“I see him.” Her voice was a low hum. “Coming from the shadows.”
“Who?” Mary giggled, but there was nervousness in her voice too. “Who?”
“A tall man,” Tituba almost chanted, “with hair fair yellow.”
Mary was fairly jumping in her seat, and I knew why. She had set her cap for Isaac Farrar. I had seen him gazing upon her at church, and his hair was the color of corn silk.
“And eyes . . .”
“What is his name?”
“Cannot see a name,” Tituba said. “Just a part—like Ffffff.”
“Oh!”
“That is so wonderful, Mary!” I exclaimed, but Mary grabbed Mercy’s hand and they galloped round the clearing.
“Me next!” Mercy said. “Me next!”
But Betty had to go next, and since she was Tituba’s pet, we let her, though she was a mere child with no thought of marrying. Tituba told her that she would marry a shoemaker with hair of black.
“A shoemaker!” Betty scoffed.
“Making shoes is a good trade,” Tituba said, “and besides, yours are always scuffed.”
“Perhaps she should marry a bootblack,” I said, then regretted my meanness.
Next went Mercy, to find she would marry a man whose name began with A, but Tituba knew no more. She told Abigail that she would have so many men that Tituba could not tell which one was her husband. I thought this sounded awful and sinful, but Abigail was pleased.
I, of course, was last. Tituba’s hands felt rough and calloused on my wrists, and it took her several minutes to speak up.
“Well?” I said.
“No husband for you.” Her voice was confident.
“What?” Instantly, my stomach hurt, but surely I must have misheard her.
But she repeated. “No husband. No children.” She stared ahead as if looking at something in the distance.
“But . . .” That was impossible. I was Ann Putnam, daughter of one of the most successful farmers in Salem Village. I would have many suitors, certainly more than Abigail.
Yet a thought frayed my mind. Not everyone liked my father. There was bad blood between our family and the Nurses, and Father said that the Howes wished him dead.
“Your father, your mother, I see their graves,” Tituba chanted as if she was telling a tale.
In my mind, I saw them too, covered up with snow. I felt a chill that I struggled to control. The girls would make fun. But they were behind the trees, whispering. Were they talking about me?
“You will care for your sisters and brothers,” Tituba said, “but no children of your own.”
When Tituba had told the other girls’ futures, she had sounded tentative. With mine, she had the certainty of an executioner.
And suddenly my skin felt as if an insect was crawling underneath it. Then many insects. I threw aside Tituba’s hands and clutched at my arms. Then my legs, my stomach, creeping all over me. I wanted to cry out, to shriek, but Mary and Mercy would tease me. I shoved past Tituba, grabbed Elizabeth’s cape around me, and ran from there.
I was still itching, still shaking. I ran as far as I could, that no one might see me, then fell to the ground, rolling like Tom’s dog. Finally, the creeping feeling subsided. I lay there many minutes until the cold began to overtake me. Then, finally, I pushed myself up. My dress was damp and covered in dirt and pine needles. I thought to lie to Mother, tell her I had been attacked by an animal, even a wolf. Yet I knew if I did, she would blame me. I was always blamed for everything. I remembered Tituba’s words. My parents would die. I would care for the children, which meant it would be soon.
I would be an old maid.
No. No, it was nonsense. Tituba knew nothing of me. If she had magical powers, why was she a mere servant? Why would the devil not make her a queen?
I brushed myself off best I could. I would walk slowly, in the hope that the dark would cover my disarray. Finally, I began to trudge home.
But where my footsteps had once played the exuberant marching rhythm of my favorite hymn, now they moved slowly, repeating, “Old maid, old maid, old maid.” I stared at my feet, and that was how I did not see the wolf until he was upon me.
“Leaving so soon?” He licked his lips, and I wondered if he meant to eat me now.
“Not . . . s . . . so soon . . .” My teeth were chattering, but not from the cold. “The others left too. They are behind me.” I glanced over my shoulder, as if Mercy and Mary would somehow be there, when I knew they would not.
“You have had bad news.”
I wanted to run, cry to my mother, tell her all that frightened me. Yet how could I tell her about the prophecy of her own death? And she would blame me for counseling with a witch, for surely Tituba was a witch.
And she would blame me for speaking to the wolf.
So, instead, I spoke to the wolf again. “It was awful,” I told him. “Tituba, she said my parents would die, die soon. She said she could see their gravestones. And she said . . .” My lip quivered. This was the most difficult part. “She said I would be an old maid.”