A Sprinkle of Sorcery

by Michelle Harrison

  ‘We should get going and quickly,’ Willow said, in a low voice. She’d paused from her work, slightly breathless. ‘Lulling them only lasts a few minutes, but it should be long enough for us to escape.’

  Glad to have something more practical to do, Betty stoked the boiler. Slowly, the boat began to pick up speed. She went into the wheelhouse and began to steer. Having cleared the last of the wisps, Fliss and Willow joined her, and Fliss pulled down blankets from an overhead cubby.

  Betty’s racing heart began to slow, her mind clearing now the wisps were no longer muddying her thoughts. Here she felt safer, more in control. Here it was easier to focus on what she needed to do, and why they were out in the boat in the first place. She had to think of one thing, and one thing only, which was to rescue Charlie. Her fingers tightened on the wheel, as if by steering the boat she could steer her own mind, too.

  Betty glanced at the little clock. It was approaching two o’clock in the morning, yet sleep couldn’t feel further away. She realised, with a stab of worry, that all the while they’d been under attack from the wisps the boat had been adrift. Had luck been with them, taking them in the right direction? Or was it too much to hope that the Widdershins’ ill-fated pattern would change? She glanced at the distinctive shipwreck on Willow’s map and consulted her compass, scouring the horizon desperately for recognisable landmarks. The prison, at least, was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Well,’ said Fliss, peering out from a nest of blankets, ‘that wasn’t something I thought I’d end up doing tonight.’

  ‘No,’ Betty agreed. ‘Or ever.’

  ‘If Granny could see us now . . .’ Fliss’s voice was soft, thoughtful. ‘If she knew what we’d just done . . .’

  ‘She’d be proud.’ Betty stared through the cabin window, searching the empty waters. ‘Probably still furious that we dared to take off like that, but yes, proud. Whether she liked it or not. And Father. He’d be impressed.’

  ‘Charlie would be, too.’ Fliss’s voice was softer still.

  Betty didn’t answer. Her throat was aching again with the longing to cry. Charlie would be proud. Cross, too, that she’d missed out. And, thought Betty, as she caught sight of her reflection in the glass, Charlie would no doubt be wondering why her two sisters had seaweed dangling out of their ears.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Sorcerer’s Compass

  THE MARSH MIST HAD CLEARED, leaving a sky so black and clear it was hard to believe the fog had been there at all. After Willow had woken from a fitful sleep, they had shared the bread Betty had brought, but they were still ravenous. A loaf didn’t go far between three. Or four, if you included Hoppit.

  Betty’s tummy grumbled loudly and she remembered again how there was something about sea air that could make a person so hungry it could send them half mad. She knew this was true because she was even reaching the point where the thought of Fliss’s burnt porridge made her mouth water.

  ‘Charlie always says being hungry is worse when you don’t know what your next meal will be, or when,’ Fliss said anxiously. ‘Poor Charlie. I hope wherever she is that they’re at least feeding her properly.’

  Or at all, Betty thought, but decided not to voice that aloud. ‘Well,’ she said, in an effort to sound cheery, ‘if they’re not, she’ll probably eat them.’

  A pale moon and glittering stars stretched before them. Once or twice, Betty saw distant shadows that could have been land, but they were too far away to tell. Fliss’s eyelids were becoming heavier with sleep and Betty was reluctant to admit she didn’t know exactly where they were since they’d drifted. She was also unwilling to stop the boat and wait until they were sure of their bearings, for the thought of Charlie getting further away from them was plucking at her like a harp string.

  ‘We could catch fish,’ Fliss murmured sleepily, as an unladylike gurgle sounded from her belly. ‘We have nets, after all. And the little stove to cook on.’

  ‘Suppose so,’ Betty replied. ‘Although I don’t fancy gutting them, do you?’

  Fliss grimaced.

  ‘Thought not.’ Betty sighed. ‘Father reckons there’s a few types of seaweed that are edible, and some of them don’t even taste that bad.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Fliss, her lip curling in disgust. ‘You never know whose ears it might have been stuffed into.’

