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:
“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.
“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
“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.
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.
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.”
“Dead baby . . . dead an’-an’ buried.”
“I . . . I’m terribly sorry. I can imagine no worse torture on earth than to lose a child.”
“There can be worse.”
“Really?” Jeremiah squinted at her. “Such as?”
Her eyes met his squint. “Not never holding your child, ever.”
“I . . . I don’t understand.”
“N-Nor seeing it.”
“You never saw the child?”
“Not never no.”
Jeremy tried to decipher this; he had a sense that her cryptic words were fraught with meaning. He was about to inquire when Tituba gasped, and her snake eyes fixed him. “Tell me, are you . . . are you de
“Black Man?”
“De one we keep hearin’ ‘bout in Massa’s sermons.”
“
“De one who come invisible outta de forest.”
“No, no, Tituba, I am quite human and no spirit or demon or familiar of Satan.”
“De one who makes you sin, and den makes you put your mark in de book—his black book.”
“No, I assure you—”
“A-And once your mark is there, he has your soul, ’less you confess it to God.”
“For all eternity. So says Massa.”