The Magical Misadventures of Prunella Bogthistle

by Deva Fagan

  A grumble beside my ear made me jump. “And I thought the boy was the slippery one.” Another grumble rattled my bones. “Out with you, then. You’ve bested me, witch girl. But I will hold to my word.”

  Something touched my arm, so cold it made me shiver, even amid the inferno. I followed the tug of icy fingers, to stumble out from the pyre at last and back onto the raft. I gulped mouthfuls of clean air, in between fits of coughing so strong I thought I might break in two.

  Warm hands gripped my shoulders. I blinked the ash from my eyes to see Barnaby, milk-white and wide-eyed.

  “You’re not burned to a crisp,” he said at last.

  “Don’t sound so disappointed.” I coughed again.

  “But how?”

  “Bladderwort sap. I was trying to tell you earlier—it’s fireproof. And it keeps away the needlewings.”

  “Handy stuff,” he said, managing a weak smile. “Even if it does stink. I thought for a moment…” He shuddered. “Next time I’m blasted well bringing a barrel of spiced rum, even if I have to carry it myself. I never want to do that again.”

  “Fine with me,” I said, surveying my singed clothing. At least none of the holes were in truly unfortunate places.

  “Do you want to go through or not?” asked Skillimug.

  Barnaby and I scrambled to our feet. The ghost hovered above a gap in the grass hedge that had not been there a moment ago. The channel of water ran onward through the gap, and into a dusky swampland.

  Taking up the pole, Barnaby propelled us forward. Skillimug slumped, turning his back on us. He hung so low the hem of his ghostly robes dipped into the water, stirring up faint ripples. He let out a long, mournful sigh.

  Barnaby caught me staring. “He would’ve happily toasted you to a crisp, Prunella. Don’t feel sorry for him.”

  “I don’t,” I retorted. “Well, I do, just a little. He’s lonely. He only wanted a friend.”

  “And a cask of spiced rum.”

  I waved away Barnaby’s cynicism. “Friends are important. I mean, not that I know much about them. But I wish…” Barnaby gave the raft another push forward. The grass edging the channel no longer snapped and hissed. I trailed my fingers through the rushes, thinking. “Barnaby, stop. Just for a moment, I promise.”

  Barnaby raised a dubious eyebrow, but obligingly jammed the pole into the silt, halting our progress. Seizing a handful of rushes, I set to work braiding them as my family had back home, all of us sitting around the hearth on chilly afternoons. A few moments later I had produced a simple manikin, the limbs and two plaits of rush-woven hair bound with my twine.

  “Get on with you and leave me alone,” the ghost called out sourly. “It’s my lot in life.”

  I finished affixing two snail shells as eyes. It was the best I could do for now. “Skillimug, I have something for you,” I said, moving to the back of the raft. Hefting the woven doll in my hand, I threw it toward the glowering flames.

  A flash of golden light flared up as the manikin blazed. I caught a brief glimpse of Skillimug, mouth gaping. Then the eelgrass slithered, rustling back into place to close off the channel once more.

  A hoot of laughter rose from the far side. “Well, sounds as if he liked it,” said Barnaby, poling us forward once more.

  “I hope so. I don’t think he was really as bad as he made out.”

  “Maybe,” said Barnaby. “But, filthy fens, this light-dell thing better be grander than the queen’s drawing room to make up for that.”

  “It is,” I promised.

  The trunks of the cypress trees receded into shadows. Above, a ribbon of sky gleamed dusky silver between the leafy boughs. I turned the raft down a twisting waterway that wound through mossy humps of land. For reasons I couldn’t quite explain, my heart had started to thrum. I wasn’t scared, exactly. The light-dell should keep us safe from nearly any danger the Mistveil Bayou held. I stole a look at Barnaby, crouched at the front of the raft. He knelt on one knee, his chin raised, his hair brushed back, looking as fine and proud as the figurehead of a great ship setting out for the Palm Isles.

  Something twisted inside my chest, like a bit of bramble tightening round my heart. I wanted, desperately, for Barnaby to understand the Bottomlands. I didn’t expect he could ever love them. But he had to see they weren’t all disgusting muck and danger. I gripped the pole more tightly, navigating a tight curve. The channel had become so narrow now that ferns brushed the sides of the raft, adding a restless murmur to the night.

