Wicked's Way

by Anna Fienberg

  ‘Instincts,’ repeated the bird.

  ‘Guts,’ said Wicked.

  ‘Guts,’ said Doomsday. ‘I’ll have yer guts for garters!’

  Wicked grinned, and they sang guts for garters! to keep their spirits up until the path began to climb and a pinhole of daylight beckoned ahead.

  The sun spread deliciously over his back as Wicked hauled himself up into the world. He kneeled on the grass and lifted his face to the breeze. Squinting, he made out fern trees and figs, and beyond, a forest of bloodwoods. Somewhere in the middle would be a clearing, and the house of the Wise Woman.

  Here, in this wild windswept spot on the edge of the forest and the beginning of the sea, there was nobody. He pulled his hat down over his eyes. Something in his stomach was churning.

  ‘He who hesitates is lost,’ croaked Doomsday.

  ‘Guts for garters,’ said Wicked, and stood up. He stretched his arms and straightened his back. His bones cracked. ‘Now we’ll go and see about that herb.’

  Doomsday said nothing.

  ‘I know, I know, but who can tell what the man’ll do if he doesn’t get what he wants,’ Wicked burst out. ‘His reach is long and deadly – I was thinking it over all last night. He’ll turn real nasty. To you, and to me.’ Wicked bit his lip, glancing at Doomsday. ‘I’ll just do this one more thing, and then we’ll be free. And anyway, it’s only a plant, no one’s gunna die if we take it. Wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen at sea, either, if Horrendo’s lobster mornay lost a tad of its flavour.’

  ‘Food for thought.’

  ‘Aye.’ Wicked quenched the flame and laid the torch on the ground beside a rock for his return. And then he took his first steps into the forest.

  It was dark and cool with the trees thickening around him and the ferns crisscrossing above in a green roof, whispering in the wind. Secrets rustled in the leaves. The ferns gave way to taller trees, and there was the scent of nutmeg. His breath tightened – how long it had been since that spice had tickled his nose! He drew in great draughts of it as he crept forward, sticks snapping underfoot. His eyes watered and he wiped them with the back of his hand. Doomsday clucked and clicked near his ear, trembling.

  And then, directly ahead, he saw it. In a clearing on a small rise of hill was a wooden house. A chimney was smoking even though the day was warm, and to the side was the vegetable garden, bordered by hibiscus bushes.

  He picked his way towards it, keeping to the thicket of trees. He peered out from behind a bloodwood. So close now, he could reach out and touch one of the hibiscus flowers.

  Then, from the house, there came the rise and fall of voices. A door opened and he ducked down so suddenly that Doomsday almost lost his hold. ‘Ssh!’ Wicked warned, shutting his beak with his fingers as the bird began to squawk.

  Two people, no, three were coming down the stone steps. A cat, draped like a rug around the tall woman’s shoulders, yawned in the sun.

  ‘But Gretel,’ the boy with the floppy hair turned to ask her, ‘why do you think the other plants died?’

  Wicked started at the voice. He stared. Irritation rose like steam under his skin.

  The woman shook her head. ‘The herb has been in my family since the time of my great grandmother. No one ever knew how she came by them but the original wise seeds were sown in her garden, right here where we’re standing.’

  ‘So maybe the soil anywhere else, even just an arm’s length away, mightn’t be right for it?’ the girl behind them cut in.

  ‘That’s a good hypothesis, Blusta. You’re learning so much in such a short time.’

  ‘Isn’t she, though?’ agreed the boy warmly. ‘You should see her broccoli and spinach at home – her garden’s keeping the whole tavern supplied! And as for her strawberries, I’ve never tasted anything so sweet and juicy.’

  The woman smiled. ‘Your enthusiasm helps to keep everyone blooming, my dear Horrendo.’

  Nitwit! Wicked had to bite his cheek to stop from cursing.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Horrendo. ‘But you said there’s only a couple of your seeds left, and they’re not sprouting. What if …’

  ‘The dried herb in the library will see us through the year. Only a speck is needed in any pot, as you know,’ said Gretel.

  ‘You worry too much,’ said Blusta, and kissed Horrendo on the cheek.

  ‘Old habits,’ smiled Gretel.

  Horrendo blushed a fiery red.

  Wicked ground his teeth. Typical! Now the dunderhead even had a girlfriend. And look at that pair of females, worrying about him worrying!

