Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters

by Winter Woodlark

  Bram turned on his cousin, throwing up his arms. He just could not believe how thick-headed his cousin could be. “Are you blind? Seriously, Jazz, do you need glasses?”

  “Of course I don’t need glasses,” spluttered Jazz. She scowled, her lips pursed into a sneer. “Perhaps you do, you little idiot.”

  Bram gritted his teeth, wiggling his glasses at her in an obvious manner. Jazz’s scowl faltered. He jabbed a finger at the cage. “Can’t you see that it’s wearing your earrings as a breastplate? It’s even got an eye-patch! What kind of rat wears an eye-patch?!”

  “How would I know?” Jazz pouted. “It could be someone’s pet?” She popped her shoulder with attitude. “Some people like to dress up their pets, you know.”

  Bram shook his head in bafflement. It was no use arguing with Jazz, she was a blockhead. “At least, now you know, we didn’t take your earrings.”

  Jazz glared at her little cousin. “How do I know you didn’t steal them and put it on that thing?”

  For the moment, Jazz had completely forgotten about her hair, until she absentmindedly raked her hands through her locks, or rather the stubble that remained after being hacked off by the so called rat. She pulled at the ragged clumps of hair on her head, with knuckles clenched into claws. “My hair!! My glorious HAIR!” She rounded on her younger cousin. “You did this!”

  Bram shook his head in protest. His usual golden complexion drained away to a pale sickly grey. He gulped, his voice papery thin. “No, it wasn’t me, honest. It was the-”

  “Rats?!” Jazz near shrieked, finishing off his sentence. “What’s going on in that empty little head of yours? Are you seriously hoping to convince me that, that rat,” she jabbed a dangerous finger at the little creature in the cage, “used its tiny little paws to cut my hair with a pair of scissors?!” Blotches of scarlet had stained her cheeks and her nostrils flared. Her feral stare took on a distant gaze.

  Bram shuffled back a few steps and timidly nodded.

  Jazz’s breathing turned ragged. She snorted before expelling a loud screech, “AAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEE!!”

  Jazz, wild eyed, stalked Bram. Her hands reached out as if to strangle him. Bram found himself trapped in the corner of his bedroom. “Come on Jazz, I had nothing to do with it.” He crossed his arms before him, trying to protect himself. She wouldn’t hurt me… would she? “Jazz..?” he wailed, flinching away from those claw like fingers. Jazz froze, her fingers inches from Bram’s vulnerable neck. Bram watched an erratic tick twitch just below her left eye as she slowly drew back her hands. The furious slash of scarlet faded from her taut cheeks and her rigid mouth relaxed as she squeezed her eyes shut.

  Bram waited, breath held.

  It was a long, long moment until Jazz opened her eyes. A strange sort of expression had entered her gaze. It was like a snake that was biding its time to strike. A fake smile curled Jazz’s lips and her voice was calm and sickly sweet. She playfully ruffled the hair on his head. “You know what, I’m going for a run.”

  A shiver ran down Bram’s spine. This Jazz frightened him far more than the Jazz that looked set to implode and take him with her.

  Jazz strode out the back door dressed in a pair of running shorts and tee-shirt. She had a bundle of rage to burn off and wasn’t really thinking where she should run, only that her cousins were going to pay dearly for what they’d done. Sure Nettle hadn’t been witnessed at the scene of the crime, but she had to be behind it. She’s such a spiteful cow!

  Jazz marched right past her uncle, fast asleep on the swing-chair. She rolled her eyes. Uncle Fred hadn’t exactly been reliable when it came to punishing the wrong-doings of his children. He was completely biased where they were concerned, and this time round she expected much the same. How her parents thought it was OK to leave her here, with these idiot relations, she’d never understand. In fact, her parents decision was bordering on negligence.

  Jazz, lost in thoughts of revenge and injustice, and how long she thought it was going to take to grow her hair back to any sort of acceptable length, moved on autopilot. She started to awkwardly jog through the tall grass, heading for the path that cut through the forest, not at all remembering to heed her uncle’s warning. At the edge of the tree-line she picked up her speed and ran right into the dim light of the Forgotten Wilds, not hearing her cousin yelling at her to stop.

