A Sprinkle of Sorcery

by Michelle Harrison

  She hesitated. There would be clues in the story – warnings when the brothers had failed before Hope succeeded – and perhaps these things could help them now. How safe was it to reveal as much in front of Ronia? But then, Betty reasoned, if Spit had heard the story, there was every chance Ronia had, too.

  ‘So . . . you’re saying the one-eyed crone and the Winking Witch are the same thing? But . . . that’s just a legend,’ Fliss burst out, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘All those stories Father told us – they’re fairy tales! Made up and passed down through the generations to entertain bored children.’

  ‘Are they?’ said Betty. ‘That’s what we’ve been brought up believing, Fliss. And maybe some of them were just made up . . . but think about it! What if this one existed because it all really happened? Maybe not exactly the way it did in the story, but with some true parts and other bits that people made up.’

  ‘Or maybe it happened almost exactly as it did in the story,’ said Willow, speaking up for the first time since they’d set foot on the Winking Witch. She still looked unwell, her eyes bright and feverish. Perhaps it was the oddness of the witch’s crag and the talking raven, but Betty suddenly acknowledged the unsettling thought that it was becoming easier and easier to forget Willow was with them at all.

  ‘So that means there really was a one-eyed witch here once,’ said Betty. ‘One who knew the way to the secret island and tricked greedy travellers with her magic. And, because the story never died, neither did she . . .’

  ‘She just took a different form,’ Fliss said slowly, gazing at the witch rock.

  ‘My father once told me magic goes where magic is,’ said Willow quietly. ‘It might change, or hide itself to look like something else, but it’ll be there for ever. Even if it’s only a trace. We don’t always have to understand it. We just have to believe in it.’

  ‘And now we have to . . . to choose one of these things in the cauldron?’ Charlie asked, peering into the stone bowl. She had been just a baby when Betty and Fliss had first become familiar with the tale, and didn’t know it as well as they did.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Betty, glancing at the raven. ‘Just like the three brothers did.’

  ‘Choose one,’ the raven agreed, bobbing its head. ‘Choose one.’

  ‘And then you’ll show us the way to the island?’ Willow asked.

  The raven cackled. ‘The island is right there. Look, look.’

  ‘We have looked,’ said Ronia, eyeing the bird, one hand resting on the blade at her waist. ‘There’s no island in sight.’

  ‘Because,’ the raven croaked, ‘now it can only be seen through the witch’s eye.’

  ‘The witch’s . . . ?’ Betty whipped round to face the towering rock again. ‘Of course! The witch’s eye is a hagstone! But a much, much bigger one.’

  She scrambled up until she was level with the large hole that was the witch’s eye. Taking a breath, she leaned out to stare through it, hoping she was at least looking in the right direction.

  ‘Meddling magpies!’ she gasped, almost losing her footing. Grabbing on to a tuft of grass, she pulled herself up and looked again.

  ‘What?’ Charlie yelled, hopping up and down. ‘Is it there? Is it? Let me see! I’m coming up!’

  Betty stared at the shimmering water before her, only realising she had forgotten to blink when her eyes began to smart. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, believing it and not believing it all at once.

  For straight ahead, with frothy waves breaking at its base, was the island.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Witch’s Cauldron

  ‘JUMPING JACKDAWS,’ CHARLIE BREATHED IN Betty’s ear, having practically scrambled up her back to get a look through the witch’s eye. ‘It’s there. It’s actually there!’

  ‘And you’re actually strangling me,’ Betty spluttered, loosening her sister’s grip round her neck with one hand, while hanging on to a tuft of grass above what now looked suspiciously like an eyebrow. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered, letting go of it hastily. They dropped down to let the others, one by one, take a look at what they had seen.

  ‘It’s real,’ whispered Willow. The discovery had pulled her off the rock where she’d been sitting, and brought her strength flooding back. She gazed through the enormous hagstone with a renewed determination that was as single-minded as Ronia’s. ‘I have to get there,’ she said to herself. ‘Have to get there . . .’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Fliss. ‘Why couldn’t the island be seen through the other hagstone?’

  ‘Like the raven said,’ Betty replied, longingly eyeing the stone that Ronia had claimed for herself, ‘we weren’t looking through the witch’s eye.’ She stared in the direction of the island, expecting to see nothing. This time, however, it was there. She turned to the raven in confusion. ‘Oh! I can see it now without looking through it!’

