by Aaron Galvin
“George…” Andrew yells again. “Come out here and talk to me!”
I lean closer to the window when Andrew near falls over again, catching himself at the last.
“Andrew! Get back to your post.”
“George.” Andrew covers his face with his hands. “George, no. No, I must speak with you now.”
“We’ll speak later,” George thunders. “Get back to the cabin.”
I pray to the ancestors that Andrew listens. My prayer goes unheeded.
“You don’t understand,” Andrew slurs as he drops to the ground. “It’s all my fault, George…Everything.”
“Andrew—”
“No! It’s all my fault.” Andrew puts his face in the earth, rocks back and forth.
“What’s he doin’ then?” Bishop asks.
I shake my head, my tongue not forming the words as my brother runs to Andrew’s side.
“Get up, Andrew.” George pulls him to his feet.
“G-George, I’m s-sorry.”
“Enough with you.” George flings Andrew back toward the cabin. “I said—”
A rifle barks.
My brother’s shoulder jerks back, spinning him. He falls to earth.
“No!”
My scream matches Andrew’s.
He falls upon George, grabbing my brother under his arms, and trips himself as he attempts to pull George toward the trade cabin.
More shots ring out in quick succession, this time from the northeast—George and Hannah’s cabin.
The whoops and war cries of braves, and the furious screeching of women, ring as one.
“What do ye see, lass?” Bishop asks.
I scarcely know what to say. No sooner does Andrew tug George onto the porch, than I see Mary fleeing. She sprints across the yard as if chased by an evil spirit.
“No…” I stand to the window. “Mary, stop!”
She halts near the middle of the yard, looks my way.
“Stop!” I cry again.
Mary shakes her head. She takes a single look back toward the cabin and my wounded brother. Then she retreats toward the wilderness, abandoning us all.
My mind bids me rise and fling open the door, go to stop her, or else help Andrew with George. I know not what keeps me holding my position, but I am glad of it a moment later when a rifle end pokes through the trade cabin window.
My gut warns George must be alive for the shots from inside come too quick for a lone shooter.
“Rebecca,” Mercy cries. “Free me now and give me a rifle. Let me stand with you!”
I do not deign to give her a reply.
The first of the braves comes into my sights. Not a few follow after, all of them with a witch nearby.
Again, Andrew’s shots ring out, wounding one of the braves but not felling him.
Still the others keep on, and Mercy’s witches too.
“Mercy lied,” I say to Bishop. “Her witches march with the braves.”
“For now,” Mercy says. “What good is a trap if you do not set it well?”
I shake off her words and raise my aim to the window crack.
“There’s more headed for yer brother’s cabin,” says Bishop from the opposite wall.
Fear stabs my heart, my thoughts on Hannah.
“She will be alone now,” I say. “Alone without George to fend them off—”
My words go muted when Bishop fires his rifle. The echo near deafens me and a smoky haze fills the cabin. I cough with the others, wave it from my face, and remind myself to focus.
I take a witch in my sights. My finger quivers on the trigger, preparing to squeeze.
The last witch in the train brings down the brave beside her. She stabs him in the back, her dagger falling and rising while the others in their company continue on.
“Shoot the braves.” I tell Bishop. “Mercy spoke true. Her witches fight with us!”
I take aim at a brave, shoot and watch him stumble to earth.
He does not rise.
I reach for a new rifle, bring its end to the window, and learn I am too late. Braves have reached the trade cabin. Some bear lit torches. One runs along the side, trying to spark the wood. Others heave their torches upon the roof.
Seeing the fire catch, I fell another brave with my shot then reach for the third and final rifle. I take careful aim, resting the rifle end just outside the window.
It is jerked from my grasp in an instant, its butt shoved back at my face.
My reaction to fall backward saves my nose and forehead, though it costs me my position.
A painted brave appear in the window. He peers through the boarded cracks. Whoops a war cry. Then he gasps, his face falling from my sight.
