Salem's Fury (Vengeance Trilogy Book 2) Page 4

  “No.” I pull away, staring into Sarah’s tear-stained eyes that she might understand I speak true. “You saved many that night, and if your god would punish such an act, mayhap you follow the wrong spirit.”

  I point to my sister’s bed of furs, toward her Bible and the bundle she keeps hidden away—the journal of Thomas Putnam, given her by Hecate. The same book Father insisted I read over and again until I could recite the names and histories of all who would mean us harm.

  “If you believe Putnam’s words, you know the evil done Abigail Williams in her youth tortured her the rest of her days and drove her to become Hecate. Fath—” I stop myself for fear of angering Sarah further. “Priest often reminds me to give thanks after making a kill in the wood, do the creature honor as they make their journey on the spirit path.”

  “You speak of slaying beasts, Rebecca,” says Sarah. “You have never murdered.”

  “I would, if need be.” I release my hold on her and rise to leave. Dizzied by the hunger pain, I struggle to keep my balance as I stand. “Man or beast, all have a spirit, sister. You believe you killed Hecate. I say you freed the spirit of Abigail Williams.”

  Sarah does not reach for me again. She looks up from the fire, her face pale and tired. “And who will free me of my pain, sweet sister? You?”

  I sneer. “Priest would rage to hear you speak such nonsense.”

  “His anger would please me greatly.” Sarah scoffs. “A welcome change from the damnable silence he shields himself with.”

  “You loved that about him once,” I chide her.

  She smiles at that—a sight to warm my soul.

  It vanishes too soon.

  “Did you know Mother once told me our father changed his evil ways after taking her to wife?” Sarah asks.

  “Aye,” I say. “You have mentioned it.”

  Sarah nods. “Mother said he put aside his Salem sins and became a godly man. The man we knew as Paul Kelly.”

  Sarah fiddles with a bit of leather, and I wonder what catches on her tongue that she cannot speak on it.

  “Mother said she had nothing to offer him but forgiveness and that he took on gladly. Such a noble act from them both, no?” Sarah looks on me as if for approval. “For he to change and her to forgive…”

  I ache for her hurting, though wishing to understand her meaning better. I keep my silence, watching Sarah wipe the corners of her eyes.

  “I have offered my own husband forgiveness and more.” Her chin dips. “Yet he will not accept it.”

  “Perhaps he cannot.” I venture. “Or mayhap he feels no regret for the things he has done.”

  I do not tell my sister that I only argue thusly because I have no regrets. Still, I wonder what Father did to make my sister speak plain with such offerings of forgiveness.

  She does not answer my argument quickly. Her gaze returns to the fire, eyes widening at its brightness.

  “He does,” she says. “My husband regrets, though he will not speak if I be one of them.”

  I step closer. “How can you claim such things, sister? No one can know the inner thoughts of another.”

  “He spoke them one night.” Sarah’s voice deepens. “He and George, aye, and Andrew Martin also. They had all drunk so deep of the firewater to make my husband sleep, though his restlessness kept me awake. He cried out, aye, howl be a better term for it, in such a manner to haunt my dreams from that night to this. And at the last, still deep in his torment, Priest uttered but a single word…mercy.”

  A shiver runs down my spine. “What pain could have caused him to cry out thusly?”

  “I know not,” says Sarah. “He would not say the following morn, or any morn after. I half believe he hoped I would forget the matter.”

  Though I make no claim against her, I know in my soul Father would never expect such a thing. My sister forgets nothing.

  “Can you believe I thought to learn his secrets when first he and I met so long ago?” Sarah asks, shaking her head. “But he and his silence are one. Nothing penetrates it. Not even a wife’s love.”

  “If Priest were not content with you, he would leave,” I say.

  “And so he does,” says Sarah, her eyebrows raised. “Into the woods with you, or else warring on other tribes. The Black Pilgrim has no time for a wife.”

  “Do not twist my words.” I fight to keep the anger inside me. “You knew my meaning. Either of you may leave the other if and when you see fit. No law binds you and he together.”

