Salem's Fury (Vengeance Trilogy Book 2) (12 page)

“Aye.” I glare at her. “That is how your witch sisters came to meet their end.”

Mercy’s eyes glaze over the dead witches with little regard.

“These here were no true sisters to me,” she says. “Only addicts and dregs. You would do well to take their scalps before we leave.”

I look on her with horror for the easy tone with which she speaks of her followers.

“Aye,” Mercy continues. “Carry them to Boston and pass their hair off as once belonging to the heathens. The bounty on savage heads was near three pounds per scalp when last I left.”

Mary’s hand draws across her face.

“Gather what food and water they kept on them,” I say to her. “Leave them their hair. We are not savages.”

“Not yet,” says Mercy.

“Move.” I shove her forward.

We are not long on our journey before I learn Mercy spoke one truth at least—Mary both slows us and does not move quietly.

Still, I cannot bring myself to leave her behind.

All day we push on, me driving Mercy ahead and Mary struggling to keep up.

We speak little, though my mind races with inquiries I would ask the two Salem accusers. I make notes of each in my mind, thinking to question both Mercy and Mary once I have them alone.

We continue on well after dusk, me gazing skyward all the while to follow the stars and guide our course. Only when the moon shines directly over us and Mary collapses do we stop for the night.

“I shall take the first watch,” I tell her. “Let you sleep for now.”

Mary scarcely acknowledges me before bedding down. Her snores ring in my ears before even I finish binding Mercy to a tree.

“We should keep moving,” Mercy says. “She will never know we’ve gone until the morrow. And she could not hope to track or catch us.”

I look on Mary’s backside. Remembering her earlier fright, I remind myself I, too, was once afraid of the woods and the secrets they held before Father taught me truth.

“We’re not leaving her,” I say.

“Do you value her more than the lives of your family?” Mercy asks.

“I valued my sister, Sarah,” I reply.

“No,” says Mercy. “You pitied her.”

I backhand her across the mouth. “Do not speak of my sister.”

Mercy works her jaw back and forth, but she keeps her quiet as I take a seat well enough away from her.

“Now,” I say. “You promised me truths. What do you know of my father?”

“The infamous Dr. Simon Campbell?”

“No, I care nothing for that man.” I say. “I would learn more of Priest.”

“I should think you know better of him than I,” she says.

“You named him husband.”

“Ah.” Mercy chuckles. “Aye. We were married once, though, in truth, few might name it that. Say instead we gave ourselves to each other, joined as one under the Mother Moon in the sight of my Salem sisters.”

“No,” I say. “He is a goodly man and loyal.”

“Aye. I thought him so too once,” says Mercy. “Every man is until he leaves you, dear.”

I sneer. “Mary spoke true. You are a liar.”

“Believe what you will. I neither care nor worry any longer on what other women think of me. Name it a lone gift of aging.” Her voice drops. “But let you remember, Priest did not deny my claim.”

I hang my head at that. Keep my quiet.

“Did you note the way he kissed me at the last?” Mercy asks, after a time. “Many a night I thought to skewer him if ever again I saw his face. And yet when my time came…I desired but one more salute from his lips.”

“He only did so that I might gain freedom from you,” I say, relishing that I might ruin her memory. “The arrowhead you plucked from his chest granted me that.”

“Is that so?” Mercy asks. “Sacrificed to free you, eh?”

“Aye.”

Mercy chuckles. “God save me, but it were worth it.”

I wish she would say more of their relationship, but Mercy will not reveal it. Instead, she sits with her back at the tree, staring at me as if she might read my thoughts.

“More and more I understand why he favors you,” she says.

“Do you?”

“Aye. I think we should have been a wonderful family in another life,” says Mercy. “The three of us wild and ruthless. Instead, we find ourselves enemies.”

I flex my grip upon the dagger’s hilt. “I never named you so until you slew my sister.”

“Speak not of me so evilly,” says Mercy. “We both know I freed her.”

I rise and pace toward her.

“Will you strike me for words alone?” she asks. “Or that they strike an equal chord within you?”

“My sister—”

“Was already dead when I came to your village,” says Mercy.

I think on Sarah in our hut, how she asked who would be the one to free her of her pain and the suggestion I might end it for her.