  ‘Talking of hypotheses,’ Horrendo went on. ‘I’ve asked Rascal to look into how to care for the last remaining plant. And how we might get new seeds. You know, he’s come on tremendously since we built the science laboratory. He spends hours there after class, experimenting, mixing his chemicals. He’s so keen to learn.’

  Gretel nodded. ‘It’s a great gift.’ She turned to Blusta. ‘I think it runs in the family.’ She stroked the cat’s paw thoughtfully. ‘Work with your brother, Blusta, and share your botanical gift. You two are going to make some important discoveries, I know.’

  Horrendo groaned. ‘But that’s just it. If Rascal could focus on the one thing he would get somewhere, but he’s so … scattered. He’s into everything! You know he’s mad about those salt crystals from the caves? He reckons if you mix them with, well, I can’t remember exactly – this and that – he can turn things invisible. That is, it only lasts a few minutes, but he’s working on it. Time is the problem, he says. Yesterday, he disappeared Bombastic’s puppy, right in the middle of its dinner. Everyone got a terrible shock. The hound stayed vanished for half an hour. He wasn’t just invisible, he’d sort of melted away completely! Rascal was ecstatic about the “longer duration of the invisible state” but Bombastic said it might scar the poor dog for life. “No it won’t,” said Rascal. “Just look at the evidence before you.” And he pointed to the puppy, who’d gone back to wolfing down its dinner as if nothing had happened. Well, Bombastic was ready to jump on him. He tried to grab the potion but Rascal was too quick – he fairly flew back to the laboratory to find out what ingredient was responsible for this “great improvement in durability”, as he calls it.’

  Horrendo gave a loud sigh after this long speech and collapsed on the garden bench. Blusta sat down next to him.

  ‘It’s just, well, I feel so responsible for everything,’ Horrendo said quietly. ‘You know, this whole village changing, the tourist boom, all the villagers’ hard work, the well-fed holiday makers – it’s because of my … well … and it all rests on that herb, doesn’t it?’

  Gretel put a hand on his shoulder. ‘We will see,’ was all she said before she wandered back up the steps. At her door, she turned and added, ‘Visit the library whenever you wish, Horrendo, and take your supply of the herb. But remember, only a pinch. It’s important that the store stays safe in case we have no luck with the seed,’ and she passed through the doorway, and was gone.

  ‘I hope you heard: just one pinch,’ said Blusta, pulling Horrendo up beside her. ‘You know how you overdo things sometimes. What you need is more confidence in your own cooking.’

  ‘But she didn’t say whereabouts in the library the herb is. Tucked into a book? There are hundreds of them. What, am I supposed to have a magic nose, as well?’ He let out a small grunt of anger. ‘Why does she have to be so … mysterious. Infuriating. Frustrating. Maddening!’ He looked surprised, then guilty. ‘You know, it still feels strange to say bad words out loud.’

  Blusta grinned. ‘They aren’t so bad, and the herb is in the Reference section, under the first letter of the Librarian’s mother’s name.’

  ‘Oh! Why didn’t she tell me that? So what is it?’

  Blusta quickly glanced about her, suddenly looking doubtful. ‘I shouldn’t have even told you that. Not here, out in the open. It’s like a password, we mustn’t say it out loud.’ She pulled Horrendo up beside her. ‘I’ll tell you later, but now w
e’ve got to go and help Squid get ready for his opening night.’

  ‘What, the Beach Bar is finished?’

  Blusta nodded. ‘Buzzard put the last touches to the carpentry last night. He was up for hours varnishing tables. They’re perfect – so shiny you can see your face in them! And Mischief has painted a mural on the back wall.’

  ‘Will there be some kind of show?’

  ‘Yes!’ Blusta grinned. ‘Rip is going to play the accordion and Hoodlum is doing his magic tricks. It’ll be fun! And afterwards, there’ll be limbo dancing …’ Blusta glanced at him from under her lashes.

  But Horrendo was worrying. ‘Maybe I should bake some of my sticky date cakes and chocolate-filled sponges. No, I should be at the tavern early to prepare, there’ll be a full house for dinner …’

  ‘Oh, heaven give me patience!’ Blusta burst out. ‘The kitchen can do without you for one night.’

  As they wandered off hand in hand, their heads together, Wicked sucked his cheek. Even as the two disappeared down the path back to the village, he could hear them chattering on, clackety clack, like crickets on a summer night.

