Salem's Fury (Vengeance Trilogy Book 2) (13 page)

“You danced with them then?”

“Oh, aye,” she says, her voice near bursting from the memory. “If ever I were happy a night in my life it was then when they took me by the hand and led me around the fire. I can still see their happy faces in my dreams and hear my laughter twinning theirs.”

She hangs her head then, a sight to sadden me also.

“I should have known then it were all a show,” says Mary. “
I did know
. Only did not care. They gave me Devil’s powder, and that I took gladly. Not to see spirits,” she says quickly, seeing me look on her oddly. “No. Only that it were what they would have from me in friendship…and then John Proctor took it all from me.”

A dusky edge haunts her voice, one that makes me wonder if it indeed came from Mary.

“He was your master?”

“Aye. He knew the claims we gave were false and would not have me lie or risk despoiling his good name and household.” Mary spits. “Much as I recall the night Mercy and Abigail asked me join them, I can recall with equal measure John Proctor’s threats against me.”

Mary looks on me, her face washed with grief and anger.

“Have you ever seen the glow of tongs or brands pulled from the fire?” she asks. “Heard them sizzle when pressed against an animal’s hide?”

“Aye,” I say. “I have helped George with his own beasts before.”

Mary nods. “Imagine the man whose roof you live beneath threatening to feed those fiery tongs to you. Promising he should force them down your throat if you keep up your pretense.”

“No,” I say, remembering the animals’ stir when I held them for George that he might brand them.

“Aye,” Mary insists. “That is the horror John Proctor swore me if I did not recant.”

I think on such a picture as she paints in my mind, wondering how a man could threaten such a thing to a lowly girl. Then the familiar anger swells inside at what I should do if someone gave me such a warning.

“Let Mercy and the others say what they will of me, that I were weak and a traitor to their cause,” says Mary. “But I knew Proctor well. Nothing kept him from standing by his word. That be why I gave those magistrates the truth of it.”

Mary sobs anew, and I cannot help but place my arm about her broad shoulders.

“And then I were cast out,” she says. “The only one to bear the hate from all sides. No more friendship from the other girls. No fear of my power from those in the village. And worse, Dr. Campbell would give me no more of his Devil’s powder.”

I think again on the man Sarah would name as our real father. Hearing Mary speak so of him gives me further reason to hate his shared blood flowing in my veins and that his actions warranted such loss upon so many, continuing its reach even to this night.

“Proctor beat me for what he wrongly supposed a lazy nature in me,” Mary says. “But it were only agony from the lack of powder. The pain it caused me were so great I again betrayed my earlier words. I rejoined the girls not for friendship, or even to see spirits again, only that the powder should remove the pain. Would that I knew then what I do now.”

“What is that?” I ask.

“That had I only endured awhile longer, the pain should leave my body and find my wits returned again,” says Mary. “Though at least the second time it came upon me, I did not also have to bear Proctor’s fists. I may hate Abigail and Mercy all the rest of my days, but I will be forever grateful they named Proctor a witch and that I saw his neck break for it.”

I look on Mary with new understanding and not a little appreciation for the cold way she speaks of Proctor’s death. It mirrors my own thoughts of how I should feel upon taking Mercy’s life.

“I am glad Thomas Putnam wrote of me,” says Mary quietly. “I did not think he knew my name.”

Her words sadden me, that she should speak so proud of the mere mention in a stranger’s journal, and even then in not a goodly light. Still, she smiles at me as I take my arm from her shoulders.

“Let you sleep now, Mary,” I say. “And I will take the watch.”

“Aye,” she says. “If you insist.”

“I do. Your body needs rest to heal the pain in your legs. We should reach my brother’s post tomorrow, but it will yet be a long day’s ride.”

She takes my hand and brings it to her lips, kissing my knuckles. “Thank you for all your kindness.”

“You are most welcome,” I say. “Now, sleep. The morrow will come before we know it.”

