Salems Vengeance

by Aaron Galvin

  I hide behind a hay bale so they do not see me. There I watch from the shadows as he leads her from the opening in the floor and on to where his parents sit.

  From my position, I hear George and Andrew speaking in hushed whispers. They talk on what Bishop said to them of being men. How he mentioned they should envision shooting wolves tonight to shield their minds from the truth.

  Both seem nervous, to my mind.

  I suppose I am as well. I take a seat on the wooden floor and place my back to the hay. A sharp tinge in my thigh reminds me of the journal I carry.

  The journal!

  It seems ages since I read its contents. Can it be I read not a few short hours ago? Opening it, I near rip its pages to where I left off. A lone entry remains. I squint my eyes to better see in the dim moon rays. Then, I read the last words of Thomas Putnam.

  ***

  24th day of May 1699

  It seems my gift of foresight is proven a final time; my sins are come to bear this eve.

  Even now I hear the skittering of feet outside my home. Aye, and their accursed cackling.

  Why must they torment me so? Is it not enough I suffer in the knowledge they come for my life?

  I shot at the first sign of blackened teeth through the slats of lumber barring my windows. I know I missed, for the witches laughed wickedly at my aim.

  They plague me still with their infernal chants.

  Thank God I sent my wife and children away upon learning of Dr. Griggs’s death. I only pray they stay gone and escape this retribution for my trespasses.

  I heard it said others discovered Griggs with a dagger in his chest. Aye, with both red and black ribbons tied to its bone-hilt. Did he sheath it within himself because he could not withstand this same mockery I experience now?

  A similar dagger sits before me. Indeed, the longer their chanting persists, the more I find myself staring upon its blade, desiring to silence their voices.

  A dark melody has begun outside my home.

  I gather they come for me soon.

  I write this, my final entry, now to beg forgiveness of any who find it. Heaven help me, I lusted for power and had it granted for a moment. What cruel joke is it God plays upon us that all men must falter? Perhaps I shall discover its truth in Hell, for I am not like to discover th

  ***

  There is nothing further, almost as if someone plucked the quill from his hand.

  “What are ye readin’, lass?”

  Frustrated, I toss the book into the straw. “A dead man’s journal.”

  Bishop picks it up and thumbs through it. “And why would a lass be readin’ that?”

  “Hecate gave it to me. I think she meant for me to read it and turn against my Father when I learned the truth.”

  He turns a page and holds the book afar in front of him to read. I gather his vision must not be well for he blinks several times. “Would ye if he were alive?”

  “No,” I say. My own answer surprises me. “He was my father. Ne’er did I see the man she claimed him to be. Nor Thomas Putnam neither.”

  “Putnam, eh?” Bishop shakes his head. “There were an evil man if ere I met one.”

  I sit up. “You knew him?”

  “I met him,” Bishop clarifies. “I gathered he weren’t the grand schemer, but he did little to hide his hand in helpin’ breathe life to it. His daughter accused most folk hanged, ye know. I suppose he’s payin’ for it now. Greedy bastard.”

  I sense the chance to have answers to my questions. “You said you were in Salem.”

  Bishop settles his back against a hay bale and continues to read. “For a time…”

  “And,” I pause. “Did you sense my father had anything to do with the accusations?”

  Bishop turns another page. “No. He was smarter than the others. Didn’t guess his part in it until long after when I wrestled the truth from Putnam. There were other plotters too.” He studies the page. “But I reckon ye already know that.”

  “So you met both Dr. Griggs and Reverend Parris?”

  “Aye.”

  “And did you…”

  “Did I murder ‘em?” Bishop chuckles. “No, lass. Vengeance is best served by those betrayed. If ye want the hard truth, it’s why I stayed my hand with yer father. He did evil wrong, but not to me.”

  The easy way in which he says it makes me want to strike him. I do not, however, for I begin to understand his reasoning. I desire to spill Hecate’s blood. To learn someone did the task in my place would cheat me of my revenge.

  “Why do you help us?”

  “Eh?”

  “For all the wrong you say my Father did…why then do you help us? Why not abandon us to Hecate?”

  Bishop sighs. “Because ye left that first night I laid eyes on ye.”

