Chapter Text
Dean O'Gorman
Newry, Northern Ireland
1690
Save yourself.
A desperate plea all but wrenched from condemned lips. A harrowing surrender to the inevitable. A last declaration of love.
Run.
Her words laden with urgency and her tremulous voice marked by fear had nearly compelled me into action. Though not quite. I could not bring myself to leave her side, both feet finding neither strength nor desire to shift any which way. I would not abandon her to such a fate. How could I? But then she had grasped at the fabric of my uniform, not bothering to question whose blood painted its coarse fiber, her hands, ever strong and steady, holding me there. So close. One moment had her fingers smoothing over the wool, almost like a caress. But a few heartbeats later found those same digits digging into the weave with such force, practically spelling out the anguish throbbing just beneath their skin's toughened surface. Still, I remained steadfast. I was obstinate, if nothing else.
I was also a fool.
In the end, it was the tinge of apprehension darkening her usually luminous gaze that had me take a step back. Followed by another. Hope tracked every pace of my slow retreat, her damp eyes brimming with the emotion, her shoulders sagging from undisguised relief as I complied. She gave me this determined nod. Some form of affirmation. She refused to take me along to her doom. She meant to save me. And I would do her bidding. I owed her that much.
I left her behind ... and I ran.
* * * * *
Dean O'Gorman
Road from Boston, Colonial Massachusetts
10th of June, 1692
I have forsaken her. I have forsaken them all.
Run. Never look back.
Like a coward, I have not stopped running ever since I turned my back on them. Though often have I looked behind, aggrieved by what I saw. I kept on moving. From known shorelines to stifling city streets, from open sea to foreign land. I traversed the vast expanse of an ocean, desperate to flee all the deaths. Needing to finally overcome the lingering nightmares. I should have known better and remembered to look ahead.
The sight is unmistakable, regardless of the dim moonlight glow filtering through the thick foliage. I should know as I have descried such macabre scenes before, hoping to never bear witness to the likes again.
Never put your faith in hope.
And so here I am, now, once more facing the horrifying capabilities of mankind. The irony of it all does not go unnoticed as I stare at the body, feeling an urge to laugh. Instead, I slide free of the saddle, stiff legs buckling under the weight of travel fatigue, and fumble through the motions of signing the cross before bowing my head in respect. Force of habit, I suppose. I do not believe myself to be of the particularly religious sort - not anymore - but I think that the deceased woman, whoever she may be, deserves the intended sentiment, at the very least.
The gallows tree is no fitting end, no matter the crime.
I falter in my steps as I lead the horse with its few saddlebags down the remaining stretch of visible road before darkness swallows my destination around the curve, beneath the hill and its tragic beacon. Fragments of memories assail my consciousness, effectively sending shivers of dread down the length of my spinal cord and licking across every vertebrae in silent warning. Perhaps I should not have come here, so far into the wild. While decades have passed since the earliest settlers first set foot in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, life in the New World remains one of hardship where everything is centered around the burdens of survival. It may be mostly English stock that colonized the area with their background of generations of English life and customs but can their standards of living be upheld in the harsh climate, both social and environmental, currently surrounding them? If talk about town can be believed, and considering what I have seen during my short stay in Boston, those who survived the migration overseas have become men and women of suffering fortitude.
Will I live to regret this move? As I glance up towards the condemned woman, so still in the windless cover of night, I cannot help but wonder if becoming an active player in colonial legislation is really something I desire for my future. Because even though I cannot see the convict's face from this distance, I know exactly what to expect for I have had the unfortunate luck to study the neck markings made by rope on a hanging victim. New beginning indeed! It almost feels like slipping back into a well-known pair of boots with all its miles of life experience etched into the worn soles - some of them best left indiscernible. Forgotten.
As it stands, I am familiar with the diagonal impressions - much like an inverted V - running around approximately halfway through the neck's circumference. I remember all too well the color of the skin, so pale in comparison to a death caused by asphyxiation. There would be no purple tongue protruding from the mouth. No sign of facial congestion. In a case of execution by hanging such as this one, the neck simply snaps on impact as the body drops so many feet. Immediate death. But death all the same.
I tear my gaze away from the sight and accelerate my pace. I need to get to the inn. Traveling alone after the sun has set already borders on recklessness. It would not do to have my carcass found along the road or in a field by a farmer come morning. Who knows what kind of wild beasts stalk these lands, looking for prey.
Or natives, even.
* * * * *
"Bonsoir, cher." A tall man with dark hair and mirthful eyes watches me from the other side of the bar while a soft giggle can be heard from somewhere behind me as something flies across the open space between us, catching the man upside the head, near his left temple. He scowls, but only for a moment as he picks up the projectile, a damp cloth, and starts dragging it over the countertop in circular motions, one thick eyebrow raised in question, his focus somewhere to my right.
"Must you make it sound so -," a female voice pauses and sighs, fondness clearly winning out over exasperation, before continuing, "Obscène? 'Cher' is a term of endearment. You cannot go about using it with total strangers."
