Salems Vengeance

by Aaron Galvin

  Another question plagues me more: what else has Dr. Campbell foreseen and not mentioned?

  ***

  A horse whinnies outside my home.

  I blow out the candle, ere it gallops past, and creep to the window.

  A figure emerges from our barn, but bears no lantern to light its way.

  It must be Father to walk in darkness so confidently.

  I shrink back into my room so he will not see me. Beneath the floor, I hear the wooden latch from our front door lift open, followed by the scraping of Father’s heavy boots. My conscience warns I should return to bed. Curiosity encourages me not to.

  I sneak out of my room to eavesdrop.

  Both Mother’s and Father’s shadows are made giants upon our vaulted ceiling. I keep watch of them in case they grow smaller, a signal they move from the fire where I could be seen if they glance up.

  I hunch low to the floor. Crawl for George’s hammock bed, strung near the upstairs railing. I have little fear of him waking. He has ever been a hard sleeper and it is not to save space alone that he sleeps in a hammock. Father oft turns to dumping George out of a morning for it seems the only way to waken him.

  I slide beneath the hammock to provide some little cover, and keep close watch of the greater shadow on the far wall—Father walking toward the dinner table.

  “Do the children sleep?” he asks.

  “Aye,” Mother answers. “I believe so. Did you catch anything of note in your wares?”

  There is a small, carved hole in the wood. I grin in my recalling the memory when I once dropped breadcrumbs upon Rebecca’s head. I later convinced her it must have been God providing her manna from Heaven. If I crane my neck, I can peek through the hole with one eye.

  I see Father idly spoon the stew Mother placed before him. With no one but she around to see, he slouches in his chair; something he would never permit us to do.

  “I did not check them,” Father says. “Only wished to be alone with my thoughts awhile. The children…did they overhear what others said outside church?”

  Mother joins him with bread. “I do not believe so. George was the only one near. You might speak with him on the morrow. I believe he were saddened you did not ask him to stay behind with the men.”

  “Did he come to realize it on his own? Or was Sarah’s hand in it?”

  Mother brushes the creases from her dress.

  “I thought as much.” Father sighs before spooning his stew. “I suppose I were curious, too, at such an age. Would that I had not been.”

  Mother sits and touches his forearm. “Who were those men, husband? A pair of drifters?”

  “Highwaymen, more like,” Father replies haughtily. “They did not give their names. Refused to, in truth. Such a thing speaks to their character and purpose. The younger ne’er said a single word.”

  “And the elder?”

  Father snorts. “He spoke enough for the pair of them.”

  He eats slowly, like each bite brings with it a new line of thought. I cannot help but wonder what these men might have said to make Father so ponderous. Ne’er have I seen him so before. He near finishes his bowl ere Mother speaks again.

  “Of what?” she asks finally.

  “Witchcraft in Winford.”

  “Oh…”

  “Aye,” Father drops his spoon to lightly clatter in the empty bowl. “No sooner do the rumors and ghosts of Salem grow quiet, than these men seek to resurrect them.”

  “But what cause have they to speak such?”

  Father pushes his empty bowl away. “I do not know. And they would not say. The elder soured himself with our friends. He asked more question than gave answers. I assure you the others liked it not at all.”

  “And did you believe him?” Mother lets the question hang.

  Father rises from the table. Adds a log to the fire. He stays to watch it catch flame. “Aye,” he says so quietly I scarcely hear him. “I believe they have seen things.”

  My nose wrinkles. What kind of things could they have seen that Father has also?

  My back aches. I shift to stretch it.

  A board creaks under my weight.

  I silently curse myself when I see Father glance to the ceiling.

  “Are you certain the children sleep?” he asks.

  “Aye.” Mother impatiently dismisses the question. “But what cause have you to believe the elder’s claims? Has he seen that which you did whilst in Salem?”

  I nearly choke at her words. Father visited Salem? When? In what time?

  Those and a hundred other questions arise to torment me. Torments furthered by the lengthy passage of time with no reply from Father.

