Susannah Morrow (18 page)

Instead, I saw again the vision of Susannah, of my mother’s torment, and I began to shake. Tears moved into my throat and
settled there, and soon they formed into a lump I could not swallow. I put my head in my hands and prayed to God for a way
out of this, a way to save myself from the Devil, a way to cast him from my family.

What came to me then were Mary’s words.
We ask Tituba.

I could not go to the parsonage that day nor the next. The snow piled over the pathway and inched up the foundation of the
house. The winter world was barren, set in black and white, but I had always found it less frightening than summer, with its
leaves filling out the woods in thick lushness, creating darkness and shadows, the mugginess that gave the air solidity and
presence. In the summer, it was easy to believe in demons—they, too, liked the warmer air.

Winter was not like that. True, the darkness came early and stayed long, and the nights were bleaker. But there was no temptation
to open the windows to let in the cooling vapors—or the night humors that came with them—it was too cold for that. Already
chilblains had started to develop on my toes and fingers. I could bear the cold if it meant that there would be snow to take
away the shadows and open the world.

But it did not feel so open in the close press of the house, and with all the snow, there was no place to escape. I had offered
to help my father in the barn, and he said ’twas no job for a well-bred girl and that Susannah needed my help in the house.
So I did as he wished, and with each chore she assigned me, I grew to hate my aunt more; with each moment in her company,
I grew more afraid. By the time a week had passed, I found myself longing for the snow to stop. In every shadow, I saw again
the vision of her laughing. At every window, I imagined the press of my mother’s face, her desperate eyes.

The morning I woke up to find the sky clear and blue, and the white glittering on the ground like starlight, I could barely
contain my relief. I did not know if Mary or the others would be at the parsonage—Mary and Mercy would have to walk nearly
two miles in the snow to get there—but I did not care. Abigail would be there to take me to Tituba. I prayed the parson would
not be home. Surely, on the first clear day after a snow, he would have some good works to see to?

It was no easy matter for me to get out. The snow was piled against the door, tramped down only in a thin path from the house
to the barn so that Father could work in the bitter cold and I could milk Buttercup. That morning, my father decided ’twould
be best to clear it away completely and spent two hours widening the pathway. It was impossible to get away while he was at
the door, and the morning was too busy for me to attempt it anyway, because Susannah had decided to clean the house while
she could get in and out.

It wasn’t until after dinner, when we were clearing away the trenchers, and I was growing desperate trying to find a way to
escape, that there was a knock on the door. It was Goody Penney, bearing Faith, come for a visit—the delight on my aunt’s
face when she looked at my little sister made me heartsick. So I lied. Father was in the barn; I told Susannah that he’d asked
me to take something into the village for him, and she was too distracted by Goody Penney and the baby to question it. I had
my cloak on and was out the door before she had time to remember to ask me anything, and I ran the first half mile in the
stinging cold, slipping and sliding over the icy road, because I was afraid she would run after me.

It was far colder than I’d thought. The air seared my lungs, and my breath came in fast, frosty clouds. My cloak was not thick
enough to protect me, and my boots too thin, and I was shivering and so cold I could not feel my fingers or my toes by the
time I reached the village and the parsonage. I knocked on the door hard. There was no sound, no movement, and I crumpled
in tears on the doorstep when I thought that perhaps no one was home. But then I heard footsteps, and the door creaked open
to reveal the dark face of a man—John Indian, Tituba’s husband, and another slave to the Parrises. When he saw me, he smiled,
big and broad, flashing white teeth, and said in his heavy Island accent, “Ah, you girls, you watch each other? Be that how
you know?”

I stared at him in confusion, and he smiled again and stepped back to let me in.

“They all be here too,” he explained. “The first day after a snow, and
bam!
you cannot wait to try out the demon spells.”

I looked beyond his big form and saw the others in the hall—Mary and Mercy Lewis, Mary Warren, Betty, Abigail, and little
Betsey. And there was someone else there too, a thin blond girl who was too tall for her age. Annie Putnam.

I ignored John Indian and went inside, taking off my cloak as I went. The room was warm because of all the bodies, and the
fire was built up high so that flames were shooting up the chimney. The crane, with its hanging pots, had been swung out onto
the hearth. In front of it stood Tituba, rubbing her hands over her arms as if she were cold, while the little Parris boy
played with a jar of buttons beside her.

