Nettle grinned. “Sure thing.” If anything, trying to trap talking rats would keep Bram happily occupied. She suspected finding her Dad a new wife might take all day.
Yesterday, the siblings had cleaned the entire ground level. They cut back the rambling rose in the living room, boarded up the broken window, re-adjusted paintings, righted fallen furniture and tidied the mess on the floor, throwing anything away which had been broken beyond repair. Nettle had tried to scrub the wall clean where the scorch marks had burnt a silvery sheen and melted paint, but nothing she used would remove the marks, nor even encourage them to fade.
Bram asked dozens of questions about the things they unearthed. While she could understand his inquisitiveness, it had irked her having to endlessly explain their history, often fielding several questions more. The memories brought back with each little story had darkened her mood even further, for most of them belonged to Briar. Jazz didn’t have to say a single word. She simply smirked, thoroughly enjoying her cousin’s irritation every time Nettle grudgingly explained to her little brother about where this photograph was taken; why this book was their mother’s favourite story to read them; or why their father carved this particular cat, because Briar requested it.
But some things, some memories, were foggy – slippery, even. Didn’t their Aunt visit them sometimes? Briar’s sister? She was sure Aunt Thistle was always accompanied by friends, but what did she look like and who were they?
I suppose I was only six when we left the cottage. Not nearly old enough to hold onto recollections of a life lived long ago. Some things were better left alone, forgotten. She supposed she’d even encouraged it.
While Bram swept the wooden floor and mopped it clean, Jazz was in charge of dusting – something that she performed rather poorly. Which, Nettle assumed, was to be expected from someone who had absolutely no experience with any form of chore. In the end, she’d followed her spoilt cousin around, completing her tasks, as well as her own. She stage-whispered to Bram, not caring if her cousin overheard her or not, “That’s what happens when your family’s so rich, you hire servants to do everything for you. You end up being useless.”
After that comment, Jazz made the siblings lives, mostly Nettle’s, a misery. She scowled, tossing dirty looks Nettle’s way; bumped into her with a vicious elbow; sneered, moaned, grumbled; and ran a continuous monologue about how offensive it was, to basically be relegated to PD next to a pair of delinquents.
Nettle glowered, quietly fuming at all of Jazz’s jeers and nasty jibes, doing her utmost not to bite back. I suppose I did instigate it, she chided herself. So instead, she immersed herself with washing all the crockery and cutlery, before rifling through the pantry and getting rid of expired food, which, in the end, was pretty much everything.
Nettle thought it prudent to check on her father before departing for Olde Town. She poked her head out the back door, hoping nothing was going to creak or groan to give her away. To her relief, her father was fast asleep on the porch swing. He’d slumped over some time during the night, and an arm dangled limply over the seat to brush against the porch floorboards. The surrounding woodland swayed with gusts of swirling wind, carrying with it the scent of fresh pine and crisp dead leaves. Nettle approached her father and tucked the blanket over him. His dark hair ruffled in the breeze. She slipped his glasses from him and carefully placed them on the footstool next to the finished carving of the mouse. Curls of wood were scattered across the porch.
Something shiny glinted as the morning’s first rays of light struck its surface. It was leaning against the wall of the house right behind her father. A sword? The burnished blade was slightly curved and nicked and the pommel was simply bound with black leather.
Did he even know how to use a sword? She let out an involuntary snort at the image of her lanky father waving the sword around, jabbing it about at some masked intruder. What was he up to? Surely he wasn’t worried about intruders? There wasn’t exactly a road from the highway to indicate to anyone with malicious intent that there was even a cottage in the forest. But then, why else would he have a sword? And now, come to think of it, this was the third night he’d spent on the porch. Granted, he was fast asleep not the kind of professional security agent anyone would pay for - but the purpose was there.
Fred stirred slightly, his mouth parting to murmur something incoherent. Nettle’s heart skipped a beat, fearful at being caught out. She waited patiently until he quietened and eased back into sleep, and then silently withdrew back into the kitchen, a sense of urgency motivating her. She had to get moving.
