Read Online Salem's Fury (Vengeance Trilogy Book 2) by Aaron Galvin - Free Book Online
Authors: Aaron Galvin
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scream.
I pluck Father’s weapon free of its wooden sheath then bury it over and again, striking in vain attempts to silence the fear and doubt crippling my mind.
“ Rebecca!”
Father’s voice pulls me from the trance.
The drums play no longer. The flickering flames behind me the sole voice I hear.
I look round the circle and find familiar faces unable to meet my gaze.
Even Numees looks on me as a stranger.
Father studies my face as one concerned, though he says nothing.
“She is a fearsome squaw.” Two Ravens breaks the quiet. “And near chopped the striking pole in two.”
Creek Jumper approaches me warily. “What caused you to rise in such a stupor?” he asks.
“The drums…they bid me rise,” I say in earnest.
“Did they bid you scream also?”
“No. I-I saw…”
“Tell me, young one,” says Creek Jumper. “What did you see?”
I think of Sarah and feel my eyes sting with tears. “I-I saw death…great sacrifice…” My chest heaves as Creek Jumper lays his hands gently upon my shoulders. “F-forgive me. I did not mean to—”
“Peace, child,” he says. “One does not strike the pole in such a way if the ancestors did not grant them a powerful vision.”
“But it were a memory I saw,” I say. “No vision.”
Our shaman seems to weigh my words before turning toward the people. “It is known women have no place in war, but when the ancestors speak, the people must listen.”
Those in our tribe nod in acknowledgement of his claim. Then Creek Jumper squints at me. His look sends cold shivers through me as if he peered into my soul and found it lacking.
“I see one before me who has suffered great loss. A darkness long kept, awaiting release,” he says. “I say the ancestors speak through Black Pilgrim’s daughter this night, and now leave the decision to us.”
“What decision?” Whistling Hare asks.
Creek Jumper stares into my eyes. “They mean her to guide us in this battle. Where her fate leads, so too does the people’s.”
“But she is barely a woman,” says Ciquenackqua. “And white also.”
I bristle at his words, but keep my silence.
“This world is filled with many colors,” says Creek Jumper. “Do you doubt the Creator’s design?”
Ciquenackqua hangs his head.
“I do not,” says Creek Jumper. “But I am one voice and the people have many. They will decide.”
I know not how to react upon seeing those familiar to me nodding.
Deep River’s smile swells confidence in me, and I am not a little surprised to see Ciquenackqua’s face darken as his father claps me on the shoulder and squeezes.
“I would gladly go to war with such a warrior as she.” Whistling Hare looks to Father. “Would you, brother?”
Father says nothing for what feels an eternity. Then, slowly, he nods.
I fight to keep myself rooted to the ground as the whoops and war cries sound anew.
Another hand touches upon my shoulder, bids me look on his white-painted face and red tears.
“She cannot go without knowing the face of her manitous, ” says Creek Jumper.
“But it has not yet revealed itself,” I say.
Creek Jumper’s eyes shine. “Your vision has already begun, else you could not have pulled the weapon from the striking pole. Your manitous lent you strength in that moment. Now, we will ask that it reveal its form to you.”
- 6-
Creek Jumper leads me away from the bonfire.
My steps stutter, and I lean upon his arm for guidance as hunger threatens to whisk me into the dream fast.
He directs me to the sweat lodge and pulls back the buckskin flap that I might enter first. A wave of heat slaps me the moment I step inside, waking me to my new surroundings.
Though fairly bare of ornament, I find the lodge comforting. The fire’s orange hues and crackling wood emote the sense I am in my own home. Skins of water and various ingredients line the wall—tobacco, cedar, and a strange bowl filled with purplish-black powder—all of which Creek Jumper will offer to the
I pluck Father’s weapon free of its wooden sheath then bury it over and again, striking in vain attempts to silence the fear and doubt crippling my mind.
“ Rebecca!”
Father’s voice pulls me from the trance.
The drums play no longer. The flickering flames behind me the sole voice I hear.
I look round the circle and find familiar faces unable to meet my gaze.
Even Numees looks on me as a stranger.
Father studies my face as one concerned, though he says nothing.
“She is a fearsome squaw.” Two Ravens breaks the quiet. “And near chopped the striking pole in two.”
Creek Jumper approaches me warily. “What caused you to rise in such a stupor?” he asks.
“The drums…they bid me rise,” I say in earnest.
“Did they bid you scream also?”
“No. I-I saw…”
“Tell me, young one,” says Creek Jumper. “What did you see?”
I think of Sarah and feel my eyes sting with tears. “I-I saw death…great sacrifice…” My chest heaves as Creek Jumper lays his hands gently upon my shoulders. “F-forgive me. I did not mean to—”
“Peace, child,” he says. “One does not strike the pole in such a way if the ancestors did not grant them a powerful vision.”
“But it were a memory I saw,” I say. “No vision.”
Our shaman seems to weigh my words before turning toward the people. “It is known women have no place in war, but when the ancestors speak, the people must listen.”
Those in our tribe nod in acknowledgement of his claim. Then Creek Jumper squints at me. His look sends cold shivers through me as if he peered into my soul and found it lacking.
“I see one before me who has suffered great loss. A darkness long kept, awaiting release,” he says. “I say the ancestors speak through Black Pilgrim’s daughter this night, and now leave the decision to us.”
“What decision?” Whistling Hare asks.
Creek Jumper stares into my eyes. “They mean her to guide us in this battle. Where her fate leads, so too does the people’s.”
“But she is barely a woman,” says Ciquenackqua. “And white also.”
I bristle at his words, but keep my silence.
“This world is filled with many colors,” says Creek Jumper. “Do you doubt the Creator’s design?”
Ciquenackqua hangs his head.
“I do not,” says Creek Jumper. “But I am one voice and the people have many. They will decide.”
I know not how to react upon seeing those familiar to me nodding.
Deep River’s smile swells confidence in me, and I am not a little surprised to see Ciquenackqua’s face darken as his father claps me on the shoulder and squeezes.
“I would gladly go to war with such a warrior as she.” Whistling Hare looks to Father. “Would you, brother?”
Father says nothing for what feels an eternity. Then, slowly, he nods.
I fight to keep myself rooted to the ground as the whoops and war cries sound anew.
Another hand touches upon my shoulder, bids me look on his white-painted face and red tears.
“She cannot go without knowing the face of her manitous, ” says Creek Jumper.
“But it has not yet revealed itself,” I say.
Creek Jumper’s eyes shine. “Your vision has already begun, else you could not have pulled the weapon from the striking pole. Your manitous lent you strength in that moment. Now, we will ask that it reveal its form to you.”
- 6-
Creek Jumper leads me away from the bonfire.
My steps stutter, and I lean upon his arm for guidance as hunger threatens to whisk me into the dream fast.
He directs me to the sweat lodge and pulls back the buckskin flap that I might enter first. A wave of heat slaps me the moment I step inside, waking me to my new surroundings.
Though fairly bare of ornament, I find the lodge comforting. The fire’s orange hues and crackling wood emote the sense I am in my own home. Skins of water and various ingredients line the wall—tobacco, cedar, and a strange bowl filled with purplish-black powder—all of which Creek Jumper will offer to the
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