Chasing the White Witch (3 page)

Avenging Curse

On the night of a New Moon, harvest a branch from a yearling tree. By the flickering glow of candlelight, thump the stick against a thick rug while imagining the person who has wronged you. Chant three times:

Injustice has been done unto me

I summon the power of three times three

Aches and pains, soreness and stitch,

Wake up in the morning with twinge and itch.

Compost branch to complete spell.

P
aula
-Jean looked at me like I had three heads. “You can't possibly be serious.”

“Why not?” I said. “It's not like he doesn't deserve it.”

Paula-Jean shook her head. “You know, Claire, sometimes I think I know you — totally get you — and other times it's like you're this alien speaking some freak language.”

“It's just one teeny-tiny curse. Where's the harm in that? Besides,” I shrugged, “it's not like he hasn't cursed me a thousand times.”

“You see, Claire. Now, there's where you scare me. You don't see the difference between Jordan bugging you like any other big brother on the face of the earth — and you sneaking out in the middle of the night, maiming some poor, defenceless shrub, burning candles, and chanting weird voodoo stuff?”

“It's not voodoo, Peej — there's no doll involved. But now that you mention it …” I began flipping enthusiastically through the pages, but Paula-Jean snatched the book from my hands and slammed it shut.

She sighed and then switched strategies. “Look, didn't you skip some chapter introduction or something and miss some really important information? Shouldn't you at least read that first?”

I knew she was just trying to talk me out of my plan, but she did have a point. I wouldn't make the same mistake twice. I frowned and held out my hand. She reluctantly returned the book. I located the chapter introduction and read it out loud:

Incantations

Before preparing to cast out spells,

Listen closely, hark ye well:

Be wary of the three R rule you should:

Respect thyself, respect others, be responsible and good.

Seek no power from the suffering of others.

Treat all you meet as sisters and brothers.

For what goes out, returns threefold.

Ye have been warned, ye have been told.

“Warned!” shouted Paula-Jean, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me side to side violently. “Warned, Claire!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I grumbled, wriggling out of her grasp and standing up. “Peej, everything has warnings these days. They don't mean anything. They're just legal mumbo-jumbo so you can't end up suing the company.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “There you go scaring me again …”

“Let's just go through this logically, okay? First, I'm not seeking any
power
from Jordan's suffering, just a little enjoyment, right? And second, I am
totally
treating him like a brother — a
mean
brother …”

She narrowed her eyes and chewed her bottom lip. Then she pointed an accusing neon-green fingernail at me. “But what about the ‘
what goes out returns threefold
' part? What about that part,
genius?
” She flashed me a satisfied grin.

I thought about it for a second. I wasn't quite sure what to make of that line, but whatever it meant, I decided that if I could get back at Jordan for all his years of torment, it was definitely worth the risk. “Only one way to find out.”

The rest of the day oozed along like a drowsy slug. My mom was now anxiously organizing the good cutlery, dishes, and fine crystal. Seriously — you'd think the queen was popping over tomorrow for dinner instead of my grandparents. Anyway, Mom enlisted Paula-Jean and me to help peel potatoes and yams while she ran out for some last-minute ingredients.

The whole time Mom was gone, Paula-Jean kept trying different tactics to talk me out of what she claimed was sheer madness. But she was wasting her time. I had my mind made up and I'd inherited my grandmother's stubborn gene. Besides, I just had to try the book out again. After all, there was still a slight possibility that my pimple had healed itself all on its own. Was it really magic? I needed to know.

According to the calendar, the New Moon began tonight. Even nature was on my side. And then, when Jordan walked into the kitchen, grabbed a pop from the fridge, yelled, “Hey, check this out!” and proceeded to pull his T-shirt over his head and drink the entire can through his shirt, letting out a huge belch, completely embarrassing me in front of my best friend, not to mention grossing her out, I knew there was no turning back.

