I sat in the parlour of the parsonage. I felt stiff. Eight more people had been hanged, seven women and one man. I could not relax for a moment as I had in the past with Tituba bringing in a tray of hot scones and Abigail and I laughing with glee. Alone, I was alone. Everybody I had cared for, I had lost. Tituba, the only mother I had, was gone. First put in Boston prison then sold to a Virginian planter and sent miles and miles away. I would never see her again. I remember her in this kitchen, where she did all the cooking while I watched her, smelling her earthy smell, touching her smooth skin and listening to her sultry voice. Gone forever from me.

Abigail was also gone miles and miles away. Although she annoyed me with her trysts with Robert, I did miss her sorely. She brought colour where there was drabness. She brought excitement where there was boredom. She made me laugh and she was strong. Abigail was not the only girl who said Tituba was a witch. But, for all her strength, she had gone with the crowd.

My father was gone too. No, not physically, he still inhabited the parsonage and gave sermons in the meeting house. But he was dead to me. I no longer knew him. Although my father had paid 500 pounds to have Tituba released, he had sold her to recoup the money and more. He had made John Indian resentful. It is true that my father did not get all his dues and many refused to pay him anymore but we were not starving. We had a garden now tended by John Indian. I wondered about my father. He put more emphasis on money than on human lives. He seemed more concerned about how much money we had than the souls he could save.

I understood that he was upset by the hangings yet he had drifted into non-action. Why? While other pastors not only prayed for those in prison but also petitioned to have them released, my father stood by. Did he still believe the women to be witches? Did he still believe in spectral evidence? Was he still a man of God?

So loneliness embraced me. All I had left was my cat who curled up into my lap, looking at me with his green eyes. I gripped his softness and he did not flinch. He, alone, was my succour.

I stopped. How my father would chide me for that thought. Pushing Cinders off I went to get my Bible and turned to Matthew, 11. 28-30:

Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden and I

will give you rest.

Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me, for I am meek and

lowly of heart: ands ye shall find rest unto your souls.

For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.