A Sprinkle of Sorcery

by Michelle Harrison

  ‘Her wisp,’ said Charlie, pointing. ‘It came back to her!’

  Betty eyed the pale orb, so faint in the daylight it was easy to miss. It was nothing like the threatening wisps she’d seen back at Rusty’s ship. This one was . . . different. Almost as delicate as Willow herself.

  ‘Come back!’ Willow croaked.

  ‘You’re wasting your breath,’ Betty said, clenching her fists as the boat got further away. ‘They aren’t coming back for us.’

  ‘Then what do we do?’ Fliss shrieked, still flapping her arms at Spit and making a gesture at Ronia that was so rude she could only have learned it from Granny.

  ‘Go after them,’ said Betty, through gritted teeth. ‘If we don’t, Willow’s father will die. We have to get her there.’

  ‘H-how?’ Willow asked, her voice faint between sobs.

  ‘It’s too far!’ Charlie added incredulously. ‘We can’t swim all that way!’

  ‘We aren’t swimming,’ said Betty, turning away from the water. She had glared so hard at the boat that her eyes were smarting. ‘There’s got to be another way across, just like in the story.’ The story. It was there to guide them; she felt it in her bones. And what else could they learn from it? What else were they missing? It came to her in a flash.

  She turned to Charlie urgently. ‘And I’m going to find it while you choose something from the cauldron. This is important, Charlie. That’s why I’m trusting you with it. You remember the story? How the least fancy object was the one that saved the brothers? That’s what I need you to do. Fliss and I nearly failed – so it has to be you. Just like the story, Charlie. It was the youngest brother who made the right choice.’

  Charlie looked doubtful, glancing at Willow. ‘But Betty, how will I know what to pick? What if I get it wrong?’

  Fliss, too, appeared anxious. ‘There’s no string in there. We looked.’

  ‘I know,’ said Betty, taking in her little sister’s worried face and messy pigtails. Everything rested on this – and on Charlie. ‘But I also know you’ll choose well. You’re smart. That’s why I’m counting on you.’

  ‘What about you?’ Charlie asked, her lip quivering. ‘You’re not going across alone, are you? Because—’

  ‘No, Charlie.’ Betty shook her head. ‘We’re sticking together this time.’

  ‘What will you be doing, then?’ Fliss asked.

  ‘Searching,’ Betty replied, beckoning her away from the cauldron, for the urge to look over Charlie’s shoulder as she chose was almost too much. ‘And I need your help.’

  ‘What are we looking for?’

  ‘Anything we can use,’ said Betty. ‘In the story, Hope got across in a seashell—’

  ‘Like that’s going to happen,’ Fliss said at once.

  ‘No, but perhaps there’s some driftwood . . . We could build a raft,’ Betty said desperately. ‘There must be something!’

  ‘I think there is.’ Somehow, without Betty noticing, Willow had joined them. She’d stopped sniffling now, and was pointing across to the rock pools. Her cold fingers wrapped round Betty’s, tugging her insistently across the sand with the wisp leading the way. ‘We saw it over here,’ Willow said, pushing an armful of seaweed aside to reveal a silvery sheen just above the water’s surface. ‘Charlie noticed it earlier.’

  Betty grabbed another pile of seaweed and threw it out of the way. She paused, making sense of a familiar shape – the very last thing she would have expected to find there. She felt a tingle, a mad sense of hope that this just might work.

  It was an old bathtub, much like the one they had at the Poacher’s Pocket. It was half underwater and full of debris and sand, but it was big. More importantly, despite having a few dents, it appeared to be in one piece.

  ‘Fliss!’ she yelled. ‘Help me dig this out. Willow, you help Charlie.’

  Fliss scrambled to her side and together they began emptying the tub, scraping out shingle and driftwood. Grunting with the effort, Betty was dimly aware that the raven was watching everything. ‘Hurry,’ she muttered, glancing in the direction of the island. The Travelling Bag was disappearing at an alarmingly fast rate. Soon it would vanish altogether – like Willow’s father’s chances of survival.

