Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters

by Winter Woodlark

  Just before she reached the plateau, chatter and song and smells of freshly baked bread assaulted her senses. The plateau had a series of attached houses, now converted into a small row of stores. The buildings were three stories high. While the lower level was hewn from stone, the second and third stories were wooden additions with newly painted whitewashed walls and exposed black beams, their peaked shingled roofs sporting awkward chimneys. Bram, Nettle thought with a twinge of guilt at leaving him behind, would know exactly what period the village architecture was from. Tudor perhaps? Nettle didn’t really have a clue.

  In front of the stores was a wide courtyard paved in cobblestones with plenty of room for the visiting tourists to mill about. There were performers – jesters, jugglers, and three gentleman playing a sprightly melody on pan-flutes and reed pipes weaved through the crowds, while a young woman in a simple linen dress and mop hat sold bags of roasted walnuts drizzled with salted caramel.

  The stores bustling with trade, had lattice bay windows and colourful doors lacquered in ocean blues cast open wide. Above each store a wooden placard announced their name: Whitemoth Haberdashery, Penny Pincher Ironworks and Droogan’s Bits and Bobs.

  Like the group of tourists she tagged behind, Nettle gaped, charmed by the old-worldliness of the village. Mr. Fussbinder led them onwards, urging with barely concealed impatience to quicken their pace and not lag behind. Nettle had only half listened to Mr. Fussbinder as he dropped tit-bits of information as they climbed higher and higher, retaining only that the village had been built many centuries ago, founded by a Thomas Cornelius.

  A little further up the path, Nettle found it thick with sightseers and noisy with chatter. Many of them milled about a viewing platform, which jutted out from the path, taking snapshots of the Wilds. A flock of black birds took flight from the tree top of a tall silver birch, wheeling about the sky, darting this way and that, before disappearing from sight. Magnificent, Nettle thought and wished she’d brought her camera. A moment later, she realized the tour group was gone. Oh well, I guess it’s time to get to work. Here will do, as any other.

  Nettle shrugged out of her jacket and tied it around her waist. The higher they climbed, the gentler the breeze. It was even beginning to feel warmer, a little summery, as if Olde Town had its own particular climate compared to the rest of the Forgotten Wilds. The path was also becoming more populated. Tourists, no matter how old or young, all delighted in exploring the cobblestone path with its quaint businesses and amazing views of the Forgotten Wilds.

  Nettle found Olde Town was built on a series of levels. Each business was uniquely named and owned by equally intriguing owners, attired in brocade dresses with full skirts and tight bodices, gentleman in velvet coats and three cornered hats or soft linen shirts and waistcoats, others walked the path selling wares or sat strumming harps and beating drums. Entertainment was rife. There were cries from sellers, or jesters eliciting laughter, solo singers, quartets, play-actors, dancers, stilt-walkers and men who threw fire-sticks. All very noisy, but in a good way. It was comforting to hear the chatter of tourists, children in the midst of laughter or their parents soothing a tantrum. There were in fact many families, but very few elderly amongst the tourists. She supposed the climb up the hill would be too much for old people.

  On this particular level, perhaps half-way up the hill, a rugged gentleman with a salt and peppered beard plucked at a lute outside the Spotted Pig Tavern. He sang a lament for a girl who’d lost her love to the Black Widow and was desperate to join him. A Punch and Judy puppetry show had a group of children seated on velvet cushions, enthralled.

  Beside the tavern was Quidfinger’s Pastries, the smells coming from it made her stomach grumble, urging her inward. Nettle couldn’t decide on a pastry from the many peculiar pies, until the woman with a ruffled blouse and massive bosom picked one for her. “Porcupine,” she grinned as she handed over the pie. Nettle started a little and the older woman winked. “Trust me, tastes just like chicken.”

  The pie’s top had quills punched through the pastry. Nettle took a tentative bite and crunched through a golden spike. She smiled with relief, tastes like salty crackers. She took a seat on a small wooden bench with ivy crawling between the wooden slates, to while away the morning people watching. Salivating at the delicious smell coming from the piping hot pie, she sunk her teeth through the crusty homemade pastry and delighted in the gloriously meaty filling bursting with onion and potato. The pie-seller was right, it does taste like chicken. Nettle greedily tucked in, enjoying the warmth spreading through her tummy.

