The land you seek is not so far.
Sail on beneath the northmost star.
In time you’ll find the Fallen Crown
Unless, that is, you end up drowned.
‘Not quite as upbeat as I would have hoped,’ Bartholomew reflected. ‘But constructive nonetheless.’
Smudge ran a finger over the words. ‘How did you know that this was a mind map and that it would tell us where to go?’
‘I didn’t,’ Bartholomew replied. ‘But I did wonder why there was such a large blank space above the Northswirl. It just seemed like something was missing and I vaguely remember reading a book once, a fascinating and reassuringly in-depth exploration of Crackledawn’s history, which touched upon the degrees of magic found in the kingdom. Slightly Magical at the Sighing Caves, for example, Intermittently Magical back at Lonecrag and –’ he looked Smudge squarely in the eye – ‘Highly Magical at the Northswirl. So it stands to reason that only here would this map reveal the destinations pressing on our minds.’
Smudge looked round the cabin. The obligasaurus was taking a break in the corner and the whole place was sparklingly clean, but also, Smudge realised, ever so slightly different from how it had looked before, as if only now that they were past the Northswirl was the cabin revealing its Highly Magical belongings.
There was a little jar filled with what appeared to be foil-wrapped sweets on the desk, which definitely hadn’t been there before, and, at the sight of them, Smudge cheered. ‘Watergums!’
‘What luck!’ Bartholomew picked up the jar then frowned. ‘But these look different from the ones in the Den . . .’
Smudge read the label aloud: ‘WATERGUMS – EAT IF BEYOND THE NORTHSWIRL.’ And then, in smaller letters below this: ‘Enables breathing underwater, of course, but also talking, singing, laughing, whistling and, if needs be, burping (one sweet lasts a lifetime but allow several hours for optimum effect).
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Quite why we’d want to laugh underwater, I’ve no idea – there is nothing funny, to a white-nosed monkey, about being beneath the surface of the sea – but these, at least, are stronger than the watergums kept in the Den, which only give you gills for a few minutes, so they will be far more useful if we suddenly find ourselves hurled overboard all the way out here.’
He unscrewed the lid on the jar and he and Smudge each unwrapped a sweet and popped them into their mouths. Smudge winced. This watergum had a much stronger flavour than those she’d tried before. It had the consistency of a toffee, but it was salty instead of sweet and there was a lingering aftertaste of seaweed. Still, as Bartholomew said, it gave them both a better chance underwater if things got rough.
Smudge looked about the cabin. There was now a ship’s wheel mounted on the wall to the left of the steps and as she wandered over to it she saw that each spoke had a different destination engraved into it: eastmost, southmost, westmost and, finally, northmost.
‘The poem on the map mentioned the northmost star,’ she whispered. ‘Perhaps each of these destinations is a different star . . .’
She took hold of the spoke engraved northmost and turned it in a full circle. The boat lurched forward and Smudge’s face brightened. Her guess, it seemed, had been right and once again they were on their way! Smudge grinned at Bartholomew, who gave a shaky thumbs up in response, then they set about exploring the rest of the cabin as The Coddiwomple sailed on through the night towards the Fallen Crown.
After marvelling at a cutlass that became invisible when touched and a jar filled with eyeballs that followed their every move, they settled down to sleep – Smudge tucked up in the cubbyhole bed and Bartholomew inside the top drawer of the chest of drawers snoring far too loudly than was considered polite for an animal of his size. But Smudge had accidentally travelled with a belonging from home, after all, and on realising she had her earplugs in her tunic pocket (she was well used to Bartholomew’s snoring back at Littlefern) she had tucked them in, closed the curtains across the window and lain down to sleep. She slept soundly until one of her earplugs slipped out halfway through the night and she happened to brush aside the curtain in search of it.
There was a face pressed up to the glass: a woman’s face with pale skin, barnacled lips, seaweed hair and a crown of bones.
A shiver crawled through Smudge, but she looked on, spellbound, because this was a sea witch – Smudge had read about them in Nefarious Flood’s diaries. They were rumoured to be some of the rarest creatures in Crackledawn and legends said that they wore gowns stitched from drops of moonlight and stank of rotten fish, but little more was known about them and from the expression on this one’s face, Smudge got the impression that they weren’t altogether friendly in nature.
