Chapter 9

She didn’t want to risk having the children shout, she didn’t want to meet their eyes. She lied to them because there was a very good chance she’d never make it past the city lines, especially if she ran into the road blocks Roman warned her about.

Before she could save them, she would have to save herself.

So, as rapidly as she could, she walked, dragging her bad foot behind her, in the opposite direction of the vendor. The thought wasn’t kind but Jean hoped that Patricia would get into trouble when Pastor Francis realized that Jean had escaped. Maybe he would throw Patricia into the pit with Jimmy, Natalie and Matilda, and then Patricia would know what it felt like to be kept prisoner with very little to eat.

Jean limped until she found a trash-filled alley, where she sank down under a dilapidated market stall, trying to decide what to do next.

She’d head for the woods because if she walked on the main roads, she might be stopped at the city checkpoints. Her bad foot made her noticeable and too many questions might land her back in Pastor Francis’ clutches. She might pick up another ride, although considering what happened last time that probably wasn’t such a good idea.

And while she was thinking what to do, someone was coming down the stairs in the building behind her.

Jean wasn’t sure if the people were friendly. She thought rather not. Anyone who sanctioned a prison for children in their city and did nothing obviously believed Pastor Francis was justified. Either that or they were afraid that if they protested, they, too, would be accused of being witches.

It didn’t matter whether people were evil or afraid. They were of no use to Jean.

She rose unsteadily, hobbled to a corner and flattened herself against the wall. Maybe they wouldn’t notice her, huddled, crouched like the escaped criminal they thought her to be.

“We’re in trouble,” the woman said.

“Look, it’s going to turn out okay.”

Jean froze. She could not have moved, even if she wanted to. Because she recognized the voices.

They were the people who were looking for the merchandise. Were they talking about the rocks stuffed into her shorts?

“We’ll find her. She’s in prison. We know her name is Jean and she’s a witch child.”

“What if she casts a spell on us?” the woman asked in a trembling voice.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the man said. “You don’t believe that crap, do you?”

Jean wished with all of her heart that she were a witch child. That she had the power to make those thieves disappear, that she could do something evil to Pastor Francis and to Gertrude. That she had some power, any kind of power.

What was she thinking?

I’m just trying to stay alive, she thought, that’s what I’m thinking.

“We have to find that brat and soon, that’s all I’m saying,” the woman whined.

She heard the voices as they walked away, heading towards the prison.

Bad luck again. With a little good luck, Patricia wouldn’t miss her for a while, especially if the other children kept their mouths shut. But now those thieves were looking for her.

Jean waited until the coast was clear and then she headed for the forest. A small little white dog followed her eagerly. Jean shooed him away. She could not be responsible for an animal. Someday she’d have a dozen little puppies but for now she had to worry about feeding herself.

She tried not to think about the fact that tomorrow that poor little white dog could possibly be someone’s dinner.

She was free again but so what? Now more obstacles blocked her path. For one thing her foot was damaged and when Jean examined her sole, she could plainly see the pus breaking through the filthy bandage.

It wasn’t just the people from Asmodeus who were hunting her but Pastor Francis. And, if that wasn’t enough, the thieves were one step behind her, thieves who were convinced that she was nothing but a brat.

They were after her because of the stones, those filthy rocks she carried in her pocket. She was tempted to dump them out on the side of the road.

Her guess was someone, perhaps, Peter had stolen them. What Jean should do was hand then over to the police.

But there was so much unrest in every village, it was hard to know just who the authorities were. Some people claimed to be the police, but they would shoot you just for looking like a rebel.

And there were towns where the rebels seized power, until the military came marching through and displaced them and anyone else who happened be standing in their path.

But none of that was Jean’s problem. Maybe she should just hand over the rocks to someone in a uniform, someone who looked as though he might have the power to free her. And wouldn’t that prove that she wasn’t a witch child, that she wasn’t an evil person? An evil person would just keep the rocks for herself.

