by Aaron Galvin
SALEM’S VENGEANCE
Vengeance Trilogy: Book One
Aaron Galvin
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Copyright 2014 by Aaron Galvin
Smashwords Edition
Edited by Annetta Ribken. You can find her at www.wordwebbing.com
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either figments of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Find out more about Aaron Galvin and the Salt Series:
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Twitter: twitter.com/aarongalvin5
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for those who love the night and the countless secrets She holds.
&
for Karen, who still prefers the safety of day.
Table of Contents
Facts
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Salem Witch Trials 1692 - 1693 "Witches" Executed and "Afflicted" Accusers
Acknowledgments
About The Author
SALTED Sample Chapter
FACTS
In 1976, psychologist Linnda R. Caporael published an article linking the behaviors of Salem accusers to that of ergotism, or ergot poisoning, caused by the fungus Claviceps purpurea.
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According to the American Phytopathological Society:
“Claviceps purpurea infects the ovary of cereal and grass plants. In the early stages of disease development, a sticky exudate (honeydew) often appears. The infected ovary is replaced by a purplish-black sclerotium, commonly referred to as an ergot.
Before this disease (ergotism) was understood, the ergots were ground up along with rye grains and ingested when the flour was used for baking. In the Middle Ages, this led to a frightening disease of humans known as ‘holy fire’ or ‘St. Anthony’s fire’.
People under the influence of ergot alkaloids may have convulsions, become manic, appear dazed, be unable to speak or have other forms of paralysis or tremors, and suffer from hallucinations and other distorted perceptions. These strange behaviors have been linked to ergotism during the French Revolution and witchcraft in Europe and the U.S. (Salem, MA, in particular).
Common symptoms included strange mental aberrations, hallucinations, a feeling of burning skin or insects crawling under the skin.”
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Modern toxicology reports reveal alkaloids present in ergot include lysergic acid, of which the psychedelic drug LSD is created.
Sources
Caporael's article in Science, issue 192
http://goo.gl/Dw27F0
American Phytopathological Society
Ergot of rye
Schumann, G.L. 2000. Ergot. The Plant Health Instructor.
DOI: 10.1094/PHI-I-2000-1016-01
http://goo.gl/R1uwZx
-1-
-October, 1712-
Winford, Carolina Territory
My freedom comes with the moonlight. A dim ray, broken and scattered by my wooden shutters, spreads over the pine floor of my room. My toes tingle with anticipation beneath the heavy checkered quilt Mother sewed for Rebecca and me. The time for dancing draws nigh.
Clink!
The rock striking our window ledge quickens my heartbeat.
Something is wrong. The moonlight should be spread over four boards, not one, ere it would be the proper time to leave.
A quiet voice floats through my window. “Sarah!”
“Shh!” Another hushes.
Rebecca stirs beside me on the straw pallet we share.
I stroke her flaxen hair ere she awakens further. “All is well, sweet sister,” I soothe. “Go back to sleep.”
She rubs her tired eyes with balled fists. “But I wish to join you and the others,” she says.
Clink!
My limbs tense anew. Father will surely wake to their voices soon. I wait, listening. He can be silent as a barn owl in flight when he chooses. Still, even he cannot rise from his rickety bed without it creaking under the movement.
I hear nothing but my own heart pounding.
“Sarah!” the quiet voice calls again.
It must be Emma. An ever-present fear has clouded her since she heard tell of the Tuscarora Indians who raided and slaughtered throughout the Carolina territory. I suppose it hardly matters to her most of the savages were put down a year ago September past.
Rebecca tugs at the sleeves of my lace nightgown. “Please, Sarah,” she whispers. “Please, take me.”
I kiss the top of her forehead. “You are much too young for the dance.”
Rebecca wrenches away from me to pout.
I sweep our quilt of muted blue and white over her head. The breeze from the open window tickles my bare feet and drifts up my thighs like a feather tracing against my skin.
I shudder, and revel in its chill; the same feelings I hope to continue at the moon dance. I gather my thin leather shoes in hand. Turn toward my escape. Though my windowsill is but three quick steps away, my path holds creaky floorboards that will betray my otherwise silent movements. I step over the first of them, and leap sideways to avoid the next two.
Rebecca giggles quietly. It must seem to her I play scotch-hopper.
The fresh scent of strung, dried lilacs from my room dissipates the moment I poke my head out our window. Odors of farm life—sweet-smelling heifers, excrement-sowing swine, and the like—blend together in the night air. Fifty yards away, our four-storied barn is a hulking gravestone casting its long shadow over our homestead.
The nearly full moon is perfect to dance beneath. Not so, however, for one seeking to flee without being seen. To reach the barn will be only a quick sprint. But my friends are not as fast as I, nor as cautious. I wish I had the sliver moon and less light to escape beneath.
