The Savage Beasts of Salem, page 2
“Shh.” Yana stopped humming. I heard the sound of cloth being dipped in water and wrung out. “Your back is still bleeding.” From the clarity of her voice, she was not wearing the heavy veil.
My memories were foggy and slow. I remembered the skinned deer, the awful visions of it getting up and walking—and then vague notions of Father Borodin descending on me with lash and rod.
Yana was his daughter, a silent, submissive girl of nineteen. I had known her my entire life. I’d known her long enough to know that neither her silence nor her submission were natural.
“What did I do?” I asked, slowly trying to rotate my arms. Painful tingling at my fingertips told me they were almost entirely asleep.
Father Borodin never put the ties on me unless I did something wrong.
Unless I completely lost control of myself and the thing that lived within me. No better than one of the Beasts.
Yana was silent for a long time. She dipped and wrung her cloth two more times, dabbing blood from my back, before she answered. “It wasn’t you, Salem. We know that. Father said the Augur is getting too old, he didn’t make your tea properly…”
“What did I do?”
She cleared her throat, dabbing at my side. “You were screaming, and then… Father said you attacked him. You had the evil spirit of the Beast inside you.”
A wave of ice flowed over me, prickling my skin. I looked at my hand, tattooed with purity runes. Then I rotated it so I could see my nails.
Dried blood caked my fingertips.
“Is he… badly hurt?” I whispered, my voice breaking.
Yana plastered the cloth across my lower back. “He will be fine. Salem… have you ever thought that maybe…”
She broke off, and another long silence stretched between us.
“Thought what?” I asked, almost not daring to breathe. Yana hadn’t said a word of dissent against her father’s wishes in months.
Maybe all it had taken was my inner monster breaking free to crack her cage a little, too.
“I don’t think what they’re doing is… good.” She was so quiet it was almost impossible to hear her. “And… I… Salem, he said you attacked him, but he didn’t have a scratch on him.”
I stared at my bloodied fingertips. I couldn’t remember the events at the well clearly at all.
If it was not Father Borodin’s, then whose blood was it?
I wished I could roll over and look at Yana herself, read the emotions in her pale blue eyes. Throughout her entire life, anything her voice failed to convey, her eyes had never been able to hide.
“Why are they lying?” she whispered.
Because they are men, I thought. Because they can.
But that would not be any comfort to Yana, who lived under Father Borodin’s thumb.
“Because it would weaken the Church,” I told her. “If the Vessel is weak, then… nobody would have faith in the Church anymore.”
“Too right, indeed,” Father Borodin’s voice rang out.
I almost heard the bones of Yana’s spine snapping upright. My own fists clenched compulsively, sending shooting pains through my tender fingertips.
But worse than that pain was the emotional wave inside me—the surge of pure rage that his presence induced, the feeling of nails and claws shredding through my skin from the inside out.
I heard the heavy tread of his footsteps across the belfry floor, and felt hands at my wrist. He loosened the straps holding me in place, and Yana silently helped roll me onto my side so I could look at them both.
Father Borodin bore no marks from my supposed attack. His hair was freshly oiled, his robes clean and new. In those soft hands he carried a chipped tea cup and a plate.
I wanted to claw his face, to give him the marks he had lied about.
“To undermine the strength of the Church is to undermine our people. Without faith, the Beasts may break the borders between us and invade this sacred land. We would no longer be safe in Vostok, nor even in our own homes.”
Yana, as stiff as a board, tucked her hands in her lap, eyes downcast to the floor. Her lips had gone bloodless as the Father leaned over us.
“Everything we have rests on your shoulders, Salem. You are the Vessel, the sin-eater. If we lose you, we lose that faith.”
He held the cup of tea to my lips. The scent of earthy mushrooms made me want to vomit.
“Drink.” There was nothing gentle or cajoling about it. That was an order, with a promise of more pain to come if I disobeyed.
I was so tired of hurting.
