Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters

by Winter Woodlark

  Quary’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Whatever you want,” he conceded, his gaze downcast and his voice feeble. “Just don’t get rid of anymore.”

  “Then you’ll do as I say.” It wasn’t a question.

  Quary looked up and gave a reluctant nod.

  With a grim smile, Nettle opened up the wood-burner door. A box - the Box she’d found beside her bed that morning - sat on a hot bed of fiery embers.

  There came a collective sigh of relief from all the spriggans. Nettle met Bram’s gaze, they both were thinking the same thing: What is wrong with them?

  With a baffled shake of the head, Nettle thought to herself, who would have thought Nutella could be so addictive? She tossed the jar of Nutella she’d pretended to throw into the fire to Quary who caught it with fumbling hands. He drew his arms around it possessively and gave the jar a lip-smacking kiss. “Ah, you tricked us good and mighty with that one.”

  “Hey,” said Bram, pointing to the Box, drawing Nettle’s attention back to the fire. “I’d forgotten about that. What did Dad say was inside?”

  The fearsome look Nettle gave him stopped him from asking anything further. Nettle shut the wood-burner’s door with a bang, not bothering to check if the mysterious Box was burning or not. She rounded on the spriggans with such a furious expression that Jazz gave a little start. “YOU LOT, CLEAN UP!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  All Hallows’ Eve

  Nettle kept the last few jars of Nutella within arm’s-reach, and though Bram had come up with the brilliant idea to periodically feed the spriggans small rations to keep them on task, despite it all, the spriggans had groused and cajoled and wheedled, griped and grumbled and whined all morning long. Unused to housework or clearly even tidying up after themselves, it was a long laborious undertaking cleaning up the mess they’d made in the kitchen. Aside from Quary’s rooster gobbling down the scraps of food that’d been flung about the room, Spix was the only one with any sort of enthusiasm, whistling a jolly tune as he chipped dried batter from the walls.

  Over on the kitchen bench the brothers were squabbling over a piece of toast. “As Captain, this be mine,” Quary claimed.

  “Bah,” scoffed Roq snatching back the morsel. “It’s just another reason to loosen yer belt-notch around yer fat belly, you greedy one-eyed rock-head!”

  “Leave me eye outta this!”

  The squealing, scuffling and name calling was doing Nettle’s head in. “Shut it!” She banged her fist against the table loudly. Quary and Roq both froze with surprise, the scrap of toast held between them. She glared fiercely until Quary sullenly withdrew, picking up his cloth to scrub flour from the cupboard doors. Roq shoved the whole piece of toast into his mouth and noisily ate while rearranging the cutlery drawer. A rain of crumbs fell onto his vest as he childishly stuck his tongue out at Quary, who was quietly fuming.

  Nettle turned back to her present concern. Her father. She wasn’t sure about worrying Bram and Jazz, but ever the planner, she felt it was better to prepare them for the worst. Over breakfast she’d slowly filled in Bram and Jazz with her father’s request for them to leave the cottage if he didn’t return home on time. She’d woven a lie out of the truth, fashioning it to suit. She hadn’t told them everything of that night beyond the Thicket - just enough, leaving out some of the more worrisome details, like the fact that he’d left to rescue Aunt Thistle; simply stating their father had entered the Wilds with old family friends, heading for Aunt Thistles, which was only a few days walk from here. Not too far from the truth, she rationalised.

  Bram, as usual, bombarded her with question after question. Firstly, why would she lie about his original absence? Why would he go into the Wilds, when he had said it wasn’t safe to? With who? Who are the Woodstock Twins? How far away? Which direction – north, north-easterly? Why wouldn’t Aunt Thistle come to us? What did he take with him? Does he have the proper safety equipment if he finds himself lost or hurt?

  The more he asked, the more worried she became.

  Nettle sat at the head of the dining table, gnawing her fingernails. Really, she placated herself, there’s no need to worry, Dad’s got all day to return. But she couldn’t help herself. She just had this awful feeling he’d never return.

  “What if something terrible has happened?” Bram asked, his bright blue eyes troubled.

  “Nothing’s happened to him,” Nettle soothed. She didn’t want Bram to fret. She was the one in charge of worrying. “Dad can take care of himself. He’s probably waylaid,” she said in an offhand manner. “Found something important he couldn’t drag himself away from.”

