Only the Stars Know Her Name Page 5

  My bottom lip quivered as the reverend’s words sunk in.

  Would the reverend look to the shelf now? Would he see what was missing? And if he did, would I be able to keep my head and let my plan come to fruition?

  CHAPTER TEN

  We ride upon sticks and are there presently.

  —TITUBA, FROM COURT TESTIMONY

  Reverend Parris gulped a spoonful of stew and turned to his bookshelf. He jumped up and ran his fingers along the Bibles, stopping where the journal had been.

  “Have you seen the book, the new one I was able to purchase with the tithings last month?”

  Mistress Parris shook her head, the candle flickering in her questioning eyes.

  Reverend Parris yanked books out before he hastily pushed them back in. “Where is the book? It was five shillings!”

  “I know not, Father.” Mistress stood up. “Violet, were you tending to the shelves?”

  “I . . .” I paused to remember the words I’d practiced all day should this very question be asked of me. “I have only worked on the stew and bread baking today, Mistress. And I have been told not to touch the reverend’s things.”

  She pursed her lips. “Betty? Abigail? Have you been at Father’s books?”

  “No!” Betty squeaked, pulling at the end of her braid nervously, while Abigail shook her head vigorously.

  “Well, the book did not get up and walk away on its own!” barked the reverend. “Thomas, what do you know of it?”

  Thomas’s eyes were as wide as everyone else’s. The reverend was in a fury, and he knew there would be harsh punishment. “I know nothing, Father. Until we met with Reverend Mather today, I had no need of such things.”

  “Surely, it has simply been misplaced, Father,” Mistress said, rushing to the shelf. “It must be right in front of us.” She leaned over and began to scour the lower shelves.

  Reverend Parris stood before us, his face the color of maple leaves in the fall. “The book cost five shillings. Five!” One by one, he glared at us all. “Stand!”

  Mistress put her hand on the reverend’s arm. “Samuel, it is just a book.”

  “Five. Shillings,” he growled. “It took months to save up enough to finally buy this.”

  I stood, head held high.

  I am strong like Tammy. I have lightning in my blood. I am strong like Tammy. I have lightning in my blood.

  The reverend studied our faces. “Who would covet such a book?”

  When his gray eyes met mine, I lifted my chin and met his gaze. I held my breath, and when he moved on to Betty, I wished I were a scarecrow with a pole against my back as it took all my concentration to keep myself from sinking to the floor.

  “Betty,” he said softly, “why do you not meet my gaze? Have you taken the book?”

  From the corners of my eyes I saw her cheeks redden. “No, Father.”

  “It shall be the worse for you if you do not tell the truth.”

  She shook her head but still did not look up. “I have not taken your book, Father.”

  “Then you shall not mind if I search your things?”

  “You may search it all, Father. I have nothing to hide.” She licked her lips and swallowed.

  Her words held such conviction that I feared Reverend Parris might turn his attention back to me, but before that worry could even take root in my head, Abigail let out a gasp.

  “Don’t, Reverend!” she blubbered. “Don’t go up there, I beg you.”

  He slapped his hands together with a sharp crack. “Thieves! Thieves under my own roof.”

  He turned and stalked up the stairs.

  Betty stood wild-eyed, watching him go. “It was a bluff,” she hissed to Abigail. “And because of you—!”

  “Bluff? How do you even dare to bluff when we . . . ?” Abigail collapsed in her chair, sobbing. “We are done for.”

  Mistress Parris walked slowly to her own chair and lowered herself down, her face as blank as the slate hidden under Betty and Abigail’s mattress. “What mischief now, Betty?” she asked wearily.

  What mischief indeed.

  While Mistress Parris and the girls had been visiting the Walcotts, I discovered I was not the only one who was making mischief, and I braced myself for the hurricane that was about to unleash itself inside this house.

  Three years ago, Betty had taken a slate and chalk from the meetinghouse. The slate belonged to Jonathon Brattle but Betty was determined to continue her lessons with or without her father’s blessings. Abigail and I thought she was being scandalous, but Betty emphasized how unfair it was that Thomas, who barely concentrated during lessons, would continue to learn to read and write and she was forced to practice stitchery.