I raised my head to drink, and a small trickle ran from the corner of my mouth.
“Yana, help her,” he snapped, and Yana moved so fast she was almost a blur.
Her nails dug into the back of my head as she held it upright, fingers quivering. I closed my eyes, trying to drink the tea without tasting it, but it left the aftertaste of dirt.
And the claws inside me faded away, the monster reduced to docility once more.
Father Borodin knelt by my bed, smiling at me. “Don’t fear, Salem. You will be made pure again, and we will finish what we started. Together we will purge this evil.”
The tea churned alarmingly, growing worse as the Father smoothed white strands of hair away from my face. His touch made my skin crawl.
Yana averted her eyes as he did this, her clasped hands white-knuckled. She looked like she was going to be sick.
Father Borodin rose to his feet, barely casting his daughter a glance. “Yana, do something about this mess.”
She nodded, lowering her head until he had passed. As his footsteps faded down the stairs, her gaze finally rose to mine. She no longer looked sick.
She looked like she shared my thoughts. Like she wanted to wrap her fingers around his throat and squeeze.
Somewhere in the fog created by the tea, I wondered what we could do together if all this hate were allowed to break free.
Chapter Three
In the church, no one would ever comment on how unnaturally fast my skin healed from the Father’s ministrations.
By the next morning, the open wounds were not just clotted, but covered with fresh, red skin. The pain had become nothing but faint twinges as I dressed, pulling on my pale white robes and a thick sky-blue veil over my face. Only my hands were exposed, the tattooed runes for purity and containment standing out stark and black.
I sat by the window for a long time, crumbling bits of bread and scattering them on the windowsill. My crow was there every morning, waiting for me. Today he strutted back and forth, and it gave me a little comfort to watch him eat as the sun rose. At least one of us was free to fly away.
Yana said nothing when I crept downstairs for breakfast. She churned the cauldron over the fire, as Ionna, her mother, sliced dense loaves of bread.
I was never expected to perform menial work in this household, one small fate I had been spared. Ionna and Yana did it all themselves, and I was meant to spend my days in prayer and supplication when I wasn’t eating the sins of our people.
It always felt uncomfortable to sit down at the table while Yana worked, her robes and veil already soaked with perspiration. She ladled up bowls of porridge, and when the Father, Augur, and Ionna sat, Yana was the last to sit.
Today there was no honey or cream for the porridge. Only a small clay bowl of coarse salt sat in the middle of the table.
It was the day of prayer.
“Dear Father, Our Lord,” Father Borodin intoned, and we all obediently inclined our heads as he invoked a prayer for purity and purpose.
The Augur ignored the salt, spooning gray porridge into his gummy mouth and leering at me across the table.
Thoughts I was forbidden to voice streaked through my mind like falling stars.
Why leer at me? Why do it at all when he could see nothing of me beneath the heavy layers of cloth? What could possibly be appealing about a woman draped to the point of suffocation?
Or… perhaps that cruelty was the point.
That he had the power to demand we do it, and we were powerless to resist.
I was not the only woman in this village with scars on my back from resistance.
Eating was cumbersome when I had to lift my veil just so, passing my spoon beneath it without allowing the sight of my impure face to put the men off their meal.
Another twist of the old bitterness rose in me, sharp as a snake’s fangs and ready to strike.
It grew and grew, until I was nearly choking on the thick porridge. Why should Yana have to eat beneath a veil soaked with the sweat of her labors? Why could we not just rip the damn things off, get up on the table and leer at the men while they ate—
My hand was trembling with rage. I dropped my spoon with a clatter, and immediately lowered my head and mumbled for forgiveness.
“Yana,” Father Borodin said sharply, and she rose immediately, spine straight as a board. She poured from a steaming kettle, and brought me another tea cup.
I stared at the brackish liquid. A sliver of dried mushroom floated on top.
“Take the sacrament, Vessel.”