  “Suppose,” said Bram unconvinced. “But why would he want us to leave before he comes home?”

  Nettle picked up the salt shaker and rolled it between her hands. She really didn’t know what to say.

  Jazz looked up a little distractedly. She was busy creating new field-hockey game-plays in a note-book, since she couldn’t use her ipad as something about the Wilds interfered with electronics. “Where did he want us to go?”

  “We’re supposed to go to your parents.”

  “Mum?” Jazz reeled back, astonished. “To Tent City?” She shook her head. Her pencil dropped to the table and rolled away. “No way. Uh-uh, I’m not going there.” Then drew both hands over her mouth, her muffled voice aghast. “I can’t go to Tent City. What if someone sees me there? One of my friends?” Her jacket’s collar poked up around her ears as she cringed. “I’ll be humiliated if it gets around St. Miriam’s that I’m poor.”

  “I don’t want to go either,” said Bram morosely, running a fingernail against the table’s grain of wood. “I like it here.”

  “I do too. But Dad said we had to.” She spun the salt over to Bram. It rattled across the table and he snapped a hand down to capture it. “Besides,” she said brightly. “There’s no need to worry just yet. Dad’s got all day to get back home.”

  “When do we have to go?” Bram’s brow furrowed.

  Nettle looked up sheepishly. “Today.”

  “Today?” repeated Jazz loudly. “But what about Halloween? I’m supposed to be the Queen.”

  Bram thoughtfully chewed on his bottom lip. “What is it about Halloween? Why doesn’t Dad want us here?”

  It was Egnatius who answered. He leant against the newly polished kettle to stretch his back. “Oh, All Hallows’ Eve, she’s fickle and feral and full of treachery. Yer Dad’s right - no one, not even you Good-Folk should be out on a night as perilous at that.”

  Bram and Jazz hadn’t been there, beyond the Thicket, when her father made her promise to leave before All Hallows’ Eve. He was desperate for the them to be gone. Just one more thing to worry about, besides Dad not returning. She hoped Egnatius could explain why her father was so afraid. “Why is it such a dangerous night?”

  Egnatius cackled, waving his fingers. “Oooo girly, ‘tis the night where the veil between this world and the spirit world is the thinnest. All sorts of things can happen on a night like that.”

  Jazz huffed. “Nonsense. It’s about dressing up and eating candy. A whole lot of candy,” she stated authoritatively, then sulkily, “And wearing a diamond tiara. A really big, sparkly diamond tiara… while eating candy.” Jazz pouted, her long auburn eyelashes framing her lost-puppy gaze aimed at Nettle. “Can’t we stay? I’m sure Uncle Fred wouldn’t mind, especially as we have these guys for protection.”

  The trio looked at the spriggans sceptically. Roq was wearing a feather duster as a headpiece and Quary had his arm stuck down the neck of the dishwashing liquid. “Yeah, I’m not so sure Dad will agree with that,” said Bram.

  Nettle didn’t want to leave either, and certainly not without Dad. Still, Halloween is technically another evening away… “Well, I guess we could leave tomorrow,” she put to them, shrugging a shoulder. “Besides, I’m not even sure how we’re going to get there. Dad’s not one to think of practicalities.”

  Bram was ever the thinker. “What about the tou
r buses from Olde Town? Maybe we could hitch a ride with one of them?”

  Nettle gave him a proud look. “Good idea! I’ll ask Claudine.” She also secretly resolved to take Bram’s advice and ask the elder sister about that man she’d seen her kiss yesterday. There was a part of her that hoped fervently that she’d been mistaken.

  Jazz gave her cousin a duh look. “If I were you, I’d talk to Claudine about us staying at hers’, instead of leaving. I’m pretty sure she’d take us in.” She delivered a persuasive smile. Her voice slowly rose in pitch as she then said, “Maybe provide us with an excellent excuse as to why we didn’t leave when Uncle Fred wanted us to?”

  Oh, nodded Nettle, liking her cousin’s thinking, that’s a way better idea. Behind her, the spriggans had erupted into a heated row. She caught the word, “treasure” and “goblin” and “block-head.”

