The Magical Misadventures of Prunella Bogthistle

by Deva Fagan

  “I am a Bogthistle—you’ll see.” I whirled on Barnaby, crooking my finger. His eyes widened.

  “Hey!” He took a step back. “I thought you were helping me.”

  “Bogthistles don’t help stupid Uplanders who waltz into places they don’t belong,” I said, trying to sound as sharp and iron-hard as Grandmother. The boy would have a good life as a frog, I told myself. Much better than if I cursed him with the doom of a hundred misfortunes. I spat out the words, squinching my eyes at the end. I couldn’t watch.

  Brightness flared against my eyelids. But when I opened them, there was no frog. Only Barnaby, quirking a brow at me. “Was that supposed to be a curse?” He dusted off his jacket. “I reckon you’d better stick with the oil-dousing. All that did was give me spots in my eyes. Nice and flashy, though.”

  I sputtered, turning to Grandmother. “It’s not fair. How can I prove I’m one of you when you won’t tell me what to do?”

  She didn’t speak. Her look was enough. Never before had I seen sorrow in her eyes. I could stand Grandmother’s anger. I could endure her chivvying over my failed curses. But I could not bear that look. The stern line of her lips trembled, just for a moment. I had to fix this.

  “Pl— I mean, just tell me what you want, Grandmother. I’ll do it.”

  The flash of sorrow was gone as if it had never been. She cocked her head, staring at me. “It’s not a matter of what I want. What do you want, Prunella?”

  “To be a proper Bogthistle.” I scrambled for the words to convince her. “Just give me one more chance.” I kept my knees locked in place, lest I fall to the muddy earth.

  Grandmother huffed. She turned upon Barnaby. “It’s your lucky day, asparagus thief. I won’t turn you into a frog.”

  “Aahh…thank you?” Barnaby stepped back a pace anyway.

  “You won’t?” I asked.

  “No. I’ll leave that for you, Prunella. If you somehow manage to properly curse this thief—or anyone, for that matter—I just might reconsider things.”

  I rocked on my stiff legs, steadying myself against one of the waist-high pumpkins. “Really?”

  She eyed me sharply. “I don’t hold out much hope of it, mind you. The way your curses have been going, I expect he’ll be prince of the Uplands first.”

  “Oh, Grandmother, thank you. I’ll do it. I will. I—”

  “Enough!” she snapped. “I don’t need maudlin gratitude. You’ve still got a lot to learn, Prunella. Being a Bogthistle isn’t just about having warts or turning someone into a frog. But I can’t teach you that. You’ll have to figure it out yourself. Out there.” She jabbed one finger to the north. I did not move.

  “Off with you now,” she said. “Go on.”

  “G-go?” I stammered. “You’re throwing me out?”

  She didn’t say anything more. Instead, she pursed her lips, whistling an eerie wavering call like the wail of a ghost. From somewhere out in the darkness came a low grumbling bellow.

  “You’re setting Yeg on me?” My feet were lead, my thoughts a flock of crows, wheeling and turning in madcap flight. She couldn’t do this. It could not be happening.

  Grandmother spun on her heel and stalked into the alchemy shop. The door slammed. I was never, ever, going to get inside. The closed door stared back at me. My future. Gone.

  The bellow sounded again, closer. I shook myself. I still had one hope. I just needed to curse Barnaby. And for that, we both needed to be alive. Besides, a bog-witch would not give up. She would find a way to make things work. I drew in a steadying breath.

  I grabbed the boy’s elbow, pointing toward the mass of cypress trees that bounded the bottom of the garden. “This way.” We ran, Yeg’s thunderous bellows ringing through the night behind us.

  Chapter 2

  I leapt over a soggy pool, then bounded onward, past the bent cypress knees that poked up from the mire. Barnaby cursed as his slick boots skidded across a fallen log, nearly sending him flying. The ground shook with Yeg’s pursuit. Trees cracked, splintered, and fell behind us.

  As I ran, I searched the swamp for anything useful. The trinkets and herbs tied to my scarf clattered and chimed, but none of them could help me now. Nothing but the strongest of magics would stop Yeg. Magics I did not have.

  I stomped down my fears. I would not waste this chance. I would prove Grandmother wrong. I might not be able to blast Yeg with a curse of fireballs, but I was still a Bogthistle. I would make do with what I had: my wits, my charms, and Barnaby the thief-hero.