  We passed forward, under the arc of a root that spanned the channel like a fairy bridge. On the far side, the waters opened up into a round, limpid pool dotted with lilies. I held the pole still, so that we simply drifted, spinning out into the center. Above, stars glittered in dazzling patterns, hectically bright.

  “Is this it?” asked Barnaby. “I’ll admit the stars are pretty, but I can see them just as clear from an open field in the Uplands.”

  “Shh. Just wait.”

  We stood. I thought Barnaby must surely hear my heart thundering now. What if the map was wrong? Or, worse, what if I was wrong, and Barnaby hated this, too?

  Then a star fell from the heavens. Then another, and another. The next moment, a shimmering ribbon of light was weaving above the pool.

  I heard the catch of Barnaby’s breath as the air around us grew thick with light. “It’s…it’s…” Barnaby gaped. “What are they doing?”

  “Grandmother says they’re dancing, telling the ancient stories of the world. She told me sometimes you can see things, in the light.”

  “What sorts of things?” Barnaby twisted around, nearly tripping over his own feet as he followed the spiraling cloud of fireflies.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything. Just twists and curls and filigrees like this. It does look like they’re dancing, though, doesn’t it?”

  Barnaby caught my arm. “Look, Prunella. Over there. Am I seeing things? It looks like—”

  “—a chalice,” I finished.

  “And there, that’s a crown, don’t you think?”

  The spiky circlet fell across the glimmering goblet, and both melted away into a net of radiance that spilled across the sky.

  We stood silent, too full of the moment to speak. After a time, the glimmering lights subsided. Drifting down, they alighted in the cups of the water lilies, turning the surface of the pool into a mirror of the sky.

  Barnaby smiled. “You were right,” he said. “This is beautiful.”

  We slept basked in the pulsing glow of the fireflies. Strangely, my dreams had not echoed the peace and beauty of the night. I woke early from a dream in which I had been carrying a golden chalice, holding it as tight as my dying breath. A crow had flown above, croaking and screeching. Startled, I had let the chalice slip from my fingers to shatter upon the ground.

  Barnaby still slept, curled on the other end of the raft. We had drifted up against the bank during the night. Quietly, I rose and crossed to the fern-clouded shore, then tethered the raft.

  I set off after the scent of hot-leaf blooms. The trials ahead would be much easier to tackle after a cup of spicy tea. Finding a plentiful harvest, I filled my scarf with a half-dozen blooms. It was on my return trip that I stepped over a tiny pool captured between a turfy hummock and a moss-grown fallen cypress. In the still water, I caught a glimpse of wild black hair and pea-soup green.

  I crouched down, peering at my reflection. The last time I’d met my own eyes looking back from a watery mirror had been the night I was attempting the wart curse. The night I met Barnaby. The night Grandmother cast me out.

  Something flew over my head. A raucous screech split the air. I scuttled back as a large crow landed across from me. The bird studied me with a beady eye. A surge of hope throbbed through me.

  “Grandmother?” I asked, finally working up the courage. The crow gave a chortling caw. Then, suddenly, the black feathers were shifting, the shape elongating, rising, whooshing up into a figure slightly smaller than myself. I
gasped. “Ezzie?”

  “Of course it’s me,” said my cousin, sniffing as she plunked herself down on a mossy hummock. “Did you really expect Grandmother to traipse all the way out here just to check up on the likes of you?”

  “But…you were a crow. How…?”

  Ezzie preened, running her slim fingers back through the coils of her black hair. “Oh, that. Grandmother finished teaching me the crow-skin spell just after she threw you out. I was rather a quick study at it, if I do say so myself. I can hold the crow shape even in the Uplands, you know, as long as I don’t go too far north.”

  “You’ve been following me all this time? Spying on me for Grandmother?”

  “Hardly spying. I expect she only has me doing it for practice with the crow skin, and so she can laugh at the stories of just how pathetically low you’ve sunk.”

  Ezzie’s prodigious nose jutted more triumphantly than ever from her narrow, pointed face. She had sprouted a new wart since I’d seen her last. Dark misery wrapped itself around me.

