I Tituba Black Witch of Salem - Maryse Conde

TITUBA,
BLACK WITCH
OF SALEM
“Powerful...It is impossible to read
her novels and not come away from
them with both a sadder and more
exhilarating understanding of the
human heart.”
-New York Times Book Review
MARYSE CONDE
Translated by Richard Philcox
Foreward by Angela Y Davis
More praise for Maryse Condé and /, Tituba
“It is impossible to read [Maryse Condé’s] novels and not
come away from them with both a sadder and more ex
hilarating understanding of the human heart, in all its secret
intricacies, its contradictions and marvels. . . . [She is] bril
liant and prolific.”
— The Neu/ York Times Book Review
“Condé restores a vital link in the spiritual and cultural

chain that connects Caribbean and American descendants
with their African ancestors, and helps create for them an
alternative to the colonial and post-colonial traditions from
which they have been excluded.”
—Boston Sunday Globe
“In the hands of novelist Maryse Condé, Tituba’s life be

comes a marvelous canvas for exploring a particular dimen
sion of the slave experience—how a young woman’s sexuality
and skills as a healer ultimately made her an object of
wonder and terror.”
—Chicago Tribune
“A spirited act of historical imagination, one that plunges us

deep in magic, the darkness of slavery, and the perennial
power of black women to rise, phoenix-like, from the ashes
of racism. Condé deserves praise for her imagination and
daring.”
—Charles Johnson
Author of Middle Passage
“At once playful and searing, Condé work critiques osten

sibly white, male versions of history and literature by ap
propriating them.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Far more than an historical novel, Condé’s book makes a

powerful social statement about hypocrisy, racial injustice,
and feminism through the use of postmodern irony. Highly
recommended.”
—Library Journal
I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem
I, Tituba,
Black Witch of Salem
Maryse Conde
Translated by Richard Philcox

Foreword by Angela Y. Davis
Afterword by Ann Armstrong Scarboro
ALLSTON LBRARY
Ballantine Books • New York
eftô«
* *'
N SOM ”1
CONDE
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without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this

>, it may have been reported to the publisher as
yed” and neither the author nor the publisher may
nave received payment for it.
Translation copyright © 1992 by the Rector and Visitors of the

University of Virginia, and Caraf Books
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copy

right Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine
Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and distrib
uted in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Originally published as Mo/, Tituba, Sorcière . . . Noire de Salem
by Editions Mercure de France in 1986. Copyright © 1986 by Edi
tions Mercure de France. This edition published by arrangement with
the University Press of Virginia. © Editions Mercure de France, 1986
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-90475
http://www.randomhouse.com
ISBN: 0-345-38420-2
Cover design by Ruth Ross

Cover illustration by Walter Rane
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Ballantine Books Edition: January 1994
20 19181716151413
Tituba and I lived for a year on the closest of terms.
During our endless conversations she told me things
she had confided to nobody else.
MARYSE CONDE
Death is a porte whereby we pass to joye;
Lyfe is a lake that drowneth all in payne.
JOHN HARRINGTON
Foreword
1 can look for my story among

the witches of Salem, but it isn’t there.
Tituba’s impassioned efforts to revoke her own disappear

ance from history—Maryse Condé’s fictional re-vision of her
story—is Tituba’s revenge. Throughout her life, she recoils be
fore the prospect of exacting revenge, for fear of becoming like
those who are responsible for her misery. This transcendant
revenge—the retelling of a history that is as much mine as it is
hers—allows her to save herself without taking on the histori
cal characteristics of the colonizers and the slaveholders she
detested.
Tituba looked for her story in the history of the Salem witch
trials and could not find it. I have looked for my history in
the story of the colonization of this continent and I have found
silences, omissions, distortions, and fleeting, enigmatic insinua
tions. Tituba’s quest for recorded evidence of her existence as
a living, feeling, loving, active individual, who was as much a
part of the Salem witch trials as her codefendants of European
descent, leads her to a belittling, cursory allusion: “Tituba, a
slave originating from the West Indies and probably practicing
‘hoodoo.’ ” She counters this footnote that condemns her to in
significance with a strong, self-affirming “I, Tituba ... Witch.”
Maryse Condé lends her the words that assist her to tell you
and me her story, speaking her life in her own voice—from the
womb to the realm of the dead.
Maryse Condé’s historical novel about the black witch of
Salem furnishes Tituba with a social consciousness as con
temporary as the motivating impulse behind the novel, which
drives Condé to retrieve fragments of an intentionally ignored
history and to reshape them into a coherent, meaningful story.
It is the same consciousness that has motivated contemporary
X
Foreword
women of African descent—both scholars and artists—to ex

plore the infinite possibilities of our lost history.
As Conde offers to Tituba the possibility of filling the silence
and voids with voice and presence, we who are Tituba’s cul
tural kin experience the possibilities of our own history. Via an
active, constitutive voice, Tituba leaps into history, shattering
all the racist and misogynist misconceptions that have defined
the place of black women. Tituba’s revenge consists in having
persuaded one of her descendants to rewrite her moment in
history in her own African oral tradition. And when Tituba
takes her place in the history of the Salem witch trials, the re
corded history of that era—and indeed the entire history of the
colonization process—is revealed to be seriously flawed.
Tituba’s voice is her own. Maryse Conde even tells us in a
prefatory remark that “Tituba and I lived for a year on the
closest of terms. During our endless conversations she told me
things she had confided to nobody else.” But, of course, Conde
meticulously researched this historical person, and Tituba’s
voice is infused with the historically complex and imagina
tive voice of her creator. It is therefore not rigidly anchored
to the social issues of Tituba’s times. This historical novel re
fuses to be confined within the ideological limits of the era
during which it unfolds. Tituba engages in recurring medita
tions on her relationship—as a black woman—to feminism, ln
this sense, her voice can be viewed as the voice of a suppressed
black feminist tradition, one that women of African descent
are presently reconstituting—in fiction, criticism, history, and
popular culture.
Tituba is a powerfully sexual being. She accepts and em
braces her sexuality and does not allow the strong sexual at
traction she feels for men to dilute her active solidarity with
women, black as well as white. Yet, because of her defense of
her sexuality, she is reluctant to call herself a feminist. From
our contemporary vantage point, feminists of all cultures may
find enlightenment in her ambivalence.
Tituba is conceived during a violent rape on a slave ship
heading toward Barbados. She spends her formative years on
the margins of slave society in Barbados, learning the African
xi
Foreword
art of healing and ancestor reverence and, what is certainly

not a contradiction, the spiritual wonderment of sexual love.
It is because of her dedication to the ways of her ancestors—
and the use of her healing powers to help the women of the
family that owns her—that she becomes a target of the Salem
witch hunt. Having survived that terrifying ordeal, she returns
to Barbados, where she dies as a revolutionary.
This is one possible version of Tituba, the black witch of
Salem. There are those who dispute her African descent, coun
tering that she was Indian, perhaps hoping to stir up enmity
between black and Native American women as we seek to re
create our respective histories. As an African-American femi
nist, I offer my profound gratitude to Maryse Conde for having
pursued and developed her vision of Tituba, Caribbean woman
of African descent. Should a Native American Tituba be re
created, in scholarly or fictional terms, this would be true to
the spirit of Conde’s Tituba and her revenge. For, in the final
analysis, Tituba’s revenge consists in reminding us all that the
doors to our suppressed cultural histories are still ajar. If we
are courageous enough to peer through the narrow openings,
we will discover our fears, our rage, our hopes, and our roots.
And sometimes there is magic behind those doors, sparkling
clues about the possibilities ahead.
ANGELA Y. DAVIS
Acknowledgments
I could not have written this essay without the extensive coopera
tion of Maryse Conde herself. I am also grateful to Richard Philcox,
Maryse’s husband and my friend, for his aid in recording the May
1991 interview. Finally, I am deeply indebted to Jim Arnold for
sharing his expertise in both editing and literary criticism.
AAS
The translator wishes to acknowledge the assistance of Ann Arm

strong Scarboro and Viviane Johnson.
RP
Preparation of this volume was made possible by a translation grant

from the National Endowment for the Humanities.
AJA
I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem
Abena, my mother, was raped by an English sailor on the deck
of Christ the King one day in the year 16** while the ship was
sailing for Barbados. I was born from this act of aggression.
From this act of hatred and contempt.
When we arrived many weeks later at the port of Bridge
town, nobody noticed my mother’s condition. As she could
not have been more than sixteen years old at the time and was
beautiful to behold with her jet black skin and high cheekbones
subtly marked with tribal scars, a rich planter by the name of
Darnell Davis bought her for a good deal of money. He also
bought two male slaves, Ashantis as well, victims of the tribal
wars between their people and the Fantis. He put my mother
in the service of his wife, who never ceased to pine for England
and whose mental and physical condition required constant
attention. He believed that my mother would know how to
entertain her with songs, possibly dances, and those devices he
thought the slaves to be particularly fond of. He set the two
men to work on his flourishing sugarcane plantation and in his
tobacco fields.
Jennifer, Darnell Davis’s wife, was not much older than my
mother. She hated this brute she had been forced to marry and
who had already fathered a horde of illegitimate children. He
would leave her alone in the evenings while he went drinking.
Jennifer and my mother became friends. After all, they were
little more than two children frightened by the roar of animals
in the night and the shadow play of the flamboyant, calabash,
and silk-cotton trees on the plantation. They slept together,
and while she played with the long plaits of her mistress’s hair,
my mother would tell her the stories that her mother had told
4
/, Tituba
her in the village of Akwapim, where she was born. She would
conjure up all the forces of nature at their bedside in order to
appease the darkness and to prevent the vampires from drain
ing them white before dawn.
When Darnell Davis saw that my mother was with child, he
went into a rage at the thought of all those pounds sterling he
had spent to buy her. Now he was going to be burdened with
a woman in ill health and of no use whatsoever! He refused
to give in to Jennifer’s entreaties, and to punish my mother he
gave her to Yao, one of the Ashantis he had bought in the same
batch, while forbidding her to set foot in the Great House. Yao
was a young warrior who could not resign himself to planting,
cutting, and grinding sugarcane. Twice he had tried to kill him
self by swallowing poisonous roots. Twice he had been saved at
the last minute and brought back to the life he hated. By offer
ing him a concubine, Darnell hoped he would be giving him a
taste for life and thereby get a return for his money. What a
bad idea it had been to go to the slave market in Bridgetown
that morning of June 16 **
! One of the two men had died. The
other was suicidal. And Abena was pregnant!
My mother stepped into Yao’s cabin shortly before the eve
ning meal. He was lying on his bedding, too depressed to think
of food, and he hardly glanced at the woman who had been
announced.
When Abena appeared, he sat up and murmured: “Aktvaba!”
Then he recognized her. “It’s you!” he exclaimed. "
Abena burst into tears. Too many storm clouds had gathered
over her short life: her village had been burned to the ground,
her parents had been stabbed to death trying to defend them
selves, she had been raped, and now she had to endure this bru
tal separation from Jennifer, a creature as gentle and desperate
as herself.
Yao stood up, his head touching the ceiling, for he was as
tall as a silk-cotton tree. “Don’t cry. I won’t touch you. I won’t
harm you. We speak the same language don’t we? We worship
the same gods.” Then he lowered his eyes. “It’s the master’s
child, isn’t it?”
5
Abena shed still hotter tears of shame and grief. “No, no, it
isn’t! But it’s a white man’s child even so.”
While Abena stood there in front of him with her head hung
low, Yao’s heart filled with immense compassion. It seemed to
him that this child’s humiliation symbolized the condition of
his entire people: defeated, dispersed, and auctioned off. He
wiped away the tears that were running down her face. “Don’t
cry. From now on your child is mine. Do you understand? And
just let someone try and say it isn’t!”
She kept on crying, so he lifted her head up and asked: “Do
you know the story of the bird who laughed at the leaves of the
palm tree?”
My mother gave a faint smile. “Who doesn’t? When I was
small it was my favorite story. My grandmother used to tell it
to me every evening.”
“Mine too . . . And the one about the monkey who wanted
to be the king of animals? And he climbed up to the top of the
silk-cotton tree so that they would all bow down in front of
him. But one of the branches broke and he found himself on
the ground with his ass in the dust.”
My mother laughed. She hadn’t laughed for months. Yao
took the bundle she was holding and put it in a corner of
the cabin.
“The place is filthy,” he apologized, “because I’d lost all
interest in living. For me it was like a puddle of dirty water you
try to avoid. Now that you are here, everything’s going to be
different.”
They spent the night in each other’s arms, like brother and
sister, or rather like father and daughter, chaste and affection
ate. A week went by before they made love.
When I was born four months later, Yao and my mother
were in a state of happiness. That sad, uncertain happiness of
being a slave, constantly under threat, and making do with in
tangible scraps! At six o’clock every morning, with his cutlass
slung over his shoulder, Yao set off for the fields and took his
place in the long line of men in rags trudging along the foot
paths. In the meantime my mother grew tomatoes, okra, and
6
I, Tituba
other vegetables in her plot of ground, cooked, and kept some

skinny chickens. At six o’clock in the evening the men would
return home and the women would fuss over them.
My mother sorely regretted that I was not a boy. It seemed
to her that a woman’s fate was even more painful than a man’s.
In order to free themselves from their condition, didn’t they
have to submit to the will of those very men who kept them
in bondage and to sleep with them? Yao, on the other hand,
was delighted. He took me in his big bony hands and anointed
my forehead with the blood of a chicken, after having buried
my mother’s placenta under a silk-cotton tree. Then, holding
me up by the feet, he presented me to the four corners of the
horizon. It was he who gave me my name: Tituba, ti-tu-ba.
It’s not an Ashanti name. Yao probably invented it to prove
that I was the daughter of his will and imagination. Daughter
of his love.
The first years of my life were spent peacefully. I was a beau
tiful, chubby baby, and my mother’s milk did wonders for me.
Then 1 learned to talk and walk. I discovered the sad, yet won
derful universe around me. The slave cabins made of dried mud,
silhouetted against the huge sky, the haphazard arrangement
of plants and trees, the sea and its bitter song of freedom. Yao
turned my face toward the open sea and whispered in my ear:
“One day we shall be free and we shall fly back to the country
we came from.” Then he rubbed my body with a knot of dried
seaweed to stop me from getting yaws.
In actual fact Yao had two children, my mother and me. For
my mother, he was much more than a lover: he was a father, a
savior, and a refuge.
When did I discover that my mother did not love me? Per
haps when I was five or six years old. Although the color of my
skin was far from being light and my hair was crinkly all over,
I never stopped reminding my mother of the white sailor who
had raped her on the deck of Christ the King, while surrounded
by a circle of obscene voyeurs. I constantly reminded her of the
pain and humiliation. So whenever I used to cuddle up to her,
as children are wont to do, she would inevitably push me away.
Whenever I would throw my arms around her neck, she would
7
quickly duck her head. She listened only to what Yao told her
to do. “Sit her on your lap. Kiss her! Fondle her!”
Yet I did not suffer from this lack of affection, because Yao’s
love was worth the love of two. My tiny fingers nestled in his
hard, rough hand. My tiny foot in his enormous footprint and
my forehead in the hollow of his neck. Life had a kind of sweet
ness about it. Although it was forbidden by Darnell, in the
evenings the men would mount their tall drums and the women
would lift their rags up on their glistening legs and dance!
Several times, however, I witnessed scenes of brutality and
torture. I saw men go home covered in blood, their chests and
backs striped in scarlet. I even saw one of them die under my
very eyes, vomiting a violet froth of blood. They buried him at
the foot of a majagua tree. Then everyone rejoiced because at
least one of us had been delivered and was on his way home.
Motherhood, and especially Yao’s love, had transformed my
mother. She was now a young woman, as lithe and purple as
the sugarcane flower. Her eyes shone from under the white
kerchief she tied about her forehead. One day she took me by
the hand to go and dig up the yam patch in a plot of ground
the master had given to the slaves. A breeze was blowing the
clouds out to sea and the sky had been washed a soft blue. My
Barbados is a flat island with a few hills dotted here and there.
We had started off along a footpath that wound through
the Guinea grass when suddenly we heard the sound of angry
voices. It was Darnell reprimanding an overseer. At the sight of
my mother, his expression changed radically and flickered be
tween surprise and delight. “Is that you, Abena?” he exclaimed.
“Well, the husband I gave you is doing wonders for you. Come
over here.”
My mother stepped back so sharply that the basket on her
head holding a cutlass and a calabash of water fell to the
ground. The calabash broke into three pieces, spilling its con
tents over the grass. The cutlass stuck upright in the ground,
icy and murderous, while the basket started to roll down the
path as if it were fleeing the drama that was about to unfold.
Terrified, I ran after the basket and managed to catch it.
When I turned back toward my mother, she was standing up
8
I, Tituba
against a calabash tree, breathing hard. Darnell stood less than
three feet away. He had taken off his shirt, undone his trousers,
and I could see his very white underclothes. His left hand was
groping for his penis. Turning her head in my direction, my
mother screamed: “The cutlass! Give me the cutlass!”
I obeyed as quickly as I could, holding the enormous blade in
my tiny hands. My mother struck two blows. The white linen
shirt slowly turned scarlet.
* * *
They hanged my mother.
I watched her body swing from the lower branches of a silk
cotton tree. She had committed a crime for which there is no
pardon. She had struck a white man. She had not killed him,
however. In her clumsy rage she had only managed to gash his
shoulder.
All the slaves had been summoned to her execution. Once
her neck had been broken and her soul had departed, there
rose up a clamor of anger and revolt that the overseers silenced
with great lashes of their whips. Taking refuge in one of the
women’s skirts, I felt something harden inside me like lava;
a feeling that was never to leave me, a mixture of terror and
mourning.
When her body swung round and round in the air, I gathered
up enough strength to tiptoe away and vomit my heart out in
the grass.
In order to punish Yao for his concubine’s crime, Darnell
sold him to a planter by the name of John Inglewood, who
lived on the other side of Mount Hillaby. Yao never arrived
at his destination. On the way there he committed suicide by
swallowing his tongue.
As for me, I was driven off the plantation by Darnell at the
tender age of seven. I would probably have died if it hadn’t been
for that almost sacred tradition of solidarity among slaves.
An old woman took me in. As she had seen her man and
two sons tortured to death for instigating a slave revolt, she
seemed to act deranged. In fact, she was hardly of this world
9
and lived constantly in their company. She had cultivated to a

fine art the ability to communicate with the invisible. She was
not an Ashanti like my mother and Yao, but a Nago from the
coast, whose name, Yetunde, had been creolized into Mama
Yaya. People were afraid of her, but they came from far and
wide because of her powers.
She started off by giving me a bath of foul-smelling roots,
letting the water run over my arms and legs. Then she had me
drink a potion of her own concoction and tied a string of little
red stones around my neck. “You will suffer during your life. A
lot. A lot.” She uttered these terrifying words perfectly calmly,
almost with a smile. “But you’ll survive.” That was not very re
assuring! But the hunched and wrinkled figure of Mama Yaya
gave off such an air of authority that I did not dare protest.
Mama Yaya taught me about herbs. Those for inducing sleep.
Those for healing wounds and ulcers. Those for loosening the
tongues of thieves. Those that calm epileptics and plunge them
into blissful rest. Those that put words of hope on the lips of
the angry, the desperate, and the suicidal.
Mama Yaya taught me to listen to the wind rising and to
measure its force as it swirled above the cabins it had the power
to crush.
Mama Yaya taught me the sea, the mountains, and the hills.
She taught me that everything lives, has a soul, and breathes.
That everything must be respected. That man is not the master
riding through his kingdom on horseback.
One day I fell asleep in the middle of the afternoon. It was
the dry season. The slaves were chanting plaintively as they
hoed and cut in the stifling heat. Then I saw my mother. Not
the disjointed, tormented puppet swinging round and round
among the leaves, but decked out in the colors of Yao’s love.
“Mother!” I cried.
She came and took me in her arms. God! How sweet her lips
were! “Forgive me for thinking I didn’t love you. Now I know
I’ll never leave you,” she said.
“And Yao? Where is Yao?” I cried out in happiness.
She turned around. “He’s here too.” And Yao appeared.
I ran to tell my dream to Mama Yaya, who was peeling the
10
I, Tituba
tubers for the evening meal. She smiled knowingly. “Do you
really think it was a dream?” I remained dumbfounded.
From that moment on Mama Yaya initiated me into the
upper spheres of knowledge. The dead only die if they die in
our hearts. They live on if we cherish them and honor their
memory, if we place their favorite delicacies in life on their
graves, and if we kneel down regularly to commune with them.
They are all around us, eager for attention, eager for affection.
A few words are enough to conjure them back and to have
their invisible bodies pressed against ours in their eagerness to
make themselves useful. But beware of irritating them, for they
never forgive and they pursue with implacable hatred those
who have offended them, even in error. Mama Yaya taught me
the prayers, the rites, and the propitiatory gestures. She taught
me how to change myself into a bird on a branch, into an in
sect in the dry grass or a frog croaking in the mud of the River
Ormond whenever I was tired of the shape I had been given at
birth. And then she taught me the sacrifices. Blood and milk,
the essential liquids. Alas! shortly after my fourteenth birth
day her body followed the law of nature. I did not cry when I
buried her. I knew I was not alone and that three spirits were
now watching over me.
It was at this juncture that Darnell sold the plantation. A
few years earlier his wife, Jennifer, had died leaving him a frail,
pale baby son, who was periodically shaken with fever. De
spite the copious milk he received from a slave, who had been
forced to give up nursing her own son, he seemed destined for
the grave. Darnell’s paternal instinct was aroused for his only
white offspring and he decided to return to England to try and
cure him.
The new master bought the land without the slaves, which
was not at all the custom. With their feet in chains and a
rope around their necks, they were taken to Bridgetown to find
a buyer. Then they were scattered to the four corners of the
island, father separated from son and mother from daughter.
Since I no longer belonged to Darnell and was a squatter on
the plantation, I was not part of the sad procession that set off
for the slave market. I knew a spot on the edge of the River
11
Ormond where nobody ever went because the soil was marshy
and not suitable for growing sugarcane. With the strength of
my own hands I managed to build a cabin on stilts. I patiently
grafted strips of earth and laid out a garden where soon all
sorts of plants were growing, placed in the ground with ritual
respect for the sun and air.
Today I realize that these were the happiest moments of my
life. I was never alone, because my invisible spirits were all
around me, yet they never oppressed me with their presence.
Mama Yaya put the finishing touches to her lessons about
herbs. Under her guidance I attempted bold hybrids, cross
breeding the passiflorinde with the prune taureau, the poison
ous pomme cythere with the surette, and the azalee-des-azalees
with the persulfureuse. I devised drugs and potions whose
powers I strengthened with incantations.
In the evening the violet sky of the island stretched above my
head like a huge handkerchief against which the stars sparkled
one by one. In the morning the sun cupped its hand in front
of its mouth and called for me to roam in its company. I was
far from men, and especially white men. I was happy. Alas! all
that was to change.
One day a great gust of wind blew down the chicken house
and I had to set off in search of my hens and handsome scarlet
necked rooster, straying far from the boundaries I had set for
myself.
At a crossroads I met some slaves taking a cart of sugarcane
to the mill. What a sorry sight! Haggard faces, mud-colored
rags, arms and legs worn to the bone, and hair reddened from
malnutrition. Helping his father drive the oxen was a boy of
ten, as somber and taciturn as an adult who has lost faith in
everything.
The minute they saw me, everybody jumped into the grass
and knelt down, while half a dozen pairs of respectful, yet ter
rified eyes looked up at me. I was taken aback. What stories
had they woven about me? Why did they seem to be afraid of
me? I should have thought they would have felt sorry for me
instead, me the daughter of a hanged woman and a recluse who
lived alone on the edge of a pond. I realized that they were
12
I, Tituba
mainly thinking about my connection with Mama Yaya, whom
they had feared. But hadn’t Mama Yaya used her powers to do
good? Again and again? The terror of these people seemed like
an injustice to me. They should have greeted me with shouts of
joy and welcome and presented me with a list of illnesses that I
would have tried my utmost to cure. I was born to heal, not to
frighten.
I went home sadly, with no further thought for my hens and
my rooster, who by now must have been crowing in the grass
along the highway. This meeting was to have lasting conse
quences. From that day on I drew closer to the plantations so
that my true self could be known. Tituba must be loved! To
think that 1 scared people; I who felt inside me nothing but ten
derness and compassion. Oh yes, I should have liked to unleash
the wind like a dog from his kennel so that the white Great
Houses of the masters would be blown away over the horizon,
to order a fire to kindle and fan its flames so that the whole
island would be purified and devastated. But I didn’t have such
powers. I only knew how to offer consolation.
Gradually the slaves got used to seeing me and came up to
me, at first shyly, then with more confidence. I visited the cabins
and comforted the sick and dying.
2
“Hey! Are you Tituba? It’s not surprising people are afraid of
you. Have you looked at yourself recently?”
The speaker was a young man much older than I was, since
he could not have been less than twenty, tall, skinny, light
skinned, and with curiously smooth hair. When I tried to reply,
the words flew away as if they were unwilling to talk and I
couldn’t put two of them together to make a sentence. In my
great confusion I let out a groan that sent the young man into
fits of laughter.
“No, it’s not surprising people are afraid of you,” he re
peated. “You don’t know how to talk and your hair is a tangle.
You could be lovely if you wanted to.”
He came up boldly. If I had been more used to contact with
men, I would have seen the fear in his eyes that constantly
moved like a rabbit’s and were just as bronze. But I didn’t and I
was simply fascinated by the bravado of his voice and his smile.
“Yes, I am Tituba. And you, who are you?” I finally managed
to answer.
“They call me John Indian.”
It was an unusual name and I frowned. “Indian?”
He puffed himself up. “My father was, they say, one of the
last remaining Arawak Indians that the English couldn’t budge.
He was an eight-foot giant. He had me with a Nago woman
he used to visit in the evenings and here I am, another little
bastard on his long list.”
He spun round again in a burst of laughter. His gaiety struck
me. So there were people who were happy on this wretched
earth!
“Are you a slave?” I stammered.
14
I, Tituba
“Yes,” he nodded. “I belong to Goodwife Susanna Endicott

who lives over there in Carlisle Bay.” He pointed to the sea
glistening in the distance. “She sent me to buy some Leghorn
eggs from Samuel Waterman.”
“Who is Samuel Waterman?” I asked.
He laughed. Once again the laughter of someone with no
inhibitions. “Don’t you know he’s the one who bought the
plantation from Darnell Davis?” And thereupon he bent down
and picked up a round basket he had placed at his feet. “Well,
I must be off now. Otherwise I’ll be late and Goodwife Endi
cott will start prattling again. You know how women like to
prattle. Especially when they start getting old and haven’t got
a husband.”
All this talk made my head spin. As he moved off with a
wave of his hand, I don’t know what came over me, but I said
in a tone of voice I had never heard myself use before: “Will I
see you again?”
He stared at me. I wonder what he saw in my face. “Sunday
afternoon there’s a dance at Carlisle Bay,” he swaggered. “Do
you want to come? I’ll be there.”
I jerked my head up and down.
I slowly went back to my cabin. I saw the place I called
home with new eyes and it looked sinister. The planks, roughly
squared off with an axe, were blackened by wind and rain. The
purple flowers of a giant bougainvillea growing against the left
side of the cabin did little to brighten it up. I looked around me:
a gnarled calabash tree and some reeds. I shuddered. I went
over to what remained of the chicken house and grabbed one
of the few chickens that had remained faithful to me. With an
expert hand I slit open its belly, letting the blood moisten the
earth. Then I softly called: “Mama Yaya. Mama Yaya.”
She appeared quickly. Not in her mortal shape of a woman
of many years, but in the one she had donned for eternity:
perfumed and crowned with orange blossom.
“Mama Yaya,” I said, panting. “I want this man to love me.”
She shook her head. “Men do not love. They possess. They
subjugate.”
“Yao loved Abena,” I protested.
15
“He was one of the rare exceptions.”

“Perhaps John’ll be one, too.”
She threw back her head so as to let out a snort of incred
ulity. “They say that this cock has coupled with half the hens
in Carlisle Bay.”
“I want it to stop!”
“I only have to take one look at him to see he’s a shallow
nigger, full of hot air and bravado.” Then after observing the
urgency in my eyes, she said quietly: “All right, go to this dance
in Carlisle Bay he’s invited you to and carefully get a little of
his blood on a piece of cloth. Bring it to me together with
something that has been in contact with his skin.” And she
moved away, but not before I noticed an expression of sadness
on her face. She had probably seen the pattern of my life start
to unfold. Like a river that can never be fully diverted from its
course.
Up until now I had never thought about my body. Was I
beautiful? Was I ugly? I had no idea. What had he said? “You
know, you could be lovely.” But he had been such a joker. Per
haps he was laughing at me. I took off my clothes, lay down,
and let my hand stray over my body. It seemed to me that these
curves and protuberances were harmonious. As I neared my
pudenda, it seemed that it was no longer me but John Indian
who was caressing me. Out of the depths of my body gushed a
pungent tidal wave that flooded my thighs.
I could hear myself moan in the night.
Was that how my mother had moaned in spite of herself
when the sailor had raped her? I understood then why she had
wanted to spare her body the second humiliation of a love
less possession and had tried to kill Darnell. What else had
he said? “Your hair is in a tangle.” The next morning when
I awoke I went down to the River Ormond and cut my mop
of hair as best I could. As the last woolly locks fell into the
water I heard a sigh. It was my mother. I hadn’t called her, but
I understood that an imminent danger had brought her out of
the invisible world.
“Why can’t women do without men?” she groaned. “Now
you’re going to be dragged off to the other side of the water.”
16
/, Tituba
Surprised, I interrupted her. “To the other side of the water?”
But she said no more, merely repeating in a distressed voice:
“Why can’t women do without men?”
Mama Yaya’s reluctance, and my mother’s lamentations,
might have warned me to take care. But this was not the case.
On Sunday I set off for Carlisle Bay.
In a chest I had discovered a mauve calico dress and a per
cale skirt that must have belonged to my mother. As I slipped
the clothes on, two creole-style earrings rolled to the ground. I
winked at the invisible spirit.
The last time I had been to Bridgetown was when my mother
was alive. Almost ten years had gone by, and the town had
grown tremendously. It had become an important seaport. A
forest of masts hid the bay and I could see flags of all nationali
ties flying. The wooden houses looked elegant to me with their
verandas and enormous roofs, their windows open wide like
the eyes of a child.
I had no trouble finding the dance, as the music could be
heard a long way off. If I had had some notion of time I would
have known it was carnival, the only season of the year when
the slaves were free to enjoy themselves. So they came in from
all corners of the island to try and forget they were no longer
human beings. People were looking at me and I heard them
whisper: “Where does she come from?”
Obviously nobody thought there was any connection be
tween this elegant young person and the half-legendary Tituba
whose deeds were related from plantation to plantation.
John Indian was dancing with a tall yellow girl with a pleated
madras head tie. He left her high and dry in the middle of the
dance floor and came over to me, his eyes sparkling like those
of his Arawak ancestor.
“You came,” he laughed. “You actually came.” Then he took
me by the arm. “Come on, come on.”
“I can’t dance,” I protested.
He burst out laughing again. My God how this man could
laugh! And as each note rang out, a locked compartment burst
open in my heart.
“A Negress who can’t dance? Have you ever heard of such
a thing!”
17
Soon there was a circle around us. Wings grew on my ankles

and heels. My hips and waist became supple. A mysterious ser
pent had entered me. Was it the primordial snake that Mama
Yaya talked about so much, in the form of god the creator
of all things on the surface of the earth? Or was it he who
was making me sway? Sometimes the tall yellow girl with
the pleated madras head tie attempted to come between John
Indian and me. We ignored her. At one point John Indian wiped
his forehead with a large seersucker handkerchief, and I re
membered Mama Yaya’s words: “A drop of his blood. Some
thing that has come into contact with his skin.”
For a moment my head started to spin. Was it really necessary
to go through with this since he seemed “naturally” attracted
to me? Then I had the intuition that the main thing was not
so much to attract a man as to keep him, and that John Indian
must belong to the species that is easily attracted but has no in
tention of making any lasting commitment. I therefore obeyed
Mama Yaya.
I scratched his little finger while I carefully stole his hand
kerchief.
“Ow! What are you doing, little witch?”
He was joking, but it made me think. What is a witch? I
noticed that when he said the word, it was marked with dis
approval. Why should that be? Why? Isn’t the ability to com
municate with the invisible world, to keep constant links with
the dead, to care for others and heal, a superior gift of nature
that inspires respect, admiration, and gratitude? Consequently,
shouldn’t the witch (if that’s what the person who has this gift
is to be called) be cherished and revered rather than feared?
All these thoughts made me morose and I left the room after
one more polka. John Indian was too busy to notice I had left.
Outside, the black cord of night was strangling the island. Not
a breath of air. The trees were motionless, like stakes. I recalled
my mother’s lament: “Why can’t women do without men?”
Yes why?
* * *
“I’m not a bush nigger, a maroon! I’ll never come and live in
that rabbit hutch of yours up in the woods. If you want to live
with me you’ll have to come to my home in Bridgetown.”
18
/, Tituba
“Your home?” I laughed disparagingly and added: “Since

when does a slave have a ‘home’? Don’t you belong to Susanna
Endicott?”
He seemed annoyed. “Yes, I belong to Susanna Endicott, but
she’s a good mistress. .. .”
I interrupted him. “How can a mistress be ‘good’? Can a
slave cherish his master?”
He pretended not to have heard and went on: “My house
is behind hers and I do what I like there.” He took me by the
hand. “Tituba, you know what they say about you, they say
you’re a witch!” That word again! “I want to prove to every
one that it’s not true and take you openly as my woman. We’ll
go to church together, I’ll teach you the prayers.”
I knew I should have fled. Instead, I stayed rooted to the
spot, passive and adoring.
“Do you know the prayers?” I shook my head. “How the
world was created on the seventh day? How our father Adam
was turned out of the earthly paradise through the fault of our
mother, Eve?”
What strange story was this he was telling? But I didn’t
have the strength to protest. I withdrew my hand and turned
my back.
“Tituba, don’t you want me?” he whispered against my neck.
And therein lay my misfortune. I wanted that man as I had
never wanted anyone else. I desired his love as I had never de
sired any other. Not even my mother’s. I wanted him to touch
me. I wanted him to caress me. I was merely waiting for the
moment when he would take me and the valves of my body
would open wide, flooding me with pleasure.
He went on whispering against my skin: “Don’t you want to
live with me from the time the silly roosters puff themselves up
in the farmyard until the sun sinks into the sea and the ardent
hours begin?”
I had the strength to get up. “It’s a serious matter. Let me
think about it for a week and I’ll bring you my answer on this
very same spot.”
In a rage he picked up his straw hat. What was there about
John Indian to make me sick with love for him? Not very tall,
19
average height, five feet seven, not very big, not ugly, not hand
some either! A fine set of teeth, burning eyes. 1 must confess it
was downright hypocritical of me to ask myself such a ques
tion, since 1 knew all too well where his main asset lay and
I dared not look below the jute cord that held up his short,
tight-fitting konoko trousers to the huge bump of his penis.
“Until Sunday then,” I said.
I had barely arrived home when 1 called Mama Yaya, who
was in no hurry to listen to me and appeared with a frown on
her face.
“What do you want now? Haven’t you got all you wanted?
He’s asking you to live with him.”
“You know very well that 1 don’t want to return to the white
man’s world,” I said very quietly.
“There’s no way of escaping it.”
“Why? Why?” 1 almost shouted. “Can’t you bring him here?
Do you mean to say there’s a limit to your powers?”
Instead of getting angry, she looked at me with tender com
passion. “I have always told you. The universe has its rules
that 1 cannot entirely change. Otherwise 1 would destroy this
world and build another where our people would be free. Free
to enslave the white men in their turn. Alas! I cannot.”
I could think of nothing in reply and Mama Yaya disap
peared as she had come, leaving behind her that perfume of
eucalyptus peculiar to the invisible world. Left alone, I lit the
fire between four stones, wedged in my earthenware pot, and
threw a hot pepper and a piece of salt pork into the water to
make a stew. And yet I didn’t feel like eating.
My mother had been raped by a white man. She had been
hanged because of a white man. I had seen his tongue quiver out
of his mouth, his penis turgid and violet. My adoptive father
had committed suicide because of a white man. Despite all
that, I was considering living among white men again, in their
midst, under their domination. And all because of an uncon
trollable desire for a mortal man. Wasn’t it madness? Madness
and betrayal?
That night, and for seven more nights and days, I struggled
with myself. In the end, 1 confessed 1 was beaten. I wouldn’t
20
/, Tituba
want anyone to go through the agony I went through. Remorse.
Shame. Panic. Fear.
On the following Sunday 1 packed a few of my mother’s
dresses and three petticoats into a wicker basket. I wedged a
pole against the door of my house. I set my animals free. The
hens and the guinea fowl that had given me their eggs. The cow
that had given me her milk. The pig that I had been fattening
for a year without ever having the heart to kill it.
I murmured a long prayer for the dwellers of this place I was
abandoning. Then I set off for Carlisle Bay.
Susanna Endicott was a small woman of about fifty, with gray
ing hair that was parted in the middle and brushed up into such
a tight chignon that it pulled back the skin on her forehead
and temples. I could read all the aversion she had for me in her
eyes, which were the color of sea water. She stared at me as if
I were an object of disgust.
“Tituba? Where did that name come from?”
“My father gave it to me,” I replied coldly.
She turned purple. “Lower your eyes when you speak to me.”
I obeyed for the love of John Indian.
“Are you a Christian?” she went on.
John Indian hastily intervened. “I’m going to teach her the
prayers, Mistress! And I’m going to see the vicar of Bridgetown
so that she can be baptized as soon as possible.”
Susanna Endicott stared at me again. “You will clean the
house. Once a week you will scrub the floor. You will do the
washing and ironing. But you will leave the cooking to me. I
cannot bear to have you niggers touching my food with the
discolored, waxy palms of your hands.”
I looked at my palms. Gray and pink like a seashell. Whereas
John Indian greeted this outburst with a roar of laughter, I
remained dumbfounded. Nobody had ever spoken to me, hu
miliated me, in such a manner!
“You can go now!”
John started to hop from one foot to another and in a whin
ing, humble voice, like a child asking for a favor, he pleaded:
“Mistress, when a nigger takes a wife doesn’t he deserve two
days rest? Doesn’t he, Mistress?”
Susanna Endicott spat and her eyes were now the color of
22
Z, Tituba
stormy seas. “A nice woman you’ve got yourself there and pray
God you don’t repent it!”
John Indian burst out laughing again and between two peals
of laughter, cried: “Pray God! Pray God!”
Susanna Endicott suddenly softened her tone. “Be off with
you and report back to me on Tuesday.”
In the same comical and exaggerated way, John insisted:
“Two days, Mistress! Two days!”
“All right, you’ve won,” she burst out. “As always! Report
back Wednesday. But don’t forget it’s the day the post comes.”
“Have I ever forgotten?” he said proudly. Then he threw
himself on the ground to seize her hand and kiss it.
Instead of letting him have his way she struck him across the
face. “Get out of here, nigger!”
My blood was boiling inside me.
John Indian, who knew what I was thinking, started to hurry
me away when Susanna’s voice nailed us to the spot. “Well,
Tituba, aren’t you going to thank me?”
John squeezed my fingers as if to crush them.
I managed to murmur a weak: “Thank you, Mistress.”
Susanna Endicott was the widow of a rich planter, one of
the first to have learned the Dutch art of extracting sugar from
cane. On the death of her husband she had sold the plantation
and freed all the slaves, since, because of a paradox I couldn’t
understand, although she hated Negroes, she was strongly op
posed to slavery. Only John Indian remained in her house
hold where he had been brought up ever since he was a baby.
Susanna Endicott’s beautiful and spacious home in Carlisle Bay
stretched out amidst a wooded park; at the bottom stood John
Indian’s little house, which, I must confess, I found quite at
tractive with its lime-plastered wattling and a small-columned
veranda hung with a hammock.
John Indian closed the door with a wooden latch and took
me in his arms, whispering: “The duty of a slave is to survive!
Do you understand? To survive!”
His words reminded me of Mama Yaya and tears started
to run down my cheeks. John Indian drank them one by one,
23
trailing their salty trickle to the inside of my mouth. 1 choked. I

could not forget the pain and shame I felt at his behavior in
front of Susanna Endicott, but my rage sharpened my desire
for him. I bit him savagely at the base of his neck. He gave one
of his magnificent laughs and shouted: “Come, my little wild
mare, let me tame you.”
He picked me up and took me into the bedroom, which had
a four-poster bed—an unexpected baroque fortress—right in
the middle. Finding myself on this bed, which Susanna Endi
cott had probably given him, unleashed my fury and our first
moments of love-making resembled a battle.
I expected a lot from these moments and 1 was not disap
pointed. When I turned on my side, exhausted and in search of
sleep, I heard a bitter sigh. It was probably my mother, but I
refused to communicate with her.
Those two days were an enchantment. Neither rigid nor
complaining, John Indian was used to doing everything for
himself and he treated me like a goddess. It was he who kneaded
the corn bread, prepared the stew, and sliced the avocados, the
pink-fleshed guavas, and the slightly overripe-smelling paw
paws. He brought me food in bed in a calabash with a spoon he
had carved himself and had decorated with triangular motifs.
He told me stories, parading around in the midst of an imagi
nary circle of listeners.
“Crick, crack. Is the court awake?”
He untied my hair and did it up his own way. He rubbed my
body with coconut oil perfumed with ylang-ylang.
But those two days only lasted two days. Not one hour
longer. On Wednesday morning Susanna Endicott hammered
on the door and we heard her shrewish voice cry out: “John
Indian, do you remember it’s post day? And there you are lying
in bed with your wife!”
John sprang out of bed. I dressed more slowly. When I ar
rived at the house Susanna Endicott was having her breakfast
in the kitchen. A bowl of gruel and a slice of black bread. She
pointed to a circular object on the wall and asked: “Can you
read the time?”
24
I, Tituba
“Time?”
“Yes, wretch, that is a clock. And you start work at six
o’clock every morning.”
Then she showed me a bucket, a broom, and a scrubbing
brush. “To work!”
The house had twelve rooms, plus an attic piled high with
leather trunks containing the clothes of the late Joseph Endi
cott. Apparently he had liked fine linen.
When I went back downstairs, tottering from exhaustion
with my dress soiled and wet through, Susanna Endicott was
having tea with her friends, half a dozen women like herself,
their skin the color of curdled milk, their hair drawn back,
and the ends of their shawls knotted around their waists. Their
multicolored eyes stared at me in fright.
“Where did she come from?”
“She’s John Indian’s woman,” said Susanna Endicott in a
tone of mock solemnity.
The ladies all exclaimed at once and one of them protested:
“Under your roof! In my opinion, Susanna Endicott, you give
that boy too much liberty. You forget he’s a nigger.”
Susanna Endicott shrugged her shoulders indulgently. “Well,
it’s better that he has all he needs at home rather than running
all over the island wearing himself out sowing his wild oats.”
“I hope she’s a Christian at least.”
“John Indian is going to teach her her prayers.”
“And are you going to let them marry?”
It was not so much the conversation that amazed and re
volted me as their way of going about it. You would think 1
wasn’t standing there at the threshold of the room. They were
talking about me and yet ignoring me. They were striking me
off the map of human beings. 1 was a nonbeing. Invisible. More
invisible than the unseen, who at least have powers that every
one fears. Tituba only existed insofar as these women let her
exist. It was atrocious. Tituba became ugly, coarse, and in
ferior because they willed her so. 1 went out into the garden
and heard their comments, which proved they had inspected
me from head to foot while pretending to ignore me.
“She has eyes that turn your blood cold.”
25
“The eyes of a witch. Susanna Endicott, do be careful.”

