Fear Breeds Fear
Alexander
I rise with the sun, its pale light spilling across the frost-hardened fields of my small farm. My breath fogs the air as I step into the yard. My boots crunch over the frozen soil, and the breeze bites through my coat, but the fire of purpose and responsibility warms me. My livestock stir as I approach: a few goats, cows, chickens, a pair of hogs, and a mare, huddled in the barn.
I feed the hogs first, tossing bucketfuls of scraps into their troughs, before my younger brother Phineas appears, trudging through the snow toward me.
“Morning, Alexander,” he says, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
I grin at him, shifting the bucket. “And what brings you to my farm so early, Phineas? Come to steal my breakfast before the rooster even crows?”
Phineas laughs, his cheeks red from the chill. “Better than breakfast, brother. I have gossip. There are murmurings of strange happenings. The girls, Betty Parris and Abigail Williams, continue having fits and claiming they’re bewitched. They point fingers at Tituba, saying she’s a witch who is making them possessed by the devil.”
I pause, letting the words settle as I toss a handful of hay in for the goats. “Aye,” I murmur, glancing toward Salem in the distance. “I’ve heard idle talk. These aren’t ordinary rumors.”
“No, Alexander,” Phineas says, lowering his voice. “People say it’s of Satan himself. Tituba is already the talk of the town, and the elders grow fearful. Father and Mother are unsettled, and the whole hamlet is on edge.”
I shake my head, a prickle running up my spine. “Phineas, don’t swallow every tale you hear. Our faith walks hand in hand with fear, and it was only a matter of time before that fear spilled over into chaos.”
Phineas nods, a wry grin tugging at his lips. “Aye, brother. ‘Tis the Puritan way, guiding hearts with dread and discipline, and no wonder such unease spreads through every home.”
“Aye, but let’s not be consumed by gossip. The day grows long, and the animals require tending.”
Phineas shivers, and I pat his shoulder, not that it will warm him much. “Steady now,” I tell him. “Mind your words and your steps. Salem is in an unrestful season.”
Together, we begin mending a fence, hammering the post until it holds, but I’m still consumed by thoughts of tension in the town. Every face passing on the road seems shadowed by suspicion. Even neighbors once trusting have been glancing at one another sideways, weighing the chance that someone is not who they claim.
Witchcraft, they whisper, but I know it is just scandals and fearmongering. Tituba, the Parris family’s Caribbean slave, has become the focus of their accusations, as if her presence alone could stir everyone into a frenzy.
I can’t help but think the girls chose her deliberately. Tituba is not like the rest of us, and I know the village will gather against anyone who stands apart. Her skin, her speech, and her origins make her easy to blame, and the children have only learned to follow the crowd.
By midmorning, winter gnaws less insistently, and Phineas and I sling our tools over our shoulders, heading down the frozen path toward our parents’ house. Smoke curls lazily from the chimney, and I can smell the faint tang of burning wood and simmering stew even before we reach the door.
Mother stands at the hearth, tending a pot, her hands busy. Father leans against the table, carving a piece of seasoned meat, his expression grave but softened by our arrival.
“Ah, my sons,” Mother says, her voice calm but carrying the undercurrent of worry that never leaves Salem these days. “Come in before your noses freeze off entirely.”
My brother and I step onto the worn boards, shedding our boots. The warmth of the fireplace hits immediately, and I close my eyes for a moment, savoring it.
We sit around the table, our plates and bowls soon filled with stew, bread, salted meat, and the last of the winter squash.
“Words travel fast,” Father says. “I saw Martha Jacobs at the well this morning, and she’s been babbling to half the village. Talk of spirits and fits.” He shakes his head. “The girls in Parris’s house are causing enough stir, but now everyone looks over their shoulder. Fear breeds fear.”
Mother nods, handing me a hunk of bread. “I remember when Betty Parris first started screaming, rolling on the floor like she’d seen a devil. Everyone was ready to blame it on some wicked spell, but your father and I think it’s nothing more than an act. Those little girls are simply trying to stir up trouble for attention’s sake.”
Phineas shifts, nudging his plate. “I agree, Mother, but do any of you think part of this is real?” he asks quietly. “I mean, Tituba is from an island where they practice….”
Father fixes him with a steady gaze, sharp but not angry. “You hold your tongue, Phineas Paine. Tituba is a godly, honest woman. That she comes from a distant land is no reason for idle talk or assumptions against her.”
Mother passes food around to us once more. “You boys must eat,” she says, clearly trying to change the subject. “Keep your strength in this cold winter….”
