Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters

by Winter Woodlark

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Nettle pulling a you’re-totally-bonkers face, and then wondered if antagonizing her cousin perhaps wasn’t the smartest thing to do.

  Jazz’s gaze narrowed and she let out a warble of outrage. She thumped the dinette with her hockey stick. WHOOOMP! “I am NOT BONKERS!” The bowls of porridge jumped and Bram’s wobbled dangerously near the table’s edge. “One of you has my gold earrings. The totally expensive gold earrings, I know you envied,” she ground out, waving her hockey stick at Nettle, who gave a little shirk of the shoulder. Jazz had oodles of jewellery. “The Egyptian pair my mother gave to me for Christmas!” Jazz clarified. Down came the hockey stick again - WHOOOMP!

  “I don’t even have pierced ears.” Nettle retorted, pulling back her hair to show Jazz. Really, how utterly mad is she?

  Jazz didn’t even care, she was on a rampage. She was fourteen, tall (just as tall as Nettle), and her lithe athletic body honed from hours of hockey practice could take her down, she knew, without any form of resistance. Probably with only her little pinky, Nettle supposed.

  “If one of you doesn’t own up and give them back to me, like immediately! I’m going to inflict some serious pain.” WHOOOMP! Bram’s plate of porridge crashed onto the floor.

  “Dad!” yelped Bram. “Jazz’s gone MENTAL!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Tarnished Bracelet

  When Fred leapt into Bessie, his heart racing from hearing the frantic yells of help from Bram, Nettle was dodging a wild swing from Jazz. Jazz, blustering, scarlet cheeks blowing from the exertion, swung again and missed. She smacked the ceiling, “AaaaarrrrggGHHHHH!!” she shrieked.

  “Hey, hey!” bellowed Fred.

  “Where is it!?” Jazz screeched, totally ignoring her uncle.

  “I haven’t taken anything,” Nettle cried skirting around the tiny dinette. Bram had holed himself up in the bathroom. “I don’t know where your stupid earrings are.”

  “Yes, you DO!” Jazz raised the hockey stick.

  Fred grabbed the hockey stick from behind. “Hey! Hey! What in blazes is going on?”

  Jazz immediately rounded on her uncle, wrenching it back from his grasp. She jabbed him in the stomach with the handle. “Uncle Fred my earrings went missing last night and one of those two,” pointing to Nettle and to the bathroom door, “took them.” Jazz’s ponytail, with its locks of strawberry and gold, switched like an antagonised cat’s tail.

  “Did not,” came from behind the bathroom door.

  “Did too,” replied Jazz childishly.

  “Did not,” answered Nettle just as immaturely and poked out her tongue at her crazed cousin. She turned to her father. “Come on Dad, how ludicrous is that? Why would we even bother?”

  “To annoy me,” answered Jazz, poking her own tongue out in return.

  The door to the bathroom slid open and Bram cautiously poked his head out. “Well, she does, kind of, have a point there.”

  “Uncle Fred, I heard them whispering in my bedroom last night. I thought I was dreaming,” she glared at Nettle, “until I woke up and found my suitcase rifled through.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” protested Nettle. “Bram and I were in my bedroom all night.”

  Bram leapt out of the bathroom, excited. “See, I told you so,” he said to Nettle. “Those talking rats must have taken them.”

  Jazz gave her little cousin an absurd look. “Talking rats?”

  Bram ignored her, continuing to address Nettle. “I heard them dragging something, metal-like, in the walls. It must have been the earrings.”

  “Talking rats, oh yeah… OK…” Jazz rolled her eyes. “That’s your cover story? Talking rats? I suppose they snuck in, opened my suitcase with their tiny little fingers and opposable thumbs, and decided my big dangling earrings brought out the sparkle in their beady little eyes, and they just had to have them?”

  Bram glowered, when Jazz said it like that, she had a point - it did sound completely ridiculous. He adjusted his glasses, clearly uncomfortable, and made a little pfft-ing noise.

  “Talking rats?” inquired Fred, his voice a little thin and papery. He had stilled and was trying very hard to appear casual. He thought nobody noticed, but Nettle did. Curiously, she observed, how intently her father was trying not to stare at Bram, not even daring to breath, awaiting his son’s response. And whatever Bram’s reply was going to be, meant something significant. But just what?

