by Kate Forsyth
‘The gardening lady said something about that.’
‘There’s a prophecy that says it won’t flower until the true king sits on the throne under the hill. The fairy king, you know.’
‘So I guess it won’t be flowering any time soon,’ Hannah said, then regretted her cynicism. It seemed so magical up here, at the very edge of night, with the world spread out under their feet. The first star shone out over the mountains.
Donovan shrugged. ‘I guess not.’ There was a long pause. ‘It’s a magical bush, though. Miss Underhill says witches make their wands out of its wood. And if you cast a blackthorn twig behind you it grows into an impenetrable hedge that nothing can cut through. She says the thorns around Sleeping Beauty’s castle were probably grown that way.’
He shrugged one shoulder, as if embarrassed to be caught talking about such things. ‘Come on! It’ll be too dark in a sec.’
Hannah thrust the blackthorn twig deep into her cardigan pocket, heedless of the thorns, and followed Donovan down the hill, laughing as they slipped and skidded on the damp earth. They ran through the trees to the pool, darker and more mysterious than ever.
‘What do I do?’ Hannah asked.
‘I don’t know. Drink some of the water. It’s meant to be healing. Then you tie a clootie to the bush.’
Hannah knelt by the pond and looked down into its gleaming black depths. The water was cold and sparkled on her tongue. She hesitated, not sure what to wish for. It seemed important that she choose wisely. For us to be happy, she thought. Here at Wintersloe Castle.
‘What’s a clootie?’ she asked.
‘A bit of rag. You’ve got to tear it, not cut it.’
Hannah did not hesitate. She took the torn piece of hem and ripped away a long strip of cloth. She tied it to the branch of the yew tree which hung over the pool.
‘Done,’ he said. ‘I hope you made a good wish. It’ll come true, you know.’
‘I hope so.’
A sudden loud croak made her jump. An enormous brown toad sat right by her hand. She squealed and scrambled back, then, bitterly ashamed of herself, bent to look at it more closely.
It croaked again, then opened its wide mouth and spat out a small grey stone with a hole bored through it. Hannah looked at it in astonishment. The toad croaked again, urgently, then pushed the stone towards her with its head. Wonderingly Hannah bent and picked up the stone. It was rather sticky and unpleasant, so she rinsed it in the pool and then raised it high to look at it.
‘It’s a holey stone!’ Donovan said. ‘Wow! I’ve only read about those.’
‘The toad gave it to me.’ Hannah was pleased and puzzled and intrigued all at once.
‘They’re meant to be magic.’ He stared at the toad in amazement.
‘In what way?’ Hannah had goose bumps all over her body. She stared at Donovan, wondering if he was mocking her with all his talk of magic and witches. He seemed serious, though, and she held in her hand a holey stone that a toad had spat at her feet. It was all too strange and uncanny.
‘I don’t know. Take it to Miss Underhill and ask her.’
‘At the fairy shop?’
Donovan nodded. ‘She calls them hag-stones, I don’t know why. She asked me once if I’d ever found one here in the woods. You should show it to her. She might buy it from you.’ He shook his head slowly, in disbelief and awe. ‘A toad, of all things. It makes you wonder . . .’
‘I don’t know. I mean, it’s a bit weird, isn’t it?’ Hannah looked down at the toad, which was sitting very still, regarding her with huge dark eyes.
Donovan shrugged. ‘Yeah. Weird things happen, though, especially round this hill. Maybe he likes you. Let’s catch him! I’d like a pet toad.’
As if understanding his words, the toad turned and waddled quickly away under a bush. In seconds, it had disappeared. Donovan laughed. ‘Well, he didn’t want to be caught, did he?’
‘He? How can you tell?’
‘By his big thumbs. Also I heard him calling before. Girl toads don’t call like that.’
‘How come you know so much about toads?’
He shrugged. ‘I like animals. I’d like to be a vet, except you have to go to uni and stuff, and I can’t stand school. So I might be a park ranger or something.’
‘I hate school too.’ Hannah got up, clutching the hag-stone in her hand. It was now dark under the trees, and too dark to climb the yew tree back into the garden. She could barely see its thick, hulking shape any more, let alone where to safely put her feet on its branches. She was shivering, both from the cold and from a sudden superstitious terror that made her wish she was somewhere warm and bright and ordinary.