  “Duty binds him to me,” Sarah says. “Nothing more.”

  “Then think what ill you will of him,” I say, standing. “I know otherwise.”

  “You claim to know my husband better than I?” Sarah asks.

  “In this matter, aye.”

  Tired of her discontent, I step to leave our home.

  “Mayhap you are right,” Sarah whispers. “After all, you and he have spent many a night in the wood together while at the hunt. He has ever been a shadow in my home.”

  A sister’s bond calls me back. Sarah sits forlorn beside the fire and the bundles of fur. The sheer number of them speaks plain to the time he and I have spent tracking together. All of it time she could not spend with us.

  “And like a shadow, Priest will never abandon you,” I say. “Nor will I.”

  Sarah frowns. “You already have, sis—”

  An ominous sound outside our hut cuts my sister short. The rhythm comes slow and steady, approaching from the northeast.

  My sister’s face pales. “Drums…” she says, her breath rapid.

  My body turns cold at her nervousness, she having been sore affrighted of beating drums since ever I can remember. I have no such fear, and reach for the weapons tucked in my belt. I loose both my tomahawk and long knife, and bring them to bear, even as I struggle to control my wits.

  “Drums, Rebecca…” Sarah says. “Were there a dance planned for this evening?”

  I raise my hand, ushering her silent.

  My ears well recognize the music drawing steadily toward our village, even if my sister’s do not.

  The approaching drums play not for the corn dance, or even feasting.

  The drums call for war.

  -4-

  I burst out of our hut and find our village bustling.

  Young braves whoop as they race toward our village’s main entry, many of them bearing torches. Children follow their lead with barking dogs running alongside them. The elderly move slower, escorted by squaws. The faces of the old ones tell me there be no enemy among us yet.

  My pulse slows, and I pause to listen again on the drums.

  They sound more familiar now—similar to our own, and yet not.

  “Becca!”

  I turn to find my friend and heart-sister, Numees, wife of Deep River.

  Tall and lithe, I envy her copper skin and natural beauty. Beaded quillwork adorns her buckskin dress, the design marking her as possessing an artful hand. She stands outside the shared hut of her mother-in-law, shouldering a buckskin robe to fight the fall chill.

  Not for the first time, I think it little coincidence our homes neighbor one another.

  Numees and I share a bond not like many in our village, both of us outsiders when first we came to live here as children. Though I am white and she Mohican, our tribe welcomed us both to dry the tears of those in mourning.

  Now we are both Miamiak.

  “Becca!” Numees waves again.

  I acknowledge her with a wave of my hand. “Where is your husband?”

  “Gone to meet the war party with the other men,” says Numees. “Does your father not join them?”

  “I know not where he is.” I look back to my home, thinking of Sarah inside. Again I turn to Numees. “I would know more of who beats these drums. Will you look after my sister?”

  She nods. “Go.”

  I sprint for the main entrance to our village, calling swiftness from my legs. My head pounds from the absence of food. I will myself on, weaving around
the other bowl-shaped homes in my path.

  A few braves guard the ring of wooden palisades encircling our village. Their presence gives me further peace of mind at leaving my sister with Numees.

  I pass the council longhouse, and see familiar faces shouldering logs that require three men to carry. They bear the wood to the sprawling center of our village. The lean-to stack they build has the makings of a great fire to come. My mind wonders for what purpose.

  A horde of braves congregates across the open space, their backs to me.

  I cross the empty field quick enough, entering the throng. The men relent in my maneuvering for a better view, a sign I have earned my place among them. I halt near the front, just inside the opening to our village.

  A lone sentry stands beyond our protective wall—our peace chief, Sturdy Oak. Shirtless, despite the cold, the tattoos of our people adorn his body. His face seems stone carved, giving no sign of his thoughts to the train of torches crawling toward us from the woods.

  “Where is our war chief?” A brave whispers behind me. “Why does he not stand with Sturdy Oak? Both should be here.”