  Right, down to business. There were the obvious tourists with their cameras and backpacks and brightly coloured jackets. Nettle immediately crossed them off the list, along with the town-folk woman, easily identified since everyone was in costume, and were evidently in relationships, with wedding rings on their fingers. Some were just too old, some too young, and some had an air about them Nettle didn’t care for.

  She ran through the list of qualities she thought a good wife would have, ticking them against her fingers coated in little flakes of pastry. Trustworthy, loyal, emotionally stable, have similar interests, be respectful, a good communicator, definitely needs a sense of humour, financially secure, and most importantly, likes kids, in particular, them. The bottom line was, if Dad was happy, they’d be happy. However, she soon realized it was going to be hard to discover if any potential wife had any of these qualities without being able to enter a conversation with her. She resorted to simply start by looking for someone around her father’s age, who she liked the look of.

  As she strolled up and down the hill for the umpteenth time, the sun now sliding down into early afternoon, Nettle had only two possible candidates. A tall angular lady with russet skin and a crooked smile who cut hair at Barber Tuttlebee’s, and a rather fast-paced walker who lithely skipped up and down the cobblestone steps, transporting goods from various shops. Right now, she was carrying a box of gloriously red apples and Nettle was in pursuit. She liked the look of the woman’s slanted hazel eyes and wide mouth set in a determined fashion. She looked like she had a job to do and she wasn’t going to let anyone get in her way. Dependable, thought Nettle. A quality her father definitely required in a partner, and certainly one she and Bram needed in a new mother. She mentally added dependable to the ever-increasing list of Good Wife Qualities.

  Nettle wove around a family with several loud and boisterous boys, trying to keep up with the woman. She managed to catch a glimpse of her as she ducked behind the back of the attached stores, presumably delivering her goods through the back door of one of them… but which one?

  Nettle stopped to consider if the woman had entered either Saintsberry’s Bakery or Goodmire Grocers, when suddenly, someone, with great force, knocked into her.

  She felt her feet give way beneath her and threw her hands forward trying to aid her landing. She had little time to do anything else but let loose a warbling wail. Her shoulder made horrid cracking contact upon the sharp edged stone as she skidded awkwardly down a couple of steps. “Ooooo,” she groaned, gingerly pushing herself to her knees. Tears pricked her muddy-green eyes. What happened? Who did that? The palms of her hands stung, escalating to a burning throb, as the rough cobbles had grazed her hands and elbows, while a jarring ache shot through her shoulder, along with her right hip and kneecap.

  “Well, that was simply ridiculous,” came a male voice from the side. “And, might I add, quite inconvenient.”

  Nettle, glanced upward to find a rather irritated boy towering over her. He looked to be a year or two older, with shaggy blonde hair and wide set eyes. His features were incredibly striking, even if his nose appeared to have been broken, perhaps more than once, judging by the crooked bridge.

  “Huh?” Was all she could utter.

  “You should really look where you’re going.” His tone wasn’t pleasant and he didn’t even offer to help her to her feet. In fact no-one was, everyone was simply walking around her. “It
was rather rude of you to bump into me. I could have torn my jacket further.”

  He was wearing a velvet jacket of midnight blue, patched in several places with small patterned fabric, sewn into place with golden wool, the same colour as his bootlaces. He busily inspected an arm to see if it had been ripped, before opening his black messenger bag to look inside. He sent her a haughty look. “You’re lucky, nothing’s broken.”

  Nettle sluggishly shook her head. What is wrong with me? He’s the one who ploughed into me. “Me, bump into you?”

  The boy cocked a thick eyebrow disdainfully her way. “That is what I said.” He heaved an aggravated sigh and impatiently tapped a foot. “I rather expected an apology by now.”

