Salem's Fury (Vengeance Trilogy Book 2) (7 page)

“What vision did the ancestors grant you, child?” he asks.

His face remains a stone as I recount my vision. Indeed, he shows me little sign he is to have heard my tale at all. Only when I finish does he give me the smallest of nods.

“Even the wisest cannot know all that the
manitous
reveals in the dream fast,” said Creek Jumper. “For some, the visions come to bear soon. Others…” He shakes his head.

“Aye,” I say. “But what do you believe of mine? What message would they have me understand? Learn what lesson?”

Creek Jumper palms a handful of softened corn from his bowl. Eats the kernels slowly, all while staring into the fire.

“Fear is the message.” His eyes narrow at me. “Slaying it the lesson.”

“I do not understand,” I say.

“Your
manitous
is a curious one.” Creek Jumper palms another handful of corn.

“Aye,” I say, my thought dwelling on the raccoon. “How can it be the grandfathers would have me follow such a dishonest spirit?”

Creek Jumper sighs. “Trickery…deception…two of many masks the ringed-tail wears. Do not mistake them for an evil nature. Honor instead this creature’s cunning and resourceful ways. Learn to wear all the masks it would teach you.”

I nod in acknowledgement of his words, even if I do not understand them. “And what of my father?” I ask. “Why would I witness his body blackened? Why would he leave me, unaided?”

“To fear his loss marks a good father. You have felt it before.”

“I do not recall that other man.” I say, struggling to keep my temper. “And the book my sister gives me teaches he was greedy of gain at the expense of others. Is it wrong that I do not mourn the loss of such an evil man?”

“Good and evil,” says Creek Jumper. “Both masks we assign others to wear at our choosing. Black Pilgrim decided we march the warpath this morning. Some might call him good for such an act. Others would say it evil.”

“But he would seek vengeance on those who have wronged others.”

“Others we do not know,” says Creek Jumper. “Nor ever will. They walk the spirit path now. We have only the words of Two Ravens.”

I think before speaking, wondering what Creek Jumper would teach me. The answer comes to me at seeing the red-painted tears upon his cheeks. “You do not trust him…”

Creek Jumper’s face breaks in his own quiet way. “Say instead that I am cautious,” he says. “As is Black Pilgrim.”

“But you…you made the war dance.”

“I performed a shaman’s rites,” says Creek Jumper. “My role among the people says I must carry the offerings others would give. And so I follow our warriors into battle that I might lend my talents and see our men return.”

“And Father?” I ask. “Why would he follow a man he does not trust into battle?”

Creek Jumper reaches for the last of his corn. “When the grandfathers granted me a vision of my own
manitous,
I saw grizzlies upon the rock at the river mouth, fetching salmon as each fish leapt from the water. One survived its hunters and continued its course. When I woke from the dream fast, I went to my father. ‘Why did the fish risk the long claws?’ I asked him. ‘Would it not have been safer for them to stay deep and safe?”

Our shaman chews his corn thoughtfully, lost in his own memories. Only after he swallows the corn does he speak again.

“My father said if the salmon did not follow, the fish would never know what lay upstream. That to not follow its path made the fish dead already.”

I think on his words awhile. “Father is curious then…”

Creek Jumper nods.

“It is not like him to make such a hasty decision,” I say. “If he were only curious, he would go alone to discover more. Father would not risk our warriors if he did not think it of grave importance.” I look to Creek Jumper, concern plaguing my every word. “What was said in the longhouse to convince him?”

Creek Jumper’s jaw works back and forth, and I gather him weighing his thoughts. He sighs at the last.

“Your father gave permission for you to journey with us,” says Creek Jumper. “A rite not granted all women. Only women who have lost one they hold dear and receive a vision may march the warpath.”

I open my mouth to tell Creek Jumper I have lost no such person.

He halts me with a raised hand. “It is right that you know what was discussed, since the answer also lies with you and your sister.”

My throat catches in wonder of what he speaks.

“Eat.” Creek Jumper gives me a bit of dried jerky. “And stay. I will return.”

He ambles toward the leather flap and opens it.

The sky shades violet with the approaching dawn. The sight surprises me. I had not thought of the dream fast holding me for so long.

I gnaw on the jerky, my mind hurrying me to make ready for the warpath with Father and the other braves. I fight the urge, reminding myself that Father would not leave without me and that I must first learn what Creek Jumper would teach.