I went back to the cabin and sat down on the veranda, over
whelmed. After a while I heard a sigh. It was my mother again.
This time I turned to her and said savagely: “Weren’t you ever
in love when you were on this earth?”
She nodded. “But he didn’t degrade me. On the contrary.
Yao’s love gave me respect and faith in myself.”
Thereupon she curled up at the foot of a bush of wild roses.
I didn’t move. All I needed to do was get up, take my small
bundle of clothes, close the door behind me, and set off back
toward the River Ormond. Alas! It was impossible.
The slaves who flocked off the ships in droves and whose
gait, features, and carriage the good people of Bridgetown
mocked were far freer than I was. For the slaves had not chosen
their chains. They had not walked of their own accord toward
a raging, awe-inspiring sea to give themselves up to the slave
dealers and bend their backs to the branding iron.
That is exactly what I had done.
* * *
“I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and
Earth, and in Jesus Christ, his only son, Our Lord ...”
I shook my head frantically. “John Indian, I can’t repeat
this.”
“Repeat, my love. What matters for the slave is to survive.
Repeat, my angel. You don’t think that I believe in their story
of the Holy Trinity? One God in three distinct persons? But it
doesn’t matter. You just need to pretend. Repeat!”
“I can’t!”
“Repeat, my love, my little mare with a tousled mane. What
matters most is that we are together in this big bed like a raft
on the rapids.”
“I can’t. I’ve forgotten.”
“I promise you, my love, my angel, this is all that counts. So
repeat after me.”
John Indian joined my hands forcibly together and 1 repeated
after him: “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Maker of
Heaven and Earth . ..”
But these words meant nothing to me. They had nothing in
26
I, Tituba
common with what Mama Yaya had taught me.

As she did not trust John Indian, Susanna Endicott herself
undertook to have me recite my catechism lessons and to ex
plain the words of her Holy Bible. Every afternoon at four,
there she was with her hands folded on a thick leather-bound
volume that she would not open before crossing herself and
murmuring a short prayer. 1 remained standing in front of her
and tried to find the correct words.
For it is difficult to explain the effect that woman had on me.
She paralyzed me. She terrified me.
Her eyes, the color of sea water, made me lose my bearings.
I was reduced to what she wanted me to be: a gawk of a girl
with skin of a repulsive color. In vain I called those who loved
me to the rescue, but they were of no help. When I was far from
Susanna Endicott I reprimanded myself, I reproached myself
and swore to stand up to her at our next tête-à-tête. I even de
vised impertinent and insolent answers to defeat her questions.
Alas! Once 1 was back in front of her, my confidence always
failed me.
One day I pushed open the door of the kitchen where she
sat waiting for our lessons and immediately her look told me
quietly that she had a lethal weapon she was about to use on me.
The lesson, however, started as usual. I courageously launched
into: “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Maker . . .”
She did not interrupt me. She let me stammer and stutter and
trip up over the slippery English syllables. When I had finished
my recitation, as breathless as if I had run up a hill, she said:
“Aren’t you the daughter of that Abena who killed a planter?”
“She didn’t kill him, Mistress,” I protested. “Just wounded
him.”
Susanna Endicott smiled as if all these niceties bore little
weight and went on. “Weren’t you brought up by a certain
Nago witch called Mama Yaya?”
“Witch,” I stammered. “Witch? She took care of people and
cured them.”
She smiled knowingly and her thin, colorless lips fluttered.
“Does John Indian know about all this?”
“What is there to hide?” I managed to retort.
27
Her eyes dropped back to her book. At that moment John

Indian came in carrying the wood for the kitchen and saw me
so distressed that he realized something terrible was brewing.
Alas! It wasn’t until long afterward that I was able to tell him.
“She knows! She knows who I am!”
His body became stiff and cold like a day-old corpse. “What
did she say?” he murmured.
I told him everything and he murmured frantically: “Not
a year ago Governor Dutton had two slaves who had been
accused of dealing with Satan burned in the square at Bridge
town. For the whites that’s what being a witch means. . . !”
“Dealing with Satan!” I objected. “Before setting foot inside
this house I didn’t know who Satan was!”
“Go and tell that to the court!” he sneered.
“The court?”
John Indian was so terrified that I could hear his heart beat
in the room.
“Tell me!” I ordered him.
“You don’t know the whites. If she manages to get them to
believe that you’re a witch, they’ll build a stake and put you
on it!”
That night, for the first time since we had lived together, John
Indian did not make love to me. I tossed and turned by his side,
groping for the object that had given me so much pleasure. But
he pushed me away.
The night wore on. I heard the wind howl through the palm
trees. I heard the swell of the sea. I heard the bark of the dogs,
trained to smell out slave prowlers. I heard the din of the cocks
announcing the daylight. Then John Indian got up and without
a word locked up in his clothes the body he had refused me. I
burst into tears.
When I entered the kitchen to start my daily chores, Susanna
Endicott was deep in conversation with Betsey Ingersoll, the
minister’s wife. I knew they were talking about me, for their
heads almost touched above the steam rising from their bowls
of gruel. John Indian was right. A plot was being woven.
In court the word of a slave, even a freed slave, did not count.
I could bawl and shout as much as I liked that I didn’t know
28
I, Tituba
who Satan was, nobody would listen to me. So 1 made up my

mind to protect myself. Without further ado.
I stepped out into the afternoon heat at three o’clock, oblivi
ous of the sun. I went down to the plot of ground behind
John Indian’s house and sank into prayer. There was not room
enough in this world for Susanna Endicott and me. One of us
had to go and it wasn’t going to be me.
“I’ve spent the whole night calling you! Why are you only get
ting here now?”
“I was at the other end of the island, comforting a slave whose
man died under torture. They whipped him. They rubbed hot
pepper on his wounds and then they tore off his penis.”
This story, which at another time would have revolted me,
left me indifferent. I went on passionately: “I want her to die
slowly, suffering horribly, knowing it’s because of me.”
Mama Yaya shook her head. “Don’t let yourself be eaten
up by revenge. Use your powers to serve your own people and
heal them.”
“But she has declared war on me,” I protested. “She wants
to take John Indian away from me.”
Mama Yaya laughed sadly. “You’ll lose him anyway.”
“What do you mean?” I stammered.
As if she had nothing to add to what she had just let slip,
Mama Yaya did not answer. Seeing me distraught, my mother,
who had heard the conversation, said softly: “A fine loss that
would be! That nigger will get you into no end of trouble!”
Mama Yaya looked at her disapprovingly and she said no more.
I chose to ignore her words and turned to Mama Yaya. “Will
you help me?”
My mother spoke again. “Hot air and bravado! That nigger
is nothing but hot air and bravado!”
Finally, Mama Yaya shrugged her shoulders. “And what do
you want me to do? Haven’t I taught you everything I possibly
could? Besides, soon I won’t be able to be of any help.”
I resigned myself to looking squarely at the truth and asked:
“What do you mean?”
30
/, Tituba
“1’11 be so far away. It’ll take so long to cross the water. And
it’ll be so difficult. . .”
“Why will you have to cross the water?”
My mother burst into tears. Amazing! This woman, who
when she was alive treated me with so little affection, was now
becoming almost overprotective in the other world! A little ex
asperated, I purposefully turned my back on her and repeated:
“Mama Yaya, why will you have to cross the water to see me?”
Mama Yaya did not answer and I understood that, whatever
her affection for me, my mortal condition obliged her to keep
a certain reserve.
I accepted this silence and returned to my previous preoccu
pations. “1 want Susanna Endicott to die!”
My mother and Mama Yaya both got up together. Mama
Yaya said wearily: “Even if she does die you cannot change
your fate. And you will have perverted your heart into the bar
gain. You will have become like them, knowing only how to
kill and destroy. Strike her instead with an inconvenient and
humiliating sickness.”
The two shapes disappeared and I remained alone to medi
tate on my next move. An inconvenient and humiliating sick
ness? Which one would I choose? When dusk brought John
Indian home, 1 had not reached a decision. He seemed cured
of his fright and he even brought me a surprise: a mauve velvet
ribbon, bought from an English trader, which he fixed in my
hair himself. 1 recalled the pessimistic words of Mama Yaya and
Abena, my mother, concerning him and I wanted to reassure
myself.
“John Indian, do you love me?”
“More than my own life,” he cooed. “More than that God
Susanna Endicott keeps going on about. But I also fear you.”
“Why do you fear me?”
“Because 1 know you are violent. I often see you as a hur
ricane ravaging the island, laying flat the coconut palms and
raising the lead-gray waves up to the sky.”
“Be quiet! Make love to me!”
Two days later Susanna Endicott was taken with a violent
cramp while she was serving tea to the minister’s wife. The
31
latter scarcely had time to step outside and call John Indian,
who was chopping wood, before a malodorous liquid streamed
down the mistress’s legs and formed a frothy puddle on the
floor. They called for Dr. Fox, a man of science who had studied
at Oxford and published a book entitled Wonders of the In
visible World. The choice of such a doctor was by no means
unintentional. Susanna Endicott’s sickness was too sudden not
to arouse suspicion. Only the day before she had been teaching
the children their catechism with her shawl tied tightly around
her firm waist and her hair covered with a hood. Only the day
before she had marked with a blue cross the eggs that John
Indian had been sent to sell at the market. Perhaps she had
already made known her suspicions about me. Whatever the
case, Fox came and examined her from head to foot. If he was
repelled by the terrible stench that rose from her bed, he did
not show it. He stayed closeted with her for almost three hours.
When he came down, I heard him jabbering with the minister
and some of his followers.
“I have found in no secret part of her body either large or
small growths where the devil could have suckled her. Like
wise, I have found neither red nor blue spots similar to a flea
bite. And still less painless marks that when stuck with a pin
do not bleed. I can therefore make no positive conclusion.”
How I would have liked to witness the decomposition of my
enemy, now a soiled baby wrapped in dirty linen. But nothing
could be glimpsed through her door that was opened just wide
enough to let one of her loyal friends scamper up and down
with trays and chamber pots.
As the saying goes: “When the cat’s away, the mice they
will play.”
The Saturday after Susanna Endicott took to her bed, John
Indian began to play. I knew he wasn’t like me, a morose crea
ture, brought up all alone by an old woman, but I had no idea
he had so many friends. They came from everywhere, even
from the faraway parishes of St. Lucy and St. Philip. One slave
had taken two days to walk from Cobblers Rock. The tall yel
low girl in the pleated madras head tie was also one of the
guests. She merely threw me an angry look without coming
32
I, Tituba
near, as if she understood who was the stronger. One of the

men had carried off from his master’s shop a barrel of rum,
which they opened with a mallet. After two or three goblets
had been passed from hand to hand, things started to liven up.
A black Congo slave, who resembled a gnarled wooden pole,
jumped up onto the table and began to shout riddles.
“Listen to me, men. Listen closely. I am neither king nor
queen. And yet I make the world shake.”
“Rum, rum!” the audience roared.
“Although I’m tiny, I can light up a cabin.”
“A candle, a candle!”
“I sent Mathilda for the bread. The bread arrived before
Mathilda did.”
“Coconut, coconut!”
1 was terrified, unused to such noisy outbursts, and a little
disgusted by the promiscuity. John Indian took me by the arm.
“Don’t put on such a face, or my friends will think you’re con
descending. They’ll say your skin is black, but you’re wearing
a white mask over it.”
“It’s not that,” 1 whispered. “But what if someone hears all
your noise and comes to see what’s going on?”
“And so what?” he laughed. “They expect niggers to get
drunk and dance and make merry once their masters have
turned their backs. Let’s play at being perfect niggers.”
I did not find that amusing, but without more ado he spun
around and launched into a boisterous mazurka.
The highlight of the party occurred when some of the slaves
slipped inside the house where Susanna Endicott was stewing
in her urine and came back with an armful of clothes that had
belonged to her late husband. They put the clothes on and imi
tated the solemn and pompous manners of men of his rank.
One of the slaves tied a handkerchief around his neck and pre
tended to be a minister. He pretended to open a book, to leaf
through it, and started to chant a litany of obscenities. Every
one split their sides laughing and John Indian most of all. Then
the “minister” jumped up on a barrel and thundered: “1 am
going to marry you, Tituba and John Indian. If anyone knows
33
of any reason why these two should not be brought together,

let him come forward and speak.”
The tall yellow girl in the pleated madras head tie walked up
and raised her hand. “I do! John Indian had two illegitimate
children with me as like him as two halfpennies. He promised
to marry me!” The comedy could no doubt have turned sour.
But nothing of the sort happened. Amidst another burst of
laughter the makeshift minister looked inspired and declared:
“In Africa where we come from everyone is entitled to his share
of women, to as many as his arms can hold. Go in peace, John
Indian, and live with your two Negresses.”
Everybody clapped hands and someone threw the yellow girl
and me up against John Indian, who started to shower both
of us with kisses. I pretended to laugh, but I must say that my
blood was boiling inside me. Flying off into the arms of another
dancer, the yellow girl shouted back: “Men, my dear, are made
to be shared!”
I refused to answer and went out onto the veranda.
The revelry lasted until the small hours of the morning. And
strangely enough, nobody came and ordered us to be quiet.
* * *
Two days later, Susanna Endicott called John Indian and me
to her. She was sitting up in bed with her back against her pil
lows, her skin already as yellow as her urine, her face haggard
but peaceful. The window was open out of respect for visitors
and the purifying smell of the sea drowned any fetid vapors.
She looked me straight in the eye and once again I could not
bear her gaze.
“Tituba,” she said, hammering out every syllable, “1 know
it’s one of your spells that has put me in this condition. You are
clever enough to outwit Fox and all those who learn their sci
ence from books. But you can’t deceive me. I want you to know
that you may triumph today, but my turn will come tomorrow
and I shall get my revenge. 1 shall get my revenge!”
John Indian started to groan, but she paid no attention to
him. Turning to the wall, she let it be known that the conver
sation was over.
34
7, Tituba
In the early afternoon a man came to see her, a man such as I
had never seen in the streets of Bridgetown, nor for that matter
anywhere else. Tall, very tall, dressed in black from head to
foot, with a chalky white skin. As he was about to go up the
stairs, his eyes fell on me, standing in the half-light with my
bucket and broom, and I almost fell over. I have already said
much about the eyes of Susanna Endicott, but these! Imagine
greenish, cold eyes, scheming and wily, creating evil because
they saw it everywhere. It was as if I had come face-to-face
with a snake or some other evil, wicked reptile. I was immedi
ately convinced that this Satan we heard so much about must
stare in the same way at people he wishes to lead astray.
He spoke and his voice was the same as his look, cold and
penetrating: “Negress, why are you looking at me in such
a way?”
I scampered off. Then as soon as I had recovered the strength
to move, I ran to John Indian, who was sharpening knives on
the veranda while humming a beguine. I pressed myself up
against him and then finally stammered out: “John Indian, I’ve
just seen Satan!”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Now you’re talking like a Chris
tian!” Then, realizing how upset I was, he drew me close and
said tenderly: “Satan doesn’t like daylight and you won’t see
him walk in the sun. He’s a creature of the night.”
The next few hours were torment. For the first time, I cursed
my powerlessness, in that my art was lacking much to make it
absolutely perfect. Mama Yaya had left this mortal sphere too
early to initiate me into the third degree of knowledge, the
highest and the most complex. Although I could communicate
with the forces of the invisible world and change the present
with their help, 1 was unable to decipher the future. The future
remained for me a circular star covered with dense trees whose
trunks were so close together they kept out both light and
air.
I felt that terrible dangers were threatening me, but I was
incapable of naming them and I knew that neither Abena, my
mother, nor Mama Yaya could intervene to enlighten me.
That night there was a hurricane. I heard it coming from
35
a distance, gaining strength and vigor. The silk-cotton tree in

the yard tried to resist but gave up around midnight, dropping
its topmost branches in a terrible din. As for the banana trees,
they lay down meekly and in the morning there was a sight of
extraordinary desolation.
This natural chaos made Susanna Endicott’s threats even
more frightening. Shouldn’t I try to undo what I had done, per
haps a little too hastily, and cure a hard-hearted mistress? I was
asking myself what to do next when Betsey Ingersoll came to
tell us that the mistress was calling for us.
With dread I appeared in front of the shrew. The cunning
smile that stretched her colorless lips augured no good. “My
death is approaching,” she began.
John Indian thought it appropriate to burst into noisy sobs,
but she went on without paying him any attention.
“The duty of a master in such cases is to think of the future
of those God has put in his charge: his children and his slaves. I
have not had the joy of being a mother. But for you, my slaves,
I have found a new master.”
“A new master, mistress!” John Indian stammered.
“Yes, he’s a man of God who will take care of your souls.
He’s a minister by the name of Samuel Parris. He tried to do
business here, but he was unsuccessful. So he is leaving for
Boston.”
“Boston, mistress?”
“Yes, in the American colonies. Be prepared to follow him.”
John Indian was petrified. He had belonged to Susanna Endi
cott since he was a child. She had taught him to say his prayers
and to sign his name. He had been sure that one day or another
she would talk of freeing him. But instead of that, here she was
telling him that she was going to sell him. And to whom, for
God’s sake? To an unknown person who was going to cross
the sea to seek his fortune in America. In America? Who had
ever gone to America?
I myself understood Susanna Endicott’s horrible scheme. It
was me and me alone she was striking at. It was me she was
banishing to America. Me she was separating from my native
island, from those who loved me and whose company I needed.
36
I, Tituba
She knew full well what I could retort. She was only too aware
of the argument I could use.
“No, Susanna Endicott!” 1 could retort. “I may be John
Indian’s woman, but you haven’t bought me. You have no
deed of ownership listing me with your chairs, your chests
of drawers, your bed, and your eiderdowns. So you can’t sell
me and the gentleman from Boston will not lay hands on my
treasures.”
Yes, but if I said that, I would be separated from John Indian.
Didn’t Susanna Endicott excel in cruelty, and of the two of us
who was the more formidable? After all, sickness and death
are written into our existence and perhaps all I had done was
to get them to erupt a little early into Susanna Endicott’s life!
What was she doing to my life?
John Indian went down on all fours and crawled around
the bed. Nothing could be done! Susanna Endicott remained
inflexible under her canopy, whose curtains had been drawn
open to form a pleated velvet frame.
Mortified and in anguish we went back downstairs.
In the kitchen the minister was talking to a man in front
of the fireplace where a vegetable soup was simmering. On
hearing our footsteps, the man turned around and in horror I
recognized the stranger who had frightened me so much the
day before. A horrible foreboding came over me, confirmed by
the ruthless violence of his cutting words, spoken in a mono
tone: “On your knees, dregs of hell! I am your new master! My
name is Samuel Parris. Tomorrow, as soon as the sun is up, we
shall be leaving aboard the brigantine Blessing. My wife, my
daughter Betsey, and Abigail, my wife’s poor niece, whom we
took in upon the death of her parents, are already on board.”
The new master had me kneel on the deck of the brigantine
among the ropes and barrels. The jeering sailors watched as he
poured a trickle of icy water on my forehead. Then he ordered
me to get up and I followed him to the stern of the vessel where
John Indian was standing. He ordered us to kneel beside each
other. He came forward and his shadow covered us, blotting
out the sun.
“John and Tituba Indian. I hereby declare you man and wife
by the holy ties of matrimony to live and remain in peace until
death do you part.”
“Amen!” stammered John Indian.
I couldn’t pronounce a single word. My lips were sealed
together. Despite the stifling heat, I was cold. An icy sweat
trickled down between my shoulder blades as if I were going
to have an attack of malaria, cholera or typhoid. I dared not
look in the direction of Samuel Parris, so great was the horror
he instilled in me. Around us the sea was a bright blue and the
uninterrupted line of the coast, a dark green.
6
I soon realized that someone else shared my fear and aversion

for Samuel Parris: Elizabeth, his wife. She was a young woman
who was pretty in an odd way. Her lovely blond hair hidden
under a somber hood fuzzed up and formed a luminous halo
around her head. She was wrapped in shawls and blankets as
though she were shivering despite the warm, stuffy air in the
cabin. She smiled at me and in a voice as pleasant as the waters
of the River Ormond she said: “So you’re Tituba? How cruel
it must be to be separated from your own family. From your
father, your mother, and your people.”
Such compassion surprised me. “Fortunately, I have John
Indian,” I said softly.
Her delicate features expressed revulsion. “You are most
fortunate if you believe that a husband can be a pleasing com
panion and if touching his hand does not send shivers up your
spine.” There she stopped as if she had said too much.
“Mistress, you don’t seem in good health. What are you
suffering from?” I asked.
She laughed sadly. “Over twenty physicians have come to my
bedside and none has found the cause of my illness. All I know
is that my life is a martyrdom. When I stand up, my head spins.
I am taken with nausea as if I were pregnant, whereas Heaven
has seen fit to grace me with only one child. Sometimes unbear
able pains stab my stomach. My menstruation is a torture and
my feet are constantly like two blocks of ice.”
With a sigh she lay back on the narrow little couch and
pulled the coarse woolen blanket up to her neck. I came closer
and she motioned to me to sit down next to her.
“How lovely you are, Tituba,” she murmured.
39

“Lovely?” I said it unbelievingly, for the mirror that Susanna
Endicott and Samuel Parris had held up for me had convinced
me of the opposite. Something gave inside me and impulsively
I proposed: “Mistress, let me take care of you!”
She smiled and took my hands. “So many others have tried
before you and have failed. But your hands are so soft. As soft
as cut flowers.”
“Have you ever seen black flowers?” I scoffed.
She thought for a moment and then answered: “No, but if
they existed they would be like your hands.”
I laid my hand on her forehead, which was curiously cold
and damp with sweat. What was she suffering from? I guessed
it was the soul that was dragging down the body, as in so many
cases of mortal sickness.
At that moment the door was pushed open brutally and
Samuel Parris walked in. I couldn’t tell who was the more
distressed, the more terrified, Mistress Parris or myself.
Samuel Parris did not raise his voice at all. The blood did
not flow to his chalky face. He simply said: “Elizabeth, are
you mad? Letting this Negress sit next to you. Get out, Tituba,
and quick.”
I obeyed.
The cold air on deck hit me like a reprimand. How could I
let this man treat me like an animal without answering back? I
was having second thoughts about it and was on my way back
to the cabin when my eyes caught those of two little girls wear
ing long black gowns that contrasted with their small white
aprons. Their brows were capped with hoods, where every
wisp of hair had been pushed out of sight. I had never seen
children attired in such a fashion. One was the very portrait of
the poor recluse I had just left.
“Are you Tituba?” she asked.
I recognized the gracious intonation of her mother.
The other girl, who was two or three years older, stared at
me arrogantly.
“Are you the Parris children?” I asked softly.
It was the older of the two who replied. “She’s Betsey Parris.
I’m Abigail Williams, the minister’s niece.”
40
I, Tituba
1 had not had a childhood. The shadow of my mother’s gal

lows hung over the years that should have been spent in carefree
games. For reasons no doubt different from my own, I guessed
that Betsey Parris and Abigail Williams had also been robbed
of their childhood, dispossessed forever of childhood’s natural
store of lightheartedness and sweetness. I guessed that nobody
had ever sung them lullabies, told them stories, and filled their
imagination with wholesome magical adventures. I felt a deep
pity for them, especially for little Betsey, who was so charming
and vulnerable.
“Come,” I said to her. “I’ll put you to bed. You look very
tired.”
The other girl, Abigail, quickly intervened. “What are you
talking about? She hasn’t said her prayers yet. Do you want my
uncle to whip her?”
I shrugged my shoulders and continued on my way.
John Indian was sitting at the stern in the midst of a circle of
admiring sailors telling a string of tall tales. Curiously enough,
this man who had cried his heart out when our beloved Barba
dos faded into the mist, was already back to normal. He did a
thousand chores for the sailors, earning coins that were used
to join in their games and drink their rum. At the moment he
was teaching them an old slave song and hollering away with
his melodious voice: “Mougue, eh, mougue eh, cock he sing
cock-a-doodle-doo.”
Ah, how frivolous was this man my body had chosen! But
perhaps I wouldn’t have loved him if he too had been cut from
a dour cloth of mourning as I had been.
When he saw me he rushed over, abandoning his choir of
pupils, who protested noisily. He took me by the arm and whis
pered: “Our new master is a very strange man. An unsuccessful
merchant who decided late to pick up his life where he had
left it. . .”
I interrupted him. “I haven’t the heart to listen to gossip.”
We walked around the deck and took shelter behind a pile of
sugar drums bound for the port of Boston. The moon had risen
and this timid orb of night gave off as much light as the daystar.
1 curled up close to John Indian and our hands were searching
41

each other’s bodies when a heavy step shook the boards and
the drums. It was Samuel Parris. When he observed our posi
tion, a little blood filtered into his wan cheeks and he spit out
venomously: “I know that the color of your skin is the sign of
your damnation, but as long as you are under my roof you will
behave as Christians. Come and say your prayers!”
We obeyed. Goodwife Parris and the two girls, Abigail and
Betsey, were already on their knees in one of the cabins. The
master remained standing, lifted his eyes to the ceiling and
started to bray. I couldn’t make much out of his speech, except
for the oft-heard words sin, evil, Satan, and demon. The most
painful moment was the confession. Each of us had to confess
out loud his or her sins of the day and I heard the poor children
stammer out:
“I watched John Indian dance on the deck.”
“I took off my hood and let the sun play with my hair.”
In his usual way John Indian confessed to all sorts of tom
foolery and brought it off, since the master merely said to him:
“May the Lord forgive you John Indian. Go and sin no more.”
When my turn came I was overcome with a kind of rage
that was probably nothing else but the other face of the fear
Samuel Parris inspired in me, and I said in a firm voice: “Why
should I confess? What goes on in my head and my heart is my
business.”
He struck me. His dry, knifelike hand struck my mouth and
made it bleed. At the sight of this red trickle Goodwife Parris
regained her strength, sat up, and said in a rage: “Samuel, you
have no right . . .”
He struck her in turn. She too bled. This blood sealed our
alliance.
Sometimes an arid, desolate soil produces a bloom of sweet
colors that perfumes and enhances the surrounding landscape.
I can only compare to such a flower the friendship that soon
united me with Goodwife Parris and little Betsey. We devised
a thousand tricks to be together in the absence of this devil,
the Reverend Mr. Parris. I combed their long, blond hair that
once freed from the prison of their plaits and buns, fell down
to their ankles. I rubbed their pale, unhealthy skins using an oil
42
I, Tituba
whose secret Mama Yaya had entrusted to me. Gradually their

skin turned golden under my touch.
One day, while I was massaging them, I was bold enough
to ask Goodwife Parris: “What does your strict husband think
about the change in your body?”
She burst out laughing. “My poor Tituba, how do you expect
him to know?”
I raised my eyes upward. “I should have thought nobody was
better placed than he is.”
She laughed even louder. “If you only knew! He takes me
without removing either his clothes or mine, so hurried is he to
finish with the hateful act.”
“Hateful?” I protested. “For me it’s the most beautiful act in
the world.” She pushed my hand away while I was explaining.
“Doesn’t it perpetuate life?”
Her eyes filled with horror. “Be quiet! Be quiet! It’s Satan’s
heritage in us.” She seemed so upset that I did not take the
matter farther.
Usually my conversations with Goodwife Parris did not take
this turn. Usually she got enjoyment from the stories that de
lighted Betsey: those of Anancy the Spider, people who had
made a pact with the devil, zombies, soukougnans, and the hag
who rides along on her three-legged horse. She would listen
to me as fervently as her daughter—her beautiful hazel-brown
eyes dotted with stars—and ask: “Is that possible Tituba? Can
a human being leave his skin and become a spirit miles away?”
I nodded. “Yes, it is possible.”
“You must need a broomstick to travel,” she argued.
I went into peals of laughter. “What a silly idea! What do
you expect to do with a broomstick?”
She remained bewildered. I didn’t like it when young Abigail
came and disturbed my tetes-a-tetes with Betsey. There was
something in that child that made me feel profoundly ill at
ease. Her way of looking at me, of listening to me as if I were
a frightful and yet bewitching object. She commanded details
from me on everything. “What are the words the people in
league with the devil have to say before shedding their skin?”
“How do the soukougnans drink the blood of their victims?”
43

My answers were evasive. In truth, I was afraid she would
report these conversations to her uncle, Samuel Parris, and that
the flicker of pleasure they gave our lives would be snuffed out.
She did nothing of the sort. She possessed an extraordinary
faculty for dissimulation. Never at evening prayers did she
allude to what in Parris’s eyes would have seemed unforgive-
able sins. She merely confessed: “I stood on the deck to let the
spray fall over me.” “I threw half my gruel into the sea.”
And Samuel Parris would absolve her: “Go, Abigail Wil
liams, and sin no more!”
Gradually, out of consideration for Betsey, I accepted her
into our friendship.
One morning, while I was serving Goodwife Parris a little
tea that her stomach tolerated better than gruel, she said softly:
“Don’t tell all those stories to the children. It makes them
dream and dreaming isn’t good for them.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Why shouldn’t dreaming be good?
Isn’t it better than reality?”
She didn’t answer and remained silent for a while. Then she
went on: “Tituba, don’t you think there’s a curse on being
a woman?”
I was annoyed. “Goodwife Parris, all you talk about is male
diction. What is more beautiful than a woman’s body! Espe
cially when it is glorified by man’s desire!”
“Be quiet! Be quiet!” she cried.
It was our only quarrel. In truth, I never understood its cause.
One morning we arrived in Boston.

I say it was morning, yet there was no indication from the
light of day. A grayish mist fell from the sky and wrapped
in its folds the forest of ships’ masts, the piles of goods on
the wharf, and the massive outline of the warehouses. An icy
wind blew and both John Indian and I shivered in our cotton
clothes. Despite their shawls Goodwife Parris and the children
did the same. Only the master, like a ghost in the dirty, foggy
light, kept his head up under his wide black-brimmed hat. We
climbed down onto the wharf, John Indian stumbling under
the weight of the luggage, while Samuel Parris condescended
44
I, Tituba
to let his wife lean on his arm. I took the little girls by the hand.
1 could never have imagined that such a town as Boston
existed, with its tall houses and crowds thronging the cobble-
stoned streets jammed with carts drawn by horse and oxen.
I caught sight of a lot of faces the same color as mine and 1
understood that here too the children of Africa were paying
their tribute to misfortune.
Samuel Parris seemed to know the place perfectly well, as
not once did he stop to ask his way. At last we arrived, wet to
the bone, in front of a two-story wooden house whose facade
was enhanced by a crisscross of lighter beams. Samuel Parris let
go of his wife’s arm and said, as if it were the most remarkable
of dwellings: “Here we are!”
The place smelled musty and damp. At the sound of our
steps, two rats scampered off while a black cat that was dozing
in the ash and dust rose lazily and sneaked off into the next
room. 1 cannot describe the effect this unfortunate black cat
had on the children, as well as on Elizabeth and Samuel. Samuel
Parris seized his prayer book and began to recite a seemingly
endless prayer. When he was a little calmer, he stood up straight
and started to give orders: “Tituba, clean this room. Then pre
pare the beds. John Indian, come with me to buy some wood.”
Once again John Indian put on the affected behavior that 1
hated so much. “Go outside, Master? In this wind and rain!
You’ll soon be spending money on wood for my coffin.”
Without another word, Samuel Parris undid his large black
cloth cape and threw it to him. Hardly had the two men gone
out when Abigail asked, holding her breath: “Aunt, it was the
devil, wasn’t it?”
Elizabeth Parris’s face convulsed. “Be quiet!”
“But what are you talking about?” 1 asked, intrigued.
“About the cat. The black cat.”
“What will you think up next? It was only an animal that
was disturbed by our arrival. Why do you keep talking about
the devil? The invisible world around us only torments us if we
provoke it. And surely this is not yet the case at your age.”
“Liar!” hissed Abigail. “Poor, ignorant Negress. The devil
45
torments us all. We are all his victims. We shall all be damned,

won’t we, Aunt?”
When I saw the effect this conversation had on Goodwife
Parris, and especially on poor Betsey, I quickly put an end to it.
Whether it was the effect of this conversation or the cold that
hung in the house despite the fire lit by John Indian, Goodwife
Parris’s health got worse that night. Samuel Parris came and
woke me up about midnight. “I think she’s about to go!”
No emotion in his voice. Merely an acknowledgment.
Die, my poor sweet Elizabeth? And leave the children alone
with her monster of a husband? Die, my tormented lamb, with
out having learned that death is but a door through which the
initiates come and go as they please? I jumped out of bed in my
haste to be of help. But Samuel Parris stopped me. “Put your
clothes on.” Poor wretch, who at his wife’s deathbed could
think only of decency.
Up till then I had not called on the supernatural to care for
Elizabeth Parris. I had merely kept her warm and had her swal
low scalding hot drinks. The only liberty I had taken was to
slip a little rum into her herb tea. That night I decided to use
my powers. And yet I was lacking certain items required for
practicing my art: the trees in which the invisible spirits re
pose, the condiments for their favorite dishes, and the plants
and roots for healing.
What was I going to do in this unknown and inhospitable
land across the sea? I decided to make substitutions. A maple
tree whose foliage was turning red would do for a silk-cotton
tree. Glossy, spiny holly leaves would replace the Guinea grass.
Yellow, odorless flowers would do for the salapertuis, the pana
cea for all the body’s ills, which only grows in the foothills
back home. My prayers did the rest.
In the morning the color returned to Goodwife Parris’s
cheeks. She asked for a little water. Toward midday she man
aged to feed herself. And in the evening she went to sleep like a
newborn babe. Three days later she gave me a smile as feeble as
the sun through the gable window. “Thank you, Tituba! You
saved my life!”
We stayed a year in Boston while Samuel Parris waited for his
religious community, the Puritans, to offer him a parish. Alas!
the offers did not exactly flow in! 1 believe that was because
of Parris’s personality. However fanatical and dour were those
who shared his convictions, they were not as frightening as this
tall, irate silhouette with his words of reprimand and warning.
The little savings he had brought back from his incursion into
the world of trade in Barbados melted like candle wax and we
found ourselves in great difficulty. Sometimes all we had to eat
for a whole day was dried apples. We had no firewood and we
were chilled to the bone.
Then John Indian found a job in a tavern called the Black
Horse. His job was to stoke the fires in the enormous fireplaces
in front of which customers used to warm themselves, and to
sweep up and empty any rubbish. He returned home at the first
light of day, stinking of brandy and stout, but with leftovers
hidden under his clothes. In a sleepy, drawling voice he would
relate: “My angel, if you knew what was going on in this town
of Boston, two doors away from these religious fanatics like
our Samuel Parris, you wouldn’t believe your eyes and ears.
Whores, sailors with rings in their ears, ship’s captains with
greasy hair under their cocked hats, and even Bible-reading
gentlemen with a wife and children at home. They all get drunk
and swear and fornicate. Oh, Tituba, you can’t imagine the
hypocrisy of the white man’s world.”
I would put him to bed still chattering on.
Given his temperament, he soon made a lot of friends and
he brought back their conversations. He told me that the slave
trade was being intensified. Thousands of our people were being
47
snatched from Africa. I learned that we were not the only ones
the whites were reducing to slavery; they were also enslaving
the Indians, the original inhabitants of both America and our
beloved Barbados.
I listened in amazement and revulsion. “There are two Indi
ans working at the Black Horse. If you could see how they are
treated. They told me how they were deprived of their land,
how the white man destroyed their herds and gave them ‘fire
water,’ which sends a man to his grave in next to no time. Ah,
white folks!”
These stories puzzled me and I tried to understand. “Per
haps it’s because they have done so much harm to their fellow
beings, to some because their skin is black, to others because
their skin is red, that they have such a strong feeling of being
damned?”
John was quite incapable of answering these questions,
which, moreover, had never occurred to him. He was certainly
the least miserable of any of us.
Although Samuel Parris of course never confided in me, it
was easy to guess what he was thinking just from watching
him locked up in his house like an animal in a cage, constantly
praying or leafing through his formidable book. His constant
presence affected us like a bitter potion. Gone were the secret,
intimate conversations, the hurriedly told stories, gone were
the songs quietly hummed. Instead he got it into his head to
teach Betsey her letters and used a grisly alphabet:
A In Adam’s fall
We sinned all.
B Thy life to mend
This Book attend.
C The Cat doth play
And after flay . . .
And so on. Poor Betsey, who was already so frail and im
pressionable, grew pale and trembled.
It was only from mid-April onward, when the weather
cleared up, that Parris got into the habit of going out after lunch
for a short walk. I took the opportunity to accompany the chil-
48
/, Tituba
dren into the small garden behind the house and then what
games and gallopades we played! I removed the hideous hoods
that made them look like old women, I undid their belts to
get their blood circulating and to get their little bodies in a
healthy sweat. Standing at the door, Elizabeth Parris would
plead weakly: “Be careful, Tituba! Don’t let them dance! Don’t
let them dance!” And yet the minute after she would contradict
herself and be beating her hands in time, delighted with our
dance steps.
I was allowed to take the girls to the Long Wharf, where we
looked at the boats and the sea. Beyond this liquid expanse, a
speck: Barbados.
How strange it is, this love of our own country. We carry
it in us like our blood and vital organs. We only need to be
separated from our native land to feel a pain that never loses
its grip welling up inside us. I could see Darnell Davis’s planta
tion, the arrogant Great House with its columns at the top of
the hill, the black shack alleys seething with suffering and life,
children with bloated stomachs, women wizened before their
time, crippled men; and those cheerless surroundings I had lost
suddenly meant so much that tears streamed down my cheeks.
The little girls, heedless of my mood, played in the puddles
of dirty water, shoving each other and falling over among
the ropes, and I couldn’t help thinking of what Samuel Parris
would say if he could witness such scenes. All their vitality,
which was repressed day after day, hour after hour, "surged out,
and it was as if the Evil One they feared so much had at last
taken possession of them. Of the two, Abigail was the more
excitable, the more impetuous, and once again I marveled at
her gift of dissimulation. As soon as we got back home, there
she was dumb and rigid to the point of perfection in front of
her uncle, repeating after him the words from the Holy Book.
Were not her slightest gestures characterized by reserve and
scruples of conscience? One afternoon, while we were coming
back from Long Wharf, we witnessed a sight that left me with
a terrible impression, never to be forgotten. As we came out
of Front Street, the square—around which were grouped the
prison, the courthouse, and the meeting house—was crowded
with people. There was going to be an execution. The crowd
49
was jostling around the foot of the raised platform where the
gallows stood. A group of sinister men in wide-brimmed hats
were busying themselves at its base. When we got closer we
saw an old woman with a rope around her neck. Suddenly one
of the men removed the plank on which she was standing and
her body snapped stiff as a bow. There was a terrible cry and
her head fell to one side.
I screamed and fell to my knees in the middle of this restless,
inquisitive, almost joyful crowd.
It was as if I had been sentenced to relive my mother’s execu
tion. No, it wasn’t an old woman hanging there. It was Abena
in the flower of her youth and at the height of her beauty. Yes,
it was she and I was six years old again. And my life had to
begin all over again from that moment!
I screamed, and the more 1 screamed the more 1 felt the
desire to scream. To scream out my suffering, my revolt, and
my powerless rage. What kind of a world was this that had
turned me into a slave, an orphan, and an outcast? What kind
of a world that had taken me away from my own people? That
had forced me to live among people who did not speak my lan
guage and who did not share my religion in their forbidding,
unwelcoming land?
Betsey rushed up to me and clasped me in her tiny hands.
“Be quiet! Oh, be quiet, Tituba!”
Abigail, who had been snooping around the crowd asking
for bits of information, came back and said coldly: “Yes, be
quiet! She only got what she deserved. She’s a witch. She had
bewitched the children of an honorable family.”
I managed to get up and find our way back home. The whole
town could talk of nothing but the execution. Those who had
witnessed it told those who hadn’t how Goody Glover had
screamed when she saw death, like a dog howling at the moon,
how her soul had escaped in the shape of a bat, while a nau
seous pus, proof of her evildoing, seeped down her spindly legs.
1 hadn’t seen anything of the sort. 1 had witnessed a sight of
total barbarity.
It was shortly afterward that I realized I was pregnant and I
decided to kill-the child.
Apart from stolen kisses with Betsey and the secret sessions
50
7, Tituba
with Elizabeth Parris, the only moments of happiness in my
sad existence were those I spent with John Indian.
Spattered with mud, shivering with cold, and worn out, my
man made love to me every night. Since we slept in a cubby
hole next to the Parris’s bedroom we had to be careful not to
utter any sighs or moans that might reveal the nature of our
activities. Paradoxically, this merely heightened the passion of
our lovemaking.
There is no happiness in motherhood for a slave. It is little
more than the expulsion of an innocent baby, who will have
no chance to change its fate, into a world of slavery and ab
jection. Throughout my childhood I had seen slaves kill their
babies by sticking a long thorn into the still viscous-like egg of
their heads, by cutting the umbilical cord with a poison blade,
or else by abandoning them at night in a place frequented by
angry spirits. Throughout my childhood I had heard slaves ex
change formulas for potions, baths, and injections that sterilize
the womb forever and turn it into a tomb lined with a scarlet
shroud.
In Barbados, where I knew every plant by heart, I would
have had no difficulty getting rid of an unwanted fruit. But
what could I do here in Boston? Less than half a league outside
Boston grew some thick forests that I decided to explore. One
afternoon I managed to slip out, leaving Betsey in the clasp of
her terrifying alphabet book and Abigail, her fingers busy with
her needlework, but her mind clearly elsewhere, seated beside
Goodwife Parris.
Once outside I realized to my surprise that these climes had a
certain grace to them. The trees that had remained skeletal and
sadly spindlelike for so long were now budding. Flowers dotted
the meadows that stretched to infinity like a quiet, green sea.
As I was about to enter the forest, a man, a stiff, black sil
houette on horseback, his face drowned in the shadow of his
hat, called out to me: “Hey Negress! Aren’t you afraid of the
Indians?”
The Indians? I was less frightened of those “savages” than I
was of the civilized beings I lived with who hanged old women
from trees.
51
I was bending over a sweet-smelling bush that strongly re

sembled the many-virtued lemon grass when I heard someone
call my name. “Tituba!” I jumped. It was an old woman with
a face like a loaf of bread, shapeless yet pleasant enough.
“How do you know my name?” I asked in surprise.
She smiled mysteriously. “I knew you as a baby.”
“Are you from Barbados?” I asked in growing amazement.
Her smile broadened. “Me? I’ve never left Boston. I arrived
with the Pilgrim Fathers and have never left them since. Well,
that’s enough talk! If you stay out any longer Samuel Parris will
discover you’ve left the house and you’ll have a lot of explaining
to do.”
I didn’t flinch. “I don’t know you. What do you want of me?”
She began to trot into the forest, and as I didn’t move, she
turned round and shouted: “Come on, don’t be silly. I’m a
friend of Mama Yaya. My name is Judah White.”
* ❖ *
Old Judah told me the names and properties of each herb. I
made a mental note of some of the remedies whose secrets she
revealed to me:
To get rid of warts, rub them with a live toad until they are
finally drawn into the toad’s skin.
In winter you can prevent scurvy by drinking tea made
from hemlock. (Be careful, the juice is deadly and can be
used for other purposes).
You will never have arthritis if you wear a ring made from
a raw potato on the middle finger of your left hand.
All wounds will heal much faster if you place cabbage
leaves on the affected area. For blisters, apply raw mashed
turnip.
For acute bronchitis, place the skin of a black cat on the
afflicted person’s chest.
Toothache: chew tobacco leaves. Same for earache.
To treat diarrhea, drink tea made with blackberry leaves
three times a day.
52
I, Tituba
1 returned to Boston a little reassured, having learned to see
friends in the black cat, the owl, the ladybird, and the mocking
bird, creatures that I had never paid attention to previously.
1 turned Judah’s words over in my head: “What would the
world be like without us? Eh? What would it be like? Men
hate us and yet without us their lives would be sad and narrow.
Thanks to us they can change the present and sometimes read
the future. Thanks to us they can hope. Tituba, we are the salt
of the earth.”
That night, my baby was carried out of my womb in a flow
of black blood. 1 saw him wave his arms like a tadpole in dis
tress and I burst into tears. John Indian also cried. I had not
confided in him and he believed it to be another blow dealt
by fate. It’s true he was half drunk, having emptied numerous
mugs of stout with the sailors who frequented the Black Horse
tavern.
“My angel! There goes our solace for our old age! Who are
we going to lean on when each of us is old and bent in this land
without summer?”
I had trouble getting over the murder of my child. I knew
that 1 had acted for the best. Yet the image of that little face
whose actual features 1 would never know haunted me. By
a strange aberration it seemed to me that the cry uttered by
Goody Glover setting off along the corridor of death came
from the bowels of my child, tortured by the same society and
sentenced by the same judges.
Seeing my state of mind, Betsey and Elizabeth increased their
attentions and kindnesses, which in other circumstances would
not have failed to catch Samuel Parris’s attention. But it so
happened that he was constantly wrapped in an ever-growing
gloom, since matters were going from bad to worse. The only
money coming in was what John Indian earned stoking the fire
places at the Black Horse. So we were literally dying of hunger.
The children’s faces grew thinner and their clothes became too
large for them.
We were entering summer. The sun came and lit up the gray
and blue roofs of Boston. It hung leaves on the branches of
53
the trees. It planted long needles of fire in the sea. Despite the
sadness of our lives, it made the blood throb in our veins.
A few weeks later Samuel Parris announced in a surly voice
that he had accepted the offer of a parish and that we were
leaving for the village of Salem, about twenty miles from Bos
ton. John Indian, who always had the latest information, told
me why Samuel Parris seemed less than enthusiastic. The village
of Salem had a very bad reputation in the Bay Colony. On two
occasions, two ministers, the Reverend James Bayley and the
Reverend George Burroughs, had been hounded out of town
by a large group of parishioners, who had refused to pay for
their upkeep. The annual salary of sixty-six pounds was a pit
tance, especially as firewood was not included and the winters
were severe in the forest. Finally, the Indians, wild barbarians
who were set on scalping any head that came too close, lived
all around Salem.
“Our master has not finished his studies.”
“Studies?”
“Yes, theological studies to become a minister. And yet he
expects to be treated like the Reverend Increase Mather or
Cotton Mather himself.”
“Who are they?”
John Indian grew bewildered. “I don’t know, my lovely! I
only hear their names being mentioned.”
We spent a few more long weeks in Boston and I had time
to note down Judah White’s main recommendations:
Before moving into a house or immediately after having

moved in, place a branch of mistletoe and some marjoram
leaves at the corner of each room. Sweep the dust from
west to east and burn it carefully before throwing the ashes
outside. Sprinkle the floor with fresh urine, using your
left hand.
At sunset burn twigs of Populara indica mixed with salt
crystals.
Most important, prepare your garden and plant all the
required medicinal herbs. Failing this, have them grow in
54
I, Tituba
earth-filled boxes. Don’t forget to spit on them four times

when waking.
1 must confess that in many cases all this seemed very child
ish. In the West Indies our science is nobler and relies more on
unseen forces than on things. But as Mama Yaya used to say:
“When you get to the blind man’s country, close both eyes.”
8
Lament for my lost child

