Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters

by Winter Woodlark

  Nettle Blackthorn

  and the

  Three Wicked Sisters

  PART ONE

  By Winter Woodlark

  For Nigel, Henry and Arthur

  my mother Marilyn

  and niece Lily N.

  Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters – Part One

  Copyright © 2015 by Winter Woodlark.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A Forest with no Name

  Nettle Blackthorn propped her long legs upon Bessie’s dashboard and wiggled her toes against the flow of hot air blasting from the air vents. The large map spread across her thighs gently billowed, as she busily traced a finger along the thin black line marking the stretch of highway running parallel to an expansive forest that took up much of the map. Bessie, the Blackthorn’s motor-home, gently jostled Nettle about as she rode shot-gun beside her father, driving alongside the very forest that she was frowning at on the map. She tapped a finger absentmindedly against her pursed lips and cast an askew glance out the window to the great wall of trees.

  They’d been travelling along the long, long, straight road for well over an hour now, and had hardly come across another vehicle, nor seemed to gain on the craggy mountain ranges ahead. The scenery was the same. On one side an immense tussock grassland, on the other a swathe of swampy marshland hugging the forest’s tree-line.

  The forest was ancient and pressed so tightly together she could barely tell oak from poplar from ash. Its trees and shrubs and vines were so thickly knotted about one another, Nettle assumed it had never been threatened by loggers or woodsman. She wondered if anyone would ever dare to approach it with an axe. Even from inside Bessie, Nettle felt the forests disquieting presence, an unsettling feeling: ignore it, keep to the road, travel onward, best forget the forest even exists. Yet, she found she couldn’t.

  The forest reached high into the murky sky and its long shadow cast a gloomy light across the road, so it seemed to Nettle they were travelling in never-ending twilight. Enormous twisted roots plunged into the mire, like a line of roman soldiers marching forward on a deadly rampage, while gnarled branches stretching skyward threatened to engulf the sun, if it ever dared to peer out from behind the clouds. Perhaps it was afraid to, perhaps it had good reason to hide.

  It was peculiar - earlier, when they’d slowly descended the treacherous mountain, now well behind them with its tight twisting roads slick with morning ice, Nettle’s breath had caught in her throat as a tingling anticipation thrummed through her body while gazing upon the immense valley below. The forest promised adventures. As far as Nettle could see, the vista was a thick carpet of trees caught in autumn’s clutches, awash with fiery hues of golden copper and burgundy. Rolling hills erupted from within the forest, and she could see in part a river winding through, yet nothing on the map indicated these natural features.

  “You OK?” asked Fred, noticing yet again she was rubbing her back like a farm cat against a wooden post.

  Nettle shrugged, scouring her spine against her backrest. The annoyingly persistent itch had returned. “Just irritated is all.” She frowned flicking the map with a finger. “I don’t get it. There’s nothing on this map that shows what’s in that forest. Not a hill, or a river. They haven’t even put a name to the forest.”

  Fred’s glasses had slipped slightly and he pushed them back up his hawkish nose before replying. “It’s called the Forgotten Wilds.”

  Nettle’s thin lips curled into a lopsided smile. “Huh, funny Dad. I suppose they forgot all about naming it on the map?”

  “Something like that,” Fred grinned in return, wiggling his thick eyebrows up and down. They shared the same distinctive smile.

  Nettle rolled her eyes at her father and went back to investigating the map. But there really wasn’t anything to investigate, just an enormous wash of light green colour marking the forest. She continued to squint at it, wondering if she was going to spot something faintly named within the forest... sorry, the Forgotten Wilds, she corrected with slight derision.

  A wooden cage latched to the wall directly behind her held a thrush perched on a swing, preening his spotted chest with his little beak. He stilled for a moment, cocked his head and chirped. Nettle twisted around in her seat. She reached up and slid a finger through the cage to scratch his head. “Hey Willoughby, not long now,” she cooed.

