Salems Vengeance

by Aaron Galvin

  “How did you…”

  I scan the body over and back. There be no entry, nor exit, of a shot. No arrow wound. Only the slitting of its belly to allow its guts cleaned out after the kill.

  Priest takes a long knife from his belt and kneels at its ribs. He deftly works the blade in with one hand, tugging at its pelt with the other, tearing skin from muscle.

  “How did you slay it?” I ask.

  Priest wipes his hands clean on the grass. He places an arm around the stag’s neck and cups his other hand about its muzzle. He waits to ensure I am watching, and then makes a quick twisting motion.

  Even in death, the stag’s spine makes a sound akin to a tree branch cracking.

  Priest chuckles when I wince. He lets the head fall, its neck awkwardly craned to take in the sun, and resumes skinning it.

  I gather, for now, he is done speaking to me in his own silent way. It is for the best. I hear a rattling cart approach.

  George drives it with Bishop seated beside him. Andrew rides atop the fresh cut timber. Wesley walks alongside it, a jealous hurt in his face at my standing so near Priest.

  I enter the house before Wesley can voice it.

  Priest pays me no mind. I come to realize the man annoys me. Why can he not speak but one soft word?

  The boys enter not long after me, though Wesley does not join them. George impishly looks at our dining table with an axe weighed over his shoulder. “Ready, Andrew?”

  “Aye.”

  With surprising quickness, both swing their blades upon the benches.

  Mother appears from hers and Father’s room. The sadness about her gives way to pure ire upon witnessing her benches destroyed by the two newly made lumberjacks. “George! What are you doing?”

  “Mr. Bishop says we have need of the lumber.”

  Andrew connects on another swing, cleanly swiping through the wood.

  Not one to be outdone, George swings harder and nearly does the same for the opposite bench. He raises it again.

  Mother reaches it first and wrenches the axe from his grasp. “I think not!”

  “Afraid so, Mrs. Kelly,” Bishop enters. His linen shirt, soaked through with sweat, gives off a pungent odor liken to rotten mushrooms. “We need the benches to board up the windows, and the table’s weight to bar the door.”

  “But why?”

  Bishop blinks at her question. “They’ll try to come through ‘em. We need defense lines, wouldn’t ye agree?”

  “Aye, but—”

  Bishop notices Mother’s pies left out to cool. Dipping his fingers into one, he takes a hunk of the blackberries to shove in his mouth. “We’ll need yer fine dresser as well to bar the hearth when ye’ve finished emptyin’ it.”

  Mother trembles. I cannot gather whether it be for the marring of her benches or her newly baked pie.

  Bishop licks his fingers clean of the fruited stains. “Ye see, Mrs. Kelly. We can’t just have ’em come down the chimney like jolly old Saint Nicholas.”

  “We should light a fire!” George says. “Burn them like they did in Salem!”

  Bishop sighs. “There weren’t any witches burned in Salem, lad. Their lot didn’t have the stomach for it. And we can’t light a fire. These girls be afflicted, sure, but there’s bound to be one who’d pour water down to douse it. Aye, and smoke us out to boot.”

  Andrew buries his axe through the other side of the bench. It, too, goes through cleanly. So cleanly his axe blade sticks in the floor. “If they wish to smoke us out, will they not set fire to the house eventually?”

  I think he ponders on his family’s demise. A cruel thing to witness, your home and loved ones burnt to naught but a pile of ash. But if Bishop spoke true, Ruth may still be alive. Some small comfort if she aided in the burning.

  “Aye,” Bishop says to Andrew. “That they’ll do sure as yer born, but don’t ye think on it. The Devil’s daughter cried her master wants yer sister. She won’t risk fire till her prize is safe and sound. Let others tell ye what they will”—Bishop looks out the window at our barn—“fire has a mind all its own. It’s what makes Hell such a fearsome thought. Not even the Devil hisself can wrangle it.”

  He nods approvingly at the boys’ work. “Right, ye lads get these boards nailed ‘cross the windows. Leave an openin’ small enough to point yer rifle’s barrel through. Then we’ll move on to the barn.”

  He leaves before any of us can ask why we should bother with fortifying both our home and the much larger, less defensible barn.

