Witchmark+(my+book)

A novel by  Naira Demirchian Chapter 1 1691, a year before the trials I loudly clanked my fork against my supper dish of beef roast, baked potato, and biscuits. I chewed noisily, with my mouth open, a habit my mother spent years of my childhood spanking out of me. For the past half hour of supper, I had been trying to receive the attention of both my parents. Father was busying himself with the paper and business notes. My mother scolded the maids and chastised my seven younger siblings, all the while holding her five months pregnant stomach, cursing herself for even thinking of having another child. I felt alone, and so terribly, horribly uninterested in my ever so boring life. I sipped my coffee blatantly. “Ugh,” I groaned. Coffee was always so bitter and made me choke incessantly. My mother, however, told me a thousand times before that as a growing girl of fifteen, I must start drinking the beverage of adults. Sometimes I wished I were still a child. As a child, I could run around, free to explore the great world around me. I would still be young enough to hold my mother’s attention, even if she was only going to scold me. I finished my supper and yelled an “excuse me” to no one in particular, not that anyone was listening. I stepped around my running and chasing brothers and sisters and went to the front entrance and called out to my personal maid and chaperone, Emily. Emily stepped quickly up to me and wrapped my thin frame in a shawl. She opened the door and let me step out before her. I started leading her towards the west end of town. I never really enjoyed having to go everywhere with Emily on my heels. Emily Thompson was a tall, thin, reedy woman with coal black eyes. She always kept her salt and pepper colored hair in a tight bun at the top of her head, and her pointed chin stiff and rigid. She always scared everyone away from me, leaving me lonely and not paid attention to even //out// of my house. We finally reached the west end of Salem. I could already tell, not even by looking at her, that Emily’s lip was curled in disgust and her coal eyes were burning with prejudice. The west end of Salem was the poorer side of town, the side where rich men escaped their wives and ladies of the night crowded the tavern. It was also the noisiest and more eventful side of town. Emily and I walked into the tavern and took a seat in a booth near the bar. A mousy girl with stringy brown hair brought us our usual menu of a platter of roasted peanuts, a mug of coffee for Emily and a glass of cool lemonade with a squirt of whiskey for me. Emily did not know about the drop of whiskey in my lemonade, but I always tipped the girl a little extra to keep my secret. The tavern was busy as usual, with men from the east end drinking pints of ale and flirting with ladies of night. The mousy girl ran around the bar, serving and cleaning, and the tavern owner joked with the regulars while filling up glass after glass of alcohol. There were three sheriffs standing guard at the door, making sure the regular drunks at the bar did not cause ruckus. Among the officers was John Willard. John was several years elder than I, him being nineteen years of age. Already at nineteen, he was a constable and his job mainly consisted of escorting criminals to the jailhouse and to court. I watched as his jaw stuck out with determination and he straightened his shoulders, thrusting them back so that his chest puffed out with authority. //He must be trying to look as responsible and efficient at his job as the other two sheriffs//, I thought. I blushed. Then I groaned. Why do I always blush when I catch myself thinking about him? I looked again as John ruffled his bronze hair; it was the color of a biscuit that was slightly burned around the edges. His round, careful, cinnamon colored eyes searched cautiously around the bar. When his russet eyes landed on my light hazel ones, he nodded at me, a slight smile playing on his lips. I beamed back. When he looked away, I blushed. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Mercy Lewis, and my cousins Margaret and Mary Walcott. Mercy was looking around the bar with her cobalt blue eyes, lost in a daze, twirling her black as midnight hair. Margaret and Mary were chatting away, their identical sea green irises flashing animatedly. Margaret was the elder twin by five measly minutes, but she always treated herself as the more responsible and mature sister. You could see that in her style: her burgundy hair was twisted into a firm bun at the base of her neck, and her dress was simple, but womanly and elegant. Mary was the younger and more carefree sister and you could see it in her fashion sense: her wine colored hair was hanging loose in a braid down her back and her dress was brightly colored and had a flowery print. I excused myself from Emily’s presence, although she paid no attention to me as she spoke to Judge Samuel Sewall, a magistrate who sometimes volunteered service to the sheriffs. “Good evening, cousins.” I grinned at Margaret and Mary. “How do you do, Mercy?” “Fine, thank you. Although, I do feel a tad bit blasé. There is simply nothing to do at this tavern anymore!” Mercy squealed, waving her arms around. Margaret snorted. “Mercy dear, I believe you mean to say there is nothing to do in this dull town.” Mary nodded her head vigorously in agreement. I smiled. This was the only subject ever discussed among us younglings nowadays. I sat next to Mercy and started gossiping about the latest news in town “Did you hear? Bridgette Stone was caught kissing Lawrence Nettle at the lake! Her father beat Lawry to a pulp…” “Didn’t you know? Edward Coarsely called off his engagement to Samantha Baxter when he found out she wasn’t a virgin…” “Oh, you must’ve known! Charlotte Mulligan was caught in bed with a sea-dwelling merchant and by her own husband, too…” I sat and babbled and prattled with the girls for an hour or so before excusing myself to the outhouse. Before I went to the back and exited the now crowded bar, I turned back to find Emily. She was still sitting at our table, chatting with two other servants, one I recognized as Mercy’s maid. //Good,// I whispered to myself, //I really do hate it when she follows me to the outhouse.