His return comes swiftly. He clutches a gift, wrapped in the same bundled fox pelt he took from the council longhouse.

Creek Jumper sits next to me on the bison hide and sets the gift between us.

I desire to reach for the pelt, and uncover what secret it holds. Instead, I look to our shaman. Observe he too looks upon the pelt.

“Your father and I have spoken much about the events bringing you all here,” he says. “Black Pilgrim warned of the hate that powerful white men had for him and your family. He said he would not have their anger fall on us for sheltering you.”

Creek Jumper grins.

“I told him powerful white men have long hated our people,” he says.

The silence between us worries me. “You think these men…the Mathers.” I recall the names from the Putnam journal my sister keeps. “You believe they search for us now?”

A low rumble rises in Creek Jumper’s throat as he sits in reflective study.

“Two Ravens said he and his men returned to the raided village,” Creek Jumper says of a sudden. “Bodies lay where they fell, untouched, still bearing jewelry and weapons.”

My hopes rise. “Then the raiders cannot have been white men. They take all they can carry.”

“We share the same mind,” says Creek Jumper.

I think back on the previous night and all Two Ravens had said about the rumors. I well remember his scorn for me. “What of the white women?” I ask. “He said they, too, fought.”

Creek Jumper shakes his head. “That did not sway us.”

“Then what convinced Father?” I ask.

Creek Jumper reaches for the fox pelt.

My breath catches as he pulls back the flap.

A crude, bone-hilted dagger lay at the center of the pelt. The base of it is carved into a skull with two strings, one black, the other red, tied from either eye socket. They run down its cheeks as if the skull weeps colors.

I stare upon its familiar blade and recall many nights at Bishop’s side, listening to his tales of leprechauns, banshees, and witches.

“You know this blade?” Creek Jumper asks.

“The one I name grandfather owns its twin. He tells a story of the ribbons’ meaning.” I take the dagger in hand, staring at its handle and the ribbons draped from its eyes. “Red for the innocence stolen from them. Black for the histories that darken their names.”

I look into Creek Jumper’s eyes.

“It’s Salem’s vengeance.”

Confusion masks his face.

“The powerful white men.” I say. “They leave the blades as a warning.”

Creek Jumper grunts as he takes the dagger from my hands. “Then we will find these white men and their warrior women.” He rips the red and black ribbons from the eye sockets then tosses both into the fire. “And leave our own warning.”

The morning sun peeks over the horizon as I leave the sweat lodge. It has banished most of the stars, but a few yet remain to shine upon me.

I look upon them and offer a silent prayer to the ancestors, thanking them for the vision, asking they lend me courage on the warpath.

A mound of glowing embers stands where the towering bonfire did when last I saw it. Trampled grass encircles the ashy remainder, signaling the many feet that made the war dance, and the striking pole leans heavy with several deep gashes.

My mind wonders what took hold of me last eve to grant such strength.

The flap opens behind me as Creek Jumper leaves the sweat lodge. He breathes deep of the morning air, his nose wrinkling as he looks on me.

“Go to the river,” he says. “Cleanse yourself. It would not do for your smell to give us away.”

I smile back at him then take my leave. Along the way, cook fires burn, babies cry, and an occasional brave steps from his home to relieve himself.

The signs of my village stirring hasten my step through the palisade opening. I head east toward the riverbank, watching the first rays of sunlight sparkle on the water.

A noise from inside the woods, liken to a fawn frightened from its resting place, halts me. The sound does not drive deeper into the forest like an animal should, nor does it grow quiet like a startled person might. Instead the sound continues, thrashing.

I draw my long dagger. My pulse quickens as I enter the thicket, soundless and sure as Father taught me. I do not travel far before discovering the noise source.

Spinning and stumbling, Ciquenackqua dances around a weak fire.

I crouch behind an old oak in silent watch.

Three times Ciquenackqua dances around the fire before I understand he means to imitate Father’s movements, but he has not yet mastered control of his body. His feet do not lift in time and he near trips himself.

He stops and kicks the ground, frustration crossing his face. I think to laugh, and remind him he is not yet such a renowned brave.

The thought vanishes when he sits hard upon the ground and puts his face in his hands, his back shuddering.

My mind reminds me pity is for the weak.

My spirit reaches out to one who would practice the war dance alone, as I often have. Shame washes over me that I should witness such a private act.

I rise from my position, and creep away so that he will not hear.

