A Sprinkle of Sorcery

by Michelle Harrison

  ‘Fine.’ He scowled. ‘They found me, all right?’

  ‘Found you? Where?’

  ‘Adrift,’ he said, his amber eyes clouded with pain. He flicked the blade of his knife in and out. ‘A boat had gone down in a storm. Ronia and her father came across it and were searching the debris scattered over the water. There wasn’t much of value: mainly clothes, some furniture. They thought it must be a migrant ship, people looking for better lives. Lots of belongings, but no survivors.’ He sniffed, looking down at his hands. ‘Until they found me.

  ‘I was in a floating barrel, half drowned. A miracle I’d survived, really. They said I’d swallowed so much seawater that I was spitting and spitting to get the taste out of my mouth.’ He spat again, spurred by the memory. ‘And it kind of became a habit.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Betty, feeling a pang of sadness. All this time she’d thought this strange pirate boy had just been uncouth, but the tragic story behind his habit softened her. ‘And . . . your parents?’

  ‘Never found them,’ he said, lowering his eyes. ‘If they were even the ones I was travelling with. Guess I’ll never know who they were, or who I really am.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m just Spit, a Rusty Scuttler. They took me in, so that makes me one of them.’

  ‘When . . . when did this happen?’ Betty asked, shocked.

  ‘Twelve years ago,’ Spit replied. ‘They think I was about three, but there’s no way of knowing how old I am for sure.’ He rubbed his nose and took a mouthful of water from the bottle. ‘I don’t even know when my birthday is. Whenever it’s mentioned, Ronia always says it’s the day they found me. The day I became Spit.’ His face darkened. ‘That’s how it all happened, according to her.’

  Something in his voice made Betty’s scalp prickle. ‘Have others said differently, then?’ she asked.

  He hesitated. ‘There was another version. That the Rusty Scuttlers hadn’t just come across the ship I was on.’ His voice was quiet. ‘They’d attacked it. Slaughtered everyone aboard, except for me. Because . . .’

  ‘Because you were too young to be a threat,’ Betty finished, horrified, not least because of the similarity to Ronia’s tale. ‘But surely, if the same thing had happened to Ronia, why would she do that to another child?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Spit. He forced a hollow laugh. ‘Anyway, I only heard that story once. It came out during a row, when they’d all been on the rum, and gambling. Ronia said it was a pack of lies. She made sure it was never repeated.’

  Betty’s knees trembled. She crossed her legs, trying to stop them shaking.

  ‘But . . . but what if it wasn’t a lie?’ she asked. ‘What if Ronia didn’t really save you? Would you still be loyal to her?’

  Spit stayed silent for a long time, his face unreadable. ‘It was a lie,’ he said at last. ‘I have to believe she saved me, because if I don’t, there’s nowhere else for me. If I’m not a Rusty Scuttler, then who am I?’

  They sat in silence, watching the waves rolling and the gulls swooping for fish. How full of chance the sea was, Betty thought, mulling over Spit’s sad story. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes cruel.

  A short while later, Spit reached into the hidey-hole again and checked the time on a pocket watch. Then he hopped along the mast to haul the ragged sail out of the water, signalling to the Rusty Scuttlers that all was apparently well.

  When he returned, almost tripping over Betty, his mood had shifted like the tide. The sadness had gone, replaced by defiance. It was as if, Betty thought, when Spit had raised the sail, his defences had gone back up again, too.

  ‘They won’t get the sorcerer’s compass, you know,’ he muttered, sitting beside her once more. ‘These people who have your sister. No one’s ever got their hands on it – or any of Rusty’s loot. Strange things happen when anyone dares to go in that part of the wreck. Bad things. People have lost their minds in there, or come out with every hair on their heads turned white. That’s if they come out at all. Even the Rusty Scuttlers know better than to try.’

  ‘So it exists, then?’ Betty asked. ‘The sorcerer’s compass?’ Despite everything, the part of her that revelled in adventure longed for it to be true.

  ‘It must do,’ said Spit. ‘Why else would Rusty stay to guard it all this time? Then again, who can say for sure? No one’s ever seen it. Maybe it’s just another story passed down through generations. A warning to show what happens to people who take what they don’t deserve.’