  “I heard them last night in the walls.” Bram answered, deciding to brave Jazz’s ire. “I thought, at first, they were just normal rats, but I swear,” his big blue eyes imploring his father to believe him, “I heard one of them say they were lost.”

  “Uncle Fred!” shrieked Jazz. “Don’t say you believe him?”

  “Jazz,” Fred growled. “Calm down.”

  Jazz clamped her lips together looking like she was about to explode, but adhered to her uncle’s command.

  Nettle heard the long expel of breath he’d been holding, the almost unperceivable shake of his head, and the slight flare of his eyelids. This wasn’t the news he’d hoped to hear from Bram. But surely, he doesn’t believe in talking rats?

  Though his gaze rested thoughtfully on Bram, Nettle could see her father’s mind was elsewhere. After a long moment, her father spoke. “Now, there’s an easy way to learn the truth.” He turned to his daughter and son and fixed them with a baleful stare. “Did you take Jazz’s earrings?”

  Bram shook his head.

  “No, of course not,” answered Nettle, her lips puckered with annoyance. Jazz was bothersome to be sure, but she wouldn’t steal something, just to irritate her. No, there were more creative ways to infuriate her older cousin. And maybe, tonight, she might ponder one or two.

  “Well then,” Fred said turning to Jazz with a light smile, relieved to have solved the mystery. “Your earrings must be lost, or for the moment misplaced.”

  Jazz’s mouth gaped with injustice. “But-”

  “But nothing, Jazz,” interrupted Fred. He stared hard at his young niece. “I’m sure your earrings will turn up soon. Maybe, as soon as you tidy your things.”

  “I-” began Jazz, but found herself interrupted by her uncle once more.

  “Now, the three of you are going to spend the day cleaning the cottage, OK?” Fred’s stern expression brook no argument. All three of the children nodded, Jazz in particular, resentfully. “OK, alright then… I’ll be outside, working in the yard.”

  Fred left Bessie, but before he closed the door, he re-entered, took Jazz’s hockey stick from her and warned the three kids, “And no arguing.”

  The trio waited until they saw Fred disappearing around the cottage before breaking into a heated argument.

  “One of you took them!” Jazz hissed.

  “Did not!” yelled Bram.

  “We wouldn’t touch anything of yours, you jerk!” retorted Nettle.

  Jazz fell quiet.

  In Nettle’s opinion Jazz was the complete opposite to herself in looks. While she considered herself dull and quite ordinary, Jazz, with her beautiful almond shaped eyes an exquisite shade of cornflower blue, pert nose and full apple cheeks within a well proportioned face, was stunning. Her pale skin had just enough of a hint of warmth she didn’t freckle. Even now, with her face screwed up, blotchy with outrage, she was still pretty.

  It began to unnerve Nettle how still her cousin stood, her gaze narrowing on something… on her. Nettle shifted uneasily, her cousin stared like a predator, following every slight movement. “Jazz?”

  Jazz’s hands were on her hips, rosy lips drawing into a smug smile. “I want compensation.”

  “Huh?” said Bram and Nettle together.

  Jazz pointed to the bracelet around Nettle’s wrist. The simple bracelet was crafted from three thin bands of silver with tiny thorns, twisting around each other like blackberry briars.

  Jazz stepped forward, reaching for Nettle’s hand. “Give me that.”

  Ne
ttle’s brow furrowed and she involuntarily stepped away cradling her wrist protectively. The bracelet was obviously inferior to the stolen earrings, but Jazz wanted it anyway. “No. I wouldn’t give it to you even if I could. Dad and Mum gave me this when I was born. Besides, I can’t even get it off my wrist, it fits too snugly.”

  Jazz drew short, eyeing her cousin with a beady glare. “What do you mean, you got that when you were just born? How stupid do you think I am.”

  No, not stupid, Nettle thought, insensitive, spoilt, callous… she could go on and on, but not stupid.

  “Do you really expect me, to believe, you were able to wear that bracelet when you were a tiny little baby? It was either far too big for you to wear then, or it’s far too small for you to wear now. You’re like twelve.”

  “Thirteen, next week,” Nettle jousted petulantly. It was a stupid comeback, she knew, but she refused to let her cousin know she’d hit a mark. The bracelet had always been there, on her wrist, an unconscious extension of herself.

