Salem's Fury (Vengeance Trilogy Book 2) (19 page)

“Your father did not.”

My body heaves at her words, and I feel her presence beside me, comforting me with her hand upon my back.

I shrug it off, all my happiness at seeing her and the others alive stolen in an instant.

I climb to my feet and return to Bishop’s cabin alone. I shut my eyes to the remains of Mercy’s bindings upon the floor and the wrecked household, my focus drawn upon the man who told stories to make me laugh and learned me that I was safe in his presence.

I lie beside Bishop and wrap his arm about me. Then I weep as I have never done before. I clutch his limp hand, wish it would squeeze mine back and comfort me one last time.

But he is gone.

And he would be cross with me for wailing at the loss of him and Father. I know he would instead bid me rise up and take my vengeance upon those who hurt the ones I love, rather than submit to grief as Sarah did.

But Bishop says nothing.

And I have not his strength, nor can I bear the thought of giving he and the others up yet. Instead, I fall asleep at his side, dreaming of happier times.

I wake to afternoon and reality.

“Rebecca.”

I look to the doorway and see Creek Jumper.

“Come,” he says. “We must help him down the spirit path now.”

“No,” I say, looking on Bishop’s grizzled and scarred face. “He would not wish us bury him, nor us abandon him upon a rack for the crows to pick at.”

“Then what?”

“We will burn him.” I say. “That his spirit might fly home and look on it one last time. Then I will bear his ashes away.”

Dusk settles in as I wander away from the trade post and down toward the river.

I pass through the opening once separating George’s barn from the trade cabin. Now there be little of both. Glancing back, I see even his and Hannah’s cabin smoldering, a blackened husk of the bright home I remember it being.

An east wind blows smoke and the scent of death toward me where a mound of witches and braves yet burns as Ciquenackqua and Andrew throw the remaining corpses into its flames. Andrew catches me watching and hangs his head, shows me his back.

I struggle with my feelings. Not knowing whether to hate him for his earlier actions, or be thankful at least he yet lives with so many others dead. I decide not to dwell on such thoughts, turning my attention instead to the Wah-Bah-Shik-Ka and the lone figure seated upon its banks.

The memory of George carrying Hannah’s body away from their home remains fixed in my mind, how my brother walked past me as if none of us existed in the world.

George sits now beside a fresh mound of dirt, its top smoothed over, and bearing a wooden cross at its head. He does not even glance over his shoulder as I approach, his gaze on the setting sun.

I sit cross-legged next to him, listening to the tireless river flow, and losing myself to its dispassionate thought of our grief.

We sit together in silence as the sky turns purple. My thoughts dwell on Father again, and the value in such a quiet manner. I find it comforting at such times as now when no words can right the wrongs, nor heal any wounds. That being present alone suffices.

“Thank you,” says George finally. “For saving her.”

“I am only sorry I did not reach her earlier.”

“It is enough you rescued her body from the fire.”

My brother’s chin drops, his cheeks glistening with the final rays of day.

“Strange,” George says. “Hannah and I would lie out here many a day and night, looking up at the sky. Talking of nothing, or our children to come, or else looking up the river and wondering when we might see your canoes approaching.”

He pats the mound beside him.

“I thought it right to place her here,” he says. “Here where she might listen to the river while I am away. She ever loved its song.”

“Aye,” I say. “She often said as much to me when we would fish upon this shore.”

George smiles. “I remember a day you pushed her in.”

“Aye, and I recall you throwing me in after her for my doing so.”

We chuckle at the shared memory before the sadness returns to claim us both.

“I have been long questioning myself if it were wrong of us to think we might escape our father’s sins,” says George. “And how grievous the acts he committed must have truly been for God to punish our family so.”

He wipes his nose and clears his throat.

“Then I realized this be no work of God, nor punishment from Him either.” George shakes his head as he looks on Hannah’s grave. “This be the evil works of men. I were wrong to think we might escape it and now my dear wife has paid for my mistake.”

“If you were wrong,” I say, “so were we all.”

“Aye. Wrong to believe they would let us alone. They allowed us peace that we might forget them for a time only so it would pain us all the more when stolen again.” George looks at me. “But now I would steal it from them, Rebecca.”

