by Ann Rinaldi
"I'll go to Boston tomorrow, Mary." Father's voice was filled with patience.
"Thank you, Phillip. And I will say extra prayers. And fast. I'll not wear silk for a year. If only..."
"Mary." Father spoke firmly. "William's life is worth more than silk dresses. You know it, I know it, and God knows it. You must stop tormenting yourself. I doubt if wearing rough wool will get William back. God doesn't resort to such bartering. Would that He did!"
Mama's eyes filled with tears. "Reverend Mather advises fasting."
"Cotton Mather is a blockhead," Father said. "Any man who wastes time writing reports on witchcraft hasn't the sense of a gander."
"Phillip!" Mama's face went white. "You financed his father's voyage to England."
"His father is a good man. Cotton is a dunderhead. I've known such since Cotton encouraged that frenzy in the North End of Boston over the antics of that Irish washerwoman they said was a witch. That was almost four years ago now, and still the man hasn't gained a whit of sense. Witches in Boston. I didn't believe it then, and I won't believe it now." He took another gulp of ale. The matter was finished.
"Mister English, sir, there's a woman at the back door who begs a word with you." Deborah, our kitchen maid, came into the room.
"Is she hungry?" Father asked. "Give her some food."
"Not hungry, sir. Says she'll speak with you this night or not leave. She has a child with her, and I fear they're half frozen to death."
"Oh, all right, I'll come." Father got up and left the room.
Alarm spread through me. Mistress Good! At our back door! It could only be she, here to beg for more handouts. I sat frozen, scarcely able to eat, while Mama and Mary chatted about possible news from Boston concerning William.
It seemed an hour before Father returned to his place at the table, but it was truly only about ten minutes. For a moment he just stood there.
"What is it, Phillip?" Mama asked.
"Just Mistress Good, the beggar woman." He was looking at me with a great measure of sadness. "Susanna, I would see you in my library after supper."
"I would tell your mother of your deceit, but it would break her heart. She has enough to break her heart these days."
My father was middling tall and given to plumpness in his mature years. He had kind brown eyes and a pleasant face. His voice made me feel more secure than the town watch making his rounds at night and crying out the hour and telling us "all is well" while I was snug in bed.
My father's presence was benign, not threatening like that of Reverend Parris and some other men. Even when he wore his tall-crowned hat and black cloak, garments that signified authority. But he was angry at that moment. And when he was angry, we always paid heed.
I waited, saying nothing.
"You have not been truthful, Susanna. You did not give your mother's provisions to the poor for whom she intended them. You gave them to Mistress Good."
"But Sarah Good is poor, honored Father. More so than anyone in the village. I considered it an act of charity to give her the provisions."
"Then why did you keep your sudden outpouring of charity from your mother?"
I bowed my head. "Because I knew she wanted her goods spread amongst many."
"How came you to return to town with so much in the cart? What happened in the village?"
"I spent more time than proper there."
"Doing what?"
"Talking."
"With whom?"
"I met some girls walking. Betty Parris and her cousin Abigail. Elizabeth Booth, Susannah Sheldon."
"Gossiping, you mean. And you know how your mother and I hate gossip. Is that it?"
"Yes, honored Father." Oh, I was quick with my lies, a true daughter of Eve!
"And so then you were late, still with a cart full of items, and you met Mistress Good and pretended to be the benevolent Angel of the Lord, is that it?"
"No, Father, that's not how it was."
"Tell me, then. How was it, daughter?"
I cast my eyes around the room, thinking. I looked to his desk, where his papers and implements for drawing, his journals, and his parchment sketches of ships all sat next to his quill pens and inkhorn in cozy disarray. I loved that room. Richly bound books, some hand stitched, filled the shelves. The sight of all that becalmed me.
"I perceived that Sarah Good was the poorest of the poor, and I didn't think it right to pass her by. She needed everything I gave her."
He waited, puffing his pipe.
I went on. "I cannot abide half the rules, you see."
"What rules?"
"These Puritan ordinances we must live under. I try to be a good Puritan, but I fear I never will be. I cannot see, Father, why a man should sit in the stocks all day for kissing his wife in public. Or why some local Indians are fined for gathering wood on the Sabbath. Or why slanderous speech earns someone a whipping."
I looked into his face. He seemed interested in my views. I went on.
"And I just don't believe, as Reverend Parris preaches, that we are all born depraved. Or sentenced to eternal damnation simply by fact of being alive!"
There! I had put into words what had plagued me for so long, unformed thoughts that took life this night and jumped off my tongue. For the past year such thoughts had confused me, and Pd been afraid to utter them lest they be considered blasphemy. But the events of this night had all conspired to make me speak out.
Father set down his pipe and regarded me with bemused affection. "Daughter, it pleases me that you choose to think for yourself."
"You're not angry with me, then?"
"Enlightened thoughts coming from a child of mine will never bring me to anger. We live in a country yet unexplored. Who knows how large it is beyond our modest settlements? Our young people should have the minds and hearts to match the territory we propose to inhabit."
I felt my spirit lift.