  “What—”

  “I know ye saw me in the woods durin’ the witch gatherin’. Ye damn near gave me away, too, till the Devil’s daughter cut in on ye.”

  The shadow in the woods! It was Bishop!

  “I did see you!”

  “Aye,” Bishop says. “How do ye think the lad knew where to take ye home the next night?”

  “You had him follow me?”

  “I had him keep ye safe. Knew it took a right strong spirit to turn away from such folk. That’s someone worthy of protection in my book.” He grins. “The Devil’s daughter and others like her deserved their vengeance, I’ll grant ‘em that. But the rest of ye had naught to do with yer father’s sins. Just like me wife had naught to do with mine.”

  A grim silence settles between us as he looks over Thomas Putnam’s words.

  “Have you accomplished your own vengeance?” I ask finally. “For the ones who…killed your wife.”

  His gaze lingers on the open journal. “No.”

  “But you said—” I pause to weigh my next words carefully. “You said she hanged for a witch.”

  Bishop stains a page of the journal by placing one of his dirty fingers upon it. “Dr. Campbell asked if we could be trusted,” he traces over the words as he reads from Putnam’s journal. “An ignorant question, to my mind. Why should we answer anything but aye? Only after we agreed did he inquire if ever we heard tell of Goody Glover,” Bishop’s voice breaks. “Aye, I said. 'Twas but three year ago they hanged her for a witch in Boston for afflictin’ children.

  "Dr. Campbell then inquired if we believed in witchcraft, and Goody Glover guilty of bein’ one. The hailed Reverend Cotton Mather.” Bishop spits the name. “Said she were, I recall Parris sayin’. And those four children afflicted too. What else could she be,” he looks up from the journal sadly. “But a witch?”

  I cover my mouth with my hand. “Goody Glover…she was your wife...”

  His face is cloaked in somberness, yet nothing could hide the anger in the old man’s voice. “Aye,” Bishop says. “I am Patrick Glover.”

  -17-

  Bishop rests the journal upon his lap. “I spoke true to yer father,” he says. “A name follows a man. It’s why I haven’t given mine since learnin’ on me poor wife’s murder. But if I’m to join her tonight, I’ll have it known her husband died avengin’ her. Let this Devil’s daughter know she’s not the only ones who rises from the dead.”

  He chuckles himself into a small coughing fit.

  I assume a man once hanged has no fear of death any longer. I wish I could say the same for me.

  “Did he…Priest,” I say. “Was that his true name?”

  Bishop gives me a cock-eyed look.

  I blush at my own question. Are my affections so obvious? If Bishop senses them at a mere question, surely Priest did whenever I looked upon him.

  “It’s all right, lass,” Bishop says. “Yer not the first maid to desire an older man. I dare say he cared for ye too—”

  “He mentioned me?” I say quickly.

  Bishop nods. “In his own way. I believe if ye had been a year or two older, he’d a stolen ye right from under yer father’s nose and then off into the wild with both
of ye.”

  Did he consider us eloping on our first ride? Is that why he keeps his silence?

  “I wish he could have,” I say.

  “Augh. If he had done, all the others in this barn’d be dead, lass. Wesley, his muther and father, aye, and yer wee friend too. All of ’em burned and scalped with the others if not for yer warnin’.”

  No. That is not true. They and I would all be dead if not for Priest’s sacrifice on the highroad. “Tell me more of him,” I bid him.

  He snorts and crosses his arms. I have offended him in some way. Perhaps the death of his friend is too fresh in his mind. Only when he sighs do I realize the story I seek is forthcoming.

  “I found him a few years after Salem ended,” Bishop begins. “While trackin’ this Dr. Campbell I’d learned so much about. One mornin’, huntin’ me breakfast, I saw a risin’ smoke afar off. Thought to ride away from it at the first, but then I heard the Almighty whisper to me, ‘Twas help ye been naggin’ Me for and it’s help I be sendin’ ye now. If ye’ve not the courage to ride further, don’t be prayin’ for Me favor ne’er again, ye ungrateful bastard.’”

  His warm telling makes me smile. “And so you rode on and found him.”

  “Augh,” he tuts. “Heavens, no.”