  His question reflects my own, though the beating drums give me little time to dwell on such thoughts. I stand as one with the group, the murmurs growing silent when a lone stranger steps away from the woodland safety and onto our territory.

  He walks beside his horses, signaling he comes in peace, and he wears a necklace of bear claws. His scarred body reflects the fierceness radiating in his face.

  I am conflicted whether I dislike his prideful air or respect it, even as my gaze lowers to the wampum belt he bears toward our chieftain. I stare at the belt, admiring the handsome make of shell beads strung together. Its beads appear crimson in the torchlight, their original hue dyed to match the color of war.

  “Greetings to you, cousins,” says the brave, his voice deep and gaze penetrating. “I am called Two Ravens. My people and I would ask you join us on the war path.”

  “And whom do you mean to war upon?” our chief asks.

  “The Iroquois,” says Two Ravens.

  My eyes widen at such a claim, and those behind me gasp.

  Two Ravens seems pleased with our reactions, judging the look on his face.

  My chief’s laughter cuts the tension. “I think you are a madman, or have toked too long of the calumet.”

  The foreign chief grins.

  “You sound like my wife, Grandfather,” says Two Ravens. “And yet, you speak true of my love for the smoke pipe. But call me no madman.”

  “What would you have me name one who asks us to war on the Iroquois?”

  “Defender of the people,” says Two Ravens. “Survivors from a lesser tribe to the northeast came among us seeking refuge with odd claims a rogue band warred on them. Those who escaped said the raiders were Mohawk. Others believe the Seneca.”

  “How is that odd?” asks Sturdy Oak. “The Iroquois are a united nation. Each aiding the other in battle when agreed upon.”

  “I speak of a different oddness,” says Two Ravens. “The survivors say these warriors fought with uncommon strength. One not gifted ordinary men.”

  Whispers ensue among my people, fear of an unseen threat. It would catch me also if I lent the words such credence. A memory from the life before stirs within me. I fight it off, not wishing to give sway to such thoughts when I should face the here and now.

  “The survivors said also that women fought alongside the braves.”

  “Squaws?” our chief says.

  “I said nothing of squaws,” says Two Ravens, finding my face in the crowd. “They say those who fought were white women.”

  He points at me. “You, girl. Come. I would look upon your pale face, much as I despise it.”

  My fingers clench the handles of my weapons as I step forward, rather than be thought a coward. I meet his gaze and keep his stare, never glancing away, even as his eyes work over me.

  Two Ravens laughs. “Why, it is no pale face that stands before me. It is a fearsome squaw.”

  I glare at Two Ravens that he might understand his words truer than he realizes.

  “Tell me, girl, how did you come to live among these peace lovers? Desire for war marks your face.” Two Ravens studies me closer still. “Would you avenge our fallen cousins? Or do you live here for another purpose?”

  I do not take his meaning. My face must reveal such for our chief comes to my aid.

  “She is no traitor,” says Sturdy Oak. “The girl came among us near fifteen year ago. She and her sister.”

  Two Ravens sneers. “You keep two of these among you then?”

  My fingers quiver on the edge of my long knife. I study the neck of Two Ravens, wonder if I could have my knife to it before he might react.

  “Two Ravens speaks with hate,” says Sturdy Oak, his tone grave as he moves between us. “I see no pale faces here, only some Miamiak lighter-skinned than others. And we protect all that we name family.”

  Two Ravens snorts. “My men and I came seeking braves. Yet we find only squealing boys and white dogs among you. We heard your tribe led by a proven war chief. A brave who knows neither fear nor defeat.”

  I open my mouth to speak.

  Sturdy Oak places his arm about me. “You heard true, though I know not where my adopted son may be. The woods call his name more than most.”

  “Can you not send messengers to find him?” Two Ravens asks. “I would speak with him now.”

  “Send all you wish,” says Sturdy Oak. “None will find him unless he would be seen.”

  “Fool.” Two Ravens grabs his necklace. “Do you not see the long claws around my neck? I can find anyone.”

  “Then let you search for my adopted son,” says my chief, his tone steady.

