CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Willoughby’s Message
Nettle awoke with a jolt.
Her mouth was dry and her eyes felt gritty and sore as if she’d been staring at a computer screen: all night. She hadn’t. She’d been up most of the night staring at the copse, willing it to part and for her father to stride though with a grin on his face and one of his flippant excuses as to why he was late home.
Except he hadn’t.
During her vigil, she’d eventually fallen asleep where she sat on the swing-chair out on the back porch. And now that she was awake, she knew instantly, with a sickly feeling, that her father had not returned.
She stretched her stiff limbs, rolling her shoulders, and eased herself out of the swing-chair. It was a damp and chilly morning. Mist rose from the dewy grass, veiling the copse in ethereal shadows. A feeble light slowly blanched the skyline to a dreary grey. Nettle shivered, wrapping the blanket around herself more tightly, and trudged up and down the porch, the boards creaking beneath her footsteps. She felt leaden with a heavy mantle of despair. Her thoughts were scattered, a jumble of anxious emotions. Above all, she feared for her father. Would he come home? Could he be hurt or worse... dead?
It was still very early. While she waited for her brother and cousin to wake, she went inside to stoke the fire and then wandered up to the library where it was a much warmer place to be and to once again think upon what Jack had implied. She’d gone over and over in her head, pulling apart the last few encounters with Dolcie and Margot and examining everything in minute detail. She hadn’t spoken to Bram or Jazz about her growing fear. She wasn’t sure herself. Jack could be messing with her, but deep down she felt an unease about the younger sisters. What did they want with the Crone? And more importantly, was Jazz in danger because of them?
Besides fretting, there wasn’t much to do except examine the rows of books, pulling any that were of interest. It was a merely a distraction, a way to stop her from pacing and worrying, yet she found her gaze pulled in the direction of the stained glass window, her hearing attuned to any odd noise coming from outside.
It was precisely this distraction that provided a means for her to find something of significance. Drawn to the window after hearing a beating of wings, her elbow clumsily knocked a book from the shelf and this caused a domino effect. Nearby books fell upon themselves, a few tumbling from the shelf with hard thumps that perforated the silence of the library. With an exhausted sigh, Nettle picked up the offending books, righting them and sliding them back into place when she discovered something that had gotten trapped behind the row of books. A small journal.
Nettle freed the journal. She padded over to her father’s armchair. It was a basic journal, bound in leather, its fragile pages written by someone with concise strokes, and splattered with drops of black ink. It belonged to her father’s great-great-great-great-grandfather Benedict Baxter Blackthorn, and it had to be a couple of centuries old.
Nettle settled into the armchair, squiggling her back against the cushion and began to read. Benedict wrote mainly of the weather, his crops and animals, how his fishing fared, and of his wife and four children. He seemed to be as concise and economical in his life as his brush-stroke, and liked a simple quiet life with very few visitors. Whether that was because of his locality or disposition, Nettle wasn’t sure. There was one visitor though that appeared regularly in his accounts and whom he seemed to genuinely enjoy their company, a bibulous character Finnius Galder, who, besides drinking, liked fishing just as much as Benedict.
The Thirteenth day of July, 1791.
A blustery day for summer, heavy swollen clouds but no rain. Mrs. Blackthorn has baked an apple pie with raspberries and custard for supper, very nearly eaten by Ned - Nettle had read earlier entries about their mischievous plough-horse - who yet again escaped the field.
Finnius arrived today with news that greatly upset my wife. Anna Quidfinger (I remember her mother Marguile as a child with pretty blond hair and a petulant temperament) had been found in the town well, drowned. She was but seven years old.
Nettle skimmed through the next few pages, filled with brief accounts of weather and harvesting crops.
The Twenty-Seventh day of August, 1791.
