No Survivors (4 page)

“AAAAIIIIIIII!”

A shrill, terrified wail burst from Deborah's lips.

She shut her eyes—and cast a spell.

In the second before the pitchfork touched her, its three pointed prongs became wriggling snakes. They slid harmlessly off Deborah's chest and vanished into the grain pile.

Lemuel Hanford staggered back, his entire body trembling. “Don't—” he said.

It was his last word before Deborah froze him in place.

She pulled herself to her feet, grabbed the bag with her mother's spell book, and stepped past Lemuel. His eyes were frozen wide open, as was his mouth. His body was tensed, as if ready to attack.

But he couldn't move.

The spell won't last long, Deborah thought. I must hurry to my house, gather my belongings—and be gone.

She poked her head out of the barn door.

The night air felt cool and fresh on her face. A crescent moon floated above the trees, on its side like a winking eye.

It reminded Deborah of the blue crescent moon on her temple. The birthmark that had convinced the superstitious villagers that she was a witch.

I was innocent then, she thought. But not any longer.

No one in sight. She saw lamp lights flickering in the windows of houses.

Her eyes alert for any sign of danger, Deborah crept away from the barn. As she ran across Lemuel's field, the crescent moon in the sky appeared to move with her.

The cloak and hood wrapped her in darkness, blacker than the night. She ran silently past houses and farms.

Loud voices made her stop.

Have I been seen?

No. The voices came from Arnold Wester's house. The Wester boys were arguing again. Deborah could hear their father ordering them to be silent at the dinner table.

A cat cried somewhere up ahead. Moments later Deborah saw a black cat dart from behind a tree. On the prowl, probably for a field mouse.

I'm not afraid of you bringing me bad luck now, cat, Deborah thought bitterly.

I've had all the bad luck a person can have.

But, of course, she was wrong.

Her bad luck had just begun—and she had so few days left to live.

Deborah let out a cry when she saw her cottage. Or what was left of it. She went running across the flat, grassy field. The hood flew back on her shoulders, the cloak floating like wings at her sides.

The cottage was gone. One blackened stone wall remained upright on a charred floor. The rest was ruins. Burnt beams. A few melted metal lumps that might have been pots. Bits of charred fabric. Everything covered in a fine layer of ash.

“How did this happen?” she murmured. Had someone deliberately set the fire?

She dropped to her knees in front of the black chunks of wood and shingle. “My home. Burned to the ground.”

She pressed her hands over her eyes, as if trying to force away the ugly sight. A single tear rolled down each cheek.

She forced herself not to cry.

She felt dizzy—and sick.

She got to her feet and stepped onto the area where the front room had been.

The stone hearth was all that was left. Smoke had blackened the stone.

“I can't stay here,” Deborah murmured. She turned away from the house and then turned back again. She remembered her mother hiding something beneath the floorboards of the front room. Deborah never knew what it was. But she'd seen Katherine stuffing something beneath a loose board.

Now she dropped to the floor and began to pull up the charred floorboards. They came up easily, cracking, splitting apart.

Hidden beneath the floor were two books.
Two more of her mother's spell books
.

Deborah gathered them up quickly and stuffed them into the cloth bag.

She heard the cat cry somewhere nearby. The wind suddenly picked up, howling through the trees. The pale crescent moon vanished behind a cloud.

Throwing the bag over her shoulder, Deborah took off. Walking quickly, eyes alert, she made her way to the road that led out of the village.

She didn't turn around. She never looked back.

 

Deborah walked for three days. She passed through two villages and each time was tempted to stay.

But she knew they were too close to Ravenswoode.
People in those towns might have heard of her. The witch who was banished to an island.

So she continued her journey to a new life.

On the third evening, she came to a farm owned by a man named Robert Hoskins. He was a big, broad man, nearly bursting out of his clothing.

“Is there a place where I could spend the night?” Deborah asked. “I'm traveling and don't have money for an inn.”

“If you would like to stay and help my wife with the milking, I can let you stay in the barn,” Mr. Hoskins offered.

“Thank you kindly, sir,” Deborah replied. “I would be most grateful.”

He led Deborah to his barn. She could hear cows mooing softly and a horse whinnying.

“I'll bring you some blankets,” Hoskins said.

He pointed to a stall against the barn wall. “You might not get much sleep. That one is due to drop a calf tonight.”

“I am grateful for any shelter,” Deborah replied.

She had dinner with Robert and his wife, Mary. They were friendly, warm people who liked to laugh.