// I made my way to loo, finished my business, and started to head back to the tavern. But I stopped midway. The bar really was overly clustered, and the air out here was clean and smooth as silk as it blew across my face. The stars were scintillating and shimmering in the pitch black sky. The high crescent moon hung lazily between the stars, looking dangerous and yet heartwarming. I smirked in content, feeling my two tiny dimples hollow out in my cheeks. “Hallo?” I turned and saw a drunken man limp towards me. I did not recognize him as a villager in Salem, so he must be a traveler looking to relax, get drunk, and bed a lady before heading out to another town. I felt my skin pimple in goose bumps, and a feeling of tiny needles poking my head came on, as if it was warning me, telling my brain to start working again. I didn’t know what to do, so I simply stayed where I was, seeing what would happen. The man hobbled up to me. Up close, I could tell he was perhaps close to his thirtieth year. He had light stubble peppered across the bottom half of his face. The man’s flaxen hair was stringy and oily and hung stickily down to his chin, looking as if it hadn’t been washed in days. His teeth were chipped and the majority was yellow. I could smell ale and cigar smoke strongly wafting off his dirty work clothes. All in all, he looked like a drunk and dangerous bastard. But what really scared me was the look in his orange hazel eyes. It seemed as if the orange was burning up, causing a look of flaming need and want in his expression. I knew it was too late, he was much too close now, but I turned and tried to run back to the tavern full of people and sheriffs. The man grabbed my arm, his filthy fingernails digging into an exposed part of my shoulder. “Where you going, pretty lady? Don’t you want to keep a lonely traveler some company tonight?” “I’m not a woman of that kind! Please, sir! Let me be!” “Oh, I’m sure you’ll do! You’ll be just fine! I’ll show you the ropes of how this works.” “Please let me go! Help! HELP!” The man pulled me into his arms. Although he was very drunk, I could tell by his strong grip that he spent years doing hard labor in the outdoors. He covered my screaming mouth with his reeking and dirt-caked hand, trying to push me onto the ground. He managed to lay me on back, and began to unclothe his bottom half. I started crying and whimpering, and I felt scared, hurt, and filthy like a lady of the night. Suddenly, I heard a gruff voice. “Who’s there?” I recognized the strong shout as the voice of John Willard. I yelped and struggled under the drunken man’s arms. Without warning, I felt the man being thrown off of me. I quickly sat up and pushed myself away, grabbing handfuls of grass to propel myself. I saw John wrestle the man down, and beat his head with an iron fist. He shook and slapped the man until the man was silent except for a small whimpering. “Do not touch her again! You hear?” John roared in the drunk’s face. I heard a quiet, “Alright,” as the man’s answer. John looked over my shoulder at the bar. “Sewall! Corwin! Let’s lock him up for the night!” Judge Sewall and High Sheriff George Corwin ran to John and the man. They roughly picked the drunk up and started dragging him towards the Sheriff’s wagon. “You’re off for the rest of the night, Willard! Escort the missus home!” Sheriff Corwin bellowed over his shoulder. They dumped the drunken man into the wagon and both the Sheriff and the Judge hopped onto the wagon seat. Sheriff Corwin took the reins, and they were off, riding to the Salem Jailhouse. John turned to me. “I’d be much obliged to escort you home, Miss Ann.” John held out his hardy hand. I took it and he lifted me up off the ground in one swift motion. “Thank you, sir, but I may be escorted home by my maid, Emily Thompson.” I desperately wished for a mirror. My copper hair must be wild and snarled with twigs and leaves, my dress torn and stained from the man’s dirt-caked body and the grass. “I noticed Miss Emily was deep in conversation with the maids of the Walcott’s and the Lewis’. I’d be happy to take you home and then inform Miss Emily that you are with your parents, safe and sound.” “I-” “Pardon me for interrupting, mam, but would it not be rude to bother Miss Emily while she is chatting and enjoying herself?” I was sure Emily would rather be anywhere else than at the west end tavern, but since John insisted I walk with him, and I had never been with a man alone without Emily to chaperone, I couldn’t resist the temptation. “Alright, sir. I’d be glad to be escorted by you.” “Please, Miss Ann. Call me John.” “And you may call me simply Ann.” We smiled at each other and started to walk east towards my family’s manor. Throughout the walk, John and I spoke of many things. I complained about school and studies and chores. He told me he wished he could go back to school instead of having to work every day, wrestling drunks and arresting crooks. I thanked him for saving me. “Oh, I wouldn’t call it saving. Saving is for heroes. I just did my job, is all.” He was blushing! I grinned. “Well then, I can proudly say you are my hero, because I believe you really did save me.” He turned and started looking at me strangely. Like he was deciphering my very face, like he could see through my skin, could see a blush starting form from deep within me. “What is it, John?” “Nothing, Ann. You’re just very pretty, is all.” I really did blush now. “I’m not that pretty. I’m very plain and average.” “Pardon me, Ann, but you are definitely not average.” I looked up at his handsomely chiseled face and beamed proudly, allowing my dimples to dent deeply in my blushing cheeks. John lifted his hand and used his thumb to caress one of my dimples. “So pretty…” I stopped grinning like a fool and looked deep into his cinnamon irises. They were soft and clear, and it was so easy to fall into them. I felt as if I really could smell cinnamon bread baking in the distance. I dimpled again as I thought of that. John made think of happy, safe things like a cozy home with a small fire burning in the parlor and cinnamon bread baking in the small kitchen. John was also looking deep into my green-brown eyes, and absently stroking my cheeks with one hand while running his fingers through my unruly brunette locks with his other hand. I don’t know when we started kissing, but I knew I never wanted to leave this warm, cinnamon feeling ever in my life.
 * Witchmark **

