A Sprinkle of Sorcery

by Michelle Harrison

  Something knocked at her feet. She looked down to find the wooden reel there, and before her eyes it began ravelling up the string. She watched as the yarn twisted round, trailing back through the mouth of the caves, and finally stopped. She collected the reel, fat with string once more, and some of her doubts melted away. Whatever lay ahead, the magical object had done its job by leading them safely through the caves. ‘Strange,’ she murmured. ‘It’s bone dry. Not a drop of water on it.’

  ‘Nothing about this place makes sense.’ Spit shook water off himself like a dog, then winced, pressing a hand to his head.

  ‘Let me,’ said Fliss. She lifted her sleeve, gently touching it to his skin.

  Spit’s mouth dropped open. He blushed a deep red and gazed into Fliss’s eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ Fliss said. ‘For what you did. If it wasn’t for you, risking your life like that, we might not have made it through.’ She rested her fingers lightly on his cheek.

  ‘Yes,’ said a cold voice. ‘You’ve been very useful, Spit. Perhaps you’re worth more than I realised, after all.’

  Betty spun round, dread rising like a tide.

  Ronia stood in the mouth of the cave.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Bewitched

  ‘OH,’ SAID THE PIRATE CAPTAIN, in a mocking voice. ‘I’m sorry – am I interrupting something?’ She stared at Fliss and Spit with a look that would wilt a flower.

  Fliss dropped her hand, her fingers curling into a fist.

  ‘You’re alive,’ said Spit hoarsely. ‘We thought . . .’

  Ronia stepped towards them, dripping like a sea witch. There was a gash in one of her sleeves, dark with blood, and her hand trembled slightly. In her other hand, she held her cutlass, and it was as steady as ever. Next to her, Bandit slunk out of the caves, sneezing. He gave Ronia a baleful look and began licking his wet fur viciously.

  ‘You thought I was dead,’ Ronia said. ‘Or whatever it is that happens to people once they lose themselves in those caves.’ She smirked, advancing on them like a vulture. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t plan on leaving this island empty-handed.’

  ‘But the key,’ Spit stammered. ‘We found it . . .’

  ‘This key?’ Ronia produced it from her pocket. The stone glowed golden in the blazing sunlight. ‘I heard you blundering through the tunnels and managed to hide just before you saw me. By that time, I admit I almost welcomed the company.’ Her eyes slid over Betty. ‘How did you get here, by the way?’

  ‘Never you mind,’ Betty growled. She thought back to the forked tunnels earlier. If they had checked the narrower one and found Ronia, would it have made a difference? Or would she simply have marched them through with her blade at their backs? ‘You followed us.’

  ‘I wasn’t doing too badly.’ Ronia shrugged. ‘But you made it so easy.’ She grinned triumphantly. ‘You even found the key I’d mistakenly dropped – I thought I’d lost it! And when you’d gone I picked it up and I trailed you. Or should I say your lovely bit of string. All that noise you were making! What with that and the echoes . . . you never heard a thing.’ She turned to Spit. ‘I always thought you were a lily-livered waste of space, but you were braver than I suspected. Perhaps I’ll promote you after this.’

  ‘After this?’ Spit repeated faintly. He took a step towards Ronia.

  Betty watched in disbelief. Surely after all that had happened, Spit wouldn’t double-cross them now?

  ‘There won’t be an after this,’ Spit continued, his voice shaking, but with anger, not fear, Betty realised. ‘I’m through with the Rusty Scuttlers – and you.’

  Ronia stared at him thunderously. ‘You dare to desert your captain?’

  ‘I looked up to you,’ said Spit. ‘All this time, I tried to prove myself. And you left me in that well. You’re not my captain any more.’

  ‘Mutiny!’ Charlie cheered.

  ‘I was coming back for you—’

  ‘Liar!’ Spit said. ‘All you care about is whatever’s at the heart of this island, and you want it for yourself.’

  ‘I thought pirates stuck together,’ Charlie put in. ‘But you left him!’ Hoppit squeaked as if to back her up.

  Ronia curled her lip. ‘Silence!’ she said. ‘If you’re good, I might even let you keep your rat a little longer before I feed it to my cat.’

