and younger than half her age, if I judge her rightly.
Sleep finds me easier, plunging me into more nightmares. This night, I dream again on my manitous. Unlike the vision in my dream fast, I am tied to a tree. Forced to endure witnessing the raccoon slip behind me, and feel its sharpened teeth nibbling at my wrists.
I wake to Mary’s snores and find the biting pain still pinches me.
Something tugs at my bonds.
I struggle against it. Hoping to scare the animal off.
A gentle hand touches my shoulder. Squeezes.
I turn my head, and gasp at the painted
war face that appears beside me.
“Father…”
-10-
Father raises a single finger to his lips, ushering me silent.
I lean back to the tree, listening to the scratching sound of his blade upon the bonds holding me. The constriction around my wrists loosens, bit by bit, until the last of them breaks. My arms fall limp at the sudden freedom.
Father places his guiding hand beneath my arm and helps me stand.
Tears sting my face as I throw my arms around him. My body heaves as I pull him close and feel his strength wash over me when he returns my embrace. I struggle to keep him near when he releases his hold and pulls away. He looks me in the eye with a tenderness that tells me I need not speak of Sarah’s fate.
My mind floods with questions at the sight of him injured also. Deep cuts line his body and one wound upon his chest yet bears a broken arrow shaft.
He uses his hands to speak with me, motioning we must be off southward.
I look over my shoulder toward the campfires, my thoughts going out to Numees.
Father shakes his head when I glance at him.
In my heart, I know him right. We two cannot risk rescuing all our people, especially not with he injured and me worn from travel. The thought of leaving her to torment and slavery tears at me though and keeps me from leaving.
Dried leaves rustle by the tree, and Mary snorts awake.
“Wh-who’s there?” She asks.
Father pulls at my arm and jerks his head that we should leave.
“Rebecca?” Mary asks. “Is that you?”
She struggles against her bonds.
“Rebecca,” she hisses. “Speak to me, girl.”
Father wastes no time in yanking me away.
“Don’t leave me,” she near yells. “Rebecca. Please, come back!”
Father leads me into the forest. We leap over fallen logs and sprint through brushes that tear at my skin.
Men shout behind us and horses whinny.
“Rebecca!” Mary calls.
I glance back, spying lit torches and hearing new voices.
Both gift my legs new strength.
Father stops of a sudden, and I near tumble beside him. He motions for me to head right, then pushes me off.
My pulse quickens when he goes the opposite direction, knocking his blades against the trees. Running over dried leaves. Making his presence known to all creatures of the forest.
I chance another look over my shoulder and witness the torches veer in Father’s direction. A few continue on toward me.
Father howls a war cry, and the few meandering torches right themselves toward him.
I hesitate to move onward. My thoughts torn between what Father would have me do and the thought of losing him.
The sounds of scuffling fill the air—blades clashing, and the screams of those in death’s throes.
I wheel about, running in the direction of the torches, then skulking in the shadows as I near the battle. I find Father encircled by not a few braves.
Several others lie twitching near him.
Blood flows from Father’s open wounds, yet still he fends them off, making each pay with their lives for any misstep.
A brave passes near me without noticing my presence. He lifts his flintlock, taking aim at Father.
I grab a nearby rock and leap from my position and dash his head in. I waste little time in stealing his knives, then take up his rifle also. I swing its aim to bear. Smoke fills the air before me as I shoot dead a hooded witch come up behind Father. I drop the rifle and leave off, knowing the smoke gives away my position.
I keep to the shadows, sneaking upon any who chance my path, taking two more braves in the same manner before the scuffling halts.
I look to Father and see he yet stands, the braves and witches backing off him.
Then I understand why.
Swinging Whistling Hare’s club in practice, Two Ravens steps toward Father.
Jeers rise from those around them as both men square off.
Helplessness pangs my gut at learning us far outnumbered. Though the many are distracted, my conscience warns I might take only one or two before the others make an end of me.
Instead, I am forced to watch as Father and Two Ravens battle.
Several times, I think the larger warrior’s swing will be the end of Father, yet always its stone edge catches naught but air. And for every swing Two Ravens makes, a new wound is made upon his body.
Father’s tomahawk and long knife dance in such a way to distract the eye of any who watch. Twice he makes Two Ravens pay for biting at his feints.
My hopes rise, witnessing the anger plain in Two Ravens face. He again mistakes his strength for victory when he brings his club down in a swinging arc.
Father catches it between his blades, twisting the club from his enemy’s grasp, then knocking his head against Two Ravens.