  “I’ll go to the barn and collect the last of Father’s nails,” George says.

  Mother takes her broom.

  I watch her sweep up the chipped remains of wood. Common sense tells me it is all for naught. I notice Andrew staring at me.

  “I’m sorry about your family,” I say.

  He nods. “And I for your father. I wish I could thank him for taking me in. I would be dead if not for his kindness.”

  I wish Hecate and her minions could hear Andrew’s words. Hear that Father was a good man capable of much benevolence. It is the first I have thought of Father since Bishop arrived this morn. Hecate’s words yet sting in my heart, as do Mother’s.

  How could my Father and Dr. Campbell, the crafter of evil in Salem, be the same man?

  The weight of Thomas Putnam’s journal feels suddenly heavy in my apron. I wish for the time to read more of it. Mayhap there are other answers regarding Father’s secret past inside.

  “They burnt his home, too.” Andrew recalls me from my trance. “Mr. Bishop’s.”

  “The witches?”

  “Aye, though a different group in a different time.” Andrew clarifies. “Mr. Bishop spoke to me of it on our time along the road. He said crying witchery for personal gain existed across the sea for a long time now. It were only a matter of time ere greedy men of circumstance had need of it here.” Andrew gazes at the handiwork he wrought with his axe. “He means for us to make an end of it tonight.”

  “Did he say anything of…” I step closer to him. Whisper so Mother cannot overhear. “Of his companion, Mr. Priest?”

  Andrew shakes his head. “He spoke only of himself. Told me a home could be rebuilt. That my family’s legacy remains strong so long as I have the courage to fight for my life.”

  “Then why will you tarry here? Why not go and run away to a far city where you can be safe?”

  “My Father taught me a debt not repaid is a sin,” Andrew says quietly.

  I place my hand on his shoulder. “You owe my family nothing, Andrew.”

  Unhinging his axe from the floor, he looks at me blankly. “It is not your family I must repay.”

  -13-

  We break for lunch at midday to eat upon the lawn. The chill has settled in. I reckon it will remain with us for the whole of winter to come. The sun still shines, however. It almost seems as though we are at picnic, save for the grim silence betwixt us.

  Rebecca alone remains cheery. She sits nearest Bishop, the lone poppet she has yet to hide away in hand. Occasionally, she murmurs something to it the rest of us are not privy to.

  I see George take a knife from his belt, Father’s once. Another heirloom George felt the right to confiscate already. With it, he hews another slice of fresh venison onto his plate. “Pray, sir,” he says to Bishop. “Why did Mr. Priest leave when we have so much work to do?”

  “’Cause he’s a lazy bastard.” Bishop laughs at his own sport. “He’s out rangin’…lookin’ for scouts to kill. Pray he finds some, lad, and thins their numbers.”

  George casts Andrew a skeptical look. My brother has doubts.

  I do not. I know Priest could be anywhere. As if seeking confirmation of my belief, I look to Priest’s recent kill, the stag roasting on the spit he built. How does one move so silently as to creep upon a stag and break its neck? My thoughts turn to Hecate. I hope he bends her neck like he did the stag’s.

  I take a bite of the tender venison. The meat slides off the bone into my mouth. I
lean forward for the grease to drip into the grass, rather than stain my dress.

  The boys, save for Wesley, are not so well mannered. They wipe at their faces with the back of their arms and smear grease alongside the timber dust from the logs they hewed to a manageable size.

  “He’ll be back,” Rebecca mutters to her doll. “Most like with Father too.”

  Bishop strokes the doll’s hair. “Is yer wee doll hungry, lass?”

  “Aye,” she answers.

  “Augh,” He pushes the head of it toward her food. “Then ye must needs feed her that she grows up strong.”

  The distraction works. Rebecca laughs. “Mr. Sir,” she says whilst chewing her meat. “Your voice is odd. Did you come from the old country?”

  “A wee bit further, lass. I came from Ireland ere into slavery I went.”

  “You were a slave?” George asks.

  “Aye, for a time,” Bishop says. “Sold and shipped to Barbados with me wife. Served there a good long while, but 'twas not to last as nuthin’ in this life is.”

