by Ann Rinaldi
"She was practicing the black arts."
Words of defense for Tituba died on my lips. I could not speak for her without revealing what I knew. "Sarah Good? They've named her because her husband is landless and she wanders the town begging. She has no means, no one to stand up for her."
"She has been named," he said.
"Sarah Osbourne? What of her?"
"My father said she has been under suspicion for a while. She never goes to Meeting. She took William Osbourne into her home and lived with him before marriage, thereby committing offenses against decency."
I could not believe these words of accusation were coming out of Johnathan! "Have you been so influenced by your father?" I asked. "Sarah and William Osbourne are now married. She doesn't go to Meeting because she is bedridden!"
He took my hands into his own. "Susanna, don't let this upset you. Let the matter be dealt with by learned men. You yourself said you felt the evil in that room."
"The evil I felt, Johnathan, was the crying out on innocent people."
"They will be given a chance to prove their innocence."
"You've said the magistrates will not give them rights to counsel. Johnathan, do you believe in witchcraft?"
The whole idea was unthinkable to me. And my whole being filled with fear as I awaited his answer.
"Yes," he said solemnly. "Witches make covenant with the Devil instead of with God. They are set amongst us to do the Devil's bidding."
"And you believe that we now have witches amongst us in Salem?"
"Yes, Susanna. Why else would everyone be here today in this gathering?"
My senses reeled from his admission. How could he believe such? He was so quick of mind, so strong of purpose. I started to cry. He tried to comfort me as we walked around the house. We went to sit in my carriage and wait for Father. He tucked the bed rug around me and spoke of other matters. But I would not be comforted. Something terrible had happened this day in Salem; some darkness worse than night had been released upon us. And I alone knew the truth and could bring light into that darkness.
But I had to protect my family, so I could not speak out.
People were coming out of the parsonage in ones and twos. I caught murmurs of conversation as they went by.
"What has happened?" Johnathan asked one of them.
"Haven't you heard? Hello, Susanna."
I took my hands from my face, and there was John Dorich. "The magistrates are in there issuing warrants for the arrests of the three named witches. I told you, didn't I, Susanna? Those girls have power now!" And he ran off.
"What does he mean by that?" Johnathan asked.
"Nothing. He's just as addle-brained by this as all the rest of you."
"I do not consider myself addle-brained, Susanna."
"You believe in witches," I accused. "And I don't. This is all hysteria, and men of goodwill should stop it."
"They are trying," he insisted. "I'm sorry you are so upset, Susanna. I'm sorry I can't please you and say I don't believe in witches."
"Believe as you wish!" I snapped.
He climbed down from the carriage. "May I come to call?"
I could not answer. How could I bear having him around, prattling about his father trying the accused witches? "I don't much care," I said finally.
"Well, there is no merit in that answer. I'll give you time, Susanna. I'll be too busy, mayhap, helping my father."
"I'm sure you will be."
"Good day and keep well, Susanna." With that tender parting, he was gone. I sat there lonely and miserable and cold, watching the people come out of the parsonage. They were pausing to huddle in small groups, loath to let go of the excitement.
"Hello, Susanna English."
Abigail Hobbs was coming toward the carriage. "I didn't see you inside," she said. "Isn't this a lark? I came to see what could shock these good folk more than my staying out in the woods at night. I must confess, I'm a little jealous."
"Of what, Abigail?"
"I feel as if I've been shunted aside like stale fish. Nobody will care a fig about my actions after this."
"Don't be silly, Abigail. It's all confusion and mayhem."
"I love confusion and mayhem. I do what I do to raise eyebrows. I take pride in upsetting the town elders. Now I see I'm going to have to resort to additional methods to keep my reputation."
"Abigail, stop talking nonsense."
"You're such a little dove, Susanna. What do you know, living in that grand house with so many servants and going on trips to Boston with your father? The rest of us young people hereabouts must find our sport where we may."
I stared at her in disbelief. So, then, Abigail Hobbs, too, had simply been trying to break the dreariness of our way of life by her antics. What other revelations was I to become privy to? And how could I bear any more?
"Oh, have you heard?" she asked. "They'll be examining the accused witches tomorrow! And I hear Reverend Parris had Tituba confined to the cow shed."
Tituba! I had completely forgotten to ask John Indian where she was and how she was keeping. Oh, how could I have been so heartless! Tituba, yes, that was it. I must find Tituba.
I looked around and saw Father off with some men, deep in conversation. He would be a while yet. So I slipped out of the carriage, past Abigail, and ran around the side of the parsonage, careful to keep out of sight.
I must get to see Tituba. I must convince her to tell what she knew. Only Tituba could save us now.
11. Tituba's Tale
SHE LOOKED AT me through one good eye. The other was swollen closed. In the corner of the cow shed, Tituba sat on some clean straw covered with a blanket. Another blanket was drawn around her hunched shoulders. The shed was closed and dim, and John Indian held a lantern.
"Tituba, is this what the good reverend did to you?" I asked.
For a moment she did not recognize me, then I saw an intelligent light in her eye. "Ah," she said, "the little girl from the house with all the gables."