  It was hard to argue her point, and using that slate to learn to write was far more exciting than using a stick in the dirt or a finger in the ashes.

  It was also another one of the secrets we girls shared. I still remember the day I nervously showed Mama my name written on that slate while Betty, the proud teacher, stood by my side.

  Mama had marveled at it. “That’s your name? Those scribbles say Violet? And you wrote that yourself?”

  I nodded, and I could see from her face that her heart swelled with pride. “My baby, learning to write?”

  Tears swam in her dark brown eyes and she hugged me. “I never would have thought, but don’t be showing this to the reverend or the mistress!”

  Betty grabbed the slate and in a flash my hard work was gone. “I can teach you how to write your name, too, Mama Tituba.” She drew a T, and Mama reached out and traced a finger along the two lines.

  “Well, that was easy enough,” Mama said, but as Betty wrote the rest of her name, Mama shook her head. “What’s this called?” she asked, pointing to the first letter.

  “Tee! Tee for Tituba.”

  Mama traced it again and then folded her arms across her chest. “I think Tee is enough for me. I’ll leave the learning to you smart girls.”

  At that moment I was thankful Betty had stolen the slate, and until today I believed Betty’s act of thievery had been an isolated one. But when I’d lifted the mattress to place the four sheets of paper I’d ripped from the book and on which I had written their names, my jaw dropped. Shell beads, poppets, and even a pearl-white comb were stashed alongside the slate and chalk.

  Some of these things I imagine could have been left behind in the meetinghouse and picked up by the girls, but there were also several thimbles, a hornbook, and a pencil that I knew did not belong to the Parrises.

  Being the daughter and the niece of the town’s minister, Betty and Abigail were often visiting families, and I wondered whether they used these opportunities to come away with trinkets and baubles. I’d left the stolen goods where they were and then lowered the mattress, leaving a small corner of the page I’d ripped from the book barely sticking out. I was sure the girls would not notice, but I knew the reverend would.

  Seeing their stolen treasures had chased away some of the unease I felt about setting the girls up for a fall, but despite their coldness to me over the last year, I took no pleasure knowing what was to come.

  “Violet, clear the table and then bring in some more kindling,” Mistress said quietly. “I feel it might get a bit chilly tonight.”

  I had already gathered plenty of kindling and the evening was warm, but I nodded. “Yes, Mistress. I feel a chill as well.”

  She stared straight ahead, her face drawn and weary, and I supposed she was bracing herself for that storm about to boil over onto the girls. “Thomas, go to the Hubbards’ and inquire if they have any use for you. I recall Mrs. Hubbard stating that her husband’s hands have arthritis and their barn needs some repair. I am thinking you might be able to earn some coins to help pay for a new book.”

  Thomas left swiftly, surely thankful to be out of the house before his father descended the stairs. I rose and quickly cleared the table, anxious to be gone myself. Abigail was still sobbing, albeit gently, and Betty sat with her hand
s folded neatly on the table, looking for all the world to be at peace with her fate.

  While Betty and Abigail were about to be hit with gale-force winds—their storm had left me free to retrieve the book I’d wrapped in a cloth and hidden at the edge of the woods. In one night, I’d be with my new sisters, and I would write my name once again.

  “Mistress Parris!” the reverend boomed from upstairs.

  We all, even Betty, jumped clear out of our skin at the rage that shook the house.

  “Bring the girls upstairs at once! And have Betty bring the crop.”

  My heart pounded, and Abigail’s head shot up, her red-rimmed eyes nearly popping from her head. A long, terrified yelp rose from her throat.

  Mistress Parris bowed her head and took a deep breath as she rose. “You heard the reverend, Betty, get the crop.”

  Betty’s body went rigid and Abigail let out a long howl not unlike the day she said she was first bewitched.

  Visibly shaking, Betty ran to her mother and clung to her arm. “Mother, no. Don’t let him.” She ran to the hearth and took hold of the switch. “Tell him to hit us harder, tell him to use all his might, but don’t let him use the crop.”