Across the yard, Mother’s dogwood shrub shakes. A slender, trembling girl in a dull blue dress emerges from behind it, her narrow face accentuated only by the roundness of her eyes. This eve, they are near the size of tea saucers.
“Sarah!” Emma says.
I raise a finger to my lips.
Another girl leaps from the shrub and yanks Emma into hiding. “Be silent!” she hisses.
Ruth...At least she has the good sense to know they stand before Paul Kelly’s household.
Father is quick with the strap. I harbor no misgivings he would whip the daylights from both my friends if roused by their noi
se.
Carefully, I swing my leg wide over the window ledge to not snag my gown. I lean forward to jump when there comes a rustling from our corn shuck mattress.
“I shall tell…”
I wheel to face my sister. “You shall not!”
Rebecca raises a rebellious eyebrow.
“Sarah…” Emma calls.
I glance over my shoulder and out the window. Emma again emerges from the shrubbery. The fool stands in plain view of Mother and Father’s window.
I wave her away to hide.
Emma nervously clutches her apron with one hand. She points to our barn with the other. “Ruth leaves us!”
At times, I wonder if Emma were born daft. When Ruth once told her keeping chicken bones in our aprons would ward off evil spirits, Emma carried them for nigh on a year. And when I warned her mythical snipes lived in our barn beneath the hay, she never again ventured inside. How has Emma not yet realized Ruth’s favorite custom is to hide amidst the corn to scare her?
It next occurs to me, for all Ruth’s many virtues, patience is most lacking. She is ever the one who misses dancing most. Mayhap she means to make good on her threat of going alone. I imagine her running down the rows of corn, off into the woods without me.
I snort the thought away. It would not stand for her to share the night whilst I remain here, thwarted by the threat of an eight-year-old.
I turn to face my sister again. “Rebecca…”
Her arms cross, like Mother oft does when in a foul temper. “Take me,” she says. “Or work my chores.”
I dig my fingernails into the windowsill. “No!”
Rebecca dangles her tiny bare feet inches from the floor in warning. “Then I shall wake Father and tell.”
“Saaaarah…” Emma whines.
My sister’s smile is evident in the dim light. Even at such a tender age, she knows time is on her side this night.
“I will do one of your chores,” I reply.
“You will milk the cows?” She says it so quickly I wonder how long she has planned to force this upon me.
I grit my teeth. “Agreed.”
My sister yawns in victory and happily scratches her head, content in her victory.
I pull my gown up past my knees, and drop below ere Rebecca coerces me further. I pause to listen for any stirrings inside my home. Spreading my toes, I take the dewy grass between them to cool my nerves.
A minute passes with no noise; Father sleeps soundly.
I slip my shoes on as fast as possible and hurry to join Emma. She makes a tiny yelp at my sudden pull of her hand. Hand-in-hand, we run toward the barn. Her clumsiness slows my pace, but I will not let go. If she falls, it would not happen silently.
When she does eventually stumble on the cold and slippery grass, I slip my arm under her armpit to keep her afoot. Emma tugs away as we near the barn. No doubt she desires to give it a wider berth ere a snipe emerges to drag her within.
Cornfields lie before us. The stalks stand only six feet tall, yet the dark makes them appear larger. Like a foreboding wall of spears, we must pass into their protection to reach our destination.
I release my grip on Emma. Plunge ahead, five rows deep.
The dry leaves scratch at my skin; a small sacrifice for the joyous reunion to come. A few stalks lie broken near their shafts. I shall need to scold Ruth later. Father will know neither deer nor Indians bent them in such a way.
Emma whimpers behind me. I watch her gently push the stalks aside as if the mere touch of them will taint her perfect skin. “Why did you not come sooner?” she asks. “With Ruth gone, I feared you abandoned me to journey alone.”
“Alone?” I ask. “But where is Charlotte?”
Emma shakes her head. “Her father suspects she has danced.” Her voice trembles. “I fear mine does also.”
I frown. It is not like Charlotte to miss a gathering. Especially not when the last occurred three months past.
The corn crackles three rows over like teeth chattering in the grip of a January nor’easter. Emma draws closer to me.
I step forward. “Who comes?”
“One who has no fear of the darkness.”
An apparition brushes the stalks aside. Ruth’s skin, pale even in daylight, is luminous by night. She has discarded her white bonnet and scandalously tied back her raven hair with a scarlet ribbon. Ruth closes her eyes, tilts her head back to inhale the night air. “Art thou ready to dance, sisters?”
Emma releases her hold on my dress. “You should not have left me!”
“You should not have remained behind,” Ruth replies curtly. “The moon dance waits for no one—nor do I.”
