What Scares You the Most? (4 page)

Deborah Andersen lay on her bed, staring at a black spider as it slowly zigzagged down the wall beside her bedroom window. She touched the cold whitewashed stone wall, trailing her finger along the spider's path.

She concentrated all her thoughts on the tiny black creature. A spider in the house was said to be good luck.

Good luck.

With a sigh, Deborah pressed her thumb against the spider's hairy body—and crushed it against the wall. Dark brown blood seeped from its flattened belly.

Good luck cannot help me now, Deborah thought bitterly. My life is over.

The villagers had accused her of witchcraft. And now she faced a punishment worse than death.

She huddled in her room in the small cottage she shared with her mother. Deborah knew these could
be her last moments in this cottage, the house where she was born. But she could not find comfort in them. She hated the ugly village and its pinched, mean people, but she was terrified of what lay ahead of her too—terrified of the unknown.

Alderman Harrison's words rang in her ears….

“Deborah Andersen, in our great mercy we have spared you death,” Harrison had pronounced. “But you must leave this village immediately—never to return. You will be taken to Plymouth. There you will board a cargo ship. The ship will carry you across the sea to an island in the new world—a tropical island where no people live.”

“But, sir—” Deborah had begun to protest.

“You are sentenced to live the rest of your life alone,” Harrison declared. “Alone on an island that no one will ever visit. Alone, where you cannot harm any of our good people with your witchcraft.”

“But I am not a witch!” Deborah had cried. “I have no powers. I am not a witch!”

But no one—no one in the entire village—believed her.

The day before, an evil spell had been cast on the Alderman's son, Aaron Harrison. To everyone's horror, the boy had been turned into a chicken—a chicken with Aaron's wavy blond hair growing out of the top of its head.

An angry mob dragged Deborah from her cottage and accused her of the crime. That night the village
burned mysteriously, with flames as cold as ice.

This is Deborah's evil work again, the villagers shouted. The witch's revenge!

And why did they accuse her? Why did they blame her for all the troubles in the village? What made them so certain that Deborah was a witch?

Since the day she was born, the village of Ravenswoode had been cursed with unexplained illness, terrible storms, and ruined crops—one strange, unfortunate event after another. The once-rich farming land had, in the twelve years of Deborah's life, turned to dust.

But to the villagers, the strongest proof of Deborah's witchcraft was the mark on her forehead. The blue crescent moon that floated over her right temple.

Deborah hugged herself tightly, trying to stop the violent tremors of fear that shook her body.

I don't want to leave my mother, she thought as hot tears rolled down her cheeks.

I don't want to spend my whole life all alone. I am not a witch. I am innocent!

I am a twelve-year-old girl with bad luck. Very bad luck, to be born in this wretched village.

And then, as she gazed out the window, she saw them.

She saw the orange flames of the torches dancing against the night sky. And then she saw the black outlines of the men carrying the torches.

They are coming for me, she realized.

They are coming to take me away.

Deborah jumped to her feet. Her head spun with fear.

“Mother!” she called.

Where was her mother? After dinner, Katherine had disappeared into the little room at the back of the house. Was she still back there?

“Mother—they are coming!” Deborah cried, her voice choked with panic. “Help me! Mother!”

She could hear the men's voices now. She could hear their boots thrashing heavily through the tall grass.

“Mother!”

Deborah stumbled from her room and ran to the back of the cottage. The fire had burned low in the hearth. A few purple embers glowed at the bottom.

“Mother! Help me!”

Deborah shoved open the door of the little room. She burst breathlessly inside. “Please—”

It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the candlelight.

Then she saw her mother—and let out a scream of horror.

Deborah found her mother, Katherine, huddled on all fours in the dark room. Katherine knelt inside a circle painted on the dirt floor.

Black candles flickered around her, forming a six-pointed star.

Katherine was spreading blue dye over the corpse of a headless chicken. The chicken's head had been set on fire. It burned inside a smoke-filled jar.