  “Fetch it now,” Mistress Parris said, with a chill in her voice.

  “Make haste!” the reverend yelled from upstairs.

  “Quickly!” Mistress implored. “Or it shall be worse for the wait.”

  “This is your doing!” Abigail shrieked to Betty. “I never would have taken any of those things had you not implored me to.”

  “Things?” Mistress whispered. “There is more to this than just . . . a book?”

  I could recall only one time when the reverend had used the crop to dole out a punishment. My papa had been hired by a sea captain to work on some loose ship boards and he dropped a hammer into the bay while working on the pier.

  A switch could deliver a welt, but a crop could break you. It was just then that I remembered Papa used to be more like Mama. He used to laugh. How could I have forgotten that Papa used to laugh?

  “Violet, go now and take your time returning.”

  I ran from the table and raced out the door, shutting it loudly behind me. I picked up the basket from the front stoop and hurried toward the woods, wondering if Abigail’s wails could be heard from as far away as Mama’s old jail cell in Boston, and if Papa had found his laugh again wherever he was.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  As I headed down the path through the Putnams’ hayfield, my skin felt cool and clammy despite the warm evening. Come Sabbath, Betty and Abigail would wish to be lying in bed, but as part of their punishment I knew they would have to sit all day on the raw skin and bruises they were about to receive.

  I had set this in motion, but I tried to comfort myself, knowing that Betty and Abigail deserved what was coming to them. Not only had they been stealing from the townspeople, but they had never truly been punished for what they did to Mama—or Mrs. Prince or any of the other people that died because of them.

  Unless they truly had been afflicted.

  I shook my head.

  What was true?

  What were lies?

  I was sure Mama would never have hurt anyone like they claimed.

  Like Mama claimed, too—until she recanted. But did having powers mean you had to do bad things? Or could powers be used to help a person like I was trying to help myself?

  How could I ever be sure, when Mama was too far away to ask?

  In frustration, I kicked a rock from my path, stirring up a cloud of dust. Only one more night until the full moon, and I was praying that book would help me find the answers I was looking for.

  A hearty laugh up ahead stopped me in my tracks. There—in the spot just inside the edge of the woods and twenty steps from the path where I had hidden the book—stood Thomas Parris.

  My heart jumped like a rabbit a breath away from a hound’s mouth. Had he seen me hide the book when I thought he was out with his father? Did he know?

  Had all the trouble I’d stirred up been for nothing?

  I picked up my pace until I heard another laugh—a girl’s laugh.

  I froze.

  Thomas was not alone.

  I slowed my steps, squinting to see who was with him.

  Hands reached up to run through his hair, and he wrapped his arms around a girl, lifting her up in the air and then leaning in to plant a kiss on her lips as soon as her feet touched the ground.

  “Why, Thomas Parris, what would your father say if he could see you now?”

  “He’d say, ‘Thomas Parris, get me the crop!’”

  “Am I worth the crop, Thomas Parris?” she cooed.

  “You are worth a branding.”

  He leaned in again and heat rose up through my whole body. I was rooted to the spot, terrified to move lest they see me, and yet, I couldn’t look away. In the past, Betty and Abigail and I had spent hours talking about what kisses might be like and we’d even practiced on the back of our hands. But I had never even seen anyone, not even my parents, kiss. We knew people did it, though; more than a few men and women had spent a day in the stocks for such displays of public affection.

  I was gobsmacked that Thomas could be so shameless where anyone could stumble upon him, but I had recognized the girl’s voice as soon as she spoke.

  Instead of visiting the Hubbards to inquire about work, Thomas Parris was risking everything by standing at the edge of the woods kissing Tammy Younger. Upon seeing them, my first instinct was to run back to the house, but an idea took hold.

  Tammy Younger had no doubt cast some spell on Thomas Parris to make him behave this way, but I knew I could use his indiscretion to my advantage. And though I wasn’t a full-fledged witch yet—we’d not finalized a covenant with our names signed in the book—Tammy and Elizabeth had shown me I could weave some magic of my own.

