Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters

by Winter Woodlark

  What on earth did I run into? She kept stepping backwards, craning her neck to see the top of the hedge. It was massive, towering as tall as the loftiest tree and it stretched across the path and right through the forest, a sinister wall of thorns and spikes.

  Jazz didn’t know much about trees or plants, nor cared to, her reasoning being, that’s what you pay gardeners to do for you. However she was astute enough to realize the thickly packed branches making up this overbearing hedge must have been made up of every single unforgiving and nasty barbed tree and shrub in the world. What is it doing here? Keeping something out… or something in?

  It was then, faced with the ominous wall of thorns, that Jazz began to realize just how alone and vulnerable she was. The canopy of the Forgotten Wilds was so dense little sunlight filtered through to the forest floor. The gloomy wood was lit with muted patches, the kind of smoky light projected in a cinema, with floating fluffy seeds and leaves silently drifting to the ground. Jazz shivered, the eeriness sent goose-bumps down her arms. Totally creepy, she thought, I’m outta here.

  She turned to head back along the path toward the cottage, when something faint, crying out from the dim recesses of the forest, stopped her. What was that?

  Jazz peered around, wondering at first if she indeed heard what she thought she had. Though the woods were cool and damp, it was the swelling unease in the pit of her stomach that caused her flesh to feel clammy. Her uncle’s warning came back to haunt her: Never, ever, go into the forest.

  Jazz began to jog back the way she came.

  “Help...”

  Oh no, Jazz, groaned, why is it always me?

  “Help me… please…”

  Jazz didn’t know what to do. It meant leaving the path and stumbling around in the woodland and that seemed quite an icky thing to do. She was in pain herself, didn’t they know that? And who knows what kind of situation she’d encounter. She didn’t pay the least bit of attention in First Aid last year, and any form of blood made her feel violently ill. Right now, even looking at her own blood-puckered skin caused her to feel queasy.

  “Help...” came the plea, this time a little closer.

  Jazz heaved a sigh of irritation, her face scrunching with annoyance. I am so going to regret this. Despite her misgivings, she left the path and pushed her way through ferns and low hanging branches, trying to keep her mind from thoughts of spiders and other creepy crawlies.

  She headed toward the voice pleading for help. “All right, all right, I’m coming!” she cried out with exasperation. “Jeez, calm down already.”

  Then the voice stopped.

  Jazz stood motionless, listening.

  Nothing.

  “Hey,” she cried out, “where are you?”

  It was strange. There was no sound - not the chirrup of a cricket, nor the stirring of a breeze in the leaves, could be heard in the depth of the murky green landscape. It was as if the entire forest held its breath.

  “Heeellloooo?!”

  Right behind her came a sound of dead leaves crunching underfoot. Jazz’s heart pounded in her chest. She spun around and found herself facing a strange man. His weathered face was framed by thick whiskery sideburns, leading into a gray beard with bushy silver eyebrows. He stumbled toward her, arms outstretched. “Help me… please…”

  Jazz skittered back, raising her fists. “Keep back!”

  The gaunt man stopped himself and proffered his palms. “Please, I don’t mean to frighten you.” To see Jazz in a pair of skimpy shorts and tee-shirt obviously took the man by surprise, and he openly gawked. Jazz in turn, thought he was rather oddly dressed, in a thick woven suit with a green polka dot scarf tied around his neck, and a crumpled top hat perched upon a thick crop of wild and knotted hair. A rusty pocket watch dangled from his vest. “Pardon my ill behaviour, I have not even introduced myself. I am Winston Sanders.” He gave a sharp bow to Jazz, and then paused, as if he waited for something in return. Jazz wasn’t sure what he expected, so did nothing. She did however, relax her stance and lower her fists.

  He gave a disconcerted smile and continued, “I am so very, very glad to see you.”

  “Are you all right?” asked Jazz. He seemed to be perfectly fine, which gave her immense relief not to be faced with some kind of horrible accident that she knew she wouldn’t have the skills to tend. “Are you lost?”