The black hood of a witch briefly appears in its place and then vanishes.
Women scream, though some of their cries have changed. No longer are all victorious or full of rage. Now some sound pained.
“They have learned our trap,” Mercy calls to me. “Free me that I might help! Now, before it is too late.”
The sounds do not quit, and I look to the spent rifles by the window.
A window board is knocked loose and a torch thrown inside, rolling near our Wyandot hostage. He shouts at me in unknown words, though their meaning is plain and well taken.
I run to his side and pluck up the torch, throw it inside the hearth to burn out.
“Bishop,” I say.
“Aye, lass?”
“Hold the cabin.”
“Aye,” he shouts. “That I will. Now do yer grandpappy proud, lass. Fetch me some witches.”
I look on the now open window, pull my tomahawk and Father’s dagger free from my belt. I throw myself against the wall, waiting for the torch thrower to peek inside.
A brave leans in to look a moment later.
I show the tip of Father’s dagger through his eye, running it to the hilt before shoving him off it. I back away from the window then take a deep breath and sprint for it. Diving through the opening, I roll the moment I land upon the cold, slick earth and bring my blades to the ready.
Chaos surrounds me.
Witches fight braves, some of them ganging up to fell their stronger opponents. Others are singled out and tossed aside to die screeching at the hands of the native braves.
A war cry rises behind me.
I duck at the blade whistling above my head. I stab Father’s dagger backward, raising it up and twisting. Listen to my attacker’s gurgle. Yanking my dagger free, I search the outside the cabin for any more attackers.
Then I see George and Hannah’s house aflame.
I sprint toward it, rolling beneath another brave come to slay me. I trip him up by slicing his ankle, then swing my tomahawk upon his chest to end him.
Again, I find my feet. My mind reels from the noise, not just of battle, but the animals from the barn. Father’s stallion rears and kicks at its wooden confines, as if it too wishes to join our fight.
The barn itself blazes, no doubt catching faster from the straw and hay inside.
Creek Jumper stands just beyond the barn. He surprises me with his quick and easy ways, swinging his own tomahawk as if he were a brave no older than twenty.
Ciquenackqua stands beside him. Though he does not move in the same manner as his elder, the pair move in tandem, wreaking havoc on any who dare cross them.
The popping of burning wood calls my attention back to my brother’s home. The door hangs off its hinges with traces of smoke escaping through the opening.
I think of Hannah, and then rush inside. Dropping to my chest, crawling forward as smoke clouds my nostrils and blinds my eyes.
“Hannah…” I cry. “Hannah, where are you?”
I cannot tell whether she replies, or else I am deaf to all sound.
Heat swarms me, choking the life from my lungs.
I use my hands in swinging arcs, praying I find no purchase as I search the kitchen and move onto the back wall. My forearm grazes flesh and my heart near stops when brushi
ng Hannah’s ankle. I use her leg to guide me up and touch my fingers to her neck.
She has no pulse.
I cough at the smoke filling my lungs. My body begs me leave this hellish place or else surrender to the black spots popping in my vision.
I lean my back against the wall, raise my arms above my head, and feel for the windowsill. I rap my knuckles against it, feel the window barred.
I scoot further down the wall, continuing my search until my fists hit naught but air.
Then I return to Hannah’s body, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her closer to the open window. I steady my feet beneath me and try to lift her.
My body fails me, her weight too heavy for me.
I think of she and George’s tender moment when last I saw them together.
The memory gifts me new strength.
Moving behind Hannah, I push her forward, inching us across the kitchen floor. I risk opening my eyes and wince at the hints of light.
Smoke saps what little strength I have left.
My body warns it will not last much longer. I scream at the pain and shove Hannah forward.
It is enough to reach the door.
I fall outside and off the porch, pulling Hannah’s weight atop me. My chest heaves for fresh air, and that I suck in greedily.
New life flutters in me with each breath drawn, and I will myself to see how my companions fare.