My mind races with assumptions to his meaning.

“We made a promise to Mercy that we together should go to Boston if surviving the night. I will see that vow carried out now.” George’s voice drips with hate. “And on my wife’s honor, I will not quit until this is ended.”

Tears fill my eyes at the conviction in his voice. A call for vengeance and blood stirs within me. “Nor will I.”

George puts his arm around me, draws me close.

I lay my head on his shoulder, feel him kiss my brow.

“Do not mistake my grief for the happiness at seeing you yet live, sister,” he says. “I should have ended myself also if I had found you among the dead.”

“And I you,” I say. “We are all that is left now, brother.”

“We will be enough.”

“Aye,” I say. “We shall be.”

I look up at the stars, watching them twinkle and make themselves known.

I chuckle at a memory, though George looks on me oddly.

“What?” he asks.

“Bishop told me once that stars were the spirits of good men and women looking down on us, showing us their goodly light. Guiding our way and warding off even the darkest of nights.”

“Aye,” says George. “I am sure he is one of them now.”

“No, he is not.” I burst out laughing, an odd sound to draw even a smirk from George. “He told me never to look for him in the night sky after he were dead. That watching and guiding from above sounded a tedious afterlife to him.”

“To him, I think it might well have been,” says George.

“Aye. He said ghosts had more sport.” I laugh anew. “And that I should think of him whenever something bumped in the night.”

George joins my laughter, the pair of us wiping our tears away at the notion of Bishop’s spirit living on, only to fright us.

My laughter fades as I glance back up the hill, hating the task that remains, knowing I must face it.

“We mean to burn his body,” I tell George. “I thought you might wish to join us.”

“Aye, I will be along,” he says. “Let you go for now though. I would sit alone with my wife a bit longer.”

I stand to take my leave of him and send up a silent prayer that the ancestors guide Hannah’s goodly spirit and welcome her among them.

Climbing the hill alone, I look on Bishop’s funeral pyre built in the middle of the yard.

My people gather around it.

I pause seeing Ciquenackqua and Andrew lift Bishop’s bundled body atop it.

Then a tittering hails from what remains of the barn. Walking toward it, I find my father’s stallion waiting at the fence line and, sitting atop the post, a raccoon.

The ringed-tail chatters at me, its eyes reflecting the glow of the torches my people hold.

I stare at the black mask painted across its face, thinking on all I have learned. The path it led me down and where it leads me next. More important still, the masks I have yet to learn and which will suit me best.

Turning away from my
manitous,
I find Creek Jumper waits for me near the pyre, holding a lit torch.

I join him in the middle taking hold of the torch and stepping close to the pyre, looking up at Bishop’s wrapped body.

“Goodbye, Grandfather,” I whisper, allowing the flame to kiss the kindling. “Fly home knowing you are avenged.”

The fire catches, and I back away as its flames snake up the four posts, licking Bishop’s body, growing in brilliance as it takes full hold of the pyre.

Creek Jumper offers up his voice, singing one of the ancient songs. The others in my tribe add their voices to his.

I keep to Father’s quiet way, masking my grief and hate with silence.

Still, I live in the power of their words and the unison of their voices, delighting in the knowledge I am not alone. I know these around me are family also, and will stay at my side all night if I have need of them.

They cease the song of a sudden.

Not a few of our women gasp as part of the circle breaks.

A trio of braves stands on the border of firelight and darkness, one an impressive native who leaves little doubt he is their war chief. To his right stands a younger brave I well recognize—the hostage I had in my care. Seeing the two side by side, I think it easy to know them for father and son.

The third brave holds his own hostage. An over-sized woman with her hands bound behind her back and a noose round her neck, its end leading to the rope held in his hand.

“Mary Warren…” I say.

At a foreign word from the war chief, the brave leads Mary toward me. Fear and panic glow in her eyes as they cross the yard. The brave makes a show of handing the rope to me, and his chieftain speaks again.

“He says the debt is paid,” says Creek Jumper, stepping to join me. “A captive for you in exchange for the safe return of his son.”