**Chapter 2 **

**A year later, 1692 **

John wriggled beside me in my small bed.

“//No//, stay a little longer.” I whispered.

“No, love. Miss Emily will be coming soon. And we don’t want to have an episode like we did last month.” As he stroked my face, sending tingles and shivers down my back, I remembered how scared he and I had both been last month. I had forgotten it was Sunday and I had to wake and dress earlier than usual for church, so John was still in bed with me when Emily burst into my room. Luckily, John was quick-thinking, and he leapt off the mattress and hid under the bed before Emily could see anything.

“But it’s Wednesday today! She won’t come for another thirty minutes!” I whisper-yelled at him, wishing we could just stay in bed together all day. But John was already dressing into his trousers and constable uniform, ruffling his auburn hair so it would look at least a little neat before he went to the Sheriff’s office.

“Sorry, love, but I’ve got to run anyways. There’s an early morning court trial today.”

“Anyone in town?”

“No, some bloke from three towns over who decided to steal bread and roast from the Parris’ house.”

“The Parris’? Oh, I’m going to visit Betty Parris today! She must be furious someone tried to steal from //her//.” I thought up an image of Betty in my head. A little twit of twelve, and not very pretty at all, but her presence demands your attention. God help the soul who dares ignore that holy terror. I shivered as I thought of the little horror. No one really liked her, but she demanded that she not be ignored, and when Betty tells you that you are her friend, then by God you better be her friend, or you'll regret it for the rest of your life and death.