“No,” I say.

“Come,” says Mercy. “Which of us now is the truth-teller and which the deceiver?”

“You did not know her,” I seethe.

“I did not need to. The things one keeps speaks all you ever need know of a person, girl,” says Mercy. “Tell me, why do you not wear such an elegant dress as she? Silk and lace, pretty things for a pretty girl.”

“What do such things matter?”

“Nothing of their own standing,” says Mercy. “Had you met me in Boston, you would have seen me dressed the same as your sister.”

I near laugh picturing Mercy in such a dress, the thought of the witch passing herself off as a lady striking me odd.

“You are a traitor to yourself then,” I say. “If you pretend at two people when in different company.”

“Call me a survivor,” says Mercy. “An orphaned girl with no prospects and no family must learn to wear the masks others would have of her. And so I did, wearing one for Putnam, another for Dr. Campbell, even this wild mask for Two Ravens and his men.”

“Then Mary spoke true,” I say. “You are a liar. A deceiver of men.”

“Let you not judge me too harshly,” says Mercy. “You who also wear a mask to please men.”

“No,” I say. “I am what you see.”

“You came to live with the natives as a young girl, but you were not born among them,” says Mercy. “Fifteen years in the wilderness and yet your sister and brother, aye, and Andrew Martin too, remain true to their roots. You alone took on the native ways. Why?”

My blood warms at her words, though I do not quiet her.

“To please Priest,” she says. “Not that I may fault you for that. I should have worn any mask he asked of me when he and I first met. Odd, isn’t it? He was the only man to never ask me don a disguise.”

She pauses, allowing me feel her struggle. I wrestle with such emotions as to pity her, and pull the memory of Sarah to mind, warding off such sentiments, reminding myself to take Mercy’s words with a grain of salt.

“Think what you will of me,” she says. “Those who cling to the past have no future. I will go to my grave insisting I freed your sister of her pain.”

I rise again, my knuckles white upon the hilt of Father’s dagger. I hold the blade’s edge before Mercy’s eyes that she might recognize the Alden family name inscribed upon it.

“Then let you go to your grave with this knowledge also,” I say. “Your freedom from pain will come neither easy, nor quick, but it will be at my hand and with my father’s dagger.”

“A kindred spirit indeed,” says Mercy. “Let you remember I named you as such should the time ever come.”

“You think I should wilt?”

“I think you are more like me than you realize,” says Mercy. “It is why you yet live, that and vengeance.”

“Aye, vengeance only.”

“A noble thing, that,” says Mercy. “I sowed its seed deep within me when the Wabanaki slew my family and watered it with the blood of those who wronged me in Salem.”

“And my sister,” I say. “How did Sarah wrong you?”

Mercy’s cheek quivers. “She stole a life that was mine to take.”

“In that she married Priest?” I humph.

“No,” says Mercy. “When she killed Abigail Williams.”

My brow furrows. “But you were Salem sisters.”

“Sisters quarrel,” says Mercy.

I say no more, remembering mine own disagreement with Sarah, though I think nothing should have placed a murderous desire in my heart for her.

“What did she do to earn such scorn from you?” I ask. “Abigail?”

“Much and more that matters little now,” says Mercy. “The worms feasted on her long ago, as with most of the others from that cursed Salem Village. No doubt, they all wait for me in Hell to wage our war for all eternity. All reasons I would rather dwell here a little longer.”

“You shall join her soon, I promise you,” I say.

“I’ve heard many promises in my life,” says Mercy. “Few have come to pass.” She rests her head against the tree trunk. “Would you have more answers from me, white squaw? Or may I sleep now?”

I leave her side. “Take what rest you can. I shall be here when you wake.”

She shuffles against her bonds, settling in for the night.

I yawn upon listening to her soft breathing minutes later, and feel my own eyes heavy with similar fatigue.

The cold of night aids me in my watch for a while. Not two hours later, my body calls me to sleep, willing my eyelids closed. I slap myself awake, convincing myself that Mercy might play asleep though her body has not stirred since last she spoke.

My mind warns to wake Mary, let her take a watch.

The next I know, I open my eyes to the morning dawn.

I bolt upright, and find Mercy, yet tied to the tree, watching me with her green eyes.