We spent the rest of the day and the early evening, munching on junk food, watching reality shows on TV, and reading through the teen trash magazines Mom had bought for us. After we got ready for bed, I set my alarm for 11:30. I wasn't going to take any chances. If I fell asleep, I'd have to wait an entire month until the next New Moon. Paula-Jean wouldn't let up. She kept trying to convince me to drop the whole thing, right up until she conked out. Too excited to sleep, I just lay there listening to her snore until the alarm finally went off. The loud noise startled her, but I grabbed her mouth before she could scream and then flicked on the bedside lamp.

Paula-Jean sat up. “You are seriously going through with this?” she asked, staring at me with a sort of bleak resignation pooling in her eyes.

“Yup.”

“And there's nothing I can say to talk you out of it?”

“Nope.”

Paula-Jean huffed loudly. She stood up and pulled her jeans and a sweatshirt on over her pyjamas. “Okay, then. Let's do it.”

You couldn't have pried the smile off my face with a crowbar as I grabbed my clothes and yanked them over my pajamas. I fished through my nightstand, located a flashlight, and with Paula-Jean close behind me, I crept to the door. The hallway was pitch-black. I pulled Paula-Jean out of my room and together we tiptoed down the stairs, slipped into our shoes, and stepped out the front door before Cyrus's little legs could catch up with us.

The autumn air was damp and cold. White smoke snaked from my nostrils, floated in the air for a moment, and then was snatched off by a bitter wind. Impatient winter seemed to be giving lazy fall a good hard shove and I suddenly found myself wishing I'd worn my jacket. I hugged my arms to my chest as I contemplated the best place to find a year-old tree.

“What are we waiting for? I'm freezing!” said Paula-Jean. “Just grab a branch already and let's go back inside.”

I searched up the street and back down looking for my victim. It was dark out — darker than usual. Even with the streetlamps lit on one side, without the silver glow of the moon, the night sky seemed murky and somehow ominous. I clicked on the flashlight and a white beam sliced through the shadows. I would have been slightly nervous were it not for Paula-Jean hugging my right side.

“Come on, Claire,” she huffed. “This isn't rocket science — just snap off a branch and let's go!”

“I can't just grab any old branch, Peej,” I said, shining the light in her face. “The book said it had to be a yearling. You've got to follow the instructions perfectly, you know.”

“Oh. 'Scuse me,” she mumbled, slapping the flashlight away. “I forgot you were some kind of creepy magic expert.”

I ignored her last comment and started walking toward the sidewalk. She ran to catch up and glued herself to me. Paula-Jean's thick mop of dark curls blew every which way as we headed down the street. She started to whine again, but I shot her a look that said,
I know what I'm doing
, to spare myself from any further arguments. I was on a mission — a deliciously daring and diabolical mission and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't enjoying every minute of it.

“Here we are,” I said, standing in front of Mrs. Walker's house. I pressed the flashlight into Paula-Jean's hands and fixed the shaft of light on a particular plant with narrow scarlet leaves and magnificent late-harvest pink-and-orange fruit dangling from its limbs.

“Old Lady Walker? Have you completely lost it?” Paula-Jean stepped backward until she was almost standing in the middle of the road. She shone the flashlight on me like a spotlight. “She'll skin you alive with her trowel if you touched even a blade of her prefect grass!”

Paula-Jean was right. My courage sprung a leak. I felt it draining from me like water from a sieve. But I wasn't about to let her know I was getting nervous. I forced steadiness into my voice.

“First off, I'm not after Mrs. Walker's grass, am I? Second, how do you think she's going to find out? Do you think she has security cameras guarding the place?” I rolled my eyes for dramatic effect, but secretly I was scanning the house's dark brick exterior, looking for anything remotely resembling a lens.

Mrs. Walker lived and breathed for her meticulously manicured lawn and garden. You'd see her out in all kinds of weather trimming and pruning and planting and mulching. She'd shriek like a banshee at anyone who happened to wander off the sidewalk and take a single step on her perfectly edged lawn. If she caught me ripping a branch off her shrub — her brand-new shrub, no less — there was no telling what she'd do to me.

