Salems Vengeance

by Aaron Galvin

  “Heyaah!” he utters to our mount.

  We outdistance the other two. The wind whistles in my ears, but it is not enough to drown out more war cries. I glance over Priest’s right arm to look behind us.

  Several more highwaymen and a pair of witches in tattered dress have emerged from inside the woods. All of them bound for my friends.

  Wesley does not halt Hickory. He mows the first of them down under the draft horse’s massive weight.

  Emma screams at one of the witches who grasped her foot ere being trampled.

  Mr. Greene is not so wise. He pulls back on the reins at the sight of a highwayman running straight at them. Moses rears in fright. The sudden movement pitches both husband and wife to the ground.

  I feel cold metal pressed into my hands. I look down.

  Priest has given me his long dagger. I feel his warm lips upon my ear.

  “Ride,” he commands me.

  The safety net of his arms and body about me falls away. By the time I turn, he is already on foot. With a grim nod, he slaps the stallion’s haunch.

  “No!” I cry.

  I see him run back toward the fray. Then, he is gone to darkness as his stallion bears me away.

  -16-

  I am a mile hence from the battle ere I can halt the stallion. Even then, the beast makes as though he means to run again. I look on into the lingering blackness.

  Fear cautions me to continue on as Priest bid. Alone now, I pull the tiny hairs of the stallion’s mane. “Back! We must go back!”

  It only whinnies in response.

  I hear hooves approach. I loose the mane, and take up the blade instead. It quivers in my hand. Do I give what little defense I can, or open my veins and keep Hecate from her prize? I prick my fingers upon the edge.

  Wicked sharp, it calls my blood at the slightest touch.

  No. Father did not wilt in the face of death. Nor did Priest when surrounded by Hecate and her followers. I do both an injustice if I falter so easily now.

  I remind myself of Bishop’s words. They come for me…Plan to take me before the Warlock. Mayhap I might put an end to him, or even Hecate ere they kill me.

  I hide the dagger inside my dress, and tie the strings of my dirtied apron to bind it close. The coldness of it freezes my naked skin, a reminder I yet live.

  I hear echoing shouts of pain in the far distance. Oddly, they give me hope. I cannot imagine Priest to make such noise.

  Two mounts approach, each bearing a pair of riders.

  “Sarah!”

  Emma! She still lives!

  I see her clutch Wesley’s arm about her. I am instantly equal parts jealous and mad.

  Why can she keep her protector when mine abandoned me?

  Wesley tries to release her.

  Emma refuses to let him.

  “Why have you not gone?” Wesley scolds me.

  Mr. and Mrs. Greene ride up behind them. Both of them are worse the wear. A long gash streaks up her leg. Blood trickles from his forehead into his right eye.

  Only four have returned... “Where is he?” I ask.

  My question brings a new whimper from Emma, one that sounds like a dying lamb.

  I look to Wesley.

  He frowns in answer.

  It cannot be. It must not be.

  “Dead.” Mr. Greene blinks to keep the blood out of his eye. “I saw it at the last. He gave up his life to help me back on the horse. I turned round to help him and saw—”

  “What?” I scream. “What did you see?”

  Mr. Greene hangs his head. “He felled them like wheat before the scythe. One of the witches...I-I thought surely she was dead...but…she drove a dagger in his back. I—”

  “No…”

  Mr. Greene draws the courage to look me in the eyes. “I watched him fall. H-he did not rise again.”

  I hate the sudden wetness of tears upon my cheeks and the cowardice in all who now surround me. “Why did you not return help him?” I ask. “It may be he yet lives.”

  Wesley urges Hickory closer to me. “Sarah, he is gone. We can do naught for him now…but, we can return to warn the others.”

  He reaches out to touch me.

  I shove his hand away. Of course he would wish us to return and leave Priest. Did Wesley not point out my affections for Priest earlier?

  “No!” I cry. “I would see his body.”

  “They are coming, Sarah,” Wesley speaks softer still. “Think on Rebecca, your mother, and George. Aye. And Andrew Martin, also. They will need our help if they are to last the night.”