Beneath the veil, I cut my eyes at Father Borodin. He couldn’t see me glaring at him. He couldn’t see the hatred… but maybe he could feel it.
My fingertips ached. I felt hot and itchy all over.
“Take. It.”
Hand still trembling, I took the cup, burning my fingers. Instead of daintily lifting my veil, I pulled the whole thing back, exposing my face. Ionna made a disgusted, disapproving noise.
I stared at Father Borodin as I drank, but there were no smiles today at how good I had been. He stared back. His left eyelid had a tic, and his lips were downturned to carve deep lines in his face.
When I put the empty cup back on the table, my rage was already abating into numb apathy.
We ate in silence after that, and as Yana rose to clear the table, Father Borodin paused behind me.
He leaned down to whisper in my ear. “If you ever disobey me so directly again, I will have the skin stripped from your back entirely.”
I only nodded, watching the knots and grain of the table swirl like an ocean in front of me.
Everyone in Vostok was in the church before the sun had fully risen.
On any other day, the building seemed almost too big for the village, but on the day of prayer, I felt crushed.
It was too warm, with all the bodies pressed together. Sweat dripped down my back and beaded on my temples. Every woman in here was clumped together and veiled, and small dark patches on their robes gave away their discomfort with the heat.
We stood out like flowers neatly contained in a garden bed, all in white, with blue embroidery. Several women boasted much more intricate embroidery than the others; Freya in particular. She had a knack with thread, and both her hood and cloak were covered with blue scenes of deer, foxes, and owls flying through a forest.
Father Borodin stood before us, thumbing through a jewel-encrusted Bible, but on this day there was not the usual silence he was accustomed to. Everyone whispered to each other.
The deer at the well had frightened Vostok. I had a brief snatch of memory, of someone telling me it was a price—flesh for flesh—but it fled as quickly as it came. All they knew was that the Beasts had invaded. They had crossed the sacred lines, defiling our land.
They grew louder and louder. The Father finally couldn’t ignore the mumblings any longer.
He looked up from his Bible, irritation crossing his face, and laced his fingers together on top of it. “I can see that today your concerns will not allow you to concentrate on the blessings of our Lord. So we will speak instead of the town.”
“Good! What is there to be done about this?” one of the men bellowed, and there was a small sprinkling of agreement among him. The women remained silent, invisible tension bonding us all together.
Father Borodin paused, looking over us all with the indulgence a shepherd reserves for his prized flock. “The whispers you have heard are all true. The Beasts did indeed cross the sacred boundaries.”
The entire congregation was focused on him, practically vibrating with anxiety.
“And the one question burning in all of you right now is… why?” A thin smile crossed the Father’s lips. “Why did the Beasts break our covenant? Vostok has existed for hundreds of years, and we have maintained the peace in that entire time. Why are they now choosing to defile our boundaries?”
Several grim-faced men were nodding.
“The answer is right here. Right in this room with us, as we speak. Right… there.”
Father Borodin pointed to the women’s box.
“The Beasts are mere animals. When they sense our lack of faith, they feel that they can overstep. And why has our faith wavered? Because the women of this settlement are impure. Immoral. They allow themselves to be seduced by dark thoughts.”
If it weren’t for the calming tea, my nails would have been shredding through my palms. Because the moment he pointed, every man in that room looked at us. At this garden of bright blue and white daisies, every face obscured.
I saw hatred staring at us. Distrust and rage.
As long as they couldn’t see us, or look into our eyes, we were not people to them. We were merely vessels to be blamed and punished.
“Some of them have gone even further than dark thoughts… they have walked dark paths. And because of their transgressions, the Beasts have found a foothold, a chink in our armor.”
I could almost feel the violence wafting from the men. Beside me, Freya’s muscles were clenched so tightly she felt she was made of stone. As though she sensed my thoughts, she slipped a hand beneath my robe, seeking out my fingers. We wove them together tightly, so hard it hurt, but it was comforting to have one other person in the room feel what I felt.