  Yet, even as Betty scooped out handful after handful of sand, she knew that getting to the island was just the beginning. What they found there would be something else altogether – and, even if Willow got answers, she might not be ready for the truth.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Bath Time

  ‘YOU’RE CUCKOO.’ CHARLIE STARED AT the bathtub sitting on the sand, shaking her head. She reached out and twisted one of the old brass taps. It spun uselessly in her fingers. ‘This ain’t gonna work.’

  ‘It will,’ said Betty, her words carrying a determination she wasn’t entirely sure of.

  ‘But how will we all fit?’ Willow asked. She looked so forlorn, so frail, that once again Betty was reminded of how young she was – and of the weight of the task on her shoulders.

  ‘With great difficulty,’ Fliss muttered.

  Betty ignored her. ‘Help me get it ready to push off.’

  The two girls each grabbed a side of the heavy tub, heaving it through the gravelly sand.

  ‘Even if it floats,’ Fliss grunted, ‘how will we steer? We don’t have any oars.’

  Betty looked up at the raven. ‘Any bright ideas?’

  The raven didn’t answer. It stuck its head under a wing and began preening. A moment later, two glossy black feathers floated to the sand in front of Betty’s feet.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ she said under her breath.

  ‘Well, that’s how it was in the story, right?’ said Fliss. ‘Feathers?’

  ‘I know, but . . .’ Betty paused, noticing something glinting in the grit by the first feather. She scooped her fingers through the sand and unearthed a large silvery ladle, like the one Granny used for soup. ‘Actually, I think this could work,’ she said. She faced the raven suspiciously. ‘You meant for me to find that, didn’t you?’

  The bird made a clicking noise. ‘Meant to,’ it said.

  Betty knelt by the other feather and scratched in the sand again. Her fingers met wood, curling round the handle of something. She tugged it free and found it was an old, scratched frying pan. ‘Looks like we’ve got our oars.’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ Fliss muttered.

  Betty dropped the ladle and the frying pan into the bathtub with a clank. ‘Hop in,’ she told Charlie and Willow, as she and Fliss began to push the tub out into the water. ‘Oh, I almost forgot.’

  ‘What now?’ Fliss grumbled, shivering and knee-deep in water. ‘A bath with no hot water, no rose petals in it – this is torture.’

  Betty turned to the raven. ‘It’s only right that we should give you something in return for helping us.’ Just like Hope did, she thought.

  Charlie snorted. ‘Helping? We dug up all this junk ourselves.’

  Betty shot her a warning look. ‘We don’t really have much, but is there anything we can offer you?’ Not the dolls, she thought silently, her fingers curling round the smooth wood in her pocket. Please, not the dolls . . .

  The raven watched her for a long moment, thinking. ‘Gets cold here,’ it said at last. ‘Some of that lovely fluffy hair of yours would warm my nest.’

  ‘Th-this hair?’ Betty grabbed a clump of frizz doubtfully. ‘First time anyone’s called my hair lovely. All right.’ She searched around, scrabbling through the debris until she found a battered razor. She prised it open and began hacking at a handful of hair. It came away in a shower of rust. The raven swooped down and snatched it up in its beak, before returning to the top of the witch rock.

  ‘Come on,’ Betty said, returning to the bathtub. ‘Let’s go.’

  They pushed the tub further out, buoyed by the water.

  ‘That,’ said Fliss, ‘was silly. Don’t you remember what Granny always told us about cleaning the hair out of our combs properly? If a crow
steals your hair and puts it in its nest, it’s supposed to lead to an untimely death!’

  ‘It wasn’t stolen,’ Betty reasoned, trying to reassure herself as much as Fliss. ‘I gave it away.’ She tapped the side of the bath. ‘Now in you go. Chop-chop.’

  ‘I just think it’d be nice for once if we could get back home from an adventure without one of us losing our hair,’ Fliss said. ‘Chop-chop, indeed.’

  ‘We’re not home yet,’ Betty answered, feeling a pang of longing at the thought of the Poacher’s Pocket. But, as much as she wished she could return there, she knew it would be with a bitter taste if she hadn’t done all she could to help Willow. There was no turning back now.

  Charlie clutched her pigtails tightly. Grumbling, Fliss clambered in, earning shrieks of protest from Charlie.

  ‘Watch where your foot’s going!’ Charlie demanded. ‘And why do I always get stuck at the end with the taps?’