Only a handful of braves yet stand, and those surrounded by witches with bloodied long daggers.
A pair of braves notices Hannah and me upon the ground. Screaming, they rush me.
A rifle barks and the first brave falls.
The death of his ally causes the second brave to pause.
I look to learn my savior.
George stands upon the trade cabin porch, bringing a new rifle to aim even as his shoulder bleeds. He shoots the second brave dead without thought. His gaze slides from me to his wife, and then he runs across the yard, leaping over the dead and dying. He falls beside me and rolls Hannah onto her back.
“Hannah,” he says. “Speak to me, wife.”
He takes hold of her soot-covered face in his grimy hands, raises her to sit with him.
Hannah’s head lolls upon his shoulder, her glazed eyes staring in fearless question into the morning sun.
“Hannah!” George cries, his voice breaking like a wounded animal as he clutches her close. He rocks back and forth, sucking air. “No, no, no…Hannah…Oh, Hannah…”
My spirit speaks to me that hers has already left this world. Tears sting my eyes.
The clashing of blades calls me from mourning.
I look to the origin of its sound and there see a lone brave yet standing, felling Mercy’s witches with the war club he stole from Whistling Hare.
Two Ravens slays the last of his attackers. He looks for any more opponents and sneers upon noticing me.
My strength returns quick enough. My knuckles whiten at the grip I form around the hilt of Father’s dagger. I take my tomahawk also, rising to my feet and hurrying to meet Two Ravens in the yard.
Neither of us hesitates in our course as we close on one another.
He swoops the war club wide.
I dive to miss it, following Father’s example to chip away at my opponent with smaller cuts rather than risk a finishing blow as Two Ravens would.
“You killed my brother,” he says upon facing me.
“Aye,” I say. “And would again.”
He lunges forward, swinging the war club down toward my skull.
I miss the attempt easy enough, but he surprises me with a second blow.
The strength of his fist grazing my cheek rattles my brain and causes me to stumble.
Two Ravens laughs.
My sight dizzy, two of him approach me though I cannot rightly determine which one is real and the other his shade.
He kicks my stomach, finishing the job his fist did not. It steals the wind from me, leaving me gasping, crawling upon the ground.
“What hope did you have to defeat me, woman?” he asks. “I told Mercy you were weak. Now you will die for it.”
He raises his war club to end me.
A shadow knocks him down.
Two Ravens falls beside me with Ciquenackqua atop him, the younger brave plunging his dagger into the seasoned warrior like chipping a hunk of ice free of the river.
Ciquenackqua rolls away, and me with him, before Two Ravens might land his hands upon us.
Two Ravens struggles to his knees, his breath labored and wheezing.
“Look at me.” Ciquenackqua holds his father’s war club.
But he spoke the command not to me, his gaze homed on Two Ravens.
“Who are you, boy?” Two Ravens asks. “That you would kill Two Ravens like a woman? Attacking from behind.”
“I am Ciquenackqua, son of Whistling Hare, and you die at my hands today.” He looks on the war club. “And by my father’s weapon.”
Two Ravens laughs. “You don’t have the stomach for it. I saw you run—”
Ciquenackqua swings the war club with such precision that he near cleaves the head of Two Ravens.
The man who took my father falls to earth, his skull caved in, near the same as it were done to Sturdy Oak.
Ciquenackqua drops the war club and takes a knee. His shoulders trembling and breath panicked for air.
I think to go to him when another rifle barks.
My sight swivels in search of the sound. There be no witch or brave left alive, though dead aplenty.
As for my own people, Creek Jumper limps toward us. Blood streaks his chest and face, though whether it be his own or that of his enemies I cannot be certain.
George yet holds Hannah in his arms, rocking as I left him earlier.
Then I look to the trade cabin.
Andrew sits upon the porch, his arm bleeding, eyes lost in a fog of war, and his head leaning upon a post as the cabin blazes behind him.
My sight falls on Bishop’s cabin, and the kicked-in door.