"But, daughter"—and now he frowned—"such thoughts are best kept within these walls. Our ministers do not realize that God's kingdom here on earth is composed of men and women made of flesh and blood. We are not saints. We complain of heavy taxes from the Crown, yet burden ourselves with principles we have no hope of upholding."
Did all this mean he would forgive me, then?
"I often wonder why our ministers and magistrates don't consider one fact. Which is that the same spirit that brought us here, for whatever diverse reasons, can make us splinter this colony into individual hotbeds of freedom if they suffocate us with their claims of superior holiness."
He opened his arms then, and I went to him. He embraced me. "Think for yourself, daughter. But know when to speak and when to remain silent."
"You aren't angry with me, then?"
He frowned. "I must punish you for lying to your mother." He paced the room, his hands clasped behind his back, thinking. "It was on my mind to bring you to Boston with me tomorrow. But this will be your punishment: now you must stay home."
He knew how I loved Boston. It was truly our City on the Hill, as our colony's founders had called it. Its wharves could accommodate vessels in from far parts of the world. Its twisting streets and lanes were full of interesting people. Bookstores abounded. You could wear your best silks in Boston and not be frowned upon. They had Harvard College, the Common, silversmiths, wharves laden with cargo from distant lands.
I made a sound of protest, but he continued pacing. "Nay, daughter, I must deny myself your company, pleasant though it be. I will go alone. You will stay here. And offer to take another shipment of goods to the poor in the village tomorrow for your mother."
And so it was that I took the cart to Salem Village again the next day. Ellinor was still feeling poorly, so I went alone. The early morning sun was bright, glistening on the surface of the snow. I stopped at all the houses on the list Mama had given me, and I made haste and was done before my appointed time.
And then, early in the afternoon, I went again to see Tituba.
5. Beyond the Caul
dron's Bubbling Contents
NOW THAT I LOOK back on that winter of 1691—1692, I understand truths that were frozen to me then as if under the ice in the brooks around Salem. One truth was that I was drawn to the parsonage, to the harsh, wind-scrubbed, and brooding outline it cut against the winter blue sky. In the rear, its sloped lean-to roof was hugged by the silhouettes of trees.
There was something ominous about it, from its weather-beaten shingles—some of which hung half off in a state of disrepair—to the tarnished bronze open-mouthed lion that served as a knocker on the front door. In the winter wind, two shutters on the back window creaked, loose on their hinges. And even the smoke that puffed from its chimneys seemed more halfhearted than lively and inviting. But I was drawn to it, nevertheless; and in the waning afternoon sun, which brought out all its shabbiness, the house beckoned to me like a lost soul.
"So you've returned," Tituba said to me as I entered by the rear passage and came into the company room. Her back was to me. She greeted me without turning. "How have you kept?"
"I'm well," I said. "We thought there might be word of William. My father went to Boston today to investigate three ships just in from sea voyages."
She laughed lightly. "Your father could have saved himself the trouble. It will be a while yet before William returns. Did you tell your father my feelings on the matter?"
"No."
She turned around. Her hands were busy darning a small tear in a child's woolen cape. She kept right on working, not looking at me. "So, you did not tell your people you were here."
"No."
"And why is that?"
"I thought it best not to."
She nodded and seemed pleased. Gesturing for me to sit on a settle bench near the fire, she sat also, after offering me a mug of hot cider.
"Little Betty has come down with malignant fever," she said. "I have been giving her broth every hour. And special decoctions of root and herb."
"And Abigail?" I asked. "Does she have it, too? They are both so young."
"Young, yes," she agreed. "But the wolves that howl in the night on the edge of town are more innocent." And having said such, she got up to stir a kettle in the hearth.
This announcement discomforted me. It was the first I had heard her say anything uncharitable against Betty and Abigail. Just yesterday she had told me how she gave little Betty the love her mother withheld from her. I sipped my cider. It came to me that all this was leading up to something. What, I did not know. But I would wait and see. As brother William always advised, I would listen more than speak, for in such a manner even a fool can learn.
"You came because you feel matters are unfinished between us," she said.
"Yes."
She smiled. "The sorrow of all humankind is that we can never complete what is between any two people to our satisfaction."
"You had more in the group this morning, didn't you?" I asked. "As I approached, I saw two new members leaving."
"Yes. Gertrude Pope and Elizabeth Hubbard. The group is forming a new texture now. It is falling into place."
"How is that?" My curiosity bested me. I was determined to pretend disinterest in the group, but the desire to know more about them was a sickness inside me.
"Leaders are coming forth," she said.
"Leaders?"
"Yes. One would think they would be the older girls. But Ann Putnam is the one with the quick mind."
I felt a stirring of jealousy. "She's only twelve."
"She is wise beyond her years, thanks to her mother. She knows about the star called Wormwood. She knows about the depravity of man."
I felt a shiver run through me.
"She knows the Book of Revelation. Her mother has guided her through it. She has read Day of Doom. She could be an apt pupil of the Devil himself. The other girls all mind what she says and look to her for guidance. She is here for evil. The others are here for mischief."
"You will teach her no evil."
"Even if I chose to, there is nothing I could teach her. She is beyond my powers."
