Salem's Fury (Vengeance Trilogy Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page A

gasps.
    My grin broadens to match Creek Jumper’s.
    “Then I see Linnipinja gives my son back to me. He sweeps him to shore with his guiding tail, my son still in his cradle. Linnipinja say to me, ‘You will name your son Deep River, for I took him into my lair and found him strong.’”
    Our shaman looks at each of us in turn. We meet his stare with silence, waiting for the lesson he would teach. Creek Jumper’s gaze settles on me.
    “Tomorrow, Black Pilgrim’s adopted daughter starts a path to learn her manitous .” He grins at me. “Let you think on my story as you fast. Where the manitous leads, there you must go. Even if into the water panther’s lair.”
    I breathe deep at his words, my body tingling with the thought of what form my own manitous will take. I have long waited this quest and planned the start of my fast accordingly, at a suggestion from Deep River. He warned that fasting in the woods alone took longer to bring on the vision. Instead, I begin mine with the journey home, a reflective trek through the wilderness alongside my friends and adopted family, all of it a reminder of the new life granted me and the promise of what lies ahead.
    The night ends too soon for my liking. I bid my brother and his wife goodnight as they retire into their home. Like Father, I prefer sleeping outdoors under the stars and moon.
    I retire into my sleeping furs and rub the turtle beads between my fingers as weariness and warmth ushers sleep to take me. All the while, I think on Creek Jumper’s words, wondering what path my manitous will lead me on and the name awaiting me at its end.

- 3-
    The morning sun wakens me, bids me rise and prepare for our leave.
    My stomach grumbles in desire as I sit with George and Hannah and watch them break their fast.
    I do not partake. Instead, I stave off my hunger with the knowledge my manitous will not reveal itself without sacrifice. Still, the smells of Hannah’s cooking prove too great a temptation, and I take my leave to find Andrew and bid farewell. I find him nowhere on the ground, and take it as a sign he has spoken his piece to me.
    The old bear comes last to see me off, his approach stilted, though he walks without the use of cane or crutch.
    “Farewell, lass.” Bishop pecks my cheeks, his fuzzy beard tickling me. “Give your sister me love and tell the bastard I said hello.”
    “I will.” I hug him close and drink deep of his familiar smell.
    I take my leave of him and join my people by the Wah-Bah-Shik-Ka. We load our goods and hoist the canoes upon our shoulders to bear them over land. I am forced to share the load with Ciquenackqua, he and I being the only two of similar size among the men.
    The French trader bears me no love as I wave farewell to his wife, the pair of them readying their own wagon.
    My fasting makes the overland return journey to our village harder than I first imagined, but the songs we sing keep my spirit fresh. So, too, do the laughter and stories we share each night beside the fire.
    My legs stumble by the time we reach our village, near evening of the fifth day. Weakened by hunger, black spots cloud my vision. Still, the sight of our people gathered in welcome outside the wooden palisades that ring our village lends me strength.
    My sister, Sarah, stands out amidst the people, not only for her paler skin or her eternal grimace, but for the dress she wears—blue as the spring sky, sewn of white man’s cloth and laced with silk.
    I recall the day Father traded beaver pelts, stacked high as a Frenchman’s long rifle, for a bolt of cloth to please her. I sigh at the recollection and the knowledge it did not sate her desire for the life before.
    She hobbles toward me, leaning heavy on the crutches Father fashioned her.
    My gaze homes on the furred pads beneath her arms, notes the padding is worn from heavy use. I remind myself to hunt a few squirrels after my fast and use their hides to replenish her comfort.
    “Good morrow, sister,” says