  The day I had promised to break the Lord’s commandment and steal the reverend’s book, I had walked on the wind.

  I had also felt Tammy’s power, but in the back of my mind, I thought that some people were just like that—potent and crackling with energy. Betty and Abigail, for instance, were like night and day, with Betty leading the day and Abigail living in her shadow. And it would not have been a stretch to say Reverend Parris or Sheriff Corwin or even maybe Mama had some of that bottled lightning coursing through their veins. I just thought perhaps Tammy had more of it in her than most.

  Though the dirt path to the woods was generally a quiet one, I wanted to surprise Thomas and Tammy. I needed to. I needed to show Tammy that the power was not all hers. While walking through the woods, I’d been practicing what Elizabeth had taught me. I felt light as air as I snuck up on a suckling fawn and its mother. Another time, a telltale snap cracked under my feet and sent chipmunks scattering away. Right now, I needed nothing to go wrong.

  I breathed in through my nose and closed my eyes. I imagined myself a sturdy weed with a taproot deep in the ground. I imagined growing a yellow flower and then all the water and weight leaving me until I was a single dandelion seed—airy, delicate, noiseless. I exhaled, feeling the weight leave my body and rise above me. My heavy boots seemed made of clouds. I breathed in again, then exhaled and became a piece of goose down on the wind.

  I opened my eyes and my usually heavy steps made their way silently along the path, and I stirred up not a mote of dust.

  Magic.

  My magic.

  I neared them quickly, quietly. Thomas and Tammy clung to each other still, and I forged ahead despite feeling sick watching them hanging on each other so—their lips locked together.

  I was practically upon them when I stopped, stamped a foot on the ground to reclaim my weight, and felt gleeful as they looked up in shock.

  “Thomas Parris?” I gasped in mock surprise. “What pray thee are you doing?”

  Thomas flew away from Tammy, his wet mouth open and trembling like a fish on a hook pier. “Violet! I . . .”

  Tammy giggled and step
ped closer to him, wrapping her arm in his. “Who’s your friend, Thomas?” She winked at me as he tore himself away from her—his head down and shoulders hunched.

  “Stop it, Tammy!” he scolded in a quiet voice. “This is Violet; she works in my house.”

  “I recall hearing about this Violet Indian, your slave girl, in town,” Tammy said, matter-of-fact.

  She winked at me again, and I knew she was playing along with my ruse. But I couldn’t help but wonder: Does she not realize that her harsh words sting and cut so close to the bone?

  “Yes. I. Am. And my mistress, his mother, sent me to the wood to get kindling.”

  Tammy shrugged and smiled at me, but her smile didn’t fill me with light. I was not at all feeling sisterly toward her, but perhaps this was part of her act.

  “Thomas,” I said, “I thought you were going to the Hubbards’. Imagine my shock to see you here with . . . this.” I pursed my lips and lowered my chin.

  There was no pretense now; I was embarrassed finding him and Tammy together, but I prayed Thomas Parris was not only shamed, but scared.

  He looked at me finally, and his frightened eyes were none too different from that of Abigail’s as she’d sat at the table not so long ago. I could see the wheels turning in his head—jumping forward to a future in the stocks and what that would mean for his father’s already shaky reputation in the village. What it would mean for his future. Perhaps he was even thinking of how he had just joked about getting beaten with the riding crop and how it might become a reality.

  Perhaps he was thinking those stolen kisses were not such a bargain anymore or that a beating at home might be better than being displayed in front of the whole town.

  “It’s not—it’s not what it looks like, Violet.”

  Tammy laughed and took kitten steps toward him. “Oh,” she purred, “it is exactly what it looks, Thomas Parris. And were you not bragging a minute ago I was worth a branding?” She giggled and tried to fall into his arms, but he pushed her away.

  “Stop it!” he yelled. “Do you not see the gravity in this?”

  Tears welled in his eyes, but she simply put her fingers to her lips and then reached toward Thomas’s face. “What great weight is a simple kiss?”