"Oh, Tituba, how cruel of him. How can I ever go to Meeting and hear him preach again?"
"Not the first time he does such a thing," she said.
"Tituba, I haven't much time. I must speak with you."
She shook her head. "Too much talk. Tituba says it is now time for silence."
"No, Tituba, it is time to speak out! The girls in the circle have named you as one of their tormentors. The magistrates have issued a warrant for your arrest."
She thought this amusing. "They know where Tituba is. Tituba can't go away from this place."
"They'll want to examine you tomorrow. When they do, you must tell them of the secret meetings and what went on in them. So they know the girls are not tormented by witches."
"Tituba already tell."
"You told them of the circle?"
"Tituba say she been meddling in the black arts."
I could not believe this! "Why?" I gasped. I turned to John Indian and asked it of him. He shook his head and did not answer. "Why have you done this, Tituba?" I asked again.
"It is what the reverend wanted to hear. When I told him such, he stop beating Tituba."
"Oh, dear God!" I murmured. Then an idea came to me. "Tituba, tomorrow you can tell the truth to the magistrates."
"Tituba want no more beatings."
"They won't beat you."
"Tituba's master will, if Tituba tell truth. He don't want it known his little daughter and niece are lying."
"Does he know they are lying?"
"He never think this. He know only that Tituba makes disaster. He want to believe Tituba is to blame. Others need to think so, also. So Tituba will give them what they need to know."
So she had perceived that Reverend Parris and the others needed someone to blame for Salem's quarrels and troubles.
"They will put you in prison, Tituba."
"Tituba already in prison. Where they put me, the reverend can't beat me no more."
"Can't you convince her to tell t
he truth tomorrow!" I asked John Indian.
"There be no justice for the likes of us, little missy," he said.
I saw there was no hope here. "Tituba." I took her hand. It was feverish and bruised. "I am your friend, Tituba," I said.
She smiled and closed her eye and leaned her head against the wall. "Things will get bad," she said. "Matters will worsen. I will not be here when it happens, so I tell now. It will get very dark in Salem. Bad winds will blow and take many from this place. Listen to Tituba now."
"I'm listening."
"One night, when it is very dark, you will see, from your street, a ship in the harbor."
My heart beat very fast. "William?"
"No. The ship will not be in the water. It will be in the sky."
In the sky? She must be silly with fever, I decided.
Her good eye opened, and she looked to the opposite wall and raised her free hand to describe what she saw. "A ship made of dark clouds. You will see it against the sky. It will fly the skull and crossbones."
"A pirate ship!"
"Yes. And while you stand there and behold this vision, the shape of the flag will change before your eyes to be like a flag on your father's ship."
"An English flag."
"Yes. Then the ship will disappear. When this happens, brother William will soon be home."
"Oh, Tituba, thank you!"
"Tell no one this."
"I won't. But, oh, please, give thought to what I say! Tell the truth!"
"The air is black over Salem Town," she said. "The sun is gone from this place. Death is in the air. Tituba will do what she must to live. Go now, child. Be brave, don't be foolish. The secret is to know when to speak and when to remain silent. Some never learn this. Those who learn live to an old age."
I shivered. A gust of wind rattled around the corner of the shed. Tituba pushed me from her and turned her face away. Tears streamed down my face as I went out into the cold.
I went home and became sick. That night the cold set in to freeze the heart of the most brave. When morning came, silver with frost on the windowpanes, bitter with bonenumbing cold, I had a quinsy throat and fever. My head was throbbing.
Sickness is nothing to dally with in New England in wintertime, and Mama set about at once applying her remedies, which included hot broth and herbal and root medicine. Nonetheless, before the day was over I could not even raise my head from the pillow.
As the silver whiteness of the days blended one into another as February progressed, I knew what it truly meant to be sick in spirit and body, for I was not only aching and feverish, but miserable of heart over the turn of events in Salem.
My family kept me informed about what was going on with the witch testimony. I insisted upon knowing.
Tituba had confessed to being a witch. For three days, her confession went on in Salem Village Meetinghouse. She told the crowd that gathered of large red and black cats that came to her and bade her serve them. She told of a black dog that ordered her to hurt the afflicted girls.
She recounted how she had ridden on a pole through the blackest of nights with Sarah Osbourne and Sarah Good. She spoke of winged animals with the heads of women. And a little yellow bird that accompanied her on special missions of evil.
She described a tall white-haired man who dressed in black and led a coven of witches in and about the colony of Massachusetts, especially in Essex County. And she told them how she had signed her name in the Devil's book to please this man. And that there were more witches in Salem than just she and Osbourne and Good. But she did not know their names.
Then she admitted that the spectral shapes went into people's homes to torment them. She told the people of Salem what they wanted to hear.
The afflicted girls, sitting in court, too, groaned and threw themselves on the floor, crying and screaming, while Tituba testified. Meanwhile, Osbourne and Good claimed innocence. But no one believed them.
On March 7, when I was still in bed, the two Sarahs were taken to jail in Boston with Tituba.