“Lovely morning,” she says. “Did I wake you?”

Forgetting her taunt, I look behind me to find Mary still sleeps, her body like grizzly lain upon the ground.

I poke her awake.

Mary groans as she rolls over. She yawns wide and scratches herself before sitting up, leaves and moss in her hair. She looks around, rubs sleep from her eyes. “Why did you not wake me for a watch?”

“I—”

The sound of horses ushers me silent. Their hooves crunch the underbrush so loud I know it must be a white man. A native war party would not be so foolish as to lead the beasts through the wood in hopes of surprise.

Mary’s eyes widen in fright.

“
Free me
,” Mercy hisses. “Do it now and give me a blade. Let me stand beside you.”

I shake my head no when Mary looks for my answer.

“Stay here,” I say. “Keep her quiet.”

I gather up my things. Slipping into the forest shadows, silent as a fox, I pad closer to the noise and crouch behind a fallen tree. My left hand gravitates to the hilt of Father’s long knife, clasps it for comfort as I lie in wait.

The party crosses into my line of sight, though the monstrous lead stallion blocks my vision of the person who leads it.

A lesser horse marches behind the first, the two tethered together. This one carries blankets and clothes—dyed shirts, stockings, and bolts of wool cloth. Frayed edges of rope signal me the owner cut their ends. I understand why when seeing the third and final horse, a white mare.

Blood streaks down its pale skin, all from an elder brave, slung across her back and the rope bindings that tie him there.

As the train passes me by, I look on the face of the unconscious Indian brave and gasp.

“Creek Jumper…”

The horses neigh as I make my presence known.

With Father’s dagger drawn, I swing around the white mare to learn who carries our shaman bundled to the horse.

I near drop the dagger when seeing who leads the train—a boy on the eve of manhood. His face painted for war, though he appears more as one who would play at war than fight in one.

“Rebecca…” Ciquenackqua drops the reins. He stumbles toward me and falls into my arms, his body heaving.

I hug him tight, pressing his head against my shoulder.

“I thought you dead.” I pull away to look on his face, ensure he is real and not a vision sent to torture me.

“I-I should be,” he says. “I should have stayed and fought with the others.”

“What happened?”

“D-dead,” he cries. “All of them killed by Two Ravens and his men. White women fought also. They surprised us on the riverbank as our men slept.”

I shudder at the thought, near retching at them caught off guard.

“Two Ravens,” says Ciquenackqua. “H-he killed my father and took his war club. I-I could not save him.”

“I know. He carried it when they raided our village.”

“Did you see my mother?” he asks. “Is she with you?”

“She were taken.” I hang my head at Ciquenackqua’s wails. “Along with all the rest who survived the attack.”

I pat Ciquenackqua’s back, soothe him the best I know how.

“Listen to me now,” I say. “We must be gone from this place. I am surprised you made it this far. The horses are—”

I stop myself when he looks upon me with questioning eyes.

“Where did you find the horses?” I ask.

“In the woods, still tied to a wagon. You remember the trader at your brother’s post?”

“Aye,” I say, thinking on Mary’s husband.

“His body were there too,” says Ciquenackqua. “We left him for the crows and took what we could of the wagon.”

My brow wrinkles. “My father was with you?”

“For a time,” he says. “We should not have escaped if not for him. He found us in the night, and hastened us move on. Creek Jumper’s injuries slowed us before we found the horses.”

I look on our shaman, his blood painting the mare’s side, and wonder if he will slow us still.

“Your father left me with Creek Jumper,” says Ciquenackqua. “He told us make for your brother’s post and give them warning, if we were able.”

“We go there as well,” I say.

“We?”

I wet my lips with my tongue. “Aye. I escaped Two Ravens and his party and took a captive of my own. A witch.”

Ciquenackqua smiles. “Good. Perhaps we can trade her for my mother—”

I raise my hand to quiet him. “Two Ravens will not trade, but this witch may yet be valuable to us. She warned that others in their party journey to my brother’s post.”

“Then let us go now.”

I shake my head. Look on the horses and their cargo.

“How badly wounded is Creek Jumper?” I ask.

“Injured, but he rides,” says Ciquenackqua. “He took a potion for rest and asked me bind him to the mare. He said he did not know when he will wake.”

