11
Salem
The Tragedy of the Balfours
T he grassy churchyard was quiet, save for the soft sound of hymns being sung within the cathedral’s stone walls. Tall, narrow windows encircled the building, the likenesses of angels carved into the arches above the glass.
My family had never been particularly religious; my grandma took me to Easter Mass once, but that was the extent of it. My mom was too free-spirited to adhere to any one particular faith, and my father had never taken an interest either.
As much as I wanted to check out the interior, I didn’t want to interrupt the service.
I wandered through the yard, past several picnic tables and the screeching gulls perched upon them.
At the far side of the yard, a curved archway stood within a tall iron fence.
A simple wooden sign hung from the arch, carved with the words Marihope Cemetery .
Dappled sunlight lit the dirt path leading within. It was overgrown, with dozens of crooked headstones jutting out of the grass, wrapped in the wicked thorns of blackberry brambles. One in particular caught my eye, and as the church bell rang again, I squatted down to have a closer look.
While the other graves stood in crooked rows, this one was alone. The headstone was a simple square block, carved with the name Picard Balfour .
“What a pleasure to see you again, Miss Lockard.”
I looked up in surprise to find the woman from the market, Ruth, smiling at me.
Several other women were with her, all of them around my own age, dressed in their Sunday best. With a sudden burst of adrenaline, I recognized one of them: It was the same woman from the ferry, the one who’d been distraught and crying.
Our eyes met, and hers widened, quickly looking away. Her hair was clean and combed, and her face no longer looked so gaunt.
I straightened up from the grave, nervously saying, “You’re—are you—”
“Have you been enjoying your time on the island?” Ruth interrupted. “How lucky you’ve found your way to our chapel. It’s the most beautiful place on Blackridge.”
The other women nodded eagerly. It was unnerving how intently they were observing me, as if I was some new kind of specimen they could barely contain their excitement for. The woman from the ferry stepped back among them, as if intentionally avoiding my scrutiny.
“I’ve enjoyed it,” I said. Despite my unease, I tried to smile. But I didn’t like being cornered between them and the cemetery fence. “It really is beautiful here. I would have gone inside, but I didn’t want to interrupt the service.”
Ruth laughed lightly as a gaggle of children ran through the yard, screeching as they played. “Well, you certainly need not have worried about that. Pastor Balfour always welcomes guests.”
“Pastor... Balfour?”
“Oh, you didn’t know?” She laughed again, and her friends did too, and I felt as if I’d missed something. “I’m surprised Miss Rayne didn’t tell you. Her Uncle Gerard is our pastor, just like her father was.” Her eyes drifted down, and she nodded toward Picard’s grave.
“He was Rayne’s father?” I asked.
“Oh yes. He had us all fooled into believing he was a worthy shepherd for our flock, but sadly, he was not.”
The churchyard was full of congregants conversing with one another, but the four of us were far enough away that our conversation was private. Too private. Ruth’s eyes bored into me, as if searching for secrets she could root out.
“What happened?” I said, trying to sidle away from her. But Ruth inched closer again.
“God struck him down,” she said. If I didn’t know better, I would have said she sounded cheerful. “Right there, in the very church he preached in.”
Uncertain, I repeated, “God... struck him... down?”
“His body was found lying in front of the lectern,” one of the other women piped up in a hushed whisper. “Disemboweled. He’d led a sermon only hours before.”
“Diana,” Ruth snapped. “Let’s not sensationalize the Lord’s judgment. It’s no laughing matter. Picard, like all men, fell to his sin. May God forgive his soul.”
I barely registered Ruth’s words—I was still trying to process the fact that I’d just found out Rayne’s father was murdered.
“Someone killed him?” I gasped. “God, poor Rayne... that’s awful!”
“Yes, poor, poor Rayne,” Ruth said dismissively. “Anyway, what’s the matter with all of us? What a depressing subject. How are you liking your accommodations, Salem?”
Still reeling, it took me a moment to answer.
“It’s definitely been... interesting,” I said. “I mean, I got a big surprise when I showed up to the manor and saw Rayne. I’d met her before, actually, in town before I got on the ferry. On the mainland.”
The women exchanged glances.
“I see,” Ruth said, hiding her mouth behind her hand. “You’re one of those girls.”
This would have been a great time to walk away.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“You had sex with her,” she responded, so flatly and clinically that I nearly choked.
“I—excuse me? I don’t think that’s any of your business—”
“Oh, honey, don’t take offense.” She clasped my shoulder like a friend, as if she was about to tell me a hard truth. “Rayne is a pervert. She doesn’t keep it a secret.”
“She brags about it,” one of the women interjected, rolling her eyes.
“We all know what she does when she goes to the mainland,” Ruth said, and patted my shoulder before taking a step back from me. “She’s never brought one of her whores to Marihope before though. How special.”