  “Yes, indeed.” He broke into a wide smile, revealing blackened rotten teeth. The tension in his shoulders relaxed with relief. “My wife and I were on our way to Olde Town this morning, when our carriage’s wheel broke. I went to seek assistance-”

  “This morning?” queried Jazz, wondering how a carriage would be able to pass through the thickly knotted wood. Or even, who still rode in carriages these days.

  “Have you seen my wife?” His faded blue eyes, glanced over Jazz’s shoulder and scanned the woods. “Did someone come and fix the wagon’s broken wheel, and take her on to Olde Town?”

  Jazz slowly shook her head. “I’ve seen no one else. I don’t know of any road that cuts through.”

  His voice cracked with emotion. “You see, I’m not sure where my wife is. I cannot find her. I cannot find any sign of her, of the horse, or even the carriage.” He took a few quick steps nearer to Jazz. A wild unhinged glaze seeped into his eyes. “Why is the lane so overgrown? Why are there no wheel ruts in the ground?”

  Jazz backed away, he was giving her the creeps.

  “Why do I sport a beard when I left home this morning clean-shaven.” His bony fingers raked through his gray hair. Jazz noticed spider webs spun around his hat and a thick dark moss had grown all over his leather boots. A brown wood-spider scurried out between knotted wisps of hair in his beard. “I couldn’t find the farmhouse, and I became so tired, so very, very tired.” His voice became a little choked with fear and apprehension. “I sat down for a moment, just a moment...”

  He took another step closer and Jazz found herself pressed against the rough trunk of a tree, with no escape. He frightened her. There was no way she wanted him to touch her. Ugh, gross, she couldn’t help but cringe at the sight of his long dirty fingernails. He’s like one of those homeless tramps rummaging through rubbish bins.

  “I swear, I slept for only a few moments. But it feels as if I have slept much longer... Such strange and fanciful dreams...”

  He reached out a bony hand to touch her cheek, and there was no way to avoid it. His fingers felt cool and papery-thin. Jazz stifled a shriek.

  “Please, help me-”

  As soon as they touched, Winston stilled. Jazz heard the deep breath he drew in, filling his lungs to capacity, but the release of air never came. His gaze locked with hers. He was petrified.

  Jazz didn’t know what to do.

  His skin seemed to pale, to become translucent and dehydrated like parchment. His veins desiccating like worms on a scorched pavement.

  “Oh my...” gasped Jazz. Before her very eyes, Winston Sanders’s flesh crumpled to dust. A cool breeze blew his remains over her tee-shirt and face, dusting her in a fine white powder of ash.

  Jazz let out a warble of a scream while frantically trying to brush the dusty remains of the strange old man from her face and clothes.

  She was still screaming when Fred crashed through the undergrowth minutes later, finding her rooted to the spot, trembling with shock.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A Scuffle with an... Ogre?

  Nettle cycled down the driveway, jostling about as she navigated around potholes and muddy ruts. This time around, the ride from Olde Town had flown by. At first, she was a bundle of excited emotions - hopeful, elated, jubilant - at the prospect of her father meeting Claudine. She couldn’t wait for tomorrow. That was until half an hour ago, when an image of her bumbling father greeting the polished Claudine flashed into her mind. Now as she rode back home, she was anxious, even slightly disheartened, at the thought.

  What am I going to do about Dad? Firstly and most importantly, what was she going to
do about her father’s appearance? At the best of times he appeared dishevelled. Charming to the right kind of woman, but certainly not for the refined Claudine. Recently he had started looking worse than dishevelled. Nettle was worried her father now resembled a hobo.

  She cringed. What is Claudine going to make of him? He had stuck to wearing the same hole-infested clothes for the past few days; his stubble, now several days old, had thickened to the beginning of a bristly beard; his hair needed a trim. It would be easy enough to convince her father she should cut his hair, but what about his clothes? They were worn and stained, a wardrobe full of basic slacks with navy jerseys. She let out a deep groan, I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me.

  Nettle rode into the front yard. The prickly shrubs that encircled the property had grown even higher since the morning, but it left no impression on Nettle, her mind full of plans to find the best of her father’s clothes and wash them in time for tomorrow. She circled around the cottage to the old lean-to out the back, where she propped her bicycle and unloaded the supplies she’d picked up from Goodmire Grocers. That’s when she saw her father leaving the Wilds with Jazz. Fred spotted Nettle. He waved her over with an exaggerated gesture.