She swallowed. What did the sea witch want? Smudge made to alert Bartholomew, but then the sea witch opened her mouth. And even through the window Smudge could hear the ghostly call of its voice as well as the dozens of others that seemed to join it and echo round the boat: high-pitched whines, like wind rattling through the stonework of a very old building.
Smudge’s limbs slackened and her head slumped back onto the pillow as she fell into a cursed sleep, while on the floor, Bartholomew’s body became limp too as he succumbed to the witches’ song.
Five intense giggles came moments later up on deck, then the creak of the trapdoor opening and footsteps stealing down the stairs as a sea witch entered the cabin. The witch curled her lip in disgust at the snoring monkey, but her eyes glinted at the sight of the girl in the bed and she stalked towards the cubbyhole, dripping water from her moonlit gown. She peeled back the covers, lifted Smudge out of bed and carried her up the stairs.
‘Sisters,’ she hissed as she climbed back through the trapdoor. ‘I have her, as Morg commanded. She will be our prisoner until the harpy comes.’
One by one, a dozen bony hands curled round the edge of the boat. Then faces appeared – more barnacled lips and sunken cheeks – as the swarm of sea witches reached up and pulled Smudge down into the sea.
But what the witches didn’t realise, as they swam towards their shipwreck at the bottom of the ocean, was that their curse hadn’t sunk inside Smudge quite as deeply as they had hoped. The girl still had one of her earplugs in and, though she couldn’t move her limbs, her mind was very much alert – and terrified.
She was breathing underwater – the watergum had given her gills, as it had promised – but it had also promised her the ability to talk, which would give her means of negotiation with the witches. Then Smudge remembered the wording on the label: allow several hours for optimum effect. She didn’t have hours to wait! She needed to speak now – to try and reason with the sea witches somehow – but, when she opened her mouth, no sound came out. She opened her eyes instead, as much as she dared, and with rising panic she watched as she was hauled deeper and deeper into the sea.
Smudge could taste the fear at the back of her throat. Surely the watergum would release all its magical properties soon? But, even if it did, what could she say that would help her cause against these creatures who were working for Morg? Smudge tried to think clearly. Perhaps she needed to wait a while for the curse on her limbs to wear off before hatching a plan? Because, if talking didn’t help, she’d need to be ready and able to make a quick escape some other way.
She kept half an eye on the swarm of sea witches around her as they pulled her down into the ocean. They were still calling to one another, their eerie cries trailing through the water, and Smudge wished that Bartholomew was by her side. They weren’t quite friends yet – she supposed there was more to friendship than holding hands for a moment in a sinking ship – but they were comrades in this quest. Although Smudge knew that, if Bartholomew did wake from the witches’ curse, he’d have no idea where she’d gone. And, even if he had seen, white-nosed monkeys were petrified of deep water, and she reckoned he’d only actually trust the watergum if she was right beside him.
A horrible feeling stretched inside Smudge. What if Bartholomew never w
oke up? What if he met his end alone and stranded on a boat at sea? Or, what if he woke, but didn’t try to find her? He could just sail The Coddiwomple back to Wildhorn and that would be that. After all, he had wanted to return home all along . . .
Smudge blinked the thought away. The idea of being left alone at the mercy of Morg was just too much. She had to try and escape the sea witches and hope that Bartholomew would still be aboard The Coddiwomple, waiting for her. Through slitted eyes, she watched the gloomy shape of a wreck draw near.
The ship was tilted into the seabed, its deck swamped in seaweed, its mast clamped with barnacles. There was only a scrap of sail left and that was covered in a veil of slime.
The witches glided into the vessel and down the sweeping staircase. Perhaps once it had been grand, with polished banisters and carpeted steps, but now it was a slope of rotten wood scattered with silt. At its foot there was a long-abandoned ballroom with chandeliers draped in kelp and marbled pillars lost in seagrass. There were more sea witches here, reclining on threadbare chaises longues and seated at card tables covered in gloomweb – steel-strong gossamer spun by the elusive, almost extinct gloomcrab.
