Salem's Fury (Vengeance Trilogy Book 2) by Aaron Galvin Page B

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?”
    Sturdy Oak shakes his head. “He stood between us and you, blocking your sight from us as if he would spare you the sight of