Maybe the rocks were of no value at all. Maybe the thieves were looking for something Jean didn’t even have.

And if the rocks were valuable and they had been stolen then there was always a chance that someone would think Jean was involved in the robbery. In her country there was no such thing as a fair trail. Hadn’t she learned that already?

So what was Jean going to do with the rocks? She stuck her hand in her pocket and then when they emerged, they were black with dirt and soot. Maybe they were worth enough to kill for.

She felt bad for Peter who had given her a ride, even if he had been a thief. She wondered if he were still alive or just another casualty.

I should give them back to the people they were stolen from, Jean thought. Maybe there’s a reward. But Jean had no idea who the rocks belonged to or how to go about returning them. If she asked—if she displayed a little bit of interest—they would catch her for sure.

She navigated her way through woods, disappearing under the trees, tiptoeing through the uneven terrain. She wished that she had some water, or just a little bit of food. She wished she could lay down and even found herself wishing that she was still in Pastor Francis’ prison. At least there she had people to talk to and a place to sleep and she would be given a drop of water at night. Now she was forced to keep moving on a foot which jolted her with excruciating pain every time it touched the ground.

Her inner thighs were sopping wet with sweat and rubbing against each other. She could feel a nasty rash developing. It was hard to keep moving.

Never give up. That’s what her mother said. Never give up. She used to recite a poem to Jean and Jean didn’t remember all of it except that it was about losers never knowing how close they are and often the goal was nearer than it seemed to a faint and faltering man –

She was faint and faltering.

Was she even walking in the direction of Stonage? In any direction at all?

Jean stopped suddenly when she heard a voice, a woman’s voice. She hid behind a tree, waiting and watching.

A tall woman, with a bucket balanced on her head and a colorful skirt wrapped around her waist, bounced down the path. Jean guessed that she was going to a stream for water. Jean wanted water, she needed water. She’d follow the woman.

She crept from behind the bush. The lady released a cry of surprise.

“Please, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Jean said. “I just wanted a drink of water—”

The woman was watching her very suspiciously. She looked Jean up and down, as though Jean was some sort of exotic animal. Jean knew how bizarre she looked and smelled. “Please, miss,” Jean said, “I just want something to drink.”

“Are you running away?” Jean considered lying but she wasn’t fast enough. “I can tell you are. Someone hurt your foot?”

“I stepped on glass.” Jean took off her sneaker and held up her foot.

The woman placed the basket down gently and came closer. “It looks as if it’s infected.”

Jean nodded. “Can you fix it?”

The woman shook her head and then stepped back. “That’s a sign,” she said, “of the devil.” Then she asked quickly, as though it had just occurred to her, “You’re one of Pastor Francis’ children, aren’t you?”

“I’m not a witch child!” Jean protested.

“It’s okay, if you are,” the women whispered. “I don’t mind selling my soul to the dead. Can you do me a favor?”

Jean didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure if it was safe to admit that she was a witch child or wiser to keep denying it.

“I want you to put a spell on my mother-in-law. She makes me do all the work around the house, fetch the water, sweep the rooms, cook the meals. My husband, he’s gone and it’s just the two of us.”

“Why don’t you run away?” Jean wondered.

The woman looked at Jean as though Jean were insane. “Where would I go?”

Jean had no idea.

“So will you do it?” The woman was nothing if not persistent.

Jean shook her head. “I can’t. I’m a good witch child.” The words just slipped out of Jean’s mouth. “I can’t do evil.”

The woman picked up her basket.

“But if you show me where the stream is,” Jean said, “then I can make a bargain with you. I’ll cast a good spell.”

The woman looked at Jean with deep skepticism.

“I’ll make sure that your mother-in-law is nice to you. She’ll treat you with great respect and help you with all of the work. And you’ll have good fortune, too.”