I sprint for the riverbank after emerging from the woods.

Our overturned canoes line the shore. I grin at the sight of them and revel at the thought I will soon share one with Father, the pair of us riding the stream downriver with the other men.

I slip off my moccasins and wade into the frigid water, stopping when it reaches my knees.

Small fish scatter as I enter their domain, clouding their home.

I bend low and dip my hands. I palm handfuls of sand into them then scrub my arms, neck, and face until all feel raw and flush red. I wonder what the warpath holds for me. What it must feel like to take a man’s life. If I will hesitate at the killing time, or commit the act as Father would have me do.

The cold seeps into my skin, a reminder I should not linger. Already, braves head toward the canoes carrying dried meat, robes, and weapons.

Splashing myself clean, I hurry back to the shore and fetch my moccasins. I run to our village and round the palisades to find our village thrives with braves gathering their things and saying their goodbyes.

The flurry of activity catches me as well. I waste no time in sprinting for my home.

Numees and Deep River pass me along the way. She opens her mouth as if she would speak.

Instead, Deep River ushers her stay with him.

I gather that I have missed something, but continue on my way.

The surrounding noise lessens as I yank back the flap and enter my home.

Sarah sits beside the fire, her Bible lying open in her lap. She glances up, her eyes red with tears. “Did Priest find you?”

I dislike the tone of her question. One that warns I will like her reasoning behind it even less. “No,” I reply. “I have not seen him since the dancing fire. Why do you ask?”

Sarah looks again on her Bible. “He and I spoke much after his decision. All night, in truth.”

I think back at how Numees looked on me and what her face said that she could not bring herself to speak, nor Deep River allow her to.

“You would talk him from it,” I say. “Ask him not to make war on the Iroquois?”

“No,” she says. “He is a war chief. His duty calls him to protect the people. I could not sway him from such a task, even if I desired it more than anything else in the world. And to change his decision now would make him seem weak.”

“Then what decision do you speak of?” I ask.

Sarah wavers before answering me, casting her gaze to earth. “I asked him renounce his claim for your company on the warpath.”

Anger swarms within me at Sarah’s answer. My jaw works wordlessly as unpleasant thoughts seethe in my mind. “How…how could he…why would you—”

“Must you ask? Truly?” Sarah says, tears welling in her eyes. “I love you, sister. With all my heart.”

I fall to my knees. “Then why would you do this? You know better than any what such a decision means to me. He honored me in front of our people by granting permission.”

“They are not my people, Rebecca.” Sarah scoots toward me, taking hold of my hands. “
You
are, sweet sister. Shadows that you both may be in this home, you and my husband are all I have left in this cruel world. I could not bear to lose you both.”

I pull my hands back from hers. “You speak untruths, Sarah. You have George also—”

“No,” she says. “Our brother has not come here in many a year now. Not since his own children died from the pox.”

I sneer at her words. “Or perhaps he comes no more since you told him our family is cursed. That its dark magic fell even upon on his children.”

“We
are
cursed, Rebecca.” Sarah insists. “Outcast. How can it be you and George will not see? God forces us to wander in the wilderness for our sins.”

“I do not wander,” I say. “Father taught me all the secrets of the forest. Showed me the goodly spirits that reside in all things. He would show you also, but you will not see them. You would rather cower in a hut.”

Sarah looks away from me. “My legs—”

“Fear cripples you.” I spit. “Nothing more. Creek Jumper could heal your legs if only you believed.”

“I know not what to believe anymore, sister.” Sarah closes her Bible. “Do you think I do not feel the anger in your heart? I do. It lives in mine also.”

“Do not speak of my anger,” I say. “What could you know of it?”

“You think my soul does not rage, Rebecca? You cry I withhold that which you desire more than anything. You, who know better than most what
I
have lost? Family…a husband’s love…the simple joy of running through the woods.”

My sister flings her Bible across the hut, startling me.

“Everything I hold dear turns to dust!” she shrieks.

I know not what to say as Sarah looks on me with a wildness I have never before seen in her. She cups her face with her hands, shaking and sobbing.

“F-forgive me, sister,” Sarah says. “I fear our mother passed on her madness to me. But all that I did, all that I do…it is to keep you safe with me.”

I do little to hide the disdain in my face as she looks on me.

“I do not question your love for me, Sarah, or that you would know I am safe from harm,” I say. “But you did not do all for that alone.”

