by Alex Flinn
I broke into a run. But only for a few steps. Then I slipped on a patch of ice and fell backward against a tree trunk.
For a moment, the world contracted and everything was black. The earth vibrated beneath me, then stopped. I lay there, blinking, my beating heart sitting in my throat.
Then the wolf was upon me. Would it rip me apart?
“You should not run in such icy weather.”
The wolf’s voice was gruff yet surprisingly gentle, a male voice. I did not see his mouth move. I glanced around to see if there was anyone nearby. The wolf’s breath blew hot in my face.
Mother had given me some cookies for Betty. Now I thought it would have been better had she given me a knife. Still, I reached for my basket. Perhaps the wolf would take a cookie.
But my basket was nowhere in my reach. I groped for it among the icy tree roots.
The wolf licked my face. It was slimy, and I shuddered for fear of his teeth.
“What is the matter, my dear child?” the voice said, and I felt the coldness where his warm tongue had been.
“Are you going to . . . to eat me?” I whispered.
The wolf chuckled. “Of course not.”
Or had he said only “Of course”?
How was this? How was a wolf speaking to me? Yet he was. Perhaps I had fainted from the cold and was in a dream.
I pushed myself up onto aching arms. My head throbbed too.
“If you ate me, my parents would look for me. Father would get men to come, men with guns.” I did not know if the wolf knew what a gun was. “They would search the forest for me, and when they found me”—I paused, wincing at the thought of what I might look like—“they would kill you.”
The wolf seemed to consider this. His white eyes never left my own. I saw the gray fur ripple in the wind and snow fly off it. My fingers were frozen—I had forgotten my mittens—and I longed to touch the warm fur, but I dared not. Finally, the wolf said, “Perhaps.”
I waited for more. When there was nothing, I asked, “Perhaps?”
The wolf moved his head, almost a nod. “Perhaps. Perhaps it is as you say, and your parents would be devastated at the loss of you, Ann Putnam.”
I felt a chill when the wolf said my name. How did he know it?
“You, Ann Putnam, a girl whose parents have six other children, three of them boys.”
“Of course they would.” But I wondered.
“Girls are often prized by their parents.” The wolf held my gaze, unblinking. “And you are always helpful, never shirking.”
Had the wolf been watching as I snuck from the house? I remembered how Father had rejoiced last year when Timothy was a boy. This even though they had two others. A boy could help with the planting. A girl could only do tedious things like cooking and weaving and feeding the chickens. Father said that he wished to buy more lands, to have the largest farm in Salem Village, maybe in all Massachusetts. With three boys to do the work, he could.
“I help with the babies,” I said, though it was lunacy to justify myself to a wolf. “Mother could never manage without me.”
The wolf seemed to smile or maybe snarl, crinkling his nose and baring his teeth. He exhaled, breath turning to a cloud of smoke. What did he want from me?
“Of course you do. You are a lovely girl, a helpful girl. No one appreciates you, though.”
That was true. The wolf came still closer. I cringed. Did he mean to bite me now? But no. The wolf sidled up against me, head level with my hand. My fingers shook. Almost without thinking, I sank them into the wolf’s woolly fur. It was so warm, and he nuzzled my arm like a dog. I had never had a pet. Our farm had dogs to watch the animals or to warn us of intruders, human or not. But they were not pets, not my pets. Last year, my brother, Tom, had been given a puppy, a brindle bulldog that followed him around and slept at the foot of his bed at night. I tried to play with him sometimes, but he only liked Tom.
I scrunched the wolf’s fur between my fingers.
“Where are you off to, little girl?” the wolf asked.
I was not a little girl, but this was a question with an easy answer. “To my friend Betty’s. My cousin is there. They are . . . expecting me.”
I pushed back the thought that they did not care whether or not I came.
“Off to play with witchcraft?” the wolf asked.
“What?” I must have misheard him. “No. We . . . talk, play games.”
“What a shame.” The wolf flipped his head upon my fingers, enjoying the petting. “I thought we could spend more time together.”