“Alright, love, I best be going.” John leaned down over me and placed his chapped lips on my soft, pink ones. It was meant to be a small goodbye peck, but I held on and gave him a long, lustrous kiss which was bound to keep him thinking of me all day. When he pulled away, I could feel him shiver beside me, but I pushed him away, smiling big enough so my dimples appeared. I knew he loved my dimples the best on me. He winked at me, then turned and carefully slipped out my window, barely making a sound. I sighed deeply, wishing I could rewind time back to last night. And the night before and the night before, all the way back to the first night John starting visiting me in my bedroom. //<span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">Crinkle, snap, crunch //<span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;"> said the twigs beneath my feet as Emily escorted me to the Parris’ manor house. I grumbled as I thought of the mood Betty was probably in because of the thief. I hoped to God she would not spend hours and hours and //hours// talking and talking and //talking// about how people like //us// don’t need to deal with //ingrates// like thieves and crooks. Ugh, sometimes the little brat could be such a bore. And the way she talked! Always emphasizing words unnecessarily. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">I tried to focus on the beautiful scenery around me. Sometimes Salem could look so breathtaking. I admired the many grassy fields dotted with towering pine trees in the distance. The sound of laborers working, sheep beating, church bells ringing, cows mooing, children playing, pigs oinking. The smells were even more interesting: the differentiating scents of sweat and wastes compared to the essences of pies baking, meats roasting, and coffee brewing. And then, over at the edge of the pasture, I spotted Betty Parris’ estate. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">At the front door, Emily turned me around to face her. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I’m sorry, miss, but I must leave you. Your mother gave me errands to run, things to buy for the baby and what not. I’ll come back in an hour or so to collect you.” Emily verbalized crisply, then turned sharply on her heel and briskly stalked away. //Good riddance//, I thought, right before Betty’s house slave, Tituba, opened the door and let me in. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh, //Ann//! Good //morrow//!” Betty screeched in her high-pitched voice. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Good morrow, Betty. And good morrow to you all.” I greeted my cousins, Margaret and Mary, Mercy, Elizabeth Hubbard and Betty’s cousin Abigail Williams. I admired everyone here, even quiet Elizabeth, with her dark hair and eyes and the constant presence of a rosary around her thin, pale neck. I admired everyone, save for Betty and her cousin Abigail. They were quite the team, those two. Betty was the brain, the mastermind, and even though she was an underdeveloped twelve year old, Betty was the prettier of the two. Abigail was terribly ugly: she had straw-thin hair the color of a hedgehog, blank, lifeless, grey eyes that only shine with stupidity. Abigail was the muscle in the group, the dummy who did whatever Betty asked her to do, no questions asked. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">I started to take out my embroidery from the little wicker basket I was holding, when Betty stopped me. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“No, Ann. We aren’t //sewing// today.” She grinned a wicked grin, one that made her look mad, one that made me question my entire friendship with this little Devil. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Then, what are we doing?” I asked, trying to hide the little quiver in my voice. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I have a //surprise// for all of you! Quick, //gather// round!” Everyone swiftly moved towards Betty and Abigail and formed a small circle around them. “My slave, Tituba, has been telling me these stories, ones I think will make you all very //scared// and //frightened// and //spooked.//” <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">As if on cue, Tituba glided into the room. Very few people in Salem had black slaves, and the ones owned by my family were field workers whom I never really saw, so it was always a shock to see how dark Tituba was. Her skin was as black as the bitterest coffee, her hair was like black velvet, and her eyes were like dark cocoa. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes, mam?” Tituba asked in her accented English. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Tell us that //story// you told me the other night, the one about the fortune telling //witch//.” Betty easily commanded, then sat back to listen. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">Tituba delved into a story of black magic and dark forces, fortunes and curses, evil-doers and the Devil himself. Listening to the tale was like listening to an orchestra playing a twisted melody. The beginning was slow, and chilling, sending shakes down my spine. The middle was strong, fast and staccato beats that resonated in my ears and rattled my brain. And the climax was a big finish of clashing noises and pounding bangs. To say the least, I could hardly breathe at the end of that tale of evil. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Wasn’t that //marvelous//?” squeaked Betty. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh, yes.” Margaret and Mary agreed. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Quite.” Elizabeth quietly replied. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“It was fascinating!” Mercy jumped in. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">Abigail gave her braying donkey laugh and roughly patted her younger cousin on the back. I could tell Betty didn’t enjoy being whacked on the back, but she remained silent. Then, when everyone had expressed their enthusiasm, Betty again took the stage. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I have yet another //brilliant// idea to propose!” Betty bragged. “What if we //performed// the same fortune telling //trick// the witch in the story performed?” There were some murmurs of uneasiness, but Betty didn’t listen. “Tituba! Go //fetch// the supplies needed!” Tituba swiftly drifted out of the room and a moment later, coasted back in with a glass cup and a chicken egg. The trick was to crack the white part of the egg into the glass and see what shape it forms. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">Betty roughly grabbed the supplies out of Tituba’s hands and set to work. She had never crack an egg in her life, so it was much more difficult for Betty to make sure the yolk did not spill out into the glass along with the white part, than it would’ve been for Tituba. But Betty was stubborn, and always got what she wanted. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">Five glasses and five eggs later, Betty managed to only spill the white egg into the glass without the yolk. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“And //now//, we wait!” She announced. So we waited. And waited. And waited. After about twenty minutes, Abigail gave a loud, overly exaggerated squeal. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Look!” She screamed in her hoarse voice. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Ah, I //see// it!” Betty exclaimed. Everyone began murmuring, asking what they saw. “Isn’t it //obvious//? It’s in the shape of a //coffin//!” <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">I looked closely at the contents of white egg in the glass. After a moment, I decided that if you looked at it in a certain angle of light and you squinted your eyes to slits, the white egg looked a little pointed and angular, which under close scrutiny, could be dubbed as a coffin shape.

