“Wall of prickles?” Nettle echoed, her swampy green eyes silently asking her father to explain.
“Jazz is talking about a wall of thorns. It encircles the entire forest. There’s not really much to worry about. We live at the edge of the thicket and the faerie this side are generally just annoying, and nothing much to worry about.”
Besides ‘this side’ Nettle also noted her father mentioned ‘generally’ which meant to her that there are worse faerie out there, and ‘nothing much to worry about’ meant - there was.
In the candlelight, Fred saw doubt reflected in all three young faces. He smiled reassuringly. “Now that I’ve collected a few things and put a few back in place, we should be protected from the faerie of the Wilds.”
“You used iron on Gravell, and the cage is made out of rose stems.” said Bram perceptively.
Fred nodded. “Iron wounds them, as does certain types of wood. Encircling water can hide us from view.”
That jolted Nettle’s memory. “Oh, the stream, that’s why it’s forked and runs around the property. And roses…” she whispered to herself thoughtfully. Her mind jumped to the boulders her father had been levering a few days ago. “Like the rocks you put in a circle around the house? They’ve grown rapidly. Aren’t they rosebushes?”
“Yes,” answered Fred. “Tomorrow, I’ll introduce you.”
Nettle blinked with surprise. “Huh, they can talk?”
Fred grinned. “Well, grumble and complain a lot, more than actually holding a worthy conversation.”
“But, how did the spriggan get into the house?” Bram asked.
Fred sighed. “He must have been here already – before we turned up.” Without thinking, he added, “I guess there’ll be others too.”
Fred caught Nettle and Bram sharing a worried glance.
“Is that why you stay up all night on the porch with that sword?” Nettle questioned.
Fred really didn’t want to answer, but looking at his two young children with their anxious expressions - and the realization they’d just entered a dark and dangerous world that they never knew existed beyond the pages of bedtime stories - he felt they deserved to know the truth. Well, as much as he was willing to share. Not everything, just yet, he decided.
“I need to talk to your Aunt.”
Nettle’s brows furrowed, Jazz’s mum? “Aunt Mae?”
“No,” Fred shook his head. “Aunt Thistle.”
Nettle blinked, utterly astonished. “Mum’s sister?” She remembered meeting her Aunt only a few times at the cottage when she was a child. She had a vague impression of long blonde hair, knotted and twisted.
“I let Willoughby go on purpose. He was your Aunt’s. I’d hoped by now he’d have flown back with a message from her.” He glanced at Nettle. The colour of her eyes were an inky black in the candle’s flickering flame.
Why is Dad so worried? Hang on, what did he say about Willoughby? He belongs to her… He let Willoughby go on purpose… “Dad, does Aunt Thistle live in the Wilds?”
“Yes.” But he didn’t elaborate further.
“Oh.” She supposed she’d never really thought of her mother’s family coming from the Wilds as well. “Do others, like us, live in the Wilds?”
“Not many, but a few.”
Nettle could tell by his tone, he was worried. “Has something happened to Aunt Thistle?”
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I hope not.”
Bram leaned forward, his golden brows quirking curiously. “What’s so important, why do you need to talk to her?”
Nettle eyed her father keenly. He looked like he was on the verge of saying something further. But in the end, he returned her gaze and said nothing.
Fred almost said aloud, “Because you’re turning 13.” But caught himself in time. For a long moment he was silent, watching his daughter study him. How could he explain all of this to her? He wasn’t equipped to. He never had been the kind of person who was good with words. Carving wood was what he was good at. He ran his fingernails against his thigh, back and forth, agitated. Briar was supposed to be the one sitting beside her, telling her everything was going to be alright. This was a mess. A worrying, uneasy, sticky, mess.
