Salems Vengeance

by Aaron Galvin

  Priest looks away from me toward the trees.

  He is a wild thing, like unto a bear, or wolf, I have the arrogance to believe I might tame.

  Father taught me wild things are best set free ere their spirit be slain.

  I reach out, touch his cheek to draw his attention back to me.

  His deep brown eyes question me; equal parts anger and sadness.

  “Priest,” I say quietly. “Your name is Priest.”

  He stares back at me. Says nothing and everything at once.

  I lean forward. Kiss him again.

  His lips caress my own in such a way I feel it even down to my toes. Though slower, it does not lack for passion. Only when I hear the voices of George, Andrew, and Bishop approaching does Priest break away.

  Seeing me, George smiles. He does not wave, however. Nor does he call out for me as he once would have. In one hand he holds a rifle, in the other a line of trout. Something about him is different. He walks taller now, more sure of himself. Then it strikes me.

  George is a man now.

  Andrew Martin carries Rebecca atop his shoulders. She laughs as he walks beneath some of the lower branches, forcing her to duck under them.

  George reaches us first. He lifts the line of fish over the side and places it in the wagon. “Did Bishop tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “We’re leaving today. Now,” he says. “We only waited for you to waken.”

  Indeed, already the others waste no time in collecting their things from around the camp.

  The thought of leaving frightens me. All my fears disappear when Priest catches my eye and I see his dimples. “All of us?” I ask.

  “Aye,” Bishop calls. “Unless ye’d rather stay in Winford. God knows ye’ll have the whole town to yerself now the rest of ’em be dead.”

  No. I could not stay. The ghosts of all those we knew will forever haunt me here. I have no lurking desire to relive their faces, nor tell the story of how Winford came to fall to any newcomers. “But where will we go?”

  Bishop carries Mother’s china to the wagon. “Well, speakin’ for meself, I’ve had enough a yer damnable colonies.” He places the china beside me and winks at me. “Tell me true, lass…what do ye think a leprechauns?”

  “I-I do not know—”

  He leaves my side then, and walks alongside the wagon toward the head of it. “The little people are a fearsome, trickerous sort, or so me father claimed,” Bishop says as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “I’ve a mind to catch me one a the wee bastards ere a banshee comes to carry me to Heaven.”

  Rebecca runs to the front of the wagon. “Hurry, hurry!” She wills Andrew toward her.

  I watch him lift her up to sit beside Bishop. The old man welcomes her with a warm embrace. Rebecca laughs and scoots closer to him so she is beneath his protective arm.

  I turn back to watch Priest swing astride his stallion.

  The noble steed nods its head in approval at having its master back.

  “Right, lads,” Bishop cracks the reins. “Let’s shove off!”

  I feel the wagon move beneath me, and hear Bishop clear his throat ere he begins to sing.

  Come, fair lass, just you and me.

  We’re bound for them colonies, far o’er the sea…

  ‘Augh, no,’ she said. ‘Ye stubborn ol’ fool.

  I’ve heard o’ those lands, and them savages cruel.’

  So the Lord sent me a bastard I came to name Priest.

  Ugly as sin, and a stubborn ol’ beast.

  ‘Come, lad,’ says I, ‘We’ll hunt us some witches!’

  All o’er we went, and by God, killed us them bitches!

  He laughs himself into a coughing fit then. A laugh quickly joined by my brother and sister.

  Priest grins at me.

  I close my eyes, fixing the two dimples gracing his dirtied face in my mind. Then, I allow the sounds of hooves and the creaking wagon to lull me into peaceful sleep.

  ###

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Salem trials have held my interest since I first learned of them in grade school. However, my initial knowledge merely scratched the surface when compared to the exhaustive research others have compiled.

  For any interested in non-fiction regarding the trials, I highly recommend Mary Beth Norton’s In The Devil’s Snare: The Salem Witch Crisis of 1692, psychologist Linnda Caporael’s Science article linking the behaviors of Salem accusers to that of ergotism, and Salem Possessed: The Social Origins of Witchcraft, by Paul Boyer and Stephen Nissenbaum. Also, my hearty thanks to the University of Virginia for their Salem Witch Trials Documentary Archive and Transcription Project, and the University of Missouri-Kansas City School of Law’s extensive online database.

  Additional thanks to the Salem Witch Museum, the History Channel, Discovery Channel, Smithsonian Magazine, National Geographic, and Gail L. Schumann of the American Phytopathological Society, for their related works.

  In regards to this novel, I could not have done without my coven: Annetta Ribken, Jennifer Wingard, Valerie Bellamy, and Greg Sidelnik. Thank you all for lending me your many talents and knowledge.

  For Whit, Gene, Sarah, Tyler, and my speed-reader, Amber. My humble thanks for the wise counsel you each have given me.

  To my parents, siblings, and the countless family and friends who have followed my crazy antics all this way, my thanks for your continued patience and support, or for faking it at least. I remain none the wiser if it’s all been just an act.