I cut the cargo from the horses to ease their burden and make them swifter.

“Come,” I take up the reins of the lead stallion, leading them and Ciquenackqua to our makeshift camp.

Mary straightens seeing us. “My husband’s horses,” she says. “Where did you find them?”

Ciquenackqua pauses at the sight of both women in my company and points his tomahawk at Mercy.

“She is your captive?” he asks in the tongue of our people.

“Aye.” I reply in kind, seeing him swing the weapon in practice. “You have met?”

“I saw her at the battle.” He grimaces. “She killed Deep River.”

I fall to my knees at his words.

“His body floated down the Wah-Bah-Shik-Ka, and it swallowed him whole,” says Ciquenackqua.

My tears wet the earth for the deaths and captures of my people, all at Mercy’s planning. I glare at her, and see she watches me back with little regard for my mourning.

“Let me kill her now,” says Ciquenackqua.

“No.” My voice breaks. “She is mine to slay and at my chosen time.”

His face speaks to his disapproval, yet he obliges.

“This other one you may remember from the trade post,” I tell him. “They held her captive too and kept us separate from the others.”

“Hello,” Mary says to him.

Ciquenackqua dons the face of his father, cold and silent to her welcome of him.

“Let Mary ride with you on the stallion,” I say to calm him. “I will take Mercy with me.”

I lead my horse toward the tree, and watch Mary struggle to mount the beast.

Ciquenackqua looks on me with disgust as he, too, witnesses her failed attempts.

“Have you never ridden a horse?” I ask her.

“Not in a long while,” she says, her face blustery red from her efforts. “I am used to my husband’s wagon.”

I shake my head then point to a fallen tree. “Ciquenackqua, take her there to mount.”

He mutters curses in our people’s tongue as he carries out my wishes.

Mercy chuckles as I approach. “It was not enough we had one cow among us,” she says. “Now you would alert the whole forest to our presence with three horses.”

I untie her from the tree and lead her to our mare.

Unlike her Salem sister, Mercy has no trouble mounting. She swings astride its back with her hands bound and little help from me.

I leap atop the horse behind her and click my tongue, ushering the mare to move on with my heels. I lead the other two at a brisk pace, though not so fast to further harm Creek Jumper, or throw Mary.

We ride all day, me forced to ride behind my sister’s killer. Her smoke scented hair breezing in my face. I think to cut it from her, but fear I should not stop with trimming it.

Come the nightfall, we stop to rest.

My mind cautions I should heed Mercy’s words and keep on, but, as I look on my company, I know we cannot abandon them. Ciquenackqua appears half out of his wits, and Creek Jumper has not woken once during our ride. Our shaman sleeps still, and I think of no reason why I should take him from his horse.

I give the reins of all three mounts to Ciquenackqua as Mercy slides off behind me. Then I take her to a nearby elm and tie her off.

Tonight, she does not speak.

I reckon she knows her words useless on me and would not waste her breath. I leave her at the tree and join the others, not twenty yards away.

Mary waits awake, though Ciquenackqua has already bedded down.

I gather he must be grateful to have found me, for he snores in blissful slumber, not thinking I might have needed him take the first watch. I rub my eyes with the ball of my fist as I sit upon the grass.

I look back on Mercy, my own escape having made me warier still of Mercy’s wily nature. I exhale, thankful she remains captive to the tree.

“Ah.” Mary winces beside me and rubs her inner thighs.

“You will be sore for several days,” I say.

“Aye,” she says. “I remember the pain from my youth. Do not let me trouble you. I would not have you slowed for it.”

I keep my silence rather than remind her she slowed me already by falling off her mount several times earlier in the day. I wriggle down in the dirt, resting my head upon a stone. Then I look up at the stars and the night sky, wondering if Sarah looks down on me.

“Thank you,” Mary says quietly, “for not leaving me.”

I glance in her direction as she continues rubbing her thighs. She will not meet my eyes.

“I know others should have left me by now,” she says. “Indeed, my own husband threatened it more than once when he were alive. I know not why God made me so fumbling, but I am grateful for your kindness.”

Her gentle voice bids me scold myself for thinking ill of her.

I cannot, nor can I bring myself to lie and say she is no trouble.