I was casting around inside myself to respond to this disturbing news when there was a cry from the staircase in the hallway.
"And the Lord sayeth unto Moses, 'Whosoever hath sinned against Me, him will I blot out of My book!' "
The words were almost shrieked, not spoken. I jumped. For there on the stairway, arms outstretched, like an apparition in her woolen nightdress, was little Betty Parris.
Tituba got to her feet instantly. "Child, you should be in bed."
"A sinless newborn infant goes straight to the tortures of Hell without baptism. What hope have we?" The child had glided into the room like one who was sleepwalking. She walked around me, putting the question to me. Her pale face was bright with the luster of fever. Her eyes glistened.
"Would you like to sit by the fire for a while?" Tituba asked.
"I must say the Lord's Prayer," Betty said dreamily. "I must fast."
"No fasting, now," Tituba said. "How about some nice warm broth?"
But the child had fastened her eyes upon me. "He will visit or send His plague among such as are clothed with strange apparel," she said.
"I'm not wearing strange apparel," I said.
"You have worn silks and laces. I have seen you thus garbed. Why come you here?"
"I have come to visit Tituba."
"They will punish you if they find out. The others. Only people they allow can come."
Her voice was hushed, but the words chilled me. "I am here of my own free will," I said steadfastly.
"We tamper with the forbidden here. God's work is not conducted in this house. There are mysteries in this company room that go beyond the cauldron's bubbling contents."
"I tamper with nothing."
"You are not wanted here. The others don't want you. They know your father is an outlander, not decently born in England but on the Isle of Jersey."
I glared at her. "Who tells you this?"
"They know that he has a papist name. Your name is not English. It suffered a 'sea change' on his voyage to America. Isn't that right?"
"I wouldn't believe everything Ann Putnam says if I were you, Betty Parris."
"Your father's name was L'Anglois. He has papist leanings," she accused.
Everyone knew that a person with even the flimsiest connections to the Catholic faith was as much a heretic as a Quaker or a Baptist.
Over Betty's head, Tituba made a sign to me, shaking her own head and scowling. I kept my silence.
"God broods on Salem," the child went on. "My father says in his pulpit that God has reason to brood on us. Men can be kept from murder but not from hate. From adultery but not from lust. From theft but not from greed. We are all sinners in Salem."
"I am sure your father does not think you a sinner, Betty," I said.
She looked at me as if I had not understood a word, as if I were dimwitted. "There is no mercy from God for those He has destined to damnation." Her tone was quiet, as if she were remarking on the weather.
"I'm sorry you are ill, Betty," I told her kindly. "I had no intent to disturb you."
"It is my spirit that is disturbed. 'Tis the Lord's judgment for my sins. My good father preaches against certain pleasures. I indulge in them."
"We all disobey our parents on occasion."
She raised her fever-bright eyes to me. "You disobey more than your father, coming here. When the others find out, your spirit will be afflicted, too."
"They won't find out," I said.
She rewarded me with a sly smile. "But they must, don't you see? 'Tis my bounded duty to tell them."
"Why?"
"I know not why," she said dismally. "But I heed their call before I heed God's. Before I heed my father's. Oh, God!" And she screamed shrilly again and commenced to weep. "Why do I have these unhallowed needs?"
I became truly frightened then, but Tituba calmly took her in hand and led her back into the hall and up the stairs. "I will be down in a moment,
" she said. "But you should take your leave soon."
I waited by the fire in the silent room. In a very short while, Tituba crept back down the stairway, cautioning me with a finger to her mouth to speak in whispers.
"What ails her?" I asked.
She took up her darning. "The fever."
But I sensed it was more, sensed that Tituba was keeping things from me. That in all little Betty's delirium, she had spoken the truth. That, indeed, what was going on in this house was not God's work.
But if not God's work in a parsonage, then whose?
I shuddered. "Will she tell the others I was here?" I asked Tituba.
" 'Twas the fever speaking," she assured me. "By tomorrow she will remember nothing of what she said. Or about your being here. She dips in and out of these spells."
"Spells?"
"She is a delicate child. What the others take in sport, she takes seriously."
I was starting to understand. "You mean your little sorceries?"
"Yes. They trouble her. 'Tis only an innocent game, but the guilt weighs heavily on her mind. She is filled with Puritan righteousness."
"Then why do you do it?"
"Because they ask it of me," she said simply. "Oh, child, go, go. And keep an innocent heart. No one will believe anything Betty says. They are all sensible of her sickly condition. Tomorrow all will be well and forgotten."
I went. But not without misgiving. Betty's tongue had discomforted me. There had been some appeal in her cries, some warning in her ravings that I could not discount or put down to fever. By the time I reached home that day I was convinced that little Betty Parris had been right. There were mysteries in the Parris household that went beyond the cauldron's bubbling contents.
And given the prospect of the dreary winter ahead, the drudgery of routine—even in our house, where my mother and father were more tolerant of innocent laughter, occasional song, and book reading, as well as entertaining of friends—I knew that I would be drawn back to the Parris household to find out what those mysteries were.
When I would return, I did not know. But I would go back. For there was still the possibility that Tituba would give me more word about William.