And suddenly I wanted to, wanted to stay with the wolf or go where he was going. But that would be impossible, for I was not a wolf.
Still, I said, “Walk with me then.”
Now that I knew—or, at least, thought—the wolf would not eat me, I grew bold.
“Very well.” The wolf started in the direction I had planned to go. I trudged beside him, feeling his warmth at my side. “Why are you walking all alone through the woods?”
“I was supposed to go with Mary—my cousin. But she left without me.” She did not care.
“The woods are dangerous,” the wolf said. “Someone should have walked with you. There are wolves in the woods.”
My nose was cold, and I sniffled a bit. Even though it was early, the overhanging trees and the clouds made the day dark.
The wolf continued. “No one pays you any mind, but you are superior to them all.”
I started a bit at this, for I had always suspected as much. Yet how would the wolf know?
But admitting it would be sinful vanity. “Of course I am not superior.”
“You are.” The wolf’s words left his mouth in a puff of smoke. “Smarter. Quicker on your feet.”
It was true. I always won at games like hunt the slipper or charades, beating even older girls like Mary. My handwriting was much finer than theirs, and when I read, I had a clear, strong voice and did not hesitate at difficult words. Yet none of those skills were prized. Games were a waste of time at best, of the devil at worst. And Mother condemned my pride in my penmanship as a vanity. I knew that was because her own was not nearly as fine.
I only wanted to be good. No. I wanted to be good and have everyone know I was good.
“I do not know about that,” I said.
“You are too modest,” the wolf said. “You are the smartest and best girl. The others are simply jealous. That is why they left without you.”
Once again, the wolf confirmed my own thoughts, or my deepest fears. I shivered.
“How can I make them not to be jealous?” It seemed wrong to admit that I wanted them to envy me.
The wolf did not answer for a moment, winding his body behind mine, warming me. Finally, he said, “I suppose you must look for opportunities.”
“Opportunities?” I pulled Elizabeth’s too-small cape around me. My boots squeezed my toes. They were too small as well. No one had thought to check, with two babies to care for.
“To impress them with something they value.”
Something they value. “Like what?”
We had reached a clearing, and Reverent Parris’s house lay ahead. I knew I must part company with the wolf, yet I wasn’t sure I wanted to. The wolf’s company was easy, easier than the company of my fellow humans.
Easy.
I wondered what it would be like to snuggle up against him and sleep at night like a cub.
“You will find the opportunity,” the wolf said. “See what they care about, and use it.”
“Will I see you again?”
He backed away, looking at me with his white eyes. The shadows of trees trembled against the ground like hands, grabbing.
“I am certain,” he said.
I watched until he was gone, then turned and ran to Reverend Parris’s house. When I reached the door, I heard a howl in the distance.
Had that happened? I shook my head and tried the doorknob.
But they were not inside. I searched around unt
il I found them in a clearing behind a stand of trees, where Tituba had built a little fire. Mary, seeing me, acted happy. “Ann, you are here. God preserve you.”
I thought that God had nothing to do with it. I had seen to my journey myself, since she had not waited. But I said, “Aye. I had to finish the chores.” I glanced at Mercy.
“Tituba is beginning to tell us a story.” Betty grasped my wrist. She was always trying to get my attention. She whispered, “My father is gone out. Will you sit with me?”
She pointed to a spot on a log that was barely large enough for her, but I followed and perched on the end nonetheless. Betty was crowded between Tituba and me as Tituba began her tale. She had an accent that made me think of a warm, wet night in an exotic place, a place overhung with fragrant yellow and red flowers I had never seen.
“I will tell you a tale,” she said, “a tale so tall that it disappears into the sky and you cannot see it on a cloudy day.”
I drew in my breath. We all did. Mary came and stood beside me, leaning against me.
“But though it is a tall tale, it is about a short, short man.” Tituba leaned forward, confiding. I stared at her. She was so beautiful, with skin that seemed to gleam in the firelight and the whitest teeth I had ever seen. I shivered with anticipation.