Fear grabs hold of me at the memory I left through the window.
Inside, a hooded figure moves from one side of the cabin to the other.
I am on my feet and sprinting without thought to what lay inside.
A witch greets me the moment I enter.
I fell her easy enough with a slash of Father’s dagger, ending her with the tomahawk.
It is the witch standing beside Bishop’s table that halts me.
The one with her knife buried in his gut.
“Lass…” Bishop wheezes, coughs up blood. “Kill this bitch for me.”
Then she shoves him backward, tipping his chair to crash upon the cabin floor, pulling her crimson-coated blade free.
Mercy grins at me. “Shall we dance again, white squaw?”
-18-
I fly at Mercy, screaming curses, raining blow after blow upon her.
She meets them with her own, knocking mine astray or else dodging them.
The few cuts I connect with and the pain escaping her lips fuel me, as do the few blows she gifts me back. Each of them fills me with rage.
“I told you to kill me when you had the chance,” says Mercy.
I rush her anew, our blades singing upon one another until she again kicks me back.
“I lent you my witches to fight,” she says. “And this is how you repay me? You are a traitor to your vows, girl, just like that scheming coward Mary Warren.”
The mention infuriates me. I duck beneath Mercy’s swing, and catch my tomahawk to her ankle, jerking up and slicing her tendon.
“Ahh!” Mercy yelps, falling to her knee.
I kick her in the back but do not move to end her.
“Get up,” I bid, relishing her pain.
Mercy flies to her feet. She swings her blades, slicing an inch from my nose, missing.
I butt my head into hers and watch her stumble back.
Dropping to my knee, I whirl my tomahawk and catch her other ankle. I jerk u
p and hear her scream as the edge cuts her other tendon.
Mercy growls on the floor, dropping her blades and feeling for her ankles.
“Get up,” I say.
“Are you soft in the head, girl?” she asks, panting for breath.
“Get up.”
“No,” says Mercy. “I think I’ll lie here and wait for you to kill me—”
“Get…up…”
“Just like your cripple sister.”
My mind goes blank, my vision blazing red.
When my sight returns, I find Mercy’s blood and mine soaks the pair of us so that I cannot discern which of us suffers the greater wounds. Her howls tell me she bears the brunt of them.
“Kill me…” she begs. “K-kill me now.”
I shut out her pleas, thinking of how she turned a deaf ear to Sarah.
Movement in the corner draws my attention—the Wyandot hostage watching me. He shrinks as I rise from Mercy, blood staining my arms and neck, and step closer to both the tipped chair and Bishop’s body.
The old man’s eyes flicker as I kneel beside him, taking his head in my lap.
“Are ye the banshee?” Bishop asks. “Come to sing me home at long last?”
Tears drip down my cheeks as the singsong tone I well remember in his storytelling has gone, replaced by a voice weak and faded. I look on his wounds, and see his breaths slowing, each one taken with great effort.
“No,” I say. “It is I, your favorite…Rebecca. Remember?”
“Rebecca?” He blinks. “I-I don’t…Augh. Aye…I remember now. Did ye hide the wee poppets, lass?”
I cry harder at the realization of his words, thinking he must remember me now as the little girl I was, one scared of the attacks that would come. I recall how he put aside my fears with his gentle voice and once assigned me the simple task of hiding my poppets to occupy my mind.
“Did ye…did ye keep them safe, then?”
“No,” I say, thinking of Sarah and Sturdy Oak, Hannah and Numees, even Father. “I-I could not keep them safe.”
“It’s all right, dear.” Bishop pats my hand. “We’ll find a place…a place for them. Don’t ye worry now…Pr-Priest will help ye.”
His mention of Father’s name bids me cry harder.
“He is gone, Grandfather,” I say through my tears. “Th-they took him too.”
“Don’t worry, lass…he’ll be back,” says Bishop. “Good lad, him. Even if he is a…mouthy bastard. Always comes back, he does.”
