Willow Moss and the Forgotten Tale

by Dominique Valente

  ‘Mischievous,’ said Copernica.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No, that’s their name. They’re part of the Mischievous genus, known as the mischief topiary. They enjoy playing tricks … Not many people visit these Old Library Gardens. Well, there’s not much call for magical botany unless you have the skill, and very few do, as you may know. And with so few visitors it’s understandable that they’re putting on a bit of a show,’ sighed Copernica as one turned into a child again and stole the glasses off Essential’s nose.

  Essential shot after it, coaxing, ‘Give them back, c’mon … There’s a good, um, plant.’

  There was a snigger from the carpetbag. This stopped immediately when the cat-shaped shrub started to paw at it and it began to smoke slightly. ‘Oh nooo, oh, me greedy aunt, stop that!’

  ‘I am a dragon … who breathes fire,’ warned Feathering as a gang of the topiary children tried to climb on his back, one pulling at his ear. At this, they suddenly sprang back to their usual positions, each one looking just a little forlorn.

  Willow shot the dragon a look.

  ‘Apologies, young Willow. I don’t enjoy playing the beast, but we do need to get a move on,’ said Feathering. ‘And this looks like it might take us forever,’ he added, his golden eye taking in row upon row of maze shelves.

  This was, alas, very true.

  ‘You can ask it for what you want,’ said Copernica.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Willow.

  ‘Well, for instance, if I wanted to know about the genus and other properties of an old magical plant, like, say …’ She fished around for an example.

  Willow suggested the first thing that popped into her mind. ‘Grumbling Gertrudes?’ Though the purple fruits always reminded her of Granny Flossy, which made her chin wobble for a moment, and suddenly there was a strange popping sound.

  From within the hairy bag she heard Oswin moan, ‘Where’d the lining go?’

  Willow blinked. Had she made that disappear?

  No one seemed to notice her distress. Copernica, it seemed, had decided not to mention the noises she kept hearing from Willow’s bag. Perhaps when you were a Secret Keeper you were trained to turn a blind eye to things like that.

  ‘Okay. Come with me,’ she said, and they followed her to a clearing in the middle of the Old Library Gardens where they found what looked like a large brass clock on a waist-high podium. Instead of the time, though, it showed various sections of the library, and it only had one hand. In the centre, inked in fancy lettering, it said: Information.

  Copernica tapped the glass with her fingernail and said, ‘Grumbling Gertrudes.’

  The clock started to whirl round, then paused. The ink that had said Information before dissolved and formed the words Peddling Palatable Potions, Chapter Nine, Trade Secrets, by Festival Moss, and the clock hand pointed to shelf eleven.

  ‘Moss!’ exclaimed Willow. ‘That’s interesting – that’s the same surname as me.’

  ‘Well, magical abilities do run in families. Did anyone in yours have the ability to make potions?’ asked Copernica.

  Willow swallowed. ‘Yes,’ she said as sadness filled her chest. She pushed it back down. She didn’t have time for that now. ‘But what do we do if we don’t know what we’re looking for?’

  Copernica frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, we’re looking for the name of a plant we’ve seen. We don’t know much about it, though, except that it belonged to a forgotten teller.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Copernica. ‘Sometimes you can describe it to the dial and it sort of cross-references things. Otherwise, I’m afraid you might have to look at all of these.’ She waved a hand to indicate all the shelves filled with books on magical botany. ‘What does it look like, the plant?’

  Willow opened the hairy green carpetbag and fished out the jam jar with the small purple iris inside, which then began to shift and swirl into smoke. ‘Like this,’ she said, showing it to her.

  Copernica looked at the jam jar for a moment, then handed it back to Willow. She cleared her throat, then tapped the glass on the library dial and said, ‘Magical irises, purple, smoke-like properties?’

  The dial whirled round and round, then the clock hand kept moving back and forth between shelves twenty-three and twenty-four.

  There were two loud clock chimes, signifying the hour, and Copernica jumped. ‘Oh, Great Starfell, I’m late for my meeting with the council – I completely forgot about it. I was so enjoying meeting all of you!’