  ‘Just another story,’ Betty echoed, falling silent as she was reminded again of the one about the mysterious island and the three brothers. How did it fit with what had happened to Willow’s father – and Saul?

  ‘Spit?’ she ventured. ‘Have you ever heard the legend about the one-eyed witch and the hidden island of treasures?’

  ‘Of course.’ Spit snorted. ‘Wouldn’t be much of a pirate if I hadn’t, would I?’

  ‘Suppose not,’ said Betty. ‘Reckon it’s true?’ She glanced at Spit, half expecting him to dismiss it immediately.

  ‘Now there’s the question,’ he murmured, his thick eyebrows furrowing as he gazed into the distance. ‘If I answered that now, watching the gulls pecking over there, and the sun sparkling on the waves, I’d bet all of Rusty’s treasure that it wasn’t true. But if you asked me at night when I’m out here alone, and the wreck’s creaking, and the moon’s casting strange shadows . . . and there are will-o’-the-wisps drifting over the water – ’ he paused, looking thoughtful – ‘then I’d probably say anything is possible.’

  THE CROWSTONE CHRONICLES

  The Crone, the Raven and the Labyrinth: Part II

  FORTUNE’S FATHER AND HIS TWO younger brothers asked far and wide for news of him, but received no word. Many believed he had looted the labyrinth’s riches and kept them for himself. Others said he had fallen foul of pirates or tricksters, or gambled it all away. His brothers, Luck and Hope, vowed to go after him, but their father forbade it.

  Heartbroken, the family resigned themselves to never seeing him again. Until, one year to the day that Fortune had left, his little boat returned. Empty – except for a large black feather. Again, Luck and Hope begged their father to let them search for their lost brother, but the old man still refused.

  However, Luck was not to be deterred. He stole away in the night to search for the lost Fortune, taking the little boat over the marshes to find the crone. Arriving at the rocky crag, he spotted the raven perched on the witch’s shoulder and flew into a rage.

  ‘Where’s my brother?’ he demanded, throwing down the black feather. ‘What have you done with him?’

  But the only response he received was the gnarly hand of the crone, offering him a hagstone.

  ‘Look through, look through,’ croaked the raven.

  Snatching it from her, Luck gazed into the middle and spotted the island at once. He gasped, then greedily eyed the cauldron.

  The raven spoke again: ‘Take one, choose one.’

  The crone watched as the foolish youth picked through the cauldron. Like Fortune, he discarded the dagger and the cape, believing there would be bigger riches in store. He dismissed the rabbit’s foot, declaring, ‘I have no need for luck, because I am Luck!’ The egg he picked up, enchanted by its golden sheen, but decided it would be too difficult to carry. The yarn he gave barely a thought to, for by then he had spotted the shoes.

  What a fine pair! And exactly his size. Luck looked down at his own shoes, which had been worn by Fortune first – like everything he owned. Laces frayed, toes scuffed. How he had longed for his very own pair of shoes all these years. ‘Besides,’ he reasoned, ‘this will be a long journey, and my old shoes are not up to it.’ So he cast them into the sea and set sail without a word of thanks to the crone.

  Enraged, the crone winked at the sky and summoned a lightning bolt which struck Luck’s boat so it sprang a leak. He quickly realised he had nothing to bail out the water with, except his wonderful new shoes. He almost wept as he pulled them off and used them to scoop the
water back into the sea. How he wished he had kept the old ones! But it was too late. He had no choice but to carry on, managing to plug the leak with a torn-off strip of his tunic.

  Luck made his way to the island, arriving at the same rocky spot Fortune had stopped at a year before. Here he cursed himself again, because he had forgotten to check the boat was properly equipped, and the mooring rope Fortune had lost had not been replaced.

  Sadly, Luck glanced down at his shoes. Their sheen had gone, replaced instead by crusty trails of sea salt. He pulled out the laces and used them to tether the boat. Then he began to climb. By the time he reached the rocky ledge where the cave mouth was, his shoes were dusty and scuffed, no better than his old ones. When he reached the well, he knew he had made the wrong choice.