  Bram hung out his bedroom window bellowing as loud as he could, “Jazz, stop! Don’t go in there! STOP!” He cupped his hands around his mouth like a megaphone, hoping to improve his volume. “DAD SAID, NOT TO GO INTO THE WILDS!”

  Bram watched his cousin disappear beneath the thick foliage of the woodland. Oh well, he thought, with a little nonchalant shrug and pushed himself back into Jazz’s bedroom, I did at least try to stop her.

  He flopped onto the bed, cradled his chin on crossed arms and shrewdly eyed the little critter in the cage. “Well then, you might as well tell me your name. I think we both know you’re not a rat.”

  The creature that Bram was positive wasn’t a rat, glared back at him with beady black eyes. It didn’t say anything, but it did twitch its fat lips as if it was on the cusp of replying, when a series of loud thumping noises came from down the hallway. It sounded like someone was bounding up the staircase three steps at a time.

  Jazz’s bedroom door crashed open. Fred, puffy eyed, stomped in. He had crease marks on one side of his face from sleeping face-down on the swing-chair and his glasses were perched precariously on his nose. Dread read all over his father’s expression.

  Bram sat up in panic. “Dad?”

  “I heard you yelling at Jazz. Where has she gone?” Fred’s words ran into one another, as he always seemed to do when he was excited, or in this case, frantic.

  “She ran into the Wilds. I tried to stop her. She wasn’t listening!”

  Fred groaned. Clasping his head between his hands, he crumpled onto the bed beside his son. “The Wilds?” It was almost a whisper. This time yelling in frustration. “The Wilds!” He thumped his thigh with a fist. “Damn it!”

  Bram slid from the bed to his feet. He worriedly glanced out the window to the foreboding forest wall. “I didn’t tell her to, she just ran off. I think she’s mad because all her hair got cut off.”

  “What?” Fred rapidly blinked, shaking his head with confusion. That’s when he saw the cage and the creature in it. Fred pointed with a quivering finger, his green eyes flitting wide. “What is that?!” Then not waiting for an answer, leapt to his feet. “You know what? That, and you, and whatever you meant about Jazz’s hair, can wait for later. I’ve got to stop her!”

  Fred ran out of the room. He reappeared a moment later. “Stay here with your sister, don’t leave or follow me. OK?”

  Bram gulped and nodded. When his father had left, he remembered he’d forgotten to tell his Dad that Nettle wasn’t here.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Three Wicked Sisters’ Tea House

  Nettle stood near the entrance to the Three Wicked Sisters’ Tea House, frozen in wonderment. Inside the tea house there was a gloriously busy hum as patrons enjoyed each other’s company, delighting in the various exotic teas and equally inspired savouries and sweet-treats. While the majority of tables were filled with vacationers, a few near the bay-window had small gatherings of men and women who had to be part of the Olde Town experience. Dressed in colourful outfits, they were enjoying a break from their duties to unwind and catch up with one another over afternoon tea.

  The old wooden floors were rubbed with oil and stiletto dented. Spider webs made from crystals and gems hung from the ceiling’s exposed wooden beams, sending shimmering light about the dining room, and the whitewashed stone walls were the perfect backdrop for ink sketches and wrought iron sconces as well as witchcraft paraphernalia such as broomsticks and wands and vials of brightly coloured potions.

  A massive black cauldron sat on a bed of hot coals within a stone fireplace, bubbling and spitting, and a black cat curled up in a wicker basket on t
he hearth, purred in contentment. The intoxicating smell spilling over the rim of the caldron was what wafted out through the French doors and reached as far as the cobblestone path. It had brought Nettle and countless other patrons inside wondering what could make such a delicious smell. She closed her eyes and drew in the fragrance. It changed from rich dark chocolate, to honey, to strawberries and cream and Nettle had no idea how it could be so many distinctive smells all at once.

  “It’s wonderful,” she whispered in awe to Claudine, who was enjoying the girl’s reaction. She went over to pat the cat. With all their travelling, they couldn’t really have pets. Willoughby was great, but Nettle would have loved to have been able to have a cat or a dog. Squatting beside the wicker basket, Nettle stroked the cat’s silky fur coat. “Hey there, kitty,” she cooed.

