An Average Curse (The Chronicles of Hawthorn, Book 1)

by Rue

  “Don’t go out there, Flynn. Your mother looks upset,” Hazel warned.

  “I’m so tired of disappointing her, Hazel. I tried to be the child of prophecy, but I’m not. So, I tried to be a good little girl and do all the boring chores she heaps on my shoulders, but nothing makes her happy. I’m a useless Watcher and I’ll never be able to take my mother’s place as High Priestess and I’ll absolutely never save anyone from the Shadow Coven.” Flynn dropped from the ladder to the floor of the stable and whistled for her moa.

  “Wait! Where are you going?” Hazel called.

  “Where I can never disappoint anyone again.” Flynn mounted her moa and raced toward the cover of the trees lining the river.

  Hazel lost no time in pursuit. She hustled out the back of the stable and whistled for Mr. Mango.

  Flynn caught a glimpse of the crowd gathering near the campsites and pulled the hood of her dark brown cloak down to hide her face. She had no idea what she’d done this time, but like her mother always said, she brought nothing but bad luck.

  She rode along the river, past all of the tents, and finally cut back toward the forest.

  Hazel raced to catch up. “You’re heading straight for Dreamwood Forest. You know the stories, are you crazy?” she shouted.

  “I’m counting on the stories,” Flynn yelled over her shoulder.

  They reached the end of the tussock land and the stark black and white birch trees of Dreamwood loomed up in front of them. Before either girl could feel properly terrified, their mounts clawed to a halt, shook violently, and unloaded their human cargo.

  Hazel and Flynn dusted off and exchanged confused glances while Mr. Mango and Tuauri scarpered back toward the village.

  “So much for the unshakable loyalty of moas,” Flynn commented.

  “They’ll come back for us, I hope.” Hazel adjusted her bag and eyed the forest uneasily.

  “Hazel, you have to go back to the village—and forget about me. I’m a terrible friend and a useless daughter. I feel like a little piece of me dies every time I see that look on my mother’s face.” Flynn took a ragged breath and continued. “She has so much to worry about, I can’t stand being another burden. It’ll be better this way, trust me. Go back to Moa Bend and be a great witch. I mean it, Hazel. Leave and forget about me.”

  “Flynn Hawthorn you are not the ruler of Aotearoa, yet, and you can’t tell me what to do. You might not care what happens to you, but I do. You’re not useless, you are my best friend, and I’m not going to watch my best friend walk into a forsaken forest and disappear forever. You know people never come back, Flynn, you know that much.” Hazel swiped at a traitorous tear.

  Flynn took two steps, but stopped short. “Hazel, look,” she whispered.

  Hazel fidgeted as she watched a growing cloud of faeries wafting out of the thick vines twisted between the trees. “Are they Turehu?”

  “How would I know? I’ve never been to this creepy forest and I’m no expert on races of faeries.”

  Hazel inched backward and locked arms with Flynn. She leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Turehu are an especially evil race of faeries. My cousin, Mince, told me they steal the souls of unborn babies.”

  “I changed my mind. I don’t want to be lost in that forest.” Flynn wanted to swallow, but her throat felt dry and tight. “The stories are true,” she whispered.

  The girls clung tightly to one another as the cloud divided and encircled them. The general glowing separated into individual sparkles and some of those came close enough for the girls to see faces. The glowing skin and innocent eyes encouraged the pair to let down their guard.

  The gentle buzzing of their wings lulled the two friends into a peaceful trance. The glimmering mass pushed the girls toward the forest edge—and the darkness beyond.

  Flynn dug in her heels and grabbed Hazel’s arm. “Stop. They’re trying to trick us.”

  Hazel turned a dopey grin toward her friend and mumbled. “They’re pretty and they want us to play with them.”

  Giving Hazel’s shoulders a firm shake, Flynn insisted, “I’m pretty sure I heard that little yellow one tell the blue one to lead us to the trap.”

  Hazel giggled uncontrollably and wriggled loose of Flynn’s grasp. Once free, she pranced toward the forest.

  Flynn wanted to chase after her friend but the little yellow faery hovered directly in front of her nose.

  “Nasty lying giant,” the faery hissed. The innocence had vanished from her eyes like smoke in the wind.

