lone that night, Tituba could not let go of the daydream. Her mind kept returning to the scene at the Raiment farm. She had to know how it ended. But each time her thoughts went to it Tituba suffered the worse for having tried and seen naught.
The parson’s house was silent early since Sabbath was observed at sundown on Saturday.
With nothing else to do, Tituba needed to dowse the candle of her racing thoughts and search for a little sleep. But it seemed impossible.
On her mat in the kitchen, she closed her eyes for the hundredth time and searched instead for the solace of her Mama’s face. Nothing.
She huffed, chastising herself. Why look to Mama? How might a memory of her ease Tituba? She clenched her jaws, determined to dismiss the uncontrollable thoughts as nothing more than an overactive imagination. Dreams and daydreams, indeed.
The next morning, unrefreshed, Tituba grumbled to herself in the waning darkness and loaded more wood into the hearth. The sharp popping and crackling from the fire comforted her and she lay down again to steal a moment of respite before facing the day. She reclined on her mat and filled her lungs with a deep breath, closing her eyes and exhaling slowly, searching for clarity.
And that was when Mama seemed to appear. It was as though Tituba could see through the roof of the lean-to, and beyond into the clouds as Mama approached her.
My daughter, hear me.
Tituba tensed, not daring to open her eyes. She kept breathing evenly, deeply, and she relaxed. If this was a hallucination, she would see it through.
Yes, unclutter your thoughts, daughter. I am here. And if you maintain this state, we shall be together.
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