The Betrayal (12 page)

Jeremy climbed to his feet, his forehead knitted in concern. “I am afraid that is not a good idea,” he told her, avoiding her eyes. “My father is … quite ill. He is not strong enough to welcome company.”

Mary could not conceal her disappointment. “I guess we are doomed to meet in the woods for the rest of our lives,” she said with a sigh.

Edward's house was a small one-story structure, built of the stones that had been cleared from the crop fields and pasture. It had a sloping slate roof and two small windows in the front.

The house sat at the edge of the woods. From the front, one could gaze across the pasture to Benjamin and Matthew's house on the other side.

As Mary made her way from the back field where Jeremy worked, she felt the first large drops of rain start to fall. She thought about her father as she hurried on.

I wish I could tell him about Jeremy, she thought sadly. But he is in no mood for more troubling news.

Her thoughts turned to her ailing uncle Benjamin. The poor man had awakened them all, screaming at the top of his lungs in the middle of the night.

Mary had reached his room first, followed by her frantic father and mother. At first they thought Benjamin was suffering a nightmare. But his screams were not because of a dream.

During the night, he had lost the use of his right leg.

Mary's uncle could now move only his head and right arm.

Matthew was becoming more and more distant and aloof, lost in his own thoughts. Her cousin, Edward, had become glum and silent. And Rebecca—Rebecca appeared wearier and older, as if she were aging a year every day.

Mary gripped the basket of sweet rolls tightly in one hand and approached Edward's house. “Rebecca?” she called.

No reply.

“Rebecca? It is I, Mary.”

Still no reply.

The storm clouds gathered overhead. Raindrops pattered against the hard ground.

Mary knocked on the front door.

It is so strangely quiet, she thought, shifting the weight of the basket. I can always hear Ezra's shouts and cries when I approach this house. Why do I not hear him now?

She knocked again.

Receiving no response, she pushed open the door and entered.

“Rebecca? Ezra?”

The front room was surprisingly bright. The candles on the wall were lighted, as were candles on a small oak table beside the hearth. A low fire crackled under a pot in the hearth.

“Rebecca?”

Where can she be? Mary wondered.

“Rebecca? Are you home?”

As she set the basket down on the floor, Mary heard
a soft creaking sound. She listened for a few seconds, trying to figure out what was making the sound.

Then she suddenly noticed the black shadow swinging back and forth across the floor.

Confused, she stared down at the slowly moving shadow for a long while, following it with her eyes narrowed.

Creak. Creak.

The odd sound repeated in rhythm with the shadow.

Then she raised her eyes and saw what was casting the shadow—and started to scream.

“Rebecca!” Mary managed to choke out. Rebecca's body swung heavily above Mary's head. Gaping up in horror, Mary saw the heavy rope tied around Rebecca's neck and suspended from the rafter.

She saw Rebecca's arms dangling lifelessly.

She saw Rebecca's face, the skin dark, the eyes bulging.

Creak. Creak.

“Rebecca! Nooooooooooooo!” Mary uttered a high-pitched wail and dropped to her knees. The floor tilted up to meet her. She felt ready to faint.

She shut her eyes and shook her head, as if trying to shake the whole scene away.

But even with her eyes closed, Mary saw Rebecca's body swinging from the rope like a heavy, ripe fruit.

What happened here?

Did Rebecca hang herself?

Was she murdered?

The horrifying questions forced their way into Mary's mind.

She opened her eyes and saw Rebecca's dress hovering beside her face.

“I—I cannot accept this,” Mary said. “I—I—cannot—” She began to vomit then, her entire body convulsing in tremor after tremor.

Until she was crying. And screaming.

And on her feet again.

And outside. Without realizing it, she had started to run.

In the now heavy rain. The cold rainwater washing her face, drenching her hair, soaking through her dress.

Her shoes splashing up puddles as she ran through the soft dirt toward her home.

“Edward! Where are you? Edward?”

And where is Ezra?
she wondered.

And how will I tell everyone?

And how will I ever get the hideous sight out of my mind?

How? How? How?

The pouring rain couldn't wash away the image of Rebecca, her head twisted at such a strange angle, swinging so gently from the ceiling.

The rain couldn't wash away the blackened skin, the bulging eyes.

The rain couldn't drown out the
creak-creak
of the body as it swung gently back and forth.

“Edward! Father! Mother! Help me!”

Mary ran through the rain, her arms outstretched as if reaching for help. Ran screaming without hearing her own cries.

Rebecca, you cannot be dead.

Please do not be dead!

Do not be dead, Rebecca.

Mary was halfway across the pasture now, slipping over the puddled grass. Rainwater matted her hair against her head, ran down her forehead, and blurred her vision.