She takes her hand from mine and lies upon the ground, her snores echoing not long after,

The night sky and the star guide my Father learned me to plot and follow calls my name.

A lone wolf howls in the distance. Its echo meant to warn others of its presence, yet its sound brings me comfort.

I close my eyes and offer a prayer to the ancestors, bidding them keep safe watch over Father and our people, wherever they may be. My thoughts dwell on my companions; hate for Mercy, mourning for Ciquenackqua, and concern for Creek Jumper.

I think on Mary last, of her thanks for my kindness.

The wolf’s howl echoes again, bidding me wonder if it would not be a greater kindness to grant her the silent, merciful death we gave Mercy’s guards.

The moon sits directly over me ere the thought leaves me. Then I wake Ciquenackqua and bid him keep the remainder of the nightly watch. Once assured he has fully woken, and after he wanders into the night to relieve himself, I nestle down close to Mary, feel her warmth against my back, and let sleep take me.

My dreams fill with my
manitous
and the path it would lead me down.

Ciquenackqua shakes me awake. Tears stain where war paint coated his face yesterday.

I sit up, shielding my eyes as the sun peeks at me from the horizon and bids us rise with it for a new day.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Creek Jumper is dead.”

I look to the white mare, and see our shaman yet tied where we left him. I climb to my feet and hurry toward the beast.

The mare spins from me. I catch its reins in hand, then soothe it with my voice and stroke its jawline. I touch my fingers to Creek Jumper’s neck, finding it cold and stiff.

My feet fail me. I land hard upon the ground and gaze up into his wizened face.

His eyes closed in blissful sleep, I almost think him smiling down on me from atop his mount.

Ciquenackqua sits beside me. “So many dead,” he says. “Why?”

I say nothing in reply, unable to take my eyes off our shaman.

“Did he say anything to you?” I ask. “Before he slept?”

“Only that I must continue on and his potion would make him sleep awhile, but I should not worry.”

Ciquenackqua’s words call more tears from me. I know full well our shaman understood that he would not wake in this life again. But even in death, Creek Jumper would not allow a boy to believe himself left alone.

“What should we do with him?” Ciquenackqua asks.

“We will take his body to the post and give it a proper burial.” I hand the reins over. “Stay with him while I rouse the others.”

Before leaving, I brush Creek Jumper’s hair aside and kiss his cold brow, allowing my lips linger there, though it seems as if it were a stone. I offer a prayer that he not take Ciquenackqua or me with him on the spirit path, then leave them both.

I nudge Mary awake and hear her groan with morning pain.

Mercy keeps her quiet at my approach, and while I loosen her bonds. I lead her to our mount. She wrinkles her nose at the sight of Creek Jumper.

“Thought I smelled death—”

I unsheathe my father’s dagger and knock Mercy over the head with its hilt.

She falls to the ground unconscious, and I find myself shaking.

“Do it,” says Mary. “Or give me the blade”—her open hand reaches out to me—“and I shall do it for you.”

“Ciquenackqua,” I say, sheathing the dagger in my belt. “Help me lay her across my horse.”

He listens without question, smirking at the sight of Mercy laid out.

“Why do you keep her alive?” Mary asks.

I look on the streak of black painting Mercy’s eyes. “I would learn more from her.”

I swing astride the horse. Ciquenackqua lifts her limp body while I pull, the two of us placing her across my lap.

The horse paces beneath me, seemingly eager to set off for my brother’s post or else sensing the evil spirit upon its back.

Thoughts of George cloud my mind as we ride. I drive my mount harder with each passing hour, worrying what I should find at the post, wondering if Mercy spoke true, and plotting what we should do if finding the post sacked by a second raiding party.

All afternoon, I look to the horizon and hope not to find a billowing cloud of smoke.

My fears go mercifully unwarranted as I witness familiar white smoke rising from George and Hannah’s chimney.

No one stands in the yard.

The dogs still wander, as do the livestock inside their fencing.