I might grow to like it here, Deborah thought. They could be the family I never had.

Later, she settled on a pile of hay in the barn. By the light of a lantern, she examined the two spell books she'd found beneath the floorboards. Deborah's eyes widened in surprise. The spells in
these books were more powerful than those she'd already learned.

The books made her wonder about her mother. Just how much power did Katherine have? Could she change a person's dreams? Could she put a curse on someone miles away?

Deborah memorized the chants for several new spells. Then she fell asleep easily under the warm blankets.

The next morning, she was awakened by Hoskins's furious screams.

Still half asleep, Deborah stood unsteadily. She blinked in the bright sunlight pouring through the open barn door. “What is it? What's wrong?” she asked.

“See for yourself,” Hoskins bellowed, red in the face. “What have I done to deserve such bad luck?”

“I—I do not understand,” Deborah stammered.

He dragged her to the birthing pen across the barn. “Look!” he shouted angrily. “Look at the calf just born!”

He jerked open the pen door.

Deborah gazed inside at the newborn calf—and let out a cry of horror.

As Deborah screamed, the calf raised its eyes to her—all four eyes.

“Two heads!” Hoskins screams. “My cow has birthed a two-headed calf!”

Deborah turned away, unable to look at the poor, cursed creature.

A two-headed calf. A sign of true evil.

A familiar fear began to sweep through her. It's happening again, she thought.

“And this is not the worst of it!” Hoskins went on. “I have worked my whole life for this farm. And now it is all ruined!”

She looked up at him, startled. “Because of one calf?”

“It is not only one calf!” he told her. He led her outside the barn.

As her eyes adjusted to the bright morning sunlight, Deborah uttered another horrified cry.

“All dead!” Hoskins tore at his woolly black hair
with both hands. “All of them!”

Everywhere she looked, Deborah saw dead cows. They lay on their backs, legs stiff, straight up in the air. As if someone had killed them and then turned them over.

A wave of horror washed over Deborah. Her body shuddered again and again. She couldn't stop her teeth from chattering.

Did I do this?

No. She couldn't have. But it was exactly the sort of thing that had happened in Ravenswoode. The sort of thing that had gotten her tried and convicted of witchcraft. That had all been Katherine's dark magic.

Fat black flies swarmed over the dead cows. A black cloud of flies, buzzing loudly. Darkening the ground beneath them.

I know I didn't bring this evil to Hoskins's farm, Deborah thought. But how long will it be before he blames me? Or before someone tells him of the witch of Ravenswoode? I have to leave here now.

As Hoskins stood raging over his dead cows, Deborah slipped away. But the images of the dead cattle and the two-headed calf stayed with her. It was too much like Katherine's work. Her mother was thousands of miles away on a deserted island. And yet Deborah was sure that Katherine's evil was following her every step.

 

Several towns down the road, Deborah was taken in by a young widow named Alma Parkins. Mrs. Parkins had four children. Four handsome blond boys who never stopped shouting, arguing, tumbling, and wrestling.

The house was small and cramped. Mrs. Parkins spent all of her time cooking meals for them when she wasn't shouting for the boys to be still.

“Can you sew?” she asked Deborah. “They are constantly outgrowing their clothes. And the clothes that still fit, they tear in their fights and rough games.”

“I can sew and mend,” Deborah replied. “And I know many games to keep young boys quiet.”

“Then you will be a blessing in this house,” Mrs. Parkins said.

Deborah tried to make friends with the four boys. But they kept to themselves and refused to join in her games.

They looked like blond angels with their fair white skin and round blue eyes. They acted like little imps. They would fight and throw themselves around the small house. Biting, pulling hair, punching, and poking, they would scream at the top of their lungs.

“Let us read a book together,” Deborah often suggested.

But they never stayed quiet long enough to hear more than a page that Deborah read.

Late at night, Deborah sat at the sewing table,
mending their knee britches and shirts. Sewing up the holes and tears they had made during the day.

This is not the easiest job, Deborah told herself. But Mrs. Parkins is a kind woman. And I'm sure the boys will grow to like me.

On the fifth day of her stay in the Parkins house, Deborah awoke to. shrill screams.

Mrs. Parkins!

Deborah pulled on her dress and ran to the boys' room. The four boys had their backs to her. But Deborah could see Mrs. Parkins clearly.

Tears streamed down the woman's frantic face. She opened her mouth wide in wailing sobs of grief.