  My condolences to the victims and families of the Salem trials, and my prayers such a tragedy never again occurs.

  Last, but never least, to you, dear reader. Thanks for not allowing Hecate to scare you off.

  Now, here’s a sample chapter of book one in Aaron Galvin’s SALT Series

  Available for purchase at most online retailers

  LENNY

  Lenny Dolan never asked for a Salted life. No one smart ever did.

  But unlike those poor wretches stolen from the surface and dragged into the depths, Lenny didn’t have anything with which to compare his Salt existence. Born in the realm beneath the waves, he knew of no other life until his owner raised him up and gave him a profession.

  None of Lenny’s fellow catchers bothered to stir when he woke screaming from a night terror, two hours past. Each recognized the cries associated with guilt’s icy stabs and the shaded memories of those they hauled back into lives of Salt slavery.

  Lenny shivered in his hammock crafted of worn trawler nets. Fear is for runnas not catchas. Don’t run from it. Become it.

  He tossed the molded blanket aside and swung his stunted legs free of the bedding. Lenny winced at the cold onslaught when his bare feet grazed the cavern floor. He did not pull away. Once his feet numbed, he slunk through the maze of sleeping bodies.

  Lenny had grown quite good at slinking over the years, admittedly not hard for one of his stature. He tested the hinges of the rotted driftwood door. It threatened to fall off but held. He thanked the Ancients for their mercy and slipped out of the shack.

  Morn had not yet graced Crayfish Cavern. Some might have risked a torch to ward off the near absolute dark and light their way to the docks. Lenny did not. Doing so would only attract unwanted attention from whichever taskmaster had drawn the early watch. Not to mention the accompanying ten lashes for being outside of quarters without leave. Instead, he used the glittering stalactites, high in the stony ceiling, to guide him. Like countless glittering stars, they winked at him as if to warn they kept watch where taskmasters’ eyes could not follow. Declan Dolan had taught his son the use of them as a pup. They had yet to fail him.

  Lenny caught a dank smell in the air, rife with the blended stench of body odor, vomit, and excrement. He recognized it for a fresh slave crop come down the Gasping Hole. Not for the first time, he wondered why the taskmasters didn’t have the newest catches cleaned upon their arrival. Soon enough the lucky amongst them would earn a Selkie suit. T
he others…

  He snorted the scent away and continued on. Even now, with no one to see, he avoided the boardwalk. Bad habits led to accidents and Lenny sought no more of those. He waddled alongside the boardwalk, trading the slave stink for that of seaweed hung to dry from the tops of six-foot racks.

  Barrels lined the dock, each of them brimming with fresh ocean crops—Atlantic cod and haddock, littleneck clams, mussels, and oysters. All awaited surface delivery for the Boston fish markets.

  Lenny’s stomach grumbled at the sights and smells of the fresh and untouched food. He hurried past, lest temptation overpower his sensibilities, not stopping until he reached the oldest dock. Its wooden beams remained in drastic need of a repair that would never come. He hopscotched over the barren spaces toward the dock edge, leaned over the side to look down.

  The cavern ceiling gave the ocean waters an eerie, greenish glow. Three-foot waves struck the thick, barnacle-encrusted pillars. Lenny felt a giddy rush as they shook the rickety wooden pier. The receding tide beckoned him come hunt, then another series of waves rushed to shake the pier anew.

  Lenny reached behind his shoulders for the soft and fuzzy hood draped down his backside. Smoky grey and adorned with white circles of varying sizes, it hung from what Drybacks would say resembled a one-piece wetsuit. Donning the hood, he pictured the Salted form given to him—a tiny Ringed Seal.

  Lenny’s transformation began.

  He felt the hood elongate, covering his face, blinding him. His sleeves and leggings tickled past his bare feet and hands, warming them. The sealskin grew further, cocooning his legs into a single tail. He knelt and lay prostrate before his upper body weight toppled him. He felt his feet splay sideways, toes curling to form two hind flippers.

  His already pudgy stomach bulged and grew into a fat, seal belly. The white circles of his former hood scattered across his back like a light touch meant to tickle. They shifted in size—some grew to the size of dish plates, others shrank to the size of coins.

  He felt his sleeves cover and tighten against his human hands like mittens. They morphed into fore flippers and sprouted nails from tiny digits at the end. His nose and mouth grew into a cat-like muzzle. Whiskers burst from his cheeks. His ears retracted to leave two holes on either side of his seal head.

  Lenny opened his seal eyes as the transformation from human to seal completed. He dove into the near freezing North Atlantic water headfirst. The water should feel frigid, he knew, but his seal body’s blubbery layer kept the cold at bay.

  A school of cod drifted nearby. Lenny gave chase. One he nipped in his mouth before the doomed fish recognized him for a threat. The others he swam down, hooking them with claws sharp enough to hack through glacier ice.

  The school unnaturally changed direction.