  Nettle spun around and snatched Quary and Sandee by the ear and let them dangle before her, screeching and squawking. “What are you yapping about? What goblin? And what’s this treasure?”

  Quary clamped his mouth shut tightly. Green dishwashing liquid dripped from his arm.

  “`Ere, let me down and I’ll tell you,” yowled Sandee, to which Quary gave a loud squawk. Sandee fixed him with a baleful glare. “Oh go stick a pipe in it!”

  Nettle lowered both spriggans to the kitchen table, but didn’t let go of their ears. Quary wore a mean expression. He crossed his arms defiantly, his bottom lip poking out in a petulant manner.

  “It’s a goblin mound,” Sandee informed her, glaring daggers at Quary. “And this block-head wants us to go steal its treasure.”

  “What? A goblin mound?” Nettle and Bram traded a curious glance. She let go of their ears and Sandee rubbed hers between finger and thumb.

  “What’s that?” Jazz asked.

  Quary answered reluctantly, “That hill. Yer Olde Town you keep visiting. Its built on a goblin mound.”

  Jazz’s nose crinkled. “What on earth is that?”

  Quary sniffed. “Silly girl, everyone knows its where goblins keep their treasure.”

  Sandee rounded on the captain and poked him in the shoulder with a stubby finger. “Well I aint digging for it,” she declared. “It’s a fool’s errand that one.”

  “Well I’m in charge of this brigade, and I say we dig!” Quary shouted back, his hat dislodging to sit a little lopsided.

  Roq ambled over, the grey feathered duster shivering with his movement. “I’m sorely tempted,” Roq quietly mused. “If Goblins weren’t so devious and cruel. Looks like whatever it harbours is a biggun too.”

  Egnatius huffed loudly. “How many times do I have to tell you, you blundering gooseberry, we can’t even get near it.”

  Quary scowled at the elderly spriggan. He hooked a thumb at Jazz. “There’s surely a way, if this bothersome girl can get inside-”

  “We can’t! And you know it!” Egnatius interjected, his cheeks blustering. He pointed a knobbly finger at the captain and glared, daring him to argue. When he didn’t the elderly spriggan spoke to Nettle who’s mouth had just begun to part. “Goblin Mounds got powerful spells spun round it. They don’t like the likes of us, and make sure we can’t get in. This one got more than most.”

  “You can’t enter, at all?” Nettle asked instead.

  Spix, with a pair of yellow sponges tied to his feet was sliding about the dining table cleaning it. “We’ve tried. No luck.”

  “Can’t even get close enough to see what’s going on there,” Sandee explained, her back half-turned on Quary.

  Nettle chewed on her thumb nail. She gave her brother a look, one side of her mouth turning up into a lopsided grin, and he knew instantly what she was thinking - Olde Town was built on a goblin mound... well, well, well.

  It was agreed that Bram would wait with the spriggans at the cottage for their father to return. She thought Bram might protest at having to stay behind but he saw reason that Dad would completely freak out if he returned to the cottage and no one was home, and Bram was also keen to continue his tutelage in thievery. Egnatius had promised to teach him the art of picking a lock.

  Nettle and Jazz made their way by bike to Olde Town. As they rode up to the cul-de-sac, a tour bus rumbled toward them, stirring up dust and spitting small pebbles from beneath its tyres, leaving only one bus left sitting at the bottom of the hill. There were no new group of visitors, and no sign of Mr. Fussbinder who always seemed to be overseeing the to-ing and fro-ing of their guests. Nettle propped her bike up against a juniper tree and stood for a moment, eyeing the hill with renewed interest. A goblin mound…. It didn’t look any different from before. She didn’t really know what she was expecting now that she knew, maybe a big sign that said – GOBLINS WELCOME, BOTHERSOME FAERIES NOT. There were no faerie that she was aware of in Olde Town and now she knew the reason why - spells kept them from entering. But if Olde Town was built on a Goblin Mound, she pondered, did that mean goblins were prowling about the village?

  Jazz, for some reason, looked unenthusiastic at being back at Olde Town. She heaved a bored sigh and walked in a rather subdued air towards the steps.

  “You don’t want to be here?” Nettle asked, a little surprised.

  Jazz shrugged. “I’m just a little over it all. I really need a break from the sisters and all their fussing.” OK, thought Nettle, her eyebrows raised in a disbelieving arch, I never thought I’d ever hear her say she was bored being the centre of attention.