  Charlie glared, eyes alive with defiance. ‘Funny,’ she growled, ‘I was planning on feeding you to my rat.’

  Hoppit hiccuped unconvincingly.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Spit said angrily to Ronia. ‘You got through the caves. You’re free to go ahead and loot whatever treasure there is. We’re not stopping you! And after this we never have to see each other again.’

  Ronia sighed, inspecting her blade. ‘That’s not how it works. You see, this island is tricksy. It caught me off guard. But one way or another I’ll make it down to the heart of it, to that lagoon. So it’s handy having someone to go first in a place like this. A bit like having a cat with nine lives. There’s always room for a few . . . mistakes.’ She smiled thinly. ‘And you girls are certainly proving useful, with your magical map, and string . . .’

  Fliss gasped. ‘You’re saying you want us as . . . as spare lives for you in case things go wrong?’

  ‘Glad we understand each other.’ Ronia flicked her cutlass dangerously close to Spit’s nose. ‘You first. Go.’

  Spit stayed where he was, his hands in tight fists. Betty glanced sideways at him, heart racing. They had Spit onside now; there were more of them and only one Ronia.

  ‘We’re not going anywhere with you,’ she said. And then her daring thoughts crumpled like paper. Soundless as a breath, Ronia seized Charlie and held her cutlass to her throat.

  ‘I don’t think I made myself clear,’ Ronia said softly. ‘Don’t test me.’ She nodded in the direction of the steps. ‘I said move!’ She pointed at Fliss, then the bucket. ‘You, carry the dinner.’

  ‘Saul!’ the fish protested in alarm, but Betty didn’t react. She was too afraid to make any move with the blade at Charlie’s neck. And if Ronia knew the fish was valuable to them, there was no telling what she might do.

  Spit shot Betty a helpless glance. ‘Disappear!’ he mouthed, as he moved past her. Betty followed, heart hammering as her fingers went to her pocket. If she could use the dolls to make them all vanish, perhaps they could escape. But Ronia was too sharp – and she already had Charlie in her clutches. If Betty made her vanish now, Ronia would still feel her – could still hurt her.

  ‘Now walk,’ Ronia said, gripping Charlie’s collar. Charlie’s eyes filled with tears, but she pursed her lips, seemingly determined not to cry.

  Betty bit back her rising anger. They had no choice but to obey – for now.

  The sun shone down on them as they left the caves behind and set off along the path. Brightly feathered birds called from above and flower heads nodded at the foot of the trees. Fruit none of them recognised hung heavy from the branches beside the path. Instead of the rocky cliffs they had climbed up to enter the caves, rough steps were hewn into the stone leading down. Betty gazed at the rocks sloping up and around, curving gently inwards as far as the eye could see. It gave the disconcerting feeling of being inside a giant cauldron.

  Though she kept taking worried glances back at Ronia and Charlie, Betty couldn’t help her attention being drawn to the trees beside them.

  Swaying branches brushed them like curious fingers. The further they went along the path, the higher the trees and bushes around them got, blocking the view of the lagoon, but Betty saw that the ground beyond the trees sloped even more steeply than she’d first realised. If any of them fell, their chances of survival were slim. It was no surprise Ronia had chosen to stick to the safer path down to the lagoon, Betty thought, however desperately the pirate craved the island’s riches. She recalled what Spit had told her: ‘She’s clever and cunning and, most dangerous of all, she’s patient.’

  And relentless. They marched al
ong in silence as the sun crawled through the sky, gradually losing its heat as time slipped away. The march became a trudge. Betty’s feet blistered, and even Fliss was breaking a sweat. The only suggestion Ronia was tiring had been to sheath her cutlass with a cool warning to Charlie: ‘Don’t pull any tricks.’

  ‘Fliss?’ Charlie called hesitantly, after quite some time. ‘Hoppit’s tummy’s rumbling. And so is mine. Could we pick some fruit?’ She paused to stare at a strange, bell-shaped fruit in wonder. ‘Looks tasty.’

  Betty shook her head, remembering stories of enchanted feasts and trapped humans. ‘Don’t eat anything, Charlie. This whole island is bewitched. It could be dangerous.’