The witches around Smudge spilled out into their lair to join the rest of their kind, all except the one with the crown of bones who had pulled Smudge from her bed. She was silent now, but her fingers were still wrapped round Smudge’s wrist and through half-shut eyes Smudge watched as she made her way towards the far end of the room.
‘Let’s take you over to Recycling,’ the sea witch muttered. ‘Morg will be here for you soon.’
Smudge’s stomach clenched at the harpy’s name. She tried to piece things together. The witches were working for Morg – that much was clear – but what were they recycling way out here?
Smudge risked opening her eyes a little further so that she could see more clearly. The end of the room which they were heading towards was even more overgrown than the rest of the place. Waist-high weeds swayed with the current, and dotted here and there among them Smudge noticed several wooden caskets. The caskets were empty, but something about their shape seemed familiar. And unfriendly . . .
Then Smudge’s skin chilled at the realisation of what was unfolding in the ballroom. She had thought that all the creatures in there were sea witches, but now she could see that in fact there were only about ten witches here. The rest – those lying on the chaises longues, propped up at the card tables and waltzing through the grass with the sea witches – were skeletons. And the wooden caskets were coffins.
This was an underwater graveyard!
Smudge’s thoughts spun. Was the witch planning to keep her in a coffin, surrounded by the dead, until Morg came to finish her off? With everything in her, Smudge tried to move as the witch dragged her into the midst of the open caskets – but it was useless. The curse held fast. So Smudge was left with no choice but to watch as the witch ran a finger over the words carved into the upturned floorboards that acted as tombstones before each coffin.
‘No point depositing you in a Definitely Dead casket,’ she said. ‘They’re reserved for our special guests – those who arrive without a pulse. So Annoyingly Alive it’ll have to be. Until Morg gets here anyway.’
Smudge’s pulse skittered. The sea witches were recycling bodies. She scrunched her eyes shut as the witch bundled her inside the casket, laid the lid back on top, then hummed to herself as she drifted away. When Smudge was sure that the witch was gone, her eyes sprang open.
The casket lid was wooden, but chunks of it had rotted away and Smudge peered through the gaps, trying to figure out how to escape. She needed a plan – and fast – because who knew when Morg would arrive . . .
‘If you were smart enough to swallow a watergum beyond the Northswirl, then your voice will come back first, followed, rather unhelpfully, by the feeling in your leftest toe.’
Smudge’s eyes swivelled to the edge of the casket to her right, where the man’s voice – crystal clear, despite the water around them – had unmistakably come from.
‘Unless the watergum was faulty,’ the man continued, ‘in which case I believe the sea witches’ curse will sink into your bones at the next full moon. Then it’ll be time for a casket upgrade – a perk for non-pulsers apparently – as you charge on through to Definitely Dead.’
Smudge felt a mix of panic and horror swirl inside her as she read the words engraved at the head of the coffin next to her: Annoyingly Alive. Who was this man? A sailor from a land beyond the Northswirl? How long had he been festering away at the bottom of the sea? And had she eaten a faulty watergum meaning the sea witches’ curse would eventually kill her even if she managed to escape Morg?
Smudge focused on listening to the witches, in case she could glean anything else about the harpy. One of them was now playing a ghostly tune on a violin which echoed through the ballroom, but as Smudge listened she felt a tingle in her throat, like that of breathing in icy air on a winter’s day. Then her tongue started to feel looser and her jaw slackened and finally, to her surprise, she found that she could feel the little toe on her left foot. Smudge gasped with relief. The curse hadn’t sunk into her bones and, as she let out the tiniest of croaks, she knew that the watergum had, finally, worked its full magic!
Smudge glanced at the casket next to her because here was someone who obviously knew what he was talking about and who she could use as a sounding board for an escape plan.
‘After the feeling comes back to your leftest toe,’ Smudge whispered, ‘what’s next?’