  I tried to shake it off. Ezzie might not be my favorite person in the world, but she was a link to home, to the past, to all that I ached to be and see again. “How is everyone? Have Aunt Flywell’s new spider-trap orchids bloomed yet?”

  “Everyone’s fine,” Ezzie said lightly, smoothing the dozens of black feathers edging her dress. “The orchids are gorgeous, all sunset pink with little blue fringes. Auntie’s very pleased. Though Cousin Elfreida made a great stink, saying they ate one of her hedgehogs. Auntie objected, of course, but I don’t know…Those flowers are ravenous, and one of them had quite a lump in its trumpet. Auntie was going to duel Elf over it, but then Rosemallow came back, and everyone went into a tizzy over her new baby and forgot.”

  “New baby?” I wrapped my arms around my midsection, as if I could squeeze the homesickness back to manageable size. “I thought she was in the Palm Isles to restock the exotic-spices larder.”

  “She was. It turns out she met a sailor—a pirate, really—who fell in love with her. She didn’t even have a seeming spell on. Anyway, she had all sorts of adventures. There was a kraken, and a typhoon, and a haunted ship.” Ezzie sighed. “I hope when I’m old enough Grandmother lets me go. It sounds wonderfully exciting. We kept Rosie talking for ten nights straight. No one got anything done. And the baby’s the cutest thing. She’ll run to the beautiful side of the Bogthistle line, I wager. Not a single wart. Though that didn’t mean much in your case. But still. Rosemallow said the pirate was quite handsome.”

  “What happened to him?” I asked. “Did he…?”

  “What do you suppose happened? Bogthistles may wander, but they always come home. Rosemallow said he wept when she told him she was leaving. I wouldn’t have bothered. Take the babe and go, no scenes, no tears. But she’s soft. She told Elf she even thought about staying with him.” Ezzie grimaced. “But she came to her senses, and she’s back now. He gave her a parrot, and it’s the most horrid thing. Bites everyone except Rosie and the baby. It does have a brilliantly foul mouth, though. Maybe that’s what you need, Pru. A bird to do your cursing for you.”

  “I can do fine on my own,” I said, sniffing indignantly.

  Ezzie stared at me. Her eyes still looked beady. “Right. Like the way you doused that woman with mud in the village that stank of eel? They were ready to toss you on the coals.”

  I goggled at her. “You saw that?” I managed to say. “And you didn’t help?”

  Ezzie shrugged. “You made the mess. It was yours to clean up. Oh, bother.” She rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t have let them burn you. But you managed well enough with the frights. Even Grandmother said so.”

  “She did? What did she say?” I leaned forward, my heart thrumming.

  “You know Grandmother. Hard to read as an old tombstone. But when I told her, she said, ‘Any granddaughter of mine ought to know how to deal with a pack of paltry frights.’ ”

  “Hmph. I wouldn’t call a wight paltry. And I’ve been doing plenty of other magic. You’ve just been flapping around spying on people.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen your ‘other magic.’ Good deeds. Feasts and cheering crowds. Prancing around the Uplands like you never set a toe in good, honest mud. Making eyes at some Upland boy!” The last she said in tones of utter disgust. “Really, Prunella. Do you even call yourself a bog-witch any longer?”

  Each word hammered into me, but I clung to my anger. “I’d be happy to show you just how much of a bog-witch I am,” I spat, flexing my fingers. “You can flit about the sky if you like, but I’ve got bigger plans afoot. I’m going to get Esmeralda’s lost grimoire. And when I do, you’d better hope I don’t catch even a glimpse of your tail feathers or you’ll be cursed and double-cursed.”

  Ezzie snorted. “Oh, really? And how does dragging that boy into a light-dell figure into this master plan? As if an Uplander could ever understand bog-folk.”

  I gave a screech of outrage. “I’ll curse you now, then, you stinking little spy. You’re nothing but a creeping, warty little toad,” I shouted, jabbing my finger at Ezzie.

  A gust of power whipped through me. Ezzie’s eyes grew wide. A flash of green enveloped her as she raised her arms and launched herself up into the air.

  The curse crackled beneath her, slamming instead into the figure that had just emerged from the ferns.