Very hot day. Young Thomas snared two rabbits in his traps and Peter was caught stealing a slice of Mrs. Blackthorn’s walnut tart that was left cooling on the window sill. Peter will be spending the next week chopping wood for our winter stores in punishment, but I have a feeling not even that will deter him from trying again. I can’t say I blame him, Mrs. Blackthorn is quite the baker, as even Ned would attest if he had the means to speak.
Finnius stopped by for a spot of fishing. He informs me that there seems to be an exodus of young people striking out for Caddland and the promise of wealth and an easier way of life. Even his nephew Herbert has succumbed and departed without even a by-you-leave for his mother. Finnius was infuriated with his nephew and his ill-treatment of his mother, and spent most of the day ranting to me of his wayward nephew. In truth I believe Finnius was annoyed more with the fact he had to stay and comfort his sister and miss out on a days fishing.
Still the evening was good and we managed to land three decent trout and finish off a bottle of port.
The Twenty-Eighth day of August, 1791
Finnius has sworn off drinking. We shall see.
Life went on for Benedict and his family and he received no news of Olde Town from Finnius, as Benedict had not seen his fishing companion for quite some time... not until a month later.
The Twenty-Fifth day of September 1791
Finnius has learnt the truth behind his nephew’s disappearance. Herbert wasn’t in Caddland. He’d never even left Olde Town. He’d been killed. Murdered, Finnius says, in a most horrific manner. They’ve found more bodies than just Herbert’s, scattered amongst the Wilds.
Quite a few of the town-folk’s sons and daughters, at first thought to have run off to Caddland, have been murdered in macabre rites. As a sacrifice to the devil, Finnius claims.
That night was a sombre night at Blackthorn Cottage and Finnius drunk well into the night until he fell asleep where he sat, a mug of blackberry wine still in his hand.
The Seventeenth day of October, 1791
Finnius arrived in quite a state today. He has come to warn us off Olde Town. The town’s crops are failing, a blight has struck and a few villagers have succumbed to a strange illness, which has already killed three and one babe.
His news drove a great fear into Mrs. Blackthorn and after he left she spent a great deal of time calming her nerves with the whiskey he left behind. I have not seen Mrs. Blackthorn drink the likes of this before and she could have easily bested Finnius that night.
Nettle, her brow creased in consternation flicked through, trying to find the next passage relating to Olde Town. It wasn’t long before she found the thread pick up once more.
The Ninth day of November, 1791
Finnius has taken to drinking again, more than usual. And he begged me over and over to protect my wife and children from the evil in Olde Town. Mrs. Blackthorn doesn’t want him around the children with his talk of devils.
After dinner and too much whiskey he became belligerent. But amongst the nonsense he spoke of a family who have flourished amongst the hardship Olde Town is experiencing of late. He mumbled a name, over and over again. Lysette. The eldest daughter I’m led to believe of a family rumoured to have Kin-Folk blood.
The Twenty-Ninth day of December, 1971
I have not seen my friend Finnius for some time. I, as well as Mrs. Blackthorn worry for him. The winter weather has been particularly harsh and not conducive to travelling. As soon as I am able I intend to head to Olde Town.
The Eleventh day of February, 1792
It’s been a brutal winter. We’ve survived it well enough, here in the cottage, but I feared for those in Olde Town and in my surety that the folk there had been struck hard, I took what food and cloth
ing we could spare, in hopes of finding Finnius alive and well.
I have not recounted to Mrs. Blackthorn everything that transpired, the terrible things I saw that day. It would worry her incessantly and steal from her peaceful sleep.
Upon my arrival in Olde Town a great fear stole upon me. Pagan symbols warding off evil were everywhere. The town-folk, those who’d survived, looked starved and skeletal, fought with mangy dogs and cats for scraps of food. As far as I could see, most of the village have been killed by a sickness that I would find hard not to describe as some sort of plague. Bodies, wrapped in blood stained blankets were simply left outside front doors, since there was hardly anyone left to collect the dead.