  We raced onward. The ground turned firmer, broken by jutting granite boulders. The crash of falling trees and an endless chilling scrape of scaly skin pursued us. Barnaby had produced a short but wicked-looking dagger somewhere along the way. It wouldn’t do much against Yeg, but it was something.

  Finally, we staggered into a clearing, both of us panting for breath. The slithering seemed to come from all sides, as if some vast serpent had coiled around us. I looked to the moon, hoping to find some reassurance in that watchful silver eye. All I could see was a gossamer shimmer, like a fine fog, clinging to the trees. Vast webs veiled the treetops, turning the moonlight into a distant glow. Wonderful. If Yeg didn’t eat us, the giant spiders would.

  “Blast it!” Barnaby gestured ahead. More luminous webbing clouded our route. “We can’t go this way. We’ll get stuck in the webs, and I’ve been trussed up enough for one night, thank you very much.” He spun around, searching the dark woods.

  “That’s it!” I started forward.

  “Are you crazy?” Barnaby jerked my elbow. “Do you want to get eaten by a giant spider?”

  I shook him off. “If we can make it through, Yeg won’t be able to follow. Swamp-spider webs are as strong as ironwood. That ought to slow him down, at least enough for us to get away. It’s a better chance than just running.”

  Barnaby looked dubious.

  “You got into my grandmother’s garden,” I said. “Don’t you think you can squirm past a few webs?”

  Barnaby sniffed indignantly. “Of course I can. I was thinking of you. You’re not exactly dressed for it, in that pile of rags. You won’t get three feet without catching your hair. I reckon you’ll end up a spider’s midnight snack.”

  “You don’t need to worry about me,” I snapped. “I can take care of myself.” I pulled the shawl from my shoulders and knotted it around my waist, out of the way. Pile of rags indeed! I wadded my cloud of loose black hair at the nape of my neck and tied it with two of the smaller braided bits.

  Barnaby shrugged. “All right. Let’s go.”

  I led the way into the spider grove, ducking under gauzy curtains, stepping carefully over the unidentifiable withered lumps that dangled from silken strands. A bellow sounded, closer than ever. Bits of leaf and fragments of web floated down to catch in my hands and tangle in my hair. My heart thudded in my throat.

  Barnaby gave a low whistle as he glanced back. “Filthy fens! Will you look at the size of that thing? That’s the biggest gator I’ve ever seen!” He crowded behind me. “Hurry up!”

  “I’m going as fast as I can.” I tried to focus on the maze of clinging threads.

  “Not fast enough!” Barnaby seized my arm, pulling me sideways, down a narrow web-spun corridor. I risked a look behind us, then wished I hadn’t.

  Gleaming green eyes advanced from the darkness. Rows of pale teeth yawned open, while the bulk of his massive trunklike body remained lost in the gloom. Strands of spidersilk clung to Yeg here and there, not nearly enough to stop him. He stalked closer. I pulled free from Barnaby’s grip.

  “Are you crazy?” he called. “What are you doing?”

  “Slowing him down. You might want to hold on to something.” I drew in my breath, concentrating on the air held tight in my lungs, willing it to do as I wished. It was a simple spell. Aunt Flywell used it to whisk the best of the bacon right off the platter, beating the rest of us every morning. If I could get it right, it just might save us.

  I let out a p
iercing if slightly off-key whistle.

  “Don’t be stupid!” Barnaby said. “What if you—”

  The rest of his warning was lost as a gust of air smashed into me, knocking me off my feet. Currents tore at my hair. Sticky threads filled the air. I flailed, reaching for something to steady me, but found nothing. Somewhere, Yeg bellowed.

  The wind died down abruptly. I could just make out the massive, ridge-backed form of Yeg, enveloped in webs.

  For a moment, my spirits rose. I would have jumped up and down in delight. But I couldn’t jump. In fact, I couldn’t move at all. I dangled in midair, trussed up tight in a cocoon of spidersilk.

  “Bellow all you want, you big scaly lump, but the bog-witch wins this one,” Barnaby called out as he clambered to his feet below me. “I take it back, Prunella; that spell was spiffing amazing!” He stopped, realizing I was not beside him any longer. “Prunella?”

