Children of Salem

by Robert W. Walker

  Tonight he’d wandered the house from top to bottom and from cubicle to crevice, worried. He’d looked in on everyone, especially checking on Tituba who’d been sneaking out of late. But thankfully, everyone was abed, mother, daughter, niece, servant and his usually squawking bird. He felt a pang of relief at having gotten Mercy—his delinquent niece—out of his home, but she’d been replaced with yet another niece, Mary Wolcott, and he feared Mary might be just as useless as Mercy’d been. Still, he’d had no choice. This rotating of young women and boys among the parishioners was part of his duties, and as such, he collected a tithe on each child for his trouble.

  Samuel wound up back in his small room, as he no longer slept in the same bed as his wife Elizabeth. He gritted his teeth at the thought of her snoring and sleeplessness. He gritted even harder at the thought of those in his parish who’d decided to do everything in their power to break what he judged a binding legal contract. True none of the other nearby municipalities—Andover, Ipswich, Wenham, Topsfield, Rowley, or Beverly—had ever relinquished their common parish lands to a minister.

  True that ministers were viewed as itinerants who didn’t customarily hold title to their parish homes and lands, but this was after all part and parcel of a package of promises made to him. He meant to hold the people who had sent their emissaries to Barbados to recruit him for their troubled parish accountable. Promises were made. A list of them in fact, one he meant to make them adhere to at any cost.

  “Those deacons and elders gave their word—Thomas Putnam, Revelation Porter, Bray Wilkins,” he muttered under his breath. “How was I to know they hadn’t the backing of that nuisance Francis Nurse or John Proctor, from whom they’d broken ranks?”

  He suspected too that crotchety old Nehemiah Higginson at the First Church of Salem Town was behind the resurgence of interest in his holdings. The old miscreant was a mischief-maker to be sure. Higginson had, early on, fired up a number of his parishioners against the infamous contract, and now he wanted it settled in his favor before he should pass from this life.

  He sat on the edge of his bed, muttering, “Perhaps he’ll die before the court acts. Damn him. A contract is a contract.” He stood and wandered the rooms again. Tight doorways and even the small hardwood furnishings made him feel awkward and obese.

  He now pulled a chair to the hearth where embers threatened to leap out at him as they began falling all around, as if filled with a life of their own. A noise from the kitchen area where beneath the steps Tituba Indian slept made him snap to his feet. Going toward the steps, he reached and snatched back the mildewed curtain to expose the thin black woman, Parris half expected to catch her with that black servant of Porter’s, the one who’d been hanging about the house. But no, the male named Moses—also of Barbados—dared not come into this house. No, the noises emanated from a fitful sleep. Tituba rolling over and grumbling unintelligible chanting in her pagan language, but he caught a single English word, a name: Betty, his daughter.

  The bony black woman looked to be made of hickory limbs. Nowadays their relationship was merely that of master and servant, and if honest with himself, his shame surrounding this woman had him hating her for what she had taken from him. As for any lingering feelings, he had more concern tonight for the bird and the goats in the barn. He’d atoned so far as he was concerned, and he certainly no longer felt tempted by Tituba. The only thing left between them was a mutual residual anger for what’d occurred years before in Barbados.

  Little witch had put him into an untenable position, not simply with his wife but with God.

  He returned to the hearth and pulled a book from the bookcase. He owned several books, an Old Testament, a New Testament, and a treatise written by Increase Mather on how the godly life must be led. Parris was, in effect, a man of one book, the Holy Bible. All else paled in his eyes. He strove to live by a strict interpretation of Jehovah’s Ten Commandments and the Pentateuch now as never before.

  Parris now took a deep breath and opened his bible to Leviticus, about to read himself into weariness, when he heard a sudden rapping at the parsonage door.

  What damned oaf comes at such an hour? Parris mentally shouted. He approached the door, shouted aloud, “Who needs what of me now?” They come to me for all their ills and every petty problem, but do they make my salary?