She worked quickly, making jam sandwiches for Bram before quickly wolfing down a banana for breakfast and brushing her teeth. Taking the tray of food and water and the jar of crunchy peanut butter back upstairs, she slid it near Bram’s hide.
“Thanks,” he whispered appreciatively, his hand snaking out to drag the tray inside his hideout.
“Hey,” she said. “If Dad asks, I’m off to Olde Town.”
“Really?” His voice dripped with disappointment at having to miss out on a trip to the mysterious village. She couldn’t blame him; investigating new places was always something they did together.
“Yeah, we’re almost out of food.” A pang of guilt nipped at her conscience as she slipped Bram the little white-lie about their food stocks. “And you know Dad, he’s no good at that type of thing.” Which was a well known fact and made her feel slightly better telling the fib. “Good luck,” she whispered. “I’ll see you later.”
“See you,” he replied hidden within the hide, adding eagerly, “hopefully with a rat or two.”
A few minutes later Nettle unhooked her bicycle from the back of Bessie. Pulling the owl hat on her head, she pushed off, peddling down the long rough driveway. She noticed with a backward glance, and a quirk of her brows, there was a decidedly rough circle of small shrubs now encircling the cottage. Growing in precisely the spots where her father had rolled the rocks only two days ago, they had sprouted a wrangling waist-high tangle of prickly black stems.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A Rat in a Trap
Bram took a big bite out of a sandwich and his stomach’s grumblings subsided in appreciation. Raspberry oozed down his chin, so he wiped it with a hand, licking his fingers free of the sticky sweet jam with satisfaction. He finished the first sandwich in three more mouthfuls, stifling a yawn.
The hide was small but pleasant. He’d created viewing holes which also acted as a ventilation system by piling the clothes around empty toilet rolls. A small battery-operated fan quietly whirred and kept the inside of the hide cool. He had enough room to stretch out on a pile of soft cushions gathered from around the cottage, and a headlamp to read with. A few encyclopaedias, though an antiquated system in today’s superhighway of information gathering, served for research in this silent technological black-hole that was the Forgotten Wilds. Bram considered it somewhat refreshing. In between solving chess puzzles, he spent the night reading up about rats, their intelligence, and significance to many cultures. Rats, packs of rats, were known as a mischief, a term Bram felt could not be more appropriate in this case.
Bram quickly finished the remaining sandwiches and quenched his thirst with a glass of water. With nothing happening all night, apart from Jazz’s snoring driving him to the brink of madness, he decided he might as well exchange the cheese for peanut butter and go to bed. Later today, after a nap, he’d go hunting around the house. He might get lucky and catch those rats he promised his sister.
As he pushed aside a pair of jeans to crawl out of the hide, Bram froze.
Sheeeeeek… sheek… shek shek…
He cocked his head, his glasses tilting awkwardly on his nose, straining to hear what he thought was a series of scratches coming from behind the small wooden wardrobe. His heart hammered in his chest, and he dared not breath.
The scratching abruptly stopped and nothing else happened for what seemed a very long time. Bram calmed down and he blew out a l
ong lungful of tense air.
Did I actually hear anything? For a moment he doubted himself.
Sheeeeeek… sheek… shek shek…
Very slowly, and quietly, he retreated back into the hide, his limbs quivering with excitement. Bram couldn’t prevent the broad grin spreading across his face – they’re here, the rats! He was soon to have absolute proof they existed, and he thought gleefully to himself, Jazz was going to have to actually apologise. No, grovel, he upgraded, with slight malevolent delight.
He peered through a small viewing hole, frustrated to find he couldn’t see the wardrobe from this vantage point, and all others proved futile. All he could do was listen keenly.
It was silent for a while, until a sudden series of pitter-pattering and something heavy being dragged across the wooden floor startled him.
Next came a deep grunt, right beside the hide as the rats scurried past.
Bram scanned the view of the bed before him, but the rats travelled low, and he missed them scamper beneath the bed.
