Spit crunched over the sand towards her. ‘Looks like someone had a sense of humour.’
Betty turned. ‘Huh?’
He nodded to an old broomstick that had been propped up next to the witch’s chin.
‘Oh,’ said Betty, her voice flat.
‘Anything useful in the cauldron?’ Spit stopped beside the boulder, picking through the bits and pieces.
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Betty replied, barely giving the items a second glance. She wasn’t in the mood to look through a load of flotsam and jetsam or make chit-chat about broomsticks. She was scared now, of everything that rested on this. Even though they had Charlie, there was still no guarantee they were going to get home – Ronia was in no hurry to let them go. What was she planning for them all? On top of this, now Betty had stopped worrying about Charlie, she was afraid for Willow. Not only did the girl look ill, but her chance to save her father was ticking away.
Then something about what Spit had said caught, like a fishing hook. ‘Wait . . . what did you say?’
‘I said anything useful—’
‘—in the cauldron,’ Betty finished, leaping off the boulder. She stood back as Spit poked about in the rocky bowl. The cauldron! She felt a tingle of excitement in her tummy – but just as quickly it vanished when an eerily strange sound cut across the air from above, shocking them all.
THE CROWSTONE CHRONICLES
The Crone, the Raven and the Labyrinth: Part III
DAYS STRETCHED INTO WEEKS, AND then into months after Luck vanished in search of Fortune and the labyrinth. Their father had grown thin with worry, but Hope kept him going and, in the meantime, had taken up his father’s trade and was proving a worthy apprentice. Slowly, custom began trickling back and, while they were far from rich, they were no longer poor.
Yet Hope could not forget his brothers. He was sure that something had happened to them, and he longed to bring them home. But, as Hope was all he had left, his father would not agree to let him leave. Then one day, a year after Luck had sailed away, the boat washed up in the harbour again, empty except for two black feathers. Hope begged his father to let him search for his lost brothers, and finally the old man relented.
Hope took the boat and the two feathers and rowed out over the marshes in search of the crone. When she saw him coming, the crone’s temper soured once again for she remembered his brothers and expected Hope to be as rude and thoughtless as they had been. So she took a breath of cloud and blew a terrible marsh mist that caused Hope to lose all sense of direction. His boat hit a rock and sank. Leaping into the water, Hope swam the rest of the way. When he finally made it, having swallowed half the marsh, he still greeted the witch politely, acknowledging that he had arrived quite uninvited.
‘Why do you try?’ asked the raven by the witch’s side. ‘Why do you try?’
‘Because I’m Hope,’ he explained. ‘And I must find my brothers. I’m all our father has left.’
The crone nodded, passing Hope a hagstone.
‘Look through, look through,’ the raven told him, and Hope held the stone to his eye to see the island for the first time.
The old crone silently offered him the cauldron.
‘Take one, choose one,’ said the raven.
Hope noticed how the crone’s arms shook under the weight of the cauldron. ‘Let me hold this while I decide,’ he said. ‘For you look tired.’
The crone gladly handed over the heavy cauldron.
‘I have no need for shoes,’ Hope said, picking through the items. ‘Mine are old, but dear to me because my father made them, and my brothers wore them before me. The egg is beautiful, but somewhere a creature must be looking for it. The dagger and cape are worthless without my brothers to share them. As for the lucky rabbit’s foot, when I find my brothers, I’ll have all the luck I need. But,’ he paused, checking his pockets, ‘a reel of yarn is always useful!’
The crone nodded, pleased with Hope’s wisdom and kindness. Hope tied the yarn to his belt. He went on, ‘But it’s only right that I should give you something in return. I don’t have much, but I’d be happy to share a tune with you to brighten your day?’
Again, the witch nodded. Hope whistled a little tune he had thought up when working long hours making shoes, which kept him full of cheer and made the time pass quickly. Warmed by his generosity, the crone felt sorry for sinking Hope’s vessel.