I found Finnius dead at his table, his favourite mug still clutched in his hand. He’d been dead for quite some time, the plague having laid claim to him. Blood had wept from his blackened eyes and his throat was swollen and encrusted with boils and pustules.
I couldn’t be there any longer.
I left the food and clothing and ran from the village. As I hurried away I felt eyes on me. A girl with dark red hair watched as I descended the path. She looked soft and well nourished. She had to be the girl Finnius spoke of last year. Lysette.
What frightened me most about Olde Town, to which I cannot bring myself to tell Mrs. Blackthorn, besides the girl with the red hair, there were no other children. Not one single child did I see.
And there the journal ended. Nettle sat back looking down at the page with Benedict’s last entry. She had so many more questions. The crops blighted, he wrote, and people either starved to death or died from a terrible sickness - a plague no doubt – and no children to speak of. Was Lysette really a witch? Did she bring this terrible curse to Olde Town?
A sickening sounding thud against the window pane, startled Nettle. What was that? She ran to the window and saw Willoughby, stunned from the impact, lying on the ledge outside. He looked terrible. His feathers on one wing were severely burnt and dried blood matted his tail feathers together. His chest palpitated and she feared his heart would burst.
She slid the window open and gently picked him up. “Oh Willoughby… what’s happened to you?” Willoughby tried to rise and wik-wiked with pain. “No… hush now… it’s all right… just lie still.” Nettle urged him. Tears gummed her lashes, making it hard to see. Did someone do this to him? Intentionally? She carried him over to the arm chair and placed him carefully on a cushion. He looked so tiny and fragile, she felt sick to think they could lose him.
Willoughby let go of a small message he’d carried all this way in his claw. It was furled, written on a dried leaf. Nettle uncurled the leaf, her stomach in a knot, finding it hard to breath as if the air were thin. Surely it was a message from Dad.
FATHER TAKEN! FLEE THE WILDS NOW!
Shock burst through Nettle and she felt the ground pitch beneath her.
Her hands began to shake uncontrollably and the message fell from her grasp. Dad’s taken? She stumbled a little, then let herself slip to the floor. What does it mean? Who has taken Dad? What should I do? Flee the Wilds now, the message says. Is this what her father had meant that night beyond the Thicket: times are a little precarious for us Blackthorns. Nettle just couldn’t grasp the concept that someone took her father - actually took him! And now the Woodstock Twins wanted them to run. When she thought back to that night she remembered Rory was stunned her father had returned to the cottage, and that she and Bramble had accompanied him. Are we all in danger? Of course we are, that’s why Dad’s been acting so weird of late, warning us not to go to Olde Town or into the Wilds. She could only assume he’d feared someone would find out they were back at the cottage. But who would want to take Dad? And why would they want us too?
Nettle woke Bram with a violent shake. He awoke grumpily and scowled at her. “What’s going on?”
Nettle didn’t know what to say, so she handed him the furled leaf. Bram sat up and fumbled for his glasses. He read the message and re-read the message several times, his eyes growing rounder and rounder. He flicked the leaf with a finger. “What does this mean? What’s happened to Dad? Who’s taken him?”
“I don’t know,” she wailed choking back tears. And then Nettle told him everything about that night, beyond the Thicket, and this time left nothing out.
They sat beside one another on the bed, she had an arm slung around him and her cheek rested on the top of his head. His hair was soft and smelt of apple scented shampoo. “Why didn’t you tell me?” said Bram, his bottom lip wobbling. He was still holding the message, it was an oak-leaf and its tips were beginning to crumble away in his palm.
“Because I didn’t want to worry you,” she said sniffing and wiped her nose with a tissue. “I’m the big sister and I’m supposed to look out for you.”
His voice was small. “Dad’s supposed to be the one looking after us.” He craned his head so he could look up at her awkwardly. “What are we going to do?”
She straightened so that they faced one another. One side of her mouth crooked downward. She didn’t want to, but what else was there to do. “We have to leave. Now.”
“What about Dad?”
