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

staring into the fire.
    “Fear is the message.” His eyes narrow at me. “Slaying it the lesson.”
    “I do not understand,” I say.
    “Your manitous is a curious one.” Creek Jumper palms another handful of corn.
    “Aye,” I say, my thought dwelling on the raccoon. “How can it be the grandfathers would have me follow such a dishonest spirit?”
    Creek Jumper sighs. “Trickery…deception…two of many masks the ringed-tail wears. Do not mistake them for an evil nature. Honor instead this creature’s cunning and resourceful ways. Learn to wear all the masks it would teach you.”
    I nod in acknowledgement of his words, even if I do not understand them. “And what of my father?” I ask. “Why would I witness his body blackened? Why would he leave me, unaided?”
    “To fear his loss marks a good father. You have felt it before.”
    “I do not recall that other man.” I say, struggling to keep my temper. “And the book my sister gives me teaches he was greedy of gain at the expense of others. Is it wrong that I do not mourn the loss of such an evil man?”
    “Good and evil,” says Creek Jumper. “Both masks we assign others to wear at our choosing. Black Pilgrim decided we march the warpath this morning. Some might call him good for such an act. Others would say it evil.”
    “But he would seek vengeance on those who have wronged others.”
    “Others we do not know,” says Creek Jumper. “Nor ever will. They walk the spirit path now. We have only the words of Two Ravens.”
    I think before speaking, wondering what Creek Jumper would teach me. The answer comes to me at seeing the red-painted tears upon his cheeks. “You do not trust him…”
    Creek Jumper’s face breaks in his own quiet way. “Say instead that I am cautious,” he says. “As is Black Pilgrim.”
    “But you…you made the war dance.”
    “I performed a shaman’s rites,” says Creek Jumper. “My role among the people says I must carry the offerings others would give. And so I follow our warriors into battle that I might lend my talents and see our men return.”
    “And Father?” I ask. “Why would he follow a man he does not trust into battle?”
    Creek Jumper reaches for the last of his corn. “When the grandfathers granted me a vision of my own manitous, I saw grizzlies upon the rock at the river mouth, fetching salmon as each fish leapt from the water. One survived its hunters and continued its course. When I woke from the dream fast, I went to my father. ‘Why did the fish risk the long claws?’ I asked him. ‘Would it not have been safer for them to stay deep and safe?”
    Our shaman chews his corn thoughtfully, lost in his own memories. Only after he swallows the corn does he speak again.
    “My father said if the salmon did not follow, the fish would never know what lay upstream. That to not follow its path made the fish dead already.”
    I think on his words awhile. “Father is curious then…”
    Creek Jumper nods.
    “It is not like him to make such a hasty decision,” I say. “If he were only curious, he would go alone to discover more. Father would not risk our warriors if he did not think it of grave importance.” I look to Creek Jumper, concern plaguing my every word. “What was said in the longhouse to convince him?”
    Creek Jumper’s jaw works back and forth, and I gather him weighing his thoughts. He sighs at the last.
    “Your father gave permission for you to journey with us,” says Creek Jumper. “A rite not granted all women. Only women who have lost one they hold dear and receive a vision may march the warpath.”
    I open my mouth to tell Creek Jumper I have lost no such person.
    He halts me with a raised hand. “It is right that you know what was discussed, since the answer also lies with you and your sister.”
    My throat catches in wonder of what he speaks.
    “Eat.” Creek Jumper gives me a bit of dried jerky. “And stay. I will return.”
    He ambles toward the leather flap and opens