<span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“But what does that mean, Betty?” I asked innocently. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">Betty and Abigail looked at me as if I were the dumbest person they ever met. They stared and stared, until I had begun to feel uncomfortable, and as if my soul was exposed to them. Finally, Betty cleared her throat loudly and said in a confident and scolding tone, “Why, Ann, don’t you see? This means that I have predicted a //death//.” **<span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 14pt;">Chapter 3 ** <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“A death?” I asked. I hadn’t realized my teeth had begun chattering. “//Yes//! It seems I have the same //powers// as the witch in story. Maybe we could //do// something with that…” Betty murmured this last part quietly, but I still heard it. I felt quivers showering down my spine, and my skin felt clammy and hot, my eyes were swimming with images of black smoke and bubbling cauldrons. “Well, since we’re finished with that, I must say that Emily will be coming to get me soon. Therefore, I am saying my farewell now.” I picked up my wicker basket and started to wrap my shawl around my shoulders. I suddenly felt a small but firm grip on my arm. I turned to see Betty staring up at me through slit eyes that threatened to burn a whole in me. “Ann, you’re //leaving// at the best part!” Betty seethed through her teeth, trying to appear calm. I removed her hand from my arm and looked down at her. “Betty, I assure you I do not know what you speak of.” “Well, this little //experiment// has given me a grand idea! What if I said we could //make// this town exciting again?” Betty rubbed her small hands together, her face breaking into a wide grin. “How could we possibly do that?” Mercy asked, jumping up and down, eager for some excitement. “What if we tricked this whole town, pulling wool over their over their eyes, //and// we could get… rid of our enemies.” Abigail went to stand by her young cousin, mischief glinting in her bland eyes. “Get-get rid of them? What do you mean, Betty?” Elizabeth asked meekly, twirling her rosary between her thin, white fingers. “I //mean//, let us pretend to be //cursed// by witches!” Betty spread her arms wide and laughed gleefully, obviously expecting applause or some sort of recognition to her //brilliant// idea. I again felt ill and stuffy, my brow thick with a layer of sweat laid over it. “And why should we do something foolish such as that?” I demanded my voice shaking as I struggled to make myself speak. “Because! It’ll be //exciting//, //fun//, and all those people who bother us will be gotten //rid// of.” “Witches are the Devil’s followers,” Elizabeth whispered under her breath. “Exactly! Our village is so //strict// about religion and it would be so easy to trick them! We just act strangely and when our parents ask who did this to us we make up some story about seeing the //Devil// with someone else’s face. The best part is that it could be someone we //despise// and want to get rid of.” Betty turned hawk-like, dangerous eyes on me. “Ann, there are many, //many// people whom your father is enemies with. Those people have the ability to ruin your father’s business, which in turn will ruin your father’s life and //your// life. Instead, you could say one of them is a witch, a follower of the Devil. When the villagers hear that, they will want him out! Instead of your life being ruined, their life will be ruined. It’s the //perfect// plan, and I’m sure we all have some enemies we would like to get rid of.” Her smile was venomous, so venomous that no one could look at Betty’s face for very long, even Abigail. I asked the question we were all thinking, but no one was brave enough to ask. “Will anyone get very hurt?” Betty turned to me, her face blank of any emotion. She was silent, just staring right into my hazel eyes with her dark ones. After a full three minutes, Betty finally answered me. “Of course //no one// will get hurt, Ann. It’s just a //game//.” //<span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">Just a game //<span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">. So I agreed to play. “Now, first I will appear //sick// and //crazed// to my family, and when a doctor examines me, I will relate the story of seeing the Devil, and //accuse// our first victim!” I flinched at the word //victim//, but I let Betty continue. “Then, one by one, we will all start acting sick and crazed. Soon, everyone will realize we are //‘cursed’// and they will start asking us questions about any other witches we know. And that’s when we start accusing as many //enemies// as possible!” “They’ll never believe us.” Said a quiet voice. We all turned, shocked to see it was shy Elizabeth who had spoken. The venom was back on Betty’s face, and this time poison also dripped from her voice. “What do you mean, //Elizabeth//?” “I just mean that when someone is cursed by the Devil or one of his demons, then there will be a physical deformity on the person. A Witchmark, which is the opening in the skin where the Devil’s soul enters your body and afflicts your brain. Some say the Witchmark could be a mole or birthmark, but most commonly it is a small patch of skin that is darker than the rest of the skin, or looks deformed.” Elizabeth said all this calmly and assuredly. For a moment, I was sure the plan was going to be called off, that I wouldn’t ever have to think about witches and Devils ever again. But how could I forget that when Betty wants something, she will stop at nothing to get it? Betty’s face had the most horrible expression plastered across it, scarier than any witch, I was sure of it. “A //Witchmark//? Well then, if people want a Witchmark, we will //give// them a Witchmark.” I never knew Betty could be so dangerous. She nodded at Abigail, who with a deadly smile on her face, grabbed Elizabeth by her dark tresses, who may be thin and fragile, but was a year older than Abigail and just about her height. Abigail dragged a screaming Elizabeth, showing no mercy as she pulled on her hair, all the way to the fireplace. She grabbed the fire poker, which had the pointed, sharp end resting in the hot fire. Then Abigail forced Elizabeth to her knees and unbuttoned the back of her dress. She opened it up so that Elizabeth’s pale right shoulder was exposed. Then Abigail thrust the sharp, burning poker into Elizabeth’s shoulder and stabbed it deeply. Elizabeth yelled with such vigor and pain was laced with every scream. I never knew quiet, shy Elizabeth could shout so loudly. When Abigail yanked the poker out of her shoulder, Elizabeth slumped forward, whimpering on the ground, tears glistening on her cheeks. We all stared, stunned into silence. “Now look, there is a //burn// mark on her shoulder, which, when healed, will look like a patch of //dark, bumpy// skin. Who’s next?” No one moved, and the room continued in its silence, with only Elizabeth’s whimpering as a sign of life in the room. Betty turned her dark, hawk eyes to Mercy. “Mercy, dear, weren’t you the one so //desperate// for excitement?” Without waiting for a reply, Abigail lunged forward towards Mercy on her long legs. She reached Mercy in seconds and grabbed her roughly by the arm. Mercy struggled and begged to be let go, but Abigail was barbarous. She threw Mercy down to her knees and exposed her right shoulder, such as she had done with Elizabeth. She kept Mercy down while letting the poker rest in the fire for a minute. When she was satisfied that the wick was hot enough, she stabbed Mercy in the shoulder, and in the same spot she had stabbed Elizabeth. Mercy howled in pain and tears sprung out of her eyes and down the sides of her face, never ceasing. Abigail thrust the poker out of her shoulder, and dumped Mercy next to a crouching, cowering Elizabeth. Elizabeth reached over and nestled Mercy in the crook of her stick thin arms, comforting her pain, such as no one had done for her. “Stop! How could you do this?” I turned to look at my cousin Margaret. She was holding a crying Mary and looking scared. She was right to be scared. When Betty nodded, Abigail grabbed the twins Margaret and Mary, and one by one, she brought them down and stabbed them in their right shoulders with the flaming hot poker. Margaret had tried to fight, but Abigail just kicked her until she quieted. Both my cousins cried out and shivered in pain. When it was my turn, I did not let Abigail grab me. I went and sat myself down in front of the fireplace, my shoulder already exposed. I vowed I would not let Betty and Abigail treat me like a weak fool. I waited while Abigail warmed the poker, then stiffened when she raised it up and brought it down. The pain was excruciating to say the least. I felt the burning poker stab into my shoulder, and I could not help but cry out in shock at the enormous amount of pain it caused me. It felt as if my shoulder was being ripped apart by wild wolves, their sharp teeth digging deep into my skin and marking me for life. I could even smell the faint scent of my own burning flesh. I arched my back and wailed incessantly until the poker was roughly pulled out of me and I fell to the ground. I thought I would not move again but I remembered my vow. I heaved myself up off from the ground and limped towards the other girls who were all sitting on the ground and soothing each other. “//My// turn.” Betty glided over to the fireplace, already unbuttoning her blouse. She was small and did not need to kneel, so she exposed her shoulder and stood waiting while the poker warmed in the fireplace. I could not wait to see how this little girl would handle that immense pain. But when Abigail stabbed Betty’s right shoulder, Betty simply quivered and let out one small, almost imperceptible moan. I was disappointed beyond belief, and almost felt ashamed I had wanted Betty to suffer so much. Abigail pulled the poker out of Betty’s shoulder and handed the poker to her. Then Abigail unbuttoned her dress and knelt before Betty. Betty warmed the poker, and then stabbed Abigail in her right shoulder. All Abigail did was laugh. It was as if she did not feel the pain, or perhaps this insane girl was so sadistic that she //enjoyed// having the pain inflicted upon her. We all sat staring at Abigail’s gaping mouth where her braying laugh echoed out, continuing for minutes as the poker burned her shoulder. And I could swear by God, that staring at Abigail’s evil, laughing face, I believed I really was dealing with the Devil’s demons.

