by Bill Myers
Sara felt a pang of guilt jab into her gut. That had to be John Noey’s mother. So, he was still in a coma that he might never come out of?
“I know he’s not always a good boy,” Mrs. Noey said, wiping her nose. “But he lost his papa when he was little, you know. He never got over it. He loved his papa so much . . . He’s been angry at the world ever since. But he’s always helped take care of me and his little sister. He’s like a daddy to little Gina. She was just a baby when Ralph died. John’s tried hard to make it up to her.”
Sara’s head spun, and her heart filled with remorse. She’d never given a thought to John Noey’s family and how they might feel. She never considered how losing him might affect their lives.
Sara drifted away from the kitchen, trying hard not to hear Mrs. Noey’s sobs. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ronnie Fitzgerald bouncing high on the diving board. Her eyes widened in horror.
Oh no! I don’t want this now! Not after what happened to John. No! Don’t let — !
But it happened. Ronnie — the perfect athlete, the expert diver — lost his footing on a high jump and flipped backward instead of forward. Thrown back onto the board, he struck his head with a hard thump.
The blow was so solid that Sara heard it through the patio glass. Nearly sick with guilt and horror, she watched the unconscious Ronnie roll off the board and strike his head again on the side of the pool before tumbling into the water.
People rushed to his aid. Sara heard someone say something about not moving him. A couple of girls screamed over the blood.
She couldn’t look. All she could do was turn and walk away, wondering if she would ever stop feeling totally awful.
The following morning Becka was sick. The wind and rain from Saturday afternoon had taken their toll.
“You look terrible,” Scott said as she arrived at the breakfast table.
She sniffed and mumbled something about his looking in a mirror once in a while himself.
“Are you feeling all right, dear?” Aunt Myrna asked as she shoved a plate of eggs, a thick slice of ham, and grits under Becka’s nose.
“It’s just a little cold,” Becka mumbled through a sniffle. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. Whatever she was coming down with was going to be bad. One good clue was the way her stomach was turning at the smell of the food. Or the way her head was already starting to ache.
“So, what are we going to do with our next three days off?” Scott asked as he started on his second bowl of grits.
“I think — ” Becka sniffed again — “I think we should give Sara one last chance.”
“Beck . . .” Scott started to protest.
“I know, I know. We said it was over, but don’t you think we should at least give her one more try? And this time, maybe do it the right way?”
Scott gave her a look. “You mean like the pastor said — with prayer and believing?”
Becka nodded. “That’s what Z said too — remember?”
Scott gave a loud sigh. It was a sound she recognized — one that said he was really put out with her. But as she glanced at him, she saw the gleam in his eyes. He knew that she was right. No doubt about it.
There were many dancers at the ceremony, but Sara danced the wildest of all. Her movements were frenzied, driven, as though she were stomping all her troubles into the earth.
Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. She choked, gasping for air. The other dancers came to a stop and stared as she gagged, pointing at her throat in a silent plea for help.
No one moved.
She dropped to her knees, motioning frantically. Everything grew fuzzy and white, then whiter and whiter until she crumpled to the ground.
A large African-American man rose from an old wicker chair that looked like some sort of throne. Sara watched hazily as he came to kneel over her, placing his fingers on her neck as though feeling for a pulse.
At last he looked up and spoke. “Sara is dead. She defied the gods. She has been struck down.”
Sara wanted to argue, to disagree, but she could not seem to open her mouth or move her body.
Suddenly she felt herself being lifted up. But now she was no longer herself. Somehow she had become somebody else.
Now she was John Noey!
She lay in a hospital bed hearing her mother weep over her.
No, not her mother. John Noey’s mother. She tried to move but could not. She could still hear. She could still feel. She knew all that was going on around her, but she could not move.
John Noey could not move.
Hot tears fell onto her arms as the mother began to sob and cry over her.
“I’m sorry,” a doctor’s voice said. “We’ve done all we can do.”
She felt a sheet pulled over her face. Dead! John Noey had just been declared dead!
But she was alive! She had to tell them! John Noey was still alive. Only now she wasn’t John Noey.
Now she was Ronnie Fitzgerald!
Wires covered her body. Tubes stuck into her nose and mouth — no, his nose and mouth. She was alone. All alone. Just the quiet blip of the heart monitor over her head. And the rhythmic sound of the air as it was being pushed in and out of her lungs by a respirator.
Suddenly the heart monitor started blipping irregularly. She panicked, tried to move, but there was nothing she could do. She could feel the heart inside her chest pounding like a jackhammer gone berserk. Then it stopped altogether. So did the blips on the monitor. Now there was nothing but a long, loud whine.
She tried to breathe but couldn’t. She tried to scream, but no words would come. Soon she heard people racing around her and someone shouting, “He’s flat-lining! We’re going to lose him!”
Sara was desperate to move, to breathe. She silently choked until —
She sat bolt upright, awake and coughing.
When she caught her breath, she glanced around the classroom. More than a few students stared at her. Several smirked. She had fallen asleep in class again. This was not surprising, since she’d given up sleeping during the night in an effort to stop the dreams. But apparently that didn’t matter now.