“What do you say?”

“You would keep me here to wallow with you,” I say. “Speaking endlessly of curses and witchery, but you can yet live, Sarah.”

“You mock me.” Sarah snorts.

I kneel next to her, and take her hands again in mine.

“No!”

She shrinks, clutching her head as if she berates herself in ways I cannot know or hear. She looks upon me, wiping tears from her eyes.

“It is too late for me, sister,” Sarah says, touching my cheek.

I draw away. “It is not for me. Let me go and find Priest. You swayed him from his decision already. Let you convince him now. Ask that I may go—”

Sarah shakes her head. “I have seen enough death to last me all the rest of my days. Our mother and father killed, and my dearest friends also. So many years ago, and still their faces haunt my dreams each night.” She takes my hand in hers and kisses the backs of them. “Do not begrudge my desire to keep you safe.”

I turn stony as my sister wipes her tears away. I leave her side and gather my things—bow and arrows, my winter robes, and a bag of corn for the journey.

“I know you are angry with me.” Sarah’s words halt me ere I leave. “And I will wear that proudly, knowing it keeps you well. I ask you grant me one kindness only.”

“What?”

“Do not…” Her voice breaks. “Do not let your anger for me turn hateful.”

Not wishing to lie, I leave our hut without giving the answer she seeks.

The village has near emptied as I run through it. Only a few of the old ones sit outside their homes, some nibbling on soft corn, others gambling on their bowl games.

My people gather outside the palisades, forcing me to thread my way through them. More of our braves dip their canoes into the river, while all who came with Two Ravens have already pushed off downstream.

I pass Numees, locked in Deep River’s embrace, and search the faces of those not yet in their canoes. Father is nowhere to be seen.

I shield my eyes, squint to learn if he cast off with Whistling Hare and Ciquenackqua.

Creek Jumper is last to leave our shores, sharing a canoe with his son. Our shaman offers tobacco to the water panther in request the spirit not drown our men.

My people shout and wave as the braves dip their oars.

Anger and grief forbid my soul from adding my voice to theirs.

“Rebecca.”

Sturdy Oak stands behind me, his wispy white hair blowing in the breeze.

“Come,” he bids. “Speak with me.”

As our people walk back to the village, I follow our peace chief toward the Swinging Tree. On any other day, the willowy branches would call my name to climb them and dive from their heights. Today, even the gentle song of their rustling leaves brings me no comfort.

Sturdy Oak sits beneath the tree, bidding me sit beside him. He lights the
calumet
and puffs it. A series of smoke circles leave his lips, expanding as they ascend.

We sit in quiet for what seems to me a long while. Only when I fear my silence will no longer keep does he speak.

“You are angry with your father,” he says.

“Should I not be?” I ask. “Glory is given to those who make the warpath. I would make my father proud. Bring him the honor he deserves.”

“Then trust his judgment.”

“But he said I could go, Grandfather.”

Sturdy Oak says nothing for a time, and I fear he will never speak. Still, I remain at his side, smelling the tobacco smoke he exhales, waiting for his words.

“It is right that you are angry with Black Pilgrim,” he says finally. “You have lost much to these warrior women he would fight, but those who have lost much must cling to what little remains.”

“You speak of my sister.”

He nods. “You are still young and know not the happiness of a husband and children. Other times, the burden.” Sturdy Oak puffs the
calumet.
“We are a generous people, but we would not have taken any strangers among us if we had not sensed goodness in them, a love of family and the will to protect them at all costs. I recognized such love when first our paths crossed in the woods those many years ago.”

Sturdy Oak passes me the
calumet
, and smiles as one lost in his memories.

“You will not remember this, for you were still young that day,” he says. “But I think on it often. Some counseled we should not trust white folk and, when the others decided to kill your family, I said nothing against it.”

My breath catches in my throat at his words.

Sturdy Oak hangs his head. “You are right to be surprised, for it shames me to say I agreed with them. Though my role forbids it, hate lingered in my heart at the death of my son to white traders.”

“But we are still here,” I say. “What stayed their hands?”

“You.” Sturdy Oak chuckles at my confusion and takes back the
calumet
. “In truth, they stopped at my bidding,” he says. “But it was the sight of you and Black Pilgrim that swayed me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He knew we lingered in the woods, surrounding your camp,” says Sturdy Oak. “I expected him to attack us, or move close to your sister, who I thought he favored.”

“He did not?”