  “I’m not nasty. Wait—you can talk!” Flynn swatted the winged pest away and ran after Hazel. She avoided wasting any more words and instead tackled her dear friend to the ground.

  The impact knocked Hazel out of the trance. “Flynn, what are you doing?”

  “Saving you from the evil Turehu. Those horrible things were dragging you into some kind of trap.”

  “How do you know?” Hazel sat up and brushed the dirt from her face.

  “I heard them talking.”

  “Flynn, you must already be under the spell of the forest. Humans can’t talk to faeries.”

  The glimmer pressed close to the girls and Hazel’s eyes blinked slowly as she stared into the swirling haze.

  “Leave us alone. We don’t want to play in the forest and we’ll never follow you to the trap. Find someone else to pester, you little flies!” Flynn shouted the last bit and swatted at the stragglers.

  The focus returned to Hazel’s eyes. “What are you buzzing about?”

  “I told them to get lost and leave us alone,” Flynn replied.

  Hazel laughed and stood up to face Flynn. “I don’t know what the faery trance made you think, but you were humming and buzzing like a village simpleton.”

  Flynn laughed nervously with her friend, but she found their vastly different experiences a bit unsettling. “They’re gone now, at least. When do you think our moas will come back for us?”

  “Any minute, I’m sure,” Hazel shakily replied.

  “And if they don’t?”

  “It’s only about an hour’s walk back to the village. We can sit here by the warmth of the forest, for now, and if they don’t come back—”

  “We walk. Got it. I’d rather face my mother than…” she gestured toward the dim, shifting woods. Flynn sat down and dug through her satchel for some nuts or dried fruit. After dispatching the imminent threat of faeries she felt a false sense of confidence. Maybe if they stayed outside the depths of Dreamwood, they could cling to safety. She pushed the doubt from her mind and pursued a distraction. “Why is it so warm? It is winter here, right?” She knew a bit of the legend, but she loved the way the words came to life when Hazel told a story. She leaned cautiously against a tree and munched on a handful of macadamia nuts.

  “Oh, this is probably my favorite story of all.” Hazel spread out her cloak and sat down with her back pressed against one of the ancient birch trees. She pulled a piece of the loose deckled bark from the tree and ran her fingers over it as she spoke.

  “The wicked sorceress Makutu had found a way to penetrate the mist and she led an army of powerful dark witches across the channel to destroy the Book of Light. The innocent good-hearted inhabitants of Toki Village were destroyed with a single fireball from the sorceress’ twisted wand. A giant dragonfly rushed north to warn Temarama of the approaching evil.”

  “Kapowai, my middle name is dragonfly,” Flynn interrupted. She thought about what Mistress Thelema said that morning regarding the poison from Makutu’s curse seeping into the land, but pushed it out of her mind.

  “Yes, Kapowai, for your grandmother and for the messenger of hope.” Hazel cleared her throat like one of the venerated crones in Moa Bend. “Temarama assembled the entire Coven of the Sacred Wood and sent her only daughter, Tuatara, to The Hagathorn—under heavy guard. The coven of thirteen headed south to meet certain doom.” Hazel took a dramatic pause and closed her eyes. “They met on the plains near the original forest of Tane Mahuta, the god o
f the woodlands. Makutu and her witches hurled fireballs. Temarama and her coven doused the flames with Water spells and cast protective enchantments over the trees. Makutu drew her bone-handled athamé and gouged a long scar in the living earth. She pulled the Shadow Coven of Southeil into a circle around the gash and they chanted a dark and poisonous karakia. Temarama recognized the words of destruction and she sent her coven back to save the villagers. They raced toward Moa Bend, placing enchantments and traps in their wake.”

  “What about Temarama? What could she do?” Flynn leaned forward with eager anticipation.

  “She moved toward the forest and cast a handful of moa stones in front of her. The power of Makutu’s evil curse continued to build and time slipped away. Temarama called upon Mother Earth, Father Sky and Tane Mahuta. She freely offered her soul in exchange for the protection of her people. The karakia she spoke is lost to the ages, but when Makutu’s coven released their scorching curse it pulled the very lives of the witches into the flame of desolation. The entire forest burned in an instant—save one tree.” Hazel stopped to get a drink from her waterskin.