Had she really just said that to me? My heart hammered, my palms becoming slick with sweat. I hated confrontations. I hated rude people. I hated feeling so purposefully misunderstood.
I wanted to defend myself. It didn’t even matter what this awful woman thought of me, yet it still felt like a balloon was swelling in my chest. My tongue was dry and useless, my throat choked with anger.
With a furiously mumbled “excuse me,” I hurried from the churchyard. Everyone’s eyes were on me, and I wasn’t just being paranoid. Every time I looked up, their gazes darted away.
I needed to get the hell out of here.
Nearly tripping on the uneven cobblestones as I made my way across the square, I paused beneath the massive gnarled redwood and caught my breath. The sounds of the churchyard echoed around me: the laughter, the children squealing, the garbled conversation.
My back prickled, and I glanced over my shoulder.
People were slowly beginning to disperse from the churchyard, but it was the screeching gulls that drew my attention.
They’d found something small, furry, and dead, and were bickering with one another as they ripped it to pieces and swallowed the bloody chunks down.
Heart hammering and appetite gone, I took a quick turn down a wide road. Shops lined either side of the street. A few trucks were parked along the curb, but all the shops were dark, their display windows empty. Which way was the ATV parked? To the south... west?
With these cloudy skies, how the hell was I supposed to tell which direction that was?
I shouldn’t have left my meet-up spot with Rayne. I shouldn’t have left the manor at all. I shouldn’t have even come here.
Okay, okay, cool it, Salem.
Taking a deep breath, I clenched my fists and hurriedly kept walking, determined that I would see something familiar at any moment. I rounded another corner, staring all around for a road sign—
I ran face-first into someone coming in the opposite direction. Before I could squeak out an apology, I was seized by my jacket and slammed up against the stone wall. Something cold and sharp was pressed against my throat, immediately freezing my lungs with fear.
“I—Rayne?” I whimpered, realizing who had a grip on me. She realized who I was at the same time.
Her face melted with concern, mouth drawn down and eyes wide as she hurriedly put her blade away. I’d never seen anyone move so fast with a knife, and never been so close to certain death.
God, was this an adrenaline rush? What was wrong with me?
“Salem, shit, I’m so sorry.” Rayne tugged her sleeve down and pressed it against my neck, and I realized she must have cut me. I didn’t even notice. Her hand was warm as she guided me, leading me just off the road toward a fallen log nestled in the tall grass.
“Sit here,” she said, pressing my shoulders down. She tipped up my head to examine my neck and winced. “I deserve a terrible review for this. Fuck, I’m sorry.”
“I’ll give it a seven out of ten,” I said, a little breathlessly. “At least the knife was sharp.”
She stared at me a moment before shaking her head with a wry grin. “Well, I try to be prepared.”
“For what?” I said, but Rayne was distracted. She stalked through the tall grass, obviously looking for something.
“There we go,” she said, and knelt down before a thick bush sporting dark purple berries. She plucked several of the green leaves, then wadded them up and chewed them vigorously as she returned to me.
“This is salal,” she said, dabbing the wad of leaves onto my cut. “It’s a natural disinfectant. We have a proper first aid kit at the house, but for now...”
“I’m sure it’s fine. Just a little cut, no biggie.”
She frowned. “It’s not fine to me. Why were you in such a rush?”
“I get nervous around crowds,” I said, waving my hand dismissively.
“Church service let out and I’m just not the best with conversations.
” The look she gave me was incredibly skeptical—or perhaps concerned.
Hurriedly, I changed the subject. “What made you so jumpy anyway? Or do you always pull a knife on people who bump into you?”
She shook her head, her mouth pressed into a thin line. “I’m sorry. I should have been more careful.”
She peeled the herbs away from my wound, pulled a water bottle from her bag, and had me lean over so she could wash off the blood.
“We’ll get proper disinfectant on it at the house,” she said. “Let’s go. Can you walk?”
“I—yes, I can walk.” I snickered, and she looked confused. “It’s just a little cut, Rayne! Not a broken bone. Of which I’ve had plenty, by the way. Mountain biking isn’t exactly safe.”
Footsteps were approaching, a family coming up the road as they headed home from church. The shutters on a nearby shop clattered open, and it finally sounded as if Marihope was coming to life.
“Alright, Miss Lockard,” Rayne said, stepping closer, voice low.
The way her mouth held my name made me shiver.
Her tone was warm, but the promise in her eyes was as cold as the knife she’d cut me with.
“You’re no delicate flower. You’ve shown me that already.
But while you are residing under my roof, the only pain you should experience is the pain you want.
You didn’t ask for that cut on your neck, so it shouldn’t have happened. ”
Any response I could have given was squashed by the sincerity in her voice. She nodded politely to the family as they walked past, keeping her eyes mostly averted from them.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get back to the house. Have you eaten yet?”