  Claudine’s impending visit dropped from the forefront of her mind as anger flashed through her like wildfire.

  Nettle stomped toward the pair, her boots grinding blades of grass beneath their heavy soles. How dare he tell me one thing, and totally disregard it himself. Why would he take Jazz into the Wilds and not herself? It’s not fair! She gave her father a disapproving glare as she approached. She stopped in front of him and crossed her arms. “You told us not to go into the Forgotten Wilds!” But as she glowered at her father, annoyed at being denied a stroll through the forest, Nettle slowly became conscious of her cousin.

  Jazz was leaning against her uncle. As Fred gently guided her toward the cottage she moved stiffly and slowly like an elderly woman with a crooked back. Nettle’s mouth fell open in astonishment and her eyes grew wide. All of Jazz’s lovely hair had been shorn off; badly, judging by the tufts and near bald patches left on her scalp. She was also covered from head to toe in a dusting of white powder, stained pink from blood oozing from welts and cuts criss-crossing her body. Jazz dazedly blinked, her gaze rested on Nettle without any form of recognition.

  The anger at being excluded from the forest adventure seeped away. I’m such a thoughtless brat, Nettle berated herself. Jazz looked like she’d only just barely survived some sort of disaster, and here she was moaning on about not being allowed to go into the woods. “What happened?!” Nettle asked.

  Fred was focused on the brown paper bag in her arms. He eyed it suspiciously. “Where have you been?”

  Nettle turned to her father with a vacuous expression as her tongue grew rubbery and useless. Uh-oh, here we go. She knew this had been a possibility when she headed to Olde Town this morning, but as yet, hadn’t prepared an answer for her father if he should ask.

  “Nettle?”

  “Oh, you know,” she mumbled with a half-hearted shrug. “Getting some supplies… We were out of milk and bread,” she finished weakly.

  Fred’s eyes narrowed to threatening slits behind his glasses, “And where exactly would you go for supplies around here?”

  Nettle glanced upwards, pretending to be more interested in the scudded sky. She pursed her lips, trying to say it lightly as if it were of little consequence, all the while, inwardly steeling herself for the oncoming tirade. “Olde Town.”

  “Olde Town?!” Fred exploded. His olive eyes bulged behind his glasses. He stabbed the air between them with an infuriated finger as he expressed his anger at her disobedience in a rapid dressing down. Unfortunately for him, Nettle understood nothing of what he said as he spoke too rapidly.

  “Huh? Dad, slow down, take a breather.”

  Her father caught himself, his cheeks puffed like a blowfish as he expelled his fury with a long exhale. Between clenched teeth he re-explained. “I told you, under no circumstances, were any of you, to go to Olde Town.”

  Nettle decided indignation was the best form of retaliation in this situation. “Oh no you didn’t. You said nothing of that. You just said, don’t go into the Wilds. And here you are, coming out of the Wilds.”

  “I went in there after Jazz.”

  Nettle gave her father a withering stare, drawing herself tall. “That’s beside the point. You said nothing, at all, about Olde Town.”

  Fred glared back. A moment later, his shoulders slumped with defeat. He raked a hand through his messy hair, staring at his daughter wondering if he really was the idiot he saw reflected in his daughter’s gaze. His stomach sank. He asked weakly, “I didn’t?”

  “No, you didn’t.” Nettle said crossly, silently savouring success. Sometimes mere confidence was the best weapon against her father. “I wasn’t aware of Olde Town being off limits.”

  Fred spoke thinly, “No, I expect not.” He suddenly grew pale. “You didn’t go through the Wilds to get to Olde Town?”

  “No.” Nettle shook her head. “I took the new road off the highway.”

  The colour flooded back into Fred’s cheeks and he gave a wan smile.

  Crrrriiiiicccckkkkk…KKKK!!!

  Both Nettle and Fred started. It sounded like straining timber and splintering wood. Jazz barely registered, her lacklustre gaze turning only slightly toward the cottage.

  Ooooommmpph… …BOOOOOOMMM!!!

  An almighty thump exploded from the cottage. The very roof of Blackthorn Cottage had been suddenly forced upward, jolted from the rafters in a horrendous heave.