  She gave Nettle a disparaging look. “Sure I’ve agreed to be their Queen, but enough already. I don’t want to keep hearing about it every five minutes. Besides, one of the Balfrey’s could just as easily take my place. They all look like Lysette anyway.” She turned on her heel and trudged up the steps.

  Though Jazz had suggested to ask Claudine if they could stay with her, Nettle was always one for alternatives and back-up plans. It wouldn’t hurt to check whether or not there would be room on one of the buses just in case Claudine couldn’t take them in. As Nettle approached the bus parked in the cul-de-sac, she noted there was still no sign of Mr. Fussbinder or even a driver. The door was slightly ajar, just wide enough for her to slip through and as she tentatively stepped aboard she was immediately enshrouded in a dim muted light. Nettle climbed up out of the stairwell, her boots making a clanking noise on the metal steps.

  The bus was only a third full, populated mainly by couples or single visitors. There wasn’t a single family with children aboard the bus. Everyone sat quietly facing forward, politely still. Weird, thought Nettle. She clutched the metal pole at the top of the stair well, leaning against it. “Excuse me,” she addressed the man sitting in the first row. He swivelled her way. He didn’t say a thing, just stared at her, unblinking. He was thin and sallow in the face and there was an air of exhaustion about him. His clothes, though freshly washed were frayed and worn, as if they’d seen better days. “I was wondering where the bus was heading?”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t even respond with a single blink or shrug of the shoulder. He just stared blankly at her. Nettle’s grip on the metal pole grew tighter. The way he sat looking at her gave her the creeps. No one should be that still.

  Suddenly, a giant hand descended upon her shoulder. She nearly shrieked with fright. It felt as if a rock had grabbed hold of her, cold and leaden, and she stumbled under its weight. Nettle turned to find the bus driver looming above her, a great hulking man in an inky black uniform too tight for him. He must have been in the driver’s seat all this time and she hadn’t noticed.

  “What are you doing here?!” He boomed.

  “I… I was just asking… where the bus was going?”

  He was wearing dark glasses but was peering above the rims at her with tiny pinprick eyes. “What’s it to you?”

  “I know Miss Claudine,” Nettle quickly added, hoping her name might keep her out of any real trouble. “She’s a friend of my fathers.” She had no idea why her father would help, but she figured maybe another adult migh
t give weight to her reason to being somewhere she shouldn’t be. She crossed her fingers behind her back. “She’s been kind enough to let us have a seat on the bus tomorrow.” It was a blatant lie, but she trusted it would hold.

  The driver let go of her, looking a little baffled. “Mr. Fussbinder is the one who arranges those kind of things.”

  Nettle rubbed her tender shoulder where the man’s hand had gripped her. “Yes, yes, of course.” She squirmed past the burly man, edging toward the open door. “I’ll go see Miss Claudine right now and talk to her.”

  The driver jabbed a bulky finger her way, his fingernail was dirt encrusted and jagged. His meaty face began to scrunch up angrily. “We take our orders from Mr. Fussbinder. He’s the one who tells us where to go, who to pick up, and who gets to go home.”

  Nettle backed down the steps. “Right then, of course. We’ll arrange everything through Mr. Fussbinder. Thank you.” It was an utter relief to scramble away from the bus. No wonder those passengers sat so still, who’d want to upset someone like him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Dryad’s Breath

  At Goodmire Grocers, the elderly Mr. Goodmire did indeed have another box of Nutella out in the back storeroom, and under his inquisitive stare Nettle bought as many jars she could stuff inside her satchel.

  As Nettle made her way up to the Three Wicked Sisters’ Tea House, she dawdled along the winding cobblestone path, finding it terribly hot and humid. She stopped to remove her jacket and tie it around her waist. As she continued on, trudging up the path, sweat beaded at her hairline and the satchels strap cut into her shoulder from the weight she carried, she stopped to lean against the stone wall of the Footless Cobblers, relishing the coolness of the shade it provided. She didn’t understand why it was so blatantly summery, it’s supposed to be Autumn, isn’t it? She rubbed her aching shoulder where the satchel had dug in, silently bemoaning the spriggans and their ferocious appetite for Nutella.