**<span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">Chapter 4 ** <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">I sat in front of my mirror only wearing a white bed sheet wrapped around my thin body, my dirty blond hair pulled up into a messy bun on top of my head, my hazel eyes wide as I stared deeply into the mirror. I had my back to the mirror so that I could try and see the spot on my shoulder where the fire poker was stabbed into me. It still hurt to touch and when I had tried to wipe it with a cool cloth, it started burning and stinging again. I only lightly brushed my fingertips over the wound, feeling the bumpy, chapped spot on my shoulder. Soon, it would fade to a dull brown, but right now it was still black and fresh. It was a small whole, just a crooked circle stamped into my white shoulder. It made me wonder how such a small circle could cause me so much pain. Just as I was pulling the sheets more closely around myself, a stirring at my window made me turn to see John climbing in, his long legs stretching from the climb up to the window. “Well, I see you’re ready for tonight,” John whispered, noticing my lack of clothing. I wanted so desperately to just forget about witches and curses and accusations and Witchmarks. I wish I could forget about it all and just let John love me, but I knew I could not. “John, dear, I’m very tired this evening, and I don’t think I could satisfy you. I’m sorry if you want to leave.” I said all this, trying to sound casual and fine but even I could hear the frown in my voice. “Love, you don’t really want me to leave do you?” “No, not really. But I won’t be any fun.” “That’s alright,” John said jovially, “I’ll stay and we could just sleep next to each other. Just sleep.” I felt happiness wash over me, and thought this is what love must be: when two people understand each other, and know what to do to make things right. Without me saying anything, John knew he should stay and just comfort me tonight. We got onto my bed and he wrapped his long, strong arms around me, and we snuggled in for sleep. “Goodnight, John,” I whispered. “Goodnight. I love you, Ann.” I smiled in the dark, feeling warm and safe in John’s arms. I felt another wave of contentment wash over me. “I love you, also, John. More than you know.”

<span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">The next day at breakfast, I was shocked when my father addressed me. I hadn’t had a full-length conversation with either of my parents in such a long time, so I flinched when my father asked, “Ann, you visited Betty Parris yesterday, did you not?” After I recovered from my shock, I turned to my father, scared about the reason behind his strange question. “Yes, I did, father.” “Did Betty seem strange to you? Sickly, maybe?” “No, father. Why do you ask?” I noticed my lip was trembling, and tried to cover it by eating a big spoonful of my breakfast grits. The honey-sweetened grits felt too sugary and slimy as it slid down my suddenly dry throat. “I saw Griggs, is all,” William Griggs was the town doctor, but I did not know what that had to do with me seeing Betty. I waited until father finished sipping his coffee to ask him. “He was on his way to the Parris’ last night; said Samuel’s daughter was falling ill. I was just asking to see if you had noticed anything amiss.” “No… I did not.” I excused myself from the table and rushed to the back garden. I breathed in deep breaths, cleansing my lungs with scents of my mother’s lavenders, roses, lilies, daisies and daffodils. I felt nervous and my skin was warm a felt too thickly covered in sweat and grime. I wiped my forehead and unbuttoned the top button of my dress. I still did not feel well. I first asked Emily to draw me a cold bath, then I ran to my room and stripped off all my layers clothing. I wrapped myself in a thick sheet and tripped over my feet as I sprinted to the washroom. I practically dove into the tub. I let myself sink deep into the tub and the freezing cold water, my breath held in my throat, my vision obscured. I felt goose bumps prick my skin and I shivered. I felt that heaviness on my chest that meant I should go up for a breath, but I stayed under the water, feeling and hearing my heart hammer against my chest. Finally, when I could not let myself stay underwater without drowning myself, I emerged to the surface and leaned my back against the tub so that I was lying down in it. Now that I was not under the frigid water from my shoulders up, I could feel that the room had a chill in there. When the chill touched my “Witchmark” it stung a little, reminding me of the situation at hand. Betty was already acting sick. Soon, she would start acting crazed and quickly following that, the other girls and I would have to act “cursed” as well. Now that I knew my own performance was coming soon, I felt jittery and nervous, and it was even harder to breathe now than it was under the water//. What would I do? Should I even do this anymore? Why should// //I listen to Betty?// As I thought this last bit, I realized I really didn’t have to do this. Betty had scary, violent and barbarous Abigail on her side, but if I caught her alone, //I// would do the scaring. How could twelve year old little Betty stand up to sixteen year old, taller, more threatening me? I decided right then and there that I would confront Betty and demand she stop this stupid charade before it really began.

<span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">I was escorted by Emily to the Parris house the next day. She again abandoned me at the front door and went to buy fruits and meats from the farmer’s market at the South end of the village. Tituba opened the door. “Morning, mam.” She said in her thick African accent. “Morning, Tituba. I heard Miss Betty was ill and I came to check in on her, make sure she wasn’t too sick.” “Yes, mam, I’ll let Miss Betty know you are here.” Tituba turned on her heel and walked out of the room in a very Emily-like fashion. I wondered if Tituba had been taking notes on the maids and servants she had seen, and if she was trying to act like one of them in this strange country that she has only lived in for a few years. I almost felt bad for the slave woman. Tituba entered the room again and informed me that Betty would accept my company. I entered the room to find Betty tucked into her bed, wrapped up in bed sheets and knitted blankets. She looked even smaller than she usually did. Good, maybe it would be easier to stand up to her if I felt bigger. “Betty, I’m here to say that I don’t agree with this charade we are going to put on and I want it stop before it gets serious.” I said all this calmly and efficiently, although inside I was unimaginably nervous. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Ann,” Betty took a moment to “cough”, then she continued, “I feel really sick and tired.” “Stop this act, Betty! It’s just you and I in this room; you don’t need to pretend with me! I told you we need to stop this, and we //will// stop this!” I roared at her. I felt a little less shaken when I yelled, which gave me more confidence to be able to stand up to her. Betty shoved the blankets off her, and then sat up, with too much strength for a sick girl. Then she looked up at me with an evil smirk on her face and said, “Oh, Ann, I //knew// you would be the one to //withdraw// first.” “Withdraw?” I felt a little less confident now. “Yes, Ann. You would be the first one to try and //talk// me out of this. But, Ann, I’m not going to stop this //‘charade.’// You think you could come in here and try to show me that you’re a bigger person, but I’m not as //small// and //weak// as you think. I will //make// you be a part of this.” “You can’t make me do anything, Betty. I am my own person, and I will make my own decisions! If I don’t want to be a part of this, I don’t have to be.” I felt defiant again, as I stood taller and looked down at her. “Yes I can make you do this. I will accuse //all// of your father’s enemies, and do you know what that means? That means that if someone should suspect we are //faking// all of this, I can say you were our ringleader and they would believe me. They would think you were trying to //protect// your father and his business, and they would convict you, not me. Even if you have //nothing// to do with this, it will look like you orchestrated the //whole thing//.” I stood stunned for moment, unable to think or move. She was right. The blame would all be on me. We could have hundreds of girls do this, and yet I would still be the only one really blamed for it all. I felt scared and weak, and completely embarrassed. I could not think of anything else to do, so I simply glared at Betty, putting as much hate and burning passion behind my eyes as I could. As I turned to leave and I opened the door leading out of the room, I heard Betty say something that sent chills down my stick straight spine. “Remember when I said this was a //game//, Ann? Well, you have seen //nothing// yet. The game has only //just begun//.” **<span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 14pt;">Chapter 5 ** <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">I walked out of Betty’s room more nervous than I was when I had entered. Now I knew for sure that we were really going to do this. We were really going to pretend to be cursed by witches. As I was heading towards the front door, I was stopped by Tituba. “Excuse me, mam.” She said, coming up behind me. I turned and looked into her cocoa irises. “Yes, Tituba?” “I was just wondering, mam… I think I know what’s wrong with Miss Betty. I seen it at my home in Africa. I think the Devil is in her.” I flinched when she said this. Had she figured us out? Or was Betty really that good at acting sick and crazy? “What—what do you mean, Tituba?” “I think the Devil is in her. I know a way to find who gave her the Devil’s Curse. I have a special recipe for Witch Cakes… it could help me find the witch. Do you think it would be smart to tell my Master and Missus about this?” “Well… if you think it could help…” “I do, but Master Samuel might… punish… me for saying his daughter is cursed.” I noticed Tituba reach out and touch her back, probably thinking about the whip marks scarring her soft, dark skin. I frowned and felt bad for the slave woman. “You should do what you think is right. If you really think Miss Betty is cursed by a wi—witch, then you should help as much as you can.” Then I turned and left, not wanting to think about witches and curses anymore. <span style="display: block; font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">* <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">My attempt to escape Betty and her plan for the rest of the day was ruined when Father announced we were to have dinner at the Parris house. Usually, we spend quite a lot of time at others’ houses when we go for dinner so I knew John would not be able to spend the night with me. I was able to get away from Emily sometime after lunch, so I headed out towards the Sheriff’s office and the Salem Jailhouse. “Hello? Sheriff?” I called when I entered the small building. It was made all of oak wood, and I could smell a faint scent of aged oak, with an undercoating stink of cigar smoke, alcohol, and human wastes. There was a small desk and a set of chairs before you enter a hallway leading to a row of jail cells. High Sheriff Corwin was seated at the desk, sifting through papers and journals. “Ann Putnam? Is that you? How are you?” Corwin asked, smiling largely. “Fine, sir. And you?” “Oh, when you get to be my age, you stop having a ‘fine’ time and start working until you kill yourself.” He continued smiling and asked about my parents and my father’s business. “Mother is getting ready to have the new baby, so she’s busy and running around every day. Father is fine, but he is tired and overworking himself because business has some troubles that keep threatening to ruin him. But Father is strong, and he’s keeping the enemies off his back.” I smiled meekly back at Corwin. “So, Sheriff… you’re all alone today?” “Oh yes. You’d think being High Sheriff, I’d be at the brunt of all the excitement, but I’m stuck in the office with all the paperwork. Smith and Daniels are covering the East end, Jackson is at the Southern end of town, Peters and Barley are at the Northern end, and Willard and Judge Sewall are covering the West end. John and the judge are the lucky ones; there are bound to be more crooks and convicts in the dirty West end than anywhere else.” When I heard John’s location, I only stayed for a minute more before I said my goodbyes with the Sheriff, then left the Jailhouse and headed towards the West end of town.