The moonstone dropped into the water,
Into the waters of the river,
And my fingers couldn’t reach it,
Woe is me!
The moonstone has fallen.
Sitting on a rock on the riverbank
I wept and I lamented.
Oh, softly shining stone,
Glimmering at the bottom of the water.
The hunter passed that way
With his bow and arrows.
“Why are you crying, my lovely one?”
“I’m crying because my moonstone
Lies at the bottom of the water.”
“If it is but that, my lovely,
I will help you.”
But the hunter dived and was drowned.
I taught this lament to Betsey and we hummed it during the
rare occasions when we were alone together. Her pretty little
soft and melancholy voice harmonized perfectly with mine.
One day, to my surprise, I heard Abigail humming it too. I
wanted to scold Betsey and tell her to keep the things I taught
her to herself. Then once again I thought better of it. Wasn’t
Abigail her only playmate? And wasn’t she but a child? A child
could not be dangerous.
The village of Salem, in no way to be confused with the town
of the same name, which I thought quite charming, was carved
out of the forest like a bald spot in a mop of hair.
Samuel Parris had hired three horses and a cart and we
were rather a sorry sight. Luckily, nobody came out to meet
us. At that hour the men must have been in the fields, where
the women brought them food and refreshment. Samuel Parris
showed us the meeting house, an enormous building whose
massive door was made of beams, and we continued on our
way. How many inhabitants could Salem have? Surely, not
more than two thousand, and coming from Boston the place
seemed like a real hole. Cows wandered peacefully across the
main street, jingling the bells around their necks, and I was
surprised to see pieces of red cloth attached to their horns. The
sickly smell of half a dozen pigs wallowing in a black mire rose
up from an enclosure.
We arrived in front of the house that had been allotted to
us. It stood a little askew in the middle of an immense garden
completely overrun with weeds. Two black maples stood guard
like candles and there was something repellent in the house’s
hostility. Samuel Parris helped down his poor wife, who had
suffered greatly from the journey on horseback. I set my little
Betsey on the ground, while Abigail jumped down and was
about to run to the front door without waiting when Samuel
Parris stopped her and thundered: “None of that, Abigail!
Has the demon got into you?” Although I had little liking for
Abigail, my heart missed a beat when I saw the effect this had
on her.
The inside of the house reflected the outside: dark and hardly
57

welcoming. However, a kind soul had lit a fire in each fireplace
and the flames were gaily licking the firewood.
“How many bedrooms are there?” Elizabeth Parris asked.
“Tituba, go and find those that are bright and sunny.”
Samuel Parris had a reply to this as well, and crushing Eliza
beth with one of his looks he let out: “The only room that is
bright and sunny, is it not the coffin in the shadow of which
each of us will one day lie?” Then he fell to his knees to thank
the Lord for having protected us from wolves and other wild
beasts that roam the forests between Boston and Salem. This
prayer finally came to an end when the front door opened with
a groan that made us all jump. A small woman, sadly attired in
Puritan dress, but with a pleasant face, slipped into the room.
“I’m Goodwife Mary Sibley. I lit the fire for you. I also left
a piece of beef, some carrots, turnips, and a dozen eggs in the
kitchen for you.”
Samuel Parris hardly said a word of thanks and continued
the conversation: “Is it you, a woman, who is representing the
congregation?”
Mary Sibley smiled. “The fourth commandment tells us to
work by the sweat of our brow. The men are in the fields.
As soon as they get back Deacon Ingersoll, Sergeant Thomas
Putnam, Captain Walcott, and a few others will come to greet
you.”
Thereupon I went into the kitchen, thinking of the poor
children’s stomachs, in order to cook the piece of salted beef
Goodwife Mary Sibley had been kind enough to bring. After a
short while she came and joined me and stared me in the face.
“How come Samuel Parris has a nigger and a Negress in his
service?”
She said it more out of naive curiosity than in spite. So I
replied softly: “He’s the one you should ask.”
She remained silent for a moment, then concluded: “It’s
strange for a minister!” After a short while she thought of
something else. “Elizabeth Parris is so pale! What is she suffer
ing from?”
“Nobody knows exactly,” I replied.
“I’m afraid this house won’t do her any good.” And she
58
7, Tituba
lowered her voice. “Two women have already died in the bed
room upstairs. Mary Bayley, the wife of the first minister to
this parish, and Judah Burroughs, the wife of the second.”
In spite of myself, I let out a cry of alarm. For I knew full well
how the dead who have not been laid to rest can trouble the
living. Wouldn’t I have to conduct a ceremony of purification
and offer relief to these poor souls? Fortunately the house had
a large garden, where I could come and go as I pleased. Mary
Sibley followed the direction of my eyes and said in a troubled
voice: “Ah yes, the cats. They’re everywhere in Salem. We keep
killing them off.”
Hordes of cats were chasing each other in the grass, meow
ing and lying on their backs, nervously raising their paws that
ended in sharp claws. A few weeks earlier I would have found
nothing unnatural in such a sight. Now, instructed by Good
wife Judah White, I realized that the spirits of the place were
greeting me. How childish white folks are to choose the cat as
a manifestation of their powers! We others, we prefer animals
of a nobler breed: the snake, for example, a magnificent reptile
with dark rings.
As soon as I entered Salem, I knew I would not be happy
there. I felt that I would undergo terrible trials and that excru
ciatingly painful events would turn my hair white.
When dusk fell, the men returned from the fields and the
house filled with visitors. Anne Putnam and her husband,
Thomas, a seven-foot giant, their daughter Anne, who immedi
ately began to whisper in corners with Abigail, Sarah Houlton,
John and Elizabeth Proctor, and so many others whose names I
couldn’t remember. I felt it was curiosity rather than kindness
that brought them and they had come to judge and assess the
minister in order to find out the role he would play in their
village. Samuel Parris saw nothing suspect and behaved as he
always did—despicably. He complained that no great piles of
wood had been cut for his arrival and stacked in his barn. He
complained that the house was decrepit, that the grass in the
garden was knee-deep, and that the frogs made a din under his
window.
Our move to Salem, however, was a cause for rejoicing, but
59
little did I know how fleeting this was to be. The house was so
big that everybody could have his own room. John Indian and
I could take refuge under the roof in a rather ugly attic whose
ceiling was held up by a patchwork of worm-eaten beams. Here
we could once again give rein to our unbridled love without
fear of being heard.
In these uninhibited moments I could not help whispering:
“John Indian, I’m afraid!”
He would caress my shoulder. “What will become of the
world if our women are afraid? Things will fall apart! The
heavens will collapse and the stars will roll in the dust! You
afraid? Of what?”
“Of what tomorrow holds for us.”
“Sleep, my princess! Tomorrow will be as radiant as a baby’s
smile.”
The second piece of good fortune was that Samuel Parris was
always out and about, taken up with the duties of his office. We
hardly saw him at morning and evening prayers. When he was
at home he was in bitter discussion with men about matters
that did not sound religious.
“The sixty-six pounds of my salary come from contributions
by the villagers and are in proportion to the area of their land.”
“I must be supplied with firewood.”
“On the Sabbath the contributions must be made in pa
pers ...” And so on. And behind his back life went on as usual.
* « *
I now had my kitchen full of little girls. I didn’t like them all.
I took a special dislike to Anne Putnam and the little servant
girl, Mercy Lewis, who was about the same age and accompa
nied her everywhere. There was something in those two girls
that made me have doubts about the innocence of childhood.
Perhaps children cannot escape the frustrations and lascivious
ness of adults after all. Whatever the case, Anne and Mercy
reminded me constantly of Samuel Parris’s speeches on Satan’s
presence in all of us. The same was true for Abigail. I sensed
a violent streak in her, the power of her imagination to give
a particular twist to the slightest everyday incident and this
hatred—no, the word is not too strong—this hatred she had
60
Z, Tituba
for the adult world, as if she could not forgive it for building a
coffin around her youth.
Although 1 didn’t like them all, I pitied them with their
waxen skin and their bodies so full of promise yet mutilated like
those trees that gardeners try to dwarf. In contrast, our child
hood as little slaves, bitter though it was, seemed glowing, lit up
by the joy of our games, our rambles, and our rovings together.
We floated rafts made of sugarcane on the rushing streams. We
grilled pink and yellow fish on little crisscrosses of green wood.
We danced. And it was this pity of mine, against which I was
helpless, that made me tolerate these children around me and
encouraged me to entertain them. 1 wouldn’t stop until I had
managed to get one of them to burst out laughing and plead:
“Tituba! Oh,Tituba!”
Their favorite stories were about people in league with the
devil. They sat in a circle around me and I could smell the sharp
scent of their sparingly washed bodies. They assailed me with
questions.
“Tituba, do you think there are people in league with the
devil living in Salem?”
I nodded and laughed. “Yes, I think Sarah Good must be
one.” Sarah Good was still a young woman, but she was
hunched over and a beggar. The children were afraid of her
because of the stinking pipe she always had stuck between her
teeth and because of her constant muttering. It seemed as if she
was mumbling prayers that nobody could understand except
herself. Apart from that, she was a generous soul, at least 1
thought so.
“Do you think so, Tituba?” the children cheeped. “And
Sarah Osborne, is she one too?”
Sarah Osborne was an old woman, not a beggar like the
other Sarah, but well-off, the owner of a lovely oak-paneled
house, who in her youth had committed some fault or other to
her discredit.
1 took a deep breath and pretended to think hard, letting
them stew in their curiosity, before solemnly declaring: “Per
haps!”
Abigail insisted. “Have you seen them both fly with their
61
skin all scorched? And Elizabeth Proctor, have you seen her?
Have you?”
Mistress Proctor was one of the nicest women in the village,
the only one who was kind enough to talk to me about slavery,
about the country I came from and its inhabitants.
“You know very well, Abigail, that I’m joking,” I said se
verely. And I sent everyone away.
When I was left alone with Betsey she, too, asked me in
her high-pitched voice: “Do people in league with the devil
actually exist, Tituba? Do they?”
I took her in my arms. “What does it matter? Aren’t I here
to protect you if they try to harm you?”
She looked straight at me and a shadow that I tried to dispel
was dancing at the back of her eyes.
“Tituba knows the words that cure every sickness, that heal
every wound, and untie every knot. Don’t you know that?”
She remained silent, her body trembling even more despite
my words of consolation. I hugged her up against me and the
wings of her heart beat desperately like a bird in a cage, while
I said over and over again: “Tituba can do anything. Tituba
knows everything. Tituba sees everything.”
Soon the circle of little girls got bigger. At Abigail’s insti
gation a string of great gawks whose breasts filled out their
pinafores and whose blood, I’m sure, reddened their thighs
occasionally, thronged into my kitchen. I didn’t like them at
all. Neither Mary Walcott nor Elizabeth Booth nor Susanna
Sheldon. Their eyes conveyed all the contempt of their parents
for those of our race. And yet they needed me to season the in
sipid gruel of their lives. So instead of asking me, they ordered
me: “Tituba, sing us a song!” “Tituba, tell us a story! No, we
don’t want that one. Tell us the one about the people in league
with the devil.”
One day things turned sour. Fat Mary Walcott was hover
ing around me and finally said: “Tituba, is it true you know
everything, you see everything and can do everything? You’re
a witch then?”
I lost my temper. “Don’t use words whose meaning you don’t
know. Do you know what a witch really is?”
62
I, Tituba
“Of course we do,” intervened Anne Putnam. “It’s someone
who has made a pact with the devil. Mary’s right. Are you a
witch, Tituba? I think you must be.”
This was too much. I drove all these young vipers out of my
kitchen and chased them into the street. “I never want to see
you around here again. Never!”
When they had scattered, I took little Betsey and scolded
her: “Why do you repeat everything I tell you? You see how
they change the meaning?”
The child turned scarlet and curled up against me. “Forgive
me, Tituba. I won’t tell them anything again.”
Betsey had changed since we had come to Salem. She was
becoming nervous and irritable, always crying for nothing at
all or staring off into space with her eyes as big as halfpennies.
I became worried. Were the spirits of the two people who
had died upstairs in unknown circumstances influencing her
fragile nature? Did the child need protection like her mother?
There was nothing pleasant in my new life. From day to
day my apprehensions grew stronger and heavier, like a bur
den I could never put down. I slept with it. It hung over me
above John Indian’s muscular body. In the morning it made me
drag my feet on the stairs and gripped my hands while I was
preparing the tasteless gruel for breakfast.
I was no longer myself. To try and console myself I used a
remedy. I filled a bowl with water, which 1 placed near the
window so that I could look at it while I busied myself in the
kitchen and imagine my Barbados. The bowl of water managed
to encompass the entire island, with the swell of the sea merg
ing into the waves of the sugarcane fields, the leaning coconut
palms on the seashore, and the almond trees loaded with red
and dark green fruit. Although 1 had trouble making out the
inhabitants, I could see the hills clearly, the cabins, the sugar
mills, and the ox carts whipped on by invisible hands. I got a
glimpse of the Great Houses and the masters’ graveyards. And
all that moved silently at the bottom of my bowl of water. Yet
this presence heartened me. Sometimes Abigail, Betsey, and
Mistress Parris caught me in contemplation and would ask in
surprise: “What are you looking at, Tituba?”
I was tempted many times to share my secret with Betsey
63
and Goodwife Parris, who 1 knew yearned for Barbados. But

each time I thought otherwise, moved by a newly acquired vigi
lance, dictated to me by my environment. And then I would
ask myself, how could their yearning and nostalgia possibly be
compared to mine? What they yearned for was the sweetness
of a gentler life, the life of white women who were served and
waited on by attentive slaves. Even if the Reverend Mr. Parris
had ended up losing all his wealth and hopes, the life they had
spent there was composed of luxury and voluptuousness. And
what did I yearn for? The subtle joys of being a slave. The cakes
made out of crumbs from the stale bread of life. The fleeting
moments of forbidden games.
We did not belong to the same universe, Goodwife Parris,
Betsey, and I, and all the affection in the world could not
change that.
When in early December Betsey’s absences of mind and
carelessness overstepped the bounds (she could not even recite
their creed and understandably received a beating from Samuel
Parris), I decided to give her a magic bath.
I made her swear not to tell anyone and at dusk I plunged
her up to her neck in a liquid to which I had given all the
properties of amniotic fluid. I had needed no less than four
working days under the difficult conditions of exile to obtain
them. But I was proud of the results. Plunging Betsey into this
scalding hot bath, it seemed to me that these same hands, that
not long ago had dealt death were now giving life, and I was
purifying myself of the murder of my child. I had her repeat the
ritual words before ducking her head under water, then sud
denly bringing her back up choking, her eyes full of tears. After
that, I wrapped her scarlet body in a large blanket and took
her back to bed. She slept like a log, in a deep, undisturbed
sleep; something she had not done on many previous nights
when she would call out in her pleading little voice: “Tituba!
Tituba! Please come!”
Shortly before midnight, when I was sure not to meet a soul
in the streets, I went out to throw away the water from the
magic bath at a crossroads. That’s what I had always been told
to do.
How the night changes from one country to another. Night
64
/, Tituba
on our island is a womb that renders you atremble and power

less again, but paradoxically unleashes the senses that catch the
slightest whisper of things and human beings. In Salem night
was a black wall of hostility that I was constantly walking into.
Animals, crouched in the dark trees, screeched evilly as 1 went
by, while a thousand malevolent eyes stared after me. I passed
the familiar shape of a black cat. Strangely, instead of greeting
me with the customary words of consolation, this one meowed
angrily and arched its back under the moon.
I walked at a brisk pace to the Dobbin crossroads. There I
set down the pail I had balanced on my head and slowly but
surely spread its contents on the ground white with frost. When
the last drop had soaked into the earth, 1 heard a rustle in the
grass. I knew that Mama Yaya and Abena, my mother, were
not far away. But once again they did not appear and I merely
sensed their silent presence.
Soon winter completed its circle around Salem. The snow
piled up to the window ledges and every morning I battled
against it with buckets of hot water and salt. Whatever 1 did,
however, it always had the last word. Soon the sun no longer
deigned to rise and the days dragged on in dark foreboding.
IO
I had not realized the full extent of the ravages that Samuel
Parris’s religion was causing nor even understood its real nature
before coming to live in Salem. Imagine a small community of
men and women oppressed by the presence of Satan and seek
ing to hunt him down in all his manifestations. A cow that died,
a child smitten with convulsions, a girl whose menstrual period
was late in coming set off a chain of unending speculation.
Who had caused such catastrophes by driving a bargain with
the formidable enemy? Wasn’t it the fault of Bridget Bishop,
who hadn’t been to the meeting house two Sundays in a row?
No, wasn’t it rather Giles Cory, who had been seen feeding a
stray animal on the afternoon of the Sabbath? Even I was being
poisoned in this putrifying atmosphere and I caught myself re
citing incantations and performing ritual gestures at the slight
est occasion. What is more, I had very precise reasons for being
worried. In Bridgetown Susanna Endicott had already told me
she was convinced my color was indicative of my close connec
tions with Satan. I was able to laugh that off, however, as the
ramblings of a shrew embittered by solitude and approaching
old age. In Salem such a conviction was shared by all.
There were two or three black servants in the community,
how they got there I have no idea, and all of us were not simply
cursed, but visible messengers of Satan. So we were furtively
approached to try and assuage unspeakable desires for revenge,
to liberate unsuspecting hatred and bitterness, and to do evil by
every means. He who passed for the most devoted of husbands
dreamed of nothing but killing his wife! She who passed for the
most faithful of wives was prepared to sell the soul of her chil
dren to get rid of the father! Neighbor wanted to exterminate
neighbor, a brother, his sister. Even the children themselves
66
Z, Tituba
wanted to be rid of one or the other of their parents in the most
painful way possible. And it was the putrid smell of all these
crimes seeking to be committed that turned me into another
woman. And in vain did I stare at the blue waters of my bowl,
thinking of the banks of the River Ormond. Something inside
me was slowly but surely coming undone.
Yes, I was becoming another woman. A stranger to myself.
One set of circumstances completed the transformation. No
doubt hard-pressed for money and unable to purchase a horse,
Samuel Parris hired John Indian out to Deacon Ingersoll to
help him with the field work. John Indian, therefore, only came
home to sleep with me on Saturdays, the day before the Sab
bath, when God orders even the niggers to rest. Night after
night then I curled myself up into a ball under a threadbare
blanket in a room without a fire, panting with desire for my
absent husband. Very often when John Indian came back to
me he was so exhausted from having labored like a beast that,
despite his robust physique that up till then had satisfied my
desires, he fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched my
breast. I stroked his rough, curly hair, filled with pity and revolt
against our fate. Who, who had created this world?
In my helplessness and despair I started to think about re
venge. But how? I devised schemes that I would reject at dawn,
only to start reconsidering them at dusk. I lost my appetite. I
could hardly drink. I wandered like a lost soul wrapped in my
coarse woolen shawl, followed by one or two black cats, no
doubt sent by Goody Judah White to remind me that I was not
quite alone. Not surprising that the villagers of Salem stood
aghast at me, I looked so awesome!
Awesome and hideous. My uncombed hair formed a mane
around my head. My cheeks became hollow and my mouth
pouted brazenly, stretched to the limits over my swollen gums.
When John Indian was with me, he gently complained:
“You’re neglecting yourself, wife. You used to be a meadow
where I grazed. Now the tall grass of your pubis and the tufts
of your armpits almost disgust me.”
“Forgive me, John Indian, and continue to love me even if I
am worthless.”
67
I got in the habit of roaming through the forest, because

tiring out my body seemed to tire my mind as well and there
fore I could get a little sleep. The snow whitened the footpaths
and the trees looked like skeletons with their gnarled branches.
One day, upon entering a clearing, I had the impression of
approaching a prison whose marble walls were closing in on
me. I could see the white mottled sky through a tiny opening
above my head and I believed my life was going to end there,
wrapped in a glistening shroud. Would my soul find its way
back to Barbados? And even if it did, would it be condemned
to wander helplessly, without a voice, like Mama Yaya and
Abena, my mother? I recalled their words: “You’ll be so far
away and it will take so much time to cross the water!” Ah,
I should have plied them with questions! I should have forced
them to break the rules and tell me what I couldn’t guess! For
one thought came back time and time again: if my body fol
lowed the law of nature, would my soul, once delivered, set
off back to my native land? I’m reaching the land I lost. I’m
returning to the forsaken hideousness of its sores. I recognize
it by its smell. The smell of sweat, suffering, and labor. But
paradoxically a warm, strong smell that reassures me.
Once or twice while wandering through the forest I met some
of the villagers bending awkwardly over herbs and plants, their
deceitful faces revealing the schemes in their hearts. I got great
amusement from this. The art of doing evil is a complex one. If
it is based on the knowledge of plants, this must be combined
with the power to act on the unseen forces, which are rebel
lious by nature, transient as air, and need to be invoked. Not
just anyone can set herself up as a witch!
One day while I was sitting on the ground that sparkled
with frost, hugging the folds of my skirt around me, I saw the
darting, familiar silhouette of little Sarah, Joseph Henderson’s
black slave, emerge from between the trees. On seeing me she
started to run off, then changed her mind and came closer. I
have already said there were several blacks in Salem who were
made to work their fingers to the bone and were treated worse
than the animals they were often in charge of.
Joseph Henderson, who came from Rowley, had married one
68
I, Tituba
of the Putnam daughters, the richest family in the village. Per

haps the marriage had been planned by Joseph Henderson for
financial advantage. In any case, it hadn’t paid off. For various
sordid reasons the couple had not received the land they had
hoped for and they were now destitute. Perhaps this was why
Goodwife Priscilla Henderson was always the first to enter the
meeting house, the first to sing out the prayers, and the one
most set on beating her servant. Nobody was surprised any
longer at the welts that adorned Sarah’s face or at the strong
smell of garlic with which she tried to treat them.
She dropped down beside me and blurted out: “Tituba,
help me!”
I took her tiny hand, rough and rigid like a badly planed
piece of wood, and asked: “How can I help you?”
Her eyes flickered. “Everyone knows you have magical skills.
Help me to get rid of her.”
I remained silent for a moment, and then shook my head. “I
cannot do what your heart dares not disclose. The woman who
revealed to me her science taught me to heal and console rather
than to do evil. Once, when, like yourself, I dreamed of doing
my worst, she warned: ‘Don’t become like them, knowing only
how to do evil.’ ”
She shrugged her frail shoulders under her wretched shawl.
“Knowledge must adapt itself to society. You are no longer in
Barbados among our unfortunate brothers and sisters. You are
among monsters who are set on destroying us.”
On hearing this, I wondered whether it was really little Sarah
speaking or whether it was not my innermost thoughts that
were echoing in the forest. To avenge myself. To avenge our
selves. Me, John Indian, Mary Black, Sarah, and all the others.
Unleash the fire and the storm. Dye scarlet the white shroud
of snow.
“Don’t talk like that, Sarah!” I said in a troubled voice.
“Come and see me in my kitchen. There are plenty of dried
apples if you are hungry.”
She got up and the contempt in her eyes burned me like acid.
I walked slowly back to the village. Wasn’t Sarah conveying to
me some message from the invisible world and hadn’t I better
69
spend three nights in prayer, calling to the spirits with all my

strength: “Cross the waters, O my fathers, Cross the waters,
O my mothers, I’m so alone in this distant land! Cross the
waters”!
Deep in thought, I was passing Goodwife Rebecca Nurse’s
house when I heard someone call my name. Goodwife Rebecca
Nurse was almost seventy-one and I had never seen anyone so
crippled with pain. Sometimes her legs swelled up so much that
she couldn’t move an inch and she remained stranded in her
bed like one of those whales you see from the slave ships. More
than once her children had called me to her and I had always
managed to provide relief. On that day I thought her old face
looked less drawn and she smiled at me. “Give me your arm,
Tituba, so that I can walk a few steps with you.”
I obeyed and we walked down the street that led to the cen
ter of the village, still lit by a pale sun. Once again I was deep
in thought about my terrible dilemma when I heard Rebecca
Nurse murmur: “Tituba, can’t you punish them? It’s those
Houltons again who forgot to tie up their hogs and they’ve
ruined our vegetable garden once more . . .”
For a moment I didn’t understand. Then I realized what she
expected of me. I was seized with anger and let go her arm,
leaving her all askew in front of a fence.
Oh no, they won’t get me to be the same as they are! I will
not give in. I will not do evil!
* * *
A few days later Betsey fell ill.
I was not surprised. I had somewhat neglected her during re
cent weeks, so taken up was I with my own problems and state
of mind. I can’t even remember whether I said a prayer for her
in the morning and had her swallow a potion. To tell the truth,
I hardly saw her. She spent most of her time with Anne Putnam,
Mercy Lewis, Mary Walcott, and the others who, now barred
from my kitchen, locked themselves upstairs and indulged in
all sorts of games of a dubious nature.
One day Abigail showed me a set of tarot cards that she had
found somewhere and asked; “Do you think we can read the
future with these?”
70
I, Tituba
I shrugged my shoulders. “Abigail, my dear, those little bits

of colored cardboard would hardly suffice.”
She then brandished her very pale, curved palm, where the
lines of her hand were traced out.
“And there, do you think you can read the future there?”
I shrugged my shoulders and didn’t answer. Yes, I knew that
the group of girls was playing dangerous games. But I closed my
eyes. Wasn’t all this foolishness, this whispering and giggling
their revenge on their awful humdrum existence?
“In Adam’s fall,
We sinned all.. ..”
“Sin is on our forehead,
We cannot wipe it out.”
And so on.
At least for a few hours they became light and carefree.
Then one evening after supper, Betsey dropped rigid to the
ground and remained with her arms spread out, her eyes bulg
ing, and her mouth gaping over her milk teeth. I rushed to help
her, but hardly had my hand touched her arm than she recoiled
and uttered a scream. I remained speechless. Goodwife Parris
quickly picked her up in her arms and even went so far as to
shower her with kisses.
I went back to my kitchen.
When night had fallen and everyone had retired to their bed
chambers I waited cautiously a few moments and then stole
down the wooden stairs. Holding my breath, I peeped into
Betsey’s room, but to my surprise it was empty, as if her par
ents had taken her with them to protect her from some un
known evil.
I could not help recalling the look that Goodwife Parris had
given me. The unknown evil that had struck Betsey could only
have come from me. A mother’s ingratitude!
Ever since we had left Bridgetown, my devotion to Goodwife
Parris and Betsey had been unceasing. I had watched for the
slightest sneeze and stopped their first bouts of coughing. I had
seasoned their gruel and put spices in their broth. I had gone
71
out in the wind to look for a pound of treacle and braved the
snow for a few kernels of corn.
Now, in the twinkling of an eye, all that had been forgotten
and I had become the enemy. Perhaps, in fact, I had never
ceased to be one and Goodwife Parris was jealous of the ties I
had with her daughter.
If I had been less distressed, I would have endeavored to
reason and to understand this about-face. Elizabeth Parris had
been living for months in the rotting atmosphere of Salem with
people who took me for Satan’s deputy and didn’t mind saying
so, surprised that I was allowed to live with John Indian in a
Christian household. It is likely that such remarks could have
corrupted her in turn, even if at first she had strongly resisted
them. But with the pain I felt, I was quite incapable of keeping
a proper perspective. In a state of mental torture I went up to
my room and went to bed with my solitude and grief. The night
dragged on.
The next morning I came down as usual to prepare break
fast. There were some lovely fresh eggs and I was whipping
them up to make an omelet when I heard the family take their
seats around the table for morning prayers. “Tituba!” Samuel
Parris boomed.
This is how he called me each morning, but this morning
there was a particular menace in his voice. I went in slowly.
Hardly had I appeared in the doorway with the ends of my
shawl tied around me, for the fire had only just been lit and
was not yet giving off any heat, than my little Betsey jumped
from her chair and began to scream, writhing on the ground.
Her screams were not human.
Every year the slaves used to fatten a pig that they killed
two days before Christmas Eve so that the meat could mari
nate in lemon and bay-rum leaves to rid it of any impurities.
They would slit the animal’s throat at dawn, then hang it up
by its feet from the branches of a calabash tree. While its blood
flowed out, at first in great gushes, then slowing to a trickle,
it screamed. Unbearable, jarring screams, suddenly silenced
by death.
72
I, Tituba
That’s how Betsey was screaming. As if suddenly this child’s

body had been changed into a vile animal inhabited by mon
strous forces.
Abigail at first remained standing, clearly aghast. Then, miss
ing nothing, she looked from the accusing eyes of Samuel Parris
to the hardly less terrifying face of Goodwife Parris, and on to
mine, which must have expressed total distress. She seemed to
understand what was going on and consequently, as if boldly
plunging into a pond without knowing what lay beneath the
greenish surface, she jumped off her seat and started to scream,
writhing on the floor in the same way.
This hideous concert lasted a few minutes. After that, the
two children seemed to fall into catalepsy.
“Tituba, what have you done to them?” Samuel Parris asked.
If I could, I would have rebuffed him with a tremendous
burst of laughter and then gone back to my kitchen. Instead,
1 remained nailed to the spot in terror, staring at the two
girls without being able to utter a word. Finally, Goodwife
Parris exclaimed in a whining voice: “You see what your spells
have done!”
“Goodwife Parris,” I retorted quickly, “when you were sick,
who looked after you? In the hovel in Boston, where you almost
died, who brought out the sun and cured you? Wasn’t it me?
But 1 didn’t hear any talk about spells then.”
Samuel Parris spun round like a wild animal that has found
another prey and thundered: “Elizabeth Parris, speak out! You
too indulged in these games with Satan?”
The poor creature tottered and fell to her knees at the feet of
her husband. “Forgive me, Samuel Parris, for I knew not what
I was doing!”
I had no idea what Samuel Parris would have done if at that
moment Betsey and Abigail had not come out of their trance
and started screaming even harder, as if they were damned.
Our neighbors, aroused by the din, soon started hammer
ing on the front door. Samuel Parris’s face changed in a flash.
Placing a finger to his lips, he grabbed hold of the two chil
dren and took them upstairs, along with some firewood. After
a moment Goodwife Parris composed herself and opened the
73
door, stammering reassuringly: “It’s nothing, nothing at all.

The Reverend Parris has decided to give his daughters a beating
this morning.”
The newcomers noisily agreed. “Should be done more often,
if you ask me.”
Goodwife Sheldon, whose daughter Susanna shut herself
up daily with Abigail, uttered the first note of discord. “It
sounds like the Goodwin children. I hope they haven’t been
bewitched!”
As she spoke, she of course stared at me with her pale,
cruel eyes.
Goodwife Parris managed to drag out a ripple of laugh
ter. “What are you thinking of, Goodwife Sheldon? Don’t you
know that a child is like bread that requires kneading? And
believe me, Samuel Parris is an excellent baker!”
Everybody guffawed.
I went back to my kitchen. After thinking the matter over,
things became clear. Voluntarily or involuntarily, consciously
or unconsciously, something or someone had turned Betsey
against me, for I truly believed that Abigail was but an accom
plice in the matter, skillful at playing the game to her advantage.
I had to regain the child’s confidence, which I felt I could surely
do if I could be alone with her.
I then needed to protect myself, which I had neglected to do.
I had to render a blow for a blow. An eye for an eye. Mama
Yaya’s old humanitarian lessons were no longer valid. Those
around me were as ferocious as the wolves that howled at the
moon in the forests outside Boston and I had to become as
ferocious as they were.
There was one thing, however, that I didn’t know: evil is a
gift received at birth. There’s no acquiring it. Those of us who
have not come into this world armed with spurs and fangs are
losers in every combat.
II
“1 have been watching you, my poor suffering wife, during all

these years we have been together and I can see that you don’t
understand this white man’s world in which we live. You make
exceptions. You believe that some of them can respect and love
us. How mistaken you are! You must hate without distinction!”
“Well, you’re a fine one to talk, John Indian! You’re like a
puppet in their hands. 1’11 pull this string and you pull that
one . . .”
“I wear a mask, my tormented wife. Painted the colors they
want. Red, bulging eyes? ‘Yes, Massa!’ Thick, black lips? ‘Yes
Missy!’ The nose flattened like a toad? ‘At your service, ladies
and gentlemen!’ And behind all that, I, John Indian, am free.
1 watched you lick that little Betsey like barley sugar and 1 say
to myself: i just hope she ain’t going to be disappointed!’ ”
“You think she didn’t love me then?”
“We’re niggers, Tituba. The whole world’s working against
us.”
I curled up against John Indian, for his words were too cruel.
Finally I stammered: “What’s going to happen now?”
He thought for a moment. “Samuel Parris is as anxious as
anyone not to let the rumor out in Salem that his daughters
have been bewitched. He’ll have Dr. Griggs come in and hope
it’s just a commonplace illness. Things will only go wrong if
the unfortunate doctor can’t cure them!”
“John Indian,” I groaned, “Betsey can’t be sick. 1 protected
her from everything.”
“And that’s the unfortunate part about it,” he interrupted.
“You wanted to protect her. She told everything in detail, oh,
quite innocently I’m sure, to Abigail and her set of little bitches,
75
who turned it into poison. Alas, she was the first to be poi
soned.”
I burst into tears. John Indian had no words of consolation
for me. Instead, he said in a rough voice: “Remember, you’re
Abena’s daughter.”
This brought me back to myself.
The daylight filtered in, as dirty as a rag, through the narrow
skylight. We had to get up and go about our daily chores.
Samuel Parris was already up and preparing to go to the
meeting house, as it was Sabbath day. His black hat was pulled
down low over his forehead, reducing his face to a rigid tri
angle. He turned toward me. “Tituba, I do not accuse with
out evidence. So I shall reserve my judgment. But if tomorrow
Dr. Griggs sees the influence of Satan, I shall show you the man
I am.”
“What do you call evidence?” I scoffed.
He continued to stare at me. “I’ll have you confess what you
did to my children and I’ll have you hanged by the neck. What
a magnificent fruit swinging from the trees of Massachusetts.”
At that moment Goodwife Parris and the two girls entered
the room; Abigail was holding the prayer book.
She was the first to go down and start screaming. Betsey re
mained standing for a moment, her face scarlet, hesitating, it
seemed to me, between affection and terror. Then she fell down
beside Abigail.
I screamed in turn: “Stop it, stop it! You know full well, Bet
sey and Abigail, that I never did you any harm. Especially you,
Betsey. Everything I did was for your good.”
Samuel Parris marched up to me and I staggered under the
wave of his hatred as if I had been struck.
“Explain yourself! You’ve said one word too many. What
did you do to them?”
Once again I was saved by a crowd of neighbors who, like
the day before, had come to see what all the noise was about.
They formed a circle in respect and silent horror around the
children, who continued to be afflicted by the most indecent
convulsions. John Indian, who had also come down without
saying a word, went to fetch a bucket of water from the kitchen
76
Z, Tituba
and whoosh! threw it over our little devils. This calmed them
down. They got up, streaming with water, almost apologetic,
and we set off in a procession to the meeting house.
The commotion started up again while we were taking our
seats in our pews. John Indian usually went first and I next, so
that the children could sit between me and Goodwife Parris.
When it was Abigail’s turn to come and kneel beside me, she
stopped, leaped backward into the aisle, and began to scream.
And at the Sunday service in Salem, can you imagine! They
were all there, John Putnam, the rum merchant; Thomas Put
nam, the sergeant, and his wife, Anne; Giles Corey and his
wife, Martha; their daughters and their daughters’ husbands;
Johanna Chibum; Nathaniel Ingersoll; John and Elizabeth
Proctor; and all the rest. I also recognized Abigail’s and Bet
sey’s companions in their dangerous games, those young girls
whose eyes were shining with excitement. They were dying to
roll on the ground too and to attract everybody’s attention. I
felt that at any moment they would fall into a trance as well.
This time it was only Abigail who went into a fit and made
a fuss. Betsey did not follow suit. So after a while Abigail shut
up and remained prostrate with her hair straggling out of her
hood. John Indian stood up, stepped out of the pew, took her
in his arms, and went home. The rest of the service went by
without incident.
>!• £ >!•
I confess that I am naive. I was convinced that even a race of
villains and criminals could produce some good, well-meaning
individuals, just as a stunted tree can bear some healthy fruit. I
believed in the affection of Betsey, led astray by some unknown
force, but I was sure of winning her back. When Goodwife
Parris went down to meet the crowd of curious neighbors who
had come for news of the children, I took that opportunity to
go up to Betsey’s room.
She was sitting against the window, her fingers resting on
her needlework, and in the half light her little face was so ex
pressive that my heart went out to her. On hearing me come in,
she looked up and immediately rounded her mouth to let out a
shriek. I rushed over to her and placed my hand over her mouth.
77
She bit me so hard she drew blood and we remained looking

at each other while a red pool began to form on the floor.
Despite the pain, I asked as quietly as I could: “Betsey, who
has turned you against me?”
She shook her head. “Nobody, nobody.”
“Is it Abigail?” I insisted.
She continued to shake her head more and more nervously.
“No, no, they only said that what you were doing to me
was evil.”
I went on in the same tone of voice. “Why do you tell them
about it? Didn’t I say it was to remain a secret between us two?”
“I couldn’t, I couldn’t! All those things you did to me.”
“Didn’t I say it was for your own good?”
Her upper lip curled up into an ugly pout, revealing her sick
gums. “You, do good? You’re a Negress, Tituba! You can only
do evil. You are evil itself.”
I had already heard these words or else read them in what
people were thinking. But I never imagined they would come
from the lips of someone so dear to me. I remained speechless.
Betsey hissed like a green mamba from the islands: “That bath
you had me take; what was in it? The blood of a newborn baby
that died from one of your spells?”
I was aghast.
“That cat you feed every morning; that’s Him, isn’t it?”
I started to cry.
“When you went out into the forest it was to meet the others
like yourself, and dance with them, wasn’t it?”
I managed to drag myself out of the room. I crossed the din
ing room full of chattering, excited matrons and withdrew into
my kitchen. Someone had removed the bowl in which I gazed
on my Barbados and I sat down on a stool, heavy with grief.
While I was there, huddled over myself, Mary Sibley came to
look for me. I had no more liking for her than for the rest of
the women in the village. Yet I must confess that once or twice
she had talked to me with a fair amount of compassion about
the fate dealt out to blacks by white folks.
She took me by the arm. “Listen Tituba. Soon the pack of
wolves will be on you, will be tearing you to pieces and licking
78
7, Tituba
their lips before the blood curdles and loses its taste. You must
stand up for yourself and prove that these children have not
been bewitched.”
This took me by surprise and, mistrustful of this unexpected
attention, I said: “I would like to very much. But unfortunately
I don’t know how.”
She lowered her voice. “You’re the only one who doesn’t. All
you have to do is to make them a cake. But instead of kneading
it with flour and water you mix in a little urine. Then once it is
baked in the oven, it’s ready to eat.”
“Goodwife Sibley,” I interrupted, “with all due respect, go
and tell your old wives’ tales to someone else!”
She spun round to John Indian, who came in at that moment.
“Does she know, does she know what they do to witches? I’m
trying to help her and all she does is laugh in my face.”
John Indian began to roll his eyes from left to right and in a
tearful voice said: “Oh, please, Goodwife Sibley, help us! Help
poor Tituba and poor John Indian!”
But I did not move an inch. “Go and tell your old wives’ tales
to someone else, Goodwife Sibley!”
She went out, most offended, followed by John Indian, who
was trying in vain to calm her down. At the end of the after
noon, the very same girls I had driven out of my kitchen came in
one after the other. Not one was missing. Anne Putnam, Mary
Walcott, Elizabeth Hubbard, Mary Warren, Mercy Lewis,
Elizabeth Booth, Susanna Sheldon, and Sarah Churchill. And it
was clear they had come to tease me. They had come to wallow
in the sight of my ruin. Oh, this was still only the beginning!
I would fall much farther. I would get hurt much more. And
with this happy thought, their eyes gleamed with cruelty. They
had turned almost lovely in their shapeless dresses! They had
become almost desirable: Mary Walcott with her buttocks as
big as a trunk, Mary Warren with her breasts like two shriv
elled pears, and Elizabeth Hubbard with her teeth sticking out
of her mouth like millstones.
* * *
That night I dreamed of Susanna Endicott and I remembered
her words: “Alive or dead, I shall haunt you.”
79

Was this then her revenge? Was she dead and buried in the
graveyard at Bridgetown? Had her house been sold to the high
est bidder and her money been distributed to the poor, as she
had wanted?
Was this then her revenge?
John Indian had gone back to work for Deacon Ingersoll and
my bed was as cold and empty as the grave that some were dig
ging for me. I drew open the curtain and saw the moon sitting
sidesaddle in the sky. A scarf of clouds was knotted around her
neck and the sky behind was the color of ink.
I shivered and went back to bed.
Shortly before midnight my door opened and I was in such a
state of nervousness and affliction that I sat up with a jump. It
was Samuel Parris. He didn’t say a word and remained stand
ing in the shadows, mumbling some prayer or other. I could
not say how long his tall silhouette remained immobile against
the wall. Then he left as silently as he had come and I could
make believe it was all a dream. He, too, was a dream.
By morning, sleep had taken me into his loving arms. He was
considerate with me. He took me on a walk across the hills of
Barbados. I saw the cabin where I had spent so many happy
days in solitude, which I now realized had been the best of all
possible worlds. My cabin hadn’t changed a bit. Just a little
more rickety. Just a little more mossy. The trellis was laden
with passion fruit. The calabash tree was showing swellings
like the womb of a pregnant woman. The River Ormond was
gurgling like a newborn baby.
Will I ever find my way back to you, my lost, beloved coun
try?
12
Dr. Griggs and I were on excellent terms. He knew that 1 had

done wonders for Goodwife Parris’s languishing fits and that
it was thanks to me she could sing the Sunday psalms at the
meeting house. He also knew that I had cured the girls’ coughs
and bronchitis. Once he had even come to ask me for a poul
tice to treat a bad wound his son had had on his ankle. Up till
then he seemed to find no malice in my art. But that morning
when he pushed open the door to Samuel Parris’s house, his
eyes avoided mine and I realized he was about to join the side
of the accusers. He went up the stairs to the second floor and
on the landing I heard him consult in a muffled voice with the
minister and Goodwife Parris. After a while, Samuel Parris’s
voice boomed out: “Tituba, you’ll have to be present.”
I obeyed.
Betsey and Abigail were in their parents’ bedchamber, sitting
on either side of the huge bed that was covered with an eider
down. I no sooner entered than they dropped to the ground in
harmony, uttering shrieks at the top of their voices. Dr. Griggs
did not let this put him off. He laid on the table a number of
big, leather-bound books, which he opened at carefully num
bered pages and began to read with the utmost seriousness.
Then he turned to Goodwife Parris and ordered her to undress
the two girls. The unfortunate woman seemed scared out of
her wits and I remembered our secret conversation about her
husband: “My poor Tituba, he lies with me without taking
off either his clothes or mine.” These people could not bear
nudity, not even a child’s. Dr. Griggs repeated in a voice that
would clearly not tolerate any further hesitation or contradic
tion: “Undress them!”
81
She had to obey. 1 won’t linger over the difficulty she had
in undressing the girls, who writhed about like a worm cut in
two and screamed as if they were being skinned alive. She man
aged, however, to finish the job and the girls’ bodies emerged,
Betsey’s perfectly childlike, Abigail’s nearing adolescence with
her ugly tuft of pubic hair and the rosy rounds of her nipples.
Dr. Griggs examined them carefully despite the abominable
curses Abigail showered him with, since she had begun to pep
per her screams with the vilest of insults.
Finally he turned to Samuel Parris and solemnly declared: “I
can see no disorder of the spleen or the liver nor congestion of
the bile or overheating of the blood. In a word, I can see no
physical cause. I must therefore conclude that the evil hand of
Satan is upon them.”
These words were greeted by a chorus of howls, shrieks,
and barks.
Raising his voice above the din, Dr. Griggs went on: “But I
am only a humble country doctor. For the love of truth call in
some colleagues more learned than myself.”
Thereupon he picked up his books and went off.
Suddenly there was silence in the room, as if Abigail and
Betsey realized the formidableness of what had just been said.
Then Betsey burst into pitiful sobs that seemed to combine fear,
remorse, and infinite tiredness.
Samuel Parris came out onto the landing and with a shove
sent me hard up against the wall. Then he walked up to me and
gripped me by the shoulders. I hadn’t realized how strong he
was, with his hands like the claws of a bird of prey, and I had
never been so close to the odor of his unwashed body.
“Tituba,” he thundered, “if it is proved that you have be
witched my children, I’m telling you again, I shall have you
hanged!”
I had the strength to protest. “Why is it you pick on me as
soon as it’s talk of spells? What about your neighbors? Mary
Sibley seems to know quite a bit about them! Ask her!”
For I had begun to behave like an animal up against a wall,
biting and scratching whoever she can.
Samuel Parris’s face turned rigid and his mouth shrunk to a
82
/, Tituba
thin, red line. He let go of me. “Mary Sibley?”

