“What is it, Nettle?” Fred pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose. His voice sounded a little strangled, as if he was unnerved to be caught out by her. What was he up to, she wondered, he clearly doesn’t want me to know what he was reading.
“We were up in the attic-”
He said a little too sharply, interrupting her. “What were you doing up there?”
She shrugged. “Bram was curious to look through some of our old stuff.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. She wasn’t sure how he’d react if he found out Bram was going to try catching the talking rats. She didn’t know why she felt hesitant to tell him, but she had that feeling, the one that felt like the beating wings of moths caught in a paper lantern, in the pit of her stomach. That feeling had kept her out of harm’s way many an occasion. Instead, she asked, “Is there some reason we can’t be up there?”
“Well… no…” he answered. “It’s just with all this unpleasantness going on with Jazz, I don’t know, maybe whoever it was got into the house through the roof.”
Nettle’s eyebrows rose up, but she didn’t say anything aloud. The attic was in the roof and that was four stories high. She gave a nonchalant shrug instead. “I’m starting to wonder if Jazz doesn’t have some sort of split personality, and all this destruction is just her way of telling herself she’s a jerk.”
Fred couldn’t help the grin, but didn’t comment.
Nettle remembered the scuffed dust in the attic. “Were you up there earlier?”
“Yes. I was looking for something.”
“Was it this?” She didn’t know why she suddenly thought he’d been looking for the box, but it felt right. She produced the box from her pocket and presented it to him in the flat of her palm. “We found it in the attic.”
Fred reached out with his worn fingers and plucked the box from her hand. She heard him draw in a sharp breath. “You found it.” It wasn’t a question. He looked at her in a way she couldn’t fathom. “Strange, I have been looking for it everywhere and it’s you who found it.”
“It wasn’t me, not really, Bram did.”
“Hmmm,” he said with a distracted air, squinting at the intricate pattern carved into what Nettle presumed was the lid of the box.
“What is it? There’s something inside, but I can’t find a way to open it.”
Fred turned it slowly around before him. He answered without thinking. “It’s not something you can open… its more like, it’ll open on its own accord.”
Nettle almost laughed, that was the most absurd thing she’d ever heard, until she saw, to his horror he’d said too much. Her spine tingled with curiosity. Her thick brows arched inquisitively. “What’s inside?”
He shrugged, “I don’t know. Only your mother did. And she’s...”
The furrow was back above Nettle’s nose as she retorted, “No longer here. Nor ever will be.”
Fred sounded tired. “It belongs to you.” He handed her the box back. “It’s a gift from your mother. She wanted to give it to you on your thirteenth birthday.”
Nettle was taken aback. Her birthday was less than a week away. Surely our return home, wasn’t about this… this silly little box?
“This box is why we’re back here?” He nodded. “What’s so… important… about it?” Her question drifted apart and ended weakly. No, it wasn’t the box Dad came home for. “Is that why we came back.” It wasn’t a question. “You were hoping she might be here, weren’t you? Mum. You were hoping to find her here, waiting for us. Just because she made some stupid promise about a birthday present. Dad, how could you be such an idiot?!”
Fred’s head jerked back as if she’d slapped him. His olive eyes gazed back at her, wounded.
Anger coiled around her heart, her lanky frame tensed and her mouth set in a harsh line. Once again her mother was trying to worm her way back into her life. “Well I don’t want it, whatever it is.” She thrust the box back at him, but Fred refused to take it.
“You’re only saying that because it’s from your mother.”
Nettle’s tone was blistering, her face puckered with spitefulness. “You’re right, I am. I hate her! And I never, ever, want anything from her!”
Nettle stormed out of the room and slammed the door shut.
The bitterness was bubbling and boiling within. She glared at the box in her hand, wanting to smash it to smithereens. She ran down the stairs and out the door. She ran as far as the front yard and then down the driveway. She didn’t know what she was doing, or heading, until she came to the small bridge and the water running beneath.
She stood there, doubled over, gasping for breath, wishing she hadn’t said those things to her father, but also not wanting to unsay them. She meant every single word. Briar, could go to hell!