The house loomed ahead of her, gray against the low black sky.

“Edward! Where are you? Edward? Father? Father?”

Her feet slid out from under her, and she fell, sprawling facedown in the soft cold mud. She landed hard on her elbows and knees.

‘Oh!”

Maybe I will not get up. Maybe I shall stay here forever.

Maybe I shall just lie here in the mud and let the rain carry me away, float me away from—everything.

With a desperate cry she pulled herself to her feet, her clothes covered with mud, her hair hanging heavily in her face.

She took a few steps, then stopped with a shocked gasp.

Who is that?

A stranger standing in the middle of the pasture.

Dressed in black, standing as still as death.

Am I seeing things?

She pushed her hair out of her eyes with both hands and wiped the rainwater from her face.

No.

He was still there.

Who can it be?

Why is he standing so still in the pouring rain and staring at me?

She called out to him.

The dark figure stared at her without moving.

Mary called again.

Beyond the pasture the trees shivered and were bent low in a howling gust of wind.

The man didn't move.

Trembling from the cold, from the horror, Mary took a reluctant step toward him. Then another.

The wind picked up and swirled around her. The rain swept over her like cold ocean waves.

Her shoes sank into the mud as she made her way closer.

He was standing so still, Mary saw, squinting through the heavy curtain of rain.

As still as a statue.

A statue?

It is a scarecrow, she realized.

Of course. That is why it doesn't move.

A scarecrow.

As she ventured closer, she saw rainwater rolling off the brim of its black hat, saw the dark sleeves of its long coat flutter in the sweeping winds.

Who put a scarecrow here? Mary wondered.

Then her next thought made her stop short: Why would anyone stand a scarecrow in the middle of a grassy pasture?

She shielded her eyes with one hand and squinted hard.

And took another step closer. Then another.

Finally through the heavy downpour she recognized the face under the wide-brimmed black hat.

“Uncle Benjamin!”

Once again Mary stared into the blank-eyed face of death.

Benjamin Fier was the scarecrow.

His body was propped up nearly as straight as if he were standing. His arms hung lifelessly at his sides.

His face was bright purple. His hair spilled out from the hat and lay matted against his head.

He gaped at Mary with blank eyes, deathly white eyes, the pupils rolled up into his head.

“Uncle Benjamin!”

The wind gusted hard, shaking the body, making the limp arms swing back and forth.

The body turned again. Benjamin's mouth dropped open, as if he wanted to speak. But the only sound Mary could hear was the heavy groan of the wind.

Mary's body convulsed in a cold shudder of horror. She spun away from the ghastly sight, the dark grass
tilting and swirling wildly around her. Her stomach heaved, but there was nothing left to vomit.

Rebecca. Benjamin. Both dead.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

The word repeated in her mind, pounded into her thoughts, pounded against her brain like the cold rain.

The cold, cold rain that poured off her uncle's hat. Cold as death.

Is everyone dead?

Has my whole family been killed?

Mary stared toward the house. It seemed so distant now. So dark and distant. Far away, on the other side of the storm.

Has everyone been killed?
Mary wondered.

Everyone?

And then:
Will I be next?

The funeral for Rebecca and Benjamin was held two days later. The rain had stopped the day before, but the sky remained gray and overcast.

The graves had been dug in a corner of the field Jeremy had been working to clear. White rocks had been placed at their heads since there were no gravestone carvers in the village.

Standing at the side of the open graves as the minister delivered his funeral speech, Mary gazed at the dark-suited mourners.

Several people had come from the village and neighboring farms to attend. Their blank faces and hushed whispers revealed more curiosity than sadness.

Mary glanced at them quickly, then turned her attention to the members of her family. As she studied
them one by one, the minister's droning voice faded into the background.

The past two days had been a waking nightmare in the stone farmhouse that had so recently rung with laughter. Now the faces of her family, Mary saw, were pale and drawn, eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears, mouths drawn tight, in straight lines of sadness—and fear.

On the far side of the graves Edward Fier stood with his shoulders hunched, his head bowed. His hands were clasped tightly in front of him.

At first Edward had reacted to the deaths of his wife and father with stunned disbelief. In a frenzy he had shaken Mary violently by the shoulders, demanding that she stop telling such wild tales, refusing to believe her gruesome descriptions.

But her racking sobs forced Edward to see that Mary hadn't been dreaming. With a wild cry he had burst from the house, out into the driving rain, running awkwardly with his sling bobbing in front of him, running to see the horrors for himself.

Afterward, Edward had become silent, barely speaking a word. He spent a day in silent prayer. When he emerged, his eyes were dull and blank.