But it was written that he was not to seek an explanation
from her, at least for the time being, for a pack of vixens came
into the room downstairs, shouting that evil was on the loose
and had afflicted other girls in the village. One after the other,
Anne Putnam, Mercy Lewis, and Mary Walcott had fallen
under what they had decided to call the devil’s hand.
From the north to the south of Salem, over the wooden pris
ons of its houses, over the animal pens, its fields of juniper
and daisies, there rose a muffled tumult of voices. Voices of the
“possessed.” Voices of terrified parents. Voices of servants or
friends trying to bring relief. Samuel Parris seemed exhausted.
“Tomorrow, I shall go to Boston to seek advice from the au
thorities.”
What did I have to lose?
Picking up my skirt over the wooden clogs that made my
feet bleed, I ran to the house of Thomas and Anne Putnam.
Thomas Putnam was no doubt one of the richest men in Salem.
This giant, awesome in his three-foot-wide hat and heavy cloth
cape, made a strange contrast with his wife, who everyone
agreed was mad. On more than one occasion, their daughter,
little Anne Putnam, had spoken to me of her mother’s wish to
talk with me about her visions.
“What visions?”
“She sees people roasting in hell.”
You can imagine that after such a conversation I preferred
to avoid Anne Putnam altogether.
There were so many people at the Putnam’s that nobody
paid any attention to me and I could watch little Anne’s capers
unnoticed. At one moment she stood up straight, pointed her
finger to the wall, and said in a theatrical tone of voice: “There
he is! I can see him with his nose like an eagle’s beak, his eyes
like balls of fire, and his body covered with long hair. There he
is! Look at him!”
You would have expected the crowd of adults not to take
her seriously and to reassure the frightened child. Instead, the
crowd ran in all directions, falling on their knees and reciting
psalms and prayers. The only one to place her hands on her
83

hips and throw back her head to whinny in laughter was Sarah
Good. She even went so far as to add: “Why not dance with
him? If any of his creatures are in this room, you must be one
of them!”
Then taking her little Dorcas by the hand, she stomped out. 1
should have done the same. On her departure, following these
words of mockery, people started looking at their neighbors
and I was discovered in a corner where 1 had taken refuge.
It was Goodwife Pope who threw the first stone. “A nice re
cruit Samuel Parris brought us back here! Instead of lining his
pockets with gold he had to make do with this witch hazel.”
Like so many other women in Salem, Goodwife Pope did
not have a husband and she spent most of her time hawking
a basket full of gossip from house to house. She always knew
why such and such a baby had died and why such and such a
wife’s womb remained an empty gourd—generally, everyone
kept well away from her. This time, however, everyone was be
hind her. Goodwife Hutchinson carried on where she had left
off and picked up the second stone.
“As soon as he appeared in the village with these deathly
faces in his baggage 1 knew he had opened misfortune’s door.
And now evil is upon us!”
What could I have said to defend myself?
To my surprise Goodwife Elizabeth Proctor, who was watch
ing in the greatest affliction, dared to raise her voice: “Be care
ful not to condemn before the hour of judgment. We do not
know whether it is witchcraft. ..”
Ten voices rose up over hers.
“Oh, yes we do! Oh, yes we do! Dr. Griggs said so!”
Goodwife Proctor bravely shrugged her shoulders. “Well,
it won’t be the first time we’ve seen a doctor make mistakes.
Wasn’t it this same Griggs who laid Nathaniel Bayley’s wife in
her grave while treating her throat when it was her blood that
was poisoned?”
“Don’t go to so much trouble for me, Goodwife Proctor,” 1
said. “The spit of a toad never changed the scent of a rose.” 1
know 1 could have chosen a better comparison and my enemies
were quick to see it.
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/, Tituba
“Who’s the rose?” they laughed outright. “You? You, Ti

tuba? You’ve got your colors mixed up!”
* <• st-
Even if Mama Yaya and Abena, my mother, no longer spoke
to me, I sensed they were there from time to time. Often in the
morning a frail shadow would cling to the curtains in my room
and then curl up at the bottom of my bed, communicating a
mysterious warmth in an intangible way. I recognized Abena
from the scent of honeysuckle that pervaded my wretched
cubbyhole. Mama Yaya’s perfume was stronger, almost spicy,
but subtler. Mama Yaya did not convey any warmth but quick
ened my mind, convincing me that in the end nothing would be
able to destroy me. In short, Mama Yaya brought me hope and
Abena, my mother, tenderness. But understandably, faced with
the serious dangers that were threatening me, I needed closer
communication. With words. Sometimes nothing can replace
words. Often deceitful, often treacherous, they nevertheless
have an invariably soothing effect.
In a small enclosure behind our house 1 raised chickens in a
coop that John Indian had built. I had often sacrificed them to
my beloved spirits. For the time being, however, I needed other
messengers. Two houses farther along, old Goody Hutchinson
boasted a fine flock of sheep and one in particular that had an
immaculate coat and a star marked on its forehead. At dawn,
when a rooster crowed to the villagers of Salem that it was high
time to honor their God by labor, a shepherd hired by Goody
Hutchinson would set off, followed by two or three dogs, for
the common grazing ground situated at the edge of the village.
Goody Hutchinson had even had a few quarrels, since she re
fused to pay her grazing tithes. That was Salem! A community
that stole, cheated, and burgled while wrapping itself in the
cloak of God’s name. And however much the burglars were
branded with a B, were whipped or had their ears cut off or
their tongues cut out, the crimes continued to increase!
In short, I had no scruples about robbing a thief.
I undid the rope of the pen and slipped in among the sleepy
animals, which soon began to fret. I grabbed the one particular
85
sheep. He began to shy away and arch his back, but 1 was the
stronger and he had to follow me.
1 dragged him to the edge of the forest.
For a short moment we stood looking at each other, he the
victim, I the executioner but trembling and begging him to
forgive me and to convey my prayers with the blood of the sac
rifice. Then I slit his throat in one quick movement. He fell to
his knees and the ground at my feet became moist. I anointed
my forehead with the fresh blood. Then I gutted the animal,
oblivious to the stench of entrails and excrement. 1 divided
its flesh into four equal parts, which I presented to the four
cardinal points, and then I left the flesh as an offering to my
spirits.
After that 1 remained prostrate while prayers and incanta
tions buzzed in my head. Would they finally speak to me, my
life-giving forces? I needed them. I no longer had my island. I
only had my man. 1 had had to kill my child. 1 needed them,
they who had brought me into this world. I couldn’t say how
much time went by before there was a noise in the thickets.
Mama Yaya and Abena, my mother, appeared in front of me.
Were they at last about to break the wall of silence I kept
running into? My heart was thumping.
Finally, it was Mama Yaya who spoke. “There’s no need to
be frightened, Tituba. Misfortune, as you know, is our constant
companion. We are born with it, we lie with it, and we squabble
with it for the same withered breast. It eats the codfish from
our calabash. But we’re tough, us niggers! And those who want
to wipe us off the face of the earth will get their money’s worth.
Out of them all, you’ll be the only one to survive.”
“Will I return to Barbados?” I begged.
Mama Yaya shrugged her shoulders and merely said: “Is that
really a question?”
Then with a slight wave of the hand she disappeared. Abena,
my mother, stayed longer, uttering her usual quota of sighs.
Then she too disappeared, without having brought any further
clarification to the question.
I got up, somewhat reassured. The smell of blood and fresh
86
1, Tituba
meat had started to attract some flies in spite of the cold. 1

went back to the village, where the roosters had already begun
to crow. I hadn’t realized I had spent so much time at my
prayers. Sarah Hutchinson had just been roused from her bed
by the shepherd, who had noticed the mainstay of the flock
was missing and, hurriedly pushing her hair under her hood,
she screamed out her rage.
“One day the vengeance of God will come down on the in
habitants of Salem as it did on Sodom, and as in Sodom there
will not be ten just men to save the town from the supreme
punishment. Thieves, den of thieves!”
Hypocritically, I even stopped to sympathize, and lowering
her voice she drew me into a corner of the garden. “Help me,
Tituba, to find the person who has done me wrong and punish
him. Let his firstborn, if there is one, perish from something
like smallpox. If there isn’t a child yet, may his wife never bear
one! I know you can do it! Everyone says you are the most
awesome of witches!”
I looked her straight in the eyes with that fleeting arrogance
infused in me by Mama Yaya and Abena, my mother, and said:
“The most awesome are those that go unmentioned. You have
lived long enough, Goody Hutchinson, to know you should
not listen to hearsay.”
She laughed wickedly. “You’re very philosophical, my girl!
You won’t philosophize so much when you’re swinging at the
end of a rope!”
I couldn’t help shivering and went home.
You may be surprised that I shiver at the idea of death. But
that’s the ambiguity of people like us. Our body is mortal and
we are therefore prey to every torment of the common mortal.
Like them, we fear suffering. Like them, we are frightened of
the terrible antechamber that ends our life on earth. However
certain we are that the doors will open before us onto another
form of life, this time eternal, we are nevertheless racked with
anguish.
In order to bring peace back into my heart and mind I had
to repeat Mama Yaya’s words: “Out of them all, you’ll be the
only one to survive.”
Like three great birds of prey the three ministers sat themselves
down in the dining room. One had come from the parish of
Beverley, the other two from the town of Salem. They stretched
out their boney legs toward the fire that was crackling in
the hearth, then toasted the palms of their hands. Finally the
youngest, Samuel Allen, looked up at Samuel Parris and asked:
“Where are the children?”
“They’re waiting upstairs,” he replied.
“Are they all here?”
Samuel Parris nodded. “I asked their parents to bring them
here early. The parents are in the meeting house, praying.”
The three ministers stood up. “Let us do the same, for the
task incumbent upon us requires the help of God.”
Samuel Parris opened his book and started declaiming in his
grandiloquent way: “Thus saith the Lord, The heaven is my
throne, and the earth is my footstool: Where is the house that
ye build unto me? And where is my place of rest? For all those
things hath mine hand made...” He went on reading for a good
many minutes, then closed his book and said: “Isaiah 66.”
It was Edward Payson from Beverley who ordered: “Bring
them down!”
As Samuel Parris was hurriedly leaving the room, he turned
to me and said in an unusually good-natured voice: “If you are
innocent you have nothing to fear.”
I wanted my answer to sound firm, but it came out hoarse
and shaky: “I am innocent.”
The children had begun filing into the room. Samuel Parris
had not told the truth when he claimed that they were all there,
for only Betsey, Abigail, and Anne Putnam were present. Then
I realized he had selected the youngest of the afflicted, as they
90
I, Tituba
were called, the ones most appealing to the heart of a father

or a husband, whose only wish would be to relieve the girls’
suffering and put an end to their torment.
I thought that except for Betsey, who was so frail and ter
rified, Abigail and Anne had never looked in better shape,
especially Abigail who had that cunning air of a cat about to
pounce on a defenseless bird.
I knew, of course, that I was the victim, but the impression
I had was indescribable. There was rage. There was a desire to
kill. There was pain, especially pain. I was the poor idiot who
had sheltered these vipers in her bosom, offering up my breast
to their triangular-shaped jaws and their forked tongues. I had
been cheated. I had been ransomed like a galleon laden with
pearls from Venice. A Spanish pirate was piercing my body
with his sword.
Edward Payson, who was the oldest of the four men, to judge
by his graying hair and withered skin, asked the first question.
“Tell us, who, who is tormenting you, so that we can try to
relieve you?”
With a pause calculated to give more weight to their words
they cried: “It’s Tituba!”
Amidst the turmoil of my feelings I heard them give other
names linked to mine for no understandable reason. “There’s
Sarah Good! And Sarah Osborne!”
Sarah Good, Sarah Osborne, and I had hardly exchanged
a word since we had been living in Salem. The most I had
done was to give little Dorcas Good a piece of apple or pump
kin pie when she went by my window with that look of an
undernourished child.
* * *
Like four great birds of prey the men surged into my room.
They had slipped on black hoods, with holes for their eyes, and
the steam from their mouths came through the cloth. Quickly
they encircled the bed. Two seized my arms, while a third tied
my legs so tight that I cried out in pain. Then one of them spoke
and I recognized the voice of Samuel Parris.
“May something good at least come out of the hell you have
unleashed. It would be easy for us to do away with you. No-
91
body in this village would lift a finger and the magistrates in

Boston have better things to do. Besides, this is what we’ll do
if you don’t obey us. For you’re not worth the rope to hang
you with!”
“What do you want me to do?” I stammered.
One of them sat down on the edge of the bed and, leaning
over close enough to touch me, he snarled: “When you appear
in front of the court, confess that this is your doing!”
“Never! Never!” I screamed.
The blow struck me across the mouth and drew blood. “Con
fess that this is your doing, but that you did not act alone
and denounce your accomplices! Good and Osborne and the
others!”
“I have no accomplice, since I have done nothing.”
One of the men sat squarely astride me and began to hammer
my face with his fists, which were as hard as stones. Another
lifted up my skirt and thrust a sharpened stick into the most
sensitive part of my body, taunting me: “Go on, take it, it’s
John Indian’s prick.”
When I was nothing more than a heap of suffering, they
stopped, and one of the four spoke up again: “You are not the
only creature of the Antichrist in Salem. There are others, do
you hear, whose names you will give to the magistrate.”
I finally began to realize what their intentions were. “Haven’t
your children already given the names of my so-called accom
plices?” I said in a dying voice. “What more can I say?”
They laughed.
“Children talk in childish ways. We shall soon teach them
not to forget the important points. And you’ll be the first les
son.”
I shook my head. “Never! Never!”
So they pounced on me again and it seemed as if the sharp
ened stick went right up to my throat. I held myself together,
however, and groaned: “Never! Never!”
They consulted each other, then the door creaked and a voice
called softly to me: “Tituba.”
It was John Indian. The four birds of prey pushed him for
ward.
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/, Tituba
“You tell her, you seem less stubborn!”

They withdrew, leaving only our pain and the smell of my
humiliation in the room.
John Indian hugged me and how sweet it was to be back
in his arms. He tried to dab the blood from my wounds with
his handkerchief. He pulled my skirt down over my violated
thighs and I felt his tears on my skin.
“Wife, my tortured wife! Once again you’re making a mis
take about what matters most. The important thing is to stay
alive. If they ask you to denounce the others, denounce them!
Give the names of half of Salem, if that’s what they want! This
world is not ours and if they want to set it on fire, our job
is to stay away from the flames. Denounce anybody they tell
you to!”
I pushed him away. “John Indian, they want me to confess
my faults. But I am not guilty.”
He shrugged his shoulders and took me in his arms again,
cradling me like an unruly baby. “Guilty? Oh, yes, you are
and you always will be in their eyes. The important thing is to
keep yourself alive for yourself, for me . . . and for our unborn
children!”
“John Indian, don’t talk about our children, for I shall never
bring children into this dark and gloomy world.”
He ignored this remark and went on. “Denounce them, my
ravished wife! And by pretending to obey them, avenge your
self and me as well. Like the Lord, deliver up for plunder their
mountains, their fields, their wealth, and their treasures.”
* «•
Like three great birds of prey the constables from the village
arrested Sarah Good, Sarah Osborne, and me. Oh, they had
nothing to boast about, for none of us put up any resistance.
While placing her wrists in the chains, Sarah Good merely
asked: “Who’s going to look after Dorcas?”
The Proctors, who were present at the scene, came forward,
their hearts filled with pity. “Go in peace. We shall take her in
with our children.”
On hearing this, the crowd let out a murmur as if everyone
93
was of the opinion that the child of a witch was no company

for healthy children. Didn’t the Proctors have some dubious
contact with Sarah Good? And some people recalled that ac
cording to their servant, Mary Warren, Elizabeth Proctor stuck
pins in wax dolls that she locked away in a cupboard. The con
stables then placed such heavy chains on our ankles and wrists
that we could hardly move and we were dragged off to the
prison in Ipswich.
It was February, the coldest month of a year without grace.
A crowd had gathered along the main street in Salem to watch
us leave. The constables rode ahead while we slid around in
the snow and mud on the road. In the midst of all this desola
tion, surprisingly enough, we could hear the birds singing and
hopping from branch to branch in the ice-colored air.
I recalled John Indian’s words and now understood their
profound wisdom. How naive I had been to think that pro
claiming one’s innocence would suffice to prove it. How naive
I had been not to know that to do good to the evil and weak
is the same as doing evil! Yes, I was going to take my revenge.
I was going to denounce them and from the pinnacle of these
powers they accorded me I was going to unleash the storm,
whip up the sea with waves as high as walls, and toss the beams
of the houses and barns into the air like straws.
Whose names did they want me to give?
Because I wasn’t just going to give the names of the poor
wretches who were being dragged along with me in the mud. I
was going to strike hard. And at the top. And now that I was
totally destitute, the feeling of power went to my head! Yes,
my John Indian was right. This revenge, of which I had often
dreamed, would now be mine and through the very doing of
my enemies!
Ipswich was about ten miles from Salem and we arrived
just before dusk fell. The jail was full of criminals, murderers,
and thieves of all kinds that the land of Massachusetts bred in
numbers as great as the number of fish in the sea.
A constable with a face as red as an apple from drinking
too many mugs of rum registered our names in his book, then
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I, Tituba
looked at a board behind him. “Only one cell left, witches!

You can hold your meetings with no harm done. Satan must be
with you!”
His colleagues gave him a look of reproach, as if this were
no joking matter. But drink had put him in a higher sphere and
he paid them no attention.
They piled us in one against the other and I had to put up
with Sarah Good’s stinking pipe as well as with the lugubrious
prayers of Sarah Osborne, who was terrified. About midnight
we were awakened by a clamor. “She’s got me, she’s got me!
Let go of me, creature of Satan!”
It was Sarah Osborne whose eyes were bulging out of her
head. Who was she pointing her finger at? Well, me of course!
1 turned to Sarah Good as a witness to our companion’s au
dacity and hypocrisy. Was this how she was going to make her
defense at my expense? And now she in turn started to scream,
staring at me with her little pig eyes.
“She’s got me, she’s got me! Let go of me, creature of Satan!”
The constable with the red cheeks, who was by now com
pletely drunk, put an end to this hellish pandemonium by kick
ing me violently out of the cell. Then he chained me to a hook
in the passageway.
The bitter wind of night blew through all the keyholes.
We stayed a week in prison, awaiting the final preparations for
our hearing before the court of Salem. And here again, despite
my recent misfortunes and John Indian’s recommendations, I
fell into the trap of making friends. While I was shivering and
losing my blood in the passageway where I had been chained,
a woman passed her hands through the bars of her cell and
stopped one of the constables.
“There’s room here for two. Let that poor creature come in.”
The woman who had spoken was young, beautiful, and not
more than twenty-three. She had thrown back her hood un
ashamedly and revealed a mass of thick hair, as black as a
crow’s wing, itself the color of sin for some people and worthy
of punishment. Likewise, her eyes were black, not the gray color
of dirty water, not the green color of wickedness, but black like
the benevolent shadow of night. She fetched some water in a
jar and, bending down, endeavored to wash the welts on my
face. While she did so, she thought to herself out loud: “What
a magnificent color she’s got for her skin and what a wonderful
way she has of covering up her feelings! Fear, torment, rage,
disgust! I’ve never managed to hide my feelings and my moods
have always betrayed me!”
I stopped the movement of her hand. “Mistress . . .”
“Don’t call me mistress.”
“What shall 1 call you then?”
“By my name: Hester. And what’s yours?”
“Tituba.”
“Tituba?” She repeated it with delight. “Who gave it to
you?”
96
I, Tituba
“My father gave it to me when I was born.”

“Your father?” Her lip curled up in irritation. “You accepted
the name a man gave you?”
I was so taken aback it took me a few moments to reply.
“Isn’t it the same for every woman? First her father’s name,
then her husband’s?”
“I was hoping,” she said musingly, “that at least some soci
eties were an exception to this law. Yours, for example!”
It was my turn to muse. “Perhaps in Africa where we come
from it was like that. But we know nothing about Africa any
more and it no longer has any meaning for us.”
As she walked up and down in the narrow cell, I saw that she
was pregnant. I was still in a stupor when she came back up to
me and asked softly: “Why were they calling you a witch?”
Once again, swept up in a wave of sympathy for this un
known woman, I made up my mind to explain. “Why, in your
society . . .”
She interrupted me violently. “It’s not my society. Aren’t I
an outcast like yourself? Locked up between these walls?”
I corrected myself. “Why in this society does one give the
function of witch an evil connotation? The witch, if we must
use this word, rights wrongs, helps, consoles, heals . . .”
She interrupted me with a burst of laughter. “Then you
haven’t read Cotton Mather!”
She puffed herself up and solemnly declared: “Witches do
strange and evil things. They cannot perform true miracles;
these can only be accomplished by the visible saints and emis
saries of the Lord.”
I laughed in turn and asked: “Who is this Cotton Mather?”
She did not answer; instead she took my face between her
hands. “You cannot have done evil, Tituba! I am sure of that,
you’re too lovely! Even if they all accused you, I would defend
your innocence!”
I was so moved I was bold enough to caress her face and
whispered: “You too, Hester, are lovely! What are they ac
cusing you of?”
“Adultery!” she said quickly.
97
I looked at her in alarm, for I knew the seriousness of such

an offense in the eyes of the Puritans.
She went on: “And while I am rotting here the man who put
this child in my womb is free to come and go as he pleases.”
“Why don’t you denounce him?” I whispered.
She spun round. “Ah, you haven’t experienced the pleasure
of revenge!”
“Revenge? I must confess I don’t understand.”
“Believe me, of the two of us,” she said fervently, “I’m not
the one to be most pitied. At least that’s what you would expect
from a man of God, if he has a conscience.”
I was more and more puzzled. She must have realized it, be
cause she came and sat down next to me on the filthy bedding.
“Perhaps I should start at the beginning if I want you to
understand something of my story.” She breathed in deeply and
I settled down to listen. “In the bowels of the Mayflower, the
first ship to have landed on this coast, were my two ancestors,
my father’s father and my mother’s father, two fervent Separat
ists who had come to build the kingdom of the true God. You
know how dangerous such projects are. No need to describe
the fanaticism in which their descendants were brought up. It
produced a flock of ministers who read Cicero, Cato, Ovid,
and Virgil in the original . . .”
“I’ve never heard of these people,” I interrupted.
She raised her eyes upward. “Thank goodness for that! I had
the misfortune to belong to a family that believed in sexual
equality and at the age when you normally play with dolls my
father had me recite the classics! Now, where was I? Ah yes, at
sixteen I was married to a minister, a friend of the family who
had laid to rest three wives and five children. His breath was so
awful that 1 was lucky enough to faint as soon as he leaned over
me. He revolted me and yet he gave me four children that the
good Lord called to him, thank God, for I would have found
it impossible to love the offspring of a man I hated. I’ll let you
in on a secret, Tituba. The number of potions, concoctions,
purges, and laxatives I took during my pregnancies helped me
to arrive at this fortunate conclusion.”
98
Z, Tituba
“I, too, killed my child,” I whispered to myself.
“Luckily, a little over a year ago, he left for Geneva to confer
with other Calvinists on the problem of the visible saints and
it was then that. . .”
She stopped and I understood that despite her bluster she
still loved her tormentor.
She went on: “There is something indecent about beauty in
a man. Tituba, men shouldn’t be beautiful! Two generations
of visible saints stigmatizing carnal pleasure resulted in this
man and the irresistible delights of the flesh. We started meet
ing under the pretext of discussing German pietism. Then we
ended up in his bed making love and here I am!”
She folded her hands over her belly, and I asked: “What’s
going to happen now?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. I think they’re
waiting for my husband to get back before deciding on my
fate.”
“What punishment are you likely to get?” I insisted.
She got up. “They no longer stone adulterous women. I be
lieve they wear a scarlet letter on their breast.”
It was my turn to shrug my shoulders. “Is that all they do?”
But I was ashamed of my frivolousness when I saw the expres
sion on her face. This woman, who was as good as she was
beautiful, was suffering martyrdom. She was yet another case
of a victim being branded guilty. Are women condemned to
such a fate in this world? I looked for some way to give her
hope again and whispered: “Aren’t you pregnant? You must
live for your child.”
She shook her head firmly. “She must simply die with me. I
have already prepared her for that when we talk to each other
at night. You know, she’s listening to us right now. She’s just
knocked on the door of my womb to get my attention. You
know what she wants? She wants you to tell her a story. A story
about your country. Make her happy, Tituba.”
Resting my head against this soft curve of flesh, this hum
mock of life, so that the little one inside could be near my lips, I
started to tell a tale and the familiar words of that ever-present,
beloved ritual lit up the sadness of our confinement.
99
Crick, crack! Is the court asleep? No, the court isn’t

asleep! If the court isn’t asleep, then listen, listen to this
story, my story. Long long time ago, when the devil was
still in short pants, showing his knobbly knees covered with
scars, there lived in the village of Wagabaha, at the top
of a pointed hill, a young girl who had neither father nor
mother. A hurricane had blown away her parents’ house
and, miracle of miracles, had left the baby floating in her
cradle like Moses on the waters. She was sad and lonely.
One day while she was taking her seat in the pew at
church, she saw a tall black man standing near the pulpit
dressed in white drill and wearing a straw hat with a black
ribbon. Oh God, why can’t women do without men? Why
oh why?
“O dearly departed father, O dearly departed mother, I
must have this man, otherwise I’ll die.”
“Do you know if he’s good, if he’s bad, if he’s even
human and has blood in his veins? Perhaps it’s some evil
smelling, viscous humor that’s flowing to his heart.”
“O dearly departed father, O dearly departed mother, I
must have him, otherwise I’ll die.”
“Well, if you want him, then you shall have him!”
And the young girl left her solitude and her cabin for
the unknown man in white drill and slowly her life be
came hell on earth. Can’t we ever keep our daughters away
from men?”
Here Hester interrupted me, aware of the tremor in my voice.

“What’s this story you’re telling me, Tituba? It’s yours isn’t it?
Do tell me!”
But something kept me from telling her.
Hester taught me to prepare my testimony. Trust a minis
ter’s daughter to know a thing or two about Satan! Hadn’t she
eaten at his table since childhood? Hadn’t he sprawled on her
eiderdown in her cheerless bedchamber, staring at her with his
yellowish eyes? Hadn’t he meowed in every black cat? Croaked
in every frog? And even danced in every gray mouse?
“Make them scared,Tituba! Give them their money’s worth!
100
/, Tituba
Describe him as a billy goat with an eagle’s beak for a nose,

a body covered in long black hair with a belt of scorpion
heads around his waist. Let them tremble, let them quake and
swoon. Let them dance to the sound of his flute in the distance.
Tell them about the witches’ meetings, where they all arrive
on broomsticks, their jaws dripping with anticipation at the
thought of a feast of fetus and newly born babies served with
many a mug of fresh blood.”
1 burst out laughing. “Now look, Hester, all this is ridicu
lous.”
“No it isn’t, because they believe it. What does it matter to
you? Describe it!”
“Do you, too, advise me to give names?”
She frowned. “Who gave you that advice?”
1 did not answer and she said earnestly: “Give names, give
names! If you do you’ll become the same as they are with a
heart full of filth! If some of them have wronged you in per
son, then take your revenge, if that’s what you want. Otherwise
give them an element of doubt and, believe me, they’ll know
how to fill in the blanks! At the right moment shout: ‘Oh, 1
can’t see any more! I’ve gone blind!’ And you’ll have pulled the
trick off.”
“Oh!” I said fiercely, “I’ll take my revenge on Sarah Good
and Sarah Osborne, who denounced me for no reason whatso
ever.”
“Oh, yes, do that!” she laughed. “They’re too ugly to live
anyway. Now let’s start our lesson over again. What does Satan
look like? Don’t forget he has more than one disguise up his
sleeve. That’s why after all this time nobody’s caught him yet.
Sometimes he’s a black man . . .”
There I interrupted her in a worried voice. “If I say that,
won’t they think of John Indian?”
She shrugged her shoulders irritably. Hester got irritated
easily. “Don’t talk to me about your wretched husband! He’s
no better than mine. Shouldn’t he be here to share your sorrow?
Life is too kind to men, whatever their color.”
1 avoided talking to Hester about John Indian because I knew
only too well what she would say and I wouldn’t be able to
101
stand it. However, something deep inside me told me she was

telling the truth. The color of John Indian’s skin had not caused
him half the trouble mine had caused me. Some of the ladies,
however Puritan they might be, had not denied themselves the
pleasure of flirting with him.
“John Indian, they say you sing so well, and not only
psalms!”
“Me, mistress?”
“Oh, yes, when you’re digging at Deacon Ingersoll’s they say
you sing and dance at the same time.”
And, perhaps unjustly, a bitterness grew inside me. When we
were not rehearsing my testimony, Hester and I talked about
ourselves. Oh how I loved to hear her talk! “I’d like to write a
book, but alas, women don’t write books! Only men bore us
with their prose. I make an exception for certain poets. Have
you read Milton, Tituba? Oh I forgot you don’t know how to
read. Paradise Lost, Tituba, a marvel of its kind. . . . Yes, I’d
like to write a book where I’d describe a model society gov
erned and run by women! We would give our names to our
children, we would raise them alone .. .”
I interrupted her, poking fun: “We couldn’t make them alone,
even so!”
“Alas, no,” she said sadly. “Those abominable brutes would
have to share in a fleeting moment.”
“Not too short a moment,” I teased. “I like to take my time.”
She ended up laughing and drew me close to her.
“You’re too fond of love, Tituba! I’ll never make a feminist
out of you!”
“A feminist? What’s that?”
She hugged me in her arms and showered me with kisses.
“Be quiet! I’ll explain later.”
Later? Would there be a later? The day was coming when
we would be taken to Salem to be judged and then what would
happen to us?
However much Hester repeated that there was a law in Mas
sachusetts that spared the life of a witch if she confessed, I was
frightened.
Sometimes my fear was like a baby in its mother’s womb.
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1, Tituba
It turns from left to right, then kicks around. Sometimes my

fear was like a wicked bird tearing out my liver with its beak.
Sometimes it was like a boa constrictor suffocating me with its
coils. I had heard that the meeting house in Salem had been
enlarged to make room for the villagers as well as the people
from the surrounding area who wanted to take part in the fes
tivities. I had heard that they had built a platform on which
Sarah Good, Sarah Osborne, and 1 would stand, so that every
one could feast their eyes on the spectacle. I had heard that
arbitrators had been appointed, members of the Massachusetts
General Court, known for their integrity and firm beliefs: John
Hathorne and Jonathan Corwin.
What could I possibly hope for? Even if they left me my life,
what would it be worth to me? Could John Indian and I free
ourselves from our bondage and set sail on a ship bound for
Barbados?
I am back on the island I thought I had lost! No less rust-
colored, her soil! No less green, her hills! No less mauve, her
sugarcane, sticky with juice. No less satiny the emerald belt
around her waist! But the men and women are suffering. They
are in torment. A slave has just been hung from the top of a
flame tree. The blossom and the blood have merged into one. I
have forgotten that our bondage is not over. They are lopping
off our ears, legs, and arms. They are sending us up in the air
like fireworks. Look at the confetti made with our blood!
When I was in this mood, Hester could not do anything for
me. No matter how much she tried to reassure me, I did not
listen. So she would slip between my lips a little rum that one
of the constables had given her, and gradually I would doze
off. Mama Yaya and Abena, my mother, would then appear
one after the other and repeat tenderly: “Why are you shaking?
Haven’t we told you that you will be the only one to survive?”
Perhaps. But life scared me just as much as death, especially
as I was so far from my people.
Despite my friendship with Hester, the prison left an in
delible impression on me. This somber flower of the civilized
world poisoned me with its perfume and I could never again
breathe the same way. Encrusted in my nostrils was the smell
103
of so many crimes: matricides, parricides, rapes, thefts, man

slaughter, murders, and above all the smell of so much suffer
ing.
On 29 February we started back on the road to Salem.
Throughout the journey Sarah Good pelted me with abuse and
curses. You would think it was my presence alone that had
caused so much evil in Salem.
“Why did you leave your hell, Negress?”
I hardened my heart. I would get my revenge very soon on
that woman!
3
Deposition of Tituba Indian"

“Tituba, what evil spirit have you familiarity with?”
“None.”
“Why do you hurt these children?”
“I do not hurt them.”
“Who is it then?”
“The devil for aught I know.”
“Did you never see the devil?”
“The devil came to me and bid me serve him.”
“Who have you seen?”
“Four women sometimes hurt the children.”
“Who were they?”
“Sarah Osborne and Sarah Good, and 1 do not know who
the others were. Sarah Good and Osborne would have me hurt
the children, but I would not. There was also a tall man of
Boston.”
“When did you see them?”
“Last night at Boston.”
“What did they say to you?”
“They said ‘Hurt the children.’ ”
“And did you hurt them?”
“No, there were four women and one man, they hurt the
children, and then they lay all upon me; and they tell me, if I
will not hurt the children, they will hurt me.”
“But did you not hurt them?”
* These extracts are taken from the deposition of Tituba Indian. The original
documents of the trial are kept in the Essex County Archives. A copy can be
found at the Essex County Courthouse, Salem, Massachusetts.
105
“Yes, but I will hurt them no more.”

“Are you not sorry that you did hurt them?”
“Yes.”
“And why then do you hurt them?”
“They said ‘Hurt the children or we will do worse to you.’ ”
“What have you seen?”
“A man came to me and said ‘Serve me.’ ”
“What service?”
“Hurt the children; and last night there was an appearance
that said ‘Kill the children’; and if I would not go on hurting
the children, they would do worse to me.”
“What is this appearance you see?”
“Sometimes it is like a hog, and sometimes like a great dog.”
“What did it say to you?”
“The black dog said, ‘Serve me,’ but I said, ‘I am afraid.’ He
said if I did not, he would do worse to me.”
“What did you say to it?”
“ ‘I will serve you no longer.’ Then he said he would hurt
me; and then he looked like a man and threatened to hurt me.
This man had a yellow bird that kept with him. And he told
me he had more pretty things that he would give me if I would
serve him.”
“What were those pretty things?”
“He did not show them.”
“What else have you seen?”
“Two rats; a red rat and a black rat.”
“What did they say to you?”
“They said ‘Serve me.’ ”
“When did you see them?”
“Last night; and they said ‘Serve me,’ but I said I would not.”
“What service?”
“Hurt the children.”
“Did you not pinch Elizabeth Hubbard this morning?”
“The man brought her to me and made me pinch her.”
“Why did you go to Thomas Putnam’s last night and hurt
his child?”
“They pulled and hauled me and made me go.”
“And what would they have you do?”
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7, Tituba
“Kill her with a knife.”
“How did you go?”
“We rode upon sticks and were there presently.”
“Do you go through the trees or over them?”
“We see nothing but are there presently.”
* * *
It went on for hours. I confess I wasn’t a good actress. The sight
of all these white faces lapping at my feet looked to me like
a sea in which I was about to drown. Oh, Hester would have
made a much better job of it than I! She would have used that
tribunal to shout her hatred of society and to curse her accusers
in return. I was truly quite scared out of my wits. The heroic
answers I had dreamed up at home or in my cell vanished into
thin air.
* * *
“Did you not see Sarah Good upon Elizabeth Hubbard last
Saturday?”
“I did see her set a wolf upon her to afflict her.”
“What clothes doth the man go in?”
“He goes in black clothes; a tall man, with white hair,
I think.”
“How doth the woman go?”
“In a white hood, and a black hood with a topknot.”
“Do you see who it is that torments these children now?”
I spit out with delight and venom: “Yes, it is Goody Good;
she hurts them in her own shape.”
“Who is it that hurts them now?”
“I am blind now, I cannot see,” I stuttered, remembering
Hester’s recommendations.
I didn’t have the heart to obey Samuel Parris and give the
names of innocent women.
* * *
After my examination, Samuel Parris came to see me. “Well
spoken, Tituba. You understood what we expected of you.”
I hate myself as much as I hate him.
4
I was not an eyewitness to the plague that afflicted Salem, be

cause I was kept chained up in Deacon Ingersoll’s barn after I
had made my deposition.
* * *
Goodwife Parris very soon repented. She came to see me and
wept. “Tituba, what have they done to you, to you the kindest
of creatures?”
I tried to shrug my shoulders, but my chains held me too
tightly. “Two weeks ago I heard a different story,” I retorted.
She sobbed even louder. “I was misled, misled! I can see now
what’s behind it all! A plot by Parris and his followers to smear
and ruin . . .”
I interrupted her, as this was of no interest to me. I heard
myself say tenderly: “And Betsey?”
She looked up. “I have taken her away from this horrible
carnival and sent her to Samuel Parris’s half-brother, Stephen
Sewall, who lives in the town of Salem. He’s not like Samuel.
He’s a good man. I think that our little Betsey will recover her
health with him. Before she left, she asked me to tell you that
she loves you and she asks you to forgive her.”
I didn’t answer. Then Goodwife Parris told me what was
going on in the village.
“I can only compare it to a sickness that first of all is thought
to be benign because it affects the lesser parts of the body . . .”
Lesser parts? It’s true I was only a black slave. It’s true Sarah
Good was a beggar. So great was her poverty that she had to
abstain from coming to the meeting house for want of clothes.
It’s true that Sarah Osborne had a bad reputation because the
Irish immigrant she had hired to help her on the farm quickly
108
/, Tituba
advanced from the widow’s barn to her bed. But even so, it
was shocking to hear us coldly described as “lesser parts.”
Little suspecting the feelings she aroused in me, Goodwife
Parris went on: “. . . then gradually attacks the limbs and vital
organs. The arms and legs can no longer move. Then the heart
is attacked and finally the brain. Martha Corey and Rebecca
Nurse have been arrested!”
I opened my mouth in amazement. Goody Rebecca Nurse!
It was incredible! She was the living image of God’s faith!
Goodwife Parris continued: “Judge Hathorne himself was
moved by her and the first jury gave a verdict of not guilty. But
that wasn’t enough it seems and she has been taken to town to
appear before another court.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “My poor Tituba, it was horrible!
If you had seen Abigail and Anne Putnam, especially Anne
Putnam, roll on the ground screaming that the poor old woman
was tormenting her and begging her to have pity on them, your
heart would have filled with doubt and horror. And she her
self remained calm and serene while reciting the twenty-third
psalm: ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh
me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still
waters. He restoreth my soul. . .’”
Hearing the ravages that evil was making in Salem, I was
worried sick about John Indian.
There was so much talk about a “black man” who forced
his victims to write in his book. Wouldn’t a perverted mind
be tempted to identify him with John Indian? And then he in
turn would be persecuted. My worries, however, seemed un
founded. On the rare occasions when John Indian came into
the barn where I lay groaning, he seemed in excellent health,
well fed, his clothes washed and ironed. He was even wrapped
in a thick, warm woolen cape. And I recalled Hester’s words:
“Life is too kind to men, whatever their color.”
One day I plied him with questions.
“Don’t you worry about me!” he said irritably.
But I insisted.
“I know how to get by,” he blurted out.
109

“What do you mean?”
He spun round and stared at me. Oh, how changed he had
become! He’d never been very brave or very intelligent or hon
est, but loving, yes! A cunning expression had changed his face,
and his eyes now stretched into narrow slits with a crafty gleam
in them.
“What do you mean?” I stammered again.
“I mean, my poor, suffering wife, that I am not like you. Do
you think it’s only Abigail, Anne Putnam, and the other bitches
who know how to howl, have fits, faint, and pant: ‘Ow! You’re
pinching me, you’re hurting me! Let me go!’ ”
I looked at him a moment without fully understanding. Then
it dawned on me.
“John Indian,” I murmured. “You too are pretending to be
tormented.”
He nodded. “I had my hour of glory a few days ago,” he
boasted.
And he started to play in turn the magistrates and the girls
sitting round in a semicircle:
“John Indian who is tormenting you?”
“Goodwife Proctor first of all and then Goody Cloyse.”
“What do they do?”
“They bring me the devil’s book.”*
“John Indian, tell the truth, who is tormenting you?’ For if
anyone suspected me of evil-doing, it was Judge Danforth, the
filthy racist!”
I was appalled. I was ashamed. But hadn’t I been forced to lie
to save my life? Was John Indian’s lie any worse than my own?
* * *
And yet, however much I told myself this, from that day on,
my feelings for John Indian started to change. For me it seemed
he had made a pact with my tormentors. Who knows? If I had
found myself on that infamous platform and had been treated
as an object of contempt and terror by those despicable judges,
amidst those feigned cries of affliction, wouldn’t he have been
* Deposition of John Indian; Essex County Archives.