  I find myself wishing Two Ravens would hunt for Father, more that I wish my presence there when Father finds him.

  “I wait for no man,” says Two Ravens. “My braves and I would make the war dance with you this eve and set out tomorrow to avenge our fallen cousins.”

  “Our men ride nowhere without our war chief’s leave,” says Sturdy Oak.

  Two Ravens swings astride his horse, his lip curling as he holds the war belt in his fist. He lifts it high in the air and parades before the men in our village.

  “Who of you will come with us?” He shouts. “Who will reap vengeance upon our enemies?”

  His confidence sings to me. It calls me to whoop and follow, despite my misgivings of his character. The thought of making the war dance excites me more even than the thrill of the hunt. I find myself not alone in such thoughts. A single look over my shoulder reveals that Two Ravens holds the younger men in our tribe also in his sway.

  “Would you have the Miamiak known as peace lovers,” Two Ravens asks our people, “or ride with me and war upon the Iroquois?”

  One brave whoops. His reaction sets others to the same.

  Sturdy Oak pulls me close, his hand rough, but comforting. His long grey hair brushes my cheeks. It smells of tobacco and smoke, home and safety.

  Two Ravens continues his parade. His stallion near kicks me as it rears. He gains control over the beast, then looks upon me. “And you, squaw? Will you come with us?”

  He extends the war belt toward me. The shell beads rattle against one another, a miniature set of drums beating the same alluring call. Their red beads promise glory if I will but take the opportunity.

  An arrow whistles past my ear, giving me no chance.

  Others gasp and my muscles tighten at the sound.

  Where once Two Ravens held the war belt, now it has vanished.

  My eyes sweep the area and find the arrow’s shaft embedded in a wood palisade behind me. The war belt hangs from it, skewered like a squirrel to a tree.

  Two Ravens raises his tomahawk. “Who dare—”

  A shadow steadily approaches from the tree line, his hardened gaze set on this foreign chief come to our village.

  “Who is that brave?” Two Ravens asks.

/>   “My adopted son,” says our chief. “And the man you seek.”

  Two Ravens sneers. “But he is a white man.”

  Sturdy Oak places his hand upon my wrist, halting me from drawing my long knife at the insult to my father’s honor. “Once,” he says to Two Ravens. “Now he and his family are of the people.”

  Father passes Two Ravens without acknowledgement. He continues to the palisade and retrieves his arrow. Looks long on the war belt as if discerning each of its shell beads.

  I wonder what he must think of these newcomers and their call for battle. He has never been warm to strangers, and colder still to those who speak more than listen. Still, that my Father continues his study of the war belt says much to me.

  “Does your white dog not speak, Grandfather?” Two Ravens asks, sliding off his stallion. “Or would you have me teach him?”

  “He speaks little,” says Sturdy Oak. “And the wise heed his words.”

  Two Ravens laughs. “I am no wise man. My people appointed me for my love of battle.” He points his tomahawk at my father. “You claim him as your war chief. I will see him fight.”

  For the first time, my father looks on Two Ravens. Like the eagle, Father’s stare does not waver. He sheds his black cloak and stands bare-chested in the firelight. Tattoos grace his body—runes of our people and scriptures from the Bible my sister keeps.

  Father hands me the war belt before approaching his opponent.

  My fingers roll over the smooth beads, twisting them on their leather strands. Their gentle rattle and my hunger pains call me to enter my dream fast. I fight the feeling away, knowing I must seek solitude for the vision to take full hold over me.

  I turn instead to see Father and Two Ravens circling one another.

  Two Ravens lunges first.

  Father easily steps aside and dodges the immediate backlash Two Ravens makes with his tomahawk.

  The blade swings wide.

  Father rushes in to take hold of its handle.

  Surprise crosses the face of Two Ravens. Then fury.

  He catches my father’s neck, squeezes.

  I dart forward when he gasps.

  Sturdy Oak halts me, even as Father twists the wrist of Two Ravens and steals his tomahawk.