The dreams were coming during the day, whenever she closed her eyes and started to doze. Day or night, the dreams came.
Sara looked at the clock. It was almost three o’clock. She was anxious to leave. All this time she’d thought revenge on the boys would make her feel better. It didn’t. It made her feel worse. The sobs of John’s mother and the sound of Ronnie slamming into the board echoed in her mind.
But Sara felt more than guilt. She also felt afraid. Now she knew the power of voodoo. She knew that it could turn back on her if she wasn’t careful.
At last the bell sounded. Sara let out a sigh of relief. All day long the school had been getting reports on John’s and Ronnie’s conditions from the hospital. It was all anyone talked about. Both were in comas in ICU. Sara wanted to get away — to go home and cover her head.
To sleep.
These were the only thoughts running through her mind as she headed toward the bus.
“Sara! Excuse me! Sara Thomas?”
Someone called her. She turned and saw the same girl and her brother who had bothered her a couple of days before, waiting at the bottom of the steps. Oh no! Sara thought. They’re the last people I want to see!
Becka stepped forward. “Sara, it’s us again, Rebecca and Scott. Listen, I just want to say something. It may not be any of my business, but if you’re messing around with — ”
“Then leave, okay?” Sara cut her off. “If it’s none of your business, then you and your creepy brother can just — ”
“I just wanted to warn you,” Becka interrupted. “If you’re messing around with voodoo, you could be losing control of your life.”
Sara’s eyes grew wild. “Why are you trying to hurt me?”
she demanded. Her voice sounded shrill. She knew others were listening but didn’t care. “You want to take away my powers, don’t you?�
��
Becka reached toward her. “Sara — ”
“No! I’m warning you for the last time. Leave me alone!”
Now it was Scott’s turn. “Listen, we’re not trying to hurt you or take away any — ”
“You bet you won’t! ’Cause I won’t let you.” Sara reached inside her purse and pulled out the scissors she had used to cut Ronnie’s hair. “Get out of my way!”
Becka froze. “All right, Sara, we’ll leave. But couldn’t we just — ?”
Suddenly Sara lunged at her. “I warned you!”
Becka jerked backward, lost her footing, and fell hard onto the sidewalk. Sara swooped down at her with the scissors.
“Stop!” Scott tried to block her, but she was too fast.
But instead of stabbing Becka, Sara suddenly cut off a lock of her hair.
Rising to her feet, she shouted, “I curse you! Worst luck will befall you! Pire sort! Pire chance! Pire fortune!” She started backing away. “Worst luck! Worst luck! Worst luck! It will be worse for you than it was for John and Ronnie.”
Sara spun around and started running. Her heart pounded in her chest. She had to get away. The magic was about to begin. She did not want to stay around and watch Rebecca suffer.
Scott helped his sister to her feet. “You okay?”
Becka nodded. “Yes, just sort of stunned . . . that was weird! She cut my hair!”
“I know,” Scott said. “Nothing like being cursed to really trash a day. C’mon. I think we’d better get home.”
“But the bus to Aunt Myrna’s isn’t due for another hour.”
“I mean home home,” Scott replied. “Back to California.”
By the time they got to the bus stop, Becka felt a lot worse. Maybe it was the emotion, or maybe it was the fever she knew had been rising steadily all morning. Whatever the case, when she reached the bus stop, Becka had to sit on a bench.
“Can I get you anything?” Scott asked. “A Coke or something?”
She could see that he was worried. “Maybe some juice,” she said.
“All right. I’ll check the gas station over there. Just wait here.” Scott quickly headed across the street.
Becka dreaded the bus ride back to Aunt Myrna’s. The jouncing of that old bus would only make her feel worse. She closed her eyes. The throbbing in her head was unbearable.
She opened her eyes and glanced at an abandoned newspaper lying beside her on the bench. It was the Sorrento Times. The headline read “Second Sorrento High Student in Coma.”
Despite her throbbing headache, Becka forced herself to read on. Ronnie Fitzgerald had been injured on Sunday night; John Noey, the day before that. Both boys were in the hospital, barely clinging to life. Both had been the victims of strange accidents that, according to the paper, “many in the area believe were due to religious rituals.”
Suddenly Sara’s words came screaming back into her mind: It will be worse for you than it was for John and Ronnie.
Her eyes shifted back to the paper, scanning for the injured boys’ names again. There they were. Ronnie Fitzgerald and John Noey.
Becka’s vision blurred. The trees and people around her started to move. She felt worse than she thought. The fever, the headache, the encounter with Sara all contributed to that. And now this.
It will be worse for you.
Fear continued to grow, consuming her, fogging her thinking.
Next time you’ll really be hurt.
Fear after fear had piled up since even before they had landed. She tried to focus her eyes, but it was impossible. The people, the trees, the buildings seemed to spin around her.
It will be worse.
She could feel herself growing clammy with icy perspiration.
Worst luck! Worst luck!
She was going to faint. She knew it.
I curse you! I curse you!
She was going to —Suddenly she felt her body tilt forward. She tried to stop herself but couldn’t. A moment later, she toppled onto the sidewalk.
Rebecca Williams had passed out.