  ‘Us too!’ said Essential.

  Copernica beamed. ‘What a pity. Next time you’re in Library, please do come and visit – I make a really good carrot cake!’

  ‘We’d love that! Thank you so much for all your help!’ said Willow, who had really enjoyed meeting the Secret Keeper and her tour of Library.

  Oswin was the only one who didn’t seem all that impressed. ‘Carrots is not CAKE,’ he muttered from the bag. ‘Lib-brains.’

  There were hundreds of books to choose from on shelves twenty-three and twenty-four.

  Willow sighed. ‘Well, we’d better get started then,’ she said, opening a book that spoke of purple irises that were used in blood curses. ‘Gosh, this is a bit dodgy,’ she added, scanning it. The pictures, however, weren’t like the plant in her jar. She stared at it. The petals shimmered, then shuddered.

  ‘This one isn’t especially helpful either,’ said Sprig, showing them one that spoke about using irises in a garden border to protect against magical pests.

  ‘Or these,’ said Essential, who was paging through a historical book that described the changing climate of Starfell and how it affected the plants.

  Then Essential spotted a thin blue book that looked handwritten. She picked it up and gasped. ‘The Lost Art of Forgotten Telling: A Year in the Garden,’ she breathed, ‘by Nolin Sometimes!’

  They all shared a look.

  ‘This must have it!’ breathed Willow, sitting forward excitedly.

  They paged through it. There were hundreds of detailed botanical drawings, including the magical memory flower and the bliss flower. There was also the rather creepy carvery, which she’d seen in a jar just the night before.

  On the page next to each botanical print was a small history of the plant’s origins, properties and how it helped in the art of forgotten telling. The text outlined each plant’s propagation history, along with the observations of past oubliers.

  Willow started going through the pages with more speed, until she caught sight of a purple plant and gasped.

  There it was – a simple plant that looked like a purple iris with long, thin, dark blue roots suspended in the air. There were two drawings, one of the plant in its natural state and another of what looked like a house made of purple-and-blue glittery smoke. She read the text aloud.

  ‘Mimic plant. While referred to in the singular form, the plant is a set – a pair of twins that can be planted in different locations. When the iris-like flower has been watered, the plant forms a smoke-like substance and mimics its surroundings.’

  Willow gasped. ‘I did that! I watered it and then it turned smoky and strange – and turned into … well … me! It was mimicking me. This must be the mimic plant!’

  ‘That’s incredible,’ breathed Essential.

  ‘What else does it say? How will it help us?’ cried Feathering, and Willow read the rest aloud.

  ‘However, if one dies, the other will not live. It is believed that they can communicate their locations to one another if they are separated. These effects were discovered when the plants were potted in separate locations by renowned oublier, Ready Sometimes. When she submerged the roots of one plant in water at midnight (midnight and the moon having transformative effects on many magical plants), it transformed not into a smoke-like shadow of herself, but displayed instead a replica of the garden where its twin was planted. The plants were used as a means of communicating the secret locations of magicians during the Long War as a way to
keep families safe, but this has long gone out of common usage now. See page 73 for more plants that were used during the war …’

  Willow touched the jam jar plant, but it didn’t transform into the smoky substance. ‘It needs to be watered! Then it’ll change into me again.’

  There was a fountain nearby and Essential dashed to get the plant some water. They watched as the smoke seemed to judder slightly in the glass jar, then it transformed into a girl with very curly hair and large glasses, her face beaming. ‘If this is part of a pair,then—’

  ‘He must have the other plant!’ cried Willow.

  ‘They are used to tell the location of one another,’ breathed Feathering. ‘Remarkable.’

  ‘Does that mean he can see us now?’ exclaimed Essential, pushing up her glasses.

  ‘No,’ said Sprig. He leant forward to reread the passage aloud. ‘When she submerged the roots of one plant in water at midnight … it … displayed … a replica of the garden where its twin was planted.’

  ‘We have to wait till midnight to submerge the roots. Then we’ll know where he is!’ said Willow with a wide grin.