Katherine gazed up at her daughter slowly, with a cold, faraway look Deborah had never seen before.

“N-no!” Deborah cried, trembling in the doorway. “YOU are the witch! YOU! How can this be? Mother—YOU have cast all the spells of evil!”

Katherine continued to stare coldly at her daughter, but she didn't reply. She gripped the jar of blue dye tightly in her hands.

“
Why
, Mother?” Deborah screamed, hands pressed to her cheeks. “Why did you let them blame me? Why did you let them blame your own
daughter—when it was YOU all along?”

A loud crash from the front of the house made Deborah scream.

Katherine jumped to her feet.

“They are here!” Deborah wailed. “They are here to take me away. Help me, Mother. Tell them the truth—please!”

She could hear the heavy tromping of the men's boots on the floor, coming closer.

“I am sorry, daughter,” Katherine whispered. “But I have no choice.”

And then she raised the jar—and splashed blue dye down the front of Deborah's dress.

Deborah uttered a startled cry. Katherine tossed the dye jar to her. Without thinking, Deborah caught it.

Alderman Harrison burst into the room. Behind him stood a mob of men in black coats, carrying torches. “Deborah Andersen?” he boomed.

“I have caught her!” Katherine shouted, pointing frantically at Deborah. “I have caught my evil daughter in the act of casting a spell!”

“Noooooo!” Deborah wailed. “It isn't true! Mother—tell them it isn't true!”

Harrison's eyes moved from the headless chicken on the floor, to the jar in Deborah's hand, to the blue dye covering her dress.

“Take her to the ship,” he ordered.

The wooden farm wagon bounced over the rutted dirt road. Deborah sat propped on a pile of hay, her head knocking against the side of the wagon with each hard jolt.

Her arms were tied behind her back, underneath her blue cloak, and heavy iron chains bound her legs together.

They are carting me away like an animal to the slaughter, she thought bitterly.

The horse pulled the wagon slowly, groaning, its head down. Eight men in dark coats and high black hats marched alongside. Each carried a musket hoisted over his shoulder.

Even though the hour was late, villagers and farmers, many with torches, lined the road. They came to stare at the witch, to shout curses, and to throw eggs.

Deborah shut her eyes tightly so that she wouldn't see her neighbors' angry, twisted faces in the torch
light. Her eyes and cheeks were swollen from crying. Tears still streamed down her face, though she barely noticed them now.

An egg struck her shoulder and cracked, the yellow yolk dribbling down the front of her blue-stained dress. The horse whinnied and jerked the cart forward over a deep hole in the road.

Deborah's head slammed once again into the side of the wooden wagon. She moaned in pain and kept her eyes shut tight. If only she could sleep, escape this horror for a few minutes of peace. But the ugly shouts rang in her ears.

They reached the docks of Plymouth just after dawn.

The cart stopped in front of a two-masted ship, its sails tightly wrapped around the booms.

The ship bobbed gently in the water, straining against its ropes, the masts creaking and groaning.

From the wagon, Deborah watched the sailors in dark blue uniforms loading supplies into the cargo hold. They shouted to one another and laughed as they worked.

None of them turned to look at her.

The men who'd been guarding her dragged her roughly from the wagon. They loosened the chains at her feet so she could walk. But they didn't untie her hands.

Her legs trembled as the men guided her up the gangplank and onto the ship's deck. Her stomach
churned with hunger. Her face burned from the salty tears she had shed all night long.

The ocean stretched darkly in front of her, reflecting the gray sky. Seabirds squawked, soaring against the gathering clouds.

A pale moon still floated over the water, even though a red morning sun was starting to rise.

The deck tilted beneath her feet. Deborah struggled not to fall. She had never been on a ship before.

Someone shoved her hard from behind, sending her stumbling to the rail. “Good riddance to the witch,” one of the guards from her village muttered.

The guards turned and marched off the ship. Deborah shivered in her blue cloak.

Four red-faced sailors surrounded her and led her belowdecks. Deborah shyly glanced up at their faces, but none of them would look at her as they led her to a small, bare cabin.