Nettle took one last look at the box before tossing it into the stream, where it was sucked beneath the water, only to bob back to the surface a moment later. She watched the wooden box swirl away downstream, until it rounded a bend and disappeared from sight. And with it, the anger evaporated, replaced by self-loathing at the image of her father’s expression. His injured look, hurt more than anything he could have said to her in reply. Why do I have to keep saying such horrid things about her? Why do I feel the need to keep reminding everyone that Briar is gone? But she couldn’t afford for any of them to become sentimental, or hopeful. Her hope had been dashed early on. Briar was never coming back. Why can’t Dad realise that too?
CHAPTER TEN
A Basket Full of Fireflies
That night, Nettle found she couldn’t sleep, her torturous mind reminding her of the horrid things she’d said to her father, interspersed with images of the ransacked living room and the mystery it held within. She tossed and turned and fluffed her pillow and even tried to sleep curled up beneath the blankets, before giving up completely. Sitting up, she realized a strangely soft light illuminated the curtains. She slid out of bed and padded over to the bedroom window, scrunching her toes up so they barely touched the chilly wooden floor. She rubbed warmth back into her bare arms before drawing back the curtains. She discovered a golden glow radiated from somewhere below. Whatever it was, was tucked in beneath the eves of the backyard porch.
Wrapped up in a fluffy dressing gown and well worn slippers, Nettle quietly stole downstairs and crept outside.
She found her father drowsily sitting on the old swing-chair, his feet resting on a battered stool, where he’d placed a half whittled mouse. A flowery old thermos sat amongst wood shavings on the porch beside him. Fred started as she made her appearance, the mug of hot black coffee he was gingerly sipping from sloshing a little over the red tartan rug tucked over his long legs.
“Sorry,” she whispered with a quirk of a shoulder. The golden glow came from a wicker basket hanging from the porch ceiling. The basket contained a thick cluster of fireflies.
Fred smiled. “Can’t sleep, huh?”
Nettle shook her head. She slipped beneath the cosy blanket and curled up beside him. He slung an arm over her shoulder. He smelled of rich pungent coffee. For a while they sat in an easy silence while Nettle brooded over what she’d said about her mother, wondering how to fix it.
“Dad,” she began a little hesitantly.“I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have said those things about Mum. All I ever do is just end up hurting you.”
He let out a heavy breath and squeezed her shoulder. “It’s hard, I know, not having her around.”
She bristled a little. And then reminded herself she’d come to make up. She looked at him askance with a lopsided grin. “I’m not so sure. We’ve done pretty well.”
“We’ve done pretty well, only because of you.” Fred sighed. “You grew up too quickly Nettle. I did that to you. You should have been a kid. Not looking after a baby.”
She nudged him with her shoulder. “Someone had to. You’re nimble with whittling wood, but a total bumpkin with a nappy pin.”
He flashed a brief grin. �
�All the same, I should have protected you better. Let you be a little girl for a while longer.”
“Dad, we’re a team, the three of us.” They shared a smile and fell into silence once more. But since being back at that cottage, that mystery of the ransacked living room bothered her enough to finally ask, “Dad, why did she leave? Did you two have a fight?”
“No. Yes.” He answered, a little baffled at her question. “Well, we of course argued, like most couples do, over silly things. Why do you ask?”
“Well, it’s just that the house, the downstairs living room, looked like there’d been some kind of physical fight.”
“And you thought it was us?” He said it quietly, more to himself than her.
“Did you try to stop her leaving?” He shook his head. “Who else could have made that mess down there?”
“Oh Nettle, I just don’t know. No, it wasn’t your mum and me. I… there are things I can’t get into just yet, OK. Your mother didn’t…” his words fell apart and he raked a hand roughly through his hair.
“Didn’t what, Dad?” If they weren’t the cause of the mess, then who was?
“I’ve never known how to explain it to you. Your mother was always better at those kinds of things.” He let out a tense puff of air. “Now’s not the right time. I’ll explain it all. Soon, I promise.” He squeezed her hand. “Hopefully we’ll explain together. I’ll find her, I promise you.” Fred tried very hard to sound convincing, but to Nettle, he came off sounding more desperate than anything else. Even now, he was in denial.