Mary looked up as I came inside and gave me a smile that warmed me. “Come over, Charity,” she said, motioning to me, and then
she gave me a knowing look, and glanced toward Tituba as if to tell me we were together in this. ’Twas a relief to know I
was not in this alone, that I was not Susannah’s only enemy.

Annie Putnam was sitting beside Mary. She looked slyly up at me. With her pale blond hair, she had always been a pretty child,
but there was a delicacy about her now that was faintly unhealthy. Her skin was too pale; there were dark circles beneath
her eyes.

“Mercy brought Annie,” Mary told me. “She’s threatened to tell her father if we didn’t. Isn’t that right, you little angel?”
She smiled thinly at Annie and pinched her arm so the girl jumped and squealed.

“She’s been having bad dreams,” Mercy explained. “She thinks she can see the dead.”

Mary snorted. “It’s her mama who believes that.”

“Mama worries about my aunt and her three babies,” Annie said to me with the greatest solemnity. “They torment her at night.”

The whole village knew the story. Annie’s aunt had died soon after moving to Salem Village, with each of her three children
dying quickly after. My mother used to say that the elder Ann Putnam had never truly recovered from those deaths, and that
they tormented her to illness, even though she had six children of her own to help ease her grief.

Mercy went on explaining. “She wants to talk to the dead.”

Little Betsey Parris started at this, and her big blue eyes grew wide and frightened. “Talk to the dead? But ’tis a sin! We
aren’t going to talk to the dead, are we?”

“We don’t know how, you silly goose,” Abigail said. “We need Tituba for that. You’ve said she can do it, haven’t you, John
Indian?”

I had not seen John slinking into the hall, but suddenly there he was, standing beside me, his big bulk smelling of hay and
livestock and sweat. “Aye, you little sly one, she can do it.”

“You shut your mouth, Mr. John,” Tituba called from the fire. “I told these children there won’t be no talking to the Devil
today.”

“But ’tis why I’ve come!” Annie protested.

“You don’t mean it, do you, Titibee?” Betsey asked. She was near tears, she was so frightened. “You can’t really talk to the
dead?”

Tituba turned from the fire and smiled reassuringly. “Don’t you worry, little one. You got nothing to fear.”

I noticed that she did not deny it, and I shivered at the thought, but then I caught Mary’s gaze and saw the smile on her
face. I knew what she was thinking: If Tituba could talk to the dead, she could surely curse the living. I felt suddenly light-headed.

“Please, shall we continue?” Betty asked. She was at the end of the table, kneeling on the bench so she could see better into
the bowl of water set there. “I’ve bought an hour, but then I shall have to be getting back.”

Abigail nodded. “Ask the question first.”

John Indian laughed and walked away, shaking his head. Tituba said, “You go on, laughing man, there be plenty enough for you
to do.” He eased by her on his way out the door, setting his big hand against her hip for a moment until she swatted him away.

He made me nervous: He was too big, too loud. Tituba worried me, because I saw the powers in her dark eyes, but John Indian
was just a fool, and there was no telling what he would do or say. But I forgot him as Betty laughed and leaned closer to
the bowl. She whispered, “What shall my husband be?” so close to the water that it shivered and rippled with her breath. Then
she took the little bowl Abigail handed her and tipped it into the water. What was inside shimmered in the candlelight, wiggled,
and slipped out. Egg white.

It was so quiet in the room ’twas as if no one even breathed. They watched the bowl of water, and the egg white inside as
it shifted and twisted into shapes.

“Why, is that a fish?” Abigail called out. “I do think it’s a fish, Betty. Look at the way it moves!”

“It is a fish,” Mercy said.

“A fish.” Betty’s round face broke into a smile. “A fisherman! He’s to be a fisherman!”

Mary looked impressed. “Quite a living for a man.”

“Perhaps I’m to move to Salem Town, then.” Betty sighed. “I shan’t be a servant my whole life. I had visions of serving my
uncle clear to the day I died!”

They all laughed, but I shivered. I saw the way little Betsey looked too, worried and afraid. Annie Putnam leaned forward
with the rest of them. “It’s my turn now. It’s my turn.”

“Your turn? Why, today’s the first time you’ve deigned to come around. You shall have to wait,” Mercy said.