  Jazz heaved an annoyed sigh. “Never mind, keep the stupid thing. It’s obviously not real silver.” She flounced off. But before she left Bessie, she turned to give Nettle a malevolent glare. “You better pray my earrings turn up. Both of you.”

  Nettle held up her hand, the bracelet slid slightly down her forearm. What did she mean, not real silver? It’d certainly always looked silver to her. Her thick brows rose in surprise. Jazz was right, the metal bands were tarnished leaving a blackened stain on her wrist. But what’s more, the bracelet was corroding and a thin layer of metal was beginning to chip and flake.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A Circle of Boulders

  Jazz had left them with a bit tidying up to do after her rampage. She really is a spoilt brat, Nettle thought, but at least she’s not sticking around to annoy us. Bram cleaned the spilt porridge from the floor. He looked forlornly at his empty bowl and his stomach rumbled in commiseration. Nettle tossed him a spoon, offering half of her porridge. “Thanks,” he grinned gratefully, tucking in.

  As Nettle washed the breakfast dishes she held her hand aloft. Soapy suds reflected mauve and lavender on their surface as she allowed a cluster of bubbles to dangle from her fingers, forming crude stalactites. As the bubbles gently elongated to drop and burst upon the countertop, she smiled in delight. Her smile slowly faded. She looked sideways at Bram. He was busy munching on a nut bar, still hungry after the porridge, and fidgeting with his spoon, clinking it upon the dinette’s table-top.

  She had to know, “So, these rats..?”

  Bram stopped tapping the spoon, but didn’t look up at her either. “The rats took Jazz’s stupid earrings, they must of. I know it sounds crazy, but I know what I heard.” He hunched down, frowning. “They were in the walls, dragging something, and then I’m sure one of them says something like, “we’re lost.” Then there was some sort of scrap and a whole lot of squealing.” He shrugged. “I couldn’t make out anything else, I just ran.”

  Nettle didn’t know what to make of it all. Bram was adamant, and it seemed her father believed him. As to how disturbed her father was to hear about the talking rats, she wasn’t completely sure. It felt to her, at the time, that it was a relief of sorts for Fred to know of the rats, one way or the other.

  “Do you believe me?” Bram stared at her behind thick lenses, looking at her with his big round eyes, needing her to.

  “Dad believes you.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah.” But what about me? She certainly didn’t give any credence to talking rats - how preposterous. But Bram was certain of what he’d heard. Finally, she gave a decisive nod. “I believe you heard something… odd.” Though it wasn’t exactly an admission of belief, it was enough for Bram. He broke into a sunny smile. Nettle continued, “But, I wonder… why does Dad believe you? Talking rats aren’t exactly commonplace.” In fact, they don’t even exist, she added to herself. Nettle let the dishwater out of the sink. The water swirled and burbled as it ran down the hole. She gave a slight shrug of a shoulder. “Oh well, we’ve plenty of time to figure that out.” She turned to swoop up the jar of worms, thankfully unharmed from Jazz’s berserk attack. “In the meantime, we’d better find Willoughby. He must be starving”.

  The siblings reached the front porch and found the birdcage hanging from a rusty hook, swaying in the crisp morning breeze. The cage was empty.

  “Where do you think he is?” Bram’s bottom lip wobbled. “You don’t think he’s…”

  “No,” Nettle said quickly, knowing exactly where her little brother’s thoughts had gone. “Willoughby isn’t dead. Dad’s probably found him a brand new birdcage, bigger than this.” Bram looked doubtful. “Come on,” she urged, guiding him toward the front door. “You get started on the kitchen, I’ll find Dad, then Willoughby.”

  Bram went inside and Nettle headed toward the backyard, skirting the outside of the cottage. In truth, it was the perfect excuse to explore the yard and perhaps if she wasn’t caught, do a little foraging in the fringes of the forest. She waded through the wet grass and tussock, her boots kept her calves warm and dry, heading toward the periphery of the forest. Saplings of pine and hazel and pittosporum encroached upon the yard as the Wilds sought to expand upon the cottage’s grounds.

