Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters

by Winter Woodlark

  “Right you are,” agreed Burban, nodding as much as a head half buried in the ground could nod. He yawned and his companions soon followed in suit. “All this yacking and showing off does you in,” mumbled Burban, his eyelids growing heavy. “We’ll just have a wee kip, a wee nap, and by morning the copse will be finished growing.” By the time he’d finished speaking he was asleep. Dodkin had been snoring for some time and Krinsky and Winger soon followed.

  Nettle and Fred made their way to the cottage’s front door. Nettle had a slight coffee moustache and she was rubbing it off with a wrist. “So, do you really think they’ll be able to keep us safe?” She wasn’t sure a group of rocks, making a lot of noise, was going to be able to protect them from anything.

  “They may gripe a fair bit, but they do a fine job. Been protecting our cottage since I married your mother. She’s the one who grew the copse.”

  The mere mention of her mother left a bitter taste in Nettle’s mouth and the bridge of her nose furrowed. Her jaw set in a hard line, but Fred didn’t notice. “They’re a bit like the Thicket. A wall of rosebush that can protect us from faerie that mean us harm.”

  Nettle looked sharply at her father, her heart skipping a beat. “Why should it matter to anyone if we’ve come back home? Are we in danger here?”

  Fred stopped and turned to look at her, and read apprehension in her expression. When had she become so much older than her years? He supposed quite rightly he was to blame, so caught up with trying to find his wife, he’d allowed her to fill the role as mother and housekeeper and chief worrier, when they’d taken to the road. She’d grown up quicker than she should have, with having to look after him and Bram. Right now, he needed to allay her fears. He smiled winningly, “There’s no need to worry. No one knows we’ve returned and that’s how I intend to keep it.”

  Nettle wasn’t reassured. If there wasn’t anything to worry about then why was there a need to keep their return secret? And Aunt Thistle hadn’t arrived. She asked intuitively, “Do you think something’s happened to Aunt Thistle?”

  “I hope not,” Fred replied, forging forward. Reaching the back porch steps he turned and said, “She’s been looking for your mother.”

  “What, in the Wilds?” That was one thing she hadn’t anticipated: her mother entering the Wilds. And why is my Aunt assisting in this ludicrous task? Nettle prickled. “What? All this time?” It seemed ridiculous to keep looking for someone all these years who obviously didn’t want to be found. “You said it was dangerous, treacherous, why would she go in there? And you said yourself, people disappear and die every day. She’s probably been caught in one those traps you talk about.”

  “No, not your mother,” answered Fred, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  Nettle bristled and shook his hand off. “I don’t care about my mother, I’m worried about Aunt Thistle. You just let her go in there, with all those things you warned us about.”

  Fred met Nettle’s stony stare and stiffened. “Trust me, your Aunt can handle herself.”

  Nettle squared her shoulders and levelled a fierce glare at her father. “Can’t you just let her go?” She was no longer talking about her aunt. “She’s gone Dad. She doesn’t care, or else she’d be here.”

  Fred sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily, “Come on Nettle, don’t do this.”

  “No Dad, don’t you do this. Obviously the only reason you’ve dragged us here is so you can find out if there’s been word on Mum.” She flung an arm upwards, her gaze softening. “There are other people out there, you know. You could meet someone else and fall in love. It’s OK to do that.”

  Fred’s olive eyes were alight with golden flecks and something else - devotion. He spoke clearly, so she’d understand he meant it, “I don’t want anyone else.”

  Nettle’s mouth twisted cruelly and her eyes darkened to the colour of dirty moss. “Well I don’t want her as my mother. I wish she’d died. It’d be easier for you to forget her - like we have.”

  Fred looked like he’d been slapped. Nettle watched the colour drain from his face. His voice was lacklustre and hurt. “I’m sure you regret saying that.”

  For a brief moment, she did. But she’d gone too far to back down now. She fidgeted with her travel mug, and said petulantly. “Well I don’t, and I won’t.”

