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.