“I am no commoner to be taken in by a forgery; I happen to know that Mather has set sail for England, so how long has this note been circulating?”

“Circulating? No time at all.”

“How long in your possession?”

“I saw him off at the pier in Boston, and I came there by way of Wells, Maine, sir, Casco Bay area.”

“Wells?”

“Maine, Wells is in Maine, sir.”

“And you saw Mather off yesterday?”

“I did, indeed,” he lied only slightly, having missed Increase Mather by a day.

Parris fell silent. “Strange that I should finally get the man’s ear on the eve of his leaving the colonies.”

“He may be a minister but he’s a politician, too, sir—and has wisely placed his son in charge at the North Church.”

“Cotton Mather? Is that supposed to be humorous, Mr. Ahhh . . .”

“Wakely, sir, late of Wells.”

“The Senior Mather, he will be back, of course?”

“Yes, to be sure.”

There was another daunting silence between them. Finally, Jeremiah cleared his parched throat and said, “Mr. Parris, I am aware of your worldliness, sir.”

“You are?”

“That you were a merchant in the West Indies—”

“Yes, Barbados, but what has that to do with—”

“—and a seaman before that. All before becoming an ordained minister at Harvard College.”

“What is your point, man?

“Why that I am…will be honored to work under your tutelage, sir.” Jeremy worked hard to affect the attitude of a novice scholar.

“Indeed…lucky for both of us,” Parris countered.

“Reverend Mather provided me with a modest outline, sir, of your history.”

“He did?”

“Filled me in, yes. It’s one reason that Mr. Mather has linked us, you and I as minister and mentor.”

“Mentor?”

“Protégé, apprentice, sir.”

Parris’ features took on a menacing look. He had assumed the letter from Mather a confirmation of his land holdings in Salem Village. He now placed a pair of rickety old magnifying glasses on his nose so as to truly look at the note—as if searching for what he’d lost in translation.

Jeremy watched his lips move as he read:

Dear Rev. S. Parris 14th March 1692

Honored Minister at Salem Village Parish –

I present to your care one Jeremiah Wakely prepared to serve as your apprentice and helpmate for a period of six months to a year under your tutelage as favor to the governing body of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, and myself, minister, the North Church of Boston.

Mr. Wakley has proven uncommonly sincere, studious, and industrious for one so young. All virtues that will serve well both Salem Village and you, sir. If your independence from the First Church of Salem, Mr. Higginson’s parish, is ever to become a reality, you will require more hands. For Mr. Wakely’s part, he will be working toward his own enlightenment and eventual ordination. Wakely may one day carry the yoke well.

As result, Mr. Parris, you shall both prosper. May your parish continue in peace and tranquility, and may all misunderstandings among your parishoners be resolved.

Your Obedient Servant,

Rev. Increase Mather

Parris heaved the heaviest sigh Jeremy had ever seen before muttering, “Where the deuce’ll you sleep? We 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: Ti’shuba. The strange, dark woman in shadow repeatedly asked, “What? What I do now? What?”

“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. Ahhh . . . Wakely, or are you blind and deaf?”

“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 ahhh . . . white men in who wear the cloth in particular.”

“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.

Does Tituba hold the key? She appeared to both fear and hate her master. Not the best of relations.

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.

How that venom came to be, wondered Jeremy.

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.” All the more reason to speak to her.

“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 who comes in darkness?”

“Black Man?”

“De one we keep hearin’ ‘bout in Massa’s sermons.”

“Ah, yes, I mean no! I mean, I see now…understand your confusion, that is.”

“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.”

She’s certainly learned the dark side of the Puritan and Christian catechism. “Trapped for all time,” he said, nodding. “I know the belief.”

“For all eternity. So says Massa.”

“Your Master speaks of Satan when he says the Black Man with the Black Book, I know, but I have no book, and I am not black.”

“Yes, de Devil comes lookin’ like a white minister in black cloak.”

Satan may take a pleasing form. Jeremy realized he was dressed entirely in black, from head to toe. “You can be sure, Tituba, I am not Satan or his emissary.”

“Fool!” shouted Parris, standing now at the door, having eavesdropped on them. “I told you not to pay any heed to the heathen. She can’t be redeemed. I’ve done everything. She’s incorrigible. Learns nothing. Nods and nods and says yes a thousand times but understands nothing of Christ or his mercy.”

“I know Christ,” countered Tituba, spitting. “He don’t help me! He take my baby boy!”

Parris ignored this as if not hearing, or as if hearing it too often. “Wakely, I had hoped you’d demonstrate more sense than to get sucked into a conversation about Heaven and Hell with a slave wench.”

“I am not witch!” Tituba came at him. “I am voodoo woman!”

Parris advanced like a jackal and slapped her hard across the face, shouting, “Wench, I said! Not witch!”

Jeremy reacted instinctively, stilling Parris’ hand from inflicting a second blow. He wanted to strike the man and send him to his knees, but such an act would destroy any chance of success here. Instead, he shouted, “It was entirely my fault, Mr. Parris! I should’ve heeded you.”

Parris’ dark eyes bore into Jeremy’s steely gray pools, searching for any sign of deception. With his jaw quivering, and his eyes traveling now to Tituba, he said, “I quite understand, Mr. Wakefield.” There seemed more unsaid between these two than spoken here tonight. Jeremy wanted to hear the minister apologize to the black woman, but he knew that was unlikely.

Instead, Parris spoke now as if nothing had happened. “Now go to sleep, woman, and you, Mr. Wakefield.”

“Wakely, Mr. Parris.”

“Wakely then…come away. Let us all find sleep, shall we, Mr. Wakely.”