  For quite some time Nettle and her father silently stared at one another. Nettle’s flinty gaze bore right through her Dad’s, but inside she was devastated. She could see in his wounded eyes the anguish her harsh words inflicted on him. She felt guilty for what she’d said and how it made her father feel. But it was too late to take it back. Why? Why do I keep on doing this to him?

  Fred was gutted, how had his daughter become so hardened? He wondered, not for the first time, if he should have told his children the truth about Briar, right from the beginning. Would that knowledge have left a different impression on their daughter?

  From above came the creaking sound of a window being opened. Bram hung out his bedroom and yelled, “Dad! You better get up here!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Make Good Beddin’ for the Rats

  Earlier that morning, Bram had quietly taken the bird-cage to his bedroom. He was curious as to Quary’s skill as a thief, and hoped the spriggan might teach him a thing or two. Instead he spent most of the morning being spat at, shouted at and insulted, the creature calling him things like puckered-poo and pus-head. A minute ago, Jazz blew into his bedroom brandishing a sewing needle and a very devious expression.

  Nettle followed her father and hurried toward Bram’s bedroom, they met him down the hallway. He waved them onward. “Quick Dad, I think she’s going to kill him.”

  When Nettle entered the bedroom. Jazz was jabbing a long and dangerous sewing needle through the bars of the bird-cage. “Take that you little rat-faced-freak!”

  The spriggan leapt out of the way, but every time he did, the little faerie came into contact with the rose branches making up the bird-cage. He squealed in agony, stuffing a fist into his mouth to stifle the sound. Wafts of singed flesh stung Nettle’s nostrils and she shuddered, that’s got to sting.

  “Hope that hurts - really, really, badly,” goaded Jazz with a malicious grin. “Now tell me why you stole my earrings?!” She poked at the creature, and this time the sharp needle caught Quary in the shoulder. He shrieked, and clutched himself with short stubby fingers. His voice was high-pitched and his breath short, “Armour... I wanted a nice shiny breastplate…”

  “Jazz!” roared Fred. He grabbed his niece by the shoulder. “Stop right this minute!”

  Jazz whipped around feeling righteous. “Uncle Fred, it ransacked all my clothes. Everything I own is ripped or torn or smashed or stained beyond repair. And that thing, whatever it is, it’s going to tell me what I did to deserve that.”

  “You got a nasty tongue girly,” spat the faerie, “You deserves what you gets,” he made little cutting motions with his fingers, “Especially yer hair.”

  Jazz shrieked with fury. She lunged at the bird-cage. The spriggan skittered back, laughing raucously. “Ha-ha, yer hair looks good, aye girly.”

  Jazz grabbed hold of the cage and shook it viciously. “Why?! Why did you do it?!”

  The spriggan was bounced around inside, screeching and yelping as his skin burned on contact.

  Her uncle was glowering, infuriated with her bad behaviour, and boomed, “JAZZ!!”

  For once Jazz was astounded by her uncle’s forcefulness and froze. He took the cage from her. Quary’s breathing was ragged, he got to his knees and pushed himself to his feet. His hand clutched his arm, which hung uselessly, his flesh was burnt raw in patches.

  “You want to know why we cut yer hair off lass?” The creature pointed a finger at Nettle, “Cos, she said to. Good idea too. Yer hair will make good beddin’ for the rats.”

  Jazz’s fingers curled into fists and she spun to face Nettle. “I knew you’d be behind this!”

  Nettle was stunned. S
he looked from the faerie to Jazz and back again. “What do you mean?”

  “You said, if it were you, ye’d cut her hair off.”

  A slight guilty feeling twisted Nettle’s stomach, she felt sick. She had a vague recollection making some sort of statement, but she’d never have acted on it. “Why... would you do... what I said?” she asked, confused.

  The little creature looked taken aback. “You forgotten how nasty an’ spiteful she’s been to you. It made me ears hurt just listening to all her yap-yapping.”

  Well, he was right about that, Nettle thought, but that was just Jazz.

  Jazz was looking at the spriggan as if it had just starting speaking Russian. Quary tentatively wriggled his wounded shoulder and glared at Jazz. “Griping and wailing, saying mean things, and you knows it well enough, so don’t be denying it. Got no manners, girly. It was a good idea an all, me and the lads thought. Cut her hair off. Make a mattress out of it. Maybe just give it to the birds for a nest. Teach her a lesson.”