  • • •

  Sunrise came, bringing a pale pink sky. Betty looked out over the water. It was as flat as a looking glass, the view clear for miles around. She’d stayed at the wheel while Fliss and Willow dozed and fidgeted, but now dawn was here her eyes were gritty and tired. Thanks to the seawater Fliss had thrown, her hair was in a bigger frizz than ever, and her face felt dry and crusty. She licked her lips, tasting salt and feeling a flash of concern. They didn’t have much fresh water, either, and there was no way of knowing when they’d next find some.

  A sleepy-eyed Fliss stirred and joined Betty at the wheel. Fliss yawned, squinting through the window. A frown creased the creamy skin on her forehead. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘I’ve only just started to figure that out,’ said Betty. ‘We drifted a little off course last night, but not as badly as I’d feared.’ She consulted her map, comparing it to the magical one of Willow’s. ‘There’s the mainland. We’re up past Widow’s Point, and the shipwreck should be in this direction. If we carry on, we’ll make it by late morning and hopefully intercept Charlie.’

  ‘What if they made it before us?’ Fliss asked, looking more awake and worried now. ‘If they find she can’t do what they want, if they think she’s useless to them . . .’

  ‘Charlie’s smart,’ said Betty, needing to reassure herself as much as Fliss. ‘She was on to them, I know it. If she was clever enough to leave a trail of gingerbread, then she’ll have thought of ways to stall them. Heck, she’s probably pushed them overboard and is rowing back to us already!’

  Fliss gave a watery smile.

  ‘We just need to keep going north-west,’ Betty said determinedly, ‘and we’ll find her.’

  To think anything different was unbearable.

  ‘And you need to rest,’ Fliss said gently. ‘Let me take over.’

  ‘You’ve never sailed a boat,’ Betty protested. ‘You think starboard is a darts game!’

  Fliss snorted. ‘How hard can it be? North-west, right?’

  Torn between doubt and exhaustion, Betty allowed Fliss to nudge her out of the way. She sank into the blanket her sister had just shrugged off. It still held Fliss’s warmth and a faint trace of rose-water perfume as well as a whiff of vomit. Nevertheless, she pulled it round her, only now realising just how tired she was. Across from her, Willow slumbered on.

  ‘North-west, remember,’ Betty reminded her sister, sleep tugging at her.

  ‘I remember,’ said Fliss, more patiently than Betty deserved. ‘I’m more capable than you think, you know.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Betty murmured. ‘If it hadn’t been for you . . . when those wisps came . . . I was under their spell. How did you resist them?’

  ‘It was luck, really,’ said Fliss. Her slim, elegant hands looked strange on the wheel of the boat. ‘That word I remembered . . . domus. It’s one Granny taught me. It means “home”, so that’s what I thought of. The Poacher’s Pocket and everyone there.’

  ‘Well, thank goodness you did,’ Betty said. ‘I only remember her trying to teach me the words for “whiskey” and “tidy up”. If we’d been counting on me, we’d have been lost.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Betty.’ Fliss looked at her fiercely. ‘It’s partly because of you that I knew I could do it. What you said about being brave is true. And I never knew I could be until you showed me.’

  ‘Really?’ Betty mumbled gratefully.

  ‘Really,’ Fliss repeated. ‘Well, that and I was also trying very, very hard not to be sick everywhere. Turns out it’s quite a useful distraction.’

  Betty didn’t feel as though she slept, but she must have, for when Fliss’s alarmed gas
p roused her from sleep the sun was high in the sky through patchy cloud. At some point during Betty’s snooze, Hoppit had sneaked out from her pocket, and was now squeaking indignantly at the wisp in Willow’s lap.

  Betty sat up on the bench, flinging the blanket aside. ‘What is it?’ she demanded, catching sight of the sick bucket next to Fliss at the wheel, and her sister’s greenish face.

  ‘We need to slow the boat,’ Fliss said quietly.

  Betty stared across the water, dread creeping over her. The waves were choppier now and the clouds above were casting shadows across the water. Within them she saw several things at once: rows of jagged rocks, strange little floating wicker baskets and, not too far beyond, a mass of jutting black wood breaking the water’s surface.

  ‘That’s it, Fliss,’ Betty whispered, transfixed by the sight ahead. ‘That’s Rusty Swindles’ ship – The Sorcerer’s Compass!’ She picked up Willow’s map and pushed her way out of the wheelhouse the air surprisingly warmer outside now. She shut the dampers, steering the boat away from the rocks as it slowed, and leaned over the bow. A moment later, Fliss joined her, staring out towards the wreckage. Willow lingered a little way behind them, paler than ever in the daylight. Lulling the wisps seemed to have leached her strength even further, for she had hardly said a word since.