  I can yet feel Priest’s phantom lips upon my ear. Hear his whispering voice…’Ride.’ Only a word, but in its tone he spoke more than someone else might say with twenty. He would not wish me to stay here and die on the highroad. I know he finally spoke that I might heed him; that his word would push me to go. Push me onward even though it means leaving his body to rot for scavengers to feast upon.

  I rub the snot away with my bad forearm. Resting my lamed wrist upon my lap, my elbow brushes the hidden hilt of his dagger. The touch of it bids me think of Thomas Putnam’s hatred for those who wronged him. Nervous energy germinates within me.

  I will have my own vengeance this night. I brush the hilt again. With God as my witness, I shall reap a reckoning on Hecate and her followers for all they have taken from me.

  “Let us away from here,” I say.

  My heart hardened and mind blank, I click to the stallion as Priest once did. It trots me down the highroad toward home. Nothing I do coaxes more speed from it, almost as if it understands the fate of its master and mourns with me. My eyes sweep back and forth in search of any new scouts or traps lying in wait. In truth, I almost wish I found some. My hatred is fresh, my blood hot.

  I recall Bishop saying Priest went ranging earlier in the day. It must be he found and killed any of Hecate’s scouts close to home. We find no more to bar our path.

  Even before turning down the dirt drive, I see tiny sprinklings of orange light inside my home. The lights are broken up from the planks Bishop and the boys nailed to the windows.

  Spurring Priest’s stallion ahead, I leave the others behind.

  I see smoke escape from our chimney.

  Are they so foolish to cook inside even now? I chide myself for thinking so poorly of Bishop. I suppose it does not matter if they are. We know Hecate and her army comes for us. Why should my family not enjoy a final meal?

  I hear nothing upon my approach, however.

  Odd…surely they heard me upon horseback. God forbid George or Andrew have their aims trained on me and mistake me for a witch.

  “It is I, Sarah!” I call upon my approach.

  They must hear me for there is no shot. I tug on the stallion’s mane to bring him to a halt. Sliding off, I wonder why Bishop and the others have not yet opened the door to welcome my return?

  I run to the cabin and pound upon the door. “Mr. Bishop! George! We have returned!”

  There is no reply.

  Why will they not let me in?

  A cold wind blows. It shrieks in my ears and freezes my soul.

  What if they cannot hear me? I back away from the door slowly. My mind tortures me, recalling images of Father swinging by the neck, and the screams of those at church. What if Hecate or a scouting party came here first? What if all that remains of my family lies dead inside?

  I look to the road.

  Wesley and his father have turned up our alley.

  My conscience speaks they will be here in a moment. I should wait for them ere I check inside. That is what a sane person would do.

  Father gifted his patience to Rebecca and George, though. I step close to the cabin. The tough wooden siding against my back reminds me of Priest. I reach into my gown, pull the dagger free, and remind myself to breathe.

  It does little good.

  I raise the dagger to strike any attacker, and peek my head around the window.

  There is a slight crack the plank defenses
do not cover. I am outside the kitchen.

  Inside, I see the hearth aglow. Three figures of similar size lay prostrate around it, each covered with quilts. A larger, unmoving fourth slumps against the far window.

  Only four…

  I hurriedly count how many we left behind. Bishop, Mother, George, Andrew, and—Where is Rebecca? She would be far smaller than all laying inside.

  Hecate’s threat rings in my ears. Tomorrow his daughter’s scalp I shall wear.

  No. I cannot believe it. Not Rebecca. Perhaps she sleeps upstairs in our bed. Aye. She must be upstairs. I run around the corner, careful to keep in the shadows. I look up to where the window of our room is. The shutters are closed, barred by wooden planks.

  “Rebecca!” I call out in a hushed voice. “Rebecca!”

  “She’s not there, lass.” Bishop emerges from the dogwood Emma and Ruth once hid behind. His jovial expression disappears when he sees me holding Priest’s dagger.

  “He’s dead,” his voice wavers. “Isn’t he?”

  The tears I hated so much to cry return. I nod. “A witch upon the road,” I say. “How did you know?”

  He snorts and clears his throat. “That’s his father’s blade. The lad would ne’er part with it if he yet lived.” He kicks the cabin wall. “Stubborn bastard! Told him not to go. Now he’s dead and for what?”