A cold wind harrows through the corn, confirming Ruth’s claims, ushering us ahead. I step in the earthen path between the rows. The hard dirt warns of a frost soon to come. I am glad of it. The solidity will not reveal our tracks so easily as in the wet spring or dry summer.
“Come,” I say to my friends. “We should not tarry.”
We walk for nigh half an hour to our destination. Emma is a constant shadow at my side. Holding my hand all the way, she frequently glances skywards as if she fears witches on broomsticks will fly over us. Ruth tromps in the next row. Her fingers run over the corn ears as she quietly hums a tune I have never heard.
“Emma,” I say. “What shall you wish for tonight?”
“A safe journey home,” she replies, casting another furtive glance at the moon.
“I shall wish for a night that never ends!” Ruth shouts.
I laugh with her. Even Father cannot hear from this far away.
The sound makes Emma jump with fright. Her grip stiffens. “You should not speak so loud. My father would—”
“Your father sleeps at home.” Ruth lazily swats at the corn.
“A-aye. H-H-He would be very displeased to find me here,” Emma shakes her head like a horse with flies at its ears.
“What if he knew you journeyed to a gathering of witches!” Ruth says.
A shudder runs through me. “Enough, Ruth. You should not jest of such things,” I say. “You beckon the darkness upon yourself.”
Ruth grins. “As well I should. I am sister to the moon. A lover of night!” She loosens her ribbon. Her dark hair spills about her shoulders as she lifts her arms. “For why dance if not to beckon the darkness into our hearts?”
Emma looks at me as one betrayed. “Y-you said dancing was innocent. N-not a sin.”
“Dancing is innocent,” I reply. “I said naught of what Ruth speaks to.”
Ruth scoffs. “I thought you were a fellow lover of the night, Sarah.”
“I am.”
“Then why do you come this eve?” Ruth asks. “Dancing can be done by the light of day.”
“A-aye,” says Emma. “I think it best we only dance by day henceforth. My father—”
“Why, Sarah?” Ruth asks. “Why do you come?”
“Only at night am I truly free,” I say. “Free to do as I will with no one to speak otherwise, or—”
“Listen!” Emma says.
I hear it too; the quiet beginnings of a measured symphony wandering over the night sky. The gay pipes call to the wood spirits of Pan. Each hypnotic beating of drums beckons us to venture further.
The gathering starts without us.
Ruth and I grin at one another.
“Race you to the woods!” She runs ahead without waiting for me.
Nor do I pause for Emma. The sprint to catch Ruth is longer than first I guessed. I fear my lungs will give out ere we reach the end of the field. The drums beat as one with my heart to lend me strength. I pass her at the last, bursting from the field and into a clearing of dandelions.
The wind in the corn follows us out. It blows the hundreds of translucent florets away from their stems. Like wisps, they create a rippling blanket of nature to lead us.
A dim glow rises inside the woods. It grows brighter with each passing moment. Shadows from the flames climb the trees as if to escape from
Hell and sneak into Heaven.
Emma thrashes behind us, her once beautiful gown now mottled with stains, and her bonnet askew. Even so, she cannot help but smile at the sight of rising fire.
We sisters of the moon clasp hands. Together, we cross the meadow and enter the woods. I have oft visited this same hallowed place to escape my chores and dream of what lay beyond its borders.
Tonight, the woods feel foreign. A place no goodly person ought be.
Tiny, thin bones from some unfortunate forest creatures hang in the trees, strung together as one by thick horsehair to form relics. I see feathers tied to them—crow, falcon, and eagle. There are freshly cut saplings also, interwoven to form odd, twisted dreamcatchers.
I shake whilst walking beneath the jangling bones. Their invisible power is palpable. It seeps through my skin and twins with my soul.
We exit the underbrush into a clearing, seventy feet across. Nine cut elms have been leaned against one another; a towering teepee set alight. A ring of girls surrounds its blaze. Some wear bracelets of silver serpents with rubies for eyes. Others have adorned themselves with necklace reliefs of the moon in all its stages.
Emma gasps beside me. “Ne’er have I seen so many before...”
I watch the unknown girls approach the fire. They tempt its flames to sear their skin and dance away ere it licks them.
Ruth points to a sharp-jawed girl in a forest green gown. “Charlotte!”
Charlotte turns at hearing her name called. She releases hands with the other girls. I watch the circle instantly shrink to fill the void she leaves. Charlotte prances toward us, hugging Ruth first.
“We feared you would not come!” Ruth says.
“I thought the same of you,” Charlotte replies.
A naked girl, dancing in the circle, motions us closer. Her body is a canvas of tattoos. Trained ivy and dragons snake around her limbs. Raven feathers litter her belly and chest. A pentagram covers the space between her breasts.