  Ronia sneered. ‘Your sister’s right. Eating here could be risky. So, if the time comes, you can have first bite.’

  ‘Can’t even tell what it is on these branches.’ Spit looked up uncertainly at another tree. ‘Is that fruit . . . ?’ Gold gleamed from above.

  ‘An egg?’ Charlie peered into the leaves. ‘A golden egg. What kind of bird—?’

  ‘Look,’ said Betty, mystified. ‘There’s a stalk attached, and leaves. It’s growing.’

  ‘Oh,’ Charlie breathed, eyeing a tiny egg barely the size of an acorn.

  ‘Don’t touch anything,’ Betty said, unsettled. ‘All this stuff . . . it’s not right.’

  ‘But look how dinky that egg is,’ Charlie said mournfully.

  ‘Don’t touch,’ Fliss whispered, but even as she said it the longing in her voice was evident. Betty gazed up, not really wanting to, but unable to help seeking out those tantalising flashes of gold. Would it really be so bad to take just one? Before she knew it, she found herself reaching up into the branches. A mouth-watering smell wafted down like powdered sugar.

  But it was Ronia who got there first. Out came her cutlass to slash down one of the golden eggs, which was almost as large as a pumpkin. She stepped aside neatly as it fell, smashing next to her feet. Betty held her breath, half expecting to see an oozing yolk. Instead a plume of black feathers puffed into the air before landing on the path.

  Unsettled, they forged along the winding path. Between Betty and Fliss, Willow staggered along, dragging her feet. Trailing her, and unnoticed by Ronia, was the wisp. So insubstantial now it looked like a shimmer of moonlight. It seemed that the further along they went, the lower the nearby branches hung, dangling temptation in their faces. Before she knew what she was doing, Betty realised her hand was reaching for one of the strange bell-shaped fruits Charlie had been hankering after earlier.

  She plucked one, but the instant the stalk snapped the flesh withered and rotted in her hand.

  Betty began to withdraw her arm, but as it brushed against the leaves she noticed a peculiar sensation, as if the leaves weren’t really leaves at all. Instead, they felt like feathers. The shock of it made her freeze, her hand suspended between the branches. Without warning, something rushed at her, a scrabble of bird-like claws, a sharp jab like a beak snapping, pecking her skin.

  Betty reeled away, foot tangling in a tree root, and lost her balance. She threw her arms out to steady herself, but her ankle twisted and, with a sickening lurch, she felt herself fall, away from the path and down into the trees. Her head bumped against a trunk, sending a painful flare of stars before her eyes, but she continued to plummet endlessly. Roots and vines scratched over her, jolting and jostling as she spun like a wheel.

  I’m off the path, she realised somewhere through the pain and lights flickering before her eyes. I’m falling, and there’s nothing to stop me.

  Voices yelled for her. From somewhere above, she heard sobbing, and Fliss shouting her name, the last thing Betty was aware of before everything faded to black . . .

  • • •

  Betty opened her eyes and winced. Why was it so dark? How much time had passed since she’d fallen? Panic snatched at her, making her bruised head throb. She prodded it cautiously, feeling an egg-sized bump. There didn’t seem to be any blood. How far did I fall? she wondered, opening her mouth to call out, but her voice emerged as a dry croak that sent another shooting pain through her head.

  Her fingers caught in something at the same time as she realised she was swaying from side to side.

  The odd sensation sharpened her mind, pulled her more fully out of her daze. Her hands felt something rough and thin, in a cocoon around her.

  The string. It had saved her, netting her like a fish and hanging her from the branches above. Groaning, Betty stepped out of it carefully, lowering herself to the ground. She swayed, trying to get her balance. Reaching out, she steadied herself against a rough tree trunk, but the longer her fingers remained there the less it felt like bark and the more it felt like something scaly, like the leg of a giant bird. She recoiled hurriedly. Through the darkness she felt blindly for the string, giving it a cautious tug. It held firm, anchored somewhere in the branches above – but there was no way to find the reel, she realised, with mounting dread.

  A breeze lifted, ruffling through something that sounded like feathers. Betty held her breath, unable to work out which way to go. She was lost.