On impulse Hannah lifted the hag-stone to her left eye, looking through it. To her amazement, Hannah could now see the path as clearly as if it was drenched in moonlight. She dropped the hag-stone. All was dark and cold. She lifted it to her eye again. All was clear and bright.
Beside her, Donovan stumbled through the bushes, swearing. She held out her right hand. ‘Here, take my hand. I can see the way.’
‘You must be able to see like a cat. I can’t see anything,’ he grumbled.
Hannah did not say anything about the hag-stone. She was by nature reluctant to confide in anyone, let alone a boy she had only just met. She wanted to have time to think about what had just happened, and what it meant. The less said, the better, she thought, repeating one of her mother’s favourite maxims.
She reached out and took his hand. He held her fingers as lightly as if he was holding some small hurt animal. Hannah led him along the path, the hag-stone held to her left eye, wondering at the clarity of her sight. She felt as if she had strayed into a fairytale, as full of peril as of wonder, a place where anything could happen. She looked about her and saw odd shadows crouched under bushes, and small points of light like gleaming eyes, and her steps quickened with her heart. Donovan kept pace with her, stumbling over snaking roots and stones that Hannah could see clearly.
When Hannah reached the road that led from the village, she dropped the hag-stone from her eye and was once again standing in darkness. Only the row of black and white striped posts, with their red shiny triangles of reflective metal, showed where the road ran. The tall gates of Wintersloe Castle were only a few steps away, and Hannah could see the lights of the tiny gatehouse and smell food cooking.
‘I’d better head back. My dad’ll be furious. See you tomorrow, hey?’
‘Okay.’ Hannah gave a wave of her hand and went in through the little gate.
Donovan began to hurry away down the road, his shoulders hunched under his long black coat.
As she walked up the shadowy driveway to the house, Hannah lifted the hag-stone to her eye to see the landscape illuminated brightly, then dropped it to see the landscape dark and scary once more. It was a trick she thought she would never grow tired of. Her body fizzled with excitement and amazement and disbelief. All her life Hannah had longed for magical adventures—to ride a unicorn, to find a dragon’s egg, to rub a lamp and conjure a genie. Never had she expected a toad would spit an enchanted stone at her feet. But then, she had never expected to discover she was the lost great-granddaughter of a countess either.
The Black Rose
‘Where have you been?’ Roz cried as soon as Hannah came through the front door. ‘We’ve been calling for you for hours!’
Hannah stiffened her back. ‘I went up the hill with that boy Donovan.’
‘Look at you! Your dress is torn, your hair’s a mess! You are not to go wandering off with some strange boy!’ Roz’s voice was shrill. ‘It’s dark out there, Hannah! When are you going to learn some sense?’
‘She’s right, my lamb.’ Linnet was standing in the shadows, her face creased with concern. ‘That hill is not a safe place at the best of times, but certainly not at dusk or dawn or midnight. You mustn’t go round it, or climb it, and you must never, ever go inside the cave. Will you promise me?’
Hannah had no intention o
f promising any such thing. She glared at her mother. ‘I was just exploring. I didn’t go very far. It’s not my fault I didn’t hear you. It’s a big garden!’
Roz gave her a little shake. ‘Just stay where I can see you, all right?’
Hannah wrenched herself free. ‘Oh, don’t fuss, Mum! I’m not a little kid any more. Nothing’s going to happen to me.’
‘Your father was a grown man,’ Roz said through stiff lips, her hand clenched about the ring beneath her shirt. ‘Yet something happened to him, didn’t it?’
‘That doesn’t mean I have to spend my whole life being treated like a little kid,’ Hannah flashed back. ‘It’s not fair!’
Roz took a deep breath. ‘Just don’t go wandering off with any more strange boys. Please!’
‘Not up the fairy hill,’ Linnet murmured from the shadows. ‘It’s a wicked place now, that green hill.’
Hannah rolled her eyes as her mother stalked away.