  At that, Jazz crumpled onto the bed and burst into tears. “My hair,” she wailed. “It’s not fair, it’s just not fair.”

  Nettle felt terrible, it was all her fault, if she hadn’t suggested such a spiteful thing, her cousin would have all her glorious hair still on her head. She down next to Jazz. “Come on, it’s going to be OK. We can do something with your hair. A hat maybe?” Nettle laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “And, your skin,” she said, grasping at anything that might cheer up her cousin, “it’s completely healed. No more dots.” It was true, whatever her father had put in that lotion had worked wonders on all the little lacerations, leaving only a faint reminder they had been there in the first place.

  Jazz shrugged Nettle’s hand from her shoulder. Her voice lacked any sort of her usual malevolence, it was just flat and empty. “Go away. Just all of you, go away.”

  Fred motioned for his children to leave Jazz alone. He picked up the bird-cage. Quary looked on at Jazz’s sobbing frame with self-satisfaction. He poked his little tongue at the girl, as he was swept out of the room ahead of the siblings.

  “I wouldn’t have said anything if I thought it would’ve been acted on,” Nettle said to her father in a hushed tone as she closed the bedroom door behind her. “I’m not that mean.” The family padded down the hallway to the staircase.

  Fred laid a hand on Nettle’s shoulder, their earlier altercation forgotten. “What happened to Jazz’s hair had nothing to do with you.”

  The spriggan let out an abrupt tisk-tisk, rolling his black eyes and pursing his lips in disagreement.

  A light rapping came from down below, and a muffled voice called out from behind the front door, “Hello...”

  Nettle nearly jumped out of her skin. She’d completely forgotten about Claudine. She quickly assessed her father and groaned. He needed to shave, his hair either stood up on end or was flattened, he was still in the same crumpled clothes from yesterday, and she wasn’t sure if he’d even brushed his teeth yet. Ugh, what a first impression he was going to make, what to do?!

  Fred was glancing down the staircase, his eyebrows drew together in consternation. “Who is that? No one’s supposed to know we’re home.” He gave his daughter a stern look. “Who did you tell, Nettle?”

  Nettle ignored her father and snatched the bird-cage from him. She shoved it at Bram and hissed, “Quickly, hide him.” She gave Quary a suspicious stare. “In fact, gag him, I don’t trust him.” At which the spriggan hissed in horror. “And go find Dad’s best outfit and bring it to the bathroom. No holes or stains and if it smells, Febreze it.”

  Fred found himself being shoved down the stairs, his daughter hissing in his ear, “Shoosh,” as they approached the ground floor. The sun cast a cheerful yellow glow into the house as they tip-toed past the window. Thankfully, Claudine had her back to them as she waited on the porch. She cut a pleasant figure in a soft blue dress.

  “Who is that?” asked Fred quietly. Nettle just gave him a blistering stare, silently pointing toward the bathroom door. Fred meekly complied. His daughter could be quite forceful when she had a mind to be.

  With the door shut behind them, Nettle hung a fresh towel over the rack. “Right, now, have a shower, shave that face of yours, and for goodness sake brush your teeth and comb your hair.” Fred was about to demand she answer who was at the door, when she bolted from the bathroom. Fred stood there slack-jawed at her abrupt departure, when she reappeared a moment later, poking her head around the door. She bore a determined glare. “Dad, just have an open mind OK. And none of your stupid jokes, they’re not funny.”

  He blinked, bewildered, “What do you mean, my jokes aren’t funny?”

  Nettle rolled her eyes and departed with a, “Sheesh.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  First Impressions

  Fred found everyone in the kitchen. Nettle was playing hostess, pouring several cups of tea. Fred adjusted the position of his glasses on his nose and frowned. Nettle was definitely up to something. She was keyed up. Her murky eyes were ablaze with excitement while she set plates and cutlery on the table. The good china plates too, he realized. She was in the midst of explaining something to Bram, who was sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, resting his chin on a hand.

  