“People call him Baccoo,” she said.
Betty gasped. “What’s a Baccoo?”
I rolled my eyes. Silly girl. Tituba was obviously going to tell us more.
“Shh!” Tituba put her long finger to lips. “All your questions will be answered, my little one.” Her gaze took all of us in. Abigail, Mercy, and Mary giggled, but I was chilled. Tituba’s stories frightened me, though I did not wish to admit it.
“Nobody ever sees Baccoo, but everybody hears of him. Everybody knows what he is like—a short, short, little, little man with a long, looong beard.” Tituba gestured with her skinny fingers, as if stroking a beard of her own, and we giggled, or at least, the others did.
I remembered the wolf’s words, Off to play with witchcraft? What had he meant?
Tituba continued. “The owner of the Baccoo keeps him in a bottle and feeds him on milk and bananas, and when there is mischief made, it is the Baccoo that makes it.”
Tituba went on with her story about the spirit, who lurked in barns and pelted cattle with pebbles. I shivered, knowing my mother would not approve of my listening. I noticed Betty was staring ahead, at nothing. Or was there something? Betty’s staring was so bizarre.
“If you hear rain on the roof on a summer night,” Tituba said, “that is not rain—but the Baccoo.”
I shuddered again.
And suddenly I could not stop shivering, like I would never feel warmth.
“Ann, quit it,” Mary said when I bumped against her for the tenth time.
“I cannot . . . cannot help it,” I whispered. And it was true. Tituba’s stories had always scared me, but it was a good kind of scared, usually. Now, with the wolf’s words in my head, I was not sure. Were there evil spirits? And would I be punished for communing with them? None of the adults knew the stories Tituba told us, the things she did with us. If they did, they would not allow it. It was more than mischief. It was witchcraft.
“What a baby,” Mary muttered. “We were right to leave her.”
“I am not,” I said, but my teeth chattered, and they chattered more with the indignity of it all. They had left me on purpose. “I am just a little cold.”
“You are just a little girl,” Mary said. “Even Betty is not scared of Tituba’s stories.”
“I freeze.” I ran from my seat to the fire Tituba had built, turning my head so no one could see my tears. I sat, shivering, and after a while, I stared into the fire.
Then I saw the wolf’s face in it.
Off to play with witchcraft? he asked and stared at me with flame-white eyes.
I turned away, shuddering. No. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t.
I looked again. Only fire.
Still, I ran back to the girls and Tituba. They were all giggling as she finished her story, but Betty was crying. This happened often. Betty stared. And cried. And sometimes screamed. I heard Mercy whisper something about the babies crying, and Abigail giggled.
“Shh, shh, shh.” Tituba patted Betty’s shoulder. “No scary stories then. We will do something else. We’ll find out who you will be marrying.”
Mary and Mercy squealed. They were older and thought of little else, Mercy especially.
I told myself that this was harmless. Tituba always had her superstitions, like laying a broom across the doorway at night, to keep the devil away, or never lending salt, for she said it was bad luck. I knew what my parents would say about such things, but Tituba lived with Reverend Parris, so it must be all right. Besides, I wanted to be with the other girls. And I wished to find out who I would marry, even if it was merely a silly game.
Yet the fact that I had encountered a talking wolf made it different. So different.
Mary went first. She sat across from Tituba on the log. Tituba took Mary’s wrists in her hands, and then she threw her head back and began to hum with great concentration. It was stupid, really, a child’s game. No one could tell the future.
Finally, Tituba opened her eyes, though her look was still far away.
“I see him.” Her voice was a low hum. “Coming from the shadows.”
“Who?” Mary giggled, but there was nervousness in her voice too. “Who?”
“A tall man,” Tituba almost chanted, “with hair fair yellow.”
Mary was fairly jumping in her seat, and I knew why. She had set her cap for Isaac Farrar. I had seen him gazing upon her at church, and his hair was the color of corn silk.
“And eyes . . .”
“What is his name?”
“Cannot see a name,” Tituba said. “Just a part—like Ffffff.”
