Salems Vengeance

by Aaron Galvin

  Priest is a stranger though, and our community has ever been wary of outsiders. Those at church have known me since I were a babe. They will listen to me. They must listen to me.

  I reach the stables and fling one of doors open. Hickory and Moses watch me hurry to their stables. I reach my hands to their noses that they might smell them and recognize my scent so they do not startle. I attempt to lift a harness from its placing on the wall with my good hand. The weight of it nearly topples me. Sweat pours off my brow as I try again and fail.

  “You are indeed a woman gone mad,” Wesley says from the doorway.

  “You came to protect me and my family,” I say, attempting a third time. “Why should it be any different that I wish to protect my friend and yours?”

  He comes to aid me. The weight of it buckles him a bit, for he is not nearly so strong as Father was, but he is able enough to free it loose.

  “Come, Hick,” I whistle, and lead Hickory out for Wesley to hitch. Moses is more difficult. He is accustomed to being fed ere he will budge. I give him an apple whole to tease him from the stable.

  Wesley is less successful. He cowers as Moses rears, unused to a stranger’s touch. I grab the harness roughly to show Moses I have no fear of him. He neighs, but settles. With Wesley’s help, we quickly set about hitching them to the wagon.

  “Hurry, hurry,” I say. “We must leave ere Bishop discovers us.”

  “Why?”

  “He will stop us. Restrain me somehow.”

  “If you know he will, then why do you go?”

  Because I am a stubborn wench. “Please, hurry!”

  I leave his side, climb into the wagon, and take up the reins. The leather straps feel sweaty in my hands, or is it my hands that make the reins sweat? I cannot tell.

  Wesley joins me. “This is lunacy,” he says.

  I slap the reins. Hickory and Moses pull away. I jolt back in my seat and catch myself with my good hand. We burst out of the barn, headed for the highroad. I see Bishop notice us at the last. He waves his arms about, calling out for us to halt. Yelling that Hecate comes for the Campbell family.

  I do not stop.

  With us leaving, I wonder what Bishop will do next. Will he leave to give us chase, or guard my family? I pray he stays. My family will need his comforting lead until I return.

  Reaching the end of our drive, I guide Moses and Hickory to turn for the highroad.

  There is also Priest to consider. Is he truly ranging like Bishop declared, or did he hide somewhere to keep watch over us? I hope he watched and saw I, too, am a free spirit.

  Oddly, I have the audacity to wonder if my newest act will finally loosen Priest’s tongue, and if I will live to hear his rebuke.

  -14-

  We set the horses at a good pace—fast enough to guarantee our quick arrival, but not so slow to trot—when Wesley asks me who the Campbell family is.

  “Mr. Bishop yelled they come for Campbell’s family,” he studies me. “You seemed to recognize of whom he spoke.”

  His question makes me recall Thomas Putnam’s journal. I wonder if it might yet hold some secret to the past I might use to sway those at church, and fumble inside my apron for it.

  Wesley looks at me as one gone insane. “You brought a Bible?”

  I flip through the pages to find the one I earmarked.

  “Sarah…”

  “Hush!” I silence him. “Keep us on course.”

  Then, I begin to read…

  ***

  5th day of June, 1692

  God help me to finish this letter. The marrow in my bones has only now begun to thaw.

  It was after dusk ere I walked for home from visiting Captain Alden in his cell. Halfway there, my horse went lame upon hearing fast beating drums behind me. I glanced o’er my shoulder, and there marked a giant of a man riding hard. He rode a steed as black as the evil we bewitch Salem with.

  He halted the stallion ere it trampled me.

  The beast screamed terribly at the choke, yet could not throw him.

  It being a moonless night, I could not plainly see his face for he kept his hat dipped low over his brow. Even now, safe within the comforts of my home, I admit no portion of me desired to see the full of his face.

  He mentioned his search for a young doctor, new to the area. From his pattern of speech, I gathered he hails from across the sea, though claiming he came from Boston.