  ‘Because you’re the littlest,’ said Fliss, curling her knees under her. ‘Now budge up so Betty can get in, and make sure the plug doesn’t come out or we’ll sink!’

  ‘It’ll sink anyway,’ Charlie protested.

  The bath bobbed like a cork, dipping lower as Betty squeezed in to more yowls of indignation. But it didn’t sink. When she had squashed between Fliss and Willow as best she could, she handed the frying pan to Fliss, and swung the ladle into the water. ‘Row,’ she said.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Fliss puffed, thrashing about with the pan. ‘It’ll be sunset by the time we get there at this rate! Charlie, poppet, I don’t think turning the taps is doing anything.’

  ‘It is,’ Charlie said indignantly. ‘I’m steering!’

  ‘At least we’ll get there,’ Betty answered. Because, slowly but surely, it was working. She could no longer see the sandy bottom of the seabed; it had slipped away to a deepening blue. She paused from her rowing to look up. The island shimmered distantly, like a road on a hot day. ‘Even though it’s still a long way off.’

  A sudden wind rose up, lifting the hair off the back of her neck and capping the far-off waves with white froth.

  ‘Does it seem . . . breezy to you?’ Fliss asked, a note of concern in her voice.

  ‘A little,’ Betty admitted, searching the sky for storm clouds. She saw Willow’s hands tighten on the edge of the bathtub. Water slopped over the sides as it rocked, and Betty gulped. She turned back to the Winking Witch, uttering a silent prayer. Could they have done something wrong? she wondered. Had they angered the witch by taking a second item after Ronia had helped herself to the key? Please, please, don’t let us sink . . .

  But, while clouds swept across the sky and the wind built, there was no sign of a storm.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Fliss yelled. ‘How are we speeding up like this?’

  Above the rock, Betty could make out the outline of a large black bird staring in their direction and beating its wings in the wind. And then she almost dropped the ladle as the rock beneath the raven shifted and rearranged into a cavernous yawn.

  ‘Hold on!’ Betty yelled, aware of what was about to happen.

  A huge gust of air whooshed out of the witch’s mouth, sending water spraying up and the bathtub spiralling through the water at speed. The four girls shrieked, holding on for dear life until the tub eventually slowed to a gentle spin.

  Charlie was the first to recover. ‘Jumping jackdaws!’ she whooped. ‘Can we do that again?’

  ‘No,’ Fliss moaned, clutching her tummy queasily. ‘Oh, someone make it stop . . .’

  Betty stared back at the Winking Witch, now tiny in the distance. She could no longer see the raven, but just for a moment she thought she saw rocks shifting back into position – like a rocky mouth closing up. The wind died down as quickly as it had arisen, lowering to a breeze that faded to something that sounded a lot like a gentle sigh.

  She only managed to turn away from the Winking Witch when she realised goose pimples were dotting her arms. The bathtub had fallen into shadow. Betty looked up and felt her breath catch.

  The island was right in front of them.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A Wooden Reel

  THEY FOUND THE TRAVELLING BAG moored round the other side of the island. As quietly as they could, Betty and Fliss brought the bathtub alongside the boat, using the frying pan and the ladle. There was no sign of Ronia or Spit.

  ‘I’m really getting the hang of this now,’ said Fliss, looking slightly less green.

  ‘You’re not completely useless with a frying pan, after all,’ Betty agreed.

  ‘Hey!’ Fliss scooped water into the pan and flicked it at her, but Betty ducked easily. The mood changed as they looked up at the island.

  ‘I can see the bottom,’ said Charlie, peering into the water. ‘Well, rocks, anyway. What should we do with the bathtub?’

  ‘We’ll sink it here where it’s shallow,’ said Betty. ‘It looks like Ronia’s moored the boat at the safest point to get on to the island. If we walk across it, we’ll avoid going into the water or over the rocks.’

  One by one they scrambled on to The Travelling Bag, with Charlie and Willow going first, followed by Fliss. Betty pulled the plug out of the bathtub, then jumped out as it began filling with water. It sank with a gurgle, landing on the rocks on the sea bed with a dull clunk.

  ‘It’s there if we need it again,’ said Betty, fervently hoping they wouldn’t.