  Nettle was at a loss for words and instead concentrated on looking at the many different shoes marching up and down the path around her, using the time to come up with some sort of stinging retort. “Well,” she began lamely, and glanced back up to discover he was no longer there. He’d left. “Well, how rude.”

  “Are you all right?” A soft girlish voice asked. Nettle discovered a pair of slender legs and tiny feet sheathed in red and white striped stockings tucked into antique silver buckled shoes now stood before her. She looked up and found herself dazedly blinking into the face of an enchanting woman with a heart shaped face and peaches and cream complexion.

  “I’m OK, just some oaf knocked me over,” Nettle replied, her voice barely a whisper, giving what she hoped was a slight nonchalant shrug. Pain ripped through her shoulder, morphing her smile into a grimace.

  The woman’s almond shaped eyes, a sparkling shade of sapphire and framed by thick red lashes, looked upon her in commiseration as she leaned down offering a slender hand. “Oh, you poor thing. Here let me help.”

  Nettle’s cheeks flushed a rosy hue. “Oh no, I’ll bleed all over you and ruin your pretty dress.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said and crouched down to gently take Nettle’s hand in her own. Nettle winced at the sight of her bloodied palm, the flesh gouged and studded with stone. Blood had dripped down her wrist and stained her sleeve a muddied red.

  “Why don’t you come with me? I’ll tend to those wounds.”

  Nettle was about to protest further when the woman swiftly hauled her to her feet. There was an incredible strength in the woman’s grip that completely belied her petite frame. She was only slightly taller than Nettle, and her red hair, not coppery like Jazz’s but a pretty strawberry blonde, tied loosely in a low side-ponytail of waves, curled over a shoulder. A silver ribbon was tied around her long slender neck, and she was wearing some sort of old fashioned dress of black taffeta.

  Nettle wondered which of the businesses she tended.

  “I’m Claudine Balfrey,” the woman said smiling warmly.

  “Nettle Blackthorn,” she replied, her own thin lips drawn tightly together in a clumsy smile.

  “Follow me then, Miss Blackthorn.”

  Nettle found her voice had left her, she could only nod, entranced with the woman before her.

  Claudine led the way, guiding her through the thick throng of visitors up the winding path. Wherever she walked the crowd parted to allow her through. Everyone deferred to her, villagers as well as tourists. Nettle caught a glimpse of Claudine briskly nodding to one of the town-folk as they passed. She was surprise to see everyone from the village automatically stop what they were doing to turn and stare at them as they made their way up the hill.

  A slow grin spread across her face and she wiggled her eyebrows, she must be very important. Claudine was certainly someone she wanted to get to know better, and in turn, she had high hopes for her father liking Miss Claudine, very much.

  They were perhaps two thirds the way up the hill, the landscape below a magnificent stretch of autumnal hues, with a river cutting through the Wilds, when Nettle took the opportunity to pry. “My father said Olde Town had been abandoned for centuries.”

  Claudine’s slim eyebrows arched as she eyed Nettle keenly. “Your father’s well informed. Yes, that’s true. Judging by the state of the village when we came across it, it certainly had been derelict for a very long time.” She further divulged, upon seeing Nettle’s curious glance at the implication she hadn’t been travelling alone. “My two younger sisters and I stumbled upon Olde Town some years back, while hiking through the forest.”

  Nettle tried hard to keep the grin from growing wider. She does sound adventurous. Dad will like that.

  “We couldn’t resist its charm.” She leaned close with a conspirator whisper, “And the splendour of the forest just wouldn’t allow us to rest until we came up with an idea how to utilize the village.” Claudine smelt of freshly opened roses and nutmeg. Nettle couldn’t help but wonder with a sinking feeling, if she in turn, stunk of B.O. and cleaning products. “We just couldn’t let this place go. It cried out for some love and affection. We wanted to do something different, without changing it too drastically. Whatever it was, it needed to be sympathetic to the buildings that were already here and to the environment and surroundings. None of that clinical modern minimalism that is so popular these days.” She tisked with a puckered frown.