  If this stranger asked me but a few days past I might have lied about my relationship to Dr. Campbell. However, he spoke with an understanding that told me to speak only truth in his presence. I somehow drummed the courage to first inquire as to why he searched for Dr. Campbell.

  He gave the stallion free reign, allowing it to stomp around me, snorting wildly. If he intended to frighten me, he succeeded, with great effect. The stranger then related to me the tales of Salem’s witchcraft had intrigued him. He next revealed his knowledge to every step of our plot and the true nature of the girls’ affliction. Indeed, he spoke so reverently of it I near believed it his own plan.

  I saw no sense in lying to him upon hearing this, and asked how he came to acquire such knowledge.

  The stranger claimed Dr. Campbell apprenticed under his tutelage. From his tone, I gathered Campbell betrayed him in some manner, and this stranger has searched for him ever since.

  Too afeared to ask more of him, I delayed my answers in hopes a kindly neighbor might happen down the road to see this strange man and break his hold over me. I realize now the hope futile. If ever I thought Dr. Campbell had some great foresight, his master had a deeper power reaped from a darker plane.

  I related to him all I knew of Dr. Campbell.

  ***

  Father served this dark man, then; the Warlock, as Bishop named him. Putnam’s musings trouble me for his descriptions paint how I first felt in Hecate’s presence. I wish Father still lived to answer my many questions. How could he serve a man like the one Thomas Putnam described? And better yet, betray him?

  For a moment, I think to speak aloud the questions I wrestle with about Father, yet to do so would surely bring more inquiries from Wesley.

  Hesitantly, I read on.

  ***

  The stranger next asked of the girl who made such passionate accusations amidst the court.

  I gathered he meant Abigail Williams, for she hath often led the others to do as she bid.

  He rightly surmised her an orphan girl, made so by the Indian wars. He said we wasted a girl of such enthusiasms upon condemning the innocent, and questioned if she might consider a grander scheme. Aye, and reap a bit of her own vengeance also. The man claimed a lonely existence since Campbell betrayed him. I gathered he saw in her a pure joy for the malicious work his former apprentice had not the will to carry out.

  Then he asked I give Abigail over to him.

  I told the stranger she was no slave, nor did I have the power to sell her in any case. She was also a child, only twelve years of age. How could he mean to have her serve him except but through ill deeds best left unsaid.

  The stranger insisted he misspoke; he questioned then not whether I would give her over, but rather, would it be Abigail Williams he took with him this night, or my own daughter, Ann?

  I heard no pretense in his question.

  He bid me make my decision quickly ere he left me to ride for my home.

  I gave him my answer. Then, he left me weeping in the dust.

  I do so even now for Abigail Williams. God only knows what sinister plot that demon has in store for her, but what choice did I have? For what righteous man would willingly give up his daughter’s life in exchange of another?

  ***

  Abigail Williams is Hecate!

  All my thoughts jumble. My hatred of Hecate now mixed with pity for a young girl caught in the schemes of wicked men.

  However, Putnam claims the Warlock chose her for the passion she had in condemning others, so should I truly pity her? If what he wrote is true, it is little wonder why Abi
gail harbors such hatred for Father. The words she spoke of him stealing her life and blackening her name…all of it true.

  My mind reels. My body must also, for Wesley reaches over to right me. “Sarah,” he says. “What are you reading about?”

  “Salem,” I say quietly. “Hecate is from Salem. She was one of the afflicted girls.”

  “How do you know?”

  I lift the journal for him to better see. “She wanted me to read this...gave it for me to learn truth.”

  Wesley squints confusedly at the journal, then me. “Why?”

  It is not right to speak ill of the dead. I cannot bring myself to admit Father’s shame. “I do not know. I think she mistakes us for some other family.”

  A lie remains a lie, no matter the goodly intent…

  I do it for you, Father. I argue with my conscience. To protect the goodly man Mother says you became after leaving Salem.

  I decide to put aside any grain of truth Father and Dr. Campbell were the same man. Henceforth, I vow to only think of him in the goodly light he showed me all the days I can remember.

  Still, I cannot shut myself to thinking ill of Hecate. Unlike Father, she is alive. I may think all the evils of her I wish.

