Betty and The Beast Slayer (Book One: Deliverance)

Chapter Twenty: Sanctuary

We arrived at the camp by nightfall, and not without the visits of wandering beasts. Marcus and I did seem to have a certain kind of rhythm as we rode upon Samson, occasionally stopping to battle the creatures as they crept through the trees. The beasts were scant, but I could hold my ax and fight back as Marcus swiftly cut them down with his scythe. I wondered as we destroyed our sixth demon if they looked upon us and saw the reapers of death and his bride as we cut down the devils. The creatures were simple and lifeless, and we moved like an army of predators when they came upon us. Before Marcus, the idea of wandering through the night seemed like a fool's errand, but he did inspire a sense of fearlessness in me.

Some part of my mind found it curious that the beasts were hunting me once again. Only a short while ago, the beasts had saved me from Samuel. Perhaps Roan's weakness was changing his power, and the beasts were not pulled by his power. They also seemed to have no interest in calling my name. One curious remnant was that Marcus' heartbeat still led me as if the sound echoing in my mind was some supernatural star pointing me in the proper direction. We were linked, now more than ever before. The world was an ever-shifting terrain that I had no knowledge of.

Finally, we had arrived at the camp. What had once clearly been open territory was surrounded with fences that seemed to be a better fitting of Jericho than the House of Rehab had ever been. A guard watched us as we approached, the silver glint of a musket glimmering out of the corner of our eyes.

"Stop," the man shouted. "You are not welcome here, white man."

"I come to speak with Jacy," Marcus called out. "He offered me sanctuary."

"White men do not come behind the fence," the voice repeated. "White women, I could make an exception ... for the night."

Marcus stood in front of me protectively, angrily.

"My wife is not going without me," Marcus shouted.

His words struck me. My wife. We had discussed this, the idea of having me become Elizabeth Prynne to protect my identity and to pass ourselves off as husband and wife. Yet the word still filled me with such joy and sorrow. It was the most beautiful lie, so much so that it almost felt true.

We waited and slowly the gate to the fence opened. Jacy walked out, approaching us. His eyes narrowed upon me with a hint of curiosity. His hair was longer than I remembered, and I was surprised to see him dressed as puritan.

"Ah," Jacy said. "Is this the witch the British are looking for?"

"No," Marcus lied. "She is my bride. We seek refuge with your people."

"So she is a married witch," Jacy smirked. "I will let you in, despite your desire to bring trouble upon us. A woman here, a seer, is expecting you."
"A seer," I asked, finding my voice for the first time.

"A white woman," Jacy chuckled. "Somehow we keep housing these orphaned white people. Her name is Martha, and she told me a man and his mistress would come, pretending to be married. She said she had a message for them about a man named Roan."

"Then we must see her," I said.

"Then perhaps we will" Marcus replies.

As we walked through the fence, I was taken aback by the wide array of people there. So many of them had clothes similar to Puritans or the colonists in Virginia and Boston. But many of the natives wore traditional clothes that were markedly different. Feathers, painted faces, and exposed skin filled my vision. Despite the small space, the settlement they had built between the walls was brimming with life. Small rotund houses, built with twigs and bark, were scattered in a patterned row throughout the area. There were probably at least eighty people here, though it was hard to count them. Clearly, they had not been so decimated by the fever. There were marked differences between different groups, and I remembered my father telling me of the five tribes that had banded together to try and survive amidst European settlement and wars. One older man had dark eyes and his gaze lingered upon me suspiciously, never breaking his focus upon me. A certain hatred was held in the gaze, which astounded me. Were these not the people that had scalped my aunt and uncle and raided Salem in my youth? What did they have to fear, the savage warriors?