<span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">I found John guarding the tavern. I entered and when he looked over at me, I nodded towards the back door and then walked over there myself. I exited outside to the warm afternoon. I remembered the first time John and I kissed. It had been after he had saved me from a drunken bastard, right here between the tavern and the outhouse. I wished John could save me from Betty and her dumb plan, but I knew I could not bring him into this dilemma. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">Just then I felt John’s arms circle around my waist and lift me up and turn me around. I giggled and he put me down so I was facing him. He bent down and kissed me lightly on my lips. When he pulled back, we both smiled at each other, then I told him about dinner, and said he wouldn’t be able to come to my room that night. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Aw, Love. Why don’t you leave your window open and I could sneak in and wait for you?” I smiled at the thought of John waiting for me on my bed, but I had a bad feeling about tonight. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“No, John. You really can’t come tonight. I just feel so strange… like something bad is going to happen, and I don’t want you getting caught up in it.” <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Something bad happening? Love, is everything alright? Should I be worried?” John’s carefree expression instantly changed to a worried and stern grimace. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“No, no. I just don’t feel well, is all.” I tried to smile, but I could feel it was crooked and not exactly a convincing smile. But John knew I needed time to myself. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Alright, Love. I bet Sheriff Corwin needs help with some paperwork tonight, I’ll help him with that.” He kissed me again, more deeply and longer this time, then said he should go back and help Judge Sewall. I pecked his cheek before he turned away and walked back to the tavern. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">I watched John’s strong, lean back as he retreated. He was so loving and protective of me, and he would destroy anything that made me feel depressed and anxious, such as this witch fiasco was making me feel. I smiled at the thought of John brutally punishing Betty for hurting me, and then giggled when I thought of Abigail finally being the one to take the beating instead of giving it. It would be glorious to just let John get rid of my worries, and then ride off into the sunset with me. But that only happened in the fairy tales Emily used to read to me. I sighed once more, breathing in the crisp, warm air and the faint, fetid smells of the tavern, before turning and walking back towards home to prepare for the long night ahead. <span style="display: block; font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">* <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Good evening, Sir Thomas Putnam and Missus Ann Putnam,” Tituba greeted my parents as they walked through the door. When I walked in behind them, she nodded and said, “And good evening to the Miss Ann and to Miss Emily.” My parents had left my seven younger siblings at home with the other house servants, so it was only Emily who accompanied me. However, Emily was only a servant, so she immediately took off to help in the kitchen and later eat in the kitchen with the cook and Parris servants and slaves. So I was alone with my parents, Betty’s parents, and the little terror herself. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">The Parris’ were already seated at the ravishingly set table, with Mister Parris at the head of the table, Missus Parris next to him, and Betty across from her mother. Betty was wrapped in a thick shawl and a blanket and she looked pale and sweaty. To everyone else, she would look sick, but I knew she was probably sweating from all the layers she wore. My mother sat next to Missus Parris, Father sat across from Mister Parris at the other end of the table, and that left me to sit next to Betty. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dinner was played out in the usual manner, with Father and Mister Parris discussing farming, business, and taxes on agricultural trade. Mother and Missus Parris had a conversation with a variety of topics, from furniture to new clothing styles to Mother’s approaching due date for the birth. However, instead of chatting and gossiping, as Betty and I often do during family dinners, I refused to even look at her. As she pretended to cough and shiver and groan with “illness,” I really did feel sick in my stomach from all the lies that we were about to weave into our lives. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">Halfway through the third course of dinner, Betty collapsed from her chair. One moment I was watching her play with her food out of the tiniest corner of my eye, and the next thing I know, there is a loud //thump//, and Betty is writhing on the floor. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Betty! My baby!” Missus Parris cried out as we all gathered around her. Servants, including Emily and the slave Tituba, ran from the kitchen to see how they could help. But no one touched the squirming, wriggling form on the floor. Nobody knew what to do. We all just watched as Betty shook and shivered and moaned and groaned, seizing with such energy that even I was almost convinced that she really was sick. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">Until she opened her mouth. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Th—the—” <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“What, what is it, Betty?” Mister Parris asked, kneeling beside her. Betty slowly ceased to writhe, and just shivered a little, as if she were standing outside during winter with no coat on. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“The //Devil//.” Betty rasped, finally stopping her seizing completely. We all instinctively looked up, as if we were praying and all whispered, “Protect us, our Lord,” when Betty said the word “Devil.” Then, we all just stood staring at her for a long, silent moment, before Mister Parris cleared his throat and turned to Tituba. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I want you to get the farm dog and one of those cakes you were telling me you made.” Tituba immediately turned and ran into the kitchen. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Cakes?” My mother asked in a quiet whisper, as if she were merely thinking aloud on accident. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes. Tituba told us that she has seen this kind of illness before, back in her country. She thinks the Devil has entered my poor baby’s body! She says that means a witch cursed our little Betty. She knows a recipe that will tell us who the witch is,” Missus Parris hurriedly explained. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“What’s the recipe?” My ever curious mother asked. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“It’s called Witch Cakes. You take a cup of the cursed person’s urine and mix it into a simple corn cake batter. Then you bake the cake and give a piece to a dog. The dog will apparently be able to speak, and it will say the name of witch who cursed the afflicted person,” Missus Parris told us as Tituba came back into the room with a folded napkin in one hand and the leash of the Parris’ sheepdog in the other. She handed the leash to a servant and opened up the napkin. In it was placed a small square of corn cake, except that this corn cake must have Betty’s urine mixed into its batter, making it the Witch Cake. Tituba opened the sheepdog’s mouth wide, and placed the whole piece of Witch Cake into his mouth. He chewed it up quickly in his big, droopy mouth. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">I don’t know what we were all expecting to see. Maybe the dog will sit up straight like a human being and say in a gruff but clear voice, “I know who the witch is!” or maybe he would just start barking the witch’s name? We didn’t know what would happen, but what actually happened was nothing. The dog didn’t sit up, he didn’t even bark, and he especially didn’t speak. He just got into a playful stance on all fours and begged for more food. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“It didn’t work,” Mister Parris seethed through his teeth, trying to appear calm. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I’m sorry, Master. Should I call the doctor?” Tituba asked, her voice quivering, obviously scared of her master’s temper. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes. We should’ve called for the doctor in the first place! This time, ask him to come prepared for a full body examination! I want her ins and outs all checked out! I want her cured //now//!” Mister Parris yelled, grinding his teeth and spitting at Tituba. Tituba ran from the room, and a second later I heard the back door shut as she raced off to get Dr. Griggs from the North end of town. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Maybe we should leave, Samuel,” my father suggested quietly. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“No, no. I’m sorry for my outburst; I’m just so worried, is all. Please stay, finish your dinners. I’m sure my wife and I would be comforted by your presence as we wait to find out what is really wrong with our daughter,” Mister Parris said as he stroked Betty’s pale face. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">And so we waited, Betty and I being the only ones who knew what was going to happen when the doctor came and examined Betty. I tried to look warm and sympathetic as I patted Missus Parris’ back along with my mother, but my innards were freezing cold with fear and anticipation. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hello, Parris’! Hello, Putnam’s!” Dr. William Griggs boomed in his loud, deep voice. He lumbered into the room, a big man of six feet eight inches, with graying brown hair and a scraggly beard covering half his face. His eyes were big, honest, and blue, with a shine in them that made you instantly trust him. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hello, Griggs. Could you…?” Mister Parris asked, indicating towards Betty, who was still lying on the ground, wrapped in her mother’s arms. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes, of course! Let’s take her up to her room!” Griggs pointed to two strong looking farmhands and they all carried the small Betty upstairs to her bedroom, Missus Parris following close behind. A minute later, the farm boys came back downstairs, and we all waited as Dr. Griggs examined Betty. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">It all took about an hour, maybe a little less before we heard Missus Parris cry out, and then Griggs stomp his way downstairs. My mother pushed her way past him and ran up the stairs to comfort Missus Parris and see Betty. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“What is wrong with her, doctor?” Mister Parris asked, standing up and looking worried from his wife’s cry. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“At first, it seemed nothing was wrong. Her body was clean of any signs of illness, even her throat wasn’t scratched or swollen which would’ve been the sign of a cold or the flu, but nothing was wrong. Until I found a mark on her right shoulder.” <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“A mark?” Mister Parris asked Dr. Griggs, his mouth hanging open in shock. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes, a mark. At first, I thought it was a birthmark, but it was bumpy and dark and it seemed to be not only a mark, but a hole. I diagnosed it as a Witchmark, which is the only probable explanation for her behavior, symptoms and that hole,” Griggs said, all the shine in his eyes turning dull and sad. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“A Witchmark?” Mister Parris asked, again too stunned for more words. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes. I think your slave was right when she said your daughter has been cursed. This is not a common illness. And I’m afraid of what this may do to our town. It could cause paranoia in such a small, God-worshipping village,” Griggs finished. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes, well, thank you. Tituba will show you out, and I’ll give you the payment tomorrow in your office.” Mister Parris went upstairs, without another word. Father and I nodded goodbye to Dr. Griggs, then we too went upstairs. I was starting to feel sick and clammy again as we walked down the hall to Betty’s bedroom. Father and I walked in as Mister Parris was questioning Betty. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Who? Who did this to you, Betty?” <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I—I don’t //know//. I remember seeing a figure in my sleep; someone who was //telling// me to feel sick, and I think she was cursing me,” Betty, said, stating what we already knew. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“But do you remember who it was?” Missus Parris asked, tears spilling silently from her large, brown eyes. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I //think// I do. I remember //dark// skin… I think it was… //Tituba//.” I didn’t mean to, but I gasped in horrid shock at Betty’s lie. I turned to see how Mister Parris was taking this. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">His face broke into a wide leer as he said in a hoarse whisper, “I //knew// it.”