  He looks past at me at hearing the others approach. “Augh,” he scoffs. “An old man and a couple cryin’ wenches, eh? Yer pardon, lass, but I’d rather have me lad back.”

  I know not what to say. He is rightfully angry, yet I see three souls saved for his one sacrifice. Some small comfort if we are all to join Priest in death tonight. I think grimly.

  “Where is Rebecca?” I ask.

  Bishop jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “In the barn with the others.”

  “But inside—I saw bodies lying on the floor—”

  “Ye saw what I wanted ye to see,” Bishop replies, a bit of humor coming back into this voice. “And what I mean for the bitches to ere I send ’em to Hell. Now, come.” He motions me to follow. “We’d best hide away in case their lot watch us even now.”

  The others wait patiently in front of my home.

  Foolishness. I shake my head. Witches could have taken me on the other side and kept me hostage, for all they know. Instead, they sit patiently upon the back of tired mounts. What if a raiding party befell us now, out in the open? I doubt Hickory and Moses have the strength to bear them away a second time.

  Wesley sits straighter upon seeing us. “Mr. Bishop, sir. These are my parents—”

  “I don’t give a wet fart who they are. Get inside the barn, and quick. Or stay out here if ye like, but make yer decision and make it now.”

  Wesley shifts uneasily and opens his mouth to speak.

  His father does before he can. “We are indebted to your companion, sir,” Mr. Greene speaks solemnly. “My family and I will do whatever you bid us that we might repay his sacrifice.”

  Bishop nods. “Get in the barn, then. Up in the hayloft ye’ll find the lads. Give ’em a break from their watch. If’n they’re still awake, that is,” he adds under his breath. He watches them ride away. With a shake of his head, he turns to me. “The rest of ’em die at the church?”

  I nod. “Th-they burned it,” I say as we begin our march for the barn. “And the ones who made it out…”

  “Scalped ’em, I’ll warrant.” Bishop says. “Aye, made to look like the work were done by the natives. Ye know they learned it from white folk?”

  He must gather I did not. He chuckles darkly as he continues limping along. “A few years before the Salem trials, folks offered bounties for every native scalp brought in. Three pounds a head, I believe.”

  “That cannot be,” I say. “It is a savage custom. Everyone knows—”

  “All people know is what they been told, lass. And usually what they’re told first. Before last night, ye know yer father for Paul Kelly. A good-hearted man who cared for his family, not the Dr. Simon Campbell what sparked the Salem trials.”

  I stop walking. My thoughts dwell on Thomas Putnam’s journal and all he had written. “And how did you come to know my father for Dr. Campbell?”

  Bishop hangs his head. “I was there, lass,” he says heavily. “Like I said to yer father. Now would ye like to hear this tale again and be scalped yerself? Or may we continue to the barn so we’re not out in the open when they arrive?”

  I understand his urgency, but I want answers Thomas Putnam’s journal did not give. In my anger, I outdistance him to limp behind me. I catch Wesley embracing Emma just outside the barn.

  He lets her go upon seeing me.

  Emma is crying again.

  How does her body produce so many tears?

  Wesley sighs at my questioning look. “She is afeared there might be…”

  “Snipes,” Emma says. “They will drag me inside—”

  I laugh. With everything that has occurred to her these past few days, she is afeared of an imaginary creature? I wish I could tell Ruth and Charlotte.

  The thought of them kills my laughter.

  Nothing will ever be the same again, I realize. They are gone forever now.

  As I look upon Emma, I note our friendship, too, is ended. I pity her, as I always have, yet her betrayal drove a wedge between us I cannot pluck.

  Both Wesley and Emma look at me like they do not know what to make of me. Indeed, I must seem mad to both laugh and grow dour in such a short span of time.

  “Better the snipes take you than Hecate and her followers,” I say.

  Fresh tears form in the corners of Emma’s eyes.

  I enter the barn, leaving Wesley to mend the broken spirit she will always be. I hear the cows shuffling about in their pen toward the back. Their moos bid me think it is any other night. I would happily milk them now to make it true.