  “So you came up with Olde Town Tours?” Claudine nodded, her hair bouncing enthusiastically over her shoulder. “So Olde Town is all yours?” Nettle gaped in wonderment. This was amazing, Claudine was beginning to sound too good to be true.

  “Yes it is. We dreamt up this entire operation, to provide a unique type of holiday for those wanting a bit of old-fashioned worldliness. Which I assume, drew you and your family to us.” Nettle startled, she thinks we’re part of the tours... But before she could correct her, Claudine had carried on. “And people can’t get enough of us. All our tours are fully booked out. Every single one.”

  From what she’d seen already Olde Town seemed a huge operation. “How does it work? Are you in charge of every single business?”

  “Oh no, certainly not.” She gave Nettle a horrified glance. “Oh my, that would be far too much work. My sisters and I collected a small group of like-minded individuals. We moved in and rebuilt the village. It took a while, the houses were in quite a state, but we got there eventually, and now look what we have.”

  “It’s amazing,” breathed Nettle in awe.

  “Thank you, we feel the same way.”

  A large group of tourists snapped pictures of one another in front of the stone-frontage of Calliope’s Bed and Breakfast, with its pretty blue striped awnings and window boxes spilling over with wild flowers.

  She guided Nettle forward again and they moved up the next flight of steps and around a long gentle curve bordered by a thick hedge of privet. “Everyone within the group heads their own business. We needed to create a working village with enough accommodation to house everyone and entertainment to amuse our guests. Just like everyone else, my sisters and I set up our very own business. However my role is slightly different and terribly demanding.”

  “How so?”

  “Olde Town has a committee which I am Chairperson of. We have weekly meetings to decide upon important matters to do with the running of the village and the tours, amongst other things. Just the same as any other town or village.”

  “So, you mean, you’re the Mayor of Olde Town?

  Claudine gave Nettle a sidelong glance. “I’ve never thought of it like that, but yes, I suppose I am.”

  The mayor. I do like the sound of that. Very much.

  “Which of the businesses do you and your sisters run?”

  “Oh, you’ll see,” Claudine winked cheekily. She led Nettle through another cobblestoned plateau, weaving their way past jugglers and a maid giving out toffee apples to the children watching folk-dancing performed on a little stage set up in front of Footless Cobblers, O’Grady’s Book Store - with an interesting window of old dusty tomes - and Buckleberry Tailors; up another flight of steps hedged by pungent rosemary, until Claudine led her to a single business taking up residence in the attached buildings. Claudine stopped and p
roudly presented it to Nettle with a flourish of her hand, “Well, this is it. Our little abode.”

  A series of steps led from the cobblestone path up to a large patio edged with enormous stone pots sporting buxus, trimmed into neat conical shapes. The patio bustled with conversation and clinking cutlery as customers dined at wrought-iron tables laid with crisp white linen beneath lemon and cream striped umbrellas, sipping tea and nibbling on delicate pastries.

  Large French doors opened up the middle building, with a latticed bay window on one side where further customers sat at their tables inside, a few drinking from goblets spilling over with a strange green mist.

  To the left, was a smaller door lacquered a bright canary yellow, and propped open with a small sandwich sign stating ‘Beauty Products and Delightful Confectionary.’ The very right hand door was painted the same cheerful yellow, with a lemon and cream striped awning above. A delicious smell of heavenly chocolate wafted through. A large wooden sign hung from a wrought iron post. Pretty flowers edged the sign and the name carved into the sandy beech wood read - Three Wicked Sisters’ Tea House.

  “Is this yours?” Nettle asked, blinking wondrously. She stared at the stone building, the only one in the village with the two upper stories also built of stone, with an honest expression revealing her astonishment and admiration and delight.

  Claudine nodded, pleased with Nettle’s reaction. She linked her arm around the girl’s. “Come on in and meet my sisters.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A Forgotten Promise

  Jazz flatly refused to believe that the rat was anything else but a rat. “Don’t be ridiculous, it’s a rat!” she cried, pointing at the creature. The little brown critter cowered in the centre of the cage, which Bram had perched on the edge of Jazz’s messy bed.