  “What happened to Makutu?”

  “Makutu and her coven vanished from this earth. The scar she left remains—a deep twisted crevasse in our land.

  Flynn nodded solemnly. “What about the tree?”

  “Only one kauri tree remained standing, surrounded by ashes and scorched earth. The ancient ones believed the very hand of Tane Mahuta saved that tree to honor the sacrifice of Temarama.”

  “My great-great—well, you get the idea—grandmother—was so brave.” Flynn smiled proudly. “This is the only place on the island where these trees grow, right?”

  Hazel rubbed the bark between her fingers and nodded. “These birch trees sprang up almost immediately and were full grown within weeks. Folks knew the forest sprouted and grew by magick, but no one understood its true intention. People would disappear, strange sounds could be heard, and it is always summer. My cousin said the forest fills your head with beautiful dreams that you think are real, and then you never want to leave.”

  “Most of that tale is true, my darlings.” The smoky voice of the fabled witch of the wood caught both girls unawares.

  Hazel grabbed Flynn’s hand and pulled her close.

  “You forgot the bit about me, and all the little children I roast and eat.”

  Strangely, Flynn’s fear evaporated. She looked at the wrinkled, bent woman leaning on a gnarled staff and felt peace. She pried Hazel’s hand from her arm and let her winter cloak fall to the ground. She walked toward the woman, curious and compelled.

  The hag looked surprised at the foolish bravery of the youngling. She stared more carefully at her prey. The child wore simple leather boots, well-made leggings, a braided flax belt and a plain grey woolen shirt—a bit too large for the girl, had slipped off her shoulder exposing a delicate koru pendant—and a white crescent moon-shaped scar on her chest. The witch of the wood inhaled sharply and dropped to one knee. “The child of prophecy. Flynn Kapowai Hawthorn, forgive me.”

  Flynn froze in her tracks. She looked back at Hazel for support, but found her dear friend curled in a ball sobbing. Her attention returned to the kneeling woman and as she truly looked at the hag, she realized her eyes had deceived her. The woman kneeling before her appeared more ageless than old—more vaporous than solid. “Are you real?”

  The woman leaned heavily on her twisted staff as she rose. “I am Pounamu, and as real as a woman of nearly three hundred years can be.”

  “How can you be three hundred years old? How do you know me? Why did you threaten to eat us?” The questions fired out of Flynn’s mouth like angry hornets from a nest.

  “It is nearly too dark for you to return to your village, tonight. I will send word to your mother. You and your friend can come to my cottage for some food and answers.” Without waiting for a response Pounamu hummed a little tune and a glowing green faery flitted out of the trees. She continued speaking in the secret language of the fae, “Tell the High Priestess that her daughter and her friend—“

  “Hazel,” Flynn prompted.

  Pounamu’s eyes widened in surprise and she shook her head before she finished her request of the faery.

  The green glow disappeared toward the north.

  Regrettably, Flynn would miss the welcome feast and her favorite solstice fruitcake, but joyfully, she would also miss the opportunity to be a useless accessory to the High Priestess.

  “You speak Meshwing,” Pounamu said to Flynn.

  Flynn shrugged. She had no idea what that meant.

  “As the prophecy foretold,” Pounamu mumbled to herself. “Follow me, darlings, I have a pot full of hot taro stew and some nearly fresh bread.”

  Hazel, still shaking in her witara skin boots, clung to Flynn’s arm as they followed the witch of the wood to her cottage, nestled in Dreamwood Forest.

  “Stay close and keep your eyes on me,” Pounamu said, as she walked steadily deeper into the thick damp woodland. A bright light emanated from a strange stone pendant around her neck.

  “I think I hear my mother calling me for chores,” Hazel announced.

  “Steady, child,” Pounamu turned and tapped her staff gently on Hazel’s head. “Follow me and think of the taro stew.”

  Flynn noticed a small red-winged faery darting from tree to tree a few feet behind them. “Who’s our escort?” she asked.

  “The closest translation from Patupaiarehe, would be ‘Zip’ or possibly ‘Whoosh’, but he tells me you can call him Zip. He’s making sure no one wanders off.”