What are they up to? A moment later, he adjusted his glasses, blinking hurriedly, as he saw a large lump, the size of a small cat, travel under the blankets directly toward Jazz’s feet. The lump, which had to be the rats, crossed over her stomach, and moved swiftly alongside her chest, and up over a shoulder to disappear beneath her pillow. Bram’s mouth felt dry and he gave a violent shudder at the imagined sensation of rats touching his flesh. His cousin slumbered on, unaware of her fellow bed companions. Despite his own revulsion, Bram began to grin. Jazz is going to freak out when she discovers she’s sleeping with a pack of rats.
He fingered the string, testing the tautness of the line to the trap. Surely by now the rats had smelt the odious cheese.
What the..?
Jazz’s hair came to life. Locks of messy red curls, leapt up in the air, waving and fluffing about.
Schnick…. schnick… schnick-schnick…
Bram looked on in bewilderment, leaning forward to squint through the peeping-hole.
What is going on? The noise, it sounded like metal slicing together… metal slicing together?! Oh no!
Tufts of Jazz’s gloriously treasured locks fluttered and scattered all over the blankets. A horrible sinking feeling gripped Bram. He felt ill.
Jazz begin to stir.
The rats immediately halted their labouring and Bram thought he could hear a single rat sniffing the air. The cheese!
A rat dove from the bed, moving like lightning, scurrying along the floor to run straight into Bram’s makeshift trap. Bram jerked on the string, releasing the trap door to capture the rat. Got it! A thrill of exhilaration ran through him. Jazz was going to have to believe him now.
The rat, trapped and frightened, squawked and flung itself around the trap. When it realized it was well and truly ensnared, the creature let loose a blood-curdling screech.
Jazz woke up.
She sat bolt-up in bed, except, for her hair.
All of Jazz’s lovely hair remained on the bed beside her. The rats had shorn her like a sheep, and badly. Ragged coppery tufts was the only thing left on her scalp.
Jazz, still half asleep, blinked dazedly about. She wiped the drool from her chin with the back of her wrist.
Bram pressed a hand firmly to his mouth. In equal measures he was horrified and trying not to laugh. Nettle’s going to sorely regret missing out on this.
He could see Jazz was trying to figure out why all her clothes were dumped at the foot of her bed in a heap. Her mouth clamped together in a thin line as she scowled darkly, and he could read her mind - those stupid cousins!
Jazz smacked her lips, running her tongue around the inside of her dehydrated mouth, and stretched her arms, upward, rolling her neck from side to side. She didn’t like to be rudely awoken, and she certainly did not like waking up at Blackthorn Cottage. She rolled her eyes and groaned despondently. So far, every morning she’d been roused by some horrific happening, and those nasty cousins of hers were always at the heart of it. Why were they so hateful? They were jealous of her, she supposed. She was beautiful and smart and wealthy and witty and excellent at hockey - what wasn’t there to be jealous of?
So what were they up to now? Since they’d destroyed pretty much everything she owned there was little else they could do to her. She gazed about the bedroom suspiciously.
Why is there a pile of clothes there?
She didn’t remember piling her belongings at the foot of her bed. And what was making that horrendous racket?
She leaned over the bed and saw the trap. It was moving. Something was inside, rocking the trap from side to side, shrieking and squealing. She shook her head slightly, her eyes narrowing with annoyance. Nothing those cousins of hers could do would surprise her any more. No doubt some stupid rat Bram claims can talk.
A lock of hair fell across her eyes. She flicked it back with a finger. It fluttered to the bed.
Huh?
It took a long moment for Jazz to realize that there were strange piles of red stuff stuck to the blankets and pillow. She picked up a handful of this red fibre and inspected it. It looked strangely like hair. Puzzled, she ran a hand over her head and felt… a soft furry sensation.
“Oh em gee… oh em gee… OOOHHHEMMMMGGEEEE!!!”
Jazz pulled her hand away, her pupils growing bigger with horror as she found scraps of red curls threaded through her fingers. My hair… my hair… MY HAIR!!
She opened her mouth and screamed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Welcome to Olde Town
Nettle had unzipped her jacket to allow the crisp fresh air to cool her as she worked hard against a strong headwind. She forged against it, peddling over the wooden bridge and down the wide dirt road leading to Olde Town. It had taken nearly half an hour to traverse the marshlands, feeling out the winding path that had led Bessie safely across days earlier, but she’d managed it.
