Tituba of Salem Village (20 page)

He said, “‘I don’t want a man for a minister who has witches in his house.’” Then he waited and said, “‘Even his daughter is a witch.… So is his niece. His niece can fly. I’ve seen her.’

“‘His slave is a witch.’

“‘Yes, she tells fortunes.’”

Three nights later, John said, in his own voice, “This is not safe for us. In the tavern they keep saying, ‘Do not suffer a witch to live.’ They all know about the witch cake and what happened here. The master knows it, too. He is like a sly fox. He knows it, but he has said nothing. And then they tell these old stories about being struck dumb for days and days, and if somebody asks them when this was, why it happened ten years ago or five years ago.”

The next night he said the same thing. “They keep telling stories about you. They forget that I’m married to you, or else they think I am deaf, for they speak of you in front of me.”

The next morning, early, he was out in the barn with her, helping her feed the animals. He said that the night before two men were in the taproom. They said they had been going home, going through the woods, and they heard a strange noise, a noise they’d never heard before, and it continued so many times they were affrighted.

“I think I can tell it exactly the way I heard it,” he said. “‘I be coming home at night and I keep hearing a noise, a strange noise. I never heard before. And it went on for so long I be afraid. But I kept going, and then I see a strange and unusual beast lying on the ground. Then there rose up from the ground the minister’s slave Tituba, and Goody Good in her rags, and Goody Osburne all rheumy-eyed and coughing. It were almost like seeing cattle rise up out of a low place in the ground, and a man with them and a mist all about them.’”

John rubbed his forehead and let his breath out in a sigh. “But the part that—oh, well—

“Somebody said, ‘A man?’ And then—

“‘What man?’”

Eyes round, voice lowered. “‘It were the minister!’

“‘The minister? You mean our parson?’

“‘It were a parson.’

“‘The minister? The minister? Our minister?’

“‘I said, “Good evening, parson,” loud and clear, and I said, “God save us all, Parson,” loud and clear, and the women ran like deer through the underbrush, and the parson seemed to evaporate, to vanish. He were there, and then he weren’t there, and there were only the mist hanging over the pasture.’

“And then the questions came, ‘The minister? And he were there with the three witches—Good and Tituba and Osburne? Are you sure?’ Then the answer came. ‘Oh, it were a proper parson, all in his black clothes and steeple hat.’”

Tituba thought, I see what troubles John. If they’re getting ready to say that the master is a witch, then he’ll turn on us before he ever lets himself be accused. It was pleasant in the barn. The mare let her breath out with a snuffing, blowing sound, and the cows mooed gently. The chickens scratched in the hay, clucking to themselves, and a broody hen flew up squawking, feathers ruffled.

“Hush yourself,” Tituba cautioned the hen. The hen quieted as though it had understood her.

John shook his head in disapproval. “You should stop talking to the animals. That hen acted as though she knew what you said. You could get us hanged if anybody heard you.”

“Everybody talks to animals. Mercy Lewis talks to that farmhorse of Master Putnam’s—I’ve heard her.”

“Yes, but nobody says she’s a witch. The folk are saying that you are the one who bewitched the girls. They say it’s a very strange happenstance that the minister’s cows never sicken or go dry. His pigs is always well. His garden bursts with vegetables, and the fruit hangs so heavy in his orchard the trees are bowed down with it. His hens lay eggs where you can put your hand to them right away. Nobody has to hunt through the bushes for eggs at the minister’s. They’ve seen you go right to the eggs as though you knew where to find them.”

He sighed, “It’s these things that will get us hanged—for nothing.”

“We will not be hanged.”

“What will stop them?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a witch. How could I be a witch and not know it? I keep things clean for the animals, and I feed them. That’s why everything seems to run smoother here. Hard work is what makes this place run smoother. Those farmers’ wives could make their places run smoother if they did more work themselves. They leave everything to the bound girls, and they box the girls’ ears if they’re angered about something. Then the girl spills the milk because she’s cross with her mistress. She forgets to feed the pigs. She gives spoiled food to the chickens. She knows there’s a hole in the fence, but she doesn’t say so, and when she sees the pigs go through, she looks the other way. And the cattle roam—and—”

And yet she felt uneasy. John helped her fill the wood-boxes, and then he went off to Ingersoll’s.