From the shoreline, she collected a large seashell and rubbed it. Before Hope’s astonished eyes, it grew to the size of a small boat. To his surprise, the two black feathers he had been carrying stretched to be as tall and strong as he was and were sturdy enough to use as oars. So it was in an enormous shell, with feathers for oars, that Hope rowed off in search of the labyrinth with a helpful breeze sent by the crone to speed up his journey. When he arrived at the island, he spied a rough path on the cliff’s edge and looked for the best place to reach it.
‘I knew this yarn would come in useful,’ Hope said to himself. He cut a length of it against the sharp edge of the shell, securing one end to a branch and the other to a barnacle on the shell boat with plenty of the string left to spare. He began to climb, sliding down two steps for every one he took. He was perhaps a quarter of the way up the cliff when he wondered if the string could help ease his struggles.
‘How strange,’ he exclaimed, for when he unravelled it he was surprised to find a loop at the end of it. When he threw it, it snared a jutting root, and he found it bore his weight comfortably. He made his way up the cliff, lassoing a rock here and a branch there, and in no time at all he had reached the top.
There he came across the old stone well with the bucket floating in its depths.
What a shame, Hope thought. Perhaps I could collect the bucket and tie the yarn to its handle so no one ever needs to leave here thirsty again. To his surprise, he saw an old fishing hook on the side of the well. He tied this to one end of the yarn, and the other end to the spindle, then lowered the hook into the well. At once, a voice called out from below:
‘Oh, please do not catch me with your hook! For I am not really a fish but a man.’
‘Fortune!’ Hope exclaimed, for he would know his brother’s voice anywhere. ‘Swim into the bucket and I will pull you out.’
So Fortune swam into the bucket and Hope hooked the handle and wound the spindle. Up came the bucket and with it Fortune, now a large fish with gleaming silver scales. The two brothers laughed and cried and shared their stories of the strange old crone and her raven. Then Fortune explained that Luck had vanished into the caves never to be seen again.
‘We will find Luck, and then a way to break this curse and turn you back into a man,’ Hope promised Fortune, and he unhooked the bucket with his fish brother inside and set off for the cave.
Pausing outside the cave’s entrance, he noticed that he still had plenty of string fastened to his belt and it was showing no signs of running out. It was now he realised that this was no ordinary yarn, for it seemed to replenish itself at his will, as well as being extraordinarily strong.
Guessing that the caves were vast and treacherous, Hope decided to leave a trail. He tied one end of the yarn to the hagstone and left it at the cave entrance, leaving the rest to unravel as he explored. That way, if he got lost, he could safely retrace his steps at any time. He was about to step into the caves when a small voice called out to him.
‘Please, take me with you.’
Hope looked around for the tiny voice, but saw nothing except a bog beetle clinging to the rocks.
‘My brothers and sisters went into the caves, but I was left behind,’ it said. ‘My legs are small, and it would take me a lifetime to catch up.’
Fortune urged Hope to leave the beetle behind. ‘You already have me to carry, brother. Why add to your burden?’
‘Because we know what it is like to lose a brother,’ Hope replied, as he lifted the bog beetle on to his shoulder and stepped into the caves. Once inside, to repay Hope’s kindness, the little beetl
e glowed so brightly that the caves were lit up and he could see his way.
Hope trudged through the dark, damp caves. He sang to himself to stay cheerful, but the voice that echoed back was not his own.
‘That’s Luck’s voice!’ Fortune exclaimed. But, no matter how much they called or where they looked, Luck could not be found. Hope realised that, just as Fortune had survived in the well as a fish, Luck had become an echo to survive in the caves. He continued to sing so that his brother’s voice could follow him and, though the journey took many wrong turns, the sturdy length of yarn meant he was never truly lost.
On the third day, when the two brothers were hoarse from singing and chilled from damp, they saw a brightly lit cavern ahead. In its centre was an old lantern of bog beetles and a single shoe, scuffed and stained with sea salt. Hope knew then that this was his foolish brother’s. Hope returned the beetle to its siblings and together they glowed even brighter than before.
‘You cannot go back through the caves,’ they told him. ‘The only way is forward, to reach the heart of the island. We will light your way out.’ And so, collecting the lantern and the shoe, Hope continued until the bog beetles’ glow faded in the bright light of the sun, for at last he had found his way out to the centre of the island. Here, he freed the beetles, who were full of gratitude.