  He sports with me. I lean forward to look him full in the face. “But, you must have done.”

  “Lass,” he says not unkindly. “I’d heard of raidin’ parties nearby. I didn’t want to run afoul of ‘em, ye see. Better to tuck tail and run the other way, thought I.”

  “But you found me in the woods,” I say. “The savages did not frighten you then.”

  He chuckles and tips his weather-beaten hat to me. “I think ye for puttin’ me up on high esteem. But, if ye recall it rightly, the lad fought ‘em. I only took ye by the hand and led ye away. Tuck tailed and ran there too, didn’t I?” he asks with a wry grin.

  “Alas,” he continues before I can speak. “The Almighty knew I’d run. He sent the natives to catch me not a mile away. They pulled me from me horse and stripped me shirt off. ‘Twas then they saw this.”

  I watch him unbutton the top of his shirt to reveal a wooden rosary that lay against his fuzzy chest like a fallen tree in tall grass. He rubs the long end of it between his fingers.

  “One bid the others stop then,” Bishop says. “They picked me off the ground, bound me hands, and led me through the woods toward the smoke. Augh, I were fearful scared. I’d heard it said the natives oft burned their captives alive in offerin’ to whatever heathen gods they worship. Thank Christ we arrived in a clearin’ ere I had long to ponder it. A whole tribe, I saw. All surroundin’ what remained of a cabin.

  "The rains from the night before must’ve put out the fire, but the smoke hung off the leftovers. The main of it still stood, mind ye, but only by the grace a the Almighty. I saw the cabin door’d been flung off its hinges and the blackness inside seemed an open pit into Hell itself. And, then, a brave spat out.” He chuckles. “His limbs cut and bleedin’, he wailed like a woman as he ran back to the others. So afeared I thought the Devil hisself put the fear in him.”

  Bishop seems to forget I sit with him. He sets his gaze on the far wall, almost as though he can see through it.

  “They carried me through the crowd,” he continues. “Dragged me before the chief to speak a few words. There I saw not only the one brave feared. It grabbed hold on me then, too.” He looks down at the rosary. “One of ’em put a blade in my hand. Shoved me toward the cabin.”

  “What did you do?” I ask.

  “Not much I could do.” he says. “They lifted their tomahawks and I knew ‘twas into the cabin with me, or be sent through the fire to meet the Almighty again. So, I gathered up me courage and walked toward it. I saw marks upon the house. Fresh blood stains covered the shattered windows, and arrows stuck in the wood beside ‘em. Ashen rags and hair, black as crow feathers, littered the stoop. A native raid, thought I, or so it seemed.” Bishop snorts. “But what demon lay inside to drive ‘em off? I halted at the doorstep and made the sign a the holy cross. Then, in I went.”

  I rub my shoulders to free them of the chill. “What did you see?”

  “Nuthin’,” he says. “Until the Almighty saw fit to grant me some wee vision. ‘Twas then I saw the bodies...” he says, gnawing his lip. “Women and children, all.”

  His fingers slip from merely rubbing the rosary. Now he clutches it whole. A part of me wishes I had not asked for this story. Still, I cannot bring myself to stop him.

  “I saw bits a bead and bone spread over the floor—either from the battle within, or the braves outside pickin’ the leavin’s off the bodies. I couldn’t be sure. I blessed their corpses with the Lord’s prayer. When I opened me eyes, a pair stared right back at me from ‘cross the room.”

  Bishop wipes a tear from his eye. “I saw him in the corner, hunched over a slain squaw and his naked skin painted black with soot. Augh, a more feral beast I ne’er looked upon. His stained tomahawk in hand and three slain Wabanaki braves before him. He almost looked a painter who’d spilt his stores all over the floor.”

  I can picture him in my mind’s eye. The grim set of his jaw locked for battle. His blade at the ready for any who meant to make him stir.

  “Did he speak to you then?” I ask.

  Bishop shakes his head. “I weren’t wonton to join the dead braves. I dared not venture further. Two days I sat there with him. The natives sent braves inside only once more.” He chuckles. “The lad rose faster than a bleedin’ serpent at the sight of ’em. He didn’t sit again until the natives left.”