‘Come, my chick,’ Linnet said. ‘I’ve given you your father’s old room, the tower room. It’s only tiny, but I think you’ll like it. There’s not a child alive who would not like to sleep in that tower room. I’ve made up the bed for you, and put a hot-water bottle in it, ’cause you’ll not be used to the cold. It was your father’s hot-water bottle and you’ll smile when you see it, for I knitted him a puppy dog cover for it because he so badly wanted a dog when he was a boy . . .’
Talking softly, the old woman led Hannah through a bewildering sequence of oak-panelled staircases, echoing corridors, and empty halls with faded tapestries and vast stone fireplaces, through which the icy wind whistled in a most mournful way. Hannah thought that she would never be able to find her way back down to the warm comfort of her great-grandmother’s drawing room, with its gold velvet drapes and gilded mirror.
‘Don’t you worry,’ Linnet said. ‘Give you a week and you’ll know the place better than I do.’
They came to a long hallway, hung with massive portraits. The faces were all grim and stern and sad. ‘Are these all my ancestors? They look utterly miserable.’
‘A lot of sorrowing at Wintersloe,’ Linnet said. ‘It’s the curse, you know.’
‘So there really is a curse? It’s not just an old tale?’
‘I wish it were,’ Linnet said. ‘But the curse is all too real. It was all due to him, the first of the Black Roses.’ She nodded her curly white head at the portrait of a tall, dark man with a pointed beard, a curled moustache and a sardonic expression.
‘Who’s he? And what’s a Black Rose?’
‘That’s Lord Montgomery Rose, the first Earl of Wintersloe. Up till then, the Roses all had red hair, like you do yourself. But his mother was a Spanish lady. Lord Montgomery inherited her black looks and her black temper, and since then, it’s said there’s a Black Rose every few generations, all with a devilish temper.’
‘I always thought it was redheads who had bad tempers,’ Hannah said ruefully, tugging at her wild copper-coloured curls.
‘Oh, yes, but with the Red Roses it’s quickly lost and quickly regained. The Black Roses, though, they can brood over something for years.’
Hannah stared up at the portrait. The young man was dressed in a doublet and ruff, with a wild rose in one hand. In the background was a castle with a hill behind it crowned with a flowering thorn.
‘What did he do?’
‘He lost his temper,’ Linnet said. ‘Then when he got it back again, he was too proud to admit he was in the wrong. It’s a bad combination, temper and pride. He caused a lot of harm.’
‘I mean, what did he do to get himself cursed?’
Linnet sighed. ‘He married a lady from under the hill, one of the Fair Folk, but he didn’t trust her. His jealousy drove him half mad, and he cast her out of the castle. The local folk burnt her as a witch.’
Hannah felt a chill. She rubbed her arms. ‘So she cursed him?’
Linnet nodded.
‘What happened to him?’
‘Lord Montgomery had fought for Mary, Queen of Scots, and she made him an earl in thanks. But then when she fled to England—a few months after Lord Montgomery’s wife was burnt as a witch—those who had supported the queen were all punished by the rebel lords. Lord Montgomery died defending the castle, and it was burnt down around his ears. It was what his wife had predicted. “By fever, fire, storm and sword,” she said, and indeed we’ve had them all here at Wintersloe.’
There was a long pause, and Hannah heard the wind moaning through the vast cold chimney. The curtains at the window stirred, and somewhere a board creaked.
‘They say that one day a Red Rose will save a Black Rose and solve the puzzle ring, and break the curse,’ Linnet said softly, tweaking one of Hannah’s long red curls. ‘Who’s to say it won’t be you?’
Hannah nodded. ‘I mean to break it,’ she answered.
‘But that’s enough talk about curses and witches.’ Linnet smiled rather sadly. ‘We don’t want you having nightmares your first night at Wintersloe. Come and I’ll show you your room.’
Linnet led Hannah up another staircase, so narrow and steep and twisty that only a child or a very small old woman could walk up it without having to go sideways. At the top was a low arched doorway of oak so old it was almost black. A star made of twigs hung above it.
‘Rowan,’ Linnet said, pointing one gnarled finger. ‘Protect you from all harm. In we go. There’s your things, all safe and sound, and look, I’ve hung your pyjamas on the radiator so they’ll be nice and warm. I’ll let you get settled, then I’ll come back by and by to show you the way to the dining room. Och, but it’s a feast I’ve cooked for you tonight!’