“You should sleep, Mary.”

“No,” she says. “I slept all last night. It is you who should take rest this eve.”

I shiver from the night chill and wish we might risk a fire. “I do not mind.”

“Or do you not trust me?”

Her words strike me like a slap to the cheek and, for all her earlier shyness, I find her looking well on me now. Her eyes search mine, as if she could discern the truth or lie in my answer.

“I know not who to trust,” I say honestly. “But I will say this. Look you on Mercy and see I keep her bound while you yet walk free.”

“Aye.” Mary casts her gaze away. “But that is because you fear her. No one fears one such as me.”

“Why should you wish others to fear you?”

“Oh, let you not think such ill thoughts of me,” she says quickly. “I meant naught of it, only that there be strength in fear. Great power for those who wield it.”

I know not what to say to her words, and gather she senses my unease for she fidgets, scratching at her arms.

“I should not expect you to understand,” she says. “Look at you. Beautiful as a blooming rose, yet with thorns to prick any who dare touch you. I have envied girls like you all my life, often wondering what it must be like to have men’s eyes follow me as I watched them do for Mercy and Abigail in Salem.”

“I should think it because those two gave men whatever they liked,” I say.

“No,” she says. “It were not for that alone. I followed God’s word and gave my husband whatever he asked of me, yet I never saw the desire in his eyes he had for you that day at your brother’s post.”

She laughs then, alarming me.

“Then again, I never saw such surprise when you near castrated him either.”

I chuckle with her at that, the pair of us near waking Ciquenackqua, to judge his restlessness.

“Ah, but that were a fine sight to see,” says Mary. “One I shall never forget.”

My mind races back to that day, drawing a grin from me. “Nor I. My father taught me words are not enough for some men.”

“He taught you well then,” she says.

Her shoulders shake and her breath catches in her throat.

“Forgive me my trespasses against you, Rebecca,” says Mary. “I had not thought to alert Mercy and her guards to your escape.”

I sigh, not wishing her further pain, though not wishing to lie either.

“And when I saw you and him brought back…” She wipes her nose with the back of her hand, pauses to compose her voice. “I know not why God made me so weak. I have often asked Him why He hates me so.”

We two sit awhile—she crying softly, me thinking on what to say.

“My sister asked the same many a night,” I say finally. “Sarah was her name.”

“Aye,” says Mary. “Hannah spoke of you both often while we toiled at her hearth this past winter. She said your sister could not give up her guilt for the night that brought you all into these lands, much the same as Andrew Martin could not.”

I nod. “She believed your god punished her for those actions.”

“I thought He did the same to me for my part in Salem,” says Mary. “But His scorn for me were there long before the trials. Let Mercy blather about her master, Thomas Putnam, chasing her skirt around the house. I should have welcomed such a master as he rather than the one God led me to serve.”

She turns to me of a sudden, takes my hand in hers.

“I heard Mercy on the road say Putnam kept a journal. That it was in your sister’s keeping for a time.”

“Aye,” I say. “It were given Sarah by Abigail Williams.”

Mary’s eyes seem round and bright as I look on them, her gaze more curious than ever I have witnessed in a person.

“And did you read it also?”

I hesitate, wondering what draws her interest so keenly. “Aye, I read the entries.”

“Did he…” Mary wets her lips. “Did he ever mention my name in his writings? Do you recall that from your readings?”

“Mary—”

“Please, Rebecca,” she says. “Please, I must know.”

“Aye,” I say. “You were mentioned somewhat.”

“And?” she asks. “What did Putnam say?”

I struggle to recall the words rightly. I think back on the days Father bid me study the journal, burning each name in my head in the event there ever came such a day as this. I remember believing him foolish then, one of the only times in my life to ever think so. Yet now as I sit beside one of the Salem accusers, and look on another tied twenty yards away, I realize him all the wiser still.

“Putnam said his daughter mentioned you were eager to join the afflicted girls.”

“Aye,” Mary says, her voice small and quiet. “All I ever desired were for them to befriend me. I often prayed for but one kind word from them. For Mercy or Abigail to look on me with fondness, rather than lead the others in mocking me. Can you believe I thought my prayers answered the night they asked me join them in the woods?”