A Spell for the Revolution Read Online Free PDF

as he reached Deborah’s side.
    “We are not fighting,” she said firmly. “And no one is holding her here against her will. If she does not approve of the way I do things, she is welcome to leave at any time.”
    The view beyond their gate grew clearer as they approached. The dark, blurry shape of the oak tree resolved into sharper detail, as did the post beneath it. But the entrance in the wall was empty, as was the road beyond it. No one was there.
    “This isn’t right,” Deborah said.
    “Maybe it was a stray animal, or—”
    “The spell on the post only works at the touch of human skin.”
    Proctor knew that, but he was disinclined to be shaken again the way he had let himself get spooked by the sickle at the barn. “So maybe a traveler came down the road, leaned on the post to rest, and was startled away by what he saw,” he suggested.
    “Then why didn’t he trip my outer spell?”
    A good question. “There’s got to be an explanation.”
    Zoe appeared beside them. “What’s that?” she asked.
    “What?” they said simultaneously.
    Magdalena, with Ezra at her elbow to help her, hobbled up as fast as she could move, the other students clustered behind her. “Right there, on the post,” Zoe said.
    Proctor had been expecting to see a person, so he had glanced past the bit of dark rag draped over the gatepost. Now that his attention had been drawn to it, he saw that a small envelope was also attached. He jumped through the gate before anyone else could react, intending to grab both items for inspection. His hand was stretched out to take them when the breeze ruffled the fine auburn threads attached to the rags, and he recognized them for what they were.
    “What’s the matter?” Deborah asked, stepping forward.
    He flung out an arm to stop her. “Don’t pass the gate. We aren’t safe out here, beyond the wall.”
    “What? Why?”
    “Get back behind the gate,” he said, scanning the road, the tree line, everywhere for any sign of danger. The tone of voice made her step back at once, before she had come all the way through.
    He grabbed the envelope and touched the post well clear of the other items, which he left behind as he stepped back through to the safety of their sanctuary again.
    “What is it?” Deborah asked.
    He lowered his voice, turning his body away from the others so they couldn’t hear. “Scalps. The Walkers.”
    His attempt to be discreet was for naught. Zoe, hanging at his side where he didn’t see her, blurted out, “It’s scalps! Can I see?”
    “No,” Proctor said. He put a hand on her back and moved her away from the wall.
    “Was it Indians?”
    “No.”
    “Well, who was it?”
    He didn’t answer, because his attention was turned to their border. He castigated himself for coming to the gate without a weapon—no musket, no knife, not even a stout club.
    The others were already shaken. Deborah had grown pale, lost in thought as she stared at the scalps. Magdalena stomped over to him and snatched the envelope from his hand. She tore it open, unfolded the letter, and read it. Angrily, she shook it in Proctor’s face. “What is the meaning of this?”
    He took the letter from her. In elegant script, the letter read:
    Dear Mr. Brown
,
    As a token of our memorable encounter, I deliver these items, which, due to the press of time or your hasty departure, you neglected to collect on your recent trip to Virginia.
    I look forward with some relish to the occasion when we meet again.
    With warmest feeling,
Yr. Indian Friend
    P.S. Please remember me to the dear ladies.
    “So it was an Indian?” Zoe asked, reading over his shoulder. “You said it wasn’t an Indian.”
    “No,” he said, turning the letter away from her only to have Deborah snatch it from his hand.
    Magdalena glared at him. “You two,” she said, jabbing her cane at Proctor and Deborah, “have been keeping secrets. Why does your friend call himself an Indian? Who is he?”
    “He’s no friend. He said