The rival champion stumbles back, and I near shout when Father hooks his ankle, tripping him up. With a feral cry, Father raises his tomahawk high to end Two Ravens.
Someone yanks my hair back and presses a cold blade’s edge upon my throat.
“Alden!”
The shout in my ear near deafens me, but Father stays his hand. Turns to learn who called him by his true surname, his face awash with anger. Upon the sight of me held captive, he tosses both his weapons aside with little regard.
“Walk,” Mercy whispers, then guides me closer to Father.
Two Ravens climbs to his feet. He picks up the war club and raises it to cave in Father’s head.
“Wait.” Mercy bids him. “His life is worth more than all the captives you have.”
Two Ravens lowers the club. “Why?”
“You know him as Black Pilgrim,” says Mercy. “And I once called him Priest. Only later did I learn his truth. His father were an Alden, and his family has long plagued my adopted father. Let him live now and profit from the bounty on his head.”
Her words and voice strike an odd chord in me. She speaks in such a way that lends me to believe she knows Father well.
Two Ravens kicks Father in the back, knocking him into the dirt.
“Bind him,” he commands his braves.
“Stop!” I cry.
“Aye,” says Mercy. “Do not harm him.”
The braves do not listen. Each falls upon Father like vultures on a carcass.
Despite it all, he endures their rough treatment wordlessly.
“I said leave him be,” says Mercy, shoving me into the arms of a hooded witch and slinking toward Father.
Two Ravens meets her in the middle. “We take no more orders from you, woman.”
“You defy me?” she asks.
“I have always defied you,” he says. “But in silence until this night. He is my prisoner.”
“You should be dead if not for me,” Mercy hisses. “He stopped only when hearing me call his name.”
“Then you should not have named him,” says Two Ravens. “And he would belong to you still. It was Two Ravens who fought him. He belongs to me.”
Mercy looks on Father and chews her lip.
“Let you name your price then,” says Mercy. “And my father will pay it when I arrive in Boston.”
“Your money and father mean little to me,” says Two Ravens. “The white slavers will pay me enough for our captives. As for Black Pilgrim, I will gift him to our newest nation in friendship.”
“You would give him to the Tuscarora?” Mercy asks.
“I will,” says Two Ravens. “Their hatred yet burns great for that night long ago when he killed their people and your witches. And I hear others are angry with me for raiding without their leave.” He points to Father with the war club. “His blood will heal the wounds of all and earn me honor for his capture.”
Mercy draws close to Two Ravens, her finger grazing across his chest.
“Perhaps we can make a trade,” she says.
Two Ravens laughs. “You have nothing left to offe
r, witch. I have no wont for your Devil’s powder and my braves have little need of your women now that we have captives. As for your offer”—he bats her hand away—“what man desires more of the soured fruit he has already tasted?”
Mercy shrieks and swings her blade.
Two Ravens catches her by the wrist.
Mercy’s witches hurry to her aid then retreat when Two Ravens’ braves step toward them.
He looks to his men. “Get him up and ready the others. We leave now. I’ll not wait for this murderous witch to kill me in my sleep.”
Mercy rises, her gaze flitting between Father and Two Ravens, his braves and her witches.
“Let me speak with him,” Mercy says, her voice pleading. “Please.”
Two Ravens glares at her. “You think me a fool? That I should let you kill him before my eyes?”
I pull back when Mercy throws her weapons aside, and I witness the same confusion in Two Ravens.
“Why should you wish to speak with him?” he asks.
“Because,” her voice flutters, “I would speak with my husband one final time.”
My mind reels at her words, warns she misspoke.
“Husband?” Two Ravens asks.
“Aye,” says Mercy. “Though he left me long ago…and with child.”
I look on Father, expecting him to rage at such blatant lies, but when he meets my eyes there be no denial in them. No anger. Only shame.
Two Ravens steps aside, motioning Mercy over to Father.
Tears well in my eyes as she kneels beside him, brushes matted and bloodied hair from his brow.
“F-forgive me,” says Mercy to Father. “I had not thought it should ever come to this.”
Father says nothing in reply, yet he does not look away.
“I have missed you so, Priest,” says Mercy. “You were ever the only man to keep my affection. Will you speak now? Tell me why it is you left me with child, never for me to see you again until this day?”
I wish he would denounce her claims, name her liar and spit on Sarah’s killer.
He gives only silence.
“I knew you for a rogue when first I took you into my arms,” she says. “And hate has long burned in my heart from your leaving. Yet as I look on you now, I know that I should make the mistake again for the child you gave me. Will you not ask about h—”