  “Up here,” I growled. “And if you so much as chuckle, I swear—”

  Barnaby stared up at me and gave a whoop of laughter.

  It was unbearable. I tried to kick myself free.

  He stopped laughing. “No, wait! You’ll just get”—Barnaby groaned—“stuck even worse.”

  My attempts to free myself had set me whirling like a spindle, gathering even more threads. I bit down on my own bellow of frustration. Taking a long, steadying breath, I said, “All right, you slithery sneak-thief. Get me out of this.”

  If I had thought Barnaby’s grin simply irritating back in Grandmother’s garden, I was wrong. It was infuriating. He raised his brows, tapping the blade of his dagger against his arm. “Hmm…I suppose I am on a heroic quest. I ought to rescue the maiden in peril.”

  “Shut up and cut me free, you idiot.”

  “Even if she has the sharpest tongue in the lands.” He made no move to cut me down. “Tell me, witch girl, why should I help you? You’ve already ruined my best jacket. I think I’m safer with you bundled up here in the bog, where you can’t curse anyone else.”

  “You’re just like all the stupid Uplanders,” I said. I turned my head, staring into the shadowy treetops. Had something just moved? I tried to ignore it. “You think we’re a bunch of evil hags.”

  “Oh, you mean you’re not going to try to turn me into a frog?”

  I gritted my teeth.

  “On the other hand, I reckon that oil-dousing you gave me is the only reason I’m not caught, too.”

  “Just go on if you’re going to leave me,” I snapped. “I’d rather not listen to you babble.”

  “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll cut you loose if you promise not to turn me into a frog.”

  My angry response turned to a gasp. Something was moving up above me. Something with glittering eyes and too many legs.

  “Fine, yes, I won’t turn you into a frog. Now, get me out of here,” my voice rose squeakily.

  Three quick slices of Barnaby’s dagger sent me thumping ungracefully to the ground. I didn’t even bother to brush the leaves and moss from my backside. “We need to get somewhere safe before Yeg breaks free,” I said. “And before something else tries to eat us.”

  Barnaby followed my wary glance toward the treetops and nodded. “You’re the bog-witch. D’you have someplace in mind?”

  Barnaby didn’t think much of spending the night on a pile of leaves, but the hollow in the heights of the ironwood tree really was the safest place I could think of. It was far enough from the fens to be spider-free, and even Yeg couldn’t crunch through ironwood. The lofty hollow was warm, sheltered, even cozy. Besides, I was tired enough that I could have slept on the back of a galloping spectral stallion.

  Waking was more difficult. I kept my eyes tightly closed, indulging in the pretense that I was still back in my snug chamber at home. But instead of Ezzie’s snores, I heard the warbling of vireos and the hum of needlewings. I smelled the fragrance of wild hot-leaf blooms, not the scent of smoky bacon and sizzling griddlecakes. There were no chattering aunts downstairs to tell me terrifying, exhilarating stories of their adventures while we sorted herbs and wove marsh-grass charm dollies. A pit opened inside me as every happy memory slipped from my grasp, falling down, down, down into darkness. How could I bear this? My family were all I knew. And now they had thrown me out, like dirty wash-water.

  I forced my eyes open. I’d luxuriated in misery long enough. It was time to get to work. I stood, shaking the leaves from my skirt. An alarming number of them wouldn’t budge, stuck to the bits of spiderweb that clung to me still. Well, I supposed it contributed to my witchly appearance. Even if I didn’t have warts.

  I wrinkled my nose, seeing Barnaby still asleep on the other side of the hollow. He lay with one arm across his face, the other flung over his weathered pack. Even in sleep, his fingers gripped the leather straps tightly. Now that the sun was out and we no longer had a giant alligator trying to eat us, I had the opportunity to study the boy more closely.

  He was the lanky type, but without any unfortunate gawkiness, unless you counted his shaggy hair. Rather well dressed, too. Even a bit foppish, with that gold braid edging his oil-stained jacket and a froth of lace on his shirt collar. I sniffed. My own dress might be dingy, and my scarf might be tattered, but they were comfortable and serviceable, and that was what mattered to me.

  I flexed my fingers. It seemed somehow unsporting, when he was lying there so peacefully. He had cut me loose from the webs, after all. And no one had ever complimented my spells before. The best I’d gotten from Grandmother was a stiff nod. Barnaby had called my wind spell “spiffing amazing.” Even now the memory made me grin.