Deborah saw a narrow bunk. A low table. A wooden chair. A tiny round porthole in the wall, looking out to sea.

The sailors untied her hands. Her wrists throbbed and ached. She tried to shake the numbness from her fingers.

One of the sailors handed her a bowl of warm porridge. She raised it gratefully to her face and inhaled the wheaty aroma. She hadn't eaten in over a day and was feeling faint from hunger.

“Thank you,” she muttered. She began to spoon
the porridge hungrily into her mouth.

The sailors still looked away from her. “We sail tomorrow at dawn,” one of them said.

And then they were gone.

She heard an iron bolt slide across the door and knew she had been locked inside.

She scraped the bowl of porridge clean and set it on the table. Then she tossed her blue cloak onto the bunk and dropped on top of it. The cabin swayed beneath her, a slow, steady rocking. The ship smelled of mildew and wood rot.

Deborah buried her head in her hands. I have done nothing to deserve this fate, she thought. She threw herself facedown on the bunk, and the tears began to flow again.

She lay on the bunk, crying, for hours, until at last she fell asleep. The door burst open, waking her. She had no idea how much time had passed.

Two sailors stepped into the cabin. They set a plate on the table, took the bowl with its crusted bits of dried porridge, and left, bolting the door behind them. Deborah sat up and studied the brown lumps on the plate—salty meat she didn't recognize, and a small, round lump of a potato.

The cabin swayed up and down. Have we set sail yet? she wondered. She peered through the porthole. She saw sailors gathered on the dock, laughing and shouting. No, the ship was still anchored in the port.

The muffled footsteps and shouts of the sailors
rang out on the deck above her. As she ate the putrid food, she thought she heard the melody of a sailor's hornpipe. Or was it just the wind through the sails?

How long will I be sailing? she wondered. Where am I sailing to?

She had a hundred questions she would have liked to ask the sailors. But she knew they wouldn't answer. They wouldn't even look at her.

She returned to the bunk and closed her eyes. She didn't know whether she slept or not.

But she sat up when she heard heavy footsteps stomping on the lower deck. Footsteps approaching rapidly.

Are they bringing another meal? she wondered. Has that much time passed already?

She heard the bolt slide across the door.

The cabin door burst open.

A woman in a black cloak stepped inside. Her face was pale beneath her black hood.

Deborah uttered a cry of shock. “Mother!” she gasped. “What are
you
doing here?”

The cabin door closed. Deborah heard the bolt drop into place.

Katherine tossed her bag down. She wrapped her cloak around her and pulled the hood over her face until she was nearly hidden behind it.

Why has she followed me here? Deborah wondered, her pulse racing. Perhaps she will rescue me!

With a sigh, Katherine lowered herself into the small wooden chair. “They forced me to come,” she said in a weary, hoarse voice. “I thought I was rid of you.”

Deborah's heart sank. Of course her mother hadn't come to save her.

Katherine scowled at her daughter. “No ship captain would take you unless I agreed to go along. They said they needed me to keep your powers under control.”

Deborah uttered a bitter laugh. “You know I have no powers. You are the evil one—not I.”

And then Deborah's voice broke and a sob escaped her throat. “I don't understand, Mother. Why did you make the villagers hate me? Why did you make them think I was a witch?”

Katherine stared straight ahead, as if gazing right through her daughter. She didn't reply.

“Why?” Deborah demanded. “My entire life I was blamed for the spells you cast. How could you do that to me? I thought you were the only person in the world who loved me!”

Katherine's icy expression didn't change. “I couldn't let them suspect
me
—could I?” she said finally.

And then she added through gritted teeth, “I never wanted you. Never. But since I had you, I decided to make you useful.”

The words stung Deborah. But they were so cold, so shocking, she didn't react at all. She stared blankly at her mother, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Those villagers were as stupid as cows,” Katherine continued, spitting out the words. “I hated them! They all thought they were better than I. But I showed them for the fools they are. I made them pay for looking down at me—and they never guessed who was behind all their bad luck.”