“Thank him for me,” I say, taking the rope in hand, acknowledging the chieftain as Creek Jumper relays my words.

I stare into Mary Warren’s eyes, my hatred burning clear for her, knowing now that Mercy spoke true—Mary is a coward and abandoned us all in our time of greatest need. I realize now she would do again if given half a chance.

She means to speak with me, but the gag in her mouth keeps back her traitorous words.

I think there be little reason to remove the gag and hear them.

The brave returns to his chieftain, and I am not a little surprised when his son, the captive I kept, steps forward next. All while his father continues speaking to us.

“They have thought long on your words,” Creek Jumper translates. “And would have peace with Red Banshee and her people.”

I turn to Creek Jumper of a sudden. “What did you say?”

He grins as the captive we kept walks toward us, bearing a gift in his hands.

“They knew nothing of your name,” says Creek Jumper. “But his son heard Bishop call you banshee and they saw for themselves your spirit and body red with fury.”

The young brave stands before me, raises both his hands up to me bearing a
calumet,
a peace pipe of his people that gleams of polished wood in the firelight.

“They offer this token as a sign of peace,” says Creek Jumper. “They were given it by the Iroquois as a symbol of the peace they wished to uphold. A peace Two Ravens meant to destroy. We saw to the punishment both peoples would have given him.”

I take the
calumet
in hand and nod to the brave in mutual respect as his father continues.

“They will stay tonight, that we might honor our dead,” says Creek Jumper. “And they promise safe passage through their lands when you are prepared to leave.”

“What of the Iroquois?” I ask. “Will the Wyandot speak to them also and cool their anger?”

Creek Jumper relays my words and keeps careful watch of the Wyandot chieftain. I wonder what he must think of me as he speaks.

“Yes,” says Creek Jumper. “They will escort you to the Iroquois lands, telling of your deeds and what you have done for the people. In return, they ask that you hold true to your vow”—Creek Jumper looks on me—“and end this white devil who plagues all our peoples.”

Staring into the eyes of the Wyandot chieftain, I grip the
calumet
tight and thrust my hand into the air. Ciquenackqua leads our people in a war cry, and the chieftain’s chin dips in acceptance.

I lower my arm, and stare upon the
calumet.
I think of Father’s teachings and how he raised me to hunt, rather than hide as we have done for so many years. I rub my fingers over the
calumet
and look up.

Andrew stands before me. Anger rises in me at the sight of him, yet I do nothing.

“You will journey to Boston?” he asks. “Truly?”

“Aye—”

I turn at my brother’s voice. George strides toward us.

“And you are coming with us, Andrew.”

“George,” says Andrew. “I cannot—”

My brother grabs Andrew by the shirt and shakes him.

“My wife died on account of you,” George thunders. “She should be here still if not for your drunken way. And your cowardice,” he spits at Mary then looks on me. “Throw her to the fire, sister. Let her burn for her sins.”

“No,” I say. “She comes with us also.”

“You cannot trust her,” George says.

“Aye, and I do so no longer. But she is a Salem sister,” I say, looking Mary Warren in the eye. “And it might be she has some use to us yet.”

“As you might also,” says George to Andrew. “You said earlier these events were your fault. That your future wife gave our presence away to Mercy Lewis.”

“George, I—”

“Do not speak my name as if I am friend or family to you any longer, Andrew Martin,” says George. “We are neither from this night on, though I will see you make amends to my family.”

“How?” Andrew asks. “Let you name it and I shall do—”

“Lead us to your bride,” says George. “For I would have words with her also.”

Andrew squirms in George’s grip, and yet he looks to me. “Let you speak some sense to your brother, Rebecca.”

“No,” I say, glancing back to the barn, and seeing my
manitous
gone. “Call me that no longer in the wilderness. That name were only a mask I wore for a time. I am the daughter of Black Pilgrim, and I, too, have a name given me by my native brothers and sisters.”

I look into the fiery pyre. Feel its warmth penetrate my skin, liken to the rage burning within me, as I unsheathe the dagger in my belt.

“I am Red Banshee. And before his end, Cotton Mather will hear me sing his name”—I rotate the dagger in the firelight—“and feel my song of fury.”