  Nettle’s younger brother, Bramble, sat cross-legged on the couch reading his latest book on chess. Immersed in opening gambits, he’d barely looked away from the book in the last hour. He sat across from his cousin, Jasmine, who liked to be called Jazz. She was rapidly typing a reply to a text on her cell-phone. No doubt, judging by her smug expression, embroiled in slanderous gossip with one of her friends from Sister Miriam’s School for Girls - an elite boarding school her parents could no longer afford to send her to. The no-longer-affording part was something Jazz demanded her relatives never, ever, give away. Her friends had no need to ever know her family’s vast fortune had been stolen. Jazz, despite Nettle’s misgivings, was positive her parents would locate the accountant that absconded with all their money and by the end of the month she’d be reinstated back at Sister Miriam’s and out of her poor relatives moving home.

  At first, Nettle didn’t notice Bessie’s momentum slowing. When it finally registered, she turned from Willoughby, perplexed. “Are we here?”

  Her father had slowed the motor-home down to a crawl. To Nettle’s surprise, they were approaching a road that cut from the highway, over the marshland by way of a robust but basic wooden bridge, and headed directly into the Forgotten Wilds. The dirt road looked freshly constructed, as did the bridge. Whoever had created the road had simply smashed through the forest with utter recklessness and little concern for the resulting devastation. Much like a snow-plough, broken branches and entire trees had been felled and now littered either side of the road like mounds of rubbish. Nettle felt quite ill gazing at such thoughtless destruction.

  Bewildered, Fred scratched his head, his long wavy black hair ruffled slightly. He was well overdue for a haircut.

  “Dad?” Nettle prompted. She quickly searched the map, but as she well knew, there were no roads that led from the highway into the forest. Bessie moved slowly ahead, they were nearly adjacent to the road. Her father stared at the new dirt road leading into the forest. “Dad,” Nettle tried again. With no response Nettle jabbed his forearm with her finger.

  “Huh?” Fred near jumped, turning her way. He stared blankly for a moment, his gaze slipping past her, returning to the road.

  Ugh, Nettle mentally sighed, he can be such an absent minded professor. “Dad, where does it go?”

  Her father was silent for the longest time. She thought he’d forgotten and was just about to ask about the road again when he finally answered in a distant fashion, “I’m not sure...”

  A sudden noise erupted above the soft rumblings of Bessie’s engine: a shrill horn blasted, startling Jazz and the engrossed Bram.

  “What was that?” Bram queried adjusting his glasses in the same manner their father did. Nettle looked into her side mirror. Right behind them was an old fashioned school bus with dark windows. The cream coloured vehicle blasted its horn three more times. It sounded agitated and annoyed and wanted them gone.

  “What’s their problem?”
Jazz popped her shoulder with attitude as she adopted a scornful glower.

  “I guess we’re in their way,” said Fred distantly.

  Just as her father spoke, the bus’s engine roared. Its powerful motor rocked the vehicle from side to side. It gave one last long annoyed blast, then drove right by, cutting sharply in front of Bessie to turn off the highway and onto the mysterious road. Dust billowed beneath the tires; the bus wasn’t about to slow down for the dirt road and its numerous potholes.

  As the tour bus passed by, Nettle tried to see through the tinted windows. It was too dark. All she could make out were shapes of figures. The bus appeared to be completely full of passengers. Nettle took note of the logo on the side of the bus: Olde Town Tours. In smaller letters underneath, it read “Take a Vacation Back in Time.” The bus rolled over the bridge and into the Forgotten Wilds. Soon enough, it was gone from sight. Take a Vacation Back in Time? Maybe it’s one of those role-playing vacations, like those murder mystery dinners.

  Their curiosity satisfied, both Bram and Jazz went back to analyzing chess moves and sending snarky text messages.

  “Olde Town?” questioned Nettle. Despite her father’s natural olive hue, he had paled. He looked extraordinarily uncomfortable, taking Nettle by surprise. She was instantly worried. “Dad what’s wrong?”