Trouble was, I didn't see any way around it. I knew Mrs. Walker had planted a dwarf winterberry euonymus a few months ago. The only reason I knew what a dwarf winterberry euonymus was is because Mrs. Walker insisted on telling me and my mother every painfully boring detail about the darn thing when we ran into her in the grocery store last week. I didn't know much of anything about shrubs — let alone dwarf winterberry euonymuses — but I guessed that since the bush was recently planted it couldn't be more than a year old.

“You stay here, Peej,” I said, swallowing a baseball-sized lump that had formed at the back of my throat. “I'm going in.”

Paula-Jean gave me a mock salute and wished me luck. I turned and slunk up the driveway, eyeing the unsuspecting shrub nestled snugly against the side of the porch. I was going to be quick — greased lightning — I told myself, as I crept toward the cluster of reddish-brown leaves. I grabbed hold of a nice thin little branch and was about to snap it off, when suddenly the front door flew open.

“Who's out there?” screeched Mrs. Walker. “Show yourself, you coward!”

No way was I leaving without my prize. Adrenaline surged through my veins as I yanked wildly at the branch. Pink fruit and scarlet leaves flew every which way and when the branch finally snapped, I fell backward into the junipers. The spiky foliage poked through my clothes and stabbed my skin.

“Stop! Tree vandal! I'll have your head!” Mrs. Walker screamed. Luckily she wasn't wearing her glasses. She couldn't see a thing without them.

I scrambled to my feet, and, holding the branch like the Olympic torch, I flew across the lawn toward Paula-Jean, who was already tearing up the pavement making a beeline for my house. I could hear Mrs. Walker hollering behind me, but from her mad ravings I could tell she hadn't recognized me. As I ran, the leaves and fruit of the dwarf winterberry euonymus blew off the branch one by one, scattering evidence of my tree massacre to the wind.

I caught up with Paula-Jean. We ran neck and neck until we reached my house and then slipped back inside the front door. I stood in the safety of my dark hallway panting and puffing, holding my branch like I'd captured an enemy flag.

Paula-Jean growled something unrecognizable and began slapping my shoulders. Her hand froze mid-air when the old clock in the living room chimed midnight.

T
he
candle flickered, casting demon shadows on my bedroom wall. Paula-Jean sat silent and still — a little off to my left side, like she was worried the spell might go haywire and ricochet off the walls and onto her by accident. Cyrus was lying in his usual spot at my bedside. He raised his little eyebrows and then buried his snout deeper between his front paws as though he was avoiding certain disaster. The air was thick with anticipation, while the faint aroma of dwarf winterberry euonymus whispered into my nostrils.

I gripped the branch tightly in my right hand and then closed my eyes. I did my best to picture Jordan's goofy grin. I thought of all the millions of mean and nasty comments he'd made over the years. I thought about the time when I was seven and he got gum stuck in my hair. My parents had to practically shave me bald to get it all out. And the time he knocked me into a sea of mud — on photo day. I was a mess and although they let me do a retake for my personal portrait, there was nothing I could do about the class picture. And then there was the time he told Mom and Dad that
I
broke the chandelier when
he
was the one who dared me to throw a perfect spiral with his foam football. I had to pay for the chandelier with a whole five-months' worth of my allowance.

I struck the carpet with my branch once and became suddenly aware my lips had been moving independently of my brain. My little green book lay open in my lap, but I hadn't even glanced at it; I had blurted out the entire curse without even realizing it. The second time I made a conscious effort. I pronounced each word deliberately, thumping the stick three or four times, feeling all my anger and frustration toward Jordan sliding from my brain, down into my arm, through my hand, onto the stick ,and into the thick, beige carpet. The third time, it was like I was in some kind of weird trance. I thumped and thrashed and thwacked. I whipped and whomped and whacked. I beat that carpet so wildly the stick slipped from my hand, flew straight up in the air, and came down, smacking me right between the eyes, snapping me out of my stupor.