My sickness persisted. I woke at night with fits of coughing, so I had to be propped up against pillows to breathe. I thought of Tituba in prison. I knew I had lost a good and true friend. I also knew she had taken what truth had been in Salem with her. Except for the truth that was in me. And I was not sure, in my fevered state, what was truth anymore and what wasn't.
12. Mama Takes a Stand
MARY CAME IN from the cold one day, fresh from market. Mama and I had been sitting by the fire in the company room. It was March 19. I shall never forget that day. It was one of my first out of bed and I was cosseted in a bed rug, sipping tea. Mama was doing needlework.
"Did you get the lemons and limes?" Mama asked.
A ship was just in at harbor with a large shipment of fruit, and Mama wanted fresh lemon juice for my tea. She had promised to make us a lemon cake, for we were hungry for the taste of these treasures.
"Yes," Mary said. "And you will never guess what I heard at market."
"Come sit and have tea and tell us," Mama invited. "Is there news of William?"
"Not of William, no. But news. Mistress Parris has sent little Betty away from the village to live here in Salem Town in the home of Stephen Sewall."
"That is good news," Mama agreed. "No child should live in the Parris household."
"There is more," Mary said. "Abigail Williams has accused Rebecca Nurse of witchcraft."
Mama's teacup clanked down rudely in the saucer. "Rebecca Nurse? Never! She is seventy-one, the town matriarch! Why if the word goodwife applies to anyone, it applies to her."
Mary sank down by the warm fire, served herself tea, and nodded. "She is the last person one would think would be named."
Rebecca Nurse was staunch of spirit, kind of heart, learned in Scripture, the mother of four sons and four daughters. She kept a spotless house and a flax garden. She and her husband lived in the old Townsend Bishop house, which was always bustling with the comings and goings of family.
"Not only that," Mary added, "but Ann Putnam, the younger, has accused Martha Cory."
"Martha Cory has been skeptical about this witchcraft business from the beginning," Mama said. We could see she was upset by this news, but she becalmed herself and picked up her needlework again. "Martha goes constantly to Meeting. The woman is no more a witch than I am. Her only trouble is that she talks too much."
"A warrant was sworn today for her arrest," Mary said gloomily.
"But I thought we were finished with accusations, now that they named the three and put them in jail," I said.
We all sat and stared at each other. The March wind rattled against the leaded windows. The fire crackled cheerily.
"To give this conversation a good turn, I met Johnathan Hathorne at market today," Mary said, smiling.
"You give it no good turn," I said gloomily. "His father will send all these dear friends of ours to jail."
"Johnathan inquired after your health," Mary persisted. "I said you would soon be well. He said he would come to call."
"I won't know what to say to him," I admitted.
"To be fair, the son is not the father," Mama reminded me.
"He's more like his father than I'd want him to be."
"Then be mindful of what you say," Mama cautioned. "Say naught of this witchcraft business."
"Does anyone in Salem speak of anything else?" I asked.
Johnathan came to call on the first Lord's Day in April, the third. I was not well enough yet to go to Meeting, and truth to tell I didn't want to go and hear Reverend Parris tell us how sinful we all were. I had lost all faith in the man. But Mary and Mama had gone thither. Father was in his library, studying or praying or doing whatever it was he did when the weather was too raw to row across the bay to St. Michael's.
Deborah took Johnathan's cloak and served him some claret and cakes. He kissed my hand, then presented me with a book beautifully bound in red leather. The Pilgrim's Progress.
He brought th
e outside world in with him, in the color in his face, the wood-smoke fragrance on his clothes. Seeing his broad shoulders and strong wrists and hands, his wind-tousled hair, I felt truly alive.
"I have missed you, Susanna."
I had missed him, too, I realized, seeing him standing before me. I was tongue-tied.
"I have thought of you often and prayed for your recovery."
"Thank you, Johnathan," I said politely.
He sipped his claret and nibbled at the cakes. He spoke of sundry matters, but there was a deadness in the air after those first few words, as if we were both mindful of our distressed last parting.
Finally he set down his mug. "You mustn't bear me ill will because of what my father is doing, Susanna."
"You agree with everything he does," I reminded him.
"I don't. I am here today to tell you I have had doubts."
I stared at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses. "About what?"
"This whole business is foul. I was in court the day they examined Rebecca Nurse. She is a dear woman. She shines with an inner light."
"It will serve her well in prison."
"Ann Putnam, the elder, accused Rebecca of murder. She said her dead sister's children had come to her in a dream in their winding-sheets, telling her that Rebecca murdered them."
"The Putnams are evil, Johnathan. All but Joseph and his wife, Elizabeth. When will you become sensible of this?"
"Elizabeth Putnam is my cousin. I am sensible of it. And much more. My father said in court that an innocent woman would weep before charges of murder. He counted Rebecca a witch because witches cannot shed tears."
Johnathan rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands. "That same day the afflicted girls named Elizabeth Proctor. People go from court to Ingersoll's Ordinary like the whole business is a traveling carnival. At Ingersoll's they fill up on rum and cider and gossip about who will be named next."
"How terrible," I said.
"The afflicted girls go there and have fits. John Indian joins them."
"John Indian?"