Salem's Legacy by Aaron Galvin

Author:Aaron Galvin [Galvin, Aaron]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aaron Galvin

-Chapter 11-

“Move along, wench!” A man shouts at me from atop his wagon perch.

I roll aside lest his team of horses and wagon run me over.

The driver swears at me and slaps the reins anew. His wagon creaks by, leading behind it a gaggle of slaves—native and black—all bound together as one. Their heads bowed, they trot to keep up, the clanking rankle of their chains a bitter song to pace them.

I rise from the snow and muck wetting my knees, giving thanks I am not chained as they are, that I may go both where and when I like at my choosing and commit such acts as I wish.

Glancing up at the twilit sky, I muse on Father’s teachings and what he might do were our situations reversed. Thoughts of how he and the others were taken plague me. So, too, do I wonder where they might be and if any have shared the same fate as Faith.

My heart bids me search for them. My mind warns it would be folly with the city so large and I a lone stranger in it. I am feared of inquiring on anyone, believing questions should only draw further attention to me, especially at this late hour.

Night strengthens its hold on the city as I stir from the square, headed west toward the lone house whose owner I know.

With daylight banished, the underbelly of Boston wakes to play. I stalk past drunken men who clutch and whistle at near anything that passes them.

My anger hopes they taunt me in such a way.

None do.

Whores walk the streets in pairs, each taking their turn at revealing flesh to the moonlight and cold. Not a few of them twitch and tremble, though I gather not from cold alone. They scratch at their shoulders and cheeks, the need for Devil’s powder living in them.

For all my fear that one will stop and note my face, the whores care little for me, their sights set on more prized game than me. The sober men leave me walk with little regard, their notice given over to easier prey.

I am not so fortunate to avoid the packs of street urchins lurking in darkened alleys.

A few lunge at me. They scurry back quick enough when I flash my blade.

I feel their eyes follow me long after they vanish from sight.

I reach Elisabeth Hubbard’s street within an hour and hide in the alley across from her home. Settling in shadow, I press my back into a bricked corner so none might surprise me from behind.

For several hours I keep watch of Elisabeth’s home, waiting for any hint of light inside, to witness someone leaving or else venturing in.

The elements wear away my resolve. Brutal, biting cold forces me take shelter inside my robes, drawing it over my face and head. My eyes weigh heavy, bidding me sleep.

I draw my blade an inch from its sheathe and slice my thumb upon it, using the pain to wake me alert. Yet even its throb cannot stave off the cold sleep beckoning me accept its dark and peaceful gift.

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