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I, Tituba
capable of shouting: “Oh, oh, Tituba is tormenting me! Yes,
my wife is a witch!”
* * *
Did John Indian realize what I was feeling? Or was there
another reason? Whatever the case, he stopped coming to visit
me. I was taken back to Ipswich and I never saw him again.
When we reached the outskirts of Ipswich, the villagers of
Topsfield, Beverley, Lynn, and Malden ran to the edge of the
road to throw stones at me while I stumbled along, roped to
Constable Herrick’s saddle. The bare trees looked like wooden
crosses and my calvary went on and on.
As I stumbled forward, I was racked by a violent feeling
of pain and terror. It seemed that I was gradually being for
gotten. I felt that I would only be mentioned in passing in these
Salem witchcraft trials about which so much would be written
later, trials that would arouse the curiosity and pity of gen
erations to come as the greatest testimony of a superstitious
and barbaric age. There would be mention here and there of
“a slave originating from the West Indies and probably prac
ticing ‘hoodoo.’ ” There would be no mention of my age or
my personality. I would be ignored. As early as the end of the
seventeenth century, petitions would be circulated, judgments
made, rehabilitating the victims, restoring their honor, and re
turning their property to their descendants. I would never be
included! Tituba would be condemned forever! There would
never, ever, be a careful, sensitive biography recreating my life
and its suffering.
And I was outraged by this future injustice that seemed more
cruel than even death itself.
We reached Ipswich in time to see a woman who had been
sentenced for some crime or other swinging from the end of a
rope and the crowd said it was only right and proper.
On entering the prison, my first thought was to ask to be
with Hester in her cell. Oh, how right she had been about John
Indian! He had been simply a pathetic individual without love
or honor. Tears that only Hester would know how to dry welled
up in my eyes.
But without looking up from his register, the constable, who
Ill
was fond of rum, told me that being with Hester was out of the
question.
“Why, why, Master?” I insisted in desperation.
He deigned to stop scribbling and stared at me. “It’s out of
the question because she’s no longer here.”
I remained speechless, imagining a thousand things in my
head. Had she been pardoned? Had her husband come back
from Geneva and freed her? Had she been taken to the alms
house to give birth? I had no idea how many months pregnant
she was; perhaps her time was up?
“Master,” I managed to stammer out, “have the goodness to
tell me what has happened to her, for there is not a kinder soul
on this earth!”
The constable snorted. “Kind? Well, however kind you may
think she is, by now she’s damned because she hanged herself
in her cell.”
“Hanged herself?”
“Yes, hanged herself!”
I screamed down the door of my mother’s womb. My fist
broke her bag of waters in rage and despair. I choked and
suffocated in this black liquid. I wanted to drown myself.
Hanged herself? Hester, Hester, why didn’t you wait for me?
Mother, will our torture never end? If this is how things are, I
shall never emerge into the light of day. I shall remain crouched
in your waters, deaf, dumb, and blind, clinging like kelp to
your womb. I shall cling so tightly you’ll never expel me and I
shall return to dust without you, without ever having known
the curse of day. Mother, help me!
Hanged herself? Hester, I would have gone with you.
After much deliberation by the authorities, I was taken to
the almshouse in the town of Salem because no such institution
existed in Ipswich. At first I could make no distinction between
night and day. Both were blurred in the same circle of pain.
They had left me in shackles, not because they feared I would
take my life, which would have been a happy ending for all,
but because I might attack my companions in misfortune in a
fit of rage. A certain Doctor Zerobabel came to see me because
he was studying mental illnesses and hoped to be appointed
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I, Tituba
professor at Harvard College. He suggested trying one of his

potions on me: “Take the milk of a woman suckling a male
child. Also take a cat and cut off its ear or part of it. Let the
blood flow into the milk. Get the patient to drink this mixture.
Repeat three times a day.”
Whether it was the effect of this medication I do not know,
but I went from a state of great agitation to a state of torpor.
This change was taken to be the first sign of healing. I opened
my eyes, which I had stubbornly kept closed. I agreed to accept
food. However, I couldn’t pronounce a single word.
Since the cost of my upkeep at the almshouse was too high
and could no longer be paid for by the town of Salem, to which
I belonged, they sent me to prison. I did not recognize a single
face among the crowd there. It was as if everything before
Hester’s death had been wiped from my memory.
One morning, I don’t know why exactly, my speech and
memory came back to me. I asked for news about what was
going on around me. I learned that Sarah Osborne had died in
prison, but I felt no pity for her.
At this point in my life I was haunted by the temptation to
kill myself. It seemed that Hester had set me an example to
follow. Alas! I didn’t have the courage.
I never understood why, but they transferred me from Ips
wich to the town of Salem. I had fairly pleasant memories of
this town, which I had visited a long time before with Samuel
Parris and his family. This port on a narrow peninsula squeezed
between two lazy rivers rivaled Boston, and the wharfs bristled
with ships. Yet there was (and this was intensified by my state
of mind) a cloud of gloom and austerity that floated over the
houses. We passed by the schoolhouse with a yard in front
where melancholy schoolboys, waiting to be whipped by their
masters, were tied to posts. In the middle of Court Street a mas
sive building rose up whose stones had been brought at great
expense from England and where man’s justice was handed
out. A crowd of men and women, dark and silent, stood under
the building’s arcades. The jail itself was a gloomy building
with a thatched, log roof and an iron-plated door.
I often think of Hester’s child and of my own. Those unborn
children. It was for their own good we denied them the light
of day and the salty taste of their skin under the sun. Children
we spared, but whom, strangely enough, I pity. Were they boys
or girls? What does it matter really? I shall sing my old lament
for both of them.
The moonstone dropped into the water,
Into the waters of the river,
And my fingers couldn’t reach it,
Woe is me!
The moonstone has fallen.
Sitting on a rock on the riverbank
I wept and I lamented.
Oh, softly shining stone,
Glimmering at the bottom of the water.
The hunter passed that way
With his bow and arrows.
“Why are you crying, my lovely one?”
“I’m crying because my moonstone
Lies at the bottom of the water.”
“If it is but that, my lovely,
I will help you.”
But the hunter dived and was drowned.
Hester, my heart is breaking.
One morning, as if in mockery, they put a child in my cell.
At first I did not recognize her, so blurred were my eyes with
suffering. Then my memory came back to me. Dorcas Good!
It was the little four-year-old Dorcas, whom I had always seen
114
/, Tituba
hiding in her mother’s dirty skirts until a constable separated

mother and child.
The band of little vixens had denounced her and men had
shackled the arms, wrists, and ankles of this innocent child. I
was too engrossed in my own misfortune to pay attention to
that of others, but the sight of this little girl brought tears to
my eyes.
She looked at me and said: “Do you know where my mother
is?”
I had to confess I didn’t. Had she already been hanged? The
rumor in prison had it that she had given birth to another child,
a boy, a son of the devil, who had returned to hell where he
belonged. I knew nothing else.
From that moment on, it was for Dorcas as well, daughter
of a woman who had accused me so unjustly, that I sang my
old lament, “The moonstone dropped into the water.”
6
The plague that afflicted Salem very quickly spread to other vil
lages and towns and one by one Amesbury, Topsfield, Ipswich,
and Andover entered into the dance. Like hounds excited by the
smell of blood, the constables prowled the country footpaths,
hunting those whom our band of little vixens, with their gift
of ubiquity, continued to denounce. I learned through prison
rumors that so many children had been arrested they had been
housed in a hastily built thatched log building. At night the
noise of their shouting kept the inhabitants awake. I was taken
out of my cell to make room for the accused who were thought
worthy of a roof over their heads and it was from the prison
courtyard that 1 now saw the cartloads of condemned prisoners
rumble by. Some of the prisoners stood straight upright as if
they were defying their judges. Others, however, groaned in ter
ror and begged like children for one more day, one more hour.
1 saw Rebecca Nurse led off to Gallows Hill and I recalled
the time she had whispered in her shaky voice: “Can’t you help
me, Tituba?” I regretted I hadn’t, because now I could see that
her enemies had triumphed. 1 learned through prison rumor
that those very same Houltons had unleashed the hogs of their
wrath against her. Rebecca Nurse was clinging to the bars of
the cart and staring at the sky as if she were trying to find an
explanation.
I saw Sarah Good go by. She had evidently been kept in
another building and was still wearing her vulgar smirk. She
looked at me tied up to a post like an animal and shouted: “I
prefer my fate to yours, you know!”
It was after the executions of 22 September that I was put
back into a prison cell. The bedding seemed to me as soft as a
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I, Tituba
feather and that night I dreamed of Mama Yaya with a garland

of magnolia flowers around her neck. She repeated her prom
ise: “You’ll be the only one to survive,” but I refrained from
asking her “So what?”
Time stretched endlessly above our heads.
It’s strange how human beings refuse to admit that they are
beaten.
Stories started going around in prison. It was whispered
that the children of Rebecca Nurse had found a sweet-smelling
white rose in place of her body when they had come at dusk to
remove their mother from the unmarked grave of shame where
the executioner had thrown her. It was whispered that Judge
Noyes, who had convicted Sarah Good, had died mysteriously
in a pool of blood. There was talk of a strange illness that was
striking down the families of the accusers and a good many
were being laid to rest under the earth. There was talk and
there were stories; and the stories were embellished. And they
rose up into a muffled murmur of words, soft but tenacious,
like the waves of the sea.
Perhaps it was these words that kept men, women, and chil
dren alive, that helped them to turn the grindstone of life. There
was one incident, however, that cast a pall over people’s minds.
Although we had almost gotten used to seeing the cart of con
demned women rumble past, the news that Giles Corey had
been literally pressed to death filled us with horror. I never
did like Giles Corey and his wife, Goody Martha, very much,
especially because she had the unpleasant habit of mumbling a
prayer whenever she met me. I had not even been upset when I
learned that Giles had testified against me. Hadn’t John Indian
already betrayed me by joining the side of the accusers? But
when I heard that this old man, who went from accuser to being
the accused, had been staked out on his back in a field and
the deputies had piled stone upon stone on his chest, it made
me wonder about the kind of people who were convicting us.
Where was Satan? Wasn’t he hiding in the folds of the judges’
coats? Wasn’t he speaking in the voices of these magistrates
and men of religion?
It was said that all Giles asked for was “more stones” to fin-
117
ish with it and to end his suffering. Soon there was a song about
him: “Corey, O Corey, For you the stones have no weight, For
you the stones are as light as a feather.”
The second event, which was even more horrible than the
first, was the arrest of George Burroughs. I have already said
that George Burroughs had been minister in Salem before
Samuel Parris and like Samuel Parris he had had no end of
trouble getting the terms of his contract respected. It was one
of his wives whose soul had departed from the upstairs bed
chamber in our house. But hearing that this man of God had
been accused of being Satan’s henchman plunged the prison
into dismay.
This God, for whom they had left the meadows and woods
of England, was turning his back on them.
We learned, however, in early October that the governor of
the colony, Governor Phips, had written to London asking for
advice on legal procedures concerning witchcraft. Shortly after
ward we heard that the court of oyer and terminer would no
longer convene and that another court would meet where mem
bers would be less suspected of collusion with the accusers’
families.
I have to confess this had little effect on me. I was condemned
to live!
1 hope that the generations to come will live under a welfare
state that will truly provide for the well-being of its citizens.
In 1692, at the time of our story, this was not the case. Be it
in prison or almshouse, the state did not provide for you and,
guilty or not guilty, you had to pay for your upkeep and the
cost of your chains.
The accused were generally well-off, owners of land and
farms that could be mortgaged. They had no difficulty, there
fore, in meeting the requirements of the colony. Since Samuel
Parris had made it known very early on that he had no inten
tion of paying my prison costs, the superintendent decided he
would get his money back by making me work in the kitchens.
The foulest food is always considered too good for a pris
oner. Cartloads of vegetables were trundled into the prison
courtyard and their lingering smell left no doubt about their
rotting state. The cabbages were turning black, the carrots
green, the sweet potatoes were crawling with maggots, and the
ears of corn bought from the Indians at half price were full
of borers. Once a week, on the Sabbath, the prisoners were
treated to an ox bone boiled in gallons of water and served
with dried apples. My job was to prepare this dismal food and
1 found myself remembering my old recipes in spite of myself.
Cooking has the advantage of keeping the mind free while the
hands are busy doing their own creative work. I cut up all this
rotting food. I seasoned it with a sprig of mint growing hap
hazardly between two stones. I added what I could from an
ill-smelling bunch of onions. 1 excelled in making cakes that,
although a bit heavy, were nonetheless tasty.
119
How easily reputations are made! Soon, to my amazement,

1 was reputed to be an excellent cook and I was hired out for
weddings and banquets.
I became a familiar figure ambling through the streets of
Salem, going in through the back doors of houses and hotels.
When they heard the jangling of my chains, the women and
children would come out on their doorsteps to look. But I
seldom heard jibes or jeers. Above all I was an object of pity.
I used to walk as far as the sea, which was almost hidden by
the hulls of the brigantines, schooners, and other kinds of ships.
It was the sea that healed me.
Her great, wet hand pressed against my forehead. Her salts
filled my nostrils. Her bitter potion moistened my lips. Gradu
ally I pieced myself together. Gradually I picked up hope again.
In what? I don’t know exactly. But a gentle little expectation
rose inside me like a sunrise. I learned through prison rumor
that John Indian was in the front line of the accusers, that he ac
companied the girls, those scourges of God, shouted when they
shouted, had seizures when they had them, and gave names
louder and stronger than they did. I learned that on the bridge
at Ipswich it was John Indian who had screamed “witch!” at
a poor wretch in rags, well before Anne Putnam and Abigail
had done so. They even said he had pointed to Satan in the
harmless shape of a cloud above the heads of the condemned
prisoners.
What could I possibly feel on hearing this?
In May 1693 Governor Phips decreed a general pardon, after
approval from London, and the prison gates opened for the
accused witches of Salem. Fathers were reunited with their
children, husbands with their wives, and mothers with their
daughters. I was reunited with nobody. This pardon changed
nothing as far as I was concerned. My fate passed unnoticed.
Noyes, the superintendent, came to see me. “Do you know
how much you owe the colony?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “How could I?”
“It’s all written down!” And he turned the pages of a book.
“There, you see! Seventeen months of prison at two shillings
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I, Tituba
and sixpence a week. Who’s going to pay me that?”

I said I had no idea and then asked: “What are you going
to do?”
“Find someone who’ll pay the prison costs and at the same
time employ you in his service!” he grumbled.
“Who’s prepared to buy a witch?” I laughed scornfully.
He smiled cynically. “A man who hasn’t got very much
money. You know how much slaves are selling for at the present
time? Twenty-five pounds!”
Our conversation stopped there, but now I knew the fate
awaiting me. Another master, another bondage.
I began to doubt seriously Mama Yaya’s basic conviction
that life is a gift. Life would only be a gift if each of us could
choose the womb that carried us. But to be deposited inside a
wretch, an egoist, or a self-centered bitch who makes us pay
for the misfortunes of her own life, or to belong to the cohort
of the exploited and humiliated, those whose name, language,
and religion are imposed upon them, oh what a martyrdom!
If one day I am born again, let it be in the steely army of
conquerors!
Every day after that conversation with Noyes, complete
strangers would come to examine me. They would inspect my
gums and my teeth. They would pinch my stomach and my
breasts. They would lift up my rags to examine my legs. Then
they would make a face.
“She’s terribly skinny!”
“You say she’s twenty-five? She looks fifty!”
“I don’t like her color!”
One afternoon I found grace in the eyes of a man. But my
God, what a man! He was small and hunchbacked, with a com
plexion the color of eggplant and large, ginger-colored side
whiskers that merged into a pointed beard.
Noyes whispered contemptuously: “He’s a Jew, a merchant.
They say he’s very rich. He could afford a whole cargo of slaves
and here he is haggling over a jailbird!”
I ignored his offensive remarks. A merchant? Probably trad
ing with the West Indies? With Barbados?
Suddenly I looked at the Jew with new eyes, as if his down-
121
right ugliness had become the most appealing of assets. Didn’t

he symbolize the prospects I had dreamed of?
My eyes expressed such hope and desire that he turned round
and hobbled off, probably mistaking the meaning of their trans
formation. I then saw that his right leg was shorter than his left.
Night, night, lovelier than day! Maker of dreams! A great
crossroads where the present takes the past by the hand, where
the living and the dead merge.
In this cell where there remained only poor Sarah Daston,
who was now too old and too poor and would probably end her
days between these walls, Mary Watkins, who was waiting for
a buyer, and myself, whom nobody wanted, I managed to call
on Mama Yaya and Abena, my mother. May their combined
powers make me fall into the hands of that merchant whose
look told me that he, too, was from the land of the suffering
and that in some undefinable way, we were, or we could be, on
the same side.
Barbados!
During the periods of my sickness with its fever and stupor
I had given very little thought to my native land. But once I
had precariously pieced myself together, the memory of it came
back to me.
Yet the news I had of the island was not good. An empire
of suffering and humiliation had been staked out there. The
wretched herd of slaves continued to turn the wheel of misfor
tune. Grind my forearm, mill, with the sugarcane so that my
blood colors the sweet juice.
And that wasn’t all!
Every day other islands round about were being opened up to
the appetite of the white man and I learned that in the colonies
of South America our hands were now weaving long cotton
shrouds.
That night I had a dream.
My ship was entering the harbor, its sails swelling with all
my impatience. I was on the wharf watching the tarred prow
cut through the water. At the foot of one of the masts I could
make out a shape that I was unable to name, but I knew it was
bringing me joy and happiness. How long would it be before I
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Z, Tituba
enjoyed such a truce? That I couldn’t guess. 1 knew that fate is
like an old man. It toddles along. It stops to catch its breath. It
sets off again. It stops once more. It reaches its destination in
its own time. But I had the feeling that the darkest hours were
behind me and I would soon be able to breathe again.
That night Hester lay down beside me, as she did some
times. I laid my head on the quiet water lily of her cheek and
held her tight. Surprisingly, a feeling of pleasure slowly flooded
over me. Can you feel pleasure from hugging a body similar
to your own? For me, pleasure had always been in the shape
of another body whose hollows fitted my curves and whose
swellings nestled in the tender flatlands of my flesh. Was Hester
showing me another kind of bodily pleasure?
* * *
Three days later Noyes came and opened the door of my cell.
Behind him, in his shadow, crept the Jew, more ginger-colored
and crooked than ever. Noyes pushed me as far as the prison
courtyard, where the blacksmith, a huge man in a leather
apron, unceremoniously drew my legs apart with two blocks of
wood. Then with one skillful blow of the mallet he smashed my
chains to pieces. He did the same thing with my wrists while I
screamed.
I screamed while my blood, which for so many weeks had
circulated poorly, rushed back into my flesh, pricking my skin
with a thousand darts.
I screamed, and this scream, the terrified cry of a newborn
baby, heralded my return to this world. I had to learn how to
walk again. Deprived of my shackles, I was unable to find my
balance and I tottered like a woman drunk on cheap liquor. I
had to learn how to speak again, how to communicate with my
fellow creatures, and no longer be content with a word here
and there. I had to learn how to look them in the eyes again. I
had to learn how to do my hair again now that it had become
a tangle of untidy snakes hissing around my head. I had to rub
ointments on my dry, cracked skin, which had become like a
badly tanned hide.
Few people have the misfortune to be born twice.
Benjamin Cohen d’Azevedo, the Jew who had just bought me,
had lost his wife and his youngest children in an epidemic of
whooping cough. He still had five girls and four boys who
urgently needed the company of a woman. S;nce he did not in
tend to remarry, as all the other men in the colony did in such
cases, he preferred to have a slave.
I was therefore confronted with nine children of varying
sizes, some with hair as black as a magpie’s tail, others as
ginger-colored as their father, all of whom had the particularity
of not speaking one word of English. Benjamin’s family had
come from Portugal, where religious persecution had forced
them to flee to Holland. From there, one branch of the family
had tried for Brazil, Recife to be exact, but had to flee once
again when the town was recaptured by the Portuguese. They
then split into two clans, one settling in Curacao, the other
trying its luck in the American colonies. And their ignorance
of the English language and this constant babble in Hebrew
and Portuguese showed how indifferent this family was to the
misfortunes of others and to anything that did not concern the
tribulations of Jews the world over. I wondered if Benjamin
Cohen d’Azevedo had even heard about the Salem witch trials
and whether he hadn’t entered the prison by accident. In any
case, if he had heard about those sad events, he would have
put them down to the basic cruelty that seemed to characterize
those he called Gentiles and would have forgiven me entirely.
In a way I couldn’t have fallen into better hands.
The only visitors who crept into Benjamin Cohen d’Azeve
do’s home were half a dozen other Jews who came to celebrate
the Saturday ritual. I learned that they had been refused per-
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I, Tituba
mission to build a synagogue. So they huddled together in one
room of the large house facing a seven-branched candelabrum
and murmuring mysterious words in a monotonous voice. On
Friday nights no light could be lit and the troop of children ate,
washed, and went to bed in total darkness.
Benjamin Cohen d’Azevedo was in constant touch by letter
and trade with other Cohens, Levys, and Fraziers who lived in
New York (which he insisted on calling New Amsterdam!) and
Rhode Island. He earned a comfortable living from the tobacco
trade and owned two ships in association with his fellow Jew
and friend Judah Monis. Benjamin was a man of consider
able wealth, but little vanity, tailoring his clothes himself from
pieces of cloth from New York and living off unleavened bread
and gruel. The day after I entered his service, he held out a flat
vial and said in his squeaky voice: “It was my beloved Abigail
who used to prepare this. It’ll put you back on your feet.”
Then he went off with his eyes lowered, as if he were ashamed
of the goodness of his heart. That same day he brought me
clothes of dark cloth and an unusual cut. “Here, these belonged
to my beloved Abigail. I know that where she is now she would
like you to wear them.”
It was beloved Abigail who brought us together.
She started by weaving between us a tissue of little acts of
kindness, little services, and little signs of recognition. Benja
min would slice an orange from the islands for Metahebel, his
eldest daughter, and me. He would invite me to drink a glass of
hot toddy with his friends or throw an extra blanket over me
when it was too cold in my attic at night. I would iron his rough
shirts carefully, brush and clean his cape that was green with
wear, and spice his milk with honey. On the first anniversary
of his wife’s death he looked so desperate that I couldn’t help
saying softly: “You know that death is merely a passageway
and the door always remains open?”
He looked at me in disbelief.
I grew bolder and whispered: “Do you want to speak to
her?”
He rolled his eyes back.
“This evening,” I ordered, “when the children are asleep,
125

join me in the orchard. Bring a sheep or, if there is none, a
chicken from your friend the shohet.”
I must confess that despite my apparent self-assurance, my
heart was in my throat. It had been such a long time since I had
practiced my art! In the promiscuous conditions of the prison,
among my companions in ill fortune, and deprived of any natu
ral element to help me, I had never been able to communicate
with my invisible spirits other than in a dream. Hester used to
come and visit me regularly. Mama Yaya, Abena, my mother,
and Yao, less often. But in this case, Abigail did not have to
cross the water. I was sure she could not be far away from
her husband and above all from her beloved children. A few
prayers and a ritual sacrifice would make her appear. And poor
Benjamin’s heart would be filled with joy.
About ten o’clock Benjamin joined me under a tree in blos
som. He was dragging a sheep that had an immaculate coat
and beautiful, submissive eyes. I had already begun my incan
tations and I was waiting for the moon to emerge and play its
role in the ceremony. At the decisive moment I got scared, but
then I felt a pair of lips on my neck and I knew it was Hester
come to give me courage.
The blood of the sheep stained the earth and its pungent
smell took our breath away.
After a time that seemed endless, a shape emerged and a little
woman with a very white complexion and very black hair came
toward us. Benjamin fell to his knees.
I discreetly moved away. Husband and wife talked for a very
long time.
From then on, I allowed Benjamin Cohen d’Azevedo to see
his lost, beloved wife every week. This usually occurred on Sun
day evenings after the last of the friends who had come for news
of the Jews scattered throughout the world had left, following
a reading from their holy book. Benjamin and Abigail talked,
I think, about how their business was going, about their chil
dren’s education, and the trouble their youngest son, Moses,
was causing them by frequenting the Gentiles and wanting to
speak their language.
I say “I think” because their conversation took place in
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I, Tituba
Hebrew and I listened sort of uncomfortably to the somber

sounds of that language.
After a month Benjamin asked me if he could bring his
daughter Metahebel with him to these meetings.
“You cannot imagine what the death of her mother meant to
her. There were only seventeen years between them and Meta
hebel loved Abigail like a sister. During Abigail’s last days,
even my love could not distinguish one from the other. They
had the same laugh, the same brown plaits wound around
their head, and the same perfume from their very white skins.
Tituba, sometimes I start doubting God when I see him sepa
rate a child from her mother. Doubting God! You see, I am not
a good Jew!”
How could I have had the heart to refuse?
Especially as Metahebel was my favorite among the children.
She was so gentle that you trembled at what that inconsiderate,
capricious bitch of a life could do to her. She was so attentive
to others. She knew a little English and would ask me: “Why
all those clouds deep in your eyes, Tituba? What are you think
ing about? Your people in slavery? Don’t you know that God
blesses those who suffer and that’s how he recognizes his own
people?”
But this profession of belief did not satisfy me and I shook
my head. “Metahebel, isn’t it time the victims changed sides?”
From that moment on there were three of us shivering in the
garden waiting for Abigail to appear. The husband and wife
talked first. Then the daughter went up to her mother and they
remained alone.
>5- * *
Why must any relationship with the slightest hint of affection
between a man and a woman necessarily end up in bed? I can’t
get over it.
How did Benjamin Cohen d’Azevedo, preoccupied with the
memory of his dead wife, and I, with the memory of an un
grateful wretch, find ourselves involved in the act of kissing
and embracing?
I believe the first time it happened he was even more sur
prised than I was, since he thought his penis was out of working
127
order and was amazed to see it aroused, stiff and penetrating,

swollen with seed. He was surprised and ashamed, he who
taught his sons that fornication was a terrible sin. So he with
drew, stammering apologies that were swept away in another
wave of desire.
Henceforth I lived in that odd situation of being both mis
tress and servant. The day left me with no rest. I had to card
and spin the wool, wake up the children, help them wash and
get dressed, make the soap, do the washing, iron, dye, weave,
mend the clothing and the sheets and blankets, and even resole
the shoes, not to mention making tallow for the candles, feed
ing the animals, and cleaning the house. For religious reasons I
did not cook the meals. This was left to Metahebel and I didn’t
like to see her youth being wasted in household chores.
In the evening Benjamin Cohen d’Azevedo joined me in the
attic, where I slept in a brass bed. I must confess that when he
undressed, revealing his crooked, pasty body, I couldn’t help
thinking of the dark-brown muscles of John Indian. A lump
would rise up in my throat and I would choke back the sobs.
But that didn’t last and I pitched and heaved just as well on
the sea of delight with my misshapen lover. The sweetest mo
ments, however, were those when he talked. About us. And
only about us.
“Tituba, do you know what it is to be a Jew? In 629 the
Merovingians expelled us from their kingdom in France. Pope
Innocent Ill’s Fourth Lateran Council ordered all Jews to wear
a circular mark on their clothes and to cover their heads. Before
leaving for the Crusades, Richard the Lion Hearted ordered a
general attack against the Jews. Do you know how many of us
lost our lives under the Inquisition?”
I retorted by interrupting him: “And what about us? Do
you know how many of us have been bled from the coast of
Africa?”
But he went on. “In 1298 the Jews of Rottingen were put to
the sword and the wave of murders spread to Bavaria and Aus
tria. In 1336 our blood was shed from the Rhine to Bohemia
and Moravia.”
He outdid me every time.
128
I, Tituba
One night when we had pitched and heaved more violently

than usual, Benjamin whispered passionately: “There is always
a shadow at the back of your eyes, Tituba. What can I give you
to make you happy or almost happy?”
“My freedom!”
The words rushed out of their own accord.
He stared at me in amazement. “Freedom? But what would
you do with it?”
“I would take a berth on one of your ships and set sail im
mediately for my Barbados.”
His face hardened and I scarcely recognized him.
“Never, never, you hear me. If you leave I’ll lose her a second
time. Don’t ever mention it again.”
And we never did mention it again. Pillow talk has the same
consistency as dreams and the same peculiarity of being easily
forgotten.
We resumed our old habits and gradually I settled into the
ways of this Jewish family. I learned to get by in Portuguese.
I became fascinated with the question of naturalization and it
irritated me that the meanness of a governor should make it dif
ficult, even impossible, to obtain citizenship. I got excited over
the issue of building a synagogue and learned to think of Roger
Williams as a liberal, a genuine friend of the Jews. Yes, like
Benjamin Cohen d’Azevedo 1 began to divide the world into
two groups: the friends of Jews and the others. And I began to
weigh the chances the Jews might have of making a place for
themselves in the New World.
One afternoon, however, I was brought back to earth. I had
just taken a basket full of dried apples to Jacob Marcus’s wife,
who had given birth to her fourth daughter, and was crossing
Front Street at a brisk pace, fighting against the wind and cold,
when I heard someone call my name.
“Tituba!” It was a young Negress whom I didn’t recognize
at first. There were already at that time a great many blacks,
whom nobody paid attention to any longer, busy doing domes
tic chores in the towns of Salem, Boston, and the entire Bay
Colony.
129
As I hesitated, the young girl cried out: “It’s me, Mary Black!
Don’t you remember me?”
My memory came back. Mary Black had been Nathaniel
Putnam’s slave. Like myself she had been accused of being a
witch by the clan of little bitches and taken to Boston prison. I
had no idea what had become of her.
“Mary!” All at once the past came hurtling back with its
load of pain and humiliation. We sobbed in each other’s arms
for a few moments. Then she poured out all the news.
“The sinister scheme is now being uncovered. The girls were
being manipulated by their parents. It was all a question of
land, money, and old rivalries. The wind has changed now and
they want to drive Samuel Parris out of the village, but he’s
refusing to move. He’s demanding arrears in his salary and fire
wood that was never provided. Did you know his wife had
a son?”
I didn’t want to hear another word and interrupted her. “But
what about you?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m still at Nathaniel Putnam’s.
He took me back after Governor Phips’s pardon. He’s quar
reled with his cousin Thomas. Did you know that Dr. Griggs
now says that Anne Putnam and her daughter Anne were a bit
out of their minds?”
Too late! Too late! The truth always arrives too late because
it walks slower than lies. Truth crawls at a snail’s pace. There
was one question on my lips that I refrained from asking, but
in the end I had to. “What has happened to John Indian?”
She hesitated and I repeated my question more insistently.
“He no longer lives in the village,” she said.
I was stunned. “Where does he live then?”
“In Topsfield!”
Topsfield? I grabbed poor Mary by the arm without realizing
that my fingers were digging into her innocent flesh. “Mary,
for the love of God, tell me what is going on! What is he doing
in Topsfield?”
She resigned herself to looking me in the face. “Do you re
member Goodwife Sarah Porter?”
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I, Tituba
No more than any of the others! A skinny woman whose

eyes never left her prayer book at the meeting house.
“Well, he started to work for her and when her husband fell
off a roof and died, he moved into her bed. There was such an
outcry in the village that they had to leave.”
I must have looked so distressed that she added reassuringly:
“It seems that they don’t get on at all.”
I did not hear the rest of the conversation. It felt as though
I was going mad and Hester’s words came back to needle my
memory: “Life is too kind to men, whatever their color.”
Good for the gallows, I was wearing myself out in bondage
while my man was striding around his new estate in leather
boots with a conquering air and assessing his wealth. For
Goody Porter was rich, I remember now. She and her late hus
band were among those who paid the highest taxes.
I hurried on, for the wind was sharper now, cutting through
the clothes that Benjamin Cohen had given me. They still had
the sweet, penetrating smell of his dead wife.
I hurried on, realizing that all I had as a refuge was the Great
House in Essex Street.
When I got back, it was the hour of Minnah. The children
were sitting around their father, saying the words that I now
knew by heart. “Sh’ma Israel. Adonai Elohenu Ehad.”
I ran up to my attic and let the pain flood through me.
9
But my pain passed like all the rest. It faded away and I had four
months of peace, dare I say happiness, with Benjamin Cohen
d’Azevedo.
At night he would murmur: “Our God knows neither race
nor color. You can become one of us if you like and can pray
with us.”
I interrupted him with a laugh. “Your God even accepts
witches?”
He kissed my hands. “Tituba, you are my beloved witch!”
At times, however, the anguish came back. I knew that mis
fortune never gives up. I knew it singles out those of a certain
sort and I waited.
I waited.
IO
It started when the mezuzahs over Benjamin Cohen d’Azeve

do’s front door and over the entrances to the other two Jewish
homes were ripped off and replaced by an obscene drawing in
black paint.
The Jews were so used to persecution that Benjamin, sensing
the situation, counted his children and herded them inside, like
a docile flock. It took me hours to find Moses, who was play
ing with some street urchins near the wharf, his kippa hanging
precariously from a lock of his thick red hair. The next day was
the sabbath. As usual the five Levys and the three Marcuses
slipped into Benjamin’s house for the weekly ritual (Rebecca,
Jacob’s wife, was still at home in confinement). Hardly had
their voices, which were perhaps a little shakier than usual,
risen up than a hail of stones rained against the doors and
windows.
Having nothing to lose, I went outside and saw a small
crowd of men and women dressed in the sinister Puritan fash
ion standing some yards from the house. I was filled with rage
and walked up to the aggressors.
“What are those who govern us thinking of?” one man thun
dered out. “Did we leave England for this? To see Jews and
niggers multiply in our midst?”
A hail of stones rained down on me. I continued to advance,
maddened with anger and light of limb. Suddenly someone
shouted: “Don’t you recognize her? It’s Tituba, one of the
witches of Salem?”
The stones flew thick and fast. They blotted out the daylight.
I felt like Ti-Jean, who by willpower alone stormed the hills,
pushed back the waves, and forced the sun to change its course.
133
I don’t know how long the battle lasted. At the end of the day
I woke up feeling as if every bone in my body had been broken
while Metahebel in tears was changing the compresses on my
forehead.
That night I had a dream. I wanted to enter a forest, but the
trees were in league against me and black creepers hung down,
twining themselves around me. I opened my eyes and the room
was black with smoke.
In a panic I woke Benjamin Cohen d’Azevedo, who had in
sisted on sleeping near me to treat my wounds. He stood up
and stammered: “My children!”
It was too late. The fire that had been skillfully lit at the four
corners of the house had already swallowed up the first and
second floors and was now licking at the attic. I had the pres
ence of mind to throw some bedding out of the window. We
landed on it in the middle of burned beams, smoldering drapes,
and pieces of twisted metal. They removed nine little bodies
from the ruins. Let us hope that the children, surprised in their
sleep, were not frightened and did not suffer. And, after all,
weren’t they going to join their mother?
The town authorities granted Benjamin Cohen d’Azevedo a
piece of ground to bury his children in; it became the first Jew
ish cemetery in the American colonies, even before the one in
Newport.
As if this wasn’t enough, the two ships in the port belonging
to Benjamin and his friend went up in flames. Yet I do believe
that this material loss left him quite indifferent. When he could
find words again, Benjamin Cohen d’Azevedo came to look
for me.
“There is a rational explanation for all of this. They want to
bar us from the profitable trade with the West Indies. As usual,
they fear and hate our ingenuity. But I have a different view. It’s
God who is punishing me. Not so much because of my passion
for you. The Jews have always had a strong sexual instinct.
Our father Moses in his great age had erections. Deuteronomy
says so: ‘Nor was his natural force abated.’ Abraham, Jacob,
and David had concubines. Neither does He begrudge me the
use of your powers to see Abigail again. He recalls the love of
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I, Tituba
Abraham for Sarah. No, He is punishing me because I refused

you the only thing you desired, your freedom! Because I have
kept you with me by force, using the violence He condemns.
Because I have been selfish and cruel!”
“No, no!” I protested.
But he went on, not listening to me. “You are now free. And
here is proof.”
He held out a parchment set with various seals that I didn’t
even look at.
“I don’t want your freedom,” I said, frantically shaking my
head. “I want to stay with you.”
He took me in his arms. “I am leaving for Rhode Island,
where, at least up till now, a Jew has the right to earn his living.
A Jewish friend of mine is waiting for me there.”
“What will I do without you?” I sobbed.
“Go back to Barbados. Isn’t that what you have always
wanted most?”
“Not at that price! Not at that price!”
“I have booked you a passage on board the ship Bless the
Lord, which sets sail for Bridgetown in a few days. Here is a
letter for a fellow Jew who is a merchant over there. His name
is David da Costa. I have asked him to help you, if need be.”
While I was still protesting, he joined my hands in his and
made me repeat the words of Isaiah: “Thus saith the Lord, The
heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool: Where is the
house that ye build unto me? And where is my place of rest?”
When I was somewhat quieter, he whispered in my ear:
“I want you to grant me a last favor. Let me see my chil
dren again!”
The poor bereaved father was so impatient that we did not
wait for nightfall. Hardly had the sun set behind the bluish
roofs of Salem than we met in the orchard. I looked up at the
gnarled fingers of the trees and my heart was torn between faith
and bitterness. Metahebel appeared first, her hair adorned with
spikes of flowers like a young goddess from a pagan religion.
“Are you happy, my little treasure?” Benjamin Cohen d’Aze
vedo whispered.
She nodded, while her brothers and sisters sat round her.
135
“When will we be together?” she asked. “Make haste, father.

Death is in truth the greatest fulfillment.”
* * *
1 was soon to find out that even armed with an act of emanci
pation in good and due form a Negress was not secure from
delays and obstructions. The captain of the ship Bless the Lord,
a lout by the name of Stannard, inspected me from head to toe
and apparently he didn’t like what he saw. While he was taking
his time turning my papers over and over again in his hands,
a sailor passed behind his back and whispered what he should
have known already,
“Be careful, she’s one of the witches of Salem!”
And here I was again, up against that epithet. I decided,
however, not to let myself be intimidated and retorted: “A gen
eral pardon was decreed by the governor of the colony almost
three years ago. The so-called witches have been pardoned.”
“Perhaps,” sneered the sailor. “But you confessed your crime
so there’s no pardon for you.”
I was thoroughly discouraged and could find nothing to say.
However, there was a cunning gleam in the wild eyes of the
captain.
“Can you use magic to prevent sickness? And shipwrecks?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I know how to heal certain sick
nesses. But I can’t do anything about shipwrecks.”
He removed his pipe from his mouth and spat out a black,
stinking saliva.
“Negress, when you speak to me, say ‘Master’ and lower
your eyes; otherwise I’ll smash those stumps out of your
mouth.”*
“Yes, I’ll take you to Barbados, but in exchange for my good
ness you will watch over the health of my crew and ward off
storms.”
I didn’t say another word.
So he led me to the stern of the ship, cluttered with boxes
of fish, casks of wine, and drums of oil, and pointed to a space
between the coils of rope.
* I forgot to say that I had lost a good many teeth in prison.

136
Z, Tituba
“That’s your berth!”
To tell the truth I was in no mood to go for him hammer and
tongs. I could only think of the tragic events I had just been
through. Mama Yaya had said it over and over again: “What
matters is to survive!” But she was wrong if life is nothing but a
stone around our necks. Nothing but a bitter, burning potion.
O Benjamin, my gentle, crooked lover! He had set off for
Rhode Island with a prayer on his lips: “Sh’ma Israel. Adonai
Elohenu Adonai Ehad!”
How many more stonings? Holocausts? How much blood
had yet to be shed? How much more submission?
I began to imagine another course for life, another meaning,
another motive. The fire engulfs the top of the tree. The Rebel
has disappeared in a cloud of smoke. He has triumphed over
death and his spirit remains. The frightened circle of slaves
regains its courage. The spirit remains.
Yes, another motive for life.
In the meantime I tried to wedge my basket with its meager
provisions in between the ropes, pulled the folds of my cape
around me, and endeavored to savor my good fortune. De
spite everything, wasn’t I fulfilling the dream that had kept me
awake so often? Here I was on my way to my native land.
No less rust-colored the earth. No less green the hills. No
less mauve the sugarcane, sticky with juice. No less satiny the
emerald belt around its waist. But the times have changed. The
men and women are no longer prepared to put up with suf
fering. The maroon disappears in a cloud of smoke. His spirit
remains. Fears fade away.
Toward the middle of the afternoon I was called out of my re
treat to care for a sailor. One of the slaves working in the ship’s
galley was shaking with fever. He looked at me suspiciously.
“They tell me your name is Tituba. Aren’t you the daughter
of Abena, who killed a white man?”
Having someone recognize me after ten years of absence
brought tears to my eyes. I had forgotten this ability our people
have of remembering. Nothing escapes them! Everything is
engraved in their memory!
“That is my name,” I stammered.
His eyes filled with gentleness and respect. “I hear they gave
137

you a difficult time over there.”
How did he know? I burst into tears and through my sobs I
could hear him consoling me awkwardly. “You’re alive, Tituba.
That’s all that matters.”
I shook my head violently. No, it wasn’t all that mattered.
Life, life had to be given a new meaning. But how?
From that moment on, the sailor, Deodatus, came to sit with
me every day and secretly brought me food from the captain’s
table, without which I would certainly not have weathered the
journey. Like Mama Yaya, he was a Nago from the Gulf of
Benin. He would clasp his hands behind his neck, stare at the
tangle of stars, and keep me spellbound.
“Do you know why the sky moved away from the land? A
long time ago, they were very close and in the evening before
they went to bed they would chatter away like old friends. But
the noise of the women preparing the meals with their mortars
and talking in shrill voices irritated the sky. So he withdrew
higher and higher, farther and farther away behind the blue
immensity above our heads.”
“Do you know why the palm tree is the king of trees? Be
cause each of its parts is essential to life. With its nuts you can
make sacrificial oil, with its leaves you can cover roofs, with
its fibers women can make brooms to clean the houses and
compounds.”
Exile, suffering, and sickness had combined in such a way
as to make me almost forget these simple stories. Deodatus
brought back my childhood and I never got tired of listening
to him.
Sometimes he talked about his life. He had been wandering
around the coast of Africa with Stannard. Some years earlier
Stannard had been involved in the slave trade and Deodatus
had been his interpreter. He used to accompany Stannard into
the houses of the African chiefs with whom the shameful deals
were made.
“Twelve slaves for a barrel of brandy, one or two pounds of
gunpowder, and a silk parasol for His Majesty.”
My eyes filled with tears. So much suffering for a few ma
terial goods.
“You can’t imagine the greed of those African kings! They’d
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I, Tituba
sell their own subjects if laws they dare not disobey didn’t for
bid it! So the cruel white man steps in and takes advantage of
the situation!”
We often used to talk about the future as well. Deodatus was
the first to ask me outright: “What do you intend to do on the
island?” Adding: “What will your freedom mean if your own
people are in bondage?”
I could think of nothing in reply. For 1 was returning to my
native land like a child running to hide in her mother’s skirts.
“I’ll look for my cabin on the old Darnell estate,” I stam
mered.
“So you think it’s there waiting for you,” Deodatus teased.
“How long is it since you’ve been gone?”
All these questions bothered me because I could not find an
swers to them. I was waiting and hoping for a sign from my in
visible spirits. Alas! Nothing happened and I remained alone.
Alone. For although the water of springs and rivers attracts
spirits, the perpetual movement of the sea drives them away.
They remain on either side of its great expanse, sometimes
sending messages to those who are dear to them, but never
daring to cross the waves.
“Cross the water, O my fathers! Cross the water, O my
mothers!” My prayers remained unheeded.
On the fourth day Deodatus’s fever, which I had cured as
well as I could, spread to another member of the crew, then
another and another, and we had to resign ourselves to the fact
that it was an epidemic. So many fevers and sicknesses traveled
between Africa, America, and the West Indies, fostered by the
dirt, the promiscuity, and the bad food. There was plenty of
rum, lemons from the Azores, and pepper from Cayenne on
board. I administered them as scalding hot potions. I rubbed
the sweating, feverish bodies with knots of straw. I did what
I could and my efforts, no doubt helped by Mama Yaya, were
crowned with success. Only four men died. They were thrown
into the sea, who took them up in the folds of her shroud.
Do you think the captain showed any signs of gratitude ...?
On the eighth day, as the winds dropped, the water became as
smooth as oil and the ship began to rock like a grandmother’s
139
rocking chair on her veranda. Stannard dragged me by my hair

to the foot of the mainmast.
“Negress, if you want to save your skin, get the wind to rise!
I’ve got perishable goods on board and if this goes on I shall
have to throw them overboard, but you’ll be the first to go!”
I had never dreamed I could command the elements. The man
was in fact presenting me with a challenge. I turned to him and
said: “I need some live animals.”
Live animals? At this point in the voyage there were only a
few chickens left, destined for the captain’s table, a goat whose
teats were swollen with milk for the captain’s breakfast, and a
few cats thrown in to hunt the mice on board. They were duly
brought to me.
Milk! Blood! Didn’t I have the essential liquids plus the
docile flesh of the sacrificial victims?
I stared at the sea; it was like a forest that had burned to the
ground.
Suddenly, a bird emerged from the motionless cinders and
rose straight up into the sun. Then it stopped, wheeled in a
circle, then hovered again before soaring upward. I knew it
was a sign and that the prayers in my heart would not remain
unanswered.
The bird was now no more than a tiny speck disappearing
into the sky and for a time the world was suspended, waiting
for a mysterious decision. Then a great whistling from one of
the corners of the horizon filled the air. The sky changed color,
from a violent blue to a sort of very soft gray. The sea started
to be flecked with white and a funnel of wind whirled round
the sails, tangling them up, undoing the ropes, and breaking in
two a mast that collapsed, killing a sailor. I realized that my
sacrifices had not been enough and that the spirits were also
demanding a sheep without horns. At dawn on the sixteenth
day we arrived in sight of Barbados. I looked for Deodatus
when we arrived, to say good-bye, but he had disappeared in
the confusion. I felt an aching void.
II
My sweet, crooked, misshapen lover! Before losing you forever