  Luck peered into the well, just as Fortune had, noticing the bucket in the water below. Finding a copper Rook in his pocket, he threw it in to make a wish, for he had started to wonder if perhaps he was not quite as lucky as he’d first thought. But, instead of a splash, a large silver fish raised its head out of the water.

  ‘Who is throwing coins on my head?’

  At once, Luck recognised his lost brother’s voice, and the two wept with joy. And then they wept some more because they realised Luck had no way to rescue his brother.

  ‘Go home,’ Fortune said, ‘and return with help.’

  But Luck wasn’t about to give up just yet. He had always been in Fortune’s shadow, always second best, and this was his chance to prove himself. A chance for glory! Not only would he save his brother, but Luck was determined that he would be the one to make it to the riches at the heart of the island.

  ‘I’ll search the island,’ he promised. ‘If I cannot find a rope, then surely there’ll be some strong vines that I can weave into a net to catch you.’

  Fortune was not at all happy about this, but Luck didn’t stay to listen to his protests. He approached the darkened caves, knowing that this was the start of the labyrinth and that he must make it to the centre. At the mouth of the cave was a burnt-out lantern, but Luck noticed a cluster of bog beetles glowing brightly nearby. He swept them into the lantern delightedly, for now he had something to light the way.

  ‘What a stroke of luck,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Not for us,’ the bog beetles chirruped sadly. ‘Please set us free!’

  Luck did not hear them, for their voices were tiny. He entered the caves, braver now the bog beetles were glowing. Ignoring the pinch of his shoes, he journeyed into the twisting tunnels, sure he would soon be out the other side. But before long the bog beetles’ glow began to fade, for they were afraid – and nothing can shine when it is full of fear. Luck became cross and rattled the lantern, shouting, ‘Glow, beetles, glow!’

  Instead they went out, one by one, and Luck was left to roam in darkness. His courage was in tatters and his feet were now horribly blistered, for the wet shoes had shrunk and were so tight he could not pull them off. He wandered this way and that, tricked by breezes and tiny chinks of sunlight here and there, which never quite led to a way out. And, although he called and called for help, no one came. Yet still he cried out, because the loneliness was crippling and even the echo of his own voice was better than no sound at all.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hocus-pocus

  ‘WAKE UP!’

  A voice, low and urgent, hissed in Betty’s ear. She shot up with a gasp.

  Where am I?

  For a moment, she was disorientated as she took in the wrecked ship, the vast expanse of water and the amber-eyed boy poking her awake. The daylight was fading and a cool breeze ruffled her hair.

  Then it all came rushing back: Willow. Charlie and Fliss gone. Spit with his sad and unsettling past.

  Betty wiped away a string of saliva that had trailed from her chin to her ear.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, her voice gruff with sleep.

  Spit offered her a spyglass and pointed. ‘Over there.’

  Betty peered into the glass. At first she saw only miles and miles of water, flat and golden in the fading light. Then, as sleep left her eyes, she spotted it. Her fingers tightened round the spyglass. ‘A boat,’ she said, the last traces of sleep leaving her. ‘And it’s heading straight for us.’

  The boat was small and unlit. Against the sun, two figures were silhouetted. One was rowing, the other seated. From this distance, it was impossible to tell who they were, or make out any distinct features, but already Betty’s heart was sinking.

  Two people. No sign of a third.

  It can’t be them, she thought. The ones who have Charlie. Unless . . .

  Unless something had happened. Like Charlie escaping . . . or worse. Betty’s mind reeled, tormenting itself.

  What if she’d fallen overboard and they’d lost her in the fog?

  What if they’d finally believed she really wasn’t Willow, and had got rid of her?

  ‘You think those are the ones who have your sister?’ Spit asked.

  ‘I can’t tell yet.’ Betty’s hand shook as she passed the spyglass back. ‘They’re too far off. Either way, she’s not with them now.’

  Her voice hitched and she fought to regain control of it. She was afraid now, truly afraid of what might have become of Charlie. But, over the fear and guilt for her part in things, anger began to simmer like a cauldron. Everything that had happened since yesterday had started because of these two and their greed . . . Well, they would pay, thought Betty. And, one way or another, she would find out where her sister was.

  Spit frowned, squinting through the spyglass. ‘You sure about that?’