“What is happening?” Deborah cried. “What is it?”

And then the boys all turned at once. And Deborah saw the reason for the mother's horror.

She saw the black thread…the knotted black thread…the tight, tight stitches…

All four boys—their lips…their lips had been sewn shut.

Tears streamed down the faces of the silent boys.

“Who could do such a thing to my boys?” Mrs. Parkins wailed.

Deborah could think of only one person—and she was thousands of miles away. “I—I don't know,” she answered. “But we must undo it quickly.”

She and Mrs. Parkins went to work removing the stitching from the boy's mouths.

“Who did this to you?” Mrs. Parkins asked her children when the last stitch was out.

The oldest boy rubbed blood from lips and answered, “It wasn't a person. It just happened.”

“It just happened?” Mrs. Parkins echoed.

Her son nodded.

Mrs. Parkins's face went pale. “Witchcraft,” she whispered. “My sons have been the victims of a witch.”

Deborah felt an icy dread settle in her stomach. Still, she told herself, she had nothing to do with it.
There was no reason for Mrs. Parkins to suspect her.

That afternoon Deborah heard a loud pounding on the front door.

Mrs. Parkins ran to the door. She pulled it open to two dark-suited men.

“There she is!” Mrs. Parkins screamed. “There is the evil one. Take her! Please—do not let her escape!”

Her heart pounding, Deborah spun around and ran to the back of the house. She didn't stop to pick up her belongings. She dove through a back window and kept running.

She kept picturing the four sad-eyed boys staring at her so helplessly. She couldn't shake the picture of the tight black stitches in their lips.

Deborah hid behind a barn. She pressed herself against the wooden slats and waited for the two dark-suited men to run past.

She saw them on the dirt road that ran to the village. They were shouting as they ran, calling for help.

When they were out of sight, Deborah turned and ran the other way.

The poor boys, she thought. The poor boys. They looked so confused.

But I am not confused, Deborah thought. I know who has caused these things to happen. I know who has ruined my life. Forcing me to run from village to village.

It is my mother.

Deborah could see the small town up ahead. It
was market day, and farmers were selling their fruit and vegetables at stands in the town square.

Deborah ran for safety behind the shops and low buildings that faced the square. She ducked into a doorway as two women in long gray skirts passed. Then she continued running, keeping in the shadows of the back walls.

Over the thud of her footsteps, Deborah could hear the voices in the market.

My mother is having her revenge on me for tricking her, for forcing her to take my place.

She cursed me, Deborah realized. And now her evil will follow me wherever I go. I'll never escape her.

Deborah didn't stop running until she was well out of town. The dirt road ran straight now, through hills of green pasture.

She slowed to a walk and struggled to catch her breath. Two men leading a cow to market appeared on the rise of a hill. Deborah ducked behind an oak tree and waited for them to pass.

I have nothing now. Only the dress I am wearing.

I will never have a normal life. Never be able to settle anywhere.

She thought about the spell books she'd found under the floorboards. She'd read about curses. She understood that the curse would last until she found away to defeat her mother.

I must return to that distant island.

Somehow, I must go back there—and defeat my mother. It is the only way I can break the curse. It is the only way I can keep these horrible things from happening.

Deborah thought about this as she made her way over the grassy, green hills. She spent the night in a leaf pile under a stand of sycamore trees.

She awoke the next morning as the sun peeked over the hills, and began walking again.

Her long gray dress was dirt-stained. She had bits of dead leaves in her hair.

Her sleep hadn't refreshed her. She felt weary to the bone, hungry, and frightened.

Only her anger kept her going.

The sun was high in the sky. Deborah saw a dirt road that sloped down to a large village of red-roofed buildings.

But I know I will not be able to stay.

I know that I bring tragedy wherever I go.

But maybe I can at least have shelter for a night or two and a meal to settle my empty stomach.

To Deborah's surprise, four men came running to greet her. They wore black suits with high starched white collars. As they ran, they held their tall black hats on their heads to keep them from flying off.

Deborah turned to run. But she stood in an empty field. No place to hide.

The men swept around her. Their faces were red and solemn.

“Deborah Andersen,” the tallest of them said. “Your reputation has traveled with you.”

Two of the others grabbed her arms. They held her tightly in place.

“Please—” Deborah whispered. “Let me go. I—I—”

“You will not be allowed to cast your evil in this town,” the man continued, his gray eyes burning into hers. “Deborah Andersen, at sundown
you will be hanged as a witch!
”