6
When Becka woke up, she found herself lying on the bench with Scott and Pastor Barchett standing over her. “But you’ll pray for her, won’t you, Pastor?” Scott was asking.
Pastor Barchett nodded. “Of course I will. But you have the authority of prayer also. Curses and spells have no power over Christians unless we give it to them.”
Becka moved and tried to sit up.
“Beck, you’re awake. Are you all right?” Scott asked. “I ran over and got the pastor.”
“How are you feeling, my dear?” Pastor Barchett asked.
“I feel better, I think,” she said, though she was still a little woozy.
“Maybe you should see a doctor,” Pastor Barchett offered.
“I’m all right,” Becka said. “It’s just . . . well, I haven’t felt real good all day. With Sara attacking me, and all that’s been happening to us, and then reading in the newspaper about those two Sorrento High boys and their freak accidents . . .”
Pastor Barchett nodded. “Both are classmates of Sara’s, I’ve heard. I’m afraid it sounds like more than a coincidence to me too.”
“I think I’ll be all right now,” Rebecca repeated. “Did we miss our bus?”
Scott shook his head. “Should be here any sec. Unless . . .” He turned to the pastor. “I don’t suppose you’d drive us home?”
Pastor Barchett laughed. “No, they’ve long since stopped letting me drive a car. My eyes are bad. But I’m sure I can find someone to take you.”
“I’ll be fine on the bus,” Becka assured them. “It’s just a short ride. But what should we do about Sara?”
“Keep praying,” Pastor Barchett said, “and believing. But remember, you can’t deliver someone from something if they don’t want to be free. They have to want it.”
“Well, she’s made it pretty clear that she doesn’t,” Scott said. “Sounds like Z really missed the boat this time. How could God possibly want us to visit Sara when she doesn’t even want to listen?”
“What about Moses and Pharaoh?” Pastor Barchett asked. “God sent Moses, didn’t he? And what about the prophets? Just because the people didn’t listen doesn’t mean God didn’t send them.”
Becka leaned forward. She was still feeling a little lightheaded, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “I think we should give it a couple more days,” she said.
“Becka . . . ,” Scott protested.
“Two more days,” she repeated.
Pastor Barchett nodded in agreement. “And in the meantime, keep praying . . . and believing.”
By the time they returned to the farm, Scott had to argue with Becka to get her to take a nap.
“But I feel good now,” Becka insisted. “In fact, I’d like to go for a walk. I want to show you these pretty flowers I saw in the swamp.”
“A walk?!” Scott exclaimed. “No way! You have to lie down and rest!”
“Stop acting like Mom!” she snapped. “I feel fine!”
“All right,” Scott said. “If you won’t listen to me, let’s talk to Mom and see what she says.”
Becka panicked. “No! Don’t tell Mom! She’ll make me stay in bed for a week!”
“Then take a nap.”
“If I take a nap, will you walk with me into the woods so we can smell those pink flowers?”
Scott made a face. “Flowers?! What do I care about flowers?”
“There’s lots of other stuff too. It’s really cool. Please?”
Scott hesitated.
“I’ll owe you,” she promised.
“All right,” Scott finally agreed. “But you have to rest first.”
“Will do.”
But Becka couldn’t sleep. She still felt a little foggy. She knew the fever hadn’t left. She also knew something else: although she pretended it wasn’t true, her fear of Sara and her powers was still very, very strong. Probably too strong.
Then there were the other thou
ghts — the ones that had been growing more powerful every hour. These thoughts urged her to go into the swamp and smell those incredible pink flowers.
On Sara Thomas’s bedroom dresser was a glass full of those incredible pink flowers. Buried in the midst of them was the lock of Becka’s hair. And underneath the flowers?
Underneath the flowers was a live snake.
An hour later, Becka and Scott set off for the woods and swamp. Becka couldn’t explain it. Even though she still felt weak, finding those flowers and seeing their beautiful color had become very important. It was like a craving, something she couldn’t stop wanting.
She led the way. For a while they followed the path she had taken with John Garrett. But each time she thought she saw a glimpse of the pink f lowers, she veered a little farther off until, before she knew it, they were on a path she’d never seen before — a path surrounded by thick vegetation.
They continued forward for several minutes until they spotted a large clearing in the distance.
It looked like some sort of gathering place. A dozen logs were arranged in a huge circle. The pink flowers grew all around the clearing.
“Wow! Cool place!” Scott exclaimed. “You never told me about this.”
“I’ve never seen it before,” Becka said. “I must’ve taken a wrong turn back there.”
“What do you think this was?” Scott asked as he explored the area. “Maybe a Native American church or something? It looks ancient.”
Becka barely heard him. Instead, she walked along the logs, stopping every so often to smell one of the flowers. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
“What?”
“The flowers. Aren’t they beautiful?”
“Yeah. Beautiful. You know, Beck, those flowers are all you’ve talked about since we came out here.”
“They’re so beautiful.”
“What’s the matter with you?” Before she could answer, Scott’s eyes landed on something else — a large, makeshift altar made of flat gray stones. “Hey, check it out!”
They ran to it but suddenly came to a stop.