  The raven cackled. ‘A glimpse through the witch’s eye changes things.’

  Betty nodded, then froze.

  The raven stared back at her. Or at least Betty thought it did. For now it was hard to tell exactly where the bird was directing its gaze. For a start, it had no eyes. Instead, there were blank, empty eye sockets in a bleached white skull. Gone were the black feathers, and in their place were bones. She was staring at a skeleton.

  Somehow, despite everything that had happened – the warders, the shipwreck, Rusty Swindles and the pirates – the vision of the sightless bird skull that was moving and speaking was one of the most unsettling things Betty had ever seen. She recalled the swarm of wisps and realised it was the second time in a few hours that she’d seen death staring her in the face. The thought of it chilled her, like a whispered voice in an empty room. If Granny were here, she’d say it was a bad omen. A warning leading up to something bigger . . .

  ‘Betty!’

  Fliss’s voice jolted her from her grim thoughts. Her sister was hurrying over, watching her curiously. ‘What’s the matter? You look like you lost a cake and found a crumb.’

  Betty blinked, breaking the spell. When she looked again, the raven was preening its feathers. No bones or skulls in sight. ‘I . . .’ she stammered. What had just happened? Clearly, no one else had seen it – they’d been too busy staring across at the island. Had she imagined the ghoulish vision? Or had looking through the witch’s eye allowed her a glimpse of something that was ordinarily hidden?

  ‘N-nothing,’ she lied.

  She followed Fliss to the cauldron, wanting to be away from the raven, even though she could feel its gaze burning into her. She chanced a look over her shoulder. Its black feathers ruffled in the breeze, but besides that it now sat as still as a gravestone.

  Fliss reached into the stone bowl and began sifting through the items. ‘It’s just a load of old jumble,’ she said, doubt clouding her expression once more. ‘I mean, look!’ She held up a chipped cup, and then a broken eggshell. ‘How can any of this stuff help us, Betty? In the story, the objects in the cauldron were put there to tempt the brothers, but half these things look like they were washed up in a storm.’

  Betty grabbed at the eggshell. ‘The golden egg?’ she muttered, but already she could see it was not golden but a pale grey-green, with speckles. It crumbled in her fingers. She tossed aside a holey sock covered in seaweed, and a soaked, fraying scarf. Fliss was right: where was the temptation? The large golden egg and the fine leather shoes that Fortune and Luck had been unable to resist?

  ‘Unless . . .’ She hesitated, sensing Ronia behind them. Watching and listening. How well did the pirate captain know the old legend? Was she waiting for the sisters to make the choice for her? ‘There must be something; why else would the raven be here?’ She glanced up at the rock. Was it her imagination, or had the witch’s eye narrowed a little?

  Fliss poked delicately at the contents, her lip curled. ‘Each item looks as useless as the next. And there are way too many things here – some of them must have washed up in rough weather.’

  ‘But one o
f them will help us,’ said Betty. ‘Or rather help Willow.’ She glanced at the girl, who was standing beside the witch rock and gazing at the island intently, as though afraid that it might suddenly vanish if she took her eyes off it. Once again, Betty felt the familiar urge to protect her. Betty had her sisters out here, but Willow had no one. If the Widdershins had no choice in going to the island, then Betty was determined that it should be Willow who would benefit, not Ronia. And, the more she thought about this, the more she felt like a fly stuck in a web. Why had Ronia forced them out here with her, when she hadn’t brought any of her crew? It couldn’t be for anything good.

  ‘What were the original objects in the story of the three brothers?’ Fliss asked. ‘I remember the shoes and the golden egg . . . What were the others?’

  ‘There were different versions,’ said Betty. ‘Don’t you remember? The items were never quite the same, depending on who was telling the story. Father’s version had an egg, but Granny said it was a feather. And Granny always said there was a lucky rabbit’s foot, but Father said it was a horseshoe.’

  Fliss rummaged through the cauldron. ‘There’s definitely neither of those in here. It doesn’t make sense . . . Wait. What’s this?’ She plucked out something small and partially wrapped in seaweed. She cleared it off, and held it in her finger and thumb. ‘A wishbone. Granny says these are lucky! You don’t think . . . ?’