  Nettle took her time creeping beside the border of the forest which hugged the west side of the ivy clad cottage. Her keen hearing disentangled the sounds of birds, creaking branches and rustling of dead leaves, to hone in on a bubbling noise, a brook. If she remembered correctly, further north was a large stream that forked, and the two ensuing brooks encircled the entire property before rejoining to flow out into the marshlands. Her father had improved the cottage, not quite modernized it with electricity, but amongst other refinements, he’d created an aqueduct system which used gravity to feed the cottage fresh water from the brook.

  There was something else about the brook, something other than providing them with running water… the thought was slippery, fragmented and it niggled and nipped at her. The brook was important for another reason entirely, but for the moment, she couldn’t quite remember why.

  She’d reached the corner of the cottage where a great oak with red tinged leaves held in its majestic boughs an old tree hut. Nettle approached, the smile on her lips growing wider as she ducked beneath the oak’s foliage, to press herself against the tree. She briefly closed her eyes and gently rubbed her cheek against the rough bark of the grey trunk, soaking up the familiar smell of faint smoke.

  An old rope ladder was dangling from a branch. Nettle reached out to pull it closer. The rope, now frayed and dried with age, was used to gain entrance to her own private little tree house, a basic construction spanning the breadth of several low branches. Over the years, the elements had rusted nails and rotted boards from the little hut, so its lichen-studded walls had gaps and the roof had collapsed upon itself.

  Nettle’s smile grew broader as a long-forgotten memory flitted through her mind. She was almost six, helping her father build the tree hut while her mother sat in a swing below, cradling Bram as he gurgled and burbled nonsense. She carefully handed her father a nail from the pail sitting in her lap, his warm worn fingers, brushing against hers, just as an abrupt noise from baby Bram captured her attention. He’d laughed in his babyish way, a gurgling gummy grin of spittle. She’d glanced below, and for a brief moment, Briar turned to smile up at her, sharing her delight. Brilliant sunlight struck Briar’s hair bouncing off the masses of messy golden hair surrounding her slight frame; hair so long, it cascaded over her shoulders down to her waist. Briar never wore her hair up, nor braided it. It was always long and loose, an extension of herself, like another pair of arms for cuddling. The intense halo of bright light hid her mother’s features behind a blinding shimmer of white, all except her extraordinarily wide mouth, smiling up at her.

  Nettle broke from her reverie with a start. What’s wrong with me?

  She felt sick with want, a sad longing for the sense of loss
. It more than confused her, it angered her. She should detest her mother, yet… I want her back…

  She lurched away from the old oak, refusing to look back at the tree hut and pushed forward into the backyard. Everything connected with this house was connected to her mother. How am I supposed to deal with something like that? She wanted to shirk off the remnants of her mother’s memory, slough it off like dead skin… but another part of her, a smaller part with a tiny voice straining to be heard, refused to let go. Like the bubbling brook encircling the property, it niggled at her, forcing her to confront the memories she so easily suppressed in Bessie, out on the open road, far, far away from Blackthorn Cottage.

  She let out a low growl of annoyance and pushed into the shadowy outskirts of the Forgotten Wilds, keeping low. Briar doesn’t deserve any more of my time. She was the one who left us. She didn’t want us!

  The backyard was large and, like the rest of the property, thigh-high with weeds and tussock grasses. The vegetable patch had gone wild and broken free from the neat little wooden fence her father had erected to keep the roaming chickens out. This morning, she’d awoken to roosters crowing and the clucking of hens. They were somewhere close, hidden in the depth of the grass as they scratched for bugs. She wondered if they were the off-spring of Hetty Hen and her gang of Marsh Daisy’s.

  She could see her father labouring away near the old stone well. The well had been sealed up with wooden planks, no longer needed since the invention of her father’s aqueduct system. Nettle’s left eyebrow arched, along with the corner of her mouth, pulling into a smirk as she witnessed her father’s peculiar behaviour. What is he up to now?

  He was levering something out of the long grass. Whatever it was, it had to be large and heavy as he was using a crowbar. She heard him talking, so low she couldn’t make out what he was saying, but instantly recognized his angry tone. He stepped back gasping for breath, then bent over stretching his back. Whatever it was, he was giving it a thorough telling off, glaring and poking his crowbar about. He even paused to lean forward in a manner that suggested he was listening before erupting into another angry tirade, waving the crowbar above his head.