Father leans back, his eyes distant. “Your grandfather used to say no man is guided to virtue by threats. Punishment may silence him for a time, but it can’t teach him righteousness. In the end, it breeds only turmoil.”
Phineas tilts his head, his face still curious and boyish. “What does that mean?”
I inhale deeply. “It means our way of life makes folks bind themselves so tight with rules and penance that something in them pushes back. They rebel in secret, even if they never show it, and when enough souls do that all at once, the whole of society starts to crack.”
Phineas turns this over in silence, his brow furrowed. The room grows quiet after my words; the only sound is the scrape of spoons against the wooden bowls.
After we finish eating, I glance at Phineas. “I’m heading to Hez’s,” I say. “I need to see what he’s heard.”
Mother frowns. “Keep warm,” she warns.
I rise from the table and clasp Phineas’s shoulder. “I will, Mother. Thank you for the meal,” I say.
“Go well, Alexander,” Mother says, her eyes warm. “We love you.”
Father nods. “Mind yourself out there. Watch your step.”
I glance at Phineas. “Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone, Phin.”
He grins, shrugging with the nonchalance of sixteen, and nods.
I pull my coat tighter and set off down the path, making my way toward Hezekiah’s house on the next ridge, a narrow lane lined with picket fences and a small orchard.
Hezekiah greets me at the door, grinning. “Alexander! Come in, come in. You’ll freeze out there! Listen to that wind!” He gestures to a stool by the hearth. “I’ve heard a dozen new prats before breakfast, some wild, all concerning.”
“What’s new?” I ask, shedding my coat, my fingers still stiff from the frost.
“Abigail Williams,” he says, leaning closer, lowering his voice. “She had a fit at the meeting house last night, twisting and screaming like she was possessed. Screaming, “Witch!” over and over, and saying that she had a demon inside of her. And Tituba, well, people are saying the slave woman encouraged her. Some swear she was muttering incantations the entire time.”
I frown, gripping the edge of the table. “All this talk of witches is quite unsettling. Makes a man wonder what else he ought to be tending to before the panic spreads.” I look to my satchel. “I should fetch some herbs and supplies from the apothecary.”
Hezekiah’s eyes gleam. “I’ll join you, friend. I never miss a chance to see the stir of the town.”
We step into the snow together, the borough unfolding around us. Hezekiah chatters on, filling me in on details of yesterday’s news: Mrs. Putnam scolding her children for speaking to “witchy” people, chatter about a stranger who claims to see spirits in the woods, and how Mrs. Proctor told Mrs. Parris she shouldn’t believe her own daughter, causing Mrs. Parris to slap her and walk away.
At the apothecary, we wait our turn in a short line. Martha Corey leans toward her friend, Mary Porter, speaking in a hushed, hurried tone. “I swear Tituba was seen in the night, chanting. Abigail followed her like she were in a trance.”
Mary gasps.
Hezekiah grabs a few items and glances at me, noticing my distraction. “Did you hear something worth repeating?” he asks, his expression far too pleased under the circumstances.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “It’s just disheartening listening to how fast these tales grow.” I tighten my fingers around my satchel straps. Every hissed accusation, every furtive glance could spiral into something much darker before nightfall.
We leave the apothecary, stepping back into the crisp air. Hezekiah talks excitedly about a new shipment of cinnamon arriving, but I have trouble focusing on his words.
Finally, we reach the fork where our paths diverge. My home lies to the east, his to the west. I stop, my hands stuffed into my coat pockets, and glance at him.
“You heading straight home?” I ask, my voice sounding louder than I mean it to in the wind.
Hezekiah nods, his expression serious. “Aye. Make it home safely, Alexander.”
I nod back. “You too, Hez. Be careful.”
By the time I reach my small home on the outskirts of Salem, my fingers are numb and my cheeks sting. I step inside, shutting the wind and the clamor of the world behind me.
The house is cold, but its walls offer a small comfort. I set my satchel down, thinking of the cousins, Betty and Abigail, who are much younger than Phineas. I consider the way their shrieks have set half the town on edge. I was raised Puritan, yet I don’t believe their cries are of the devil. No, it is mischief, boredom, the desire to see how far they can bend the grown folk, and I can’t help but wonder how many will be caught in the trap of their own credulity.
Here, in the quiet of my home, I let myself see the truth beneath the panic: superstition can be power, wielded by the smallest hands, and even the most guarded minds may be fooled by folly.