  Betty stared at it, her heart thrumming. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I think. It’s something lucky, like a horseshoe or a rabbit’s foot. What if . . . what if the items are different to the original story, but linked somehow?’

  ‘Perhaps they change depending on who finds them,’ said Fliss, in an excited whisper.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Betty. ‘Especially if you happen to know the story. We know the witch can be a trickster, and that it was the humblest item that helped the brothers in the end: the ball of yarn.’ She stared up at the witch rock just as a breeze rippled the grassy eyebrow she’d noticed earlier, moving it into a frown. ‘She was never going to make it easy for us.’

  She turned back to the cauldron, digging through the items. More objects appeared, unearthed from the sludgy water pooling in the hollow of the rock. Betty had the strangest feeling that every time she looked, items changed, new ones emerging that hadn’t been there before. Her fingertips grew numb with cold, so numb that it took her a moment to feel the sharp prick on her forefinger.

  ‘Oh!’ She snatched back her finger in shock. A bright bead of blood bloomed on its tip. ‘What was that?’

  Fliss brushed aside the sock.

  ‘Careful,’ said Betty, sucking her finger. ‘It could be glass, or perhaps a needle.’

  ‘No,’ said Fliss, pulling something out between her finger and thumb. ‘Look, it’s an old hatpin. Granny has one of these, but hers isn’t as fancy.’ She wiped the gleaming silver pin on her shawl. It was sturdy and almost as long as Fliss’s hand. It was the decorative end of it, however, that revealed its value. Once Fliss had cleared the muck off, a shimmering mother-of-pearl seahorse lay in her fingers.

  ‘Beautiful,’ she murmured, stroking it longingly.

  ‘Sharp,’ Betty whispered. Her eyes flickered to Ronia’s cutlass. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt for them to have a weapon, too. One that could easily be hidden up a sleeve, or pinned into a skirt, waiting for the right moment. Not quite a dagger, but close enough . . .

  ‘And what’s this?’ Fliss breathed, jolting Betty from her musings. She’d sifted out something balled up. ‘How strange – it’s not even damp . . . But look, Betty! Velvet gloves – how beautiful.’

  Betty frowned as Fliss smoothed out the expensive fabric. The gloves were a rich, deep purple edged with gold, and more luxurious than anything the Widdershins had ever owned. Fliss’s dark eyes were wide with desire. ‘Imagine wearing these,’ she murmured. ‘They look just my size, too . . .’

  ‘No!’ Betty blinked, knocking the gloves from Fliss’s hand. They landed back in the cauldron in a shallow pool of seawater.

  ‘Hey!’ Fliss said, annoyed. ‘I was . . .’

  ‘About to make the wrong choice,’ said Betty, staring down at the hatpin. She placed it on the gloves with trembling fingers. ‘Just like me. Don’t you see? The gloves? They’re luxurious, the perfect fit. Just like the shoes were for Fortune. And the hatpin? It’s a weapon like the jewelled dagger. We nearly fell for her tricks, Fliss! We have to be more careful. We need to find the yarn – whatever it could be disguised as.’

  ‘But there’s nothing like that in here,’ said Fliss, sounding panicked. ‘How does this work, anyway? We each choose an item to take with us?’

  ‘Choose one,’ the raven croaked. ‘One, one, one!’

  ‘I think it means one between us,’ said Betty. ‘In the story, each brother travelled to the hidden island alone with one object. I guess if we’re a group, then we still only get to choose one—’

  ‘Two.’ Ronia spoke from behind them, making them jump. She shoved Fliss out of the way, poking through the cauldron. Bandit bounded over from a nearby rock pool and leaped on to her shoulder.

  Betty grabbed Fliss’s elbow to steady her and her temper flared. ‘No, it’s one. And we have to get this right – that’s why it’s important to choose wisely.’

  Ronia chuckled, but it was an empty sound. ‘I mean that we’re two groups, not one.’ She dug deeper into the cauldron, not looking at Betty. Bandit hissed, showing off long white fangs. ‘And you can choose whatever you want after I’ve had first pick. Ha!’ She snatched something up. ‘I choose this.’ In her hand lay an old key covered in sludge.

  ‘I’m sure that wasn’t there before,’ Fliss whispered.

  Ronia’s eyes glinted greedily, and Betty knew at once that she was thinking of locked chests and untold riches. But was the key one of the witch’s objects? Or something that had been washed up?