  Finally!

  18

  The Ghost Tree

  They approached the fountain in the centre of the Old Library Gardens a second time just before midnight.

  Though they’d been impatient for night to fall, hope had buoyed them, and they had passed the afternoon strolling along the Library streets. In the evening, they had eaten dinner at a bookish café, which had served Feathering whole baked pumpkins out of one of their windows, to his delight.

  As they crept near the fountain now, the topiary children gathered round them at a safe distance from the dragon, curious as to what they were doing. Willow’s foot stepped on a paving stone, and it began to glow, like candlelight. Dozens followed as they neared the fountain.

  ‘Wow!’ gasped Willow.

  ‘It’s like another world at night,’ breathed Essential, the lights reflecting in her glasses.

  Willow sat beside the fountain and unscrewed the lid of the jam jar. The purple mimic plant glowed slightly under the garden lights. At that moment, the town clock chimed twelve times, and at the final stroke she dipped the jar in the fountain until water submerged the plant’s long blue roots.

  The others waited as she brought it out of the water and replaced the lid. Nothing seemed to happen at first. The plant turned into glittery purple smoke, forming a miniature version of Willow as she held the jar. Then, very slowly, it began to change into a brighter, electric shade of purple, transforming itself until it resembled an enormous tree surrounded by clouds, with exposed roots that swam in a swirling, smoky blue mist.

  Willow brought it up to her eye level and frowned. She recognised it. They all did. ‘It’s the Great Wisperia Tree.’

  ‘Yew means ter tell me the other one was there all this time?’ said Oswin with a groan, an orange paw coming up to cover his eyes. The kobold had dared to venture outside the bag under cover of darkness.

  Willow stared. There was even a tiny house at the top.

  She sighed in despair. Had this all been for nothing?

  ‘It’s not Wisperia,’ said Feathering. The iris in his golden eye whirred as he stared, but he wasn’t focusing on the jar. ‘Look.’

  Willow turned from him to the topiary children. They were pointing and seemed scared, their leaves rustling as they trembled. A small one was hiding behind its taller friend. As Willow frowned, they shifted, merging to form the tree, except they did it upside down, so that the roots were exposed to the air, long and enormous. Dotted among these roots were strange figures, whose hands reached up into the sky.

  What were the mischief topiaries trying to tell them?

  Willow frowned and looked back at the jar. She upturned it to match the upside-down version of the tree the topiaries were showing her, and peered at the miniature, mist-shrouded roots. As she did so, she gasped. There among them were tiny, ghostly figures, with hands reaching out from the mist and shadows, like they were desperately trying to reach up towards something …

  She stared, then swallowed. All at once, Willow understood. She gasped and dropped the mimic plant. Essential raised both hands, freezing the jar in midair, and she caught it safely. Willow was too freaked out by what she’d discovered to thank her. ‘It can’t mea—’ she breathed, turning deathly pale.

  ‘What?’ asked Essential, turning the jar in her hands and pulling a face as she noticed the little figures crawling between the roots and reaching up towards her. Essential’s eyes widened in a mixture of fear and disgust.

  Willow looked from Essential to the others and found it hard to say the words.

  Feathering gasped. ‘That’s what mirali meant. I couldn’t put my talon on just what the forest-touched people were saying in the old language, but that’s what it was. Mirali means the other side – the abyss. The mimic plant is not showing us Wisperia, but the ghostly echo of the Great Wisperia Tree down in Netherfell. The forest people must have meant that it was forbidden for them to send someone alive there – because you will lose your soul. That’s why they wouldn’t help us, and why they believed it was too late. Nolin Sometimes must have been taken by Umbellifer, or her subjects at least … That’s why the treetop community was up in arms. It is very irregular for her or her wraiths – her undead followers – to come up here, to Starfell …’

  Umbellifer, the Queen of the Undead.

  She was the stuff of nightmares and myth. It was said that she waited in the Mists to snatch souls away to her queendom below: Netherfell, the waiting room where all souls were judged before they were sent to their final resting place. The unlucky, however – the lost souls – were doomed to be with her forever as her subjects.