Deborah felt a dry sob heave in her chest. She had no tears left. “You had a daughter to take the blame.”

Katherine nodded. “A daughter born with a blue crescent moon on her temple. That made it so easy. So easy to make the villagers believe you were the evil one.”

She isn't even sorry, Deborah thought, staring at her mother's stony face. She is smiling. She is
pleased
with herself!

Deborah turned her face away. She couldn't bear to look at her mother any longer. She curled up on the hard bunk, forcing herself not to cry.

I've cried my last tears, she thought angrily.

That woman is too evil to cry over.

Am I the most miserable girl in the world?

I must be, Deborah decided. I must be….

 

Locked together in the cabin for the long sea journey, Deborah and her mother never spoke to each other. Deborah kept her gaze on the floor and tried to pretend that Katherine wasn't there.

During the day, Katherine read an old book she had brought. Deborah had always thought it was a prayer book. But now she realized it was full of curses and spells. At night Katherine slept with the book in her arms.

The sailors who brought their food spoke only to Katherine. When Deborah tried to ask them questions about the journey, they looked away and didn't reply.

They are terrified of me, Deborah realized.

They really believe my mother is keeping me from using my powers on them.

On the third week out from Plymouth, the ship ran into a storm. Thunder roared outside as the ship tossed on the sea. Rain pounded on the deck above and leaked through the seam of the porthole.

For hours the small cabin rocked and tilted. Deborah clung to the bunk, but the force of the wind bounced her and her mother from wall to wall. The table and chair overturned, sliding back and forth across the floor as the ship rocked. Deborah felt sick, but she forced herself not to show it.

She vowed she would never look weak in front of her mother again.

Never.

A few days after the storm ended, Deborah lay on the bunk, staring numbly at the ceiling. She heard heavy footsteps outside the cabin. And then the door sprang open.

Six blue-uniformed sailors appeared. “We have reached the island,” one of them announced to Katherine. “Come with us. Take your daughter on deck. We will deliver her to shore.”

“And then we shall set sail immediately back to England?” Katherine asked.

The sailor nodded. “Yes. Once your daughter is safely on shore.”

Deborah's throat tightened. Her whole body tensed.

This is the moment, she thought. This is the end of the journey.

“We must hurry,” the sailor told Katherine. “The captain is eager to have the girl and her bad luck off the ship.”

“Give me time to put on my cloak,” Deborah said.

The sailors ignored her, as always.

Deborah turned and carefully unfolded the blue cloak she had kept at the foot of her bunk. She pulled it on loosely and slid the blue hood over her head.

Katherine stood ready in her black cloak. “That hood will not protect you from the lonely life that awaits you,” she sneered.

“Mother, your cruelty will be rewarded,” Deborah whispered.

Katherine uttered a cold, scornful laugh.

The sailors ushered them onto the deck. Deborah blinked in the bright sunlight. Then she gazed at the island, its sandy shore shimmering under the hot sun.

What are those strange trees? she wondered as she stared at the tall, bare trunks topped with long, lacy fronds. She'd never felt the sun shine so hot before, or so brightly. The water around her sparkled, clear and blue-green.

A sailor interrupted her thoughts. “We will take your daughter to shore on that skiff,” he told Katherine, pointing to a small rowboat. “You may remain here.”

Katherine nodded. “Good-bye, daughter,” she said to Deborah with no feeling at all. Under the black hood, her face was a blank.

Walking stiffly, alert for trouble, the sailors surrounded Deborah. Two of them gripped her arms tightly and forced her toward the little boat.

Suddenly, Deborah felt one of the sailors let go of her arm. “My EYES!” he screamed.

“Owww. My eyes!” another sailor howled.

“I—I can't see!”

All along the vast deck, sailors screamed, howled in pain, and rubbed their eyes.

“I—I'm blind!”

“Help me! I can't see!”

“What kind of evil magic is this? We have all gone blind!”