  ‘Put it back,’ Betty said angrily, aware of precious time passing. ‘That’s not how the island works! The wrong item will mess everything up. And, whether you like it or not, we’re in this together now . . .’ She trailed off as Ronia gave a small cry.

  The key in her hand had fluttered like a bird shaking its feathers and, as it did, years of grime and rust fell away in flakes to reveal a gleaming golden surface with a small, teardrop-shaped stone set into it.

  Gold, Betty thought. And, the longer she looked, the less the stone in the key looked like a teardrop – and the more it looked like . . . an egg.

  She gasped, as Ronia’s fingers closed round the shimmering piece of gold like a door being closed in Betty’s face. The choice had been made.

  ‘Spit!’ Ronia called. ‘Get the boat ready. We’re getting out of here.’ She pocketed the key and turned away, but Betty grabbed her arm and spun her round.

  Ronia shook her off, but Betty held her gaze, her eyes every bit as fierce as the pirate captain’s. ‘You want to do this your way, fine. But we’re doing it our way, and we won’t be rushed!’

  To her surprise, Ronia grinned. ‘You take as long as you want, my prickly little sea urchin. Spit and I will be long gone by the time you reach that island. If you ever reach it.’

  ‘Cap’n?’ Spit said uncertainly. He cast his eyes over the girls, lingering on Fliss, then Charlie, before he met Betty’s gaze.

  The worry she saw there frightened her.

  ‘You can’t,’ Betty whispered, as she finally realised what Ronia meant. And then the whisper slipped away, and she roared. ‘You can’t take our boat!’

  She was suddenly aware of silence around her as everyone else stopped what they were doing to listen. Even the waves seemed to quiet down.

  ‘If you take it, we’ll be stranded!’ said Fliss. ‘With no food, no shelter . . .’

  ‘No food?’ Charlie repeated in horror.

  ‘I’m sure you can use that pretty face to flag down a passing fishing boat,’ said Ronia dismissively. ‘Who knows? If you’re still here on our way back, we might even rescue you
ourselves. I’m sure we can find a use for you – you might even fetch a few coins.’ She threw back her head and laughed at Fliss’s alarmed face. ‘Spit! What are you waiting for?’

  ‘Spit, don’t you dare!’ yelled Betty.

  Spit hesitated, his feet lodged in the sand. Betty could see he was wrestling with his conscience. He might not be their friend exactly – not yet – but Betty could tell he didn’t want them left like this. Despite his warped loyalty to Ronia, he cared what happened to them. But would it be enough?

  ‘Spit.’ Ronia’s voice dripped with danger. ‘You’ve seen what happens to those who defy me.’

  And so have I, thought Betty, as Spit lurched towards The Travelling Bag, his tanned face unusually pale.

  ‘It’ll be my bones up on that mast next,’ he’d said.

  Is it loyalty or fear that keeps him in line? Betty wondered grimly. Either way, she knew that they had lost and Ronia had won.

  ‘Spit, please!’ Fliss begged. ‘You know this is wrong.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, not meeting her eyes. ‘She’s my captain.’

  ‘Then do immunity!’ shouted Charlie. ‘Chuck her overboard!’

  Betty shot Ronia and Spit a furious look. ‘She means “mutiny”.’

  ‘That’s what I said!’ Charlie roared. ‘MUTINY!’

  But Betty knew there would be no such thing, even as she stormed across the sand after them. Ronia leaped nimbly aboard The Travelling Bag, while Spit unmoored the rope and followed her. Betty lunged for the rope, snatching at it helplessly, but Ronia drew her cutlass and brandished it under Betty’s nose.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said, ‘unless you want your fingers to be fish food.’

  ‘Please!’ Willow cried, her voice cracking. She stumbled into the water after the boat as it began to move off. ‘Let me come with you!’ she called. ‘I must get to the island – my father’s life depends on it! Please . . . wait! WAIT!’

  Charlie and Fliss joined her, wading knee-deep into the water, pleading with Spit and Ronia, but the words blurred in Betty’s ears along with Willow’s heartbroken, hopeless sobs. And then, from the back of the boat, a faint silvery glow that could have been mistaken for light shimmering on the waves trailed over the water to flicker dimly at Willow’s side.