I can remember our meager moments of happiness together.
When you joined me in my big bed in the attic, we used to pitch
and plunge like a drunken boat on a choppy sea. We rowed
together under your guidance and finally reached the shore.
Sleep washed us softly up on the beach and in the morning
we could start our daily chores refreshed. My sweet, crooked,
misshapen lover! We did not make love the last night we spent
together, as if our souls were taking over from our bodies. Once
again, you blamed yourself for your hardness. And once again
I begged you to leave me my chains.
Hester, Hester, you would be angry with me. But some men
who have the virtue of being weak instill in us the desire to be
a slave!
12
The invisible trio was there among the crowd of slaves, sailors,
and idlers come to welcome me. Spirits have that particularity
of never getting old and keeping their youthful features for
ever. Mama Yaya, the tall Nago Negress with sparkling teeth.
Abena, my mother, the Ashanti princess with her jet-black skin
and ritual scarifications. Yao, the silk-cotton tree with large,
powerful feet.
I cannot describe my feelings while they hugged me.
Apart from that, my island did not exactly deck itself out to
greet me. It was raining in Bridgetown and the flock of wet tiled
roofs was huddled around the massive silhouette of its cathe
dral. The streets were churned with muddy water in which men
and beasts were splashing. It looked as though a slave ship
had just anchored because a group of English men and women
were inspecting the teeth, tongue, and genitals, of the bossales,
who were shaking with humiliation under a thatched market
awning.
How ugly my town was! Small. Petty. A colonial outpost of
no distinction, reeking with the stench of lucre and suffering.
I walked up Broad Street and almost unintentionally found
myself in front of the house of my old enemy, Susanna Endicott.
But instead of rejoicing when Mama Yaya whispered in my ear
how the shrew had given up the ghost after having marinated
for weeks in her stinging urine, I was overtaken by a sudden
emotion.
What wouldn’t I have given to relive those years when I slept
night after night in the arms of my John Indian, with my hand
on his pleasure-dispensing object! What wouldn’t I have given
to see him standing under the low door and greeting me in that
ironic and tender way he was so good at.
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I, Tituba
“Well, there you are my poor, suffering wife! You’ve been

through life like a rolling stone and here you are back, empty-
handed!”
I tried to swallow back the tears, but they did not escape
Abena, my mother, who sighed: “Well I never! She’s crying for
that wretch!”
After this note of discord, the three spirits rolled themselves
into a translucent cloud that rose above the houses and Mama
Yaya explained: “Someone is calling us. We’ll see you tonight.”
“Don’t let yourself be waylaid,” Abena, my mother, added.
“Go home!”
Home! There was a cruel irony in this word. Apart from a
handful of dead people, nobody was waiting for me on this
island and I didn’t even know whether the cabin I had squatted
in ten years earlier was still standing. If not, I would have to
turn myself into a carpenter again and build myself a shel
ter somewhere. The prospects were so uninviting that I was
tempted to go and find this David da Costa for whom Benjamin
Cohen d’Azevedo had given me a letter . . . Where did he live?
I was hesitating on which way to turn when I saw a group
of individuals wading through the mud toward me, covering
themselves as best they could with banana leaves. I recognized
Deodatus in between two women and I cried out in joy: “Where
were you? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
He smiled mysteriously.
“I went and told a few friends you’d arrived. I knew they
would be delighted.”
One of the young women then curtsied in front of me.
“Honor us, mother, with your presence.”
Mother? The word made me jump and boil with rage, since
it was a term of respect reserved for old women. I was hardly
thirty and less than a month ago the hot seed of a man was
being spilled on my thighs. Hiding my discontent, I took Deo-
datus’s arm and asked: “And where do your friends live?”
“Near Belleplaine.”
“Belleplaine!” I almost shouted. “That’s at the other end of
the island!”
But I pulled myself together. Hadn’t I just been thinking that
143
nobody was waiting for me and that 1 had no roof over my

head? So why not Belleplaine?
We left the town and suddenly, as is often the case in our
islands, the rain stopped and the sun started to shine again,
brushing the contours of the hills with light. The sugarcane was
in flower, like a purple cloud above the fields. The shiny green
leaves of the yams were mounting an attack on their poles. A
feeling of lightness drove out my previous thoughts. How could
I have believed that nobody was waiting for me when the whole
island was there for me to behold lovingly? Wasn’t Zenaida
the bird warbling for me? Weren’t the pawpaw, orange, and
pomegranate trees loaded with fruit for me?
Heartened, I turned to Deodatus, who was walking beside
me, respecting my silence, and asked: “But who are your
friends? What plantation do they work on?”
He gave a little laugh, which the two women echoed. “They
don’t work on any plantation.”
For a moment I didn’t understand, then I asked unbeliev
ingly: “They don’t work on a plantation? Then they must be ...
maroons?”
Deodatus nodded.
Maroons? Ten years earlier, when I had left Barbados, ma
roons were few and far between. There was merely talk of a
certain Ti-Noel and his family, who held Farley Hill. Nobody
had ever seen him. He had been living in everyone’s imagina
tion for so long that he must have been an old man by now. Yet
he was said to be young and bold and his exploits had become
household legends: “The white man’s gun cannot kill Ti-Noel.
His dog cannot bite him. His fire cannot burn him. Open up
the gate, Papa Ti-Noel.”
“My friends took to the hills some years ago when the French
attacked the island,” Deodatus explained. “The English then
wanted to enroll the slaves by force into an army as a means
of defense. But the slaves replied: ‘What! Me die for a white
man’s quarrel!’ and they ran off as fast as their legs would carry
them. They hid in Chalky Mountain and the English still can’t
smoke them out.”
Again the women laughed in unison.
144
/, Tituba
I didn’t know what to think. Despite all 1 had just been

through and this unfulfilled lust for revenge inside me, I hadn’t
the heart to get involved with maroons and to risk my life for
them. Paradoxically, I realized that all I wanted was to live in
peace on my island regained. So the rest of the journey was
made in silence.
When the sun was already high in the sky, the women mo
tioned to us to stop and pulled some fruit and dried meat out
of their bags. We shared this frugal meal, which Deodatus
washed down with rum. Then we set off again. The road be
came steeper and steeper while the vegetation became profuse
and luxuriant as if it too were intent on protecting the outlaws.
At a certain moment the women said out loud, “Ago.”
The bushes parted and three men emerged, armed with guns.
They greeted us warmly, but nonetheless blindfolded us and we
entered the maroon camp in total darkness.
* * *
The maroons listened to me as they sat in a circle. There weren’t
very many, not more than fifteen with their wives and children.
And I relived my suffering, my hearing before the tribunal, the
unfounded accusations, the false confessions, and the betrayal
by those I loved. When I had finished, they all started speaking
at once.
“How many times did you meet this Satan?”
“Is he more powerful than the greatest of our obeah men?”
“Did he make you write in his book and do you know how
to write?”
Christopher, their leader, a man of about forty, as peaceful as
those rivers that flow inexorably toward the sea, stopped them
with his hand and said apologetically: “You must excuse them,
they are warriors not grangreks and they have not understood
that you were being accused wrongly. For you were innocent,
weren’t you?”
I nodded.
“You have no secret powers?” he insisted.
I don’t know what came over me. Vanity? A desire to arouse
a keener interest in the eyes of this man? A craving for sin
cerity? Anyway I tried to explain. “The woman who brought
145
me up, a Nago, left me some secret powers. But I only use them
to do good . . .”
The maroons interrupted me in unison. “Do good? Even to
your enemies?”
I didn’t know what to say. Fortunately, Christopher gave the
signal to retire for the night. Getting up he yawned: “Tomorrow
is another day.”
I had been given a hut not far from the one he occupied with
his two concubines, for he had reinstated to his advantage the
African custom of polygamy. It seemed as though I had never
slept on a softer mattress than this straw bedding placed on the
earth floor under the thatched roof. Ah yes, life had pushed me
around! From Salem to Ipswich. From Barbados to America
and back. But now I could sit down and rest and say: “You
won’t manhandle me anymore!”
The rain started up again and 1 could hear it pitter-patter like
an exasperated visitor who is kept waiting at the door.
I was about to sink into sleep when I heard a noise at the
entrance to the hut. I was thinking it must be my invisible spirits
come to reproach me for having forgotten about them when
Christopher entered, holding a candle above his head. I sat up.
“What’s the matter? Aren’t your two wives enough for you?”
He rolled his eyes and I was immediately mortified at what I
had said. “Listen, I’m in no mood for sexual banter,” he replied.
“What are you in the mood for?” 1 asked flirtatiously, as de
spite all my misfortunes, I had not lost that deep instinct that
makes me a woman.
He sat down on a stool and set his candle on the ground so
that it made a thousand flickering shadows. “I want to know if
I can count on you.”
For a moment I remained speechless, then said: “For what,
in heaven’s name?”
He leaned toward me. “Do you remember the song about
Ti-Noel?”
Ti-Noel? I gave up trying to understand.
He stared at me with a look of commiseration as if I were
a dull-witted child and started to sing in a surprisingly good
voice.
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/, Tituba
“ ‘Oh, Papa Ti-Noel, the white man’s gun cannot kill him.
The white man’s bullets cannot kill him. They bounce off his
skin.’ Tituba, I want you to make me invincible.”
So that was it. I almost burst out laughing, but refrained for
fear of irritating him, and managed to reply very calmly: “I
don’t know whether I’m capable of that, Christopher!”
“Are you a witch?” he shouted. “Yes or no!”
I sighed. “Everyone gives that word a different meaning.
Everyone believes he can fashion a witch to his way of thinking
so that she will satisfy his ambitions, dreams, and desires . . .”
“Listen,” he interrupted. “I’m not going to stay here listen
ing to you philosophize! I’m offering you a deal. You make me
invincible and in exchange . . .”
“In exchange?”
He got up and his head almost touched the ceiling while his
shadow loomed over me like a guardian spirit.
“In exchange I’ll give you everything a woman desires.”
“Meaning what?” I said ironically.
He did not answer and turned on his heels. He had hardly
left the room when I heard sighs that I recognized immediately.
I decide to ignore Abena, my mother, and turned to the wall,
calling on Mama Yaya.
“Can I help him?”
Mama Yaya puffed on her small pipe and sent a smoke ring
into the air.
“How could you? Death is a door that nobody can lock.
Everybody has to go through it when his day and hour come.
You know full well it can only be kept open for those we love
so that they can catch a glimpse of those they left behind.”
“Can’t I try to help him?” I insisted. “He’s fighting for a
noble cause.”
Abena, my mother, burst out laughing. “Hypocrite! Is it the
cause he’s fighting for that interests you? Come now!”
1 closed my eyes in the dark. The formidable perspicacity
of my mother irritated me. In addition, I reprimanded myself.
Hadn’t I had enough of men? Hadn’t I had enough of the mis
fortune that goes with their affections? Hardly was I back in
Barbados than I was contemplating a life of adventure with no
147
idea of how it would end. A band of maroons whom 1 knew

nothing about. I promised myself 1 would ask Deodatus about
his friends and then I slowly sank into sleep.
Great white water lilies wrapped me in their brocade petals
and soon Hester, Metahebel, and my Jew came and sat around
my bed. My affection and my nostalgia confused the living
with the dead.
My Jew seemed reassured, almost happy, as if over there
in Rhode Island he was at least allowed to worship his God
in peace.
At one moment the rain fell in soft whispers, drenching
plants, trees, and roofs, unlike the hostile, icy rains I recalled
in the land I had left behind. Yes, nature changes her language
according to the land, and curiously, her language harmonizes
with that of man. Savage nature, savage men! Protecting, well-
meaning nature, openhearted and generous men!
My first night on my island!
The croaking of the frogs and agua toads, the trill of the
night birds, the cackling of the chickens frightened by the mon
gooses, and the braying of the donkeys tied to the calabash
trees, the spirit’s resting place, kept up a continual music. I
never wanted the morning to come. I never wanted to wake up.
I fleetingly recalled my days in Boston and Salem, but they lost
all consistency, like those who had blackened them with the
venom of their hearts—Samuel Parris and the others.
My first night!
The island is alive with a soft murmur. “She is back. She is
here, the daughter of Abena, the daughter of Mama Yaya. She
will never leave us again.”
13
1 had never thought of surpassing Mama Yaya in magic powers.

1 had never even thought of acting without her guidance. I had
always considered myself her child, her pupil. Alas! I have to
confess to my shame that my way of thinking changed and the
pupil got it into her head to rival the master. After all, I did
have reason to be proud. Hadn’t I commanded the elements on
board the ship Bless the Lord? There was nothing to prove that
1 did it with outside help. I now devoted my time to experi
ments of my own making, roaming the countryside armed with
a large bag and a small knife for digging up herbs. Likewise, I
endeavored to strike up a new conversation with the rivers and
the wind, in order to discover their secrets.
The river runs toward the sea like life running toward death
and nothing can stop its course. Why?
Why does the wind sometimes caress and sometimes de
stroy?
I increased the number of sacrifices of fresh fruit, food, and
live animals that I laid at crossroads, in the tangled roots of
certain trees, and in the natural grottoes where spirits like to
hide. Since Mama Yaya did not want to help me, all I had to
count on was my intelligence and my intuition. I had to arrive
at this higher sphere of knowledge on my own. I therefore set
about making inquiries among the slaves concerning the obeah
men and women who lived on the plantations and then I went
visiting them. I was greeted with enormous mistrust. Obeah
men and women, you know, do not like sharing their science
and are like cooks who never want to give away a recipe.
One day I came across an obeah man, an Ashanti like Abena,
my mother, who started to tell me the story of his capture off
149
Akwapim on the coast of Africa. His wife, who was an Ashanti

as well, slaves preferring to form couples by “nation,” was peel
ing tubers for their dinner. Then he said in a vague kind of way:
“Where do you live?”
“On the other side of the hills,” 1 stammered, as I had been
told not to reveal the site of the maroon camp.
“Aren’t you Tituba?” he snorted. “The one white folks al
most had swinging on the end of a rope?”
I answered in my usual way. “I was beyond reproach, you
know.”
“A pity! A pity!”
I stared at him, speechless.
“If 1 had been in your shoes,” he went on, “ah! I would
have bewitched every one of them: mothers, fathers, children,
and neighbors. ... I would have turned them one against the
other and I would have delighted in watching them tear one
another to pieces. There wouldn’t have been just a hundred
people accused and twenty executed. The whole of Massachu
setts would have been hanged and I would have gone down
in history as the demon of Salem. Whereas what name do
you have?”
I was mortified by his words, because such thoughts had
already crossed my mind. I had already regretted having played
only a minor role in the whole affair and having had a fate that
no one could remember. “Tituba, a slave originating from the
West Indies and probably practicing ‘hoodoo.’ ” A few lines in
the many volumes written on the Salem witch trials. Why was
I going to be ignored? This question too had crossed my mind.
Is it because nobody cares about a Negress and her trials and
tribulations? Is that why?
I can look for my story among those of the witches of Salem,
but it isn’t there. In August 1706 Anne Putnam stood up in the
middle of the church in Salem and confessed the errors of her
childhood, regretting their terrible consequences: “1 desire to
lie in the dust and earnestly beg forgiveness of all those unto
whom I have given just cause of sorrow and offense and whose
relations were taken away and accused.”
She was neither the first nor the last to confess publicly,
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1, Tituba
and one by one the victims were rehabilitated. But not a word
about me. “Tituba, a slave originating from the West Indies
and probably practicing ‘hoodoo.’ ”
I lowered my head and didn’t answer. As if he could read
my mind and did not want to upset me further, the obeah man
softened his tone. “Life isn’t always a bowl of arrowroot, is it?”
I got up, ignoring the pity in his remark. “Dusk is falling and
I have to go home.”
A cunning gleam erased his fleeting look of sympathy. “What
you have in mind is impossible,” he said. “Are you forgetting
that you’re in the land of the living?”
I set off back to the maroon camp, turning his final words
over and over in my mind. Did he mean that only death brings
supreme knowledge? That while you are alive there’s a bound
ary you cannot cross? That I would have to resign myself to
partial knowledge?
As I was about to leave the plantation, a group of slaves came
up to me. I thought they needed treatment, women asking for
potions, children needing compresses for their wounds, or men
showing me their limbs crushed by the mills, for my knowledge
of plants had rapidly given me a reputation all over the island
and the sick would come up to me as soon as I appeared.
But this was another affair all together.
“Be careful, mother!” the slaves cried out with long faces.
“The planters got together yesterday evening and they are after
your skin.”
I couldn’t believe it. What crime could they accuse me of?
What had I done since I arrived but treat the neglected?
A man explained: “They say you’ve been carrying messages
between the field hands, helping them to plan revolts, and so
they’re going to set a trap for you.”
I set off back to the camp in dismay.
Those of you who have read my tale up till now must be
wondering who is this witch devoid of hatred, who is mislead
each time by the wickedness in men’s hearts? For the nth time
I made up my mind to be different and fight it out tooth and
nail. But how to work a change in my heart and coat its lining
with snake venom? How to make it into a vessel for bitter and
151
violent feelings? To get it to love evil? Instead, I could only feel

tenderness and compassion for the disinherited and a sense of
revolt against injustice.
The sun was setting behind Farley Hill. The insects of the
night were starting up their persistent trill. The ragged group
of slaves was returning to their sugarcane alleys while the over
seers were spurring their horses home with the prospect of
drinking a glass of neat rum and rocking in a chair on their
veranda. On seeing me they cracked their whips as if they were
eager to use them on me. But none of them dared do so.
I reached the camp at nightfall.
Underneath the thick ring of silk-cotton trees the women
were roasting over an open fire slabs of meat they had basted
with lemon and hot peppers mixed with bay-rum leaves. Chris
topher’s two concubines scowled at me, wondering what was
going on between their man and me. Previously I had been
touched by their tender age and I had sworn never to do any
thing that would hurt them. That evening, however, I didn’t
even look at them.
Christopher was in his hut rolling a cigar with the tobacco
leaves that grew so well on the island and from which certain
planters were making a fortune.
“Where have you been roaming all day long?” he gibed. “Is
that how you expect to find the remedy I asked you for?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I have inquired of people far
more knowledgeable than I and they all say there is no remedy
against death. Rich man, poor man, slave and master—there
is no escaping it. But listen, things have got to change. Let me
fight the white folks with you.”
He threw back his head and laughed, the echoes of his laugh
ter mixing with the curls of smoke from his cigar.
“Fight? You’re going too fast. A woman’s duty, Tituba, is
not to fight or make war, but to make love!”
* fr *
The next few weeks went by in perfect happiness. Despite the
slaves’ warnings, I still went down to the plantations. I now
chose the hour after sunset, the hour when the spirits take pos
session of the air. Although they were unhappy at my taking up
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I, Tituba
residence at Farley Hill, Mama Yaya and Abena, my mother,

nevertheless visited me each day and accompanied me along
the rough, winding paths through the fields. I paid no heed to
their grumblings.
“What are you doing living with those maroons? They’re
bad people who spend their time killing and stealing!”
“They’re just a bunch of ungrateful wretches who leave their
mothers and brothers in slavery while they themselves live a
life of freedom.”
What was the point of arguing?
It was during these weeks that I experienced a wonderful mo
ment of happiness. I brought back to life a little baby girl who
was hardly out of her mother’s womb. She hadn’t yet stepped
through death’s door and was hesitating in that dark corridor
preparing for her departure. I held the little thing back. She was
warm and covered in mucus and excrement and I laid her softly
on her mother’s breast. You should have seen the expression
on that woman’s face! How mysterious motherhood is!
For the first time I asked myself whether my child, whose
life I had taken, would not after all have given my existence a
meaning and a purpose.
Hester, did we make a mistake and shouldn’t you have lived
for your child instead of dying with her?
Christopher had got into the habit of spending the night in
my hut. I don’t quite know how this new adventure began. A
lingering look, kindling the flames of desire? The will to prove
to myself that I was not yet finished or dispensed with like a
worn-out beast of burden? Yet need I say it, this commerce only
involved my senses. All the rest of me continued to belong to
John Indian, whom, paradoxically, I thought about more and
more each day.
My man, full of hot air and bravado, as Mama Yaya used to
say. My treacherous, weakhearted man!
While Christopher was writhing on top of me, my mind
would roam and I would relive the pleasures of my nights in
America. Listen to the howl of winter as it galloped in the night
over the frost-covered ground. We were oblivious to everything,
John Indian and I, as we suffocated in love. Samuel Parris,
153
buttoned up in black from head to foot, would be reciting

his prayers. Listen to his stony dirge: “But mine enemies are
lively and they are strong and they that hate me wrongfully are
multiplied.”
John Indian and I were oblivious to everything as we suc
cumbed to love.
Gradually Christopher, who had possessed my body in si
lence, began to confide in me. “There are not enough of us and
there are too few arms to attack the white folks. All we have
is half a dozen guns and a few wooden cudgels. We live with
the constant fear of being attacked. And that’s the truth of the
matter.”
“Is that why you want me to make you invincible?” I asked,
a little disappointed.
He reacted to the mockery in my voice and turned toward
the wall. “What does it matter if you do or you don’t. In any
case I shall be immortal. I’ve already heard the field niggers
singing.”
And, in his pleasant voice, he sang a song of his own com
position, boasting of his merits.
I touched him on the shoulder. “And what about me, is there
a song for me? A song for Tituba?”
He pretended to listen hard, then said: “No, there isn’t!”
Thereupon he began to snore and I tried to do the same.
When I was not treating the slaves on the plantations I helped
the maroon women. At first they had treated me with the great
est respect. Then when they learned that Christopher shared
my bed and that, after all, I was no different from them, they
became antagonistic. This hostility had now given way to an
expression of sullen solidarity. After all, they needed me. One
would ask me to fill her withered breast with milk. Another to
treat the pain she had had since last giving birth. I listened to
them chatter, finding amusement, relaxation, and pleasure in
their conversations.
“A long, long time ago when the devil was still a little boy
in white drill shorts stiffened with starch, the world was in
habited only by women. They worked together, slept together,
and bathed together in the river. One day one of them called
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1, Tituba
the others together and said: ‘Sisters, when we go, who will
replace us? We haven’t created a single person in our image.’
The others shrugged their shoulders: ‘Why do we need to be
replaced?’ But some of them thought they should be. ‘For who
will farm the land without us? It will lie fallow and fruitless.’
So they all started to look for ways of reproducing themselves
and that’s how they invented man!”
We all laughed together.
“Why are men as they are?”
“If only we knew, my dear!”
Sometimes they asked each other riddles. “What cures the
darkness of the night?” “The candle!” “What cures the heat of
the day?” “The water from the river!” “What cures the bitter
ness of life?” “A child!”
And they would pity me for never having had a child. And
then, moving from one thing to another, they would press me
with questions. “When the judges of Salem sent you to prison,
couldn’t you have turned yourself into a mouse, for example,
and disappeared between two loose boards in the floor? Or an
angry bull and gored them all with your horns?”
I shrugged my shoulders and once again I explained they
were mistaken and were exaggerating the extent of my powers.
One evening the discussion went farther and I had to de
fend myself. “If 1 could do everything, wouldn’t I have set you
free? Wouldn’t I have wiped away the wrinkles on your faces?
And replaced the stumps in your gums by gleaming, pearly
white teeth?”
Their faces remained skeptical and, discouraged, I said with
a shrug: “Believe me, I’m just a poor creature!”
Were my words commented upon? Distorted or misinter
preted? In any case, Christopher started to change toward me.
He would come into my hut in the middle of the night and take
me without removing his clothes. This reminded me of Eliza
beth Parris’s complaint: “My poor Tituba, he takes me without
either removing his clothes or looking at me.”
When I tried to ask him how he had spent his day, he would
answer irritably in monosyllables.
155
“They say you’re organizing a general revolt with the slaves

in Saint James.”
“Woman, hold your tongue!”
“They say you’ve obtained a batch of guns with a surprise
attack on an ammunitions depot in Wildey?”
“Woman, can’t you leave me in peace!”
One evening he blurted out: “You’re nothing but a common
Negress, but you want to be treated like someone special!”
I knew then that I had to go and that my presence was no
longer wanted.
Just before dawn I called on Mama Yaya and Abena, my
mother, who for some days now had kept away as if they were
refusing to witness my downfall. I had to beg them to come
and when they appeared, filling the hut with their perfume of
guava and rosewood, they stared at me reproachfully.
“Your hair is already turning gray and you still can’t do
without men!”
I didn’t answer. After a while I decided to look them straight
in the face. “I’m going home!”
Strangely enough, as soon as the women heard I was leaving
they gathered round looking distressed. One gave me a care
fully trussed chicken, another some fruit, and yet another, a
black-and-brown-checkered madras headcloth. They accom
panied me to the hedge of rayo trees, while Christopher, who
pretended to be holding counsel with his men in his hut, did
not even take the trouble to appear on the doorstep.
* * *
I found my cabin very much as I had left it. Just a little more
crooked. Just a little more worm-eaten under a roof that looked
like an untidy mop of hair. A poinsettia was bleeding by a
window. Some banana quits, which had nested between two
planks devoured by termites, flew out with plaintive cries. I
opened the door wide and some surprised rats scampered out.
The slaves, who somehow knew of my return, welcomed me
home. The plantation had once again changed hands. It had
first belonged to an absentee planter who was merely content
to repatriate his profits which were never up to his expecta-
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1, Tituba
tions. Now it had just been bought by a certain Errin, who had
brought out some sophisticated machinery from England and
intended to make a fortune as quickly as possible.
The slaves brought me a ewe that had a triangle of black hair
on its forehead as if it were predestined. They had picked up
enough courage to remove it from their master’s flock.
I sacrificed the animal shortly before dawn and let its blood
soak into the scarlet-colored earth. After that 1 set to work. I
built up a garden of all the herbs 1 needed to practice my art,
boldly descending into the wildest, most secluded valleys. At
the same time I laid out a kitchen garden that the slaves helped
me to dig, hoe, and weed once their day’s labor was over. One
of them would manage to bring me some okra and tomato
seeds, another a lemon tree cutting. Several of the slaves set to
work planting yams and soon the avid creepers could be seen
twining around their poles. Once 1 had got together a few hens
and a strutting, fighting cock, nothing was missing.
My working day was very simple. I got up at dawn, prayed,
went down to bathe in the River Ormond, had a bite to eat,
then spent my time on my explorations and healing. At that
time cholera and smallpox struck the plantations regularly and
laid to rest a good many of the slaves. I discovered how to treat
these illnesses. I also discovered how to treat yaws and to heal
those wounds the slaves got day after day. I managed to mend
open, festering wounds, to put pieces of bone back together
again, and to tie up limbs. All that, of course, with the help of
my invisible spirits, who hardly ever left me. I had given up the
illusion of making men invincible and immortal. I accepted the
limits of the species.
The reader may be surprised that at a time when the lash
was constantly being used, I managed to enjoy this peace and
freedom. Our islands have two sides to them. The side of the
masters’ carriages and their constables on horseback, armed
with muskets and savage, baying hounds. And the other, mys
terious, and secret side, composed of passwords, whispers, and
a conspiracy of silence. It was on this side that I lived, protected
by common collusion. Mama Yaya made a thick vegetation
grow up around my cabin and it was as if 1 lived in a fortified
157
castle. An inexperienced eye could only make out a tangle of

guava trees, ferns, frangipani, and acoma trees, specked here
and there by the mauve flower of a hibiscus.
One day I discovered an orchid among the mossy roots of a
fern and I named it Hester.
14
A few weeks after 1 had returned home, dividing my time be

tween my herbs and healing the slaves, 1 realized 1 was preg
nant. Pregnant!
To start with, I couldn’t believe it. Wasn’t I an old woman
with flat, withered breasts hanging over my rib cage and rolls
of fat over my belly? Nevertheless I had to face facts. Christo
pher’s brutal embraces had conceived what the love of my Jew
had not been able to do. You’ve got to face up to it. A child in
fact is not the fruit of love but of chance.
When I told Mama Yaya and Abena, my mother, about my
condition, they remained evasive, simply commenting: “Well,
this time you can’t do away with it!”
“Your real nature has spoken!”
I attributed this reserve to their dislike of Christopher. I now
had time only for myself. Because once the initial moments
of doubt and uncertainty were over, I let myself be carried
away, rolled, and immersed in a great wave of happiness and
intoxication. Everything I did now revolved around this life I
carried inside me. I kept myself fed on fresh fruit, milk from
a white goat, and eggs laid by hens nourished with grains of
corn. I bathed my eyes in a decoction of cochlearia so that the
little being would have good eyesight. I washed my hair with
the cream of palma christi oil seeds so that its own would be
black and shiny. I took long, drowsy siestas in the shade of the
mango trees. And yet my child made me combative. I was sure
it was a girl! What sort of life was in store for her? That of
my brothers and sisters, the slaves, ruined by their conditions
and their labor? Or a life like mine, which forced me to live
in hiding as an outcast and a recluse on the edge of a secluded
valley?
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No, if the world were going to receive my child, then it would

have to change!
At one stage I was tempted to return to Farley Hill, not to
inform Christopher of my condition (he didn’t care one bit),
but to try and urge him to do something. I knew that a good
many planters were discouraged by the size of our island and
were leaving to seek bigger lands that suited their ambitions
better. They were leaving in particular for Jamaica, which the
English army had just captured from the Spanish. Who knows,
by starting a reign of terror we might be able to precipitate their
departure and kick them all into the sea. Very quickly, how
ever, I recalled his confession of weakness, even more than his
inglorious behavior toward me. I made up my mind to count
on no one but myself. But how?
I increased the number of prayers and sacrifices, hoping that
the invisible world would give me a sign. Nothing of the sort
happened. I tried to ask Mama Yaya and Abena, my mother. I
tried to catch them off guard and get them to tell me what they
thought it was their duty to hide from me. To no avail. The two
wily old birds always managed to turn a pirouette and elude
the point.
“He who wants to know why the sea is so blue finds himself
lying under the waves.”
“The sun burns the wings of the braggart who tries to get
too close.”
That was how things stood when the slaves brought me a
boy whom the overseer’s lash had left for dead. He had re
ceived 250 whiplashes on his legs, buttocks, and back, and his
body, weakened by a spell in prison, had collapsed. The boy
was a hardened offender and nobody could tame his insolence.
The slaves were carrying him to an unmarked grave in a field
of Guinea grass when they noticed that he was still alive. They
then decided to hand him over to me.
I laid Iphigene (for that was his name) on a straw mattress in
a corner of my bedroom so that I could hear his every murmur.
I prepared poultices and plasters for his wounds. On those that
were infected I placed a fresh slice of animal liver so that it
would absorb the pus and the bad blood. I kept renewing the
compresses on his forehead and went down to the bottom of
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I, Tituba
Codrington Valley to collect the spit of the agua toad. This was
the only place where the toad could be found, because of its
liking for the rich brown soil. After twenty-four hours of con
stant attention, I was rewarded, and Iphigene opened his eyes.
On the third day he spoke. “Mother, O mother, you’ve come
back! I thought you had gone forever!”
I took his hand that was still hot with fever and already
rough and distorted. “I’m not your mother, Iphigene. But I’d
like you to tell me about her.”
Iphigene opened his eyes wider, realized his mistake, and lay
back down on the bedding in pain.
“I saw my mother die when I was three. She was one of
Ti-Noel’s women, for he had a great many scattered through
out the plantations to reproduce his seed. His virile seed, from
which I came. My mother brought me up with devotion. Alas!
She had the misfortune to be beautiful. One day she was coming
back from the mill when the master, Edward Dashby, noticed
her. Despite her rags and sweat, he ordered the overseer to
bring her to him at nightfall. Nobody knows what happened
exactly, but the next morning she was whipped to death in
front of a circle of slaves.”
How like my own story! At once, the affection I had im
mediately felt for Iphigene blossomed, finding, so to speak, a
legitimate reason. In turn, I recounted my life, bits of which he
already knew, since I had become a legend among the slaves,
far more than I could possibly have imagined.
When I got to the burning of Benjamin Cohen d’Azevedo’s
house, he interrupted me with a frown: “But why? Wasn’t he
white like the others?”
“No doubt.”
“Do they need to hate so much that they hate eacjh other?”
I tried to explain what 1 remembered from Benjamin’s and
Metahebel’s lessons concerning their religion and their quar
rels with the Gentiles. But Iphigene didn’t understand any more
than I did.
Gradually, Iphigene managed to sit up in bed and then to
stand. Soon he was taking a few steps outside. His first job was
to repair the front door, which didn’t close properly.
161
“Mother, you need a man about the house!” he said, preening

himself.
I could hardly keep myself from laughing out loud, he said
it so seriously. What a handsome young man Iphigene was! He
had a perfectly oval head under tight, pepper-grain hair. High
cheekbones. His purple, pulpy lips seemed to want to kiss the
whole world if only it would let itself be kissed instead of con
stantly spurning and rejecting! The lashes that had scarred his
chest and torso were constant reminders of this cruelty. Every
time I rubbed him with palma christi balm, my heart would
swell in anger and revolt.
One morning I could hold back no longer. “Iphigene, you’ve
probably noticed that I’m with child?”
He lowered his eyes discreetly. “I didn’t dare mention it.”
“Listen, I dream of bringing my daughter into a different
world.”
He remained silent for a moment, as if he were taking stock
of my words. Then he rushed over to me and kneeled down at
my feet in his favorite position. “Mother, I know by name and
by plantation all those who would follow you. We only have to
say the word.”
“We haven’t got any weapons.”
“We’ve got fire. Magnificent fire that devours and burns!”
“What will we do once we’ve kicked them into the sea? Who
will govern?”
“Mother, the white folks really went to work on you! You
think too much! Let’s drive them out first!”
In the afternoon when I came back from my daily bath in
the River Ormond, I found Iphigene deep in conversation with
two young boys of his own age, two bossales, who I thought
were Nagos. But I didn’t recognize the sounds of Mama Yaya’s
language and Iphigene told me they were Mandingos from a
mountainous region and were used to all the tricks of the forest.
“They’re real war chiefs. Prepared to win or die.”
I must admit that once we had both agreed on the idea of a
general revolt, Iphigene no longer consulted me on anything.
I let him do what he wanted while I drifted lazily into the de
lights of pregnancy, caressing my belly that grew rounder under
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I, Tituba
my touch and singing songs to my baby. There was an air that

Abena, my mother, used to hum and now it came back to me:
Up there in the woods,
There’s an ajoupa,
Nobody knows who’s inside.
Nobody knows who lives there.
It’s a calenda zombie
Who’s fond of fat pigs.
It wasn’t long before I saw Iphigene stacking torches made
of guava wood and tipped with tow.
“Each of our men will be holding one,” he explained. “He
will light it and at the same time, in a single move, we will
march on the Great Houses. What a wonderful bonfire it will
be!”
I lowered my head and said in a distressed tone of voice:
“The children, too, will die? Babies at their mothers’ breast?
Children with milk teeth? And young marriageable girls?”
He spun round in anger. “You told me yourself they had no
pity for Dorcas Good or for the children of Benjamin Cohen
d’Azevedo.”
I lowered my head farther and murmured: “Do we have to
become like them?”
He strode off without saying a word. I called Mama Yaya,
who was sitting cross-legged on the branch of a calabash tree.
“You know what we are doing,” I said excitedly. “But now
that the time has come to act, I remember what you told me
when I wanted to take my revenge on Susanna Endicott: ‘Don’t
pervert your heart! Don’t become like them!’ Is this the price
to pay for freedom?”
But instead of giving me the serious answer I was counting
on, Mama Yaya began to hop from branch to branch. When
she had reached the top of the tree she cried out: “You talk
about freedom. Have you any idea what it means?”
Then she disappeared before I had time to ask her any more
questions. I took it that she was in a bad mood. Did she have to
find fault with every man who lived with me? Even if he were
but a child. Why did she want me to live in solitude? I made up
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my mind to do without her advice and to let Iphigene do as he
pleased.
One evening he came and sat down beside me. “Mother,
you’ve got to return to the maroon camp to see Christopher.”
I jumped up. “Never! 1’11 never do that!”
“You must!” he insisted, firmly but respectfully. “You don’t
realize what the maroons actually represent. There is a tacit
agreement between them and the planters. And if they want the
planters to let them enjoy their precarious freedom, they have
to denounce every plot and every attempt at a slave revolt they
hear about on the island. So they have their spies everywhere.
Only you can disarm Christopher.”
1 shrugged my shoulders. “Do you really believe 1 can?”
“Isn’t that his child you’re carrying?” he asked, embarrassed.
1 didn’t answer. However, 1 realized he was right and set off for
Farley Hill.
* * *
“Did he promise he wouldn’t interfere?”
“He promised.”
“Did he seem sincere?”
“As far as I could judge! After all 1 don’t know him very
well.”
“You’re carrying his child and you say you don’t know him
very well?”
Humiliated, I didn’t say a word. Iphigene got up.
“We’ve decided to attack in four nights’ time!”
“In four nights’ time!” 1 protested. “Why in such a hurry?
Let me at least ask the spirits if the time is right.”
He laughed, echoed by his fellow maroons. “Up till now the
spirits haven’t treated you so well. Otherwise you wouldn’t be
where you are today. The time is right because the moon will be
in its fourth quarter and will not rise before midnight. Our men
will have darkness on their side. They will sound the conch in
unison and then with lighted torch in hand they will march on
the Great Houses.”
* * *
That night 1 had a dream.
Three men came into my room like three great birds of prey.
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/, Tituba
They were wearing black hoods over their faces and yet I knew
it was Samuel Parris, John Indian, and Christopher. They came
up to me holding a thick, sharpened stick and I screamed: “No,
no! Haven’t I already gone through that?”
Without heeding my cries, they lifted up my skirts and I was
racked with a terrible pain. I screamed even louder.
At that moment someone laid a hand on my forehead. It was
Iphigene. I came to and sat up, terrified, thinking I was still
suffering.
“What’s the matter? Don’t be afraid, I’m here by your side.”
My dream was so vivid that I remained speechless for a
while, reliving the horrible night before my arrest.
“Iphigene,” I begged, “give me time to pray, to make a sac
rifice and try to reconcile the unseen forces . . .”
“Tituba,” he interrupted (and this was the first time he had
called me by my name, as if I were no longer his mother but a
naive, unreasonable child), “I respect your talents as a healer.
Isn’t it thanks to you that I am alive and breathing? But please
spare me the rest. The future belongs to those who know how
to shape it and, believe me, you won’t get anywhere with in
cantations and animal sacrifices. Only through actions.”
I could think of nothing to say. I decided not to discuss the
matter further and to take the precautions I thought necessary.
However, the issue at stake was so great that I couldn’t do
without a second opinion. I withdrew to the banks of the River
Ormond and called Mama Yaya, Abena, my mother, and Yao.
They appeared and I took their relaxed and happy expression
to be a reassuring omen.
“You know what they are planning, so what do you advise
me to do?”
Yao, who was taciturn, dead or alive, was nevertheless the
first to speak.
“It reminds me of a slave revolt when I was young. It had
been organized by Ti-Noel, who hadn’t yet taken to the moun
tains and was still sweating it out on the Belleplaine plantation.
He had his men stationed everywhere and, at a given signal,
they were to burn the Great Houses to ashes.”
165