The dirt road to Olde Town had been crudely made, some great machine had simply ploughed through the Forgotten Wilds. The trees had been smashed down, unearthing stumps and all, and dumped on the side of the road, along with a lip of dirt now covered with new undergrowth, green fern and prickly scrub. Mainly tall douglas-fir, ash and silver birch lined the road, but there were others, a few beech, rowan and elm. Thick green creepers wound round their lichen clothed trunks, and dangled from branches, like a thin lacy veil, casting shadows on the ground so all that could be seen, as the road gently curved, was the cloud-streaked sky above.
Despite the brisk weather Nettle found it to be a glorious morning, enhanced no doubt by the thrill of adventure. She thoroughly enjoyed the anticipation of what she might find around the upcoming curve. A few stone cottages? A remodelled village in garish colours?
To Nettle’s surprise, the road abruptly ended against the foot of a small hill. A couple of tour buses were parked beside one another within a cul-de-sac where a grand entrance with two magnificent stone gateposts stood sentinel and iron gates were hung. ‘Welcome to Olde Town’ had been wrought within its design. A cluster of newly arrived tourists were huddled before the gate, chatting loudly amongst themselves. A few were snapping photographs of the gates or taking selfies or trying to wrangle their children back in line.
Nettle skidded to a halt, her booted feet resting on the dirt, to marvel at the knoll. Beyond the iron gates a stone path, wide at the bottom and edged by a waist-high solid wall, led up the hill. The mound was heavily covered in evergreen shrubs and trees and a ribbon of stonework appeared at intervals at varying levels. It was hard to see from her position, but she was sure she caught sight of people strolling along. Does the path spiral upward around the entire hill, right to the very summit?
Nettle leaned her bike against an old beech tree, hefted her satchel across a shoulder and made her way to the group of tourists. An excited smile crept over her face. She couldn’t wait to see what she would discover in this newly rejuvenated village.
The tour guide was a tall bony man with a
long hook nose and twitchy fingers. He was dressed in a period costume – an ill-fitting coat with brass buttons; heavily embroidered waist coat and breeches tucked into knee-high leather boots. A frayed lace cravat was tied around his throat and he tugged at it uncomfortably. He had three companions; short squat young men with hooded dull eyes and wispy moustaches, dressed more comfortably in peasant attire.
“Welcome to Olde Town,” he said with a voice as reedy as his physique. “I am Mr. Fussbinder.” He gave an elaborate bow accompanied by a thin smile. “And I will be escorting you to your accommodation.” He loudly whispered to the taller of his three companions, “This group is staying at Deadheaded Rose’s Inn for the week.” He turned his attention back to the tourists and urged, “Come along, come along. Your luggage will arrive momentarily.”
Mr. Fussbinder led the tourists through the gates while his companions left to unload the tour bus. Nettle fell in behind.
As the group made their way up the hill, Nettle let her hand glide over the top of the rough stone railing, sometimes running across soft patches of lichen, enjoying the difference in textures. Wrought-iron lamps with golden bulbs were spaced at intermittent intervals along the pathway and, strung between them, golden bunting fluttering in the breeze.
They’d cleared the forest’s canopy and now were rounding the hill gaining ground and view. The hill itself seemed to have erupted from within the sea of surrounding forest, the Wilds bursting with riotous gold, amber and scarlet. Nettle grinned, it’s like I’m walking on top of fire.
Evergreen leaves from a variety of small trees and shrubs, provided a shady canopy of sorts above the cobblestone path as it curved around the hill, with flights of steps leading to the first plateau. Nettle purposely looked away, running her hands over the leaves as she passed feeling the differing sensations of each foliage as she attempted to deduce to which plant they belonged. Long, spiky, curly, shiny or softly-downed; it was a game she played with her father. She silently mouthed the names of the trees and shrubs as she passed - glossy ash; holly with its spiny leaves; leathery privet; ivy; a mop-head flower, hydrangea - and glanced back, her mouth curving to a satisfied smile, pleased she’d been correct on all.
Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters Page 8