  He clears his throat of the built up phlegm. “The third morn, I woke to the sound a wood splittin’. I hurried outside. Most the natives had gone, but they left a few scouts to report what happened.”

  “What sound? What did they labor at?”

  “Preparin’.” Bishop rests his head against the hay. “The lad walked amongst ‘em unafeared to fell the trees he wanted. All day he spent hewin’ the lumber to fashion the pyre for his muther. He finished near nightfall. The brave I’d seen run away approached him with a jar, oil that smelled something sweet. The lad made to exchange his axe for it, but, to their everlastin’ credit, the natives wouldn’t take it.

  "The lad said something in a native tongue then. I gathered they lay the ill between ‘em to rest. He cleaned his muther’s body with the oil. Kissed her forehead. Then he spoke to the braves again. Together, they helped him lift her body upon the pyre ere night fell. That night, they set fire to it. Danced round it, wailin’ and singin’ in words me ears couldn’t understand. Me heart knew the meanin’ though. And the lad…he did not dance. He stood there all night, starin’ into the flames.”

  Bishop hangs his head. “When I awoke the next morn, the natives had gone. I couldn’t know then the stories they’d tell on him circled their camps already. Ye see, natives know what white men long forgot. There’s power in a name. It’s why the natives won’t give one until ye’ve earned it.”

  “And Priest…he earned one?”

  “Aye, that he did.” Bishop answers. “The natives are a strange lot. Lord knows I’ll not pretend to understand ‘em. In Ireland, ye kill a man, his brother comes to kill ye, and so on it goes till the end a days. The natives are different there. The lad taught me that. Them ones he killed, it made the lad a brave hisself, in their eyes. For what mere boy could kill so many a their kin? They wanted him on their side, ye see.”

  “His name,” I ask. “What name did they give him?”

  Bishop grins. “Black Pilgrim.”

  A fearsome name, I think. Befitting. “They must have respected him greatly then,” I say. “Did they name him so because of the soot on his body?”

  Bishop shrugs. “Some say aye. Others believed he wielded some dark magic to blend with the shadows. To them it must’ve seemed so, for a boy to kill three braves. Indeed, once he cleaned of the soot, I saw he couldn’t be more than twelve year old in body. In his face, a man alr
eady.”

  I smile, picturing him just so.

  “’Twas then I told ’em my purpose,” Bishop says. “Said I quested for vengeance and if he traveled with me, I’d help him find his own. He wouldn’t speak yet though, only nod. I asked if he knew which tribe killed his family. I gathered not the ones what left, else he wouldn’t have made peace with ‘em.”

  “Hecate…” I say. “She and her witches did it, didn’t they?”

  Bishop strokes his dirtied beard. “No. His quarrel with her wouldn’t come till years later.”

  “Then who?”

  “The same men who wanted his father dead,” Bishop says. He opens the journal again and flips through the pages with a dogged smile. “If only he coulda’ seen these pages, lass. The lad woulda had a right fit a laughter readin’ on his father.”

  “Priest’s father?” I say. “He and Thomas Putnam knew each other?”

  “Oh, aye. And knew each other well,” he says. “It’s all right here in this journal a his. Putnam had him accused for witchery and clapped in irons.”

  I cannot believe it. The origins of Priest’s lineage are in the journal I have been reading? The pages contained treasures indeed, but I too blind to see. “Pray, who was he?”

  Bishop rests the journal upon his lap. “Have ye not looked upon the blade the lad gave ye? His father’s blade, I remind ye.”

  “No, why would—”

  “Look at it now, lass,” he motions to my apron. “Look at it close.”

  I take Priest’s long dagger from my apron. It looks dull in the moonlight as I turn its blade. Near the hilt, I see faint letters etched. I hold it higher toward better light, and read the name aloud. “Captain John Alden, Jr.”

  Bishop holds up the journal. “Guess that bastard, Putnam, decided to leave out the part where his enemy escaped from prison.”

  “You mean Putnam did not exact his revenge?”

  “Not on Captain Alden. Some other friend,” Bishop winks at me. “Visited him at jail. It’s said this stranger left him a key. It’s also said the wily old man told Captain Alden he’d best be off into hidin’ ere they could stretch his neck.”