Something in his voice was warning me and 1 asked rather
abruptly: “Well, how did it end?”
He began to roll a cigar of tobacco leaves, as if he were try
ing to play for time, then he looked me straight in the eye. “In
a bloodbath, as it always does! The time is not ripe for our
freedom!”
“When, when will it be?” I asked hoarsely. “How much more
blood does there have to be and why?”
The three spirits remained silent, as if I were trying to break
the rules again and embarrass them.
“Our memory will have to be covered in blood,” Yao con
tinued. “Our memories will have to float to the surface like
water lilies.”
“Tell me, how much longer?” I insisted.
Mama Yaya shook her head. “There’s no end to the misfor
tunes of black folks.”
I was used to her fatalistic words and shrugged my shoulders
in irritation. What was the point of arguing?
“Lord of the Air, the Night, and the Waters, You who make
the child move in its mother’s womb, You who make the sugar
cane grow, And fill it with sticky juice. Lord of the Air, the
Sun, and the Stars . . .”
I had never prayed so hard. Around me the night was black,
shimmering from the smell of blood of the victims piled at
my feet.
“Lord of the Present, the Past, and the Future, without whom
the earth would not bear fruit, neither coco plum nor jujube
nor passion fruit nor pomme cythere, nor Congo peas . .
I lost myself in prayer.
Shortly before midnight a weak moon curled itself up on a
cushion of cloud.
15
Do I have to go on to the end? Hasn’t the reader already

guessed what is going to happen? So predictable, so easily pre
dictable! And then by telling it, I shall be reliving my suffering
over and over again. And must I suffer twice?
Iphigene and his friends left nothing to chance. I don’t know
how they got the guns. Did they, for example, lay hands on the
munitions depot at Oistins or St. James? Our island was full of
munitions depots because it had been used in the past as a base
for attacking the Spanish possessions and it continued to live
in fear of the French. Whatever the case, I began to see guns,
powder, and bullets piling up in front of the house; Iphigene
and his henchmen doled them out in equal parts. I don’t know
how they had reckoned up the number of estates in operation
(844 in all) and the men they could count on. I could hear them
checking off names and figures: “Ti-Roro from Bois Debout:
three guns and three pounds of powder. Nevis from Castle
ridge: twelve guns. Bois Sans Soif from Pumpkitt: seven guns
and four pounds of powder.”
And scouts went out in all directions, taking cover under the
trees and in the tall grass. At one point Iphigene looked so tired
that I begged him: “Come and lie down a while. What’s the
use of dying before you’ve won?”
He waved his hand impatiently, but nevertheless he obeyed
me and came to sit down beside me. I stroked his rough, woolly
hair, reddened by the sun.
“I have often talked to you about my life. But there’s one
thing I haven’t told you. I was once pregnant and I had to do
away with the baby. It seems to me you have come back in
its place.”
167
He shrugged his shoulders. “I sometimes wonder where you

women get all your imagination from.”
He then got up. “Have you ever thought I don’t want you to
treat me like a son?”
He went out.
I preferred not to think too much about the meaning of his
words. Besides, was there time? The countdown had started:
only one more night before the attack. I was not really worried
about the outcome of the plot. In fact, I tried not to think about
it. I let my mind blur in colored dreams and I concentrated
above all on my baby. She had started to move in my womb;
a sort of slow, gentle creeping as if she wanted to explore her
confined quarters. I imagined her as a blind tadpole with a mop
of hair, floating, swimming, trying unsuccessfully to turn on
her back and stubbornly starting over and over again. A little
longer and we would be looking at each other and her fresh
gaze would make me ashamed of my wrinkles and my stumps
of teeth. My daughter would settle old scores for me! She would
know how to win the love of a man with a heart as warm as
corn bread. He would be faithful to her. They would have chil
dren they would teach to see beauty in themselves. Children
who would grow straight and free toward the sky.
Around five o’clock Iphigene brought me a rabbit he had
stolen from someone’s hutch. He was holding it by the ears.
I usually don’t mind killing animals for sacrifices, but I shud
dered at the thought of killing these innocent animals men use
for food. I have never slit a single chicken’s throat or gutted
a single fish without asking its forgiveness for the evil I was
inflicting on it. In an awkward movement I sat down heavily
under the awning I used as a kitchen and began to gut the ani
mal. As I slit open its belly a stream of black, stinking blood
spattered my face, while two rotting balls of flesh wrapped in a
green membrane rolled onto the ground. I recoiled at the smell
and my knife fell from my hands and stuck in my left foot. I let
out a scream and Iphigene threw down the gun he was cleaning
and came to my rescue.
He drew the knife out of my flesh and tried to stop the blood
from gushing forth. It seemed this tiny wound was going to
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Z, Tituba
drain me of all my blood. A small puddle had already formed
at my feet, reminding me of Yao’s words: “Our memory will
be covered in blood. Our memories will float to the surface like
water lilies.”
After having torn into shreds all the clothes he could get hold
of, Iphigene managed to stop the hemorrhage and carried me
into the cabin bundled up like a baby.
“Now keep still. I’ll look after everything. Who says I can’t
cook?”
The sharp smell of my blood soon began to irritate my nos
trils and it was then I remembered Susanna Endicott. That
awful shrew! Hadn’t I kept her bundled up like this for months,
for years, swimming in her own juice, and wasn’t she now get
ting her revenge just as she had promised? Blood for urine? Of
us two, who was the more formidable? I wanted to pray, but
my mind wouldn’t let me. I remained there, staring through the
crisscross of poles that held up the roof.
Shortly afterward, Mama Yaya, Abena, my mother, and Yao
came to see me. They had been in North Point calling on an
obeah man when they had seen what had happened to me.
Mama Yaya tapped me on the shoulder. “It’s nothing. Soon
you’ll forget all about it.”
Abena, my mother, of course couldn’t help sighing and grum
bling. “If there’s one thing you’re not good at, it’s choosing
your men. Oh well, soon everything will be back to normal.”
I looked her squarely in the face. “What do you mean by
that?”
But she turned a pirouette. “How many illegitimate children
do you intend to collect? Look at the hair on your head, as
white as the flock on the silk-cotton tree.”
Yao merely kissed me on the forehead and whispered: “We’ll
see you later. We’ll be there as soon as possible.”
Then they disappeared.
Around eight o’clock Iphigene brought me a gourd filled
with food. He had managed to cook up a pig’s tail, some rice,
and black-eyed peas. He changed my dressings, showing no
alarm at seeing them drip with blood again.
This was the last night before the final act, when doubt, fear,
169

and cowardice fight it out among themselves! What was the
point? Was life so bad after all? Why risk losing it, however
meager the scraps of happiness? The last night before the final
attack! I was trembling, I didn’t dare snuff out the candle, and
I could see the monstrous shadow of my body flickering on
the wall. Iphigene came and huddled up close to me. I held his
strong, slim chest tight to me and I could feel his heart beating
wildly.
“Are you afraid as well?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer but his hand groped in the dark. Then I
realized with amazement what he wanted. Perhaps it was fear?
Perhaps he wanted to reassure me? To reassure himself? The
desire to taste pleasure one last time? Probably all these feelings
combined into one burning and compelling emotion. When his
young, hot body pressed itself against mine, my first reaction
was to recoil. I was ashamed of offering up my old age to his
caresses and I almost pushed him away for I had the absurd
feeling of committing incest. Then his desire became conta
gious. I felt a wave well up inside me. It picked up strength
and urgency and then broke. It flooded me, it flooded him, it
flooded us and took us under several times to the point where
we lost our breath and choked and begged to stop. We were
frightened and exhausted when it threw us up on a quiet cove
planted with almond trees. We drowned ourselves in kisses and
he whispered: “If you knew how much it hurts seeing you carry
this child that isn’t mine, the child of a man I despise. If you
only knew the real face of Christopher and the role he plays.
But we are not going to talk about him when death is perhaps
sharpening its knives.”
“Do you think we’ll win?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “What does it matter! The im
portant thing is to have tried and to have refused the fatalism
of misfortune!”
I sighed and he hugged me up against him.
Blessed is the love that carries man on the waters of oblivion.
That makes him forget he is a slave. That rolls back the torment
and the fear. Reassured, Iphigene and I plunged back into the
healing waters of sleep. We swam against the current, watching
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1, Tituba
the needlefish court the crayfish. We dried our hair under the
moon. We did not sleep for long, however. I must confess that
once the intoxication had worn off, I felt a little ashamed. This
boy could have been my son! Did I no longer have any respect
for myself? And then why had so many men passed through
my bed? Hester was right when she said: “You’re too fond of
love, Tituba!”
And I wondered whether this was not a blemish in me, a
fault that I should have tried to cure myself of.
Outside, the horse of night galloped on. Clippity-clop.
Clippity-clop. Close by my side my son and lover was sleeping.
I was unable to do the same. All the events of my life came back
to me extremely vividly and the faces of all those I had loved
and hated crowded around my bed. Oh, I recognized them all!
I could put a name to every face. Betsey, Abigail, Anne Putnam,
Goodwife Parris, Samuel Parris, John Indian. At the very mo
ment when my body had proved how frivolous it could be, my
heart reminded me that it had never belonged to anybody else
but John Indian. What had become of him in that cold and
gloomy America?
I knew that more and more slave ships were unloading their
cargo on its shores and that America was preparing to domi
nate the world with the sweat of our brows. I knew that the
Indians had been wiped off the map and reduced to roaming
the land that once was theirs.
What was John Indian doing in that country that was so hard
on us? So hard on the weak, on the dreamers, and on those
who do not judge men by their wealth.
The horse of night was galloping on. Clippity-clop. Clippity
clop. And all these faces danced in front of my eyes, vivid as
only the creatures of the night can be.
Was it Susanna Endicott taking her revenge? And were her
powers greater than mine?
Outside the wind had risen. I could hear it hailing mangoes.
I could hear it blow through the calabash tree and rap its fruit.
I was afraid. I was cold. I wanted to return to my mother’s
womb. But at that very instant, my daughter moved as if she
were calling for my affection. I laid my hand on my belly and,
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little by little 1 was filled with a kind of tranquillity, a kind of
lucidity, as if I had resigned myself to the final drama I was
about to live.
With my senses sharp, I heard the wind die down. A chicken
frightened by a mongoose could be heard squawking in the
pen. Then silence fell. And I ended up falling asleep.
X- X- x-
Hardly had I closed my eyes than 1 had a dream.
I was trying to enter a forest, but the trees were in league
against me and black creepers hung down, twining themselves
around me. I opened my eyes. The room was full of smoke. I
was about to cry out: “But I’ve been through all this before.”
Then I realized what was happening.
I shook Iphigene, who was sleeping like a child with a radiant
smile on his lips. He opened his eyes, misty from the recollec
tion of his pleasure. Very quickly, however, he realized what
was happening and jumped to his feet. I followed, hampered
by my wound, which wouldn’t stop bleeding. We got out. The
cabin was surrounded by soldiers aiming their guns at us.
Who had betrayed us?
X- X- x-
The planters decided to set an example, because this had been
the second major revolt in three years. They had secured the
help of the English troops that had come to defend the island
from outside attacks and nothing had been left to chance. The
plantations were systematically searched and any suspect slave
was stood under a silk-cotton tree. Then he was driven with
the others at bayonet point to a large clearing where dozens of
gallows had been erected.
A patch over one eye, Errin surveyed the scene of the exe
cutions in the company of his fellow planters. He came up to
me and sneered: “Well, witch, what they should have done to
you in Boston, we’re going to do here! And you’ll meet up
with your sisters who left before you did! And a good Sabbath
to all!”
I didn’t answer. 1 was looking at Iphigene. As the leader he
had been hit so hard that he could barely stand and would
surely have collapsed if one of the overseers was not making
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I, Tituba
his body jerk with constant lashes of the whip. His face was
so swollen that he must have been practically blind and was
looking to the sun for warmth rather than light. 1 cried out to
him: “Don’t be afraid! Above all, don’t be afraid! We’ll soon
be together again!”
He turned to the spot where my voice came from and as he
couldn’t speak, he motioned to me with his hand.
His body was the first to swing in the air, hanging from a
heavy beam. 1 was the last to be led to the gallows, for 1 was
to be given special treatment. The punishment that I had “es
caped” in Salem was now going to be inflicted on me. A man
dressed in an impressive black and red coat read out all my
crimes, past and present. 1 had bewitched the inhabitants of
a peaceful, God-fearing village. I had called Satan into their
hearts and turned them one against the other in fury. 1 had set
fire to the house of an honest merchant who had decided to
disregard my crimes, but who had paid for his lack of judgment
with the death of his children. At this point in the inquisition 1
almost screamed out that it was all untrue and nothing but vile
and cruel lies. Then I thought otherwise. What was the point?
Soon I would reach a kingdom where the light of truth burns
bright and unrelenting. Sitting astride the beam of my gallows,
Mama Yaya, Abena, my mother, and Yao were waiting to take
me by the hand.
I was the last to be taken to the gallows. All around me
strange trees were bristling with strange fruit.
Epilogue
Epilogue
And that is the story of my life. Such a bitter, bitter story.

My real story starts where this one leaves off and it has no
end. Christopher was wrong or probably he wanted to hurt
me—there is a song about Tituba! 1 hear it from one end of
the island to the other, from North Point to Silver Sands, from
Bridgetown to Bottom Bay. It runs along the ridge of the hills.
It is poised on the tip of the heliconia. The other day I heard
a boy four or five years old humming it. In delight, I dropped
three ripe mangoes at his feet and he remained rooted to the
spot, staring up at the tree that had given him such a present
out of season. Yesterday it was a woman beating her wash on
the rocks of the river who was humming it. Out of gratitude I
wrapped myself around her neck and there she was young and
beautiful again, admiring her reflection in the water.
I hear it wherever I go.
When I run to someone’s deathbed. When I take the trem
bling spirit of a dead person in my hands. When I let human
beings catch a glimpse of those they thought they had lost
forever.
For now that I have gone over to the invisible world 1 con
tinue to heal and cure. But primarily I have dedicated myself to
another task, helped by Iphigene, my son and lover, my com
panion for eternity. I am hardening men’s hearts to fight. I am
nourishing them with dreams of liberty. Of victory. I have been
behind every revolt. Every insurrection. Every act of disobedi
ence.
Since the unsuccessful rebellion of 17
** not a month goes by
without a fire breaking out. Without a poisoning striking down
one Great House after another. Errin went back over the sea
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7, Tituba
after I ordered the spirits of those he had tortured to play the
gwo-ka drums night after night around his bed. I accompanied
him to the brigantine Faith and saw him down glass after glass
of rum in the vain hope of ridding his sleep of dreams.
Christopher too tosses and turns on his bed and has lost all
taste for his women. I refrain from harming him further, for
isn’t he the father of my unborn daughter?
I have not crossed the sea to persecute Samuel Parris, the
judges, and the preachers. I know that others have done it for
me. Samuel Parris’s son, the object of so much attention and
pride, was to die insane. Cotton Mather was to be dishonored
and unmasked by a little vixen. All the judges were to lose
their pride. And, as Rebecca Nurse said, the time will come
for another judgment. And if I’m not included, what does it
matter!
I do not belong to the civilization of the Bible and Bigotry.
My people will keep my memory in their hearts and have no
need for the written word. It’s in their heads. In their hearts and
in their heads. Since I died without giving birth to a child, the
spirits have allowed me to choose a descendant. I took a long
time making up my mind. I spied into every cabin. I looked at
the washerwomen breast-feeding. I watched the women work
ing in the sugarcane fields as they laid their nursing babies on
piles of old clothes, for want of a better place. I made compari
sons, I fingered and prodded and finally I found her, the one I
needed: Samantha.
I think I chose her because I watched her come into this
world.
I was used to looking after Delices, her mother, a black Cre
ole living in Bottom Bay on the Willoughby plantation. As she
had already lost two or three children at birth, this time she
had me come as quickly as possible. To stave off his anxiety,
her man was downing glass after glass of rum on the veranda.
The birth took hours and the baby presented herself in the
breech position. The mother was losing both her blood and her
strength and her poor exhausted soul had but one wish and
that was to slip into the other world. The fetus refused to ac
company her and fought furiously to enter the universe from
177

which she was separated by only a fragile valve of flesh. In the
end she won and I received into my hands a little baby girl with
inquisitive eyes and a determined mouth. I watched her grow
up and stumble around on her shaky legs, exploring the pur
gatory of the plantation, finding her delight in the shape of a
cloud, the drooping foliage of an ylang-ylang, or the taste of a
bitter orange.
As soon as she knew how to speak, she asked: “Why is
Zamba so silly? And why does he let Rabbit sit on his back?
Why are we slaves and they masters? Why is there only one
God? Shouldn’t there be one for the slaves and one for the
masters?” As the adults’ answers did not satisfy her, she made
up her own. Although she knew I was dead through the rumor
on the island, she showed no surprise when I first appeared in
front of her, as if she fully understood that she had been singled
out for a special destiny. Now she follows me fervently. I tell
her the secrets I’m allowed to share, the hidden power of herbs
and the language of animals. I teach her to look for the invisible
shapes in the world, the crisscross of communications, and the
signs and the symbols. Once her mother and father are asleep,
she joins me in the night that I have taught her to love.
A child I didn’t give birth to but whom I chose! What
motherhood could be nobler!
Iphigene, my son and lover, has not remained idle. He is try
ing to bring off that rebellion he was unable to achieve while
he was alive. He has chosen himself a son. A little quick-footed
Congo boy whom the overseers have already got their eye on.
The other day he even started to sing Tituba’s song.
I am never alone. There’s Mama Yaya, Abena, my mother,
Yao, Iphigene, and Samantha.
And then there is my island. We have become one and the
same. There isn’t one of its footpaths I haven’t trod. There isn’t
one of its streams I haven’t bathed in. There isn’t one of its silk
cotton trees in whose branches I haven’t sat. This constant and
extraordinary symbiosis is my revenge for my long solitude in
the deserts of America. A vast, cruel land where the spirits only
beget evil! Soon they will be covering their faces with hoods,
the better to torture us. They will lock up our children behind
178
/, Tituba
the heavy gates of the ghettos. They will deny us our rights and
blood will beget blood.
I have only one regret, for we invisibles too have our regrets
so that we can better relish our share of happiness: it’s having
to be separated from Hester. We do communicate, of course. I
can smell the dried almonds on her breath. I can hear the echo
of her laugh. But each of us remains on her side of the ocean.
I know that she is pursuing her dreams of creating a world of
women that will be more just and humane. I myself have loved
men too much and shall continue to do so. Sometimes I get the
urge to slip into someone’s bed to satisfy a bit of leftover desire
and my fleeting lover is delighted with his solitary pleasure.
Yes, I’m happy now. I can understand the past, read the
present, and look into the future. Now I know why there is so
much suffering and why the eyes of our people are brimming
with water and salt. But I know, too, that there will be an end
to all this. When? Who knows? I’m in no hurry now that I am
free of that impatience that is peculiar to mortals. What is one
life in relation to the immensity of time?
Last week a young bossale girl committed suicide. She was an
Ashanti like my mother. The priest had christened her Laetitia
and she jumped on hearing this barbarious and incongruous
name. Three times she tried to swallow her tongue. Three times
they brought her back to life. I followed her every step and
whispered dreams into her ear. Alas! In the morning these
dreams left her more desperate than ever. While I was not look
ing, she managed to snatch a handful of cassava leaves, which
she swallowed with some poisonous roots, and the slaves found
her stiff, with foam on her lips and the terrible smell of de
composition hanging over her. Such cases remain few and far
between and it is more usual for me to keep a slave from the
edge of despair by whispering: “Look at the splendor of our
island. Soon it will all be ours. Fields of nettles and sugarcane.
Furrows of yams and patches of cassava. All of it!”
Sometimes, oddly enough, 1 feel like changing into mortal
form. So 1 become an anoli and draw my knife when the chil
dren try to catch me with their straw lassos. Sometimes I be
come a fighting cock in the pit and the clamor of the crowd
179
sends my head spinning more than the rum. Oh how I love to

give the slave the excitement of winning! Off he goes, danc
ing and brandishing his fist, a gesture that will soon symbolize
other victories. Sometimes I become a bird and tease the sling
shots of the young scamps when they shout: “Got it!” I fly off
with a rustle of wings and laugh at their faces. Sometimes I
become a goat and caper around Samantha, who is no fool.
For this child of mine has learned to recognize my presence in
the twitching of an animal’s coat, the crackling of a fire be
tween four stones, the rainbow-hued babbling of the river, and
the sound of the wind as it whistles through the great trees on
the hills.
Historical Note
Glossary
Afterword
Bibliography
Historical Note
The witch trials of Salem began in March 1692 with the arrests
of Sarah Good, Sarah Osborne, and Tituba, who confessed her
“crime.” Sarah Osborne died in prison in May 1692.
Nineteen women were hanged and one man, Giles Corey,
was sentenced to a peine forte et dure (pressed to death).
On 21 February 1693, Sir William Phips, governor of the
Bay Colony, sent a report to London on the subject of witch
craft. He submitted the cases of over fifty women who still
remained in prison and requested permission to relieve their
suffering. This was accorded in May 1693, when the last of
the accused were granted a general pardon and released. The
Reverend Samuel Parris left the village of Salem in 1697, after
a long quarrel with its inhabitants concerning arrears in salary
and firewood. His wife had died the previous year giving birth
to a son, Noyes.
Around 1693 Tituba, our heroine, was sold for the price
of her prison fees and the cost of her chains and shackles. To
whom? Such is the intentional or unintentional racism of the
historians that we shall never know. According to Anne Petry,
a black American novelist who also became passionately inter
ested in our heroine, Tituba was bought by a weaver and spent
the rest of her days in Boston.
A vague tradition says Tituba was sold to a slave dealer, who
took her back to Barbados.
I myself have given her an ending of my own choosing.
The reader should note that the village of Salem is now called
Danvers. It is the town of Salem—where most of the trials, but
not the mass hysteria, took place—that has become famous for
its history of witchcraft.
MARYSE CONDE
Glossary
acoma: {Sider oxy Ion mastichodendrori}, commonly known in

the anglophone West Indies as mastic bully.
ajoupa: a word of Carib origin designating a small thatched
hut.
akiva ba: Ashanti greeting meaning “welcome.”
anoli: a small lizard of the family Iguanidae.
azalée-des-azalées: a literary invention by the author.
bossale: Guineaman or Guineawoman, a slave just unloaded
from Africa.
calenda: of unknown origin; here used in an old slave song.
crick, crack!: The traditional opening to a story told by a West
Indian storyteller in front of an audience.
grangreks: scholars; Creole for “grands Grecs.”
gwo-ka: ka means drum in Creole; gwo-ka is a popular drum
beat in the French West Indies.
kippa: Hebrew word for the skullcap worn by Jews.
konoko: slave’s white canvas trousers.
Minnah: afternoon prayers in the Jewish faith.
mougué: word of unknown African origin in the Creole slave
song sung by John Indian.
passiflorinde: a literary invention by the author.
persulfureuse: a literary invention by the author.
pomme-cythère: {Spondias dulcis) a delicious fruit used in
drinks and preserves. It is not poisonous, as the author
suggests.
Populara indica: a literary invention by the author.
prune taureau: a literary invention by the author.
rayo: {Cordyline terminalis) a shrub commonly used for hedges
marking boundaries in the West Indies.
186
Glossary
salapertuis: a literary invention by the author.

sheep without horns: a man.
soukougnan: literally, “bloodsucker”; word derived from the
African language of the Tukulor people, where it desig
nates a spirit that attacks humans and drinks their blood
like a vampire.
Afterword
The Guadeloupean novelist Maryse Condé’s Moi, Tituba, sor

cière . . . noire de Salem (I, Tituba, black witch of Salem) was,
in 1986, the first francophone Caribbean novel to connect the
English Caribbean with the colonial United States, and the first
of Condé’s already numerous works to successfully combine an
introspective journey with an examination of what it means to
be Caribbean. Tituba invited fresh consideration of the ques
tion of identity in the Caribbean context, and it marked an
important step on the path to self-discovery for the author.
Furthermore, Condé’s creation of a mock-epic protagonist and
her use of postmodern irony in her novel opened up a new
literary space for writers from the region, truly blowing apart
the status quo. Because the historical Tituba was actually Bar
badian, Condé uses Barbados instead of Guadeloupe as the
Caribbean locale, but she infers similar circumstances from the
history of slavery and domination common to the region.
Writing by authors from the French overseas departments
of Guadeloupe, Martinique, and French Guiana has focused
on the question of identity since the 1940s. This seems only
natural. French colonialism began in the Caribbean in 1635
and was “perfected” by the systematization of slavery as an
economic institution in the Code noir (Slave laws), written by
Louis XIV’s controller general of finance Jean-Baptiste Colbert
and promulgated in 1685. The ensuing colonial order imposed
an experience of double alienation on the people of color of
the region, forcing them into a historical void and a partial
cultural vacuum. In the first place, the only recorders of local
history were French colonists, who told the story from their
point of view. Furthermore, the black slaves who were brought
to the Americas were systematically separated from their fel-
188
Afterword
low tribesmen, so that the cultures they might have brought

with them survived only in fragments. The culture they devel
oped in the New World was born of encounters with people
from other parts of Africa and of interaction with the Indians
who were already on the islands in the Caribbean Sea. Ignored
for the most part by the French colonists, today the heritage of
the Arawak and Carib Indians of Martinique and Guadeloupe
is celebrated in the departmental museums in Fort-de-France
and Le Moule, respectively.
French and English Caribbean plantation societies, like their
American counterpart, engendered personal humiliation, indi
vidual isolation, and obedience to the Other who claimed total
power. Thus, the absence of nonwhite Caribbean historians
was exacerbated by a devaluation of the self, which intensi
fied the need for an eventual focus on identity. Under slavery
and the political and economic bondage that followed, inter
dependence within the group (the individual’s only means of
survival) had to be nurtured but carefully hidden. The planta
tion space privileged women and feminine sensitivity, because
black women had the work of creating the hearth and holding
their society together. Teaching the children and transmitting
the culture that evolved on the plantation, these women also
often dominated the white master’s entire household: his bed
room, his nursery, and his kitchen. Women thus became the
mainstay of Caribbean culture; this tradition is one reason why
there are so many women writers in the area today.
The only nonwhite heroes and heroines in the Caribbean
were the maroons, fugitive slaves who lived in the hills out
side the confines of established plantation society and caused
as much damage as they could, through mass poisonings, mass
murders, and the burning of plantations. Although Edouard
Glissant points out in Le discours antillais (1981; Caribbean
Discourse, CARAF Books edition, 1989) that these runaway
slaves have not generally served as models of revolt and hope in
the past, today they do so in Caribbean literature, where their
motif appears constantly in one form or another. Tituba is in
some respects an exception because of the postmodern irony
with which the subject is treated.
189
Afterword
After the abolition of slavery in 1848, blacks in the French
overseas colonies were entitled by law to education, but the
transition from illiterate slave to literate freeman was painfully
slow, just as it was in the United States after the Civil War.
Even when Guadeloupe, Martinique, and French Guiana be
came overseas departments of France in 1946, they continued
to suffer from domination by the ex-colonial capital, which
French speakers call le métropole (the metropolis). Today a
third of the French Caribbean people live in continental France,
where they have migrated in search of jobs or higher edu
cation. In addition to the problem of migration, there is the
reality that the overseas departments depend upon the mother
country for many supplies and staples, including food items.
One university has been created for the entire region, the Uni
versité Antilles-Guyane. The projected removal of trade and
employment restrictions among the countries of the European
Common Market in 1993 poses potential problems for the au
tonomy and livelihood of citizens of the French Caribbean.
Individuals from countries outside France who cannot now
work in the French Caribbean because they are not French citi
zens may then be attracted to settle in the islands, thus further
exacerbating the existing unemployment problem.
It is symptomatic of their postcolonial malaise that the
French themselves have not shown much interest in French
Caribbean literature to date. Maryse Condé has fared better
than most writers: Ségou, les murailles de terre (Segou: The
walls of earth) was a best-seller and was a selection by Le livre
du mois (book-of-the-month club) in 1984, the year of its pub
lication; Moi, Tituba, sorcière . . . noire de Salem won the
Grand prix littéraire de la femme in 1986. A few other writers
in addition to Condé have been taken up by the big French
publishers, Edouard Glissant and Daniel Maximin by Le Seuil,
Raphaël Confiant and Xavier Orville by Bernard Grasset, and
Patrick Chamoiseau by Gallimard. However, most writers have
to go to smaller, specialized houses like Présence africaine,
Editions caribéennes, and L’Harmattan to get into print. In
addition, the French press except for La quinzaine littéraire—
a bimonthly literary magazine—appears to be almost unaware
190
Afterword
that these writers exist. Indeed, it seems that most francophone

Caribbean writers will have to become known abroad in trans
lation before they become known in France.
The initial literary impetus for contemporary francophone
Caribbean literature was the négritude movement. Conceived
in Paris in the 1930s by three university students from dif
ferent parts of the African diaspora, Aimé Césaire of Marti
nique, Léon-Gontran Damas of French Guiana, and Léopold
Sédar Senghor of Senegal, négritude promoted the validation
of the black person’s ethnic identity and asserted the right to
self-expression. There was no négritude movement as such,
however, before the Second World War, which brought to the
surface the racial antagonisms that characterized the social
structure of the French West Indies.
The revalorization of black West Indians’ identity began
during the war on the neighboring island of Martinique. In
1941, Aimé Césaire and his wife, Suzanne, founded Tropiques
(Tropics), a magazine of Martinican culture, along with their
friend and fellow lycée teacher the Marxist writer René Ménil.
Read primarily by students, Tropiques became more and more
political and was banned by local representatives of the Vichy
government in 1943 for its subversive intent. The reprinting
of Tropiques in 1978 immediately preceded a renewed interest
in the Caribbean region outside France in the 1980s. In the
interview he gave for the reissue of Tropiques, Aimé Césaire
emphasizes the importance of the individual writer’s personal
inspiration and affirms the fact that his own writing was origi
nally born of a passionate intolerance for the collective condi
tion of the Martinican people.
Caribbean cultures in particular needed to reaffirm the values
that had permitted slaves and their descendants to survive,
because creativity had been stifled in one way or another by
slavery and its aftermath, as Maryse Condé pointed out in her
essay La civilisation du bossale (The culture of the bush nigger,
1978), in which she discusses the oral literature of Guadeloupe
and Martinique. Condé demonstrates that the nature of the
slaves’ dependence on the master engendered hostility and ag
gressiveness as well as a thirst for justice that could not be
191
A fter ivord
quenched. She argues that creativity could not flourish in those
harsh conditions. Showing how Caribbean folktales became a
way of redefining the slaves’ universe, she concludes her essay
by suggesting that another kind of literature, an epic, historic
literature, with other values was needed. This new literature is
precisely the kind she and others are writing today.
The true cornerstone of French Caribbean literature is Aimé
Césaire’s long poem Cahier d'un retour au pays natal (Note
book of a return to the native land). The Cahier, which has
been republished at least nine times, including four transla
tions into English and two into Spanish, recounts the poverty
of daily life in Martinique, laments the enormous losses suf
fered by Caribbean people, explores the poet’s own anguish,
and then celebrates the internal power of Caribbean space in a
final self-revelatory movement culminating in a call to action.1
The négritude movement, by identifying itself exclusively
with Afro-Caribbean ethnicity, failed to account for the true di
versity of this multicultural region. It fell to Edouard Glissant,
Martinican novelist, poet, critic, and theoretician of Le dis
cours antillais, to transcend these limitations. Glissant coined
the neologism Antillanité or Caribbeanness, which he defines
as the documentation and celebration of the hybrid cultural
heritage of the Caribbean region. He explains that contempo
rary writers must fill in the voids left by past historiography
and bring the traditions of the collectivity to surface expression
after centuries of silence: “The rupture of the slave trade, then
the experience of slavery, introduces between blind belief and
clear consciousness a gap that we have never finished filling.
The absence of representation, of echo, of any sign, makes this
emptiness forever yawn under our feet. Along with our real-
1. Although a preoriginal version of Cahier d’un retour au pays natal

was published in the magazine Volontés in Paris in 1939, the poem’s public
life began with Brentano’s New York edition in 1947, as A. James Arnold
points out in his Introduction to the CARAF Books edition of Césaire’s Lyric
and Dramatic Poetry, 1946-82 (Charlottesville: University Press of Vir
ginia, 1990), p. xi. Readers may wish to consult the translation of Notebook
of a Return to the Native Land by Clayton Eshleman and Annette Smith
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983).
192
Afterword
ization of the process of exploitation (along with any action

we take), we must articulate the unexpressed while moving
beyond it: expressions of ‘popular belief’ are a nonpossession
that we must confirm; to the point where, recognizing them
as a nonpossession, we will really deal with them by abandon
ing them.”2
Glissant calls for an exploded literary discourse, posing the
problem of inventing new forms of expression and articulat
ing the necessity of confronting and mastering the Caribbean
obsession with the fractured past. His fifth novel, Mahogany
(1987), with its multivalent, fragmented structure and inter
nal forms of marronnage (marooning), is as profound an at
tempt to participate in the creation of a new antipoetics as
are Daniel Maximin’s L'Isolé soleil (1981; Lone Sun, CARAF
Books edition, 1989) and Maryse Condé’s I, Tituba, Black
Witch of Salem.
After négritude and Caribbeanness, “creoleness” is the third
and most recent attempt to express the current state of franco
phone Caribbean literature and culture. This term emerged in
1989 with the publication of Eloge de la créolité (In praise of
creoleness) by Jean Bernabé, Patrick Chamoiseau, and Raphaël
Confiant. Not to be confused with the creole language, creole
ness privileges the exploration of the self, urging the writer
to go beyond the process of recuperating the past. However,
it also reaffirms Césaire’s search for internal inspiration and
Glissant’s validation of multiple origins and the search for lost
history. Bernabé, Chamoiseau, and Confiant explain that they
favor the celebration of the diverse fabric of Caribbean society
along with a liberated, nonauthoritarian expression of that di
versity. Hence, the creoleness of 1989 can be interpreted as a
re-visioning of Césaire’s négritude of the 1940s and Glissant’s
Caribbeanness of the 1980s.
During my May 1991 interview with Maryse Condé for this
CARAF Books edition of Tituba (see below), she indicated her
belief that creoleness must be transcended, emphasizing that
the writer must explore more than his/her own island world.
2. Edouard Glissant, Caribbean Discourse: Selected Essays, trans.

J. Michael Dash (Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1989), 201.
193
Afterword
Like Maximin’s L’Isolé soleil, I Tituba, Black Witch of Salem

expresses and gives a formal and historical content to the ideal
of creoleness, in that it celebrates Tituba’s unique voice and
resists being locked into existing categories of francophone
Caribbean literature. Most re-visionings of French Caribbean
history have primarily attempted to recuperate the lost past.
Condé, however, uses the lost past to dominate the present and
open the future to new directions. In this novel she mounts a
resounding attack on the hypocrisy that characterized Puritan
New England; she invites an examination of the entire system
of slavery; she implies criticism of racism and religious bigotry
in contemporary America; she castigates men’s domination of
women; and she parodies modern feminist discourse.
The European novel is another integral part of the heritage
of French Caribbean literature, because the school system as it
existed in France was transported in its entirety to the colonies:
teachers, texts, and materials. The French tried to create among
their colonial subjects an elite that was as well educated as
its French counterpart, and Maryse Condé’s bourgeois family
offers a good example of the result. French is the language in
which most French Caribbean writers work most comfortably,
Maryse Condé among them. Nevertheless, even though they
also speak Creole more or less fluently, francophone Caribbean
writers have always used the European tradition to give voice
to an expression of their own experience. Just as Aimé Césaire
used surrealism to inscribe his personal psychic reality in post
war versions of his Cahier d’un retour au pays natal and as
Joseph Zobel used the form of the social realist novel in 1950 in
La rue cases-nègres (Black shack alley), so today Maryse Condé
in Traversée de la mangrove (Journey through the mangrove,
1988), Edouard Glissant in Mahogany, and Daniel Maximin in
L’Isolé soleil and Soufrières (The Soufrière; brothers and sis
ters, 1989) use postmodern narrative strategies of fragmented
and self-reflexive discourse, multiple narrators, and nonlinear
chronology to express their visions of the present.
Sounding the theme of artistic independence she had ad
dressed in La parole des femmes (Women’s voice, 1979), Condé
explained the current situation in our May 1991 interview. She
stressed the point that francophone Caribbean writers need to
194
Afterword
be considered first and foremost as writers—not as “French

Caribbean” writers—by themselves and by the broader reading
public. They must be free to follow their own vision of reality
and to express the bulk of the experience that they have gained
in the world, rather than limiting themselves to a depiction of
life in the “French” Caribbean.
Condé’s distaste for labels of any kind results in part from
her childhood experience of having been taught to accept a
very restricted vision of her native country. As the daughter of
successful, upwardly mobile bourgeois parents, she was sup
posed to be proud of being a person of color but to look down
on everything from the West Indies, including the Creole lan
guage. An avid reader who secretly borrowed books from her
father’s extensive library, Maryse had read most of the great
French novels before she was twelve, but it was not until she
was a lycée student in Paris that she learned of her own Carib
bean literary heritage. She is fond of telling the story that it
was a white classmate, the daughter of liberal French parents,
who first introduced her to Césaire’s Cahier d’un retour au
pays natal,
Condé chose to become reacquainted with her island on her
own terms only after she had lived in Paris and then in Africa
for a number of years. Her celebration of the British West Indies
in I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem is on the one hand a gesture
of affection for the Caribbean and on the other a prelude to
her return home in 1986. Today she speaks of having learned
to understand Guadeloupe, and she has said how essential it
was for her to return to the island and get to know people from
all segments of that diverse society. In an interview with Vèvè
Clark, Condé tells of this homecoming: “I went out and met
with not so much the people but the island itself. I learned how
the island speaks to your mind; how it smells. It has a life of its
own despite the meanness of individuals or their limitations.
So, yes, I made peace with the island and having done so, I also
made peace with myself in a way.”3
3.Vèvè Clark, “I Have Made Peace with My Island: An Interview with

Maryse Condé,” Callaloo 12, no. 1 (1989): 133.
195
Afterword
Although Maryse Condé tells us that Tituba’s personal story
has no relationship to her own life experience, the fabric of
both journeys is woven of the same cloth. Tituba and Condé
both attack life directly, courageously, and imaginatively. The
force of moral honesty sustains them in their quests for real
relationships in a world where class differences and racism
impede human communication.
In 1959, when she was twenty-two years old, Maryse mar
ried Mamadou Condé despite her family’s strong objection to
him on the grounds that he was “an actor; he had no money,
no education.”4 Glad to leave the closed circle of West Indians
in Paris, Condé moved to her husband’s native Guinea, where
she soon realized that the marriage was a mistake. Leaving her
husband, she went alone to the Ivory Coast, where she taught
school and gave birth to their first daughter. She moved back
to Guinea, had two more daughters, and then left her husband
for good in 1964. Condé’s willingness to defy her family in her
marriage, breaking class and racial barriers they tried to im
pose, and her courage in admitting subsequently that her mar
riage was not good, demonstrate how directly she approaches
life’s challenges.
Finding original ways of looking at literature in her critical
works and daring to address fresh topics in her novels, Condé’s
body of work shows the same kind of courage and determina
tion as her personal life. Her willingness to write about what is
on her mind without camouflaging her intent manifested itself
in her first novel, Hérémakhonon, published in 1976. There
she wrote of Veronica, a young West Indian woman who goes
to Paris and then to Africa in search of herself. Full of negative
memories of her childhood in Guadeloupe, Veronica discovers
that Africa does not satisfy her either. Drawn to the politi
cal left, she also has an affair with the dictator who controls
the country. She flees the country at the end of the novel, tor
mented and angered by the unnecessary bloodshed, alone and
uncertain still. Characterized by irony and ambiguity, Héré-
4. Ibid., p. 99.
196
Afterword
makhonon “represented the first time that someone denounced

Sékou Touré and African Socialism in writing.”5
Condé’s second novel, Une saison à Rihata (A season in
Rihata, 1981), takes place in an unnamed African country and
focuses on individual morality and political corruption. Condé
explores adultery and human psychology by examining the
stagnant marriage of Marie-Hélène, a middle-aged and disillu
sioned woman from the French Caribbean, and her African
husband, Zek. Condé’s narrative style shows that life is much
more complex than we think, by weaving the separate plot lines
together in such a way that the reader cannot understand the
full story until the last pages of the text.
Greatly acclaimed in France, alternately praised and de
nounced by African scholars, Condé’s third novel appeared
in two volumes: Ségou: Les murailles de terre and Ségou: La
terre en miettes (Segou: The earth in pieces, 1985). Contro
versy about the novel centered on what was real, what was
fiction, and whether Condé claimed anthropological expertise
in her depiction. At all events, Ségou is a lively narrative that
recounts through brief introspective passages the detailed saga
of religious and social history in Africa and the Caribbean,
highlighting the encounter between Islam and African animism
and plantation slave society in Brazil.
Following the publication of her fourth novel, I, Tituba, in
1986, Condé’s fifth and sixth novels focus on the francophone
Caribbean. La vie scélérate (Wicked life, 1987) tlepicts the
social history of three generations of a Guadeloupean family.
This linear narrative, enhanced by interior monologues and
flashbacks, offers Condé’s fullest portrait to date of the ambi
ance in which she grew up and provides an illuminating picture
of the relationship between the French Caribbean islands and
Paris. Traversée de la mangrove (Journey through the man
grove, 1989), a Faulknerian text with multiple narrators, paints
a vivid picture of life in a small Caribbean village, as numerous
inhabitants reveal their personal connections with a stranger
who has just died. Speaking about writing Traversée de la man-
5. Ibid., p. 121.
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Afterword
grove, Condé says: “Writing is like going on a journey to find

something one dreams of. It is like crossing a mangrove with
its entangled roots, its pools of briny water and its many layers
of mud to reach the sea. It is like mapping a dark and rebel
lious land.”6
Condé’s most recent novel, Les derniers rois mages (The last
magi), was published in the spring of 1992. In addition to
her novels, Condé has published a collection of two franco
phone Caribbean folktales under the title Pays-mêlé (Land of
mixed blood, 1985), and she has written six plays: “Le morne
de Massabielle” (The hills of Massabielle, 1972), Dieu nous
Pa donné (God gave it to us, 1972), La mort d'Oluwémi
d’Ajumako (The death of Oluwémi d’Ajumako, 1973), “Les
sept voyages de Ti-Noel” (Ti-Noel’s seven journeys, 1986),
Pension les alizés (Trade winds guesthouse, 1988), and “Comé
die d’amour” (Comedy of love, 1989). The folktales explore
magic, love, social class, and family relationships in a Carib
bean village, suggesting that the human heart cannot be found
guilty for what it feels. The plays, some written specifically for
local theater groups in Guadeloupe, concern exile in the lives
of people from the islands and a love affair between a Haitian
political refugee and an elderly actress, among other subjects.
Condé believes that contemporary French Caribbean writers
should become involved with groups of local artists in order to
bring their work to the people. She herself is associated with
Plus Bakanal, a group that performed “Les sept voyages de
Ti Noël” to an audience of two thousand on 27 May 1987,
the anniversary date of the abolition of slavery in Guadeloupe
in 1848.
Condé’s critical work is almost as extensive as her fiction.
Besides the studies already mentioned above, she has published
La poésie antillaise (West Indian poetry, 1977), Le roman antil
lais (the West Indian novel, 1977), and an essay on Césaire’s
Cahier d'un retour au pays natal. She is currently editing two
more works, a collection of excerpts from Caribbean literature
translated by Richard Philcox and L'héritage de Caliban (Cali-
6. Maryse Condé in a letter to the author dated 14 July 1991.