  Did she change like Father? Did Hecate kill any remaining goodness Abigail Williams once possessed? I must learn more of what befell her to better understand the monster she has become. I bend my neck to read more of the few entries left in Putnam’s journal.

  ***

  10th day of June, 1692

  The absence of Abigail Williams has been noted amongst the court, yet the trials continue. Too consumed are they now by who will go to trial next, and then the rope, to concern themselves with the fate of one afflicted orphan.

  I have not spoken of what transpired that night to Reverend Parris, nor do I mean to share the tale with anyone. It matters little. Parris were distraught at first hearing she had disappeared, but he and the others have since reckoned she ran off to Boston to make her own way. He worries more over his Betty, she who yet claims to suffer even from so far away.

  I bid my daughter keep up her pretense to safeguard her until the other girls cease their supposed afflictions.

  For now, both Dr. Campbell and the stranger I met have vanished entirely. I know not what their fates may be, nor do I care. I am thankful for the vengeance Dr. Campbell helped me claim and the further riches to come, but it is my fervent hope to never see either man again.

  In the meantime, Reverend Parris, Dr. Griggs, and I have agreed we must allow this plot burn itself out ere Salem returns to normal.

  The executions began today with Bridget Bishop the first to hang on Gallows Hill.

  I admit a sense of pride when I heard her neck break, especially when I saw her viperous tongue that spread so many rumors about me loll out of her mouth afterward. A small bit of me desired to take it for a trophy that I might show it to any who think to speak ill of me again.

  Alas, I know I cannot and must content myself she be dead. Perhaps it is for good. How else could she beg for Lucifer to quit her torments?

  ***

  How can a person be so evil to take joy in the murder of another, innocent or no?

  Any small bit of sympathy I had for Putnam giving over Abigail Williams rather than his daughter vanishes, replaced with utter disgust.

  I think to throw this journal and its history away.

  Prudence warns there may yet be some bit of note to save others and learn me more of Father’s past. I read on.

  ***

  16th day of June, 1692

  Dr. Griggs came to speak good tidings to me this afternoon, namely that Roger Toothaker died in prison. I am told those who examined him deemed it from natural causes due to his age.

  I believe not a scrap of it. Toothaker is dead for no other reason than Griggs desired it.

  Griggs also shared with me a bit of gossip heard from Reverend Parris.

  Apparently, our head justice, William Stoughton, requested a letter written by Reverend Cotton Mather read to him today. Mather requested the court disallow the use of spectral evidence, meaning to put an end to the afflicted girls’ claims evil spirits have been cast to torment them. He also urged the trials be speedy to end this grim time.

  I took from that both Cotton and his father, Increase, fear their names blackened from this affair and wish to pawn their actions on Stoughton.

  ***

  Mather…Bishop spoke the name earlier today whilst mentioning his wife. They are the ones who hanged her for a witch!

  I find it strange I cannot recall any mention of her in Putnam’s journal, however. The only Ann he wrote of is his daughter. Surely a girl so young could not have been Bishop’s wife; nor is there any record of her accused in the journal.

  There must be a connection, but what?

  “We are almost there…” Wesley says.

  I glance up from the journal. Indeed, the steeple is not afar off. Lowering my gaze, I read quickly in search of any bit of information that might convince those at church to come with us.

  ***

  Griggs relayed Stoughton is like-minded to our cause, and had Reverend Parris burn the letter after. I am told Stoughton mentioned the trials would indeed be speedy, but neglected the portion of disallowing the spectral evidence to the courts.

  After Griggs took his leave, a strange notion came to me. Did only happy chance place Stoughton to head the court, or did Dr. Campbell hold some sway in Boston too?

  If so, he placed Stoughton wisely. The man’s zealotry for ridding the countryside of witchery is unmatched.

  19th day of August, 1692

  Reverend Cotton Mather visited Salem to witness Martha Carrier hanged. He even named her the Queen of Hell for the entire crowd to hear. I know naught what she hath done to warrant his especial visit, but she surely reaped the vengeance he sought, for his claims to disallow spectral evidence did not save her.