  “Did you purchase your freedom?” George asks. “Or escape?”

  “Neither. I let ‘em stretch my neck a wee bit,” Bishop says. He tilts his head back to show off his scar.

  Both George and Andrew crane their own necks to better see his.

  Even Rebecca does not shy away. She stands and traces her finger over the scar. Her eyes squint at the touch. “But how did you not die?” she asks.

  Bishop barks to frighten her away. He laughs when she takes a step back, but does not scream. “I believe I did,” he says. “But the good Lord weren’t done with me. Woke me from that dark and quiet sleep, He did.”

  Bishop folds his arms. ‘“Oi!’ the Almighty said to me. ‘Cause ye wouldn’t renounce yer faith in Me to them bastards that hung ye, I’ve a wee job for ye to do. I’m givin’ ye back the curse a life. And with it, I mean for ye to kill some right evil bitches.’”

  The boys and Rebecca titter at his cursing. I refrain in the event Priest may be watching me, even from afar, and disapprove.

  Bishop winks at us before continuing his tale. “‘Would that I could, yer Lordship,’ says I to Him. ‘But I’m a bit too old in the tooth to go huntin’ anything now. And me dead body growin’ stone cold here, too.’

  ‘Ye’ll do as I command,’ the Almighty answered in His thunderin’ tone. ‘I’m sendin’ ye to bring some sense to them colonial bastards in the north. And if it’s help ye be needin’, I’ll lead ye to find a lad that ne’er shuts his mouth to keep ye company.’”

  I assume he means Priest, though I still do not rightly understand his meaning. Priest never speaks.

  I watch Rebecca take the last strip of venison from Bishop’s plate with a wry grin. “Where is your wife now?” she asks in an innocent way only children can. “If you were sold together, why is she not here?”

  Bishop puts his arm about her shoulder in a half hug. Even he cannot hide the trace of sadness in his normally merry voice. “Augh, right now she’s either singin’ with the angels, or havin’ a pint with St. Peter.”

  Still, Rebecca’s questions and Bishop’s mostly good humor gives me courage. “Pray, sir,” I ask. “What was she like?”

  “A stubborn old wench, she was.” The corners of his eyes crinkle in the retelling. “Right till the end a her days, or so others told me.”

  Rebecca’s lips smack at the food. “You were not with her when she passed?”

  Bishop slumps a bit. “I ne’er saw her again after they led me to the scaffold and draped the black hood over me head. I learned she came to yer colonies after me funeral. I journeyed here meself upon me rise from beyond the grave. It weren’t long ere I heard tell of an Irish woman who refused to confess as a witch and hanged for it. That’s when I knew me poor wife had been murdered.”

  “They hung her?” George asks.

  “Aye,” Bishop says gravely. “The Mather bastards saw to it, both father and son. For witchery, they called it, but they had no proof in it. Mark me words, lads. She died for bein’ a Catholic, and a woman who wouldn’t bend to kiss their heels.

  "Ah, she knew the truth when they came for her, most like,” he says as one lost in a memory. “What with her havin’ witnessed a sham trial when I hanged for the same. Others who saw her die told me she refused to speak in English. Wouldn’t give the bastards what they wanted.” He smiles.

  A silence creeps amongst us at his sad tale. Rebecca is the only one to break it. “Have you been hunting witches ever since, sir?”

  Bishop kindly strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. “There’s no such thing as witches, lass. Only powder-snortin’ bitches and their heathen lovers.”

  The boys and Rebecca laugh.

  I cannot. It be a good thing Bishop keeps their moods light. The faces of those who laughed at my Father’s death yet linger in my mind, however. I try to clear my head of such thoughts. If what Bishop says is true, there will be more than enough fear to go around tonight. Best not linger on it now. I toss the rest of my meat aside for the cats to find.

  Bishop seems to take it as a signal. “Right.” He grunts as he slowly stands. His ankles and knees pop with old age. “We’ve rested like a bunch a ninnies far too long. There’s work needs doin’ yet.”

  I rise with the others to collect the dirty plates they leave behind. Wesley alone stays behind to help. “Where do you take them to wash?” he asks.

  “There be a basin we moved from the house to the barn. We must fill it first.”