  I could barely choke out one word. “Barnaby?”

  Ezzie’s flapping wings and croaking receded into the distance. I flung myself down beside the crumpled pile of purple velvet. I reached with trembling fingers, then snatched my hand back as something stirred within. Tentatively, I twitched aside the jacket.

  I gasped. A warty green toad stared up at me.

  Chapter 10

  “Well, at least you won’t be bothered by needlewings,” I said as Barnaby flicked out his tongue to gulp down a mouthful of the pesky insects. “And you can still talk.”

  “That’s like cutting off a man’s nose and telling him he ought to be happy not to have to scratch it anymore,” Barnaby said, his voice sounding tinny and strange coming from the small toad. I had never considered toads to be creatures capable of glaring in fury, but Barnaby was teaching me otherwise.

  I didn’t blame him. I had spent half the morning trying to undo the spell, with no success. Barnaby remained a toad, crouched miserably on the mossy stump beside the folded pile of purple velvet. How could I have been so stupid? “It could have been worse,” I said, trying to keep our spirits up. “You’re not a mudwhelp slug, for one thing. They stink worse than bladderwort sap. This way, you at least have hands.”

  “Hands? You call these hands?” Barnaby hopped up on his back legs, flailing his tiny bulbous fingers. “Oh, curse it all. We’re never going to get the chalice back. How can I get us past Blackthorn’s traps and locks like this?” He bounced into the air, nearly vibrating in his frustration. “You’ve got to try again. I think it started to work last time. Come on, Prunella. I know you can do it. If you cursed me, you ought to be able to uncurse me, right? I saw you break that featherweight charm back in Nagog.”

  “That was different. The wand was the conduit for the magic. The curse actually went through me. To break this, I’d have to…”

  “I’m stuck this way until you die?”

  I nodded.

  Barnaby’s pallid throat swelled and deflated. He blinked his side-slitted eyes. “What about that big magic book you’re so keen to get from Blackthorn? That ought to have something in it to fix me, right?”

  I sighed. “I don’t think so. Esmeralda was known for cursing people, not curing them.”

  “It’s just your sort of book, then.” Barnaby leapt from the log, disappearing into a stand of ferns.

  Even in that froggy voice, I could hear the accusation. “Where are you going?”

  “We’ve still got a chalice to rescue,” croaked Barnaby from somewhere in the greenery. “Just because I’m a blasted toad doesn’t mean I’m not keeping my word.”

&nbs
p; He bounded back toward the raft. Miserable, I followed after him.

  We navigated past a nest of giant spiders, slipped silently through the gargarou hunting grounds, and narrowly escaped a broody alligator almost as large as Yeg. At last the waterways grew sluggish and so clogged with mud and debris that we were forced to leave the raft and make our way on foot. Fortunately, the map indicated we were nearly to our destination.

  I stopped. “We’re here.”

  “Where?” Barnaby bounced, trying to jump above the screen of green rushes. “Blast it, I can’t see anything!”

  I caught him before he could jump again. “Stop croaking! What if there are guards?” I settled him on my shoulder. “There. Now can you see?”

  Barnaby’s throat swelled and deflated several times as we stared at our destination.

  Blackthorn Manor rose from the Mistveil like the clawed hand of some enormous beast. Sharp towers pierced the thick mists coiling up from the sullen moat surrounding the manor.

  “Well. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy,” Barnaby said finally. “Go on, then. But slow. I’ll keep an eye out for traps.”

  As we drew closer, I realized that what I had taken to be towers were not, in fact, constructions of stone or wood. The whole of Blackthorn Manor lay beneath a tapestry of thorny vines, twisted upon themselves to form elaborate peaks and prongs.

  Windows glinted beneath the tangle, but I could make out nothing within. Though it was midday, the light was wan and pale, dulled by the curtains of mist.

  We crept closer, aiming for what looked like a bridge across the moat. We paused in the shadow of a large fanglike stone. I squinted around the pale granite, trying to get a clear look at the bridge. Was that a gleam of torchlight?

  No. It was eyes. Flaming eyes in bulbous orange heads. “Jacks!” I pressed myself back.

  “How many?” Barnaby croaked.