  The cat flinched beneath her touch and opened one yellow eye to glare balefully. Nettle went to give the cat a reassuring pat, but it swiftly leapt to its feet, yowling. It arched, fur hackled, and spat and hissed, swiping at her with sharp claws. Nettle scrambled back, caught off guard.

  “Philanx,” scolded Claudine placing herself between Nettle and the cat. “Whatever is the matter with you?” She shooed the cat away. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry about that,” apologized Claudine. “He’s normally such a placid soul,” she added, while thoughtfully gazing upon the sleek black cat as he skulked out the door, casting one last malevolent glare Nettle’s way.

  “Oh, not to worry,” replied Nettle casually, though she couldn’t help but wonder why Philanx had reacted so vehemently toward her. Animals usually adored her.

  Claudine led her through the throng of tables to the archway separating the dining room from the small side business. Nettle couldn’t help noticing the other members of Olde Town stop talking amongst themselves to stare with blatant curiosity at herself and Claudine as they passed by. She tried hard not to smile. I could get used to this.

  The staff industriously flitted around the dining room, ferrying unusually crafted delicacies and old fashioned tea pots on large silver trays, to their customers. One whisked by with porcelain tea pot and a pyramid of blood-red sandwiches. Her sleek hazel eyes quickly met Nettle’s gaze before darting away. She was short with a mop of curly brown hair and a dusky complexion with a scattering of freckles across a button nose. Nettle took an instant liking to the waitress. She looked like she might be a few years older than Jazz, and gave her hope there were more kids about the village. She wondered if she might even find some kind of part-time work here after school hours.

  In keeping with Claudine’s attire, the staff wore long black aprons and white blouses with tight bodices and ruffled sleeves. Another waitress darted past and Nettle did a double-take. Huh? She quickly searched the dining room, assessing all the waitresses and waiters.

  At first, Nettle thought she was seeing double, then triple. She couldn’t help but come to the conclusion all the serving staff were siblings. But they seemed to be the same age, which would mean they were quadruplets?! No, quintuplets!, she corrected, seeing a fifth staff member scoot over to a table of five ladies with a jug of water. No, not quintuplets, she thought gaping at the girl behind the counter in the annex beside the dining room, and mentally rounded the sibling-count up to sextuplets.

  The next room was much smaller than the tea house, and its stone walls were lined with highly polished wooden shelves holding all manner of beauty products. From creams to keep wrinkles at bay, crystal bath salts and refreshing skin sprays, they all had fascinating names, like Nixie Spring Water and Hobgoblin’s Puckered Kiss. But what caught Nettle’s eye, was the large counter with an assortment of glass canisters containing a variety of curious confectionary.

  “Here,” said Claudine. “Why don’t you choose a few sweets, while I find something to clean up those wounds of yours.” She addressed the girl who made up the sextuplets. “Pippa, could you please assist our new friend.”

  Claudine walked behind the counter and through the swing door to disappear into what Nettle presumed was the kitchen. Before the door swung shut she heard a snippet of clattering pots, banging and crackling, and someone in the midst of shouting out an order.

  Pippa smiled crookedly at Nettle. She had a sizeable gap between her two front teeth. “The phookie tusks are one of my favourites.” Her voice was wispy with a hint of an accent that Nettle couldn’t place. Though she was smiling, Nettle could sense a wariness in the other girl. She’s sizing me up.

  Inside the canisters were strange looking sweets. One canister looked like tiny little fingers; in another, shrunken candied heads with black eyes and liquorice hair; one with gelatinous eyeballs; and beside it, another canister with what Nettle thought resembled miniscule tusks.

  Nettle scrunched her nose up at the wriggly maggots, and was intrigued with another, which appeared to be severed paws. Nettle’s eyebrows rose in wonder, “Is that…?”

  “Kitten paws… maggots, faerie wings, brownie fingers,” Pippa explained, pointing a stubby finger along the row of glass canisters. “Imp heads, spriggan eyeballs, phookie tusks and eyes of newt.”

  “Wow,” said Nettle marvelling. “That’s so cool.” Bram’s going to love this place.