Thanking them, Hope turned to find that the enchanted yarn was no longer trailing through the caves. Instead, it was neatly looped on his belt, and the hagstone given to him by the crone rolled to a stop at his feet. He put it in his pocket, and was about to go on with his journey when he realised that, out in the open, the echo of Luck’s voice could no longer follow him.
Thinking quickly, he called his brother’s name into the caves, and captured the echo of Luck’s voice in the empty shoe. On they journeyed, and the island became stranger. They passed trees that dripped with glittering coins and waterfalls that rained jewels, and, every time they did, Fortune and Luck begged Hope to collect them. But Hope was wiser than his brothers and did not touch anything that did not belong to him.
Reaching the centre of the island, Hope found a raven in a vast nest of treasure.
‘You may leave with whatever you can carry,’ the bird told him. ‘But, once you do, the island will vanish and you can never return.’
‘My hands are full,’ Hope replied. ‘I have all the riches I came for. All I ask is for my brothers to return to their rightful form.’
With a shake of its feathers, the raven granted his wish.
And this was the story of how three brothers set out to save their family from ruin, but only one returned home with Fortune, Luck and riches beyond compare.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Raven
THE HARSH, RASPING NOISE CAME again, making Betty’s nerves crackle. Immediately, Ronia whipped out her cutlass.
Betty froze at the horrid sound. It was unearthly and chilling, but suddenly she had a very good idea of what it might be. She shielded her eyes from the sun and looked up to the shelf of rock that formed the brim of the witch’s hat. Something scuffled up there, and moments later a strand of seaweed was tossed over the edge. It landed on Ronia’s blade, neatly slicing into two. Then a large black bird appeared over the rim of rock and peered down inquisitively at them.
‘A raven!’ Charlie exclaimed, appearing at Betty’s side. ‘Cor. What a beauty!’
‘Odd that it’s all alone out here, though,’ said Betty. ‘They’re normally seen in pairs.’
‘They’re unlucky, either alone or in a pair,’ said Fliss, watching the bird warily from where she was sitting with Willow. ‘That’s what Granny always says.’
‘I thought that was magpies,’ said Spit.
Fliss shrugged. ‘She says it about all of them: crows, ravens and magpies. She even has this funny little rhyme about them.’
‘One for marsh mist, two for sorrow,’ Betty said softly, recounting the old superstition Granny often repeated. The bird tilted its head to listen, its eyes firmly on Betty. ‘Three, you’ll journey far tomorrow.’ With a funny little jolt, she remembered the three crows perching on the sign outside the Poacher’s Pocket on the night Willow had arrived. Marsh mist, sorrow and a journey. All three had happened.
‘Didn’t Granny make up another version when she was drunk?’ Fliss interjected, joining Betty now. ‘How did it go . . . ? Oh, yes! “One for whiskey, two for rum, three for down the hatch in one—” ’
‘Shut up,’ Ronia said, silencing Fliss with a scathing look. ‘Speaking of hatches, you talk way too much—’
A rasping shriek cut her off. It was so loud that Ronia raised her cutlass in one quick movement, narrowly missing Spit’s nose. And then came a voice. An ancient, creaking voice that wasn’t human.
‘So . . . you’re looking for the island?’
‘Whoa!’ Spit cried, diving behind the rocky cauldron. ‘Did that bird just speak?’
‘Yes,’ Betty answered, her mouth suddenly dry. Thoughts uncurled in her head, like a hedgehog waking up after the winter. Part of her had known it, been expecting it, from the moment the bird had appeared.
‘Get back,’ Spit urged, cowering behind the cauldron rock. ‘Talking crows . . . this isn’t right! This place is cursed . . . It must be a sea spirit—’
‘Ain’t cursed!’ Charlie flung him a scornful look. ‘And it’s a raven, like I said. They can talk – they copy people.’ She gazed at the bird admiringly. ‘There was one that came in the yard at the Poacher’s Pocket. Granny used to bang two saucepans together and swear at it till it flew off. Then one day it swore back at her – she didn’t half get a shock!’ Charlie sniggered.