198
Afterword
ban’s inheritance), a group of critical essays on West Indian

literature by prominent scholars.
One of the most politically active writers of the present day,
Condé is a longtime supporter of independence from France
for Guadeloupe, Martinique, and French Guiana. A member of
UPLG, Union pour la libération de la Guadeloupe (Coalition
for Guadeloupe’s freedom), she was a candidate for the re
gional council in the March 1992 elections. Generous with her
time, Condé has given numerous personal interviews and pub
lic lectures, she has contributed pieces to collections honoring
other writers, and she remains active in her career as a profes
sor of literature, teaching regularly in universities in the United
States.
If one reads all of Condé’s novels together, one observes an
evolution in setting, form, and content. Starting in Africa with
her first three novels, Hérémakhonon, Une saison à Rihata, and
Ségou, Condé moved to the United States and the British West
Indies in I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem and then to the franco
phone Caribbean, specifically Guadeloupe, in La vie scélérate
and Traversée de la mangrove. This geographical movement
parallels Condé’s emotional journey home to Guadeloupe, and
the stylistic changes reveal an ever-deepening concern with
artistic form.
The notion of the writer as maroon is central to the Carib
bean literary tradition, born of a society where the maroon’s
initiative, courage, and passion for liberty kept a small part of
the people’s heritage alive. Condé has already shown herself to
be a most productive maroon, and her fourth novel, I, Tituba,
Black Witch of Salem certainly reveals her capacity to both
promote independence for others and claim it for herself. We
explored the genesis of this novel, among other topics, in our
recent interview.
An Interview with Maryse Condé
a s: How did you first learn about Tituba?

m c: Toward the end of 1985, while in Paris, I was ap
proached by Mme. Gallimard of the Mercure de
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Afterword
France publishing house to write the story of a female

heroine of my region, the Caribbean. I thought of
writing about Suzanne Césaire or about the Cuban
singer Celia Cruz. Then I rejected the idea, as I was
already working on La vie scélérate. However, it was
still in the back of my mind. A few months later, I
was a Fulbright scholar in residence at Occidental
College in Los Angeles, and I went to the UCLA
Library in search of documentation. I got lost in the
huge building and found myself in the history sec
tion in front of a shelf full of books about the Salem
witch trials. Looking through them, I discovered the
existence of Tituba, whom I had never heard of be
fore. This story may seem farfetched. However, it is
entirely true.
A sz Did you feel that you were destined to write about
her?
m cz / just felt interested by the story and curious to see
what happened to Tituba. It is only when I started
asking people and historians around me, and did not
discover anything factual about her, that I decided I
was going to write her story out of my own dreams. I
felt that this eclipse of Tituba’s life was completely un
just. I felt a strong solidarity with her, and I wanted
to offer her her revenge by inventing a life such as
she might perhaps have wished it to be told. I began
with what was actually known—marriage in Bar
bados to John Indian, then the departure for Salem
in the American colonies, where she took care of the
children of her master, the minister Samuel Parris.
A s: Have similar coincidences inspired you to write any of
your other novels?
M c: In the case of Tituba it is a bit dramatic. But whatever
the novel that you write and the stories that you tell,
you have to start with a kind of shock and you feel
that you are compelled to write about a certain topic.
Tituba was a person, she came to me in that form. But
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Afterword
whatever I write, I always have the feeling that some
thing stronger than myself forces me, urges me, to go
on writing.
a s: Yow have told me that Tituba helped write her own
book, in a sense. Did you begin your conversations
with her right away?
m c: The conversations went on all the time I was writing
the novel. I had the feeling that Tituba was involved
in the writing. Even when I left my pages at night in
my study, I believed that she would go look at them,
read them, and eventually correct what she did not
like. I cannot say when we really started conversing,
however. All along during my writing of the novel I
felt that she was there—that I was addressing her.
a s: What is your reaction to Ann Petry's novel about
Tituba?
m c: I read her novel when I was already halfway through
Tituba because her book was difficult to find . . .
it seems to me it was out of print, or something
like that. I was a bit surprised and at the same time
slightly disappointed because Ann Petry turned the
story into a book for adolescents. For her the story
of Tituba was a story of courage in the face of adver
sity. It was a lesson of hope and dynamism. This was
not the type of story that I wanted to tell. For me the
interest lies in Tituba's own destiny. So, Ann Petry's
story and mine are written from very different view
points. I like hers, of course, but I am not interested
in giving models to young people.
A s: Have you spoken to Ann Petry about your common
interest?
m c: No, never.
A s: Did you feel you were writing a historical novel?
m c: For me Tituba is not a historical novel. Tituba is just
201
Afterword
the opposite of a historical novel. I was not interested
at all in what her real life could have been. I had few
precise documents: her deposition testimony. It forms
the only historical part of the novel, and I was not
interested in getting anything more than that. I really
invented Tituba. I gave her a childhood, an adoles
cence, an old age. At the same time I wanted to turn
Tituba into a sort of female hero, an epic heroine, like
the legendary “Nanny of the maroons.” I hesitated
between irony and a desire to be serious. The result
is that she is a sort of mock-epic character. When she
was leading the fight of the maroons, it was a parody
somehow.
A sz How would you describe the difference between a
historian and a writer?
M cz A historian is somebody who studies the facts, the
historical facts—somebody who is tied to reality,
somebody who is tied to what actually happens. I
am just a dreamer—my dreams rest upon a histori
cal basis. Being a black person, having a certain past,
having a certain history behind me, I want to explore
that realm and of course I do it with my imagination
and with my intuition. But I am not involved in any
kind of scholarly research.
a sz How did you find out about Puritan New England?
m cz There was a historian teaching at the same college,
and I asked her to give me some information about
the Puritans of New England. Because she was Jew
ish, she influenced me to show how petty the Puritans
really were, how their minds were narrow, full of
prejudice. The Puritans were opposed not only to
the blacks, but also to the Jews. They forbade the
Jews to settle in the colony of Massachusetts, and
forced them to go to the more liberal colony of Rhode
Island. Because of this colleague of mine, the charac
ter of the Jew that you see in Tituba came into reality.
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Afterword
It is because of her that I decided to give Tituba a

Jewish lover and that I tried to associate discrimina
tion against the Jews with discrimination against the
blacks. It seems to me that it is important that I met
her at that time. Of course, she did not know what I
was writing about. She did not alter directly what I
was trying to do. But she changed my mind in a way.
A s: Some of your American readers will be familiar with
Arthur Miller's play The Crucible. Did you use that
piece as a source of information?
M c: I saw an adaptation of the play in Paris while I was a
student. It did not impress me. While I was working
on my novel, I did not take the trouble to reread The
Crucible. / knew that Miller as a white male writer
would not pay attention to a black woman.
a s: Tell me about Hester Prynne. Do you incorporate her
in the novel to subvert further both the male and the
American versions of history, as suggested by Clarisse
Zimra, or are there other reasons?7
m c: First of all, I like the novel The Scarlet Letter and
I read it often. Second, it is set in roughly the same
period as Tituba. Third, when I went to Salem to
visit the village, the place where Tituba used to live,
I saw the house of Nathaniel Hawthorne, the House
of the Seven Gables . . . meaning there was a link
between Tituba and Nathaniel Hawthorne. I didn't
know whether I wanted to subvert existing versions
of history because all those kinds of reflections are
observations from a critical point of view. When you
are involved in your writing, you do not have that dis
tance between yourself and your text and you cannot
answer this way.
7. Clarisse Zimra, “His/tory in the Text: Maryse Conde’s Tituba,” Un

published paper presented at the African Studies Association annual meeting,
October 1989.
203
Afterword
A s: Would it be accurate to say that your focus was on
Tituba, and you explored the Puritans in order to
imagine her reality?
M cz Writing Tituba was an opportunity to express my feel
ings about present-day America. I wanted to imply
that in terms of narrow-mindedness, hypocrisy, and
racism, little has changed since the days of the Puri
tans.
a sz That is a very strong statement! Would you please
elaborate?
m cz Every black person living in America will tell you that
racism still exists. A few success stories that are told
over and over again for propaganda reasons must not
hide the fact that for the majority of the blacks, life
is still hell. As a foreigner and a French-speaking per
son, I dont suffer directly from it. On the contrary,
I am a curiosity; but I am too lucid not to see how
the society works. Being in contact with many young
black people as a university professor, I can see how
frustrated and frightened they are by their society and
how they have little hope in the future.
A s: Yow showed us your ability to use history in Ségou:
Les murailles de terre and Ségou: La terre en miettes.
I am wondering now if you actively choose to entice
the reader by creating historical verisimilitude?
M C: As I said, for a black person, history is a challenge
because a black person is supposed not to have any
history except the colonial one. We hardly know what
happened to our people before the time when they met
the Europeans who decided to give them what they
call civilization. For a black person from the West
Indies or from Africa, whatever, for somebody from
the diaspora, I repeat it is a kind of challenge to find
out exactly what was there before. It is not history
for the sake of history. It is searching for one's self,
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Afterword
searching for one's identity, searching for one's origin

in order to better understand oneself.
AS: I would argue that Tituba exemplifies Glissant's
notion of Caribbeanness in that it fills in blank spaces
from lost history, giving voice to the silenced collec
tivity. How would that strike you?
m c: I won't use such generalities. I was attracted to write
the particular story of Tituba because this woman was
unjustly treated by history. I felt the need to give her a
reality that was denied to her because of her color and
her gender.
AS: Is there a connection between Tituba's humanity and
her being Caribbean?
m c: I shall parody Aimé Césaire and say that “No race
has the monopoly on anything.” I believe that there is
humanity everywhere and not only in the Caribbean.
a s: Were you already thinking of writing about Carib
bean space when you discovered Tituba as a subject?
m c: Yow could say yes, because when I wrote Tituba, I
had just decided to come back to Guadeloupe. After
Ségou: Les murailles de terre and Ségou: La terre en
miettes, I had decided never to write about Africa
again because the book was so terribly received by
Africans and Africanists. They took the opportunity
to write so much nonsense about the West Indians
and their so-called intuition of Africa that I was hurt.
Tituba came to me or I came to her (as you prefer)
at a period of my life when really I wanted to turn
toward the Caribbean and start writing about the
Caribbean.
a s: Could you have written Tituba when you first began
writing, say when you wrote Hérémakhonon? Why or
why not?
M c: It would have been impossible. At the time when I
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Afterword
wrote Heremakhonon, / was living in West Africa and

very much concerned with the problems of that con
tinent. I did not know America. 1 had never traveled
there and knew nothing about its history.
a s: Concerning Heremakhonon, what circumstances led
to the reissue of this novel as En attendant le bonheur
(Waiting for happiness)?
m C: The novel was badly received. The Guadeloupeans
and the Martinicans did not like the picture of their
society. The Africans objected to the image of Africa.
The Marxists did not like the denunciation of the evils
of so-called African Socialism. The militants objected
to Veronica, the central character, as a negative hero
ine, and the feminists hated her because she looked for
her liberation through men. What else? However, it
is now proven that this novel possesses a sort of last
ing appeal. Fifteen years after its publication, there is
no colloquium or meeting or conference in this field
without one or two papers on Heremakhonon. This
means that although people challenge or criticize or
even denigrate that novel, they cannot overlook it.
For these reasons, the publisher, who was very fond
of it and believed that it probably was my best novel,
decided to reissue it in a more attractive format (with
a new cover, a new title, and a preface to explain the
circumstances of its genesis). There was also a strong
demand from the readers who could not find it in
bookstores.
A s: Did you originally plan a more hermetic title for
Tituba as you did with Une saison a Rihata and Here
makhonon?
m c: I wanted to call it simply I, Tituba but the publishers
said that was a bit laconic as a title and added Black
Witch of Salem.
a s: What part of your own background relates to Tituba?
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Afterword
M c: No part at all.
A s: Tell me about your knowledge of witchcraft—how
did you get it?
M c: I don’t have any knowledge of witchcraft. It reminds
me of a story that happened when I was writing
Tituba. Two students from the Occidental College
newspaper asked me for an interview about my cur
rent writing. I told them I was writing about a witch.
After that I was flooded with calls from people saying
they wanted to meet me to discuss witchcraft. One
day a lady came to my office by surprise and said, “I
wanted to meet you because I myself am a witch.” I
had to say, “I’m sorry, I’m not a witch myself, I’m just
writing about a witch, but I don’t have any knowl
edge of witchcraft.” The recipes that I give in the novel
are merely recipes that I found in seventeenth-century
books: how to cure people with certain plants, what
kind of prayers to say in certain circumstances, and
so on. I found that in books printed and published in
America or in England.
A s: The concept of positive sorcery is central to the text.
Can you comment on that?
m c: In Africa, as you may know, the word witchcraft has a
different meaning. In any given community, you have
two types of individuals relating to the invisible forces.
The first type is working for the benefit of the society,
i.e., is working, as they say, with the right hand. The
second type is working evil on the individuals and the
community. It is said that this type is working with
the left hand. Only the second person is called a witch
and is ostracized. Tituba was doing only good to her
community. Could she be called a witch? I don’t think
so, and the book is there to prove it.
A s: And the concept of positive love is also central to
the text?
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Afterword
MC: It seems to me that love is always positive. If you

love somebody, you are there to help the person, to
give the person warmth and everything that she or he
might need.
A s: Am I correct in believing that you favor independence
from France for Martinique and Guadeloupe?
M c: I do. I do because it seems to me that we are mature
enough in Guadeloupe and Martinique to look after
our own destiny. We have so many talented and com
petent people that we can really take charge of our
countries. We are the last colonies of France in the
Caribbean. Everybody else is independent. Even small
places like Dominica, like Barbados, have a measure
of independence. I dont see why we cant have the
same. Tm fed up with writing “nationalité française
communauté écono mique-Européenne ” (French citi
zenship, European Economic Community) on my
passport. It seems to me that Tm living in a kind of
vacuum, and that being a Caribbean person, I would
love to have a nationality that expresses my environ
ment, my history, and my reality.
A s: What is your reaction to writing in Creole?
M C: Formerly, we French-speaking West Indians, we used
to despise Creole. We did not believe that it was a lan
guage, rather a dialect, unworthy of educated people.
Times have changed. We now believe that Creole is a
very important element of our culture, and we have
reevaluated it. Although I do not see myself writ
ing in Creole, living in Guadeloupe, I have modified
my use of the French language and integrated in it
many Creole expressions. However, I fear that Cre
ole might become a prison in which the Caribbean
writers run the risk of being jailed. According to the
subject and the setting of my novels, I want to remain
free to include in my language the amount of Creole
that I desire. Some beautiful writings in Creole exist,
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Afterword
notably by a Martinican poet called Monchoachi, the
late Sonny Rupaire.
A s: You have spoken in interviews of your life as a girl
and the relationship between that experience and your
writing. Are there new influences from your adult life
that you would like your readers to hear about now?
M c: I shall simply say that your life constantly impinges
on your writing. My new experiences in America will
certainly shape my future novels.
A sz How is your journey back to Guadeloupe feeling at
this point? Was writing Traversée de la mangrove an
important step into full Guadeloupean reality?
M c: I do not know what it is to be a full Guadeloupean
and what you mean by “full Guadeloupean reality."
If there is something that I discovered when I settled
in Guadeloupe it is that a writer should never settle
anywhere. Looking for one's native land, dreaming
about it, doing everything to go back, that is a fan
tasy, a myth. Once one is there, one realizes that one
has only one desire: to leave. I dare say that a writer
should be perpetually on the move, going from one
place to another, searching, trying to understand and
decipher things different and new all the time. I came
back to settle in Guadeloupe. However, after three
years I am already teaching half of the time in Berke
ley. I discovered that root is a very negative word. It
ties you down. Traversée de la mangrove just illus
trates a stage in my literary development. From there I
shall certainly move on.
A s: The relationship between men and women continues
to be a central theme of your work. How do you view
contemporary society in terms of women's indepen
dence?
M c: I'm surprised to hear that, because I don't see my
self as portraying the relationship between men and
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Afterword
women. There is never anything dogmatic or didactic
in my thoughts. Of course men are difficult, especially
Caribbean men, difficult to handle. In Tituba, I had
the factual story that John Indian deserted Tituba. So
I could not tell anything else. I had to take that his
torical factor into account. But I wont say that Tm
portraying the relationship between men and women.
If I do, it is totally unconsciously.
as: In a speech you gave in Haiti and that was published
in the review Conjonction, you said that you learned
"race does not exist, only cultures exist.”8 Could we
say that in Tituba you portray a "culture of women?”
m c: When I say that race does not exist, only culture, I
express my viewpoint about négritude. It was simplis
tic to believe that all the blacks throughout the world
were alike. Frantz Fanon was the first to warn us
that there are not two identical cultures and that the
Negroes were an invention of the white world. I mean
by this that the culture of the diaspora has become
very different from the one of the mother continent.
There is nothing aggressive in this affirmation. I am
just stating a fact. As for a culture of women, as you
say, I do not know whether it really exists. Certainly
women share a common oppression and a common
discrimination throughout the world. But this should
not obscure the oppositions created by social class,
education, ideology, and environment. What is more
different than a woman from rural Mali and a woman
from Milwaukee for example?
A s: Would you say that racism is a more central issue in
Tituba than discrimination against women?
m C: Of course, racism is very important in Tituba. She
was forgotten by history because she was black. But
8. Maryse Condé, “Note sur un retour au pays natal,” Conjonction [Port-

au-Prince, Haiti] 176 (1986): 7-23.
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Afterword
it seems to me more important that she was forgotten

because she was a woman. She was a black woman.
It seems to me that I stress her condition as a woman
more than I stress her condition as a black. John
Indian, who was as black as she was, managed to find
a way out of the common plight. So the book is more
about the discrimination and the ruthlessness against
women than against people of color in general.
a s: You also said in the speech in Haiti published in Con-
jonction that what makes an individual a Caribbean
writer is not clear. Are you any closer now to an
answer to that question than you were?
m cz / am not at all closer to an answer. When I am in
Guadeloupe, I often discuss Caribbean identity with
my friends. Some believe that its basic element is the
knowledge of Creole. Having lived outside Guade
loupe for so long, I don't really use Creole in my daily
life. So I don't agree with them. Some argue that it is
dancing. I know a host of people who just like me are
not particularly fond of either the zouk (modern new
music of the West Indies), the gwo-ka, or the beguine.
Others say that it is food and cooking. For me culture
is something that cannot be rationally defined. There
is no clear definition of either a West Indian person
or a West Indian writer. One feels West Indian be
cause of a particular relationship to oneself, to one's
environment, to the rest of the world. This feeling is
nurtured by a particular history and sociology. But
there is no directory of how to be a true West Indian.
a sz Which of your novels do you like best and why?
m c: That is a question that you should never ask, because
a novelist cannot like his or her novels. They are so
far from the ideals in mind that it is a constant dis
appointment to reread them. But I must say that I
like Heremakhonon because the destiny of the novel
is peculiar. I like it because it was so adversely re-
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Afterword
viewed, misunderstood, unjustly criticized. I also like
Traversée de la mangrove because it is the latest. It is
like a newborn child. You don't know exactly what
the destiny of the child is going to be, which means
you have to protect him, to be there, to help him to
walk and move and talk. Maybe I would say the first
and the last of my novels are my favorites. But prob
ably I shall prefer the novel that I am now writing to
Traversée de la mangrove, because it will become the
latest in a few months.
A sz If American readers of Tituba were going to read only
one other of your works, assuming they too will be
come available in English, which one would you like
them to read and why?
m c: They could read either La vie scélérate or Traversée
de la mangrove. La vie scélérate, because it is my own
story and my family's story with, of course, the dis
tortion of fiction. So if they want to get to know me,
they might read that novel. And Traversée de la man
grove, because it is the last, as I said. Also it seems to
me that in terms of writing techniques and narrativity,
it is better than the others.
a sz If Caribbean readers were to read just one other of
your works, which one would you choose?
m c: Traversée de la mangrove, because it is closer to their
reality. I wrote it when I was in Guadeloupe. They
will find some realities that they are familiar with.
AS: I know you are tired of hearing about women writers
who are inspired to write because they heard their
grandmothers tell stories. However, it seems to me
that in Tituba you emphasize the intergenerational
connections. Is there a way in which you are inventing
a tradition for yourself?
m C: The question of grandmothers telling stories and thus
teaching their granddaughters how to become writers
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Afterword
is one of the biggest clichés of black female writing.
I repeat that the element of parody is very important
if you wish to fully comprehend Tituba. As I am very
conversant with black female literature—I wrote an
essay called La parole des femmes—I know that in
any female epic, some elements must be present, and
I deliberately included them. If one misses the parody
in Tituba, one will not understand, for example, why
she meets Hester Prynne in jail and why they discuss
feminism in modern terms. Similarly, the presence of
the invisible (the conversations with the mother and
with Mama Yaya) is deliberately overdrawn. Do not
take Tituba too seriously, please.
AS: Are there other French Caribbean writers who have
influenced your writing? Who are they, and what
particular influences do you ascribe to them?
m c: No writer from the Caribbean has influenced me. I
already said how much I admire Aimé Césaire. But I
wont say that he influenced my writings. For me, he
was a kind of ancestor figure who opened my eyes and
probably brought me to literature. If I have to find
some writers who influenced me, I shall mention the
French writer François Mauriac, the American writer
Phillip Roth, the Japanese writer Mishima. Recently
I read a novel that was so important to me by Bruce
Chatwin called The Viceroy of Ouidah. I found it fas
cinating. It seems to me that the novel was telling the
same story as Ségou: Les murailles de terre and Ségou:
La terre en miettes, but with an economy of means, a
kind of power of expression, a kind of terseness that
I still have to discover. Pm not influenced by any par
ticular writers of the Caribbean. I take my influence
from everywhere.
A s: What are you working on now?
M c: I cannot tell.
213
Afterword
A s: Hou/ do you manage to be so prolific?

m c: Just because I have a lot of ideas.
Maryse Condé does not merely retell Tituba’s story; she recre
ates it to new purposes. Part of the fiction resides in the author’s
affirmation that “Tituba and I lived for a year on the closest
of terms. During our endless conversations she told me things
she had confided to nobody else.” Condé’s primary purpose in
this text is to shift the focus to Tituba’s personal power as a
woman and as a human being. In doing this, she allows her
heroine to subvert racial and sexual domination by the double
Other (socially established whites / selfish men), and she em
powers her readers to throw off their own chains as well. But
Condé has an important secondary purpose that may appear
to be at odds with the social-realist notion of a “message.” As
she suggested in our interview, she was conscious of creating
a work of postmodern fiction that defies the norms of mime
sis. The ways in which style and narrative strategy impinge on
meaning in I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem will be addressed
following consideration of the dual issue of racial and sexual
domination.
Tituba is an energetic, compassionate, gentle, and loving per
son who embraces life in a spirit of innocence. Unlike Maryse
Condé’s other protagonists, Tituba’s whole essence is deeply
tied to a celebration of being a black Caribbean woman. Her
beliefs about religion and her intimacy with the natural world
express the Barbadian half of her origins. Her openness toward
other people is a sign of her humanity.
The title of the novel, I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem, intro
duces the major themes that Condé will develop in her version
of the story of the historical Tituba. Her use of the phrase “I,
Tituba,” shows us that Condé is claiming a life, an identity, for
this woman in no uncertain terms. Making this even clearer, the
French title uses the emphatic pronoun moi, drawing attention
to the speaker: Moi, Tituba, sorcière . . . noire de Salem. The
word I also tells us that Conde’s Tituba will tell her own story.
214
Afterword
This first-person narrative point of view empowers the hero

ine, making her a survivor rather than a victim, and it invites
the reader to become much more intimate with the protago
nist. Such intimacy is essential to another of Condé’s ultimate
purposes, to make us feel as deeply as possible the injustice of
history’s treatment of Tituba.
In putting “Tituba” in the title, Condé emphasizes the im
portance of naming, of calling into being, thus linking up with
a theme that has become central to literatures of the previously
dispossessed in which writers are re-visioning the group’s lost
history. One recalls Mircea Eliade’s discussion of myth and the
need for cultures to retell their own stories in order to keep
their traditions vibrant and alive. One is equally reminded of
Edouard Glissant’s contention that the opaque void of past
history must be filled in where it can be.
The text of the novel also emphasizes the importance of nam
ing. Tituba explains that she got her name from Yao, the slave
to whom her mother, Abena, is given when the new master
realizes she is pregnant: “Then, holding me up by the feet, he
presented me to the four corners of the horizon. It was he who
gave me my name: Tituba, ti-tu-ba. It’s not an Ashanti name.
Yao probably invented it to prove that I was the daughter of his
will and imagination. Daughter of his love.” This explanation
explores the importance of love in the midst of a plantation
space characterized by the Other’s hatred at the same time that
it proclaims Tituba’s significance to the world. Yao, thus dem
onstrates real power of his own, even though he is a slave.
Condé explains the name of John Indian, Tituba’s future hus
band, by imagining for him a father who was an itinerant
Arawak Indian. Emphasizing the fact that Condé’s versions
of naming are consistent with the multicultural history of the
Caribbean region, Clarisse Zimra adds that they claim an iden
tity for Tituba untainted by her father’s English heritage rather
than perpetuating the power of the dominant white masters.
The text of /, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem is framed by two
historical references: a few lines from the Puritan poet John
Harrington at the beginning and a historical note of one page
at the end. The poetry, which embodies the Puritan notion that
215
Afterword
life is supposed to be endured rather than enjoyed, foreshadows

the pain and suffering that will occur in the lives of Tituba and
the Puritan women whose domestic servant she becomes. The
message in the poetry also works in juxtaposition to Tituba’s
own tendency to find joy in life and to be cheerful whenever
she can.
The historical note at the end of the text, which is indeed
factual in every respect, authenticates the witch-trial proceed
ings incorporated within the novel itself.9 Designed to enhance
the verisimilitude of the story, the historical note also empha
sizes the fact that Condé is speaking to two audiences, those
who know American history and those who don’t, and it shows
how limited was the information she had to work with. The
name Salem in the title affirms the “reality” of a specific period
of American history, and it further inscribes the narrative in
a particular American locale. The other elements of the title,
Sorcière . . . noire, meaning “witch” and “black woman” in
French and translated into English as “Black Witch,” accord
with Condé’s revised focus in that they establish the impor
tance of Tituba’s race, gender, and life calling as a healer at the
outset.
The text itself speaks of filling in the voids of recorded his
tory. Late in the narrative, Tituba cries out in anguish as she
thinks ahead into her historical future:
As I stumbled forward, I was racked by a violent feeling
of pain and terror. It seemed that I was gradually being for
gotten. I felt that I would only be mentioned in passing in
these Salem witchcraft trials about which so much would
be written later, trials that would arouse the curiosity and
pity of generations to come as the greatest testimony of
a superstitious and barbaric age. There would be men
tion here and there of “a slave originating from the West
Indies and probably practicing ‘hoodoo’.” There would
be no mention of my age or my personality. ... I would
never be included! Tituba would be condemned forever!
9.See Francis J. Bremer, The Puritan Experiment: New England Society

from Bradford to Edwards (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1976): 165-68.
216
Afterword
There would never, ever, be a careful, sensitive biography

recreating my life and its suffering.
And I was outraged by this future injustice that seemed
more cruel than even death itself.
In this passage Condé draws attention to her own impetus for
writing the novel, reminds us that historians have paid almost
no attention to Tituba, and condemns Puritan New England.
At the very end of the novel the reader discovers along with
Tituba that her story does indeed live on, in Caribbean folk
song . . . and in the novel we have just finished reading.
The mock-epic quality of /, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem
is evident in anachronisms and cultural inconsistencies in the
text. While incorporating African “roots” into this pluricul-
tural narrative, Condé subverts history for her own purposes.
For instance, the tribal wars between the Ashanti and the Fanti
that Tituba mentions actually occurred in the 1800s, not the
1600s.10 American readers will be sensitive later in the novel
to the anomaly that occurs when Tituba meets Hester Prynne,
Nathaniel Hawthorne’s heroine in The Scarlet Letter (1850).
Just as importantly, this encounter with a fictional character
undercuts any possible verisimilitude. Condé’s Hester, who is
pregnant, befriends Tituba in jail and later commits suicide
there, whereas Hawthorne’s Hester gives birth to little Pearl
and then lives out her life in Salem after Arthur Dimmesdale’s
death. In all of this subversion of history, Condé frees her
self to create a fiction with multiple layers of interpretation
that invites richer resonances with the reader’s own literary
experience. Historicity works on both the collective and the
individual level as the story of the Middle Passage and its
American aftermath is expressed through the telling of Tituba’s
personal story.
Beginning her tale with the events of her own conception,
Tituba tells us that her Ashanti mother, Abena, was raped by
a white sailor on the slave ship Chrtst the King. Tituba’s con
ception and birth are a metaphor of the English slavers’ rape
10. “Empire of Ashanti," Encyclopaedia Britannica, 19S1 ed.

217
Afterword
of the African continent. The rape of Abena portrays men’s

domination over women and the ship’s name shows the irony
of Christian religious practice in a society where slavery is a
mainstay. Finally, the rape of Abena dramatizes the nature of
Tituba’s mulatto heritage. She is biologically African and Euro
pean and, like the New World whose history she will help to
mold, she was born of violence.
From the outset, style and narrative strategy impinge on the
reader’s consciousness in this novel. When Tituba tells the story
of her birth, the style is jarring and disjointed. This lack of flu
idity in the text forces the reader to recognize Tituba’s own
ambivalence about her origins. Furthermore, the fragmentation
is expressive of her broken mulatto heritage. The choppy narra
tive style of the first few pages also makes the reader experience
a related discomfort. One wonders if the novel will even be
worthy of attention, because it seems unworthy of perusal, like
Tituba’s life. It is significant that, when Tituba moves away
from the plantation to live with the natural healer Mama Yaya,
she becomes infused with the African part of her heritage. The
narrative becomes more fluid as Tituba integrates herself into
the land, and the reader settles in for a good story.
Using a distinctly Caribbean geography—silk-cotton trees,
calabashes, flamboyants, the Ormond River, Carlisle Bay—
Conde tells the story of Tituba’s childhood in Barbados, con
trasting harsh facts of life on the slave plantation with the
love and warmth of human connections. She makes us feel the
humiliation and anger Tituba herself feels in the presence of
Susanna Endicott, her new mistress. Conde describes how this
woman and her friends talk about the new slave, Tituba: “It
was not so much the conversation that amazed and revolted
me as their way of going about it. You would think I wasn’t
standing there at the threshold of the room. They were talk
ing about me and yet ignoring me. They were striking me off
the map of human beings. I was a nonbeing. Invisible. More
invisible than the unseen, who at least have powers that every
one fears. Tituba only existed insofar as these women let her
exist. It was atrocious. Tituba became ugly, coarse, and inferior
because they willed her so.”
218
Afterword
Although Condé explores certain aspects of Tituba’s charac
ter such as her compassion, her sensitivity to her own sexuality,
her ability to love, and her fierceness about being mistreated,
she makes it clear that Tituba does not control her own life.
A. James Arnold suggests that this refusal to allow Tituba’s life
to be deeply independent permits us to deconstruct the social
and economic system of slavery that tied the British West Indies
to North America in the seventeenth century.11
The emphasis on Tituba’s religious/spiritual powers in the
narrative enhances Tituba’s status as a folk heroine and makes
the useful point that there are different ways of interpreting the
world. However, it is clear that Condé has exaggerated these
details consciously and intends to challenge the credulity of her
readers, once again denying verisimilitude to her own text.
At first, Mama Yaya initiates Tituba into a philosophy of
life she will later share with others, exemplifying a natural
religion based on an intimate knowledge of nature and life:
“Mama Yaya taught me the sea, the mountains, and the hills.
She taught me that everything lives, has a soul, and breathes.
That everything must be respected. That man is not the mas
ter riding through his kingdom on horseback.” The focus on
animism becomes exaggerated only after numerous explana
tions are given, and even then it is appealing material. Mama
Yaya says: “The dead only die if they die in our hearts. . . .
They are all around us, eager for attention, eager for affection.”
These thoughts refer to the African animist belief that death is
a passage, a metamorphosis from life to spirit. Once the ances
tor becomes a spirit, she or he no longer leaves the living, but
participates in their lives.
Furthermore, Tituba learns that the canal of dreams is a
passageway between the dead and the living, and that women
in particular have special religious powers with which they can
sometimes bring the spirits of the deceased back to living form.11
11. A. James Arnold, “Poétique forcée et identité dans la littérature des

Antilles francophones” (Forced poetics and identity in the literature of the
francophone Caribbean), in L'héritage de Caliban I Caliban's Legacy (Basse-
Terre, Guadeloupe: Editions Jasor, 1992).
219
Afterword
Later on, Tituba conjures up the presence of her spirits, her

deceased mother and Mama Yaya, seeking advice from them
and taking comfort in their nearness to her in times of trouble.
She can make them appear at will by uttering incantations and
offering the appropriate sacrifice (unless they are across the
sea, as we learn). Tituba also conjures up Abigail, the deceased
wife of Benjamin Cohen d’Azevedo, permitting the bereaved
husband to speak with her. Because the reader of I, Tituba,
Black Witch of Salem is not likely to believe that the dead can
reappear and speak to the living, the repeated instances of this
activity quite consciously undercut the plausibility of the text,
even though the reader may welcome the relief from loneliness
and suffering that the spirits offer the characters.
Tituba’s entire life is a demonstration of the power and im
portance of love. Her sense of humanity is all the more dra
matic and powerful for being set against the background of
tyranny and hatred of difference that flourished in Puritan New
England. Tituba approaches others with openness and compas
sion in spite of her bondage. She remains loyal to John Indian
even after he deserts her because his own life is threatened. The
importance of love is reiterated three times near the end of the
novel: Benjamin Cohen d’Azevedo gives Tituba her freedom
because he loves her deeply; Tituba accepts the passion of Iphi-
gene’s affection for her even though he is young enough to be
her son; and she decides not to abort the child that is grow
ing within her. She expresses the healing, vital power of love:
“Blessed is the love that carries man on the waters of obliv
ion. That makes him forget he is a slave. That rolls back the
torment and the fear. Reassured, Iphigene and I plunged back
into the healing waters of sleep. We swam against the current
watching the needlefish court the crayfish. We dried our hair
under the moon.”
One of the essential ironies of I, Tituba, Black Witch of
Salem is that Tituba is indeed a sorceress, but a life-giving
one rather than the demon-linked creature she is accused of
being by Samuel Parris and the Puritan tribunal. Tituba uses her
powers of healing on numerous occasions; she eases the pain
of the Reverend Mr. Parris’s sickly wife, she cares for Benjamin
220
Afterword
Cohen d’Azevedo’s nine children, she heals the wounds of the

maroons in Barbados.
The cruel treatment Tituba receives at the hands of the Puri
tan ministers and doctors illuminates their bigotry, insensi
tivity, and sexism, contrasting sharply with Tituba’s own kind
ness. Condé uses graphic details with relentless clarity, searing
the reader’s imagination with pain, just as Tituba experiences
the pain in her body:
“One of the men sat squarely astride me and began
to hammer my face with his fists, which were as hard as
stones. Another lifted up my skirt and thrust a sharpened
stick into the most sensitive part of my body, taunting me:
“Go on, take it, it’s John Indian’s prick.”
When I was nothing more than a heap of suffering, they
stopped, and one of the four spoke up again.
Here exaggeration is used for shock value that dramatizes the
intensity of the scene.
On the one hand, Tituba incarnates the quality of “good
ness” in the sense in which Condé explains it in La parole des
femmes; certain people are inaccessible to evil, because they
know how to act against it. These women possess spiritual and
therapeutic abilities that they use for the benefit of thc^com-
munity. They practice witchcraft for good purposes and have
an important place in society. This gift of healing is not some
thing one can seek; it is instead bestowed on the individual.
On the other hand, Tituba seems too good to be true, in that
she refuses to use the weapons of her accusers to protect herself
from their attacks. Much as we admire her, the person Condé
creates really is too good to be true; one wonders how anyone
could possibly be as forgiving as Tituba is in such traumatic
circumstances. Hence, she becomes a mock-epic protagonist,
her goodness magnified beyond belief.
Tituba’s life with the maroons once she returns to Barbados
recreates an important part of Caribbean folklore. In Condé’s
novel, however, a double irony creates more parody. Tituba’s
lover, Christopher, the leader of the maroons, is actually in
league with the plantation owners and lives in freedom on the
221
Afterword
condition that he reveal the names of others who foment re

bellion. Christopher, whose name recalls that of the ship on
which Tituba was conceived and hints at martyrdom as well,
eventually becomes the instrument of his own ignoble death.
Unlike Ann Petry’s Tituba in Tituba of Salem Village, who
is presented as a victim most of the time, and unlike Arthur
Miller’s Tituba in The Crucible, who criticizes Puritan society
but plays a small role in the play, Condé’s Tituba takes charge
of her own life in a fuller sense. After Mama Yaya dies and
the plantation is sold, Tituba chooses to live alone and man
ages to do it well until she meets John Indian. Her first willful
act in the novel is her desire to make this man love her. The
force of Tituba’s active approach to life works in part as a
metaphor, demonstrating that the old tradition of listening to
others’ versions of history must end, that it is time to act. It is
also through her own energy that she later infuses healing into
those around her.
Condé embeds a distinctly feminist language in the narra
tive at this point. Considering what has happened to Abena,
the language seems quite appropriate at first. Mama Yaya tells
Tituba: “Men do not love. They possess. They subjugate.” The
feminist language gets much stronger, surfacing again when
Tituba talks with some of the Puritan women and coloring
all of the conversations she has with Hester Prynne. For in
stance, Hester tells Tituba: “I’d like to write a book, but alas,
women don’t write books! Only men bore us with their prose.
I make an exception for certain poets. Have you read Milton,
Tituba? Oh, I forgot you don’t know how to read. Paradise
Lost, Tituba, a marvel of its kind. . . . Yes, I’d like to write a
book where I’d describe a model society governed and run by
women ! We would give our names to our children, we would
raise them alone.”
Another narrative strategy that impinges on the reader’s con
sciousness in this text is parody. For starters, Condé’s title is an
obvious echo of the title of the very successful Moi, Joséphine,
impératrice (1, Josephine, empress) by Paul Guth, which the
Paris publisher Albin Michel released in its “Mémoires Imagi
naires” (Imaginary memoirs) series in 1979. In the passage
Ill
Afterword
where Yao names Tituba, Condé has appropriated the famous

naming scene in Alex Haley’s Roots, in which Kunta Kinte
(on whom Yao is so manifestly patterned) names Kizzy. These
details all become part of the mock-epic texture of the novel,
which gradually takes on for the reader self-evident intertex-
tual resonances.
Condé points out in our interview that Arthur Miller does
not pay a great deal of attention to Tituba in The Crucible. He
does indeed portray Tituba as a black slave woman who speaks
pidgin English, who stammers out her love for “her Betty,” and
who makes the girls drink chicken’s blood. However, he also
gives her a subtle power by making her a critic of the Puri
tans’ devil. Her sarcasm in suggesting that the Puritans hear
the mooing of a cow when they say they hear the devil talking
is clear: “tituba: Oh, it be no Hell in Barbados. Devil, him be
pleasureman in Barbados, him be singin’ and dancin’ in Barba
dos. It’s you folks—you riles him up ’round here; it be too cold
’round here for that Old Boy. He freeze his soul in Massachu
setts, but in Barbados he just as sweet and—A bellowing cow
is heard, and Tituba leaps up and calls to the window: Aye, sir!
That’s him, Sarah!”12
Miller addresses other issues that preoccupy Condé as well.
Both writers describe the rising level of hysteria that charac
terized the witch trials and accusations, they examine moral
right and wrong in the New England Puritan society, and
they castigate the narrow-minded, hypocritical Puritan attitude
toward those who are not of their persuasion. Condé empha
sizes Abigail’s precocity and deceit, while Miller focuses on her
commission of adultery with John Proctor.
What is perhaps most interesting is that both Condé and
Miller use the Salem witch trials of the seventeenth century
to attack the social circumstances of their respective decades
in history. Condé’s I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem cannot
be read without the thought that elements of America in the
1990s are every bit as frightening—the resurgence of the Ku
Klux Klan, the bigotry of skinheads, the gang warfare in our
12. Arthur Miller, The Crucible (New York: Bantam, 1959), p. 117.
223
Afterword
cities, not to mention Conde’s own statement in our interview
about the extent of racism in the United States today. It may
seem paradoxical that Conde, a foreigner from another re
gion of the Americas, should open our “American” eyes to the
rigidity and brutality of Puritan times as well as suggesting to
us metaphorically what is wrong in the United States today.
Miller makes clear—in one of the prose passages inserted in
The Crucible—his intention of linking the Salem witch trials
in 1692 with the Communist witch-hunts of the McCarthy
era in the 1950s: “A political policy is equated with moral
right and opposition to it with diabolical malevolence. Once
such an equation is effectively made, society becomes a con-
gerie of plots and counterplots, and the main role of govern
ment changes from that of the arbiter to that of the scourge of
God.. .. The Church, sharp-eyed as it must be when gods long
dead are brought to life, condemned these orgies as witchcraft
and interpreted them, rightly, as a resurgence of the Diony-
siac forces it had crushed long before. Sex, sin and the Devil
were early linked, and so they continued to be in Salem, and
are today.”13
Just as the creation of I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem sym
bolizes renewed ties to the Caribbean for Maryse Conde, so the
novel includes fundamental patterns of birth and rebirth. The
rhythm of re-creation runs through the plot, as Tituba brings
life back into the languishing body of Mistress Parris, as she
nurtures little Betsey’s desire for attention, as she chooses to
bear the child of her maroon lover, Christopher, and as she
heals the maroon women, her potential rivals.
Tituba herself is reborn three times in the text. First, at her
own trial, she manages to be faithful to her personal code of
ethics. From a kind of death in which she has been flooded by
doubts about her ability to stand firm, she rises up and main
tains her personal integrity by refusing to give in to temptations
to do evil and accuse innocent people. Second, she comes alive
again when she establishes a loving, compassionate relation
ship with Benjamin Cohen d’Azevedo, after he takes her into
13. Ibid., pp. 32-33.

224
Afterword
his home. Finally, she returns to Barbados at the end of the

novel and creates a new life there, experiencing a kind of re
birth as she uses her healing powers and accepts the rhythm of
the days: “I discovered how to treat these illnesses. I also dis
covered how to treat yaws and to heal those wounds the slaves
got day after day. I managed to mend open, festering wounds,
to put pieces of bone back together again, and tie up limbs.
All that, of course, with the help of my invisible spirits, who
hardly ever left me. I had given up the illusion of making men
invincible and immortal. I accepted the limits of the species.”
Tituba’s historical death and her subsequent rebirth under
Condé’s pen suggest renewed spiritual resources. The fact that
Tituba reaches a place of inner peace and balance in Barba
dos before she dies offers hope for younger generations. The
novel would seem to come full circle when Tituba is hanged,
as her mother was. However, the reader’s outrage at this final
injustice combines with the lessons of love, endurance, and re
birth Tituba has taught by example throughout the novel. The
ethical thrust of the story—which Condé’s narrative strate
gies conspire to question at every turn—suggests the possi
bility of breaking the circle of hatred, prejudice, and violence.
One need not accept the plot device of Tituba’s life as a spirit
after death—indeed, the style suggests that Condé does not ex
pect us to accept it as “truth”—in order to take comfort from
her story.
Compassion and parody, then, emerge as the double hall
mark of I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem, a novel that is con
siderably more complicated than it seems on first encounter.
If love informs Tituba’s way of being in the world, parody in
habits Condé’s creation of a mock-epic protagonist. Her post
modern and intertextual play on other literary works draws the
reader into an opaque literary universe where nothing is fully
defined but much is scrutinized. In that ambiguous universe the
reader finds that the doors for future discoveries about self and
society are wide open.
Like so many good novels, this one affords an opportunity
to confront personal prejudices as well as to plumb human
nature. Condé’s cross-cultural subject matter is sometimes very
225
Afterword
disturbing. That very feature extends an invitation to explore
one’s own limitations. I myself was embarrassed to realize that
I had missed the element of parody on first reading because I
was so eager to celebrate Tituba’s heroism and her Caribbean
ness. Wanting to honor the novel for its “ethnicity,” I ended up
missing part of the point, as Maryse herself helped me discover.
Furthermore, I was shocked to learn through our May 1991
interview that I was attributing Tituba’s generosity of spirit to
the fact that she was Caribbean rather than to her stature as a
human being! I do not especially like to see my own prejudices
in operation, but that is the principal way we learn that they
exist. My purpose in bringing them to the attention of future
readers in this essay is to suggest that others may experience
similar revelations through their experience of this fictional
version of history. Finally, in the matter of prejudices, it is per
tinent to remind ourselves here that I, Tituba, Black Witch of
Salem is partially the result of Condé’s having conquered the
prejudice against her Caribbean background instilled in her by
her own parents when she was a child. Would that all such
victories were so fruitful!
About the Author
Maryse Condd is the author of Segu (a bestseller in
France), The Children of Segu, and several other novels.
A native of Guadeloupe, sne lived for many years in
Paris, where she taught West Indian literature at the
Sorbonne. She is the recipient of the prestigious French
award Le Grand Prix Litteraire de la Femme, was a
Guggenheim Fellow in 1987-88, and in 1993 was the
first woman to be honored as a Puterbaugh Fellow by
the University of Oklahoma. Ms. Cond£ lectures
widely in the United States and currently teaches at the
University of Virginia. She divides her time between
the United States and Guadeloupe.
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L J
MANY CULTURES ONE WORLD I
ng...Maryse Condé’s imaginative
ion of historical records forms a
: of contemporary American society
ingrained racism and sexism."
—The Boston Sunday Globe
e warm shores of seventeenth-century Barbados to the
jalities of the slave trade, and the cold customs of
cal New England, Tituba, the only black victim of the
vitch trials, recalls a life of extraordinary experiences
stical powers.
ge of seven, Tituba watched as her mother was hanged
ig to wound a plantation owner who tried to rape her.
vas raised from then on by Mama Yaya, a gifted woman
ired with her the secrets of healing and magic. But it
iba’s blind, all-consuming love of the slave John Indian
her from safety into slavery, and the bitter, vengeful
practiced by the good citizens of Salem,
lusetts. Though protected by the spirits, Tituba could
ape to the lies and accusations of that hysterical time,
►ry and fantasy merge, Maryse Conde, acclaimed author
(Life and Segu, creates the richly imagined life of a
ing woman in this lush novel.
is able to blend the fictional with the factual and
sland scenes with remarkable lushness and
tment....Just as Tituba’s voice should never have been
d, Conde is too important a discovery for American
:es to ignore."
—Chicago Tribune
e Conde is a sorcerer of prose, and in this richly
id novel, our past and present meet like the earth
' of the horizon."
—Henry Louis Gates, Jr.
Harvard University
r of France’s Prestigious Grand Prix Litéraire

"emme
ISBN 0-345-3ÔHB0-2
51200
■ III
III
I/38420/$ 12.00 In USA

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I Tituba Black Witch of Salem - Maryse Conde

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TITUBA,

“Condé restores a vital link in the spiritual and cultural

“In the hands of novelist Maryse Condé, Tituba’s life be­

“A spirited act of historical imagination, one that plunges us

“At once playful and searing, Condé work critiques osten­

“Far more than an historical novel, Condé’s book makes a

Translated by Richard Philcox

without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this

Translation copyright © 1992 by the Rector and Visitors of the

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copy­

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-90475

Cover design by Ruth Ross

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Ballantine Books Edition: January 1994

1 can look for my story among

Tituba’s impassioned efforts to revoke her own disappear­

women of African descent—both scholars and artists—to ex­

art of healing and ancestor reverence and, what is certainly

The translator wishes to acknowledge the assistance of Ann Arm­

Preparation of this volume was made possible by a translation grant

Black Witch of Salem

other vegetables in her plot of ground, cooked, and kept some

Black Witch of Salem

Black Witch of Salem

and lived constantly in their company. She had cultivated to a

Black Witch of Salem

“Yes,” he nodded. “I belong to Goodwife Susanna Endicott

Black Witch of Salem

“He was one of the rare exceptions.”

Black Witch of Salem

Soon there was a circle around us. Wings grew on my ankles

“Your home?” I laughed disparagingly and added: “Since

Black Witch of Salem

Black Witch of Salem

trailing their salty trickle to the inside of my mouth. 1 choked. I

Black Witch of Salem

“The eyes of a witch. Susanna Endicott, do be careful.”

common with what Mama Yaya had taught me.

Black Witch of Salem

Her eyes dropped back to her book. At that moment John

who Satan was, nobody would listen to me. So 1 made up my

Black Witch of Salem

near, as if she understood who was the stronger. One of the

Black Witch of Salem

of any reason why these two should not be brought together,

Black Witch of Salem

a distance, gaining strength and vigor. The silk-cotton tree in

I soon realized that someone else shared my fear and aversion

Black Witch of Salem

1 had not had a childhood. The shadow of my mother’s gal­

Black Witch of Salem

whose secret Mama Yaya had entrusted to me. Gradually their

Black Witch of Salem

One morning we arrived in Boston.

Black Witch of Salem

torments us all. We are all his victims. We shall all be damned,

Black Witch of Salem

Black Witch of Salem

Black Witch of Salem

I was bending over a sweet-smelling bush that strongly re­

Black Witch of Salem

Before moving into a house or immediately after having

“In the hands of novelist Maryse Condé, Tituba’s life be

“At once playful and searing, Condé work critiques osten

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copy

Tituba’s impassioned efforts to revoke her own disappear

women of African descent—both scholars and artists—to ex

The translator wishes to acknowledge the assistance of Ann Arm

1 had not had a childhood. The shadow of my mother’s gal

I was bending over a sweet-smelling bush that strongly re

on our island is a womb that renders you atremble and power

of the Putnam daughters, the richest family in the village. Per

“Who’s the rose?” they laughed outright. “You? You, Ti

of so many crimes: matricides, parricides, rapes, thefts, man

I was not an eyewitness to the plague that afflicted Salem, be