  Each villager’s tithe to him had come slower and slower, until some had stopped altogether, while others paid in pumpkins, squash, oysters, and the occasional lobster. Worse than ordinary thieves, he thought, one hand on the doorknob, his ear against the wood.

  Who could it be at such an ungodly hour? Another death in the parish? A sick child who’d wandered from the faith? These Salem people want courtesy and hard work from me, yet they fail me in miserable fashion.

  Again three quick, strong raps on the door. From the sound of it, a strong man stood on the other side of the stout door.

  “Who is it?” Parris shouted.

  “Wakely, sir! My name is Jeremiah…”

  “What?” The door still separating them.

  “My name is Jermiah Wakely—”

  “I know no Wakely!” came the muffled response.

  Jeremiah wondered if the minister meant to come through the door with a blazing firearm or hot poker.

  “I’ve come from Maine, sir.”

  “Maine?”

  “By way of Boston, sir!”

  “Boston?”

  “Have a letter of introduction, Mr. Parris, sir!”

  “Letter? A post this time of night? Bah!”

  “Can you hear me, sir? Through the door?”

  “What letter?”

  “From Mather, sir, Reverend Increase Mather.”

  This brought on a chill silence. Finally, Parris replied, “Mather? Did you say Increase Mather?”

  “I did, sir!” Jeremiah cursed the impenetrable door. He wondered if Parris meant for him to sleep on the porch tonight. “I’d like to settle my horse, sir, in your barn.”

  But Parris’ breath had caught in his lungs. Can it be true, he wondered, that the greatest theological mind in the colonies has sent me a letter by midnight courier? Has Mather finally answered my repeated requests for intervention on my behalf? Ha, the delinquent parish members will be well fined now.

  “Will you open the door, Reverend?” shouted Jeremiah. “Or shall Mr. Mather’s protégé sleep in your barn?”

  What if it’s the Devil at my doorstep? Parris asked himself. This man calling himself Wakely could as well be some evil scratching to get in. The Devil would know that a letter from Mather would tempt him to make an invitation to cross his threshold. “Or has God sent this—what’d he call himself? Protégé?” he muttered aloud.

  The pounding continued. So loud in the silent night that it sounded demonic.

  Parris braced himself, lit a lantern, and pulled the door open just a crack, staring out at Jeremiah Wakely, who managed a smile. Jeremy then extended a letter with a heavy red wax seal reading IM—for Increase Mather.

  The lantern glow divided Wakely’s face down the middle; one side lit bright, the other side in total darkness. The image had a strange, hypnotic hold on his reluctant host. “You look like a highwayman, Mr. Wakely.”

  “I am sure, sir, but I am after all in my riding cloak and boots.”

  “Give me a moment with the letter.” Parris grabbed the sealed note, pulled it inside, slammed the door closed, locked it from within, and left Jeremy in the drizzle.

  Jeremy stepped off the porch and rubbed down his horse’s face. “A careful man,” Jeremy said to Dancer, the horse now shivering in the sleet. Dancer snorted, her entire body quaking when a chill ran the length of her.

  The door was then pulled wide. Parris stepped onto the porch, and holding the lantern higher, looked Jeremy and Dancer over with more care. “Lovely animal.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “If you are truly from Mather . . . why do you come in at such an hour? Under darkness? It’ve been best to c
ome in daylight.”

  “A bridge was out,” lied Jeremy.

  “I would’ve liked my parishioners to see your coming, to know you are here from Mather, and that Mather backs me against my enaaa . . . those who stand against me here.”

  “I don’t know anything about that, sir. I’m just an apprentice . . . to be apprenticed to you, Mr. Parris, until which time—”

  “Apprentice? I thought you simply a courier?” He waved the sealed note in his hand.

  “You haven’t read it, sir?”

  “I assumed…I mean, seeing the seal and Mather’s signature…well…” Parris gritted his teeth and read by the lantern now held by Jeremy, his riding boots squeaking and wet on the porch boards.

  “I am no commoner to be taken in by a forgery; I happen to know that Mather has set sail for England, so how long has this note been circulating?”

  “Circulating? No time at all.”

  “How long in your possession?”