Afterwards, before anyone else was up, she filled a small bowl with water, carefully floated some fine oil on its surface, just a thin layer so she’d have a bright surface to look at but no glitter to it. She sat down at the table and looked into the bowl, stared into it, her gaze fixed, unwinking.

She waited, staring. She experienced another vision. She saw herself. She was standing on a table or a bench. People were staring at her. She had seen this scene before in the horse trough. Only this time she could see the master. He was way off to one side, and he was sitting at a table writing, writing, writing, very steadily.

When the master came into the room, she was still sitting at the table. She was no longer staring at the bowl of water; she was looking towards the fire. Her gaze was contemplative.

The master drew back slightly. Then he said, “What are you doing?”

“I was trying to decide whether the oil be rancid, master,” she said.

Chapter 16

Men have wished they might see angels and converse with them. God hath been provoked with them for their curiosity and Presumption, and hath permitted Devils to come unto them, whereby they have been Deceived and Undone—”

Reverend John Hale, of Beverly, was speaking. Tituba caught words and phrases. This had been another day of prayer and fasting. Tall, thin Reverend Deodat Lawson and stout Reverend Nicholas Noyes, of Salem Town, had been praying and fasting all day with the bewitched girls and their families.

Now they had come to the master’s house. They were on their knees in the keeping room. Goody Sibley and Mary Walcott were there, Mistress Anne Putnam, and Anne Putnam, Jr., and Mercy Lewis, and Elizabeth Hubbard.

Reverend Hale went on praying, “Let them that have been guilty of Explicit Witchcraft now also repent of their monstrous and horrid evil in it. If any of you have (I hope none of you have) made an Express Contract with Devils, know that your promise is better
broke
than kept; it concerns you that you turn immediately from the Power of Satan unto God—”

Abigail screamed suddenly, a blood-curdling sound. Reverend Hale continued, “Oh, Lord, help us against this unaccountable Enchantment; we beseech Thee not to let this spiritual Plague go further—”

Abigail shouted, “I will not sign the book. I will not sign the book—” and ran around the room, leaping and shouting as though she had taken leave of her senses. Mercy Lewis joined her, and Mercy’s shrieks were so high in pitch and so great in volume that they hurt the eardrums. Elizabeth Hubbard cried out that there were rats swarming around the floor, a whole regiment, an army of them, some red and some black. “Look at them,” she said, pointing, “look at them.”

Tituba looked in the direction in which Elizabeth pointed, half-expecting to see an army of rats.

Reverend Hale stopped praying and stood up. So did everybody else. They could not continue with such a confusion of sounds, such screams, such dashing back and forth and running up and down.

Abigail gave a great shriek, covered her eyes with her hands, and fell to the floor with a thud. She lay there as though she were dead. Mercy Lewis fell down beside her.

The master’s face seemed both to lighten and darken. His voice came out suddenly and harshly, “The touch test!” he said. “The touch test!”

He grabbed Tituba by the arm and pushed and pulled her towards Abigail. “Touch her,” he shouted, tugging at her arm. “Touch her!”

Tituba bent over and touched her lightly on the forehead, to see if her forehead felt hot; and then she touched her arm—it felt stiff and hard. As Tituba touched her, she felt the stiffening, the hardness go out of Abigail’s arm. It became soft and pliable, like human flesh.

She thought, confused, I did that. I touched her and she has recovered. Abigail blinked and sat up. She rose to her feet, and went and sat down on the settle. She adjusted the skirt of her long gown neatly about her feet.

Parris ordered Tituba to touch Elizabeth Hubbard who was sitting on a stool, rocking back and forth, eyes closed, howling like a dog. When Tituba touched her, she too opened her eyes. She adjusted her cap, fingered her neck cloth to see that it was in place, and sat silent.

For the first time since the bewitchment began, Tituba was frightened, so frightened that she felt a trembling inside herself. Perhaps I am a witch, she thought, and I did not know it. Perhaps what they said was true—Good and Osburne and I are witches. Then her spine stiffened. This is nonsense. I am no more a witch than the master is a wizard.

They were all staring at her with hate and with fear—it showed in their faces, in their eyes. The master shouted, “Why do you hurt these children? Why do you do it? Why? Why?”

“I have done nothing,” she said. “You know I have done nothing, master.”