  He sat back on his heels. He didn’t know what to think about first. With a shock he realised that the Captain didn’t know the herb was dying. That seemed odd – and yet oddly useful.

  For a moment he imagined returning empty-handed. He shivered, even though the morning was warm. ‘We’re gunna have to sneak into town and find that library,’ he told Doomsday, leaping up.

  A sudden cramp made him bend double.

  Breaking into a library seemed worse than digging up dirt. Just the thought made the bile rise in his throat. And he didn’t know that password. Who was this Librarian? And her mother? Blimey, how would he discover that? But then he straightened. If he had to go into town, at least he’d get an eyeful of that famous tavern. He had to admit, he was curious. He wanted to take a squiz at that laboratory, too. And just fancy, old Squid – with his own bar! It was amazing …

  Doomsday climbed up to peck under Wicked’s hair. He found something tasty to eat. Wicked’s scalp prickled. And his skin felt sticky with salt and grime. He hadn’t looked in a mirror for months.

  ‘Hmm, maybe I should have a wash before I go.’ But his stomach rumbled like a storm brewing. ‘I’m so hungry I could eat the hoofs off a horse. Maybe I can snatch something tasty from the market.’

  He smoothed his shirt and combed his beard with his fingers. Then he and Doomsday followed the sandy path to the village.

  The track wound through low brush that thickened into forest on either side. Out past the bloodwoods on his left there was the ocean but up ahead the track took a sharp turn to the right to avoid a deep ravine.

  A loose rope-bridge was slung across the cavernous drop where a river rushed to the sea. The bridge cut straight across to the village, towards the first scattering of grey peaked roofs. Some of the wooden planks had fallen away, leaving the ropes slack. It was so frayed in parts, Wicked didn’t know if it would hold his weight.

  ‘It’d be a short cut,’ he told Doomsday, ‘but I’ve got no stomach for heights anymore. Besides, that fall would be deadly. I’ve got you to think about now.’

  ‘Remember to stop and smell the roses,’ Doomsday remarked.

  A rope between mangrove trees swung into his mind. A lazy river. You’re a natural, whispered his mother. You can walk anything.

  Wicked shook his head and kept to the main path.

  It was hot trudging through the bush and as the path rose steeply, bees swarmed in the honeysuckle, their wings throbbing in the moist still air. It was going to be tricky, Wicked thought. He’d have to keep his hat over his eyes … and maybe he could walk with a limp. He’d keep to himself. With any luck the villagers would all be out and about, and quite a crowd of them there’d be, if he remembered rightly. No one would notice one bearded, hungry, hatted fellow with a parrot on his shoulder, would they? No one ever noticed him when he wanted them to, so why would things change now?

  Chapter 26

  The village square was bright with stalls selling nuts and beans, rice, fish, pumpkins, plantains and barrows of watermelon. There were wicker baskets of mangoes splendidly done up with ribbon, and barrels of live blue-crabs. Wicked darted among them, his eyes under his wide brim bigger than the two oranges he picked up and pocketed. Folk milled about him like a school of sardines. He’d never seen so many different people herded together in all his born days. Odd people. They wore strange clothing in styles he had never seen before, and even the men sported necklaces of beads and bracelets on their wrists. They strolled about unhurried as if they had no work to go to or any burden on their minds. He watched them enjoying the day, tasting coconut milk and mango juice from a stall offering free drinks. They slapped each other on the back and chatted about the weather and their children, discussing the various bargains they had found.

  ‘That tourist boat came in early this morning, eh?’ said a familiar voice.

  Wicked spun around to see Goose standing behind a stall from which the most intoxicating aromas were rising. Was Goose talking to him?

  ‘Aye, we weren’t expectin’ them, neither,’ Goose went on. ‘The tavern will be right full tonight, not to mention the B&B.’ He was turning over a whole pig on the spit, basting the sides with oil. Next to the barbecue were roasted chickens kept warm over a potbellied stove. At the sight and smell of it all, a dizzy sensation started behind Wicked’s eyes. When he blinked, stars prickled in a night sky and he saw the stove his mother had cooked on, remembered the smell of her roasting hen.

  ‘What can I get ye, sir?’ Goose asked him now.

  ‘Oh, err, well,’ mumbled Wicked, pulling down his hat.