The woman appeared to be thinking about this. But all Jean could think was what a liar she was turning out to be. She really must be evil because she had lied to the children by telling them that she’d return, that she could return and now she was lying to the woman, and the woman would find that out soon enough. As soon as she got back to the house and her mother-in-law screamed at her.

“I’ll show you,” the woman said. “Follow me.”

The tall, willowy woman sashayed down to the river, with Jean trailing behind. What would happen if the woman expected Jean to cast the spell in front of her? What would Jean say? She didn’t know any spell words. She’d just have to say that the spell would have to be conducted in complete privacy.

Would the woman believe her?

The river was polluted. Jean could see that right away. Actually, she didn’t even have to see it. All she really had to do was smell it. A thick layer of dirt and a blob of slick oil rested on top of the water. Several women were bathing in it.

One little boy was urinating.

Jean’s mother had warned Jean about dirty water. Jean’s cousin had died from schistosomiasis. Little parasites enter your body and you pass the eggs on whenever you went to the bathroom. Jean didn’t want to get schistosomiasis. She didn’t even like the sound of it.

But she was so thirsty she felt as though someone had stuffed a dry cloth down her throat. Her dehydration was slowing her down, preventing her from thinking clearly and even making the sharp pain in her foot worse.

If she didn’t get water soon, she was going to die.

But if she drank the water from the stream, she would probably get sick and die anyway.

Either way she was going to lose.

“Come,” the woman said to her, obviously puzzled by Jean’s refusal to move. “I can get some water for you and put it in my bowl.”

Jean looked inside the bowl and noticed a deep ring of scum.

The woman looked at Jean’s foot and then asked if it hurt.

Jean nodded. Maybe the woman had some pain pills, an aspirin, some sort of cream.

“If you’re a witch child, why can’t you make it go away?”

“The devil did it.” Jean didn’t doubt that for a moment.

The woman nodded, satisfied.

“Listen,” Jean said. “I can’t drink this water. It’s really dirty and you shouldn’t be drinking it either. It could make you sick.” The woman looked insulted, as though she had offered Jean hospitality and Jean had turned her down flat. “Is there any other water around here?”

“There’s another stream about a few kilometers through the woods.”

Probably just as polluted, Jean thought.

As though reading her mind (making Jean wonder just who the witch was), the woman said, “Not as many people go because it’s deep in the forest, which is why the water is cleaner.” She pointed straight ahead. “If you follow that path, you’ll come to it.”

“How far is Stonage from here?”

The woman shrugged.

She didn’t know where it was and Jean figured she probably had never heard of it. Which meant that Jean was lost, walking further and further away from her destination. Jean was inclined just to sit and rest for a while. But when she looked up, she saw a small group of woman and children circling her, like vultures, anticipating prey. They were mumbling in a strange dialect and, although Jean couldn’t really decipher what they were saying, one word stood out loud and clear.

“Witch child.”

It was only a matter of time before someone who didn’t feel kindly towards witches began to throw rocks at her.

She placed her hands on the ground and stood rather shakily.

“What about my spell?” The woman was no longer friendly or in awe. Instead she clicked her tongue impatiently.

Jean nodded. She stooped down in the dirt and closed her eyes, blocking out the curious stares.

“Blessed Mary, please ask your holy son to intervene in the wish of this woman. Let her mother-in-law be good and appreciate her. Let kindness flow in their home and make every one happy. Amen.”

Jean opened her eyes. The woman, angry and sullen, was glaring at Jean. “That doesn’t sound like a spell to me.”

An older woman, who was totally bald and leaning on a stick, murmured, “Sounds like some sort of prayer.”

“It is a prayer,” Jean said and shrugged. “Sorry I’m not a witch child.”

She stepped from the circle and softly pushed several children aside. They shrank back from her as though she were on fire. Jean didn’t know whether or not they believed her but there was nothing more she could do.

She headed in the direction of the stream, not missing the buzzing of voices behind her.