  An ember pops and fizzles inside the hearth.

  “Perhaps we should not speak of such evil at this late hour,” Mother says.

  “Perhaps not.” Father returns to his seat, resumes his gaze on the hearth fire.

  Mother clears the table. Not a word, touch, nor glance passes between them until she is finished. “Husband...”

  Father seems lost to her voice, his gaze lingering on the flames.

  She calls for him several more times ere giving up and going to him. I watch her drape her long, pale arms about his chest in a show of tenderness I have not often seen from either of my parents.

  “Do not dwell on your time there,” she says. “’Tis not your burden to bear for that which overtook them. Evil existed in this world long before you. It will be here long after you and I are gone.”

  I see tears trickle down Father’s cheeks as Mother strokes his hair. Despite her best efforts, she cannot tempt him to look away from the fire.

  His stare reminds me of how I must have looked whilst watching Hecate; yet where intrigue birthed mine, regret fatigues Father’s.

  They remain together, Father locked in Mother’s embrace, whilst I marvel such a secret has been kept from me. What right did he have to not speak of such things? What other secrets do they yet keep from us?

  Mother seems to understand Father has said all he means to. “You are a good and just man, Paul Kelly.”

  I watch her kiss the top of his head ere leaving his side. But Mother cannot see what I do. She does not witness the cascade of tears now freely flowing down Father’s face.

  Not those of sadness, nor pride, but heart-wrenching shame.

  -5-

  I awake beneath George’s hammock. The hearth embers burn low, the reddish gold amongst the ash hinting they wish stoked anew.

  Father fell asleep in his chair; he lay there still.

  I slide out from my hiding place. My limbs popping with the movement after having been left so long in the cramped position I foolishly remained in.

  I reenter my room. Rebecca still sleeps. I dodge the creaky boards and go to the window. It is nearly midnight by the moon’s placement. I must leave soon if I am to keep my promise to Ruth.

  A sidelong glance at Rebecca promises it would be far easier, and safer no doubt, to climb under the quilt next to her and fall asleep. I think of Ruth and the insistence in her voice. The way she clawed at her own body. What terrible things may happen to her if I do not witness? Ruth has always been a good and loyal friend. It would stain my honor to not show her similar courtesy.

  I swing my legs over the ledge. Drop out the window. Like last eve, I wait for sounds of Mother and Father. Hearing nothing, I run across the yard, not stopping until I reach the cornfields. With Father’s threat fresh in my mind, I enter slowly. Far more careful than needs be not to bend or break, the stalks.

  The cornfield is different tonight. Long shadows envelope me. Without Ruth to tease Emma, I now think any manner of creature with ill intent might lie beyond the next row. I try to banish such thoughts away, but fear is a stubborn foe that rushes them back to the forefront of my mind.

  An icy October wind howls down the row. Warns I should turn back. It follows me until I exit the field where it promptly dies, its power lost at an invisible boundary line.

  I hear
the familiar beating of drums and playing of flutes. With no fire in view tonight, they sound much further away, deeper inside the woods. I follow their tune, humming hymns to keep evil spirits at bay.

  Odd, I think. That I should seek God’s protection in these same woods where I sought witchery last eve.

  Perhaps that is why the hymns bring little comfort.

  Each step I take brings me nearer to music that stirs my soul in a different way—a wilder, sensual one. I walk through the woods for near half a mile, all the while feeling I am no closer to the source.

  An owl hoots above me. A twig snaps to my left.

  I wheel about, silly with fright. I see nothing. Nor do I have any intention of veering from my course to learn what made the sound. I turn back.

  A shadow stands before me.

  I open my mouth to scream. A leather glove clamps over it. Fingers tighten on my jaw in warning. A sinewy arm wraps around my chest. Yanks me closer until my back is flush against my assailant. I struggle to no avail.

  Hecate’s guards! It must be them. How could I have trusted Ruth? No. Not Ruth. A specter of my once beautiful friend cornered me at church.

  Emma realized the queerness of the request. She warned me to not heed Ruth.