  He hesitated in answering her. “It’s just... I don’t understand why anyone would be going to Olde Town.”

  Why would that bother him? It was just a tour bus.

  Fred carried on, “Olde Town was, and always has been, deserted.”

  “It’s a ruin?”

  “Kind of. Abandoned more like. I went there once, when I was a little older than you.” He grinned, and Nettle saw a flash of what her father would have looked like as a mischievous kid. “Boy did I get in trouble with your grandfather. He was furious to find me traipsing around in the Wilds.” Nettle wished she’d known her grandfather, but he’d died before she was born. Fred pointed down the mysterious road. “You can’t see it from here, but Olde Town was built on a hill. When I came upon the village, the homes were mostly built from stone, and quite a few had withstood the elements, even centuries later.” He tapped his finger against his bottom lip, his brow furrowed in thought. “I suppose with some work, they could easily be inhabitable once again.”

  Nettle’s curiosity was piqued. “What happened, why was it abandoned?”

  Her father shrugged, “I’m not exactly sure, I was never able to find out what happened from your grandfather. All I know is, something sinister occurred and the villagers started vanishing.”

  Nettle’s mouth had formed an impressed ‘O’. She looked to the road, dust hanging in the air. “Guess it’s not deserted anymore.”

  “No,” agreed Fred, with one final concerned glance at the dirt road, “It’s also not far from the cottage.”

  Nettle’s murky green eyes, the same shade as the swampy marshlands they travelled beside, lit up. “Really?” She scanned the road ahead, expecting to see some sort of neon road side sign flashing ‘Blackthorn Cottage This Way!’ Which was quite a ridiculous notion, as she realized she hadn’t spotted any sort of electricity pylons anywhere on the highway.

  Fred drove forward, leaving the new road to Olde Town behind him. He drove at a slower pace. Like his daughter, he was scanning the forest’s tree-line, not for a bridge and driveway as Nettle presumed she should be watching for, but a pair of hawthorn trees.

  “There,” he said triumphantly.

  “What?”

  “Right there!” Her father gave her a wide grin. He tossed over his shoulder, “Hold on everyone.” Fred took great glee in driving Bessie off the highway. The motor-home lurched as she rumbled over the embankment and into the marshland.

  Nettle shrieked, “Dad, what are you doing?!”

  “Whoa, way to go Dad!” yelled Bram, not caring that his chess pieces flew everywhere.

  Nettle gripped the edges of her seat, bracing herself with her feet jammed firmly against the dashboard. Bessie lumbered slowly onto the marshland guided by Fred who barely blinked, focused on the precarious navigation of the soft ground before him.

  The motor-home rocked from side to side as it moved over tussocks and reeds, dipping into the mud sucking recesses of the marshlands. Yet the trusty Bessie managed to weave across the marshland on a path obviously well known to her father, and safe enough to cross for such a huge and heavy vehicle.

  “Where are we going?” Nettle whispered, not because she didn’t want anyone to hear her ask, but because her breath was sucked from her with fright. At any moment, she was convinced they were going to get stuck and slowly sink into the quagmire.

  “There,” her father said. “Right into the Wilds.” Fred drove Bessie toward the pair of hawthorn trees. Nettle was jostled as Bessie’s tyres gripped a firm hold upon solid ground, the vehicle dragging herself from the soft sludgy marshland onto the hardened ground of the forest. Nettle sighed with a deep sense of relief to have survived the dangerous bog.

  As Fred turned the motor-home toward the Forgotten Wilds, Nettle wondered how the vehicle was going to get through the densely packed trees. She need not have worried, for a moment later Bessie passed between the pair of hawthorn trees, and as their prickly foliage scraped over the vehicle, it was almost as if the forest parted, granting them permission to enter its depths.