He finally broke the silence with a sunny smile and a light-hearted tone he didn’t feel. “Come on you lot, it’s late and everyone’s tired. Off to bed.” He rose and ushered them out of the kitchen. The cousins reluctantly left for bed and Fred took vigil on the porch with only the fireflies and his troubled thoughts to keep him company.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Copse
It was late the next morning and Nettle was on a kind-of fieldtrip with her father. He had walked her about the house, pointing out all the things to help keep the pesky faerie at bay if they discovered any more intruders - in every room he’d filled a wicker basket full of iron in the form of fire-pokers, horse shoes, old-fashioned irons and frying pans, while a string of bells and rowan twigs bound with pungent rosemary hung in the living room above the front door - and now they were making their way back from the stream that surrounded the property and shielded the cottage from faerie-sight, Fred had explained.
It had been a long night for her father, and yet again, no contact from Aunt Thistle. He’d fallen asleep only a few hours before dawn when he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. The aroma of black coffee and hot buttered toast had awoken him as Nettle approached with breakfast mid-morning. They’d made another pot to take with them in travel mugs on what she’d thought of as her educational tour.
A cracking noise startled Nettle. Of course, just about every noise she heard this morning made her jump or spin around in fright, her heart racing. What was that? Where? She scanned the Forgotten Wilds and the dark depths within. She couldn’t help the goose-bumps prickling, or the way her heartbeat skittered. After yesterday’s revelation, the trees seemed more misshapen and black and sinister; every noise, every breath of wind, every flittering shadow, had her on edge.
“Just a squirrel,” said her Dad with a lopsided grin and a wink. “Come on, relax.” And he nudged her with a shoulder. She frowned at him, it was easy for him to say, not so easy for her to do. She’d lain awake for hours last night, mulling over what her father had revealed, with more and more questions buzzing around her head like a thick blanket of flies. So while they’d been out-and-about Nettle asked about the Thicket, which is what she had come to call the wall of thorns. “Well,” she said, trying to pry apart the knot of questions. “Jazz said it blocked the path through the Wilds.”
He nodded, taking a sip of coffee. “It’s always been there, a great wall of thorns, completely surrounding the Forgotten Wilds. Nothing can get through, and I think more importantly, nothing… almost nothing,” he corrected, “Can get out.”
Nettle looked askance at him. Almost nothing… that piece of information was a little disquieting. “What’s beyond the Thicket?”
Fred shrugged, looking over his shoulder and into the Wilds. “I don’t really know for sure.” Nettle shrewdly narrowed her eyes, watching him glance away. He does know what’s behind the Thicket but for some reason isn’t willing to say. Whatever it is, it can’t be good. He looked back at her, and added, “I’ve never been beyond the Thicket.” She could tell her father was being honest about that.
They had walked halfway down the drive. Crisp dead leaves crunched beneath Nettle’s muddied boots. While her father carried on talking, she kept half an ear out for odd sounds. She still wasn’t comfortable with this strange new world she found herself in.
“Your grandfather shared tales with me and your Aunt Mae of life beyond the Thicket. I don’t know how much is true, they were much like faerie tales-”
“Except round here, faerie tales are true,” interrupted Nettle wryly.
He gave a grim grin. “True enough. We grew up on tales of goblins and ysar, Good Folk and Kin-Folk and faerie. Squabbles amongst families, sisters cursed into sows, queens eating pies made of fattened
naughty children, all of that sort of thing.”
Those stories sounded a lot darker than the Hans Christian Andersen tales she grew up on. On their journey to the forked stream earlier that morning, her father had explained about life outside the Thicket, inhabited by mainly faerie – spriggans, pixies, treenawts, sylphs, imps and brownies - more bothersome than dangerous, and more like the faerie of Hans Christian Andersen. Nothing too bad, just childish pranks and lessons learnt. But Good Folk and Kin-Folk were new to her. “Good Folk? Isn’t that another word for faerie?”
“Not in this case. Good Folk are people like us who live within the Forgotten Wilds. This cottage was never originally within the Wilds but over the centuries it’s been swallowed up like many others.”
Nettle tucked a lock of black hair behind an ear, a grin spreading across her face. It felt good to belong and to be named. “So we’re Good Folk then?”
He shook his head as if he half-agreed with her, but not wholly. Yet did not explain himself.
“And Kin-Folk?” she asked her smile fading, wondering why he hadn’t agreed.
He pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose. “Your grandfather explained them to be witches and warlocks. The creatures not quite faerie and those above.”
Nettle rolled a mouthful of coffee around in her mouth, savouring the warmth and burnt richness before swallowing. “Above? Like Royalty? Do you mean the goblins and ysar?” Her Dad hadn’t gone into who the goblins and ysar were.
“Exactly.” Fred said jabbing a finger in the air like an excited professor in mid-lecture. “They consider themselves the nobility of the Forgotten Wilds.”
Nettle remembered something he’d said last night. Her hawkish nose crinkled thoughtfully, “Didn’t you say something like, they had more power than anyone should rightfully own?”
“Magic.” He simply stated. “Well, to you and I, it’s magic. To them it’s just another sensory ability, as natural as breathing.”
“Magic…” Nettle breathed in awe, her mind spinning through the tales she had read as a child, of wishes granted and children flying through the air. “What kind of magic?”
“Depends on their bloodline. The magic varies. Some wield influence, and can make you believe whatever they want; some hold power over the elements, such as fire, water, air and earth; and a very few have true abilities of a very powerful and potentially dangerous kind.”
“Have you ever met one of them?” She glanced at her father and tensed. He was worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.
“A ysar?” Her father shook his head slowly, taking a long sip of coffee. “No.” His voice caught as he said it.
Nettle’s brow furrowed, and she gave him a prickly stare, he’s lying. He has met one of them.
Her father changed the subject, passing his travel mug from hand to hand, picking up his pace. “When I was a little older than you, I did something a little foolish by attempting to circumnavigate the Thicket.”
Nettle’s eyebrows quickly rose and her eyes sparkled as the idea of adventuring within the Wilds took hold, supplanting his dishonesty. If Dad could do it, surely I can too. Fred turned back with a hard look as if he’d heard her thoughts. “Don’t get any ideas,” he said, knowing her only too well. Nettle gave a good natured pout. “I didn’t get very far before getting myself into a sticky situation.” He shuddered. “I’d stopped to pick some mushrooms when a grenick-vine grabbed hold of me.”
Nettle cocked her head to the side, “Grenick-vine?”
“Similar to ivy, but it has little prickles up its stems and has a thirst for blood.”
Nettle looked upward at the rampant ivy choking an ash tree and pulled her jacket around her more snugly. Traipsing around in the Wilds was soon losing its appeal.
“Luckily, your grandfather was nearby and rescued me before I was bound as tight as a mummy and sucked just as dry.”
A raucous belch interrupted the serenity. Fred gave a rankled twitch and heaved a sigh.
Nettle’s long dark hair whipped around as she glanced about herself. “What was that?” Her heart had started pounding erratically again.
“Who, is more appropriate.” Fred grinned at Nettle’s perplexed expression. “Come along,” he urged, and his stride got longer and quicker. “You may as well meet them.”
They had reached the front yard of the cottage and left the driveway behind. Nettle felt a little safer being back on their property, with the Wilds kept a comfortable distance away by the rickety picket fence. While she followed her father, Nettle’s thoughts shuffling through their conversations on the Wilds and its inhabitants and why her father hadn’t answered truthfully. Just how did her grandfather know so much about the Thicket? And that’s when Nettle began to wonder that perhaps her father hadn’t been referring to his father, perhaps he’d been talking about Briar’s.
Fred led her to one of the boulders that he’d wrangled into place, into a circle about the properties perimeter. Every one of them had sprouted black brambles, their height now well over Nettle’s head. The branches had grown gnarly with sharply curled thorns and had twisted together, reaching for its neighbours, but not as yet intertwining.
Her father stopped in front of the boulder she’d seen him having difficulty wrangling into place. It sat in the earth like a half buried walnut, and was a wrinkled russet colour. With its masses of branches sprouting on top, it reminded Nettle of those little troll pencils, except on a gigantic scale.
“This, is Burban,” her father introduced.
Burban blinked, opening large tawny eyes, and yawned, “Ahh-hmm. What do you want, waking me like?”