  ‘Just havin’ a once-over like, before ye decide, eh?’

  ‘That’s it,’ replied Wicked, dropping his voice a few notes. Next time he might try a Spanish accent, he thought, or French maybe.

  Goose didn’t seem worried that he didn’t want to buy. ‘You take yer time, sir,’ he said in a friendly way, grinning widely. ‘’Ere, ’ave this to help ye consider me merchandise, like,’ and he offered Wicked a chicken leg in a folded napkin. ‘And take this for yer fine-lookin’ parrot.’ He popped a morsel of meat into Doomsday’s beak.

  ‘Merci,’ muttered Wicked, and sidled away.

  He found a space to sit down on the grass behind the market, and lunged into his drumstick. Oh, the joy of it! Grease gleamed on his mouth and cheeks, and he wiped it with his beard. In his other fist he had a small crusty loaf that the baker – who looked like an older version of Bombastic – had given him ‘to tickle his fancy’. In the pockets of his jacket he had the oranges, a nice ripe avocado, a small kerosene lamp a stall holder was giving away, and a banana cake. He felt rich and full, fat as a fly, as Doomsday said, swooning in the sun.

  He lay back for a moment and closed his eyes. Happy voices drifted over him like music. It sounded good to his ears, that trilling flute of a woman’s laughter. He thought about the dark cave he would return to and the silence; the drip of musty water on stone and the dungeon where he’d sleep. Why didn’t he work here, like Goose, finding his ease in friendly banter, snacking on pheasant?

  Because he had a job to finish. A wave of nausea passed over him and he burped up chicken. He had to get that herb before his life could be his own.

  He stood up and dusted down his trousers. The sooner he got on with it the better.

  But on his way out he couldn’t help stopping to examine the little footstools and night tables at the homewares stall. The dark wood was polished to perfection and just begged to be touched. As he gave a secret pat to a silken surface he felt a hand on his shoulder. He jumped, and his hat slipped. Quickly he jerked it around to cover his eyes.

  ‘Can I interest ye in this ’ere tavola, sir?’

  ‘Tavola?’

  The man grinned. ‘It’s foreign, like, for table. The Librarian at school told me that, an’ all. Goes down well with the tourists.’
<
br />   ‘Librarian? Where is …’

  ‘I noticed you appreciatin’ our fine woodwork,’ the man said proudly. ‘That table you’re lookin’ at is pure polished mahogany. Made it meself.’

  ‘Aye, it’s a fine piece of furniture. But what I wanted to know was—’

  ‘I ’aven’t seen the likes of ye ’ere before, I don’t reckon.’ The man eyed Wicked thoughtfully. ‘Are ye a tourist yerself then sir?’

  ‘In a manner of … er, speaking,’ said Wicked. ‘I’m a … er, merchant, looking at … er, wooden goods.’

  ‘You’ve come to the right place then, yessir!’ In his eagerness the man pushed back his long hair and Wicked saw half his ear was missing.

  Buzzard! Wicked wouldn’t have recognised him. The man had round rosy cheeks and a lively sparkle in his eyes. The hard set of his jaw had loosened into a smile so that the whole shape of his face seemed different. Wicked couldn’t help smiling back at him and he nearly came out with his name, but stopped himself just in time.

  ‘Bein’ in the trade as you are sir,’ Buzzard said, ‘you’ll appreciate fine work. Will ye take a squiz at this fine walnut finish?’

  ‘So you made this, all these … er, things did you?’ asked Wicked in wonder. All Buzzard’d ever done on board was slap together a barrel, or repair a yardarm. But this was the work of an artist.

  ‘Aye, got me own workshop at the school back there.’ Buzzard jerked his thumb at a circle of rainbow-coloured buildings behind the square. ‘Got more work than ye can poke a stick at, but I like to help out, ye know. Teach the little varmints on a Thursdy and Fridy. Here they come now, me two best pupils.’ He smiled proudly.

  Two boys, one short and one tall, came up and tugged at Buzzard’s arm. ‘You want us to take over the stall now for yer, Mr Buzzard?’

  ‘Aye, lads, soon.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘When I go an’ get me afternoon tea, like. There’s scones today.’ He looked at the boys fondly. ‘This ’ere’s Rowdy and Hoodlum. I’m teachin’ ’em everyfink I know. Me apprentices.’