  I furthered my own vengeance today; our former reverend, George Burroughs, hanged beside Carrier. Had he only repaid the debt he owed my family in a timely fashion, mayhap he would still live.

  ***

  I turn the page.

  There are shreds where others have been torn out. A single page is all that remains in Putnam’s journal.

  Wesley nudges me with his elbow. “We are here.”

  A ring of wagons encircles the church like they are the iris and the building its pupil. A few seated figures come to life. They raise their rifles to aim.

  I stow the journal back in my apron.

  “Halt!” cries one of the sentries. I recognize his voice for Mr. Bradbury, he who is husband to the missus that drowns my singing at church. “What business have you—“

  “Wesley?” another voice interrupts.

  “Aye.” Wesley pulls back on the reins. He looks at the one who called him by name. “Hello, Father.”

  Mr. Greene drops his rifle. “For Heaven’s sake,” he yells at the other men. “Put down your arms. It’s my son, come back to his senses. And with Sarah Kelly too! Pray, child,” Mr. Greene speaks to me. “Where be Goody Kelly and your brother and sister?”

  I cannot find my voice. Though Mr. Greene ordered the others to lower their aim, not all have done so.

  “Gone and left them, have you?” Mr. Bradbury asks sharply. “Mayhap she has some of her Father’s good sense after all.”

  “Peace, Goodman Bradbury,” Wesley speaks for me. “We have not returned to stay.”

  “You see, David,” Mr. Bradbury elbows Mr. Greene. “It is true what my wife has said. Your son is bewitched by her.”

  My blood boils at the slight. “Do not name me witch!”

  Mr. Bradbury ignores my outburst. He looks to the other sentries. “Mark my words. Wesley rode off with that earlier scoundrel against his father’s good advice. Now he returns with this girl to strike discord amongst us. She seeks to divide us.”

  Wesley stops me from charging Mr. Bradbury. “We do not,” he says ca
lmly.

  “Then why you have returned, son, if not to stay?” Mr. Greene asks.

  “Aye,” Mr. Bradbury says. “Our stance has not changed since this morn. Nor will it now.”

  The sky is already blood red.

  We come too late. If we do not leave, and soon, we will be alone on the highroad, unprotected at nightfall. I must do something to save them!

  “Please, sirs.” I try to quell the anger in my voice. “I have seen that which you have only heard tale of. The witches mur—they murdered my Father before my very eyes. The strangers you met shielded me from a likewise fate.”

  “You see!” Mr. Bradbury interrupts. “It is a new ploy she speaks of!”

  “Quiet, will you!” Mr. Greene says. “Wesley, what say you to this?”

  “I doubted it at the first.” Wesley weights his words carefully. “But I worked alongside these men today. I believe them, Father. Even now they seek to fortify the Kelly homestead in preparation for the damnation they claim befalls Winford tonight.”

  One of the sentries raises his rifle. Another points to the highroad. “Look!”

  A lone rider in black approaches fast, the color of his stallion bleeding together with the crimson sunset.

  Priest…

  I hear footsteps behind me.

  “Sarah,” Mr. Greene says. “You may stay if you wish. Your father was ever a good friend to those in need. It would not serve for us to send you away now with dusk so near.”

  Wesley speaks before I can. “We do not wish to tarry, Father. She came for Emma Harney and her family,” he takes a deep breath. “And I for you and Mother. Please, I beg you. Come with us.”

  Mr. Greene puts the butt of his rifle into the ground. His face pains as he glances at the other sentries.

  The church doors open with Reverend Corwin among the first out. Mrs. Bradbury, ever one at the forefront of gossip, is not far behind. Families I have known all my life pour out behind them in following two of our community’s most verbal leaders.

  Yet even Mrs. Bradbury cowers when Priest drives his steed into the heart of their protective wagon circle. He draws both his long dagger and tomahawk ere his feet land to earth. He steps in front of me, stands shoulder to shoulder with Wesley, and raises his blades to the ready.