She was so upset that she had only a blurred memory of their leaving. She was certain that they backed out of the keeping room, that they kept their faces turned towards her as they put on their cloaks and wrapped their shawls tight around their heads or bundled themselves into their greatcoats.

After they left, the master threatened her, saying he would see her hanged unless she confessed to the sin of witchcraft.

She kept saying, “I have done nothing, master. I have done nothing.”

He said, “Well, I will now leave you, and then you are undone, body and soul forever.” He said this in his harsh, angry-sounding praying voice.

But he did not leave her. He stayed in the keeping room. He said, “You will hang—” “You are a witch—” “You will hang—” “You have bewitched these children—”

Then Abigail came downstairs and had a fit and screamed and held on to her throat, saying, “I can’t breathe—I’m being choked—I can’t breathe—aahhhh—waahhhh—”

“Stop that!” the master shouted. “Stop that!”

Tituba thought he was talking to Abigail, but he was talking to Tituba. “Unclasp your hands,” he shouted. “Do you hear? Unclasp your hands before you choke the child to death—”

Tituba stared at him in amazement and then she looked at Abigail. Abigail was watching her through partially closed eyes.

Tituba opened her hands, let them stay in her lap, palms up. Abigail went on screeching and crying out that she couldn’t breathe.

“Touch her!” the master ordered. “Quick! Touch her and put her out of this agony.”

Tituba hesitated, not wanting to touch Abigail, thinking, If I do not touch her, she will stop screaming. She hasn’t the strength to go on like this. Her face is red; her breathing is uneven; she is getting hoarse.

“Touch her,” the master shouted.

She touched Abigail, and it was like a miracle. The shrieking stopped. Her breathing became normal. The high feverish color died in her cheeks. Her hands, which had been tightly clasped together, now lay relaxed in her lap. She smiled shyly at Tituba.

I am doomed, Tituba thought. Even if the master were the kind who would risk his own life and his family’s safety to protect his slave, even so he couldn’t possibly save me from hanging. Anyone who saw me touch one of these girls in the middle of one of their fits, and saw them suddenly become well because I touched them, would believe me to be a witch.

“Now will you confess?” Parris asked between clenched teeth.

“What do you want me to say, master?”

“What is it that you do to these children?”

“She bewitches us,” Abigail said. “She and Goody Good and old Gammer Osburne. They were the first ones to come in the house after Goody Sibley baked the witch cake.”

“Witch cake!” the master said, horror in his voice. “What devil’s work is this?” He took hold of Abigail’s arm. “What are you talking about?”

Abigail told him about the baking of the witch cake, how Goody Sibley and John had fed it to the dog, how the dog had yelped and run out of the house. Right after that, Tituba and Good and Gammer Osburne had entered the keeping room. All of them at the same time. “They were the witches, drawn to the house by the witch cake,” she said primly.

“You did this in my house?” he asked scowling. “The black art was used—in my house? Why this is a going to the Devil for help against the Devil—”

Abigail, frightened, said, “We didn’t know what else to do. There have been so many things, so many strange things—We didn’t mean any harm.” She wept piteously and ran out of the room.

“I’ll have you hanged,” the master shouted, glaring at Tituba, “and Good and Osburne along with you. When this story gets out, it will ruin me in the parish.” He seized the birch broom and started beating Tituba about the head and shoulders.

Tituba was appalled. No one had ever beaten her before. His appearance was alarming. His face was contorted with rage. His breathing was quick and uneven. He reminded her of a crazed man she had seen a long time ago running up and down through a street in Bridgetown. The master seemed gripped by the same kind of frenzy as he shouted, “Confess. Confess. Say that you’re a witch.”

He kept aiming terrible blows at her head, her neck, her ears. This shocked her because she felt he was deliberately trying to injure her. She cowered away from him, thinking that this was more than the hurt to her flesh—the dull ache of her head, the ringing in her ears, the bruised places on her neck. This was an unspeakable hurt to the spirit, to the soul.

She cried out in a hoarse voice, “Yes, master, yes, I am a witch,” and thought, Now I am one with the broken-spirited horse and the beaten dog. In the cane fields I saw a naked slave whipped until the color of the skin on his back changed from dark brown to crimson. Now I am that hard-used slave.