“But all is not lost.” The Father raised his hands in supplication. “These base creatures can repent from their misdeeds. The Vessel shall eat their sins, and we will once more cast the Beasts back into the Wood where they belong.
“We can lead them back into the light. All they need is a firm touch, a man’s touch, and they will be brought to heel once more.”
I didn’t believe Father Borodin didn’t know what he was stirring up.
Only a few of the men remained clear-headed after the service, and they had to go out of their way to prevent several of the others from attacking the veiled women right then and there.
Father Borodin had to intercede multiple times, and it was finally determined that for our first day of penance, we would purify ourselves with labor for the menfolk.
I held Freya’s hand until the moment we were forced to let go. Men came and went, bringing their holey linens and clothes back to the church and dumping them in messy piles.
We were to sort, mend, and wash. None of us were permitted to remove our hoods or veils, and soon enough those stuck inside the church were sweating profusely.
For those of us allowed to wash, the chill outdoor air was a welcome relief. I grabbed a woven basket piled with dirty pants and slipped outside with Freya.
She dared to pull her veil back, revealing her flushed face and dark eyes. An auburn curl had escaped from under her hood. “That absolute bastard,” she whispered furiously. “Not only are we slaves now, but we can’t leave the Paths. He decreed yesterday that any man or woman found in the Wood was to be put in the stocks and whipped. My sister’s baby is sick and we’re out of medicine.”
To cover our whispered conversation, I plunged a pair of pants into the tub of soapy water and began vigorously scrubbing and splashing. “What does she need? If it’s in the Augur’s stores, I can find it.”
She shook her head bitterly. “Vervain and lemon balm. He won’t have it.”
I held back a curse. She was right; the Augur did not keep ‘niceties’ like lemon balm on hand. I had seen his cupboards, filled with knotted, toxic roots and desiccated slivers of mushroom, but never lemon balm or vervain.
“No, but this is my fault. I’ll get the herbs.”
Freya cast me a sharp look. For a moment I thought she would ask why I thought this was my fault at all. Instead, she said, “What if he catches you?”
I couldn’t stop a crooked smile from crossing my face. “Being whipped is nothing new to me.”
Freya began scrubbing the pants like she wanted to destroy them. “Thank you, Salem.”
Half an hour of silence later, she did finally look at me again. Her eyes lingered on my yellow ones; my witchmarked face.
“You know that some of us don’t believe him, right?” she said softly, gathering the cleaned clothes. “We were supposed to be inside that day, for the purification of the well. But I watched through a crack in my shutters. I saw it all.” She gave me a wicked smile of her own. “He told us you attacked him, but what happened was that you were screaming and he beat you until you were unconscious. So perhaps it's not your fault. I sinned by watching the sin-eater; perhaps it's mine. But I don’t really believe that, either.”
I stared up at her. The lengthening shadows obscured half her face. Our words felt so very dangerous. “It’s none of our fault. It’s his.”
Freya nodded, then took the clothes inside.
I held her words inside me, a little glowing jewel of warmth against the coldness of this world.
Chapter Four
I waited until well after nightfall to creep from the belfry and through the kitchen, silently easing the door open and shut behind me. The Augur’s snores were the only audible sound, and the candlelight flickering under the Father’s door was gone, so I dared to risk it.
I clutched a glittering stone in one sweaty hand. Everyone knew that to cross the boundary, you needed to leave an offering for the Beasts—and it needed to be worth something to you.
You couldn’t just leave a ratty little token and hope it was good enough. They knew when you were trying to find a loophole, so the butchers left good cuts of meat, and the weavers left fine embroidery.
I had no skills beyond what I was trained to, so I had to leave something else precious to me. I treasured each shiny thing my feathered companions left me, so I’d picked through my little box of rocks and found a gray stone with glimmering bits of pink in it, tucking it in my palm and already mourning the loss.