  A frightened yell came from the upper floor. “HELP!”

  “Bram!” cried Fred.

  Both Fred and Nettle shared a look of alarm before bolting toward the cottage’s back door.

  Nettle was first to reach Bram’s bedroom. She flung the door wide open and found herself facing a gigantic creature engulfing the room. What remained of Bram’s cot was smashed into kindling underneath the beast’s chunky feet. Its four large toes had black nails that had gouged holes into the floorboards while its shoulders and head were hunched under the ceiling. The floorboards and ceiling groaned beneath the excessive pressure.

  Nettle stood rooted to the spot, stunned. Her mouth gaped wide and her tongue lolled. What… is… that…?

  The creature’s grey rough skin looked akin to granite. Its rotund torso looked like the Michelin Man carved out of rock, except the head of the creature seemed gnomish, with a wide mouth and flaring nostrils. The creature was from the tales she used to read at bedtime, imaginary, fictitious, fantastical. It was incomprehensible to be faced with such a being. A real, live, breathing… what could it be?

  “Ogre?” she named it, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Ogre..?” her voice rising sharply, but still flabbergasted.

  Her hand involuntarily rose to point at the creature and she screeched, “OGRE!!”

  The creature swivelled its fat head Nettle’s way and glared at her with pitch black eyes. Enraged, it roared and its hot putrid breath washed over her and she choked, coughing and spluttering at its foulness.

  A small voice cried out from somewhere behind the creature. “Nettle!”

  “Bram!” Nettled called out. A grin already spreading across her face with the relief of hearing her brother. He’s alive! “Are you OK?!”

  “Yeah, I’m OK!”

  “What’s an ogre doing in our house?!” She shook her head in disbelief. I can’t believe I actually asked that, aloud.

  The beast bellowed, spittle flying from its fat lips. Some of landed on Nettle’s shoulder. She shrieked in disgust and fright. “It’s like ectoplasm… Get it off, get it off!” she wailed trying to wipe the thick mucus gunk from her jacket.

  “Stop calling it that,” implored Bram. “You’re making it angry!”

  “What?!” called Nettle confused. “An ogre?!”

  The creature howled, shaking its body from side to side, trying to
reach for her. The floorboards immediately below gave way suddenly and two boards snapped in half beneath the creature’s weight.

  Fred arrived huffing and puffing, and slammed into Nettle. She suddenly found herself pressed into the flesh of the thing. It felt cool and soft, a cross between the sensation of a fluffed pillow and a children’s party balloon and smelt of stale sweat. “Ewww… gross,” she whimpered and pushed herself off the creature.

  “That’s no ogre,” corrected Fred, “It’s a spriggan.”

  The ogre, or spriggan, Nettle supposed - bewildered her father even had a name for the thing - glowered fiercely at her father. Its mouth yawned open, revealing a row of short blunt teeth, and the creature inhaled a gigantic breath. Its body inflated even further with the mouthful of air and the ceiling cracked under the pressure of its massive head pressing against it.

  “Spriggan,” hissed Fred, shaking his head. “Typical.” He called out loudly, “Bram, where are you?!”

  “Over here, by the window,” replied Bram, a quiver in his voice. “I can’t get out!”

  “Don’t panic,” reassured their father. “Everything’s going to be, OK!”

  “Hurry Dad! I’m scared.”

  The spriggan opened its mouth to swallow another gulp of air. Fred sprung at it. Nettle gawked at her father as he nimbly ascended the creature’s shoulder. She blinked rapidly, mistrusting her sight. How on earth did he just do that? She watched aghast as he pressed both hands against the beast’s mouth, preventing it from inhaling further. The spriggan roared a muffled protest behind Fred’s grip. It ferociously shook its head, determined to free itself. Fred punched it in the face.

  Dad punched the spriggan in the face?! In the face! Nettle’s mouth gaped. Who on earth is he? Gone was the amiable bookish father she’d known all her life, replaced by… What? Who? I don’t even know who he is...

  Fred yelled out to Nettle, “Go get that horse shoe!”

  Nettle was frozen to the spot in a stupor. She couldn’t quite understand what she was seeing.