Mary Warren sighed. “Oh, let her go.”

“Not yet.” Mary shook her head. “You ask, Charity. Ask it a question.”

“I haven’t one to ask.”

“Surely you do,” Mary urged. “Why not ask it.…Oh, I don’t know. Ask about your future, or—no, wait—ask about your aunt.”

“Her aunt?” Betty said. “Who cares about her aunt?”

Mary shrugged. “She’s tormenting Charity. I’m just wondering what her future is to be, how long she’ll be staying.”

“It’s not Charity she’s tormenting.” Betty laughed. “You’re just angry because she caught you wearing her bodice at the Proctors’.”

Mary’s face tightened. “Aye, I’m angry. But not for that. You should have seen the way Robert looked at her.”

“He’s too old for you anyway,” Mary Warren said.

Mary shot her a terrible glance. “She humiliated me in front of him. I won’t forgive her that.”

“’Tis no good, wishing her ill that way,” Mary Warren offered.

“Quiet. I’ve no patience with your mealy mouth,” Mary said. She looked at me. “Go on, Charity. Find out her future. Ask the
‘crystal ball.’”

“You be careful.” Tituba’s voice was low, but it pulsed in the room like a heartbeat, lingering long after she’d spoken. “The
spirits, they be tricksters. They be looking for those who ask questions when they mean ill.”

I hesitated, but Mary said, “Go
on,
Charity,” and so I went to the table. Abigail emptied the bowl of water and brought another, and Betty cracked an egg and
separated out the white. Then she handed the bowl of egg white to me, and there was a wicked gleam in her eyes, as if she
were daring me to go on.

I took a deep breath and looked into that bowl of water. I saw nothing, only water and the grain of wood through it. In that
moment, it seemed so innocent, like playing. I leaned close to the water and asked, “What will become of my aunt Susannah?”
Slowly I poured the egg white in.

I held my breath. The candlelight glistened on the water; the egg white shone like gold as it twirled and shifted, moving
apart here, coming together there. I could see nothing in its shape at first, and then it seemed to congeal; it seemed to
grow defined, with hard edges and straight lines. Beside me, I heard Betty gasp in shock.

“A coffin!” she said. “’Tis a coffin!”

“’Tis not,” I said; yet I saw the form and knew it too well. I knew Betty was right. It was a coffin. It was unmistakable.

Quickly I plunged my hand into the water. I did it with such force that egg white and water splashed out, pooling on the table,
and then I twisted my hand to make sure the rest was dislodged, ruined. On the bench, Betsey began to shake, and when Abigail
slapped her arm, the little girl began to cry in earnest. She slipped from the bench and ran to Tituba, who enveloped her
in her skirts. After that, there was no sound but that of Betsey crying, while the rest of us stood there looking at each
other in shock and fear.

“’Tis only a game,” Betty said, but her voice was trembling. “Surely it means nothing.”

“It didn’t even get Mary’s fortune right last time,” Mercy said. “Robert Proctor
did
notice her, and it said he would not.”

“That was the sieve, you fool,” Mary said. “’Twas a different trick altogether.”

“Still, it was just a trick,” Betty said.

Mary Warren looked tearful. She hugged herself hard. “Are you sure ’twas a coffin?”

Betty nodded. “I saw it. Charity did too. Didn’t you, Charity?”

“Aye,” I whispered. “’Twas a coffin.”

“Maybe it wasn’t,” Annie Putnam said. “Ask again.”

But I shook my head. “I won’t ask again. ’Tis too much power to give him.”

Mary went still. The others looked at me in confusion.

“Give who?” Mercy asked.

“Satan.” I could but whisper the name, but in the wickedness of that room, it seemed a loud sound. Loud enough that Tituba
looked up from Betsey and stared at me.

“There is no Devil here, child,” she said, “just the spirits of the air and water. They give you what you want, that’s all.
’Tis not your black man.”

But I knew she was wrong. I knew what Satan felt like, and he was here, filling up this place. I saw him in the eyes of my
friends, in the flickering and profane light of the single candle. Betsey Parris stopped weeping, and my friends were silent
too, until the parsonage seemed filled with the awful, roaring sound of the air and the distant murmur of a screech owl calling
in the middle of the day. We looked at each other, and the fear was palpable in that room, along with the evil. I know they
all felt it.