‘She’s right,’ Ronia said irritably, sheathing her weapon. ‘I’ve seen a talking raven before. It belonged to some old sea dog whose ship we stole.’ She made a disgusted noise and kicked a pebble. ‘Training it to speak about the island must be someone’s idea of a joke.’
‘Maybe it isn’t,’ Betty said. She had no wish to help Ronia, but at the same time she had the troubling feeling that it would be more dangerous if they didn’t prove themselves useful. And the sight of Willow slumped on the rock was a reminder that, regardless of Ronia, getting to the island was crucial to the little girl and her father.
‘The Winking Witch is on the map for a reason,’ Betty continued. ‘And I think . . . I think the raven is here for a reason, too.’ She took a step closer to the witch rock and looked up at the bird. ‘Yes,’ she told it. ‘We’re looking for the island.’
The bird stared back at her for a long moment, blinking silently. Betty squirmed, starting to feel very silly. Was her theory wrong? She’d been so sure . . .
‘This is a waste of time,’ Ronia began, but the raven suddenly flapped up in the air, making a loud, shrill noise that sounded eerily like a person laughing.
It swooped down and landed on the edge of the stone cauldron, still cackling.
Charlie frowned. ‘Ravens don’t normally make those kinds of noises.’
‘Maybe it’s a crow,’ Spit said.
‘No . . . it’s a raven,’ Charlie insisted. ‘Its beak’s longer, more curved. And its neck feathers are scraggy-looking—’
‘Scraggy?’ The rasping voice sounded again. ‘Scraggy?’
‘Jumping jackdaws!’ said Charlie. ‘I didn’t know they could learn to copy that fast.’
The bird cackled again, and there was something so mocking about the noise that it cast the final shreds of doubt from Betty’s mind.
‘It’s not copying you,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s answering you.’
There was a beat of silence as each of them considered what this meant.
‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ Betty said, taking a step towards the bird. ‘You’re no ordinary raven, are you? You’ve been here a long time.’
The raven stared at her. ‘Long, long time,’ it croaked.
‘This is nonsense.’ Ronia’s voice sliced across the bird’s, loaded with aggression. ‘Of course it’s mi
micking you! It hasn’t answered anything—’
‘Silence!’ the raven snapped, turning its beady yellow eyes on her.
Ronia’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly. She couldn’t have looked more shocked if someone had slapped her.
The raven hopped round the edge of the cauldron. ‘And you,’ it scolded Charlie sternly as it preened its neck feathers. ‘Scraggy, indeed! “Ruffled” is a better word.’
‘Er, y-yes,’ Charlie stammered. ‘Sorry.’ She hesitated, then recovered herself. ‘Hang on a minute. I said you were a beauty, too, you know.’ Hoppit nosed his way out of her pocket, took one look at the bird, squeaked and dived back in.
‘So you did,’ the raven replied, less frostily now. ‘Now where were we?’
‘The island,’ Betty said. ‘We’re searching for it.’ Excitement was fizzing in her tummy now, like popping candy. All those times Father had told them the legend of the three brothers, none of them had dreamed the story might be anchored in truth. If the raven could talk, then maybe it could show them the way. Perhaps Willow’s father really could be saved.
‘Of course you are,’ said the raven. ‘Just like everyone who comes here. But not everyone who comes here knows how to listen.’ It flapped into the air again with an ear-splitting caaaarrrrrrrrrck! in Ronia’s face, then settled on the lip of the cauldron once more.
‘I’m listening,’ said Betty.
‘Me too,’ Charlie added at once.
‘Good.’ The raven leaned into the cauldron bowl, using its beak to dig through the contents. ‘Then you know what to do.’
Betty peered into the jumble of items. ‘Take one, choose one,’ she murmured.
‘Take one, choose one?’ Fliss frowned. ‘Why are those words so familiar?’
‘They’re from the story,’ Betty whispered. ‘The Crowstone Chronicles, remember? The one-eyed witch, the raven and the three brothers. We spoke about it when we set out to find Charlie, because the Winking Witch made me think of that tale!’
A Sprinkle of Sorcery Page 20