  Oh, but why did I not listen?

  There is a crunch of dried leaves as someone walks over them. A shrub moves. Then, speaks. “Now, what’s a pretty lass doin’ out on a night like this?”

  I try to scream again. My assailant keeps it muffled. I open my eyes and see no shrub. I see a man, an older one of a grizzled nature. His stringy, unwashed hair is black and grey as a wolf’s pelt. The dark forest green tunic he wears is mud stained. So, too, are his leather breeches. An axe dangles from his worn belt. He leans heavily on a long rifle.

  “Goin’ to a gatherin’, mayhap?” he asks. His accent is unfamiliar to me. There be no man in Winford who speaks in such a sing-song manner.

  I shake my head no.

  He beams at me. “Well, that’s good to hear, isn’t it? Cause if ye were headin’ to a gatherin’, I’d find meself owin’ the strappin’ lad behind ye a pint. And the poor bastard ne’er shuts up as it is, so I’d be hearin’ about it for quite some time.”

  I notice a scar over his left eye and extending up to his forehead. Another wraps around his neck. Still, I find he is not nearly so frightening as I first reckoned him to be. He struts about gaily, despite a slight limp, and he makes no attempt to hide his paunch. He plops down on a fallen tree. Squints at me with his unscarred right eye I suspect is his good one.

  “Do yer mother and father know ye be out in the woods this eve?”

  I shake my head again.

  He tsks and rubs his coarse beard with an equally dirtied hand. “Bein’ a father once meself, I can’t let ye go on now, can I? Not with such dark things afoot.” He looks around the woods. Gives me the impression he fears the trees hearken to his words. “Darker things than ye can imagine, lass, I’m quite sure of it.”

  I hear my assailant snort.

  The old man glares past me. “Ah, shut it! I promised ye a pint, and it’s a pint ye’ll get. Have ye ever known me to go back on me word?”

  My assailant grunts in answer.

  “Don’t ye be mindin’ him, lass.” The old man shakes his head. He looks past me again. “What’s say ye let her go, lad? Methinks we’ve nuthin’ to fear from the likes a her.”

  I quickly step away upon my release, and turn to see who held me. The mere sight of the roguish young man forces me to take another step back. “You…”

  The stranger from church!

  Now I see him close, he looks of a median age between Father and myself—or perhaps the scars make him appear older. Four diagonal lines stretch over his face as if a mountain lion raked him with its claws. He is dressed all in black. Even now, he blends with the woods. Like the old man, he carries weapons on his belt—a tomahawk, and several daggers—yet he bears no rifle. With his raven hair strewn about his face, I would almost think him feral if not for the stillness in his coal-like eyes.

  “A sorry lot, isn’t he?” the old man says behind me. “Shoulda left him where I found him. But that’s another matter.” I feel a light touch upon my arm. “What did ye say yer name was, lass?”

  “Sar—Sarah Kelly.”

  “Ah…course it is.” The old man winks at me before turning to his companion. “Ye know where this one lives, lad?”

  I glance over my shoulder, see the younger man finishing his nod.

  How does he claim to know where I live? The thought terrifies me. But should it? There is no one here with us, so deep in the woods. If either of these men wished me harm, surely they would have done it by now.

  “Good,” says the old man. “Why don’t ye escort Miss Kelly home so we can get down to business then. This night won’t linger forever, ye know.”

  I turn again. The younger stranger is gone. I do not know whether to be impressed or frightened he slipped away so silently. He must be out there somewhere, hiding. Watching me. I search the trees, but cannot spot him amongst the other shadows of the night.

  “’Twas a pleasure meetin’ ye, lass,” the old man draws my attention. He takes me by the hand. Pats it. “Ye stay put at home from now on, ye hear me?”

  I feel the wet kiss of a horse’s nose upon my neck. I turn, and see the young stranger sits astride his red stallion. How did the horse come so quietly too? Are they both ghosts?

  He extends his hand in offering to help me mount.

  I hesitate. There is something dangerous about him I cannot place; it excites me more than flutes and drums ever could.