Nettle couldn’t keep the scorn from her tone. “Mum’s not coming home, you know. Not ever.”
Fred was exhausted. “There are things you don’t understand.”
“Like what, Dad? What’s so hard to understand? She’s not here, ergo, she’s left us.”
He snappily answered, “She didn’t leave us. I’ve tried to tell you that, but you just don’t want to hear.”
“Oh, that’s right, she had to go off and do something, that’s why she’s not here. Now, what was it again? She had to pay off a debt? Or, go and look after Grandfather Burr? A debt, you don’t know who with, and a grandfather, you’ve got no idea where he lives. No, Dad, it’s you who doesn’t want to hear.” Up close, Nettle could see the dark circles under his eyes. He was tired and she also thought, worried, but she didn’t care, she wasn’t thinking, she was reacting. She wrenched her hand from his and pushed away so she could twist around to face him. She eyed him hard. “Whatever you claim she had to go and do, she should have finished by now and returned to us. But she hasn’t, and you need to face facts, she clearly doesn’t want to. Besides, I no longer care, I don’t ever want her home.”
His voice was waspish. “Don’t you ever say that again, Nettle. She’s your mother.”
“No, she’s not. She gave up being my mother when she left us!”
Fred’s usual mellow expression contorted with anger. He bellowed, “Go to bed, Nettle!” He’d had it with his daughter’s rude and cold behaviour.
Nettle flinched at her father’s furious tone.
“Right now you’re acting like a petulant child. One I don’t want to be around. So go to bed,” he ground out; his dark eyes, stormy.
Nettle got to her feet, her mouth pressed in a callous line. “Why can’t you move on, Dad? It’s pathetic the way you still hopelessly love her.” She stalked back inside, slamming the door behind her, and instantly regretted her harsh words. I went down there to apologise, and now look what I’ve done. I’ve made it worse. Me and my stupid big mouth.
Nettle slid into bed with a heavy anguished heart, wondering how to make it up to her father, yet again. When she finally slipped into slumber, she’d decided to act on the plan she’d thought of a day or two ago to mend her father’s broken heart. Tomorrow, she’d head into Olde Town and find her father a new wife.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hidden in a Hide
Dawn slowly approached, heralded by the raucous dawn chorus of woodland birds. Noisy chaffinches and jays; the shrill call of the goldcrest; linnets with their melodious song; cheerful sparrows and sweet sounding robins - it seemed as if every single bird within the Forgotten Wilds welcomed the awakening sun.
The pale yellow of the pre-dawn light filtered across the skyline, brushing tree tops to skim the thatch peaked roof of Blackthorn Cottage. Nettle’s bedroom gradually brightened from murky darkness to a shadowy grey. A piercing alarm sounded from her wristwatch directly beneath her ear, jolting Nettle rudely awake. She pushed her drowsy head off the mattress, squinting around the bedroom with puffy tired eyes, dazedly wondering why on earth she’d set her alarm at such a ridiculous time of the morning.
Olde Town…
Dad! A new wife!
She sat up too fast and fell off the bed to land with an ungainly thump on the freezing wooden floor. Nettle stuffed a hand across her mouth, stifling the moan. She rubbed her smarting thigh and winced. Ooooo that hurt! Glancing around, she discovered that this time Bram hadn’t crawled into bed with her during the night. Curiosity and puzzlement briefly flittered through her mind, only to be pushed aside. There was no time to lose. She had to get out of the house and onto the road before her father could stop her. Technically, he hadn’t expressed Olde Town was off limits, but he hadn’t exactly said they could go there either. And she knew that technicality was, at best, precarious.
Nettle dressed quickly. Outside, the ivy clinging to the cottage’s stone walls rustled as gusts of whistling wind began to build, muffling the sound of birdsong. The branches of the old ash tree right outside her bedroom buffeted against the window. It promised to be a very chilly and blustery morning; she put on her warmest clothes.