  Mr. Greene stabled both Hickory and Moses. They neigh at my scent and bump the wooden sides with their huge haunches. I find my way past and to the hayloft ladder. My eyes adjust to the darkness as I climb, and I see dim shapes by the time I reach the top.

  Two figures guard either side of the great loft opening. George and Andrew.

  I fondly recall watching Father raise hay bales from the rope and pulley hung from the rafter outside it. He would fearlessly reach out into the empty air to pull them inside and then stack them in preparation for the winter months. Sometimes, he would even let us build forts of hay bales to play inside of.

  The doors are only cracked open now though. Not enough to make our presence inside known, but enough to allow us some bird’s eye view of anything outside. A bit of pale light from the hunter’s moon shines through it.

  The rustling of hay in the far end of our barn unnerves me. Never have I been up here at night. Perhaps I should not have been so cruel to Emma.

  “Sarah?”

  Rebecca’s voice…She is safe!

  “Where are you?” I ask.

  I hear the patter of her small feet run across the boards. A moment later, a shadow leaps at me. I catch my little sister in my arms. Even when she releases her hold on me, I refuse to let go of her.

  “Saar-ah,” she says, and tries to wriggle free.

  I force myself to let her down.

  “You made it back!” she says happily. “And you brought Emma too!”

  It is hard for me to not be caught up in her enthusiasm. “Aye,” I say. “Wesley’s parents also.”

  Rebecca leans close to me. “I heard Mrs. Greene speak to Mother,” she whispers so low I scarcely hear her. “She said you met misfortune on the road, but Mr. Priest delivered you. She said savages killed him! I know the truth of it though. He will return with Father!”

  There is plenty of somberness amongst us already, I tell myself. Let Rebecca be the one to keep our spirits alive. “Where is Mother now?”

  Rebecca takes my hand. “Come.”

  She escorts me to the furthest corner of the barn. I hear crying fr
om the opposite side, then Mr. Greene’s soft ssh-ssh-ssh as he hushes his wife.

  “Mother…” Rebecca says. “Mother…Sarah has returned.”

  “Sarah?”

  She says my name like one who knows but has since forgot.

  I follow her voice as she continues to repeat my name. I find her lying in an unbound pallet of straw. I kneel beside her. Taking her hands, I place them upon my cheeks. “I have returned, Mother. I am safe.”

  “Did you bring your father with you?” she asks. “I fear he went to the taverns again. You did right to fetch him.”

  I do not know of what she speaks. Never did I see Father drink like other men. In fact, he oft preached the use as a tool of Satan to corrupt otherwise goodly men.

  “Y-you did find him,” her voice sounds pained at my lack of answer. “Did you not, Sarah?”

  “A-aye, Mother,” I say.

  A lie remains a lie, no matter the goodly intent. I hear Father’s voice in my head.

  “He will return home soon.”

  Mother takes my hand and pats it. “Good. That is for good. I hope he comes not too late. There have been rumors of savages raiding the countryside.”

  With one hand, she pulls Rebecca close to her side. The other reaches inside her apron. “I hope they do not come here.” She strokes Rebecca’s thin hair. “The red-man does…terrible things to white women.”

  My wits tell me I must needs go on now without Mother as well. Hecate has stolen almost all from me. I will not let fear of her take my sister as well.

  “I-I believe the raids put down, Mother,” I say. “Come, Rebecca. Let us look after your poppets.”

  Rebecca will not move. “I already hid them.”

  “Ah,” I say. “But we must check on them. You would not want them afeared, would you?”

  My sister’s teeth gleam as she smiles. “No. I will go at once.”

  “Do not go far,” Mother calls at our leave.

  We are but five feet away when Rebecca squirms her hand from mine. “I wish to tell them alone. Elsewise, it would not be a secret.”

  “Aye, I understand, but come back to me when you are done. We must let Mother rest.”

  I watch her disappear into the further reaches of the loft.

  The ladder creaks behind me. Two figures climb its rungs. Emma comes first, her eyes warily searching out snipes. If anyone but Wesley followed her, I would laugh she fell for a boy’s scheme to look up her dress. He is too gentlemanly for such a trick, however.