  “Go on, lass,” the old man urges. “He’ll talk yer ears off, but he’ll get ye home safe. On that I swear by the blessed Muther Mary herself.”

  The young stranger’s face is unyielding. His hand remains inviting.

  I take it.

  With a quick jerk, he slings me up behind him. The force of it nearly throws me across the horse. I unintentionally wrap my arms about him to prevent a fall. His chest feels carved from wood. I let go, but only a little.

  The older man steps closer. Pats the stallion’s haunch. “Now ye take her straight home, lad. Don’t have too much fun. We’ve nasty work to do yet, and I don’t plan to start till ye get back. It’s nigh the only thing ye be any good for.”

  I hear the slapping of skin upon skin. The old man’s laughter rings in my ears as the stallion jolts forward into a run. Wind whips the stranger’s hair around me. It reeks of smoke and a life lived outdoors. I cling closer to him as he guides and weaves our mount through the trees, never slowing until we burst clear of the woods. I immediately loosen my grip.

  We ride in painful silence as I await him to speak. He never does. Nor does he even bother turning his head to ensure I am still with him.

  “Who are you?” I finally ask.

  He gives no reply.

  “I saw you at church,” I say. “My Father said your friend angered the other men from town. He said you did not speak at all.”

  The thought occurs to me my guardian may be mute. George once told stories of Indians who took the tongues of their prisoners as trophies. Mayhap they took my guardian as such a prisoner. I try to content myself by listening to the soft clops of his stallion’s footfalls upon the grass, but my impatience will not stand.

  “Father says he believes you and your friend have seen things. Pray, do you know of what he speaks?”

  If only I could see his face. Perhaps it would give the answers I seek. The back of his head tells me naught.

  “Father saw things once,” I say. “In Salem.”

  His muscles twitch.

  “Did…you come from Salem?” I ask. “Have you ever been?”

  The stallion halts suddenly, and my guardian dismounts.

  I feel ashamed at my prying rudeness. “My—my apologies. I meant noth—”

  He casts his gaze westward.

  We are but a hundred yards from Father’s barn.


  How did we arrive so soon and I had not noticed? I look back at the stranger.

  He offers to help me down.

  I slide into his arms.

  He catches me before my feet can hit the ground. Lightly settles them to earth and holds me till I release him.

  “Thank you,” I say quietly.

  He only nods in reply. Before I can say more, he swings astride his mount and kicks his heels. The stallion races off into the night. Gone like a dream I suddenly waked from.

  I am left wanting. Waiting for him to turn his head. Give me a parting look. Anything to speak he too felt something akin to that which pulses through me even now.

  He never does.

  -6-

  Rebecca tips the milking stool she sits upon back and forth. I wish she joined me to aid in the chore once hers. The truth of it is far simpler. “He spoke not at all?” she asks.

  I squeeze Lila’s teats with all the strength I have. “Not a word,” I say.

  “Boys are queer indeed.”

  I would agree if she spoke of anyone else, but he was a man. More of one than the likes Winford has to offer.

  “And you say he were handsome too…” Rebecca prods.

  I try Lila again for milk. A few drops ting the bottom of the pail. “Aye. Handsome, but…scarred.” I shrug. “I could not rightly see all in the darkness.”

  My answers are not enough to sate my sister’s curiosity. “What was it like to ride with him?”

  I chuckle. “Windy. His hair in my face for most of it.”

  I pause to think back on it. In truth, I have never felt anything like I did last eve. Not even when I danced beneath the moonlight did I feel such stirrings in my soul.

  Warm liquid wets my face.

  Rebecca laughs. She has sprayed me with milk fresh from a younger cow’s teat. She jumps up from her stool, startling Lila anew.

  I am nearly knocked over by the old cow before I can give Rebecca chase throughout our barn. We scatter the chickens, and I follow her up the ladder into the very top of our hayloft. I chase her through the stacks of hay Father has taken up to dry for the coming winter. The smell is sweet and fresh, a welcome reprieve. I tackle her into the loose straw.