Her stomach was in knots. If they left now, they left without Dad, and there were no guarantees if and when they returned they’d be able to rescue him. But there was one hope she clung to, her father’s sister - Jazz’s mother. “We’ll do as he asked. We’ll go to Aunt Mae. She’s from here, she knows the Wilds. She can help us.”
A spark of hope lit Bram’s eyes. He gave a decisive nod in agreement. “OK. I’ll start packing.”
Her lips twisted wryly. “Guess I’m stuck with waking up Jazz.”
“Better you than me,” he replied with ghost of a smile.
When Nettle entered Jazz’s bedroom it was a pigsty as usual and it was obvious there was no Jazz. She ran outside, Bram close behind, yelling for their cousin. “Jazz?! Jazz?!” Anxiety began to wrap itself around her like an unwanted blanket. “JAZZ?!!” With every unanswered call, Nettle knew Jazz couldn’t be at the cottage. She spun around to Bram, her face white. “She’s not here.” Where could she be? Pippa’s message – Jazz in danger – flared in her mind. She felt her breath suck away, her shoulders stiffen. Surely she’s not been taken, like their father... No, don’t think that, not yet anyway.
Nettle stalked up to Burban and woke him with a kick. “WHAT DER YOU THINK YER PLAYING AT?!” Burban roared.
There was no time for politeness. “Jazz, where is she?”
“She wanted out.” Burban grumbled glaring at her, and rubbed his injured side into the dirt.
Nettle’s stomach grew cold and her voice sounded thin. “Where did she go?”
“How would I know,” the boulder retorted, huffing. “Nobody tells me nothing. Certainly don’t treat me with any kind of respect I deserves. Young modern generation, you’ve all got no ma-”
“Olde Town!” Bram interrupted. “She’ll have gone there for a dress fitting or something to do with Halloween.”
Nettle let her head loll back. She took in a welcome breath of relief. Of course, Jazz will be there! “I’ll have to go get her.” Then the elation swiftly disappeared as anxiety washed over her. Her heart started beating a little faster as she recalled Pippa’s warning written in spilt salt. Jazz in danger - Pippa didn’t want Dolcie to see what she’d written. What did Jack say? They’re not who they’re pretending to be.
“Talk to Claudine,” advised Bram. “She’ll know what to do. Maybe we don’t have to go to Aunt Mae’s, maybe she could help us. We’ll be safe there and there’s enough people in Olde Town for us to use as a search party.” Bram frowned and he took hold of her arm squeezing it gently. “Nettle? What’s wrong?”
Nettle looked down at his small hand on her arm, her mind racing. She couldn’t lay this fear on her brother, not with their father gone too. And to be fair, she didn’t know for sure that Jazz was in danger from the Balfrey’s. She was reserved in her opinion of Claudine, refusing to beli
eve that there was anything sinister about the eldest sister. And whatever the case, she needed to find Jazz.
She gave a bright smile, shaking her head and making a face at herself hoping to deceive him. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Just spaced out for a moment.”
Bram’s gaze narrowed shrewdly. He didn’t believe her. But before he could protest, she knelt down so she could eye him levelly. His golden complexion had paled and there were worry-shadows around his eyes. She gave him a reassuring smile, taking both his hands in her own. “Listen, you pack our bags, just the necessities, nothing more. I’ll go get Jazz and talk to Claudine. We don’t have to tell her everything but you’re right, she’ll know what we should do.”
Bram worriedly chewed his bottom lip. “You need to take someone with you. That message sounded dangerous, someone could be-”
“I’ll be fine,” Nettle interrupted. She’d briefly considered bringing along one of the spriggans, but they were all still sleeping off their hangovers from the night before. How they slept through all the shouting that had gone on out here was beyond her. “I’ll be OK,” she assured Bram. “Besides, I want the others here to protect you. As far as I’m concerned this is the safest place for you while I’m gone.”
Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters Page 29
