Read Online Salem's Fury (Vengeance Trilogy Book 2) by Aaron Galvin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Aaron Galvin
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flames as my firekeeper.
The stones pulse warmth into the air as my muscles fail, begging me to sleep. Their heat forces me to sit upon a bison hide. I lean to lie down.
“No, child.” Creek Jumper halts me. “Patience.”
He remains with me until I am steady. Only then does he leave my side and cross to the wall. He takes up a skin of water and mutters ancient prayers as he pours the contents atop the heating stones.
The stones sizzle and hiss, their angry steam filling the lodge.
Creek Jumper shows me that I must drink deep of their heat, call the steam into my body with sweeping waves of my arms.
I follow his example, and feel my body warmed from the inside.
He kneels and takes up the strange bowl. Sprinkles its blackish powder into the fire.
A new scent seeps into my nostrils, smelling of both sweet grass and honey.
My muscles relax as Creek Jumper takes a seat upon his bison hide. He holds a small drum, crafted from the hollowed shell of a painted turtle. Gently, he shakes the handle.
“Listen, child.” Creek Jumper says to me. “Heed the call.”
I close my eyes, and listen to the stones and bones rebounding inside the drum.
Creek Jumper begins to sing, his words soothing, lulling me into blissful sleep.
Then I feel something new, liken to insects crawling up my arms and legs.
I reach to brush them aside.
It serves only to hasten their speed.
I shout for Creek Jumper to aid me.
His song deepens, drowning out my cries. His drum beats louder, faster.
My skin feels aflame. I scratch at it. My nails dig deep, yet they cannot reach the pain. My eyes open wide to Creek Jumper’s painted face and tears.
“Listen, child,” he again commands. “Heed the call.”
The heat suffocates me. Begs me to leave this hellish place and dip myself in cool waters.
Instead, I close my eyes and fight the urge, homing on Creek Jumper’s song and the beat of his drum. My body sways with ecstatic fever then I pitch forward into darkness.
***
I sprint through the underbrush, hurdling over rocks and fallen limbs, chasing my quarry by the light of the moon.
My prey titters above me and leaps from branch to branch. It leads me further into the woods. The trickster of the forest does not fear me like his woodland cousins. He knows patience and believes his taunts and high position are like to frustrate me into forfeiting my chase.
But I am not so easily thwarted. I pursue with little sense of passing time, or where my prey leads. Only when my legs threaten to give out does the animal stop and mock me again with its chatter.
I gaze high into the darkened treetops. My target eludes my sight, for now, though I know he yet abides over me.
Hiding. Waiting.
I nock my arrow and stare upward, awaiting any movement, or the reflective glint of the animal’s eyes.
The brush beside me moves. A shadow steps forward.
“Father…”
The chill in the air grants life to his breath. He shifts his gaze upward, squints.
The old ones in our tribe oft mention their belief Father possesses the night sight, a gift given him by the owl feathers he wears in his hair.
Father whistles like a dove of the morning might, then slowly raises his hand. Again, he would prove the old ones correct this night, spotting the creature before I do.
I follow his point.
A pair of glittering eyes stares back at me from behind its natural black mask. The raccoon steps further into the light and perches on the slightest of branches, daring me take my shot.
I pull the bowstring taut near my ear. Breathing in the October cold, I wait for the animal to give me some little signal its spirit has readied to leave this world.
It gives me no such sign.
My eyes squint in wonder at its fearlessness, and I wonder what manner of creature so willfully stares down its hunter.
The muscles in my forearm twitch. My legs and back ache, begging me release my stance.
My arrow does not fly.
Wind breezes past, kisses my cheeks with chilling caress. It hails from the
The stones pulse warmth into the air as my muscles fail, begging me to sleep. Their heat forces me to sit upon a bison hide. I lean to lie down.
“No, child.” Creek Jumper halts me. “Patience.”
He remains with me until I am steady. Only then does he leave my side and cross to the wall. He takes up a skin of water and mutters ancient prayers as he pours the contents atop the heating stones.
The stones sizzle and hiss, their angry steam filling the lodge.
Creek Jumper shows me that I must drink deep of their heat, call the steam into my body with sweeping waves of my arms.
I follow his example, and feel my body warmed from the inside.
He kneels and takes up the strange bowl. Sprinkles its blackish powder into the fire.
A new scent seeps into my nostrils, smelling of both sweet grass and honey.
My muscles relax as Creek Jumper takes a seat upon his bison hide. He holds a small drum, crafted from the hollowed shell of a painted turtle. Gently, he shakes the handle.
“Listen, child.” Creek Jumper says to me. “Heed the call.”
I close my eyes, and listen to the stones and bones rebounding inside the drum.
Creek Jumper begins to sing, his words soothing, lulling me into blissful sleep.
Then I feel something new, liken to insects crawling up my arms and legs.
I reach to brush them aside.
It serves only to hasten their speed.
I shout for Creek Jumper to aid me.
His song deepens, drowning out my cries. His drum beats louder, faster.
My skin feels aflame. I scratch at it. My nails dig deep, yet they cannot reach the pain. My eyes open wide to Creek Jumper’s painted face and tears.
“Listen, child,” he again commands. “Heed the call.”
The heat suffocates me. Begs me to leave this hellish place and dip myself in cool waters.
Instead, I close my eyes and fight the urge, homing on Creek Jumper’s song and the beat of his drum. My body sways with ecstatic fever then I pitch forward into darkness.
***
I sprint through the underbrush, hurdling over rocks and fallen limbs, chasing my quarry by the light of the moon.
My prey titters above me and leaps from branch to branch. It leads me further into the woods. The trickster of the forest does not fear me like his woodland cousins. He knows patience and believes his taunts and high position are like to frustrate me into forfeiting my chase.
But I am not so easily thwarted. I pursue with little sense of passing time, or where my prey leads. Only when my legs threaten to give out does the animal stop and mock me again with its chatter.
I gaze high into the darkened treetops. My target eludes my sight, for now, though I know he yet abides over me.
Hiding. Waiting.
I nock my arrow and stare upward, awaiting any movement, or the reflective glint of the animal’s eyes.
The brush beside me moves. A shadow steps forward.
“Father…”
The chill in the air grants life to his breath. He shifts his gaze upward, squints.
The old ones in our tribe oft mention their belief Father possesses the night sight, a gift given him by the owl feathers he wears in his hair.
Father whistles like a dove of the morning might, then slowly raises his hand. Again, he would prove the old ones correct this night, spotting the creature before I do.
I follow his point.
A pair of glittering eyes stares back at me from behind its natural black mask. The raccoon steps further into the light and perches on the slightest of branches, daring me take my shot.
I pull the bowstring taut near my ear. Breathing in the October cold, I wait for the animal to give me some little signal its spirit has readied to leave this world.
It gives me no such sign.
My eyes squint in wonder at its fearlessness, and I wonder what manner of creature so willfully stares down its hunter.
The muscles in my forearm twitch. My legs and back ache, begging me release my stance.
My arrow does not fly.
Wind breezes past, kisses my cheeks with chilling caress. It hails from the
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