**<span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 14pt;"> Chapter 6 ** <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">I gasped again as I looked at Mister Parris’ face. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You knew it? What do you mean?” Missus Parris asked, clutching small Betty in her arms. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Isn’t it obvious, Elizabeth? Tituba kept telling us that she knew Betty was cursed, and she was probably performing spells and whatnot to make sure we never found out //she// was the one who cursed Betty. She probably didn’t even make a Witch Cake; it was probably just an everyday corn cake, so that we could not find who did this to our daughter!” Mister Parris was yelling now, and throwing his arms about, making big gestures. “But now that we found her, I’m going to make sure that nigger witch goes back where she came from. I’m going to make sure she rots in Hell!” Then Mister Parris left the room. We could all hear him call for a farm boy, and we all heard as he told the boy to go fetch the High Sheriff. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh, I believe he’s going mad!” Missus Parris unwound herself from her daughter’s arms and ran after her raving husband. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Come, Ann. We should leave,” my mother said, and she began to walk out of the room, my father’s arm placed tenderly around her back. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Father, you can get the carriage ready, but I need to speak with Betty privately for a moment, please.” My mother was ready right away to say no to me, but my father and I had always had a certain understanding with each other. Even though we were not so close, I was his eldest, and he had years of raising me before he had to raise all of my much younger siblings. Our identical hazel eyes locked onto each other, and after a moment of trying to decipher my intentions from my expression, my father simply nodded and led my mother out of the room. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">When the door was securely closed behind them, I turned to Betty, hatred spilling out of me uncontrollably. “//How dare you?// Why would you accuse Tituba?” I could feel hot rage glaze over my skin and my eyes were wide, unblinking, and shining with pure disgust. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Why //wouldn’t// I accuse Tituba?” Betty asked, her façade of being an ill victim of the Devil dropped immediately. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“She never did anything wrong! She only tries to help! Tituba was concerned about you, and now you just signed her death warrant! You know your father will not rest until she is killed.” I could not stop myself from yelling and screaming and ranting. I kept picturing Tituba’s face as she asked me if she should tell Mister Parris about Witch Cakes. It is true that slaves are tortured by their masters, but Tituba practically raised Betty! She had been so scared that the Devil had taken over Betty’s body, and she risked upsetting Mister Parris, if it would only mean she could try to help Betty with the Cakes. And now, with one simple accusation, Betty ruined the rest of the poor woman’s life, a life that was sure to be cut short now. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes, but she is getting //old//. She has been making quite a few //mistakes// lately, with her cooking and her cleaning. I could see my father was getting irritated by her behavior, so I made it easy for him to get //rid// of her.” Betty said all this as if it were so obvious and simple. I wanted to strangle her thin, white neck. I glared at her with so much force, that her straight, stubborn face slackened a little, then I trudged out of her room, feeling sick again, but also more energized, and a little too angry. Angry enough to turn back around and really murder Betty. I stomped my way out of the Parris manor and hopped into my family’s waiting carriage. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">*** <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">I could not go to sleep. I had been tossing and turning in my bed for more than two hours now, and I still could not sleep. I had tried everything: from fluffing my pillow, to counting sheep, to opening my window to let in a breeze, to slowing and evening my breath, to just closing my eyes and begging the dear Lord to put me to sleep. But I knew nothing would let me get some rest tonight. I kept picturing Tituba’s trusting, worried face, and Betty’s stubborn, uncaring one. I felt turmoil of anger and grief mixing in my stomach and making me feel ill. There was nothing that could make me feel better tonight. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">Except for John. I wish I had not told him to not come tonight. I missed him desperately, even though I had seen him mere hours ago. I missed the love, the passion, the trust, the sweetness, the laughter, and yes even the danger. Of course no one knew about my relationship with John, no one at all, and that was a hard secret to keep in such a small village. If anyone found out about John and me, we would most likely be frowned upon, and maybe even isolated from the village and from each other. Both of us were God-loving Protestants, but we obviously did not agree with pre-marital abstinence. John and I made love quite often because of when he came to visit me at night. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">At first, I did not want to go any further than kissing, because I kept thinking of my reputation and my religion. But John and I could no longer ignore the passion that was ignited between us that first night when he saved me. We both gave in to our temptations, and found that nothing had happened. God did not strike us dead, He did not punish us; He was still just our loving Father, who watched us always and did not punish us for loving each other. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">I wished now that John was here in bed with me. We did not even have to be making love; I just needed his presence here, just so I could feel safe and warm. John always made me feel better, no matter what was wrong with me. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">Then I thought that maybe now God was punishing me. I was an unmarried girl and I had lost my virginity a while back, so was God repaying my sin by making me play Betty’s game? No, it seemed too cruel a punishment from someone who was supposed to love all His creatures. I was sure God would not make someone hurt others and be the cause of others’ deaths. But wasn’t it the real punishment to be the accuser than it was to be the accused? The accused were tried and hanged to death, but the accuser had to live through it all, and feel the anguish of knowing they had caused someone’s death. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">I was finally able to sleep by crying myself to slumber. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">*** <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">The next day at breakfast, we heard about Tituba’s arrest. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Corwin went to the Parris manor last night along with John Willard and Damien Barley,” Father said. When he mentioned John, I perked up and tried to pay close attention, even with my younger siblings running around and my mother yelling at anyone who would listen to her. “They arrested the nigger and put her in custody at the Jailhouse. Judge Sewall decided to take her to trial on Wednesday, but it already is obvious Samuel Parris will win the case. He will stop at nothing to make sure the witch is hanged for the trouble she caused.” <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“But Father,” I began to ask, “what if Tituba is not the witch? Is there any chance at all she could be spared?” <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Darling, you know that won’t happen. If Samuel wants Tituba hanged, then she will be hanged,” my father said gravely. I felt the chills come on and my face burned with uneasy anticipation. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">I jumped when my mother asked, “Are we planning on going to the trial, Thomas?” <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes, dear, I believe the whole town of Salem will be present at this particular trial.” <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">*** <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“All rise in the name of the honorable Judge Samuel Sewall <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">.” Officer Jeremiah Jackson’s deep voice rang out in the small and cramped Courthouse. The Salem Courthouse was a simple wood building with rows of benches lined up until you reached about two-thirds into the building. At that point, there are two desks each with two chairs behind them, and then a podium where the Judge and people who are being questioned sit. Normally, the Courthouse seems very small, but on Wednesday morning, the whole town of Salem fit in the hot room, much like we all fit in our slightly bigger Church. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">We all rose when Officer Jackson told us to, and watched as Judge Sewall glided up to his seat on the podium. “Please be seated,” he told us, and we all took our seats and watched as Tituba swore to tell the truth in Court. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Miss Tituba, who is your current employer?” High Sheriff Corwin, who also doubled as a lawyer, asked. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“My master is Mister Samuel Parris,” Tituba answered, her voice surprisingly calm and even. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“And how long has Mister Parris been your master?” Corwin asked. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Twelve years,” Tituba replied. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“And do you know why you are here?” Corwin asked. I felt hot anger boil up inside of me because of the way Corwin asked Tituba the question. He asked the question in a slow, steady tone, making it seem like he thought Tituba was too stupid to understand him. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Mister Parris say I am a witch. He say I cursed little Betty,” Tituba answered in her thick accent. Her voice shook as she spoke of Betty, and I really saw how much Tituba loved the little girl she helped raise. When I turned in my seat so that I can see how Betty was handling this, I saw that she was just sitting there, straight-faced with no emotion at all. It wasn’t as if she was trying to hide her emotions, or any tears, she really was expressionless. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Do you know why?” <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Betty been sick, and we found a Witchmark on her shoulder.” <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Tituba, are you a witch? Have you ever practiced the art of witchcraft?” Corwin asked. <span style="font-family: Garamond,serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Yes.” Tituba replied perfunctorily. We all gasped. I jumped in my seat, shocked and bewildered at her agreement. I was sure I heard wrong. Why would Tituba say she was a witch? Didn’t she know this could ruin her life? But I knew I didn’t mishear her when Tituba said, “Yes, I am a witch and I cursed Betty Parris.”