  “They help you?” Flynn asked, rather shocked at the thought.

  “After three hundred years—we’ve come to an arrangement.” Pounamu looked over her shoulder to check on her followers and announced, “Here’s my home.”

  Once they were safely inside the sagging cottage, Pounamu waved her hand in front of the heavy door and whispered, “Rakaina.”

  Hazel’s voice quivered when she asked, “Why are you locking us in?”

  “I’m locking them out, my darlings.” Pounamu leaned her staff against the wall and took three wooden bowls from her shelf; the dark wood had been rubbed smooth from centuries of use. Into each bowl she ladled a large portion of steaming taro and rabbit stew.

  Flynn’s stomach growled loudly and she eagerly reached for the piping hot bowl. “Thank you,” she said, as she accepted the meal.

  Rather than the customary response, Pounamu spoke to both girls, “Never eat food that grows within the boundaries of the forest. Once you have partaken of his fruit you may never leave his limbs.”

  Two spoons stopped in midair.

  “The taro is from a bog north of the forest and I trapped the hare down in the Barren Hills. I travel far to gather my meals, but what else does a lonely old woman have to pass the time?”

  The girls gobbled several bites, ignoring the searing heat and smiling at the growing fullness in their bellies.

  “Why don’t you die?” Hazel blurted.

  “Hazel!” Flynn elbowed her friend sharply.

  Pounamu’s deep, rich laugh rumbled like the waters of the Aniwaniwa tumbling over boulders in spring. “As long as my sister lives, I live.”

  “Who’s your sister?” Flynn asked, with a mouthful of taro stew, and earned an elbow in the ribs for her poor manners.

  “Why, Temarama, of course, my twin sister older by half a day. My poor mother! Twins, and stubborn ones at that. I am your auntie, my darling.”

  Flynn and Hazel exchanged glances that clearly said, “Uh-oh, she’s crazy.”

  “But Temarama gave her life to stop the Shadow Coven’s curse,” Flynn recited from Hazel’s story.

  “Yes, Hazel told a beautiful tale. It is the tale we all believed, for a while, but after a hundred years or so I grew curious.” Pounamu got up and lifted a large silver platter from the table and placed it on the floor in front of her hearth. She knelt down next to the disc and pulled a vial from the fold
s of her cloak, slowly pouring the inky-black contents onto the platter. The reflected firelight danced across the surface before a fog dulled the image.

  The girls set their bowls on the table and crept closer.

  “Have you learned the art of scrying?”

  “We’re only just taking our initiation tests this year,” Hazel said.

  “Come, I will show you the truth.”

  The girls bent nearer and Pounamu waved her hand over the surface as she spoke the ancient word for twin. The liquid rippled and the fog evaporated. “Sister, I have missed you,” she whispered.

  The girls saw a shifting image of a wispy spirit woman and Flynn felt a heavy sadness in her heart.

  “She is so sad,” Flynn murmured.

  “Tane Mahuta accepted the gift of her soul to stop the karakia of the Shadow Coven, but she did not die. He encased her in a kauri tree and she lives there to this day. Some part of the magick touched my twin soul, for as long as she is imprisoned in that tree I live out my years in mourning.”

  Hazel could not tolerate injustice—her fingertips tapped together and her eyes got a faraway look. “There must be a spell to reverse the magick—a way to free her from the tree.”

  “Only Temarama knows both the karakia chanted by the Shadow Coven and her own enchantments and petitions. I cannot speak to her through this disc, I can only see this ghostly image and add to my torment.”

  “But, the tree—you said the tree still lives in this forest. Maybe we could figure out a way to find the tree and talk directly to her.” Hazel tapped her fingertips against each other, the signal that her brain searched for a solution.

  “Oh, my darlings, I have visited her tree hundreds of times. I bargained away spells and potions, bribing the faeries to assist me in speaking to her. But, alas, deep earth magick vanished during the Rift. We can no longer speak to the trees.” Pounamu had no more tears to weep for her sister; she waved her hand over the shimmering disc and the spectral picture disappeared. “You younglings must get some sleep, tomorrow you have the solstice festivities.”