  “I saw him off at the pier in Boston, and I came there by way of Wells, Maine, sir, Casco Bay area.”

  “Wells?”

  “Maine, Wells is in Maine, sir.”

  “And you saw Mather off yesterday?”

  “I did, indeed,” he lied only slightly, having missed Increase Mather by a day.

  Parris fell silent. “Strange that I should finally get the man’s ear on the eve of his leaving the colonies.”

  “He may be a minister but he’s a politician, too, sir—and has wisely placed his son in charge at the North Church.”

  “Cotton Mather? Is that supposed to be humorous, Mr. Ahhh . . .”

  “Wakely, sir, late of Wells.”

  “The Senior Mather, he will be back, of course?”

  “Yes, to be sure.”

  There was another daunting silence between them. Finally, Jeremiah cleared his parched throat and said, “Mr. Parris, I am aware of your worldliness, sir.”

  “You are?”

  “That you were a merchant in the West Indies—”

  “Yes, Barbados, but what has that to do with—”

  “—and a seaman before that. All before becoming an ordained minister at Harvard College.”

  “What is your point, man?

  “Why that I am…will be honored to work under your tutelage, sir.” Jeremy worked hard to affect the attitude of a novice scholar.

  “Indeed…lucky for both of us,” Parris countered.

  “Reverend Mather provided me with a modest outline, sir, of your history.”

  “He did?”

  “Filled me in, yes. It’s one reason that Mr. Mather has linked us, you and I as minister and mentor.”

  “Mentor?”

  “Protégé, apprentice, sir.”

  Parris’ features took on a menacing look. He had assumed the letter from Mather a confirmation of his land holdings in Salem Village. He now placed a pair of rickety old magnifying glasses on his nose so as to truly look at the note—as if searching for what he’d lost in translation.

  Jeremy watched his lips move as he read:

  Dear Rev. S. Parris 14th March 1692

  Honored Minister at Salem Village Parish –

  I present to your care one Jeremiah Wakely prepared to serve as your apprentice and helpmate for a period of six months to a year under your tutelage as favor to the governing body of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, and myself, minister, the North Church of Boston.

  Mr. Wakley has proven uncommonly sincere, studious, and industrious for one so young. All virtues that will serve well both Salem Village and you, sir. If your independence from the First Church of Salem, Mr. Higginson’s parish, is ever to become a reality, you will require more hands. For Mr. Wakely’s part, he will be working toward his own enlightenment and eventual ordination. Wakely may one day carry the yoke well.

  As result, Mr. Parris, you shall both prosper. May your parish continue in peace and tranquility, and may all misunderstandings among your parishoners be resolved.

  Your Obedient Servant,

  Rev. Increase Mather

  Parris heaved the heaviest sigh Jeremy had ever seen before muttering, “Where the deuce’ll you sleep? We have extremely tight quarters here.”

  “I can take the stable tonight . . .for now, that is until settled elsewhere.”

  Parris hesitated then said, “Don’t be silly.”

  “I mean ’till arrangements can be made, I—”

  Parris considered this for only a moment before exploding into action, rushing inside, leaving his door swinging open. “Tituba!” he shouted, rushing into the house, leaving the door wide, waking his servant. “Wake up! I want you to prepare a bed in the stable for—”

  “For whooo, Massa Reverend?” The dark woman stared hard at the man in black who stood now warming himself at the fire. She looked wide-eyed, frightened of Jeremiah.

  “For whom?” replied Parris, correcting her English. “Why for you, for yourself, Tituba.”

  It was the first time Jeremiah had heard the woman’s name pronounced, and it was, he thought, rather Shakespearean and melodic: Ti’shuba. The strange, dark woman in shadow repeatedly asked, “What? What I do now? What?”

  “You’re to remove yourself tonight to the barn, to sleep out there.” Parris pointed to the door. “Now, out!”

  “Out the house? Now?”

  “Hold on, sir,” started Jeremy. “I don’t wish to displace anyone.”

  “She’s a Barbados black, Mr. Ahhh . . . Wakely, or are you blind and deaf?”