  I forced a scowl back onto my face. I didn’t need compliments from an Uplander. I could not leave the bog. I would never survive out there. What would I do if a mob of angry Uplanders set on me with torches? Shower them with more alligator spoor?

  I took a deep breath, then raised my crooked finger. I wasn’t really breaking my word. It was his own fault he hadn’t phrased the promise better. I muttered the incantation.

  Nothing happened. I began again, a little more loudly. I was halfway through when Barnaby rolled over. He scrabbled back from me, blinking in the murky light that filtered through the vine-tangled opening. “What d’you think you’re doing?”

  “Did you feel something? Did it start to work?” Hope billowed my spirits. I could be back home by teatime.

  “No!” Barnaby leapt from the pile of leaves.

  “It must have been working. You’re running away!”

  “I’m running away because it’s blasted annoying. You promised you’d stop.”

  “I wasn’t trying to turn you into a frog.” I sniffed. “A toad is an entirely different creature.”

  He gave a huff. “I should have known not to trust the word of a bog-witch.” He bent to retrieve his oily boots.

  “I do keep my word,” I said, brushing aside the pinpricks of guilt. “You ought to have listened more carefully. Oh, don’t run off. I’ll turn you back again right away. I just need to prove I can do it.”

  “You’re insane,” said Barnaby. He knocked his boots together, scattering clods of dark-brown mud. “The sooner I’m out of this crazy bog the better. Your granny was bad enough. Putting a death ward on a patch of asparagus? Sweet hills! And setting a giant alligator on her own granddaughter?” He shook his head. “But the craziest thing is that you want to be one of them. I mean, look at you. You could pass for a normal Uplander girl if you cleaned up and put on decent clothes. And you’re nice enough under all those prickles; you saved my life back there. Now you’re trying to turn me into a toad. Crazy,” he said again, shoving a foot into one boot.

  “I’d sooner toss myself into the pits than be some farm girl with ribbons in my hair and nothing in my head but the price of eggs and who I’m going to marry,” I said. “I’m going to be the greatest bog-witch since Esmeralda herself. Then I will turn you into a frog. And I might not turn you back!”

  “Come off it, Prunella,” he said. �
�Even your own granny doesn’t think you can do it.”

  Tears burned in my eyes. I blinked furiously. I would not let him see. “I know m-more than a s-stupid Uplander.” Blast it all, my voice was crumbling like a biscuit in hot tea. I turned away, gulping down great breaths of steamy morning air.

  After what felt like forever, Barnaby said, “Oh, filthy fens, Prunella. I didn’t mean to— These Bottomlands have me all inside out. I just want to get back home.”

  Me, too, I thought.

  “Listen, I’m still not going to let you turn me into a frog, or a toad,” he said. “But you’ve got more brass than I do. Bog-witch or not, you saved my life twice now. I reckon your old granny will show up soon enough, begging you to come back.”

  I doubted it. “I don’t need you to feel sorry for me.” I plunked myself down on the edge of the hollow to stare at the woods beyond. Coils of morning mist wove through the dense greenery.

  “Fine. I won’t.” Barnaby sat down beside me, pulling on his other boot. “But I think it’s crazy to want to be a bog-witch. You should hear the stories folks tell about you lot.”

  “I couldn’t give a barrel of fish bait what a bunch of stupid Uplanders think. I just want my grandmother to…”

  “To what?”

  Love me, I thought. Smile at me. It sounded pathetic. “To respect me,” I said, finally. I leaned out, studying the blooming vines shielding our hiding spot. “Anyway, why do you care?” I plucked one of the large orange flowers. “Shouldn’t you be hightailing it back to the Uplands?”

  “I’d rather be kicking back on the veranda at the Peacock’s Rest, that’s for sure,” Barnaby admitted. “But, like I said, you’re not bad for a bog-witch. I’ve never seen anything like that wind spell. If you ask me, that’s loads better than turning someone into a frog.”

  Something in my insides untwisted. I twirled the flower between my fingers, peeling back the leathery red-speckled petals, uncertain how to respond. It was just words, but I felt he’d given me a gift. “You’re not bad for an Uplander, either,” I said finally, handing him the bloom.