  ‘It’s so vast,’ Fliss exclaimed, a tremor of wonder, or perhaps fear, in her voice. ‘How can it be poking out of the water like that?’

  ‘Father said it rests on a raised part of the seabed,’ said Betty, unable to take her eyes off the ship. ‘There are layers and layers of rocks underneath, which is what wrecked it in the first place. And not just any rocks.’ She opened Willow’s map, holding it carefully, half afraid the precious item might be taken by a gust of wind, and homed in on their position. ‘Those are the Siren’s Claws. And this area,’ she pointed to a particularly sharp sliver of rock, ‘is known as the Siren’s Nest, because of all the shipwrecks.’

  ‘Lots of shipwrecks,’ Willow murmured faintly, closing her eyes. ‘Many souls. They can’t be seen so easily in the daylight, but they’re here. I feel them . . . waiting . . . angry.’

  Chilled, Betty surveyed the jagged rocks glinting like shards of black ice in the sun. It was only the second time she’d ever encountered ones as deadly as these. Off the coast of Lament last year, she had grappled with a smaller formation of rocks known as the Devil’s Teeth. Unlike those, which were mostly hidden beneath the water, the Siren’s Claws pierced the surface like a cat mid-pounce. They made the Devil’s Teeth look like kittens’ teeth in comparison.

  ‘And those floating baskets?’ Fliss asked, her eyes widening. ‘Are they . . . are they what I think they are?’

  ‘Memorials,’ Betty guessed, watching as one of them drifted nearer. It was similar to a small birdcage, with a wicker frame woven from reeds. Inside, she caught glimpses of paper, presumably inscribed with loving words or prayers. It had been waxed to prevent water damage, and rolled into a scroll that was fastened with a ribbon of deep red. Tucked into the ribbon was a single black feather.

  ‘Someone loved and missed,’ said Fliss sadly. ‘And another over there, look.’

  The second memorial was smaller than the first and had been made in such a way that the top of it was open, almost like a little chimney. Despite this, some of the wicker was singed, for inside was the nub of a candle long burnt out. Through the water, Betty glimpsed a length of thin rope plunging into the depths, no doubt weighted by a heavy stone to keep it in place. She wondered whom it had been left to remember, and whether the poor soul was one of the wisps they had encountered in the misty darkness. Betty didn’t want to think about how many lives had been lost in this spot.

  They set off again, taking care to avoid the deadly Siren’s Claws and the memorials floating ghostlike on the water. Betty couldn’t help wondering what lay beneath them, far below on the seabed. How many timber wrecks? How many ghost ships and spilled cargos could there be? Once or twice, they felt and heard the light scrape on wood as some unseen rock grazed the hull of the boat. But they held their breath, and carried on, unscathed, with the jutting shipwreck looming ever closer.

  Dark clouds were gathering above now, and as the little boat moved into the shade of the wreck the sudden change in temperature sent shivers across Betty’s skin. They all stared up at the wreckage in silent awe.

  The front section of the ship was the only part that was visible. The bow reared up from the water like a stallion, tilting to the left and partially exposing the keel. At the front a beautiful carved figurehead of a mermaid was intact. Though time and water had eroded some of the paint, she was still beautiful, with a sea-green tail, bronzed skin and shimmering golden hair.

  ‘I can’t believe the ship’s still here,’ Fliss said, looking around in awe. ‘And the . . . the what’s-It-called . . . the lookout thing on the stick there.’

  ‘You mean the crow’s-nest on the mast,’ Betty corrected, rolling her eyes. How Fliss could live on the coast and know so little about boats was beyond her. ‘Well, the foremast, actually. The main mast is further back . . . It must be underwater.’

  She peered at the water lapping at the sides of the wreck, trying to see into its murky depths. She thought she spotted a porthole below the waves, but the water was difficult to see into, especially with the blackness of the wood fringed with seaweed darkening it further. Whatever else was below the water remained a mystery.

  What was down there? she wondered. What secrets or treasure could the massive wreck still hold, if any? Had it been swallowed up by the seabed? Or was everything still inside, as it was the day it sank? Could any loot have been stolen by wreckers? Even as she thought about it, Betty remembered what her father had told her, on so many occasions over the years when the girls had been snugly tucked up at bedtime.