There was a dry laugh. ‘Next? Oh, there’s nothing after that. Annoyingly Alive is – as the name suggests – frightfully annoying. You might have a pulse – which means that at least the sea witches won’t go throwing you around in a waltz or feeding you sea slugs on the chaises longues – but you can’t move. Other than your leftest toe – and that novelty soon wears off. Twenty years I’ve been Annoyingly Alive among a graveyard of Definitely Deads, if my memory serves me correctly – it’s been a while since I ended up here.’
‘Who are you?’ Smudge asked.
There was a pause from the other casket. ‘It doesn’t matter any more – I’m a nobody now . . .’ The man took a deep breath. ‘Down here, it’s just about sitting it out, girl. Sitting it out until the bitter end. Unless you’re a magical beast – in which case I believe a strong sunrise can break the curse.’
For a second, Smudge felt relieved as she thought of Bartholomew, bewitched on the boat, but in with a chance of waking up come sunrise. But would he hang around or would he sail back to Wildhorn, as she feared?
Smudge shut the thought out. ‘I can’t just sit it out,’ she hissed. ‘The Rising was meant to happen two nights ago but it went horribly wrong. And now the Unmapped Kingdoms don’t have a new phoenix and there’s a harpy called Morg on the prowl who’s set on draining all the kingdoms of magic.’
‘Is Crackledawn still standing without a renewal of the phoenix’s magic?’ The man sounded surprised and scared as if, just possibly, he knew a little more about Crackledawn than he was letting on.
Smudge thought about his question. ‘It is – just – but it won’t be for much longer . . . There’s only me and a grumpy monkey called Bartholomew who aren’t under a Nightdagger curse sent by the harpy. So, if I give up, Crackledawn will fall to dark magic and so will the rest of the kingdoms, and the Faraway will perish! I set out from Wildhorn to stop the creature so that’s what I’m going to do.’
There was a pause from the other casket. ‘You sound a little young to be tackling harpies.’
‘Yes,’ Smudge replied tartly, ‘I know. I’m under-age and very probably under-intelligent, too. But I’m trying my best. And Bartholomew says I’m capable of extraordinary, impossible things.’ She paused. ‘I haven’t got much of a plan now, but there’s a niggle inside me and it won’t give up.’
‘A niggle, eh?’ The man sighed. ‘I used to be full of niggles, but look where they got me. The bottom of the sea.’ He took a deep breath
. ‘I’m afraid I don’t think anything can get us out of this scrape – once a sea witch’s curse weasels into your ears, it’s notoriously hard to shake . . .’
Smudge cleared her throat. ‘Well, it’s a good job Bartholomew snores then.’
‘Who on earth is this monkey? And what have his nasal passages got to do with anything?’
‘I’m wearing an earplug,’ Smudge whispered. ‘You have to if you want to get a full eight hours’ kip in the same hammock as a white-nosed monkey snoring his head off. But I think the earplug blocked out some of the sea witches’ curse because I can feel more than my leftest toe now.’ Smudge grinned. ‘I can feel my fingers –’ she clenched her fists – ‘and my arms. And I’m going to get us both out of this mess.’
There was a stunned silence from the casket beside her, then a roguish chuckle. ‘Well now, that rather puts the ball back in our court.’
Smudge jumped as a high-pitched bell rang through the ballroom.
‘They’ll be putting the skeletons back to rest now,’ the man said. ‘That’s how it usually goes – because apparently even the Definitely Dead need some downtime.’
But Smudge’s mind wasn’t on the man’s words. Her head was filled with sideways thoughts – with the what ifs and the just maybes of their situation – and an idea was surfacing.
‘Sounds are important in Crackledawn,’ she said quietly. ‘The seas are full of sun-chatter – low and high-pitched noises. But, down here, every single sound – the witches’ cries, the violin and even the bell – seems to be high-pitched . . .’
She fell silent as she heard the witches sashay round the caskets, settling the skeletons down to rest. When she was sure they had swum away, Smudge spoke again.
‘What if there’s a reason for that? Maybe a low sound would break their magic and lift the curse on both of us?’ She paused. ‘I don’t have time to wait until every part of my body starts moving again – I need to act now in case Morg is close. So what do you think? Could a low sound help?’
Everdark Page 6