Nettle leapt backwards into her father, almost yelping. The hairs on the nape of her neck bristled. She knew her father had said they could talk, but it was another thing to be faced with a talking boulder. Or really, was an enormous seed perhaps a more accurate description?
Fred steadied her as Burban smacked his lips together, and then seeing them both before him, scowled. “I was enjoying a nice stroll while you lot were gone.” His voice was low and gravelly. “Don’t know why you bothered to come back. Another three years and I’d have disappeared into the yonder.”
“It can talk…” whispered Nettle.
“This one’s smart. I like her,” said Burban sarcastically. “Course we can talk, girl. How else are we going to warn you of intruders?”
Nettle turned to her father, her face pale. “It can talk…” she repeated.
Fred winked at her, squeezing her shoulders comfortingly. “Yes, they can talk.” And she knew by the way he said it, he meant they sure-can-talk. He nodded toward either side of Burban, the boulders awakening. “This is Krinsky, Dodkan, Winger.” He leaned in to whisper in her ear, “Can’t remember the rest of their names, but don’t let on, else we’ll never hear the end of it."
“Hello,” she said tentatively and gave some sort of shallow curtsey.
“Hello,” greeted Krinsky.
While Winger shouted, “How-do-you-do,” as he was a little further away, and Dodkin said, “Welcome, young Blackthorn. It’s good to see you once more, all grown-up like. Our apologies for your mother. We did the best we could.”
Nettle flicked a look at her father, that’s an odd thing to say. She shrugged. “I don’t think you could of made her stay, if we couldn’t.”
“I don’t like being stuck put,” grumbled Burban, ignoring the present conversation. “Same view, nothing much happening. And stuck with this lot, day after day. Does your head in.”
“You can talk,” jeered Krinsky, his branches rustling. “Call us boring, all you ever do is complain and moan. We want rid of you just as much, Mr. I’m-Better-Than-Everyone-Else.”
“We’re a copse,” said Dodkin. He had more of a baritone and his speech was much slower and pronounced. “This is what we do. Stay put. Not go rolling off, on these so called adventures you keep droning on about. Ridiculous notion you got stuck in your head.”
“You got pebbles for brains
, you have,” scoffed Krinsky.
“Baaaaah,” replied Burban, then pressed his fat lips together in irritation.
Nettle cleared her throat, earning herself a distrustful glare from Burban. “How do you protect the cottage?”
He eyed her keenly. “Folk got to announce themselves. Maybe we let them in, maybe we don’t.”
“Like an alarm?”
“No,” he said his tone dripping with scorn. “We let you know through a series of charades.” This earned Burban a cackle from the others, their branches swishing with mirth. “Well lads, shall we show her?”
“Don’t see why not,” shouted Winger.
There came a series of various throat clearings and tentative pah-pah’s, then a thunderous, “BarooOOOOMMMMmmm!!!”
Nettle clamped her hands over her ears. The sound they made was deafening. Birds shot to the air in swirling clouds of fright. The noise eventually trailed off and Nettle tentatively lifted her hands from her ears. Fred was grinning.
Burban gave her a look, as if daring her to claim otherwise, “Well then girl, hope that satisfies you.”
“Impressive,” agreed Nettle.
“We haven’t finished yet, got a day or two before we’re set up proper like, when we’ve completely encircled the perimeter.” Burban assured her, his branches crackling as he spoke.
Krinsky added, “We can’t exactly keep out those more dangerous-”
Fred loudly coughed drowning out what Krinsky was about to say and shook his head at the boulder, who getting Fred’s meaning added quickly in a flustered way, “But at least we can put up a darn good fight, until you get yourselves away.”
Fred tried to smile reassuringly, but Nettle was having none of it, she gave him a withering glare. Protect them from faerie, indeed, she thought doubtfully.
“Pesky little low-lifes are something else. They’ll not get in unless they’re already here,” Dodkin added.
“Which a few already are,” said Fred referring to the spriggans. “But from now on, nobody gets in, or out, without our say so.”
Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters Page 14