  “Why don’t I get you one of each?” Pippa quickly filled a small white paper bag with one piece from every canister and handed it to Nettle, whose fingers greedily dug in.

  Nettle first chose a faerie wing. The spun sugar was so fine and delicate it sparkled in the sunlight. She savoured the taste of lemon and honey as the wing shattered between her teeth and melted into tacky toffee with each bite.

  While she waited for Claudine, Nettle meandered around the small store along with a few other women curious about the natural anti-aging creams the Three Wicked Sisters’ boasted of. A pretty pair of backpackers, their blond hair tied into matching ponytails, with obligatory hiking boots and quick-drying shorts were inspecting a bottle of wrinkle cream. A Norwegian flag was stitched onto one of their day-bags.

  A row of creams and oils began to shimmy, jostling about on the shelf. Nettle’s brow furrowed, what is going on? Then she felt it, the ground began to quake beneath her feet.

  Earthquake!

  Alarmed, the two backpacking girls whipped around to ask Pippa something, forgetting they were speaking in Norwegian. Pippa shook her head not understanding.

  Nettle stood her ground, wondered how bad the quake was going to be. Her heart hammered in her chest, she anxiously glanced about the room. Olde Town was ancient and mostly brick. A really bad quake could bring the whole village down. I’ve got to get out of here. The backpackers had the same idea and were already heading for the door.

  Pippa called out, “It’s OK. It’s just a little tremor.”

  And, like that, it stopped.

  Nettle let out a long breath, her heartbeat easing. She shared a sheepish grin with the backpackers. Pippa shrugged, unperturbed. “It happens from time to time, but it’s never bad.”

  Pippa went back to serving a sprightly white haired lady with soft porcelain skin and absolutely no hint of wrinkles or age spots. Nettle hoped to look half as good as her when she reached her age, and picked up a product with renewed interest. Pippa weighed a scoop of brownie fingers and wrapped it up in brown paper, tying it with string and handed it over to the older woman. The woman paid with a gold coin with a hole punched through the middle. Nettle was impressed, thinking, they must have their own theme-park currency here.

  A picture of a young woman hung on the wall. It was framed with simple wood and encased behind glass. There was also an old tattered and frayed black ribbon behind the glass. The artist had captured, in black ink, a very pretty girl with a rather mischievous look in her eye. There was something incredibly familiar about the girl’s face. Nettle cocked her head and chewed on her inner lip, who does she remind me of?

  “That, is Lysette Balfrey,” said Claudine.

  Nettle started, surprised at how quietly Claudine had reappeared. “Who was she?”
/>   “Lysette, is my ancestor and more interestingly, a witch.”

  Nettle’s eyes grew wide in her narrow face. “Really?”

  Claudine nodded, a playful curl to her lips. She swept a petite finger toward all the other paintings hanging on the walls in the dining room. “As are all the others. All notable witches and warlocks from times gone by. But it was Lysette who inspired our tea house. We thought it would be fun to play on a witchy theme.” She leaned in, intently staring at Nettle with an impish sparkle to her blue eyes, “I mean, what hamlet didn’t have a witch or two hidden amongst the villagers?” She gave a sly wink. “And the tourists love it.”

  “Was she a good witch?” What was that term? “A white witch?” The sketch of the girl looked far too young and pretty to be anything but good.

  Claudine laughed. Her laughter tinkled like wind-chimes in a gentle breeze. “Oh, no, not our Lysette, her soul was as black as midnight. That’s how she got her name –the Accursed Lysette.”

  Nettle gave Claudine a sidelong glance. “What did she do?”

  Claudine regarded the sketch. “Lysette was a very powerful witch. In her time, she had all of Olde Town living in terror. Many notable town members had vanished without a trace and those few villagers that dared speak up placed the blame squarely upon our Lysette. Well… they too were silenced…” Nettle gulped, her imagination not needing Claudine to elaborate. “At the time of her death, she had almost all of Olde Town’s villagers enthralled to her villainous cause.”

  Nettle gazed keenly at the girl in the sketch. She found it so hard to see the young girl as an evil witch. She turned back to Claudine, “What did she want with them?”