“Eeoowww!” I shouted, rubbing my forehead and turning toward Paula-Jean. “Did you see that? That branch attacked me!”

Paula-Jean stifled a giggle. “Serves you right, Claire. You were totally out of control.”

Before I could stop him, Cyrus hoisted himself to his feet. He scrambled toward the stick and snatched it in his gooey jaws. He nudged the door open, and made off into the hall and down the stairs with the dwarf winterberry euonymus. I would have chased after him, but my body suddenly felt like a sack of dirty laundry. I fell backward into the carpet and sighed deeply. Lack of sleep had definitely caught up with me.

“So?” asked Paula-Jean, yawning. “Do you think it worked?” She wriggled into her sleeping bag and fluffed her pillow.

“No idea,” I said. I barely had the energy to blow out the candle and crawl into my own sleeping bag. I lay there for a few moments thinking about Jordan and what I may or may not have done to him. A slight twinge of guilt flitted through my brain, but it was nothing that a deep yawn couldn't cure. “I guess we'll find out in the morning.”

In a matter of minutes, Paula-Jean was snoring away. Although my body felt as though I'd just run three consecutive marathons, I couldn't manage to fall asleep. I twisted and turned. My back was itchy where the juniper needles had stabbed me. My forehead was sore where the branch had struck me. And for some reason, no matter what position I tried, I just couldn't get comfortable.

Morning light dribbled through the cracks in the blinds, snuffing out any remaining chance I had of getting a decent night's sleep. Paula-Jean yawned and stretched, turning toward me all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

She smiled. “Hey.”

“Mm,” I grunted. As I wriggled out of my sleeping bag, a dull ache rippled through my whole body. I groaned.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing.” I decided not to tell Paula-Jean I felt like I'd been in a train wreck. I just knew she'd find a way to connect my aches and pains to the
what goes out, returns threefold
and I was in no mood for any I-told-you-sos.

I got up and got dressed as quickly as my sore limbs would allow. Despite my fragile condition, I was anxious to see if my curse had actually had any effect on Jordan.

Paula-Jean and I sat at the breakfast table suspiciously still, our cereal getting soggier by the moment, eyeing each other and waiting for Jordan to arrive. When I heard his bedroom door creak open and his lumbering steps descending the stairs, my back straightened and my pulse quickened.

“This is it,” I whispered. “This will tell us for sure if that book is magic.”

Paula-Jean nodded once and then fixed her eyes on the doorway.

Jordan entered the kitchen rubbing his neck. He stopped short when he saw us sitting there like a couple of statues, gawking at him.

“You two freaks practising for the staring Olympics?”

I fumbled for my spoon and shovelled a heap of mushy cereal into my mouth and pretended to chew. All the while, I studied Jordan as he walked over to the fridge, opened it, got out the milk, and poured himself a tall glass. He kept moving his head side to side, bending his neck and rolling his shoulders. He reached around and rubbed the small of his back with one hand and then scratched his scalp.

My jaw dropped and mushy cereal leaked out of my mouth. I glanced at Paula-Jean who had the same stunned look on her face. But a sore neck was one thing. I needed to hear him say it. I needed confirmation. I clamped my mouth shut, swallowed the cereal, and dragged a sleeve across my face. “Ask him,” I mouthed.

Paula-Jean shook her head violently.

“Ask him,” I repeated, this time in a whisper.

She shook her head again, so I kicked her lightly under the table.

“You ask him. He's your brother,” hissed Paula-Jean.

Jordan swung round to face us. He frowned. “Ask me what?” He was now rubbing his neck with his free hand, holding his milk with the other.

I cleared my throat. “Um … well … Paula-Jean was wondering …” She shot me a fierce scowl. “… if you, er … feel okay …” I winced. Even
I
thought I sounded ridiculous.

Jordan narrowed his eyes. For a second I thought he was going to just ignore me, but then he set his glass down on the counter, folded his arms and said, “If you really wanna know, I feel horrible. Like I slept on a bed of nails.”