  Nettle realized they were actually on an overgrown driveway. Branches noisily scratched Bessie’s sides as they cut through the thick woodland on a winding avenue lined with a myriad of trees: alder, yew, birch, dogwood, elm and pine and so many, many more trees, scraggly, stunted, knotted, prickly, covered in lichen and dripping with creeping ivy. Mid-autumn had burned many leaves a variety of hues ranging between lemon, peach and gold, with the odd fire-red, stripping many, but not yet all of the deciduous trees their leaves. The canopy overhead arched over the driveway, allowing only a scattering of dull sunlight through.

  Despite Jazz’s protests, Nettle wound down her window and rested her chin upon folded arms. The persistent itch between her shoulder blades eased as cool damp air pinched her cheeks cold. She closed her eyes and drank in the pungent smell of moist rich earth and decadent decay. Insects noisily buzzed in the murky light while Bessie’s wheels crunched upon a deep layer of crisp dead leaves. It felt good to be surrounded by nature.

  A moment later, Nettle realized Bessie had come to a slow rolling halt half-way down the long bumpy driveway. Nettle pushed herself from the open window to give her father a quizzical look.

  Nettle’s eyes, framed by short thick eyelashes, flashed wide. “Dad? Are you OK?” Fred was staring ahead, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. Small beads of sweat had gathered at his hairline and he looked waxen and incredibly nervous.

  From behind, Bram poked his golden head out his window, scanning the driveway ahead. “Has Bessie broken down again Dad?”

  “Uncle Fred,” whined Jazz, still sitting in the dinette, completely absorbed with holding her cell-phone aloft at different angles, “I can’t get reception.”

  Fred turned to Nettle. Long dark locks of hair were plastered to his forehead. His haunted dark olive eyes unnerved her. She asked in a hushed voice, not wanting to worry Bram, “Dad what’s wrong?”

  Fred’s rough calloused fingers tightened around the steering wheel. His voice was a broken whisper. “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I shouldn’t have brought you back here.”

  Nettle was confused, why is he suddenly so afraid to be here? “You’ve done nothing but talk it up for the last two days. Bram’s excited to see the place. We can’t exactly turn around and leave now.”

  Fred’s gaze flitted back to the driveway. “Maybe we could… I could take you to my sisters. It wouldn’t be…”

  When Nettle heard the sadness and despair in his voice it finally made sense. Oh, she realised, he’s afraid to open the door and find the cottage
empty. For once, in regard to her mother, she felt a pang of heartache for her father.

  “Aunt Mae,” said Nettle, a little louder than anticipated, “is trying to track down the Accountant.”

  “Pardon?” interjected Jazz, overhearing her mother’s name.

  “Dad’s talking about taking us to your parents,” Nettle explained to her cousin. Nettle continued quietly so only her father could hear. “They can’t take us in Dad. They’re the ones who sent Jazz to us.”

  “The bankruptcy is temporary,” Jazz said, suddenly appearing right behind them. She glared at her younger cousin with a pout. “Daddy will find that crook of an accountant, we’ll get back our money, our home, and no-one need ever know about the bankruptcy. At least my friends believe I’m on a camping trip.”

  “But, you are on a camping trip.” Bram rolled his eyes at his older cousin. “Dad, you promised we’d come home,” he said, his voice betraying hurt and confusion.

  “Not under these circumstances,” Fred said quietly.

  “Oh, it’s supposed to be when Mum comes home? Not likely.” Ugh, she could of kicked herself, but it popped out without thought. Snide comments about her mother were always close at hand.

  Fred shot his daughter a sharp look. “What was that?” Nettle’s own expression began to match Jazz’s pout. Maybe being back here was going to be good for him. He needed to finally accept his wife had gone for good and she was never coming home. Nettle glared back at her father, her lips a tight line, refusing to answer.

  Jazz was the one who piped up. “She said -”

  Nettle lunged over the seat and pinched Jazz on the arm. “Ouch! Uncle Fred!” Jazz shrieked, leaping back rubbing her arm.

  “Nettle!” Fred gave his daughter a withering stare. His glasses slid down his nose. He pushed them back with a finger while waiting for his daughter’s apology.