  “Even so—”

  “My servant. I’ve had her for years.”

  “Still, I’m the newcomer here and—”

  “Are you questioning my judgment already, young man?”

  Samuel Parris had eyes as black as grapes, but no seeds showed in them, not even so much as a twinkle in the lantern light; light which otherwise filled the small rooms here, creating giants of their shadows along with the pinching odor of whale oil.

  Tituba did not question her master. After a furtive glance at Jeremiah, and a look of anger flaring up behind the minister’s back, she trundled out, clutching a single woolen blanket and a straw-tick pillow. Parris watched her go down the steps into the drifting snow and icy rain.

  “There, Mr. Wakefield, now you have a place below the stairwell.”

  Jeremy thought to correct him but decided not now. Instead, he stared at the space below the stairs vacated for him. It looked large enough for a big dog. “Still, I need to stable my horse before retiring, sir.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, but steer clear of the servant. She has a dislike for strangers, us ahhh . . . white men in who wear the cloth in particular.”

  “Is she not civilized? Christian?”

  “Trust me, I’ve done my level best to make her so, however, you can never be sure of the pagan mind. Most inscrutable.”

  “I know nothing is harder than to convert a heathen, sir.”

  “Clings to her Barbados superstitions.”

  “I see. I’ll do then as you suggest.”

  “I’ll have the door unlatched for your return. Again, avoid the woman.”

  “As you wish.”

  “She is a . . . mischief-maker, Mr. Wakely. You are forewarned. Make no small talk with Tituba.”

  “As you wish, sir, and as I am fatigued to the bone, all I want is a bed.” Jeremy laughed and stepped back outside and onto the porch knowing that his mandate from Mather dictated that he indeed talk to Tituba. He wondered what, if anything, Tituba knew, overheard, or saw of the comings and goings in the parsonage home, what merchants or ships’ captains she might speak of. Hearing Parris behind him at the door, he repeated the name as it sounded to him, “Ti’shu-ba, yes, to be sure, I’ll not speak with the black woman.”

  Chapter Four

  The entire time Jeremy spent in the stable unbridling his mare, he felt the cold and icy stare of Tituba Indian square on his neck. She may’ve created a bed of hay, but at least one eye studied him from every angle.
He hadn’t a clue what was going through her mind, but he imagined it a complete tale, one he’d like to hear.

  After all, this soft-spoken, cat-padding little woman had been around Samuel Parris for more years than most of his flock. She’d come with him and his wife and child from their last known residence, Barbados, where general knowledge had him trading in his sea legs to become a trader, a businessman.

  Does Tituba hold the key? She appeared to both fear and hate her master. Not the best of relations.

  Jeremy had an enormous task facing him. What had drawn this former merchant of Barbados to Salem? Not the mere promise of the parsonage and its damnably small apple orchard and rickety out buildings? There had to be more.

  Jeremy thought of how Parris had ordered the black woman out of her bed as if she were a detested cur. And that look the servant had shot the minister when he turned his back on her—pure, unadulterated hatred and venom.

  How that venom came to be, wondered Jeremy.

  A great deal could be learned—and thus reported—about a man just in the manner of how he handled those in his care, and those he called his servants, and those he called his congregation.

  Jeremy had uncinched and unbridled the horse, and he now placed the saddle on a rail. He used his own bedroll to place across Dancer’s back.

  “May I have it?” asked Tituba in a surprisingly resonant, deep voice that filled the small outbuilding.

  “May you . . . have what?”

  She pointed, her nail like a talon. “Your saddle, Massa . . . ”

  “My saddle?”

  “For my head rest with pillow.” She lifted her pillow.

  “You miss Barbados?” he asked as he placed the saddle where she’d created a bed of hay.

  “I do . . . my family all there. My baby, too.”

  “You left your baby in Barbados?” Jeremy was incredulous, and he heard Parris’ warning again at the back of his head. “Don’t talk to the woman.” All the more reason to speak to her.

  “Dead baby . . . dead an’-an’ buried.”