Hannah woke slowly. She lay for a moment, conscious of the warmth of her bed, listening to birdsong that was quite different to the hectic, mocking laughter of the kookaburras greeting the dawn in Australia. She opened her eyes and looked around, curling her toes in joy.
Linnet was right. It was only a small room, but quite big enough for a skinny almost-thirteen year old girl. It had eight narrow walls, with the door taking up one side, and the windows another four. This left room for a tiny fireplace; a long, thin wardrobe painted blue with cream wheat-sheaves on the doors; and a tiny dressing table with six shallow drawers. A plump stool covered in faded red velvet was just the right height for Hannah to sit down and look at her face in the mirror. A painting of a stag and a loch and a castle hung above the fireplace. To Hannah’s disappointment, the fireplace had been bricked up and a radiator put in. She would have liked to lie in bed and watch flames flickering on the hearth.
Hannah leapt out of bed and ran to one diamond-paned window after another, looking out across the chimneys and gables towards Ben Lomond, at the sparkling loch, at the wych elm tree tossing its bright golden leaves in the wind, and over the garden to the ruined castle, Fairknowe Hill rising behind. Its crown of blackthorn looked more tangled and misshapen than ever in the early morning sunshine.
Leaning out of the window to look at the view to the north, Hannah noticed there was a gargoyle perched below her windowsill. Hanging over the sill, she saw it had fronds of leaves curling from his brow. So at each window she bent over to see, and sure enough, there was a gargoyle for each direction of the compass. Westwards was a scaly merman with a triton shell to his mouth. South was a dragon with spread wings and snarling mouth. Facing east, towards Fairknowe Hill, was a horned imp with wings and a wicked face.
A painted chest stood at the foot of the bed. Opening it, Hannah discovered it was full of old toys and books. She sat on the floor and looked through the books. Most of them had the name Robert Rose inscribed in them in a dashing, impatient hand, with a strange symbol drawn underneath. It looked like a heart on three legs, one straight and two curling. It was formed by two capital Rs, drawn back to back, facing in either direction like Janus, the two-faced god who looked to both the past and the future.
The books were mainly Biggles and Hardy Boys, but there was one thick old volume called A C
hild’s Treasury of Verse which Hannah picked up, for she loved songs and poetry and often tried to write her own. Opening the book, Hannah was most surprised to find that all the pages in the book had been glued together and a hole had been cut in the centre of the book. Inside was an old ornate iron key, red with rust.
Hannah stared in amazement. Who could have hidden the key? And what did the key open? Her mind flashed to the gate in the old yew tree, but that was a modern padlock and this key looked very old. Thoughtfully she weighed it in her hand, then, feeling shivery with cold, skipped back to bed and pulled out the hag-stone from under her pillow. It lay in her palm, rough and grey and ordinary, except for the hole worn through the centre. She lifted it to her left eye, but the room looked just the same. So she held it to her ear. She could hear the piteous sound of a dog howling. When she took it away from her ear, the howling stopped. Each time she held it to her ear, she heard the dog again.
Pondering this, Hannah tried slipping her fingers through the hole, as if the stone were a ring. It fitted perfectly on the ring finger of her left hand. She twisted it round and round her finger, wondering how she could find out more about the hag-stone. I’ll visit the Fäerie Knowe, she thought. Though I won’t tell Miss Underhill I’ve got it.
A soft knock came on the door. Hannah took the stone off her finger—to her relief, it came off without any trouble—and thrust it and the rusty old key under her pillow, just as Linnet came in, stooped over a heavy tray.
‘Morning, my lamb! I thought you’d like breakfast in bed, your first day here. I know you don’t like porridge, so I made you some cinnamon rolls. I know you like cinnamon.’
How? Hannah thought. How could she possibly know?
Linnet put the tray down on the end of Hannah’s bed. It had four little legs that folded down so Hannah could sit up in bed and eat as if at a tiny table. A crimson rose was tucked into her napkin. Hannah smelt the rose, then unfolded her napkin. She had never had breakfast in bed before.
Linnet smiled when Hannah told her. ‘Many new things happening to you now. Oh, but it’s good to see you, my chick.’ She surprised Hannah by seizing her face and kissing her warmly on both cheeks.