  She was alone.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Treasure

  FEAR TOOK OVER BETTY’S SENSES, rendering her unable to move. How was it so unnaturally dark when the sun had still been on the path only moments before? She looked up, seeing swaying branch movements. And yet . . . they didn’t seem quite like branches. Instead, she had the sensation that she was under feathers, like a large black wing was smothering her, disorientating her.

  A sob lodged in her throat. How could she ever find her way back without the magical reel? Could it have snared somewhere near the path, leaving the trail of yarn for her to follow? She gripped the string tightly, uselessly. Even if she could follow it, doing so blind would be treacherous. She pictured jutting rocks, looping vines. Unseen raven claws and beaks . . . And even if she retraced her steps to where she had fallen from, what use would that be? She had no idea of how much time had passed. She’d be way behind – her best chance now was to try to continue through the trees, on to the lagoon where she could intercept the others. Yet the thought of moving further into the trees in any direction terrified her.

  ‘Betty Widdershins,’ she told herself shakily. ‘Get on with it. It’s no safer going back to the path than it is to try and find your way forward to the heart of the island.’ She bunched her hands into fists, trying to squeeze strength into them. This was for Willow, she reminded herself, remembering the haunted look in the girl’s eyes as she’d told Betty about her father. And she had to get back to her sisters – they weren’t safe with Ronia and her blade that had already been at Charlie’s throat.

  She took a step, screwing up her courage. Something flickered in the darkness, and her breath caught. The wisp? No, this was a brighter, warmer kind of light. Betty took another step, and another light came into view. More flickered on before her, dozens of tiny little lights like fairy lamps, gliding over the ground, leading the way.

  ‘Beetles,’ she whispered, the story leaping into her mind. ‘The beetles lit the way for Hope out of the dark caves. If I follow them . . . ?’ She hesitated. Was this a trick of the island? A test? Perhaps. ‘Hope,’ she whispered. ‘That’s what I have to hold on to.’

  She took a breath and followed. The beetles marched on, swarming in a line that dotted the darkness like pinpricks of light. The ground descended sharply. Gritting her teeth, Betty went after them, legs and throat burning, crunching over undergrowth like eggshells. With every step, her feet rustled through twigs, like she was treading through a giant bird’s nest. She strained to listen, trying to track her sisters’ cries, their panicked voices. There was nothing, only her padding footsteps and the chirruping of the beetles, but she could see a little now: the beetles’ glow illuminating branches and roots.

  Her head throbbed with every movement. How long had she blacked out for? Seconds? Minutes? Though she recalled her sisters calling for her, she now do
ubted whether it had happened at all. She imagined them sobbing, pleading, wanting to search . . . and Ronia forcing them on without remorse, driven by her own greed to secure whatever riches lay at the island’s heart, no matter what the cost.

  Her throat ached with the urge to cry, but she held it in. Crying wouldn’t help. All it would do was give her away to whatever might lurk unseen nearby. If she was going to catch them up, she had to be as fearless and stealthy as Ronia.

  She continued to stagger on, following the tiny lights. All hopes pinned on them leading her to safety. It was several minutes before she noticed the unnerving chill. A coldness sweeping over her that wasn’t from any breeze. She stared ahead at the beetles, and then behind, desperate for any sign of her sisters or the glow of the wisp.

  And that was when she saw the figure, no more than a shadow. Unmistakably female, with long, ragged clothes and hair to match. Something feathered on her shoulder, claws and a hooked beak. A raven.

  Betty’s gut twisted with terror, as if an invisible hand were wringing her out.

  It’s a trick of the light, she thought. Shadows always look like something, the way clouds do when you stare at them for long enough. She took a step, looking over her shoulder, waiting for it to stretch. Expecting to laugh with relief as it became a cluster of branches.

  The shadow remained, unchanged. Exactly the same distance away, though Betty hadn’t seen it move. A sickening feeling gathered in the centre of her chest, and she felt feverish: shivering and sweating all at once. How hard had she hit her head? She moved further away. The shadow moved with her.

  A sob lodged in Betty’s throat. She stumbled, scraping her elbow on a nearby tree trunk. The shadow figure followed, spilling over the ground like ink. Not walking, or moving in any way, yet somehow following.