I can feel those warm eyes raking over me even before I meet his gaze. The man's lips curl at the corners and then further, until I can see a glimpse of crooked teeth as he openly grins. "That so?"
The word 'roguish' immediately comes to mind.
"Oui." A young woman sidles into view, offering me a quick smile as she rounds the corner of the bar, fingers deftly working to loosen the ties of her apron. I follow her every step, admiring all the loveliness and grace giving life to such dulcet tones.
Slipping behind the counter, she twists her hands around the bundle of fabric, pulling it tight and then twisting it again, keeping her eyes downcast, projecting an air of innocence. "That is so. It would be indecent."
The man never saw the blow coming as she whips the apron, effectively smacking him across the thigh, the sound resounding over to this side of the bar. He lets out a howl for dramatic effect - surely it gave a good pinch but it could not have hurt that much -, attracting attention from the few patrons gathered near the hearth over to the other side of the room.
"Vixen," he accuses, already laughing. "Since when am I known to be of the 'proper' sort, besides?"
Not waiting for an answer, he turns his attention back to me and asks in an irresistibly charming voice with a twinkle, "Welcome, stranger. What will it be then, mon ami?"
Nodding her approval, the woman gives his shoulder an affectionate squeeze, pride evident in every line of her bearing. "Much better, Jimmy." She folds her apron and retires it on a top shelf, having to stretch on the tip of her toes just to reach it. I am not a very tall man myself, yet I still stand a few inches above her head. She is very petite. Petite and quite beautiful. As she winks at me before sauntering towards a back room, out of sight, I wonder if she is promised to anyone. The barkeep's wife, perhaps?
"Well?" The barkeep - Jimmy - is waiting.
"Just rum. And lodgings, if you have any available."
"Plan on stayin' fer a while? Or just passin' through?" His hands are already reaching for both bottle and pewter cup.
Thoughts about the hanging victim resurface, unbidden. I try to mask a shudder with a casual shrug. "Not sure."
"Come a long way, I see. Boston?" Jimmy puts the cup in front of me and shakes his head, before I can answer his question. "Drink. Ye be needin' it." His voice is unexpectedly soft as he speaks in earnest. "Ye look like ye seen a ghost, lad. Only one explanation fer that."
Resting my elbows atop the bar, I hunch over my drink, allowing the weariness to fold out into the open. The day has been long, late evening heralding possibilities that I would rather not contemplate at present. Taking a couple of greedy swallows, I let the alcohol burn through any sound of disillusionment clawing its way up my throat. "This is not rum," I tell him, my own voice sounding raw.
"Thought ye might enjoy somethin' of better quality than that piss-poor excuse of a beverage the locals keep fussin' over."
If his snort is any indicator, I failed in hiding the incredulity from my face as I meet his gaze. The men occupying the only busy table in the cozy establishment seem oblivious to our discussion. Still. "Such words could be considered a serious offence if the innkeeper were to hear you pronounce them."
Jimmy bursts out laughing, an arrogant rumble that I find not offensive in the least. "I am the innkeeper." He extends his hand and I grasp it, returning the firm shake. "James Nesbitt, at yer service."
This warrants a smile and I offer him my best, considering my current state of exhaustion. "Dean O'Gorman, sir. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"O'Gorman, ye say? I recognized the accent but did not expect ye to be from the North. Unless the O'Gorman clan packed up and moved further South? Yer brogue is not as thick as mine and the rest of us Northerners."
There really is no way to explain the softening of my accent unless I wish to reveal the story in its entirety. Which I do not. Not to a stranger, no matter how friendly he may be. Though there is no point in avoiding or lying about some truths. "My family has been uprooted. If there are any O'Gormans left, you will not find them in Ireland." Or England, for that matter.
A long moment of silence follows my declaration and then James is leaning forward, grasping my forearm in a supportive gesture. Gone is the arrogance, the roguish smile, the twinkling eyes and the overall charm. He is all understanding and sympathy. And thankfully, he has enough tact to keep any sign of pity at bay.
I am finding it difficult to remain aloof around the man.
"I am sorry, lad." I can see nothing but kindness in his eyes. I nod, grateful.
"Drink up. Let me get yer things an' take 'em to yer room." Releasing my arm, he starts to turn but I stop him, latching on to his wrist. "James?"
"Yea?"
I meant to ask him. About the woman and the gallows tree. I needed to know the crime she committed to deserve such a sentence. But the words remain stuck, unable to pass my lips. "Thank you." I let go of him, instead wrapping my fingers around the cup and tipping it in his direction before taking a leisure sip. Savoring it, this time around. "It is good brandy."
James is already halfway towards the stairs, my saddlebags swung over his shoulders. "I know."
Our eyes meet across the room and some kind of understanding passes between us. Something I will need to give more consideration as to its meaning in the morning, when my mind feels less like a harbor for dense fog and confounding thoughts.
"Welcome to Salem, Dean."