“Oh!”
“That is so wonderful, Mary!” I exclaimed, but Mary grabbed Mercy’s hand and they galloped round the clearing.
“Me next!” Mercy said. “Me next!”
But Betty had to go next, and since she was Tituba’s pet, we let her, though she was a mere child with no thought of marrying. Tituba told her that she would marry a shoemaker with hair of black.
“A shoemaker!” Betty scoffed.
“Making shoes is a good trade,” Tituba said, “and besides, yours are always scuffed.”
“Perhaps she should marry a bootblack,” I said, then regretted my meanness.
Next went Mercy, to find she would marry a man whose name began with A, but Tituba knew no more. She told Abigail that she would have so many men that Tituba could not tell which one was her husband. I thought this sounded awful and sinful, but Abigail was pleased.
I, of course, was last. Tituba’s hands felt rough and calloused on my wrists, and it took her several minutes to speak up.
“Well?” I said.
“No husband for you.” Her voice was confident.
“What?” Instantly, my stomach hurt, but surely I must have misheard her.
But she repeated. “No husband. No children.” She stared ahead as if looking at something in the distance.
“But . . .” That was impossible. I was Ann Putnam, daughter of one of the most successful farmers in Salem Village. I would have many suitors, certainly more than Abigail.
Yet a thought frayed my mind. Not everyone liked my father. There was bad blood between our family and the Nurses, and Father said that the Howes wished him dead.
“Your father, your mother, I see their graves,” Tituba chanted as if she was telling a tale.
In my mind, I saw them too, covered up with snow. I felt a chill that I struggled to control. The girls would make fun. But they were behind the trees, whispering. Were they talking about me?
“You will care for your sisters and brothers,” Tituba said, “but no children of your own.”
When Tituba had told the other girls’ futures, she had sounded tentative. With mine, sh
e had the certainty of an executioner.
And suddenly my skin felt as if an insect was crawling underneath it. Then many insects. I threw aside Tituba’s hands and clutched at my arms. Then my legs, my stomach, creeping all over me. I wanted to cry out, to shriek, but Mary and Mercy would tease me. I shoved past Tituba, grabbed Elizabeth’s cape around me, and ran from there.
I was still itching, still shaking. I ran as far as I could, that no one might see me, then fell to the ground, rolling like Tom’s dog. Finally, the creeping feeling subsided. I lay there many minutes until the cold began to overtake me. Then, finally, I pushed myself up. My dress was damp and covered in dirt and pine needles. I thought to lie to Mother, tell her I had been attacked by an animal, even a wolf. Yet I knew if I did, she would blame me. I was always blamed for everything. I remembered Tituba’s words. My parents would die. I would care for the children, which meant it would be soon.
I would be an old maid.
No. No, it was nonsense. Tituba knew nothing of me. If she had magical powers, why was she a mere servant? Why would the devil not make her a queen?
I brushed myself off best I could. I would walk slowly, in the hope that the dark would cover my disarray. Finally, I began to trudge home.
But where my footsteps had once played the exuberant marching rhythm of my favorite hymn, now they moved slowly, repeating, “Old maid, old maid, old maid.” I stared at my feet, and that was how I did not see the wolf until he was upon me.
“Leaving so soon?” He licked his lips, and I wondered if he meant to eat me now.
“Not . . . s . . . so soon . . .” My teeth were chattering, but not from the cold. “The others left too. They are behind me.” I glanced over my shoulder, as if Mercy and Mary would somehow be there, when I knew they would not.
“You have had bad news.”
I wanted to run, cry to my mother, tell her all that frightened me. Yet how could I tell her about the prophecy of her own death? And she would blame me for counseling with a witch, for surely Tituba was a witch.
And she would blame me for speaking to the wolf.
So, instead, I spoke to the wolf again. “It was awful,” I told him. “Tituba, she said my parents would die, die soon. She said she could see their gravestones. And she said . . .” My lip quivered. This was the most difficult part. “She said I would be an old maid.”