  ‘We did it,’ said Willow, gazing up at the island in awe. ‘We’re actually here.’ She stared up at the vast cliff. In its shadow, she appeared younger and smaller than ever. Here the wisp glowed a little brighter, bathing her pale face in silver. Silently, Charlie went to stand beside her, pigtails askew. Something tugged in Betty’s chest at the sight of the two girls dwarfed by the island.

  They should be playing, and carefree, she thought. Instead they were caught up in an adventure bigger and more dangerous than anything they could have expected.

  Before now, the island had always been a story. A cautionary tale that had not actually been real. Now it was, and the Winking Witch had only been the start. What else lay in store for them? Here, on their boat, Betty knew she and her sisters still had a choice. A chance to return home. How much more were they willing to risk for a stranger?

  You got her this far, said a little voice in her head. You can’t save everyone, but you can save yourselves.

  ‘You want to go home, don’t you?’ Willow asked, her voice quiet. She smiled, a sad little smile that left her eyes dull. ‘I understand.’

  For a moment, Betty almost caved in. She thought of her family, and the Poacher’s Pocket, and even Oi curled up on his favourite bar stool. She wanted, desperately, to go home. But, as she pictured herself warm in bed while rowdy voices filtered up through the floorboards, she knew that in every quiet moment her mind would return to this one. Wondering what might have been. Who she might have been.

  ‘That’s not who we are,’ Betty answered softly. ‘You can’t do this alone. But it’s more than that. I don’t want to look back and know we chose to be selfish over what was right. I don’t want to carry on, thinking a little less of ourselves.’ She glanced at her sisters. ‘Do you?’

  Fliss was silent for a long moment. Finally, she and Charlie shook their heads.

  Betty surveyed the island. At a glance, it was like any other, but there was something about the feel of it. Look a little too long and the edges seemed to blur, as though its magic was bubbling up from within. Halfway up, between rocks and greenery, a sketchy trail was visible. ‘That must be the path leading to the caves,’ she said.

  Betty’s eyes swept the deck of The Travelling Bag. ‘We should check to see if there’s anything here that could be useful. But I’m guessing that, if there was, Ronia’s already taken it.’ She spotted the old potato sack lying discarded by the cabin door and picked it up.

  ‘It’s empty,’ Fliss confirmed. ‘Ronia gave all the tobacco tins to the pirates when she took the boat the first ti
me.’

  Betty let the sack drop. For the first time since they’d left the Winking Witch, she dared to ask something. ‘Charlie,’ she said tensely. ‘What was the object you chose from the witch’s cauldron?’

  ‘Oh.’ Charlie produced a wooden reel from her pocket. It was the kind of thing found in sewing boxes, but it was twice the size of her hand and empty. ‘I found this.’

  Betty gaped at it, her heart sinking. ‘That . . . that’s what you brought?’

  Charlie’s face fell. ‘You said choose something simple. Did I . . . did I do it wrong?’

  Betty swallowed, forcing herself to shake her head. ‘No. I just . . . keep it. It may come in useful.’ She shot Fliss a worried look, which was returned. If they were to navigate the island, all their hopes were stacked on this one object. Right now, Betty didn’t like their chances.

  ‘Perhaps it got blown in there,’ said Fliss. ‘There was so much flotsam and jetsam on that place it was hard to know what was meant to be there and what wasn’t.’

  ‘I don’t think a witch would have anything in her cauldron that wasn’t meant to be there,’ Charlie said stiffly, clearly hurt. ‘But maybe someone else should have picked.’ She went to put the reel back in her pocket, but it caught on a fold of fabric and dropped to the deck.

  ‘Charlie, don’t be upset,’ Fliss began.

  Charlie ignored her, and went to grab the reel. Curiously, it rolled away from her and out of reach. She darted after it, missing it again.

  They all froze as the reel continued rolling at an impossible angle that defied the swaying motion of the boat.

  ‘Jumping jackdaws,’ Charlie muttered, her eyes widening.

  ‘How . . . how is it rolling that way?’ Fliss breathed.

  The reel stopped next to the potato sack, settling on a stray thread that had come loose. Before their astonished eyes, the sack unravelled . . . and the reel continued to roll at speed, until the sack was completely gone and the wooden reel was still and fat with twine.