  ‘They say The Sorcerer’s Compass is a cursed ship. Can’t be moved or stolen from, though many have tried.’

  ‘Who’s tried?’ Betty had asked, eager as always for the gory details. Next to her, Fliss was half-asleep and Charlie was on her back in her crib, noisily sucking her fist.

  ‘Oh, lots of people,’ Father replied. ‘But it’s said that Rusty Swindles was a master of booby traps. When he knew the ship was going down and there was no escape, he rigged the entire vessel so that none of his loot could be taken, and Rusty and his crew would get to keep their treasure for ever. And, as the years passed, the legend spread and so did the fear. Stories of a curse began to circulate. But there are always those whose greed will get the better of them.’

  ‘And what happened to them?’ Betty had asked, exhilarated by the thought of it.

  ‘All sorts of horrible things,’ Father said, eyes glinting ghoulishly. ‘Fingers chopped off by falling swords, ghostly visions of dead sailors, treasure plain vanishing or changing into a scourge of rats. But mainly fingers got chopped off . . .’

  And every time Father finished the story he would lower his voice to a rumbling, piratey growl, and say the words Betty longed to hear.

  ‘Rusty Swindles, buried deep

  Stolen treasure in his keep.

  Be ye greedy, be ye brave,

  Only fools disturb his grave . . .’

  Betty thought back now to Father’s bloodthirsty stories of Rusty Swindles and his infamous ship. She had always taken them the same way as any story her father told her: with a pinch of salt. Barney Widdershins was well known for exaggerating, after all. But, as she gazed up at the forbidding shipwreck, it wasn’t hard to believe it was cursed.

  ‘So now what?’ Fliss asked, interrupting Betty’s memories. Her voice was high pitched, panicked. ‘There’s no sign of Charlie or the people who took her. What if we missed them?’

  ‘We can’t have,’ said Betty, but worry started to gnaw at her. The wisp attack had cost them precious time, but there were two things Betty clung to, simply because she had to. ‘They may have left before us, but they’re in rowing boats. Ours is bigger, faster. And wha
t Granny told us is our only clue.’ A clue, she feared, that may not have been enough to go on after all.

  A movement by the crow’s-nest caught Betty’s attention. The ‘nest’ itself was an old barrel, sitting at the top of the mast, and due to the angle of the ship, it jutted sideways over the water. Tufts of straw or something poked out of the cracks, and in a couple of places weeds had begun to grow. Without warning, a huge gull burst from the barrel and took to the skies, making them all shriek.

  ‘Jumping jackdaws!’ said Fliss, clutching her chest and almost knocking Betty overboard. The gull teetered wonkily in the air, as startled as they were, then flapped away.

  ‘Let’s look round the other side,’ said Betty finally. ‘Perhaps there could be a sign someone’s been here recently.’

  But, when they arrived, no portholes or areas of deck were visible there, either. Though they had to be above water, the tilting of the ship meant that they were out of view from the girls’ position on the smaller boat. There was, however, a crude wooden sign nailed to the hull.

  Shakily, Fliss read it out:

  ‘ENTER NOT IF YE WOULD PLUNDER,

  THIEVES WILL ALL BE TORN ASUNDER!’

  ‘What does “asunder” mean?’ asked Willow.

  ‘Apart,’ Fliss said, with a gulp. ‘Thieves will all be torn . . . apart. Well, you said you were hoping for a sign. Looks like we got one!’

  ‘It’s probably just there to scare people,’ Betty muttered. ‘It could’ve been written by anyone! It doesn’t mean it’s true.’

  ‘You know what Granny always says,’ Fliss said darkly. ‘There’s no smoke without fire. Why would someone write this if there was no truth in it?’

  ‘Perhaps “someone” has a terrible sense of humour,’ Betty said. She stared at the sign, which seemed more sinister the longer she looked at it. ‘Or perhaps . . . perhaps there really are things inside that are of great value.’

  Images of precious gemstones and golden goblets filled her mind. Chests of priceless coins and antiques . . . One item alone might be enough to feed a family for years. She felt a strange tingle of anticipation. ‘Perhaps there really is something here worth stealing.’