  Lenny halted mid-swim. With a shift of his head, he spun to face whatever predator stalked him now. He saw a chimney of bubbles churn below frothy white circles near the surface where he entered not moments ago. Looks like I’m not the only hunta this mornin’.

  He caught the scent of his owner’s seahorses on the current. The thought occurred to him one might have escaped, but their stable door beneath the docks remained tightly latched.

  His seal instincts suggested he surface and head for shore. Lenny dove deeper.

  Slap!

  The noise came from the surface; a sea otter, floating on its back, used its tail like a paddle to propel it forward.

  Endrees. Lenny realized his mistake too late.

  A grey shadow with light rings across its back sped up from the depths. Its skull collided with his stomach stealing his breath away.

  Lenny swiped at the other Ringed Seal.

  His opponent batted away the weak attempt. It weaved behind, collared him by the nape with its pincer-like jaws.

  Felt like an early mornin’ swim, huh? a man’s hard voice growled in Lenny’s mind like one of his own thoughts. Against the rules and five lashes for a first offense. How many times ya done this now? Eight?

  Ya’ve only caught me eight, Lenny directed his thoughts to the other seal.

  Eight times too many.

  The sea otter dove to their depth and swam circles around the two seals.

  Get away from me, Endrees, said Lenny to the otter.

  It replied with a series of trills. Then it flipped to its back and swam alongside him, just out of reach.

  Endrees, Lenny’s captor spoke. Go to shore.

  The otter stuck out its tongue but obeyed the command and swam away.

  Good riddance, Lenny said. Ya oughta drown that sea rat.

  The other seal bit down harder. With a quick tug, it dragged Lenny inland. A catcha watches…waits in the shadows to make sure the goin’s safe. Otherwise he’s the one bein’ caught. Ya supposed to have at least two ways of escape. Ya forget that?

  I was in the water, Lenny argued. There’s a thousand different directions I coulda swum.

  If ya got no plan of where to go it don’t matta. Ya neva gonna be big Len, so ya gotta be fasta—

  —or smarta if ya wanna live, Lenny interrupted. I haven’t forgot.

  The other seal said nothing more as they neared the shoreline shallows.

  Lenny poked his head out of the water to learn who his captor had wrangled to release them both. A pair of sausage-sized fingers grabbed his upper seal lip before he could see anything. The fingers yanked up and then swept the entire seal head backward like removing a costumed mask. The seal head changed to an average hood again before draping down Lenny’s backside.

  He felt his seal claws retract into fingers as the flippers melted back into sleeves. His tail split in two, the remains of it shrinking up and against his ankles. Lenny shivered, now without the seal’s blubber to shield him. He glanced up to see who had released him.

  Paulo Varela, a bred-and-born product of slave owner selection. The crayfish tattoo on his neck marked him as belonging to August Collins. Its claws seemed to reach for his jaws as he yawned. His normally dark-gold Selkie coat glistened black, now soaked by ocean water. Paulo wiped the last bits of sleep from his eyes. “Heya, Len. Did you have to get up so early?”

  Lenny ignored him, just as he ignored Endrees hissing at him from atop a nearby boulder. He waded up the stony shore as Paulo went deeper to release the other Selkie.

  "Don’t walk away from me, son,” the captor’s voice transitioned from thought to spoken word.

  Lenny turned around.

  A grizzled, middle-aged dwarf had replaced his seal opponent. The little man stood no taller than Paulo’s waistline and, like Lenny, wore the smoke-grey suit with embroidered white circles marking him as a Ringed Seal. His hardened, lumpy face appeared marred by a drunken chiseler who had left the numerous scars for sport, and the corners of his hazel eyes wrinkled into crow’s feet the longer he stared at Lenny.

  Declan Dolan pointed at his son. “How many times ya gotta see others whipped before ya smarten up, boy?”

  “Pop,” Lenny said. “We’re catchas—”

  “That don’t make ya no betta than those bound for the Block,” Declan said. “Ya still a slave! Master Collins can do with ya what he wants. That includes sellin’ ya.”

  Paulo snorted. “August would never do that. Lenny’s the only thing that keeps you from running.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Declan said. “So what if Master Collins decides the lash isn’t keepin’ his catchas on the straight and narrow? Maybe he takes one of Lenny’s ears to remind him how important it is for slaves to listen. Better yet, Paulie, what if he takes ours to make sure we keep Lenny followin’ the rules? How’d that be?”

  Paulo instinctively reached for his ears and massaged the crystal-studded earrings.

  “Sorry, Pop,” Lenny said. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Mistakes and apologies don’t keep ya safe in the Salt, boys. No more than they will on land,” Declan said. “Now come on, the both of ya. Ya been called up.”

  Lenny straightened. “Did someone run
off in the night?”

  Both young catchers looked to Declan for confirmation. Neither received an answer. The elder Dolan limped alongside the boardwalk with his pet otter close on his heels.

  Lenny noticed Paulo’s earrings twinkle just before the thought transmission came through. We’re going out.