  Something in his voice made Betty snatch the spyglass back. She gasped. The boat was closer now and, while the figures were still fuzzy, there were now most definitely three of them – and one was a child.

  Betty almost slid down the side of the wreck in shock, and the spyglass slipped from her fingers.

  ‘Hey!’ Spit grunted, diving for it just before it fell into the water. ‘Careful with that!’

  Betty scrambled back up, her mind whirring, worrying that she might have been mistaken. ‘What if it’s not her?’ she babbled. ‘I need to know it’s Charlie. Let me see again!’ She ignored Spit’s protests and grabbed the glass again.

  It was definitely a child. As the boat drew ever closer, Betty was able to make out two familiar, untidy pigtails. A surge of love and relief threatened to overwhelm her, making her giddy. It took all her willpower to contain it and focus on what she needed to do.

  ‘Charlie!’ she whispered, clenching her fists. ‘Don’t worry, Charlie. I’m coming for you.’ She thrust the spyglass back at Spit. ‘How much can they see from where they are?’ she demanded. ‘Could they have spotted you?’

  ‘Doubt it. The sun’s behind them, but it’s darker here.’ Spit flipped the loose board and stowed the spyglass in the dark space beneath it, checking the pocket watch as he did so. A sudden realisation hit Betty.

  ‘Jumping jackdaws! How long do we have?’

  Spit looked at her blankly.

  ‘Before you’re supposed to lift the sail to signal all’s well to the Rusty Scuttlers?’ Betty prompted, panic rising. Already she knew Spit wouldn’t be signalling – his job was as lookout, after all. But when he didn’t . . . it would bring the Rusty Scuttlers right back to the wreck. ‘If that boat sees pirates charging in, they’ll be gone – and so will Charlie!’

  ‘But, if I signal to keep them away, the boat will see the flag,’ Spit argued. ‘They’ll know someone’s here – they could take off, anyway! If the Rusty Scuttlers find out I didn’t signal when I needed to, it’ll be my head on the chopping block!’

  He was right, Betty realised. Either way, the fake warders would soon realise they were not alone at the shipwreck. A strangled half-sob escaped her lips. This was Charlie’s life in the balance, and Betty’s only chance of getting her back.

  ‘Listen,’ Spit said, ‘I reckon you can still rescue your sister. It’s almost dark, and they’re go
ing to be focused on the wreck. If they’re stupid enough to go messing about in Rusty’s domain, then they won’t even see the Scuttlers until it’s too late. You can do your hocus-pocus and make Charlie disappear with you. You never know, a band of pirates might even help as a distraction.’

  Hocus-pocus . . . make her disappear.

  Yes, Betty realised, her heart lifting. Provided she didn’t twist the outer doll, she could keep herself, Willow and Fliss unseen, and open the dolls to add in an item of Charlie’s to the third. First, though, she had to reach Charlie. Breathless, Betty gazed out over the water, and her tummy flipped. The boat was approaching quickly now, and she could only guess that the sight of The Sorcerer’s Compass had spurred the warders on.

  The daylight was fading fast, and as dusk fell over the watery wreck so did an eerie stillness. It was easy to imagine things lurking unseen below the surface, waiting.

  ‘I need your help,’ she said to Spit. ‘The only way I can make this work is if I get Charlie alone, but they’re going to be watching her like hawks. I need you to hide in the crow’s-nest and draw their attention away from her, just for a few seconds.’

  Spit looked fed up. ‘Reckon I’ve already helped you enough, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ Betty retorted fiercely. ‘Not if you want me gone.’

  ‘Fine,’ he muttered. ‘But how will I know when? I can’t even see you!’

  ‘I’ll knock three times on the deck,’ said Betty. ‘That way you’ll know when I’m ready. Now quickly – get up there before they see you.’

  She crouched at the base of the mast as Spit climbed up it. This was it. She could hear the oars of the boat now, swishing through the water, and low voices. Then she settled into position, heart drumming ever faster . . . and waited.

  The soft lapping of the oars came closer.

  Betty’s eyes strained to see anything in the gloom. She wished she could use the spyglass, but couldn’t risk any objects being seen to seemingly float in mid-air. She smiled grimly. At least not yet.