All seems well to my eye, yet I cannot fight the fear clutching my insides. My mind swarms with images of Sarah slain in the village, our people dragged away and Father with them, even Creek Jumper, dead upon our mare in our company.

I slide off my horse and give the reins over to Ciquenackqua.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Stay here,” I say.

“Why? Where are you going?”

I do not tell him that I must know, that I must be certain what little family I have left still lives.

I sprint through the forest, drawing my tomahawk and Father’s dagger from my belt. My muscles tense as I near the edge of the woods and take shelter against an oak.

I peek around the tree, but see nothing in the yard.

My heart beats faster, thankful I have not found any trace of war. Still, I worry what I might find inside the houses.

I push off the tree and make for the back of George’s home. I throw myself against the side. Slowly, I raise my head and peek inside.

A rifle cocks behind me.

“Rebecca?”

George stands in the woods behind me. He sets his rifle to lean against a tree.

“Rebecca, what are you—”

I give him no time to finish his words, throwing myself into his arms, crying until I have no tears left in me.

“She is dead,” I say. “S-Sarah is dead.”

George pulls away. “How?”

I tell him everything, my tongue loosing a dam of words on him like I have never before spoke. All the while, he listens, never interrupting. With each bit of news I pass onto him, his face sours, his shoulders and body sagging until I fear he will fall over.

“We had no word of it,” he says after I have finished. “No word at all.”

“Aye,” I say. “And that is why I came as quick as I were able. That I might warn you—Mercy says another party comes for us.”

Rage crosses his face as he strides to the tree and takes up his long rifle, his gaze searching the surrounding area.

“When will they come?” George asks.

“I do not know,” I say. “Tonight, mayhap. Tomorrow?”

“Then we should make ready for them,” he says grimly. “I have more than enough powder and shot to manage all who would fight against us.”

“Is Andrew here? Bishop and Hannah?”

“Aye, for all the good they will do us. An old man, a drunk, and my wife against a war party of braves and witches,” says George. “It falls to you and I to fend them off, little sister.”

I nod. “I bring others also, in the woods not far from here, though I fear they will be little help either.”

“If they can hold a rifle and stand to post they will suffice,” says George. “This will not be the first war party I’ve defended against. I built these grounds for such times. If they be like all the others, we will yet stand come the end.”

My brother’s words lend me courage as we together go to reclaim the others in my company.

“You said Priest was taken also?” he asks.

“Aye, taken that I might be free.”

“Should we survive this wave, we will seek them out,” says George. “Pay whatever they require to free him and the others.”

I relish the idea, but fear our aid will come too late. I push aside such ill thoughts and allow myself some of the hope my brother speaks on.

“George,” says Mary upon our arrival. “Oh, George, I had not thought to ever see you again.”

“Nor I you,” he replies. “At least not for some time. Your husband—”

Mary shakes her head.

“I shall miss him,” says George. “A stubborn brute, he was, but he had a good mind for the trade.”

My brother turns his attention away from her, walking to Ciquenackqua and pulling him close.

“I am sorry for your loss, brother. But I know your father would be proud that you yet live. You will do him prouder still.” George roughly brushes Ciquenackqua’s hair. “Now come, all of you. We have much to plan and discuss.”

I bring up the rear of our group as George leads us into his yard.

“Mary, go tell Hannah what has happened,” he says. “Ciquenackqua, put some food in your belly and gather what rest you can. It’s man’s work we do tonight, and I’ll have need of you beside me. Now off you go.”

Ciquenackqua smiles upon hearing my brother name him a man, a catching sight that takes hold of me also. Though I were but a girl at the time, I well remember seeing George and Andrew brighten when Bishop welcomed them into manhood with such a claim.

“What of me, brother?” I ask.

He looks on Mercy’s body, still lain across the mare’s back. “I would hear from this witch with my own ears. And it might be I have means of fetching truths from her that you did not.”

