Robert Walker - Children of Salem

Parris braced himself, lit a lantern, and pulled the door open just a crack, staring out at Jeremiah Wakely, who managed a smile. Jeremy then extended a letter with a heavy red wax seal reading IM—for Increase Mather.

The lantern glow divided Wakely’s face down the middle; one side lit bright, the other side in total darkness. The image had a strange, hypnotic hold on his reluctant host. “You look like a highwayman, Mr. Wakely.”

“I am sure, sir, but I am after all in my riding cloak and boots.”

“Give me a moment with the letter.” Parris grabbed the sealed note, pulled it inside, slammed the door closed, locked it from within, and left Jeremy in the drizzle.

Jeremy stepped off the porch and rubbed down his horse’s face. “A careful man,” Jeremy said to Dancer, the horse now shivering in the sleet. Dancer snorted, her entire body quaking when a chill ran the length of her.

The door was then pulled wide. Parris stepped onto the porch, and holding the lantern higher, looked Jeremy and Dancer over with more care. “Lovely animal.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“If you are truly from Mather . . . why do you come in at such an hour? Under darkness? It’ve been best to come in daylight.”

“A bridge was out,” lied Jeremy.

“I would’ve liked my parishioners to see your coming, to know you are here from Mather, and that Mather backs me against my enaaa . . . those who stand against me here.”

“I don’t know anything about that, sir. I’m just an apprentice . . . to be apprenticed to you, Mr. Parris, until which time—”

“Apprentice? I thought you simply a courier?” He waved the sealed note in his hand.

“You haven’t read it, sir?”

“I assumed…I mean, seeing the seal and Mather’s signature…well…” Parris gritted his teeth and read by the lantern now held by Jeremy, his riding boots squeaking and wet on the porch boards.

“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 14 thMarch 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.”