  “Aye,” he says. “Is there a stream close?”

  Something in the way he asks makes me hesitant. I gaze across the field. “There is, but it lies beyond the corn. I think it wise we not go there now.”

  He looks at his feet. “You doubt my protection.”

  Oh, no, I think to say. Only I do not wish to be alone with you right now.

  I cannot bring myself to tell him.

  But what can I speak to him on? This newly made man who has offered my family his protection? I do not have long to ponder. A lie remains a lie, no matter the goodly intent. The ghost of Father’s voice rings in my head.

  “We do not need the stream,” I say. “Father dug a well, just beyond the barn wall.”

  The thought seems to cheer Wesley a bit, but I gather he yet has a lingering doubt. “Here.” He takes the plates from me. “You should not be carrying those with your wrist sprained.”

  “It hurts not so bad.” I take them back, and cradle them in the crook of my good forearm and elbow. “Besides, that is why God gave us two.”

  Wesley shakes his head. “I have oft heard you bull-headed.”

  “From whom?” I ask, taking the lead in our walk to the barn.

  “Mother told me it is a sin to gossip,” he says easily. “God may not strike me down if I shared such secrets, but Mother certainly would.”

  I laugh without meaning to. The thought of Wesley’s mother bending his six-foot frame over her knee and spanking him with a wooden spoon is too much.

  “In truth,” he says, “I did not wish to seem forward. My father oft preaches to me the virtues spoken of in the Good Book. Of honoring one another and of a wife’s submission to her husband—”

  I scoff.

  “Pray, do not mishear me,” he adds quickly. “I like that you are stubborn, Sarah. Most other girls only gossip with one another after church. They ask silly questions and titter at everything I say.”

  He stops me with a touch of his hand. Then he stands before me that I might better see his plain and realize he speaks from the heart. “You were always different. You, the only one to ever ignore me.” He chuckles. “What I mean to say is…I care for you, Sarah.”

  Surely Charlotte or Ruth would know what to say. Either of them would most like kiss him right here and now. If only Emma—

  I gasp.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Wesley asks. “That man, Priest. I have seen how you look at him. Hear me, Sarah. He is wild. Savage, mayhap. He wi
ll not linger here. A man—”

  They will come for her too…Hecate and her witches. Did Wesley not say they burned and killed all the Martins and Baileys? What if they mean to do the same to Emma and her family?

  “Oh, Emma,” I say.

  Wesley’s forehead wrinkles. “Have you heard nothing of what I said, Sarah?”

  I look up at the sun. It is well past noon. Bishop said the witches only come at night. If I ride for Emma’s home, I may yet make it there and back before dusk. I look down at my wrist. If I run afoul of them…

  “Sarah?” Wesley asks.

  I drop the plates, not caring that they shatter at my feet. “Will you ride with me?”

  His grin is quick to appear. “You wish to go riding now? But your wrist is lamed. And where would we go?” He looks around the fields. “Work needs done yet ere night falls.”

  I hold no doubts Priest would have pulled me onto his stallion before I had asked the question. I wish he took me instead.

  “To save Emma and her family,” I say. “I have run from here to her home in almost two hours before. If we take the horses—”

  “But Emma is not at home,” Wesley says. “They are at church with everyone else.”

  “Was she there this morn when Priest convinced you to come hither?”

  Wesley’s face hardens. “He could not persuade me to follow him anywhere. I have already said I came to protect you.”

  “Protect me now, then.” I beg of him. “It is a further ride to church and back. We must go now if we are to return ere night falls.”

  “Sarah…”

  “Please!” I say. “You may doubt Priest and Bishop, but I do not. Believe my words. If they say all at church will die this night, it will be so. We must go there and convince the others to come. Aye, and your parents also.”

  Wesley scratches the back of his neck. “Bishop said the witches come for you. Hecate comes for you. If they find us on the highroad, alone...”

  I run for the barn.

  “Sarah!”

  Fear cautions me against leaving. Stay here, little girl, and be safe.

  Those at church would not listen to Priest’s words of wisdom. Very well. Let them discover what happens when the Devil’s daughter comes to call. Let them see with their own eyes what gruesome fate found Paul Kelly in the woods.