She tugged a brush through her knotty hair and nimbly plaited it into a long thick braid that fell over a shoulder. Stuffing her woolly owl hat into the pocket of her army jacket, she left her bedroom to tip-toe down the hallway. The door to her parent’s bedroom was wide open. Her father wasn’t in bed and she assumed that he had fallen asleep outside. She went to creep silently past his bedroom and stopped herself with a chiding grin. Why on earth am I bothering sneaking around? She went to wake Bram and let him know of her plans.
Nettle entered the nursery and found the room empty. Bram’s mattress on the floor hadn’t been slept in at all.
A deep trepidation flared in the pit of Nettle’s stomach. He never made his bed first thing in the morning, always needing to be reminded and hounded to do so. So, clearly, he hadn’t even been to bed. What could have coerced him out last night? Where could he be? Nettle’s heart beat faster as her imagination spun along frightening lines. He wouldn’t have, would he? He wouldn’t have entered the Forgotten Wilds? Not when Dad said not to? But what if he had? Was he lost, hurt..?
That’s when she heard a, “Pssst...”
Nettle spun around, the soles of her fur-lined boots made a squeaking noise upon the floor. Relief spread through her in great waves. The ‘Pssst,’ sounded like Bram, but she wasn’t sure which direction it had come from.
“Pssst…” came again, and this time she realized it came from inside Jazz’s bedroom. The door was open just a crack.
Nettle quietly approached and pushed at the heavy wooden door. It made a horrible creaking noise as it swung inward. Inside, Jazz, a mess of tumbling red curls amongst rumpled blankets, slumbered, noisily snoring. Her slack mouth was cast wide open and drool had run down one side of her chin, to wet the collar of her pyjamas. Nettle pulled a face at the horrendous racket her cousin was making. A lawn mower would be quieter. Even asleep, Jazz was annoying. Thankfully, at least she wasn’t forced to share a bedroom with her anymore. She hadn’t had a good night’s sleep sharing her small bedroom with her cousin in Bessie.
Nettle cast a curious glance around the bedroom, wondering just where Bram was. It looked as if Jazz hadn’t tidied up at all after yesterday’s debacle, simply dumping everything she owned into a massive pile near the foot of her bed. Nettle’s nose
wrinkled with displeasure. Amongst the heady perfume, there was a nasty odour of stinky cheese permeating the room. She pressed a hand against her nose attempting to block the horrid smell.
“Bram, where are you?” Nettle whispered, not wanting to wake her cousin. No doubt they’d be blamed for something else if Jazz woke up and discovered them.
“I’m in here,” came a whisper. “Don’t look,” Bram quickly added.
Nettle startled at the abrupt sound of his voice. He was close. “Where?” she asked in a hushed tone.
“In here,” replied Bram, his voice coming from behind the pile of Jazz’s belongings.
Nettle soon realized Bram wasn’t actually hiding behind all of Jazz’s stuff. In fact, the mountainous pile of fabric was a hide, constructed from Jazz’s clothes hanging over a pair of chairs, where Bram hid within.
“I’m starving,” he wailed softly. “I didn’t think to bring food.”
Nettle rolled her eyes, she might have guessed - Bram was a little like their father, an absentminded professor. Whilst immersed in a project, feeding themselves was a secondary consideration. “How long have you been in there?” she whispered, purposely looking ahead as if she were addressing Jazz.
“All night.”
Nettle noticed a thin length of string going from the hide to the wooden bird cage they’d found in the attic. Bram had positioned it beside Jazz’s bed. He’d jimmied the door open with a slender stick which the string was tied to, and propped up several of Jazz’s sneakers to disguise the homemade trap, finally placing a huge hunk of cheese inside to entice the talking rats. The cheese had hardened and gone crusty with a slight sweaty sheen to it. She had no idea how he’d managed to stay in this putrid smelling room all night. Let alone not go deaf from the blaring chainsaw that was Jazz. “OK, I’ll go get you something to eat.”
“Thanks,” he whispered gratefully. “Oh, Nettle,” he said, just as she was slipping out the door. “Could you please bring back some peanut butter? Maybe the rats might go for that instead.”
Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters Page 7