  Willow thought of what Holloway had said about people who had gone through the Mists. ‘They haven’t really come back, have they? Just their bodies.’

  Her eyes were bright with fear. ‘We have to find the Queen of the Undead if we’re to get him back?’

  Feathering nodded.

  ‘You can’t mean …?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid I do,’ he whispered. ‘We’re going to have to cross the Mists … and enter Netherfell.’

  19

  The Mists of Mitlaire

  The blood drained from Essential’s face. ‘Enter Netherfell?’

  ‘Oh, Wol, no!’ cried Oswin. ‘Oh, me greedy aunt, why’d yew curse us kobolds? I don’ wanna go find the soul-snatching harpy-hag of the underworld!’

  Willow couldn’t help but agree. ‘But … HOW? Even … even if we wanted to, we can’t. Not without losing our souls.’

  She looked at Sprig, waiting for him to confirm this. The only person they knew who could cross the Mists was him – but, like he’d said, that was because he was partly born there.

  ‘Is there another way?’ she asked.

  ‘I can help you,’ said Sprig. ‘It’s complicated – as I told you, I can cross the Mists safely. But I can also extend this protection to those who travel with me. If you’re in contact with me in some way, you can pass through – and, more importantly, return – with your soul intact.’

  The dragon looked at Sprig, his golden eye turning dark, suspicious. ‘This is what I feared when I met you. That you would take her there …’

  ‘I know,’ said Sprig, ‘but if I did she’d be safe with me.’

  The dragon snorted. ‘So long as you didn’t leave.’

  Sprig nodded. It was true.

  Willow swallowed. That was scary.

  Sprig looked at them. ‘We have other things to worry about, though. Like how we’re all going to get there. I can spread my magic, but we can’t all fly on Feathering, not without risking his life.’

  ‘What? Why?’ cried Willow.

  ‘The Mists are tricky. They are designed to make the traveller weary, and the bigger the beast the worse the effects will feel and the longer it will take to cross. In the Mists, the smaller you are, the quicker you pass. I
t could take days for Feathering, and exhaust him to the point that he wouldn’t be able to make the journey back.’

  ‘Oh no!’ cried Essential.

  ‘How will we manage then?’ asked Willow. ‘On foot, so long as we form a chain and keep hold of you?’

  ‘I think that would be incredibly risky. You’d all be exhausted too – I mean, you aren’t Feathering’s size, but you’re not as small as me when I’m a raven. Besides, we can’t walk across the lake.’

  They all shared a worried look. Once you were through the Mists, you reached the Lake of the Undead, the gateway to Netherfell.

  Willow blinked. ‘So travelling on a large creature won’t work. But what if the thing that carries you isn’t alive … like, say, a boat? Is there a waterway through the Mists?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a stream that runs all the way to the lake,’ said Sprig. ‘I think a boat would work.’

  ‘But Willow, how are we going to find a boat?’ asked Essential.

  Willow grinned at her, and reached into her pocket. Inside it was the small copper harmonica that Holloway had given her in case she ever needed him. She touched it and said, ‘Don’t worry – it’ll find us. Looks like we’re going to have to head towards the river, so that I can call on a wizard-sailor friend I made.’ Willow pulled out the harmonica, and it gave a soft little hoot.

  They flew towards the Knotweed River on Feathering and set up camp along a dry, sandy bank. There Willow blew on the harmonica that was linked to the Sudsfarer.

  ‘It’ll take a few hours for him to come through, I imagine,’ said Sprig. ‘We should get some rest. There’s a lot we will have to face. Trust me, you’ll need it.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Feathering, who curled up along the riverbank. There were already snores from within the hairy green bag.

  Willow couldn’t sleep, though. She sat and waited, worrying about Sometimes, worrying about the state of her magic, and how she would actually get him back from the fearsome ruler of the underworld.

  When dawn arrived, there were dark patches beneath Willow’s eyes. She turned in surprise at the sound of a distant foghorn. She was cold and stiff from sitting on the ground, but she stood up fast.