I follow his lead into the barn and witness my father’s stallion bristle at the sight of more his own kind come into his home. Together, George and I cut Creek Jumper’s body free of the tethers binding him to the mare’s back. We lay him gently into a mound of hay, and I cover him with a blanket. I hope the time arises where we may give him a proper burial, though my mind speaks it may never occur.

My mourning turns hateful as George brings Mercy to the ground.

He takes hold of her armpits, dragging Mercy into a stable and tethering her against a wooden post.

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

“She be the one who murdered Sarah?” he asks. “The cause of all this?”

“Aye.”

George’s face wrenches with pain, struggling with such emotions, as he looks down on Mercy. He leaves me alone with her and returns with a bucket full of water, throwing it full on her face.

Mercy wakes with a shriek, sputtering and spitting. She shakes wet hair from her eyes and looks around the stable then to my brother and I. “So it has come to this?” Mercy asks. “Hello, George Kelly. Have you brought me here for torture?”

“You know me?” He asks.

“Aye. You look an exact twin of your father.” Mercy sneers. “And I see his coldness in your eyes.”

“Good,” says George. “Let you think well on it and answer my questions wisely.”

“I will answer,” she says. “But with little concern for whether you find them wise or no. I prefer truth.”

George scratches his beard and glances at me. “Why do you come for us after so many years? Why could you not let us be?”

“This new world be a large place,” she says. “Not all are so fortunate to have friends among the savages. Say instead it has taken us this long to find you and—”

George kicks her ribs with his boot, silencing Mercy.

I wince as she groans from the blow and turns her glare on him, her chest heaving, her breath wheezing.

“Speak no more lies to me, witch,” says George. “Or you will receive more of the same and worse. My family and friends are but a few whites in a sea of copper out here. From what my sister says, you have native friends also. They could have found us if and when you wished. Why now?”

Mercy chuckles then coughs, clutching her ribs where George kicked her. “You are much better at this game than your sisters.”

“Answer me.” George growls.

“We knew you lived, aye,” says Mercy. “And I should have found you easy enough, if sent out. But I am only a humble servant in this game between our fathers, as I told your sister.”

“Then by all means,” says George, “give me the name of whom you serve.”

Mercy grins. “You already know.”

“The Mathers,” I say.

“Aye,” says Mercy. “Though there be only one left now. The son, Cotton.”

“Why should famed reverends we have never met wish us harm?” George asks.

“I do not suppose the elder Mather did,” she says. “Increase protected you all, once he learned Abigail were sent out to fetch you. He bid us give up our anger and vengeance and allow the score be settled with the deaths of your father and Abigail. The lot of us mattered little to him.”

I weigh her words, trying to recall all I could from the Putnam journal. “Then why does Cotton hate us so?” I ask. “What keeps his hate for us burning?”

Mercy shrugs. “Torture me all you will, but I do not know the answer. Cotton is a goodly man though. He understood my pain at the loss of Abigail and set me to find you all and end this strife.”

“Such a powerful man as he would not send you out for that reason alone,” says George. “There must be another reason he would see us dead.”

“I suppose you right,” says Mercy. “But it matters little to me. His order served my purposes well enough.”

I make a show to her of looking around the stable. “Aye. He has served you well.”

“Better than you know.” Mercy grins in a way I like not at all. “I should not have found you without his resources, aye, and his social connections.”

“Let you speak to them then,” I say.

“No, sister. She knows naught,” says George, lifting the hammer from his belt. “We should be done with her lying tongue now and make our preparations.”

“Many things and names are what I know, George Kelly,” said Mercy. “Strike me again and you will learn no more of them.”

“Perhaps I should burn you then,” says George. “Give you a sampling of Hell before I send you there.”

An edge taints my brother’s voice that I have never heard before. When Mercy shows little regard for his words, George looks to the rope and station he hangs deer to bleed them out.

“Or maybe I shall string you up like Abigail Williams did our father in the woods,” says George. “That you might see your blackened guts before you leave this world.”