Diary+of+Ann+Putnam,+Then+and+Now

__ The Diary of Ann Putnam, Then and Now __ This day had started as does any other day, until I was escorted to the house of Samuel Parris. I was expected to have tea there with his daughter Betty and his niece Abigail Williams. Both girls are younger than I, but their company is enjoyable in this dull village. At first, we girls sat around the fireplace, drinking our tea and practicing needlepoint. Those present were Mercy Lewis, Elizabeth Hubbard, my cousin Mary Walcott, and a servant named Mary Warren who had scampered off to the kitchen when she arrived. We were sewing and Mercy was complaining was complaining of boredom when Betty interrupted. “I know something we could do that would be fun.” Being the youngest of the group, you would expect Betty Parris to be shy and demure, but she is the complete opposite. Betty was small and fragile- looking as a wild flower, but had a tongue that could saw through wood. “Tituba!” Betty called to her slave. The thin and not entirely too old black woman shuffled quickly into the room, Mary Warren following behind. “Tituba, tell us a story.” Tituba bowed her head low and sat on a stool low to the ground. The servant Mary took a seat next to us. My heart sped up and my stomach churned with anticipation. I hadn’t gathered around with a group for storytelling since my toddling years. Tituba began a story of colorful meadows and dancing shadows. She talked of special people who harbored the power of white magic within them, and then chilled us with tales of black magic- doers. The stories of unimaginable powers left us all stunned to silence in the end. Only Betty smiled smugly and retorted, “I should like to see the workings of these powers.” “Milady,” Tituba began, “I am not so sure-” “Did I ask for your assurance?” screeched Betty. “We shall perform a spell. We will perform the one from the tale of the fortune-teller.” Tituba bowed her head again and scampered off to retrieve the supplies, coming back into the room with a chicken egg and an empty glass. She handed both to Betty, then went out again. “How did the enchantment go?” Betty asked. I was going to question her motives, demand answers to this rubbish, but Abigail quickly answered, “You’re supposed to crack the egg and drain the white part into the glass leaving the yolk in the egg. We should be able to see a fortune in the white egg.” Without another pause, Betty cracked the egg and, with some evident struggle, poured the white of the egg into the glass. We didn’t know what to do, so we all stood waiting. The eerie silence was broken when Abigail shrieked out something between a yelp and a gasp. We all crowded closer to the glass and peered in. I could not see anything amiss. “Don’t you see?” Abigail asked, out of breath. “The egg! It has taken the shape of a coffin!” some of us murmured excitedly, but I peered back into the glass. After looking for several more moments, I noticed the white egg was stretched out thin and angular in the glass, which under close scrutiny could pass for a coffin. “But what does it mean?” I asked. Betty and Abigail stared at me dumbfounded. “What does it mean?” Screeched Betty. “It’s a coffin! I have predicted a death! I believe this is exciting! What fun this could be!” “What fun could //what// be?” asked Elizabeth Hubbard. “Don’t you see the opportunity to start a game?” Betty blinked back at our confused expressions. “We can fool this whole village!” “How is that?” My cousin Mary inquired. “All we have to do is pretend to be witches! We can scare this village! Control it!” “Why would we do that?” I asked. This plan seemed to make even the hairs on my arms quiver. <span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face','serif'; font-size: 16px;">“Because it would be fun. A change of scenery. Don’t you think this village needs excitement?” Betty’s eyes shone with a giddy brightness and a glimmer of mischief. She explained her plan. She wanted to act as if we had all been cursed by witches, so as to scare the villagers and create something new to talk about. Betty explained all this with the same vivacity that Tituba had used when telling her stories, so naturally we were all just as compelled now as we were then. All of us wanted to be part of this fun, new and bone-chilling game. Even I, but I still felt an uneasy tugging in my stomach. <span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face','serif'; font-size: 16px;">“Will anyone get hurt?” I asked, interrupting the speech Betty was currently giving. There was a pregnant pause in which Betty slowly turned her bright and watchful eyes on me. <span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face','serif'; font-size: 16px;">“Of course not. It’s just a game, Ann.” Just a game. So I agreed to play as well. <span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face','serif'; font-size: 16px;">It has been fifteen years since The Salem Witch Trials. Fifteen years since I have written in this old, musty leather- bound diary. And so much has happened during those fifteen years. <span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face','serif'; font-size: 16px;">Once Abigail gave us the cue, all of us girls took turns pretending to be cursed, crying out in public and quivering and shaking on the floors. The minute Betty mentioned Tituba’s name, the slave was arrested. It went on for a while, but after some time I began noticing how many have actually been accused, arrested and killed. I confronted Betty once, but she threatened to make me seem even guiltier than everyone else. Most of the people she blamed of being witches were enemies of my father, therefore it would only seem natural that I was the one who had plotted everything. <span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face','serif'; font-size: 16px;">Throughout the months, nineteen people were convicted and hanged. After some time, I had stopped acting and simply floated in the background. Then through the next years, people relaxed and went back to their dull lives, only those truly affected by the trials, such as me, never really forgot the witch fiasco. I got married young, and just this past Sunday at church, I admitted the fault of us girls and our schemes. I begged for forgiveness from my friends, my family and my God. <span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face','serif'; font-size: 16px;">When we had seen the coffin-shaped egg, we had said we predicted a death. None of us knew we had predicted the deaths of nineteen innocents.
 * <span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face','serif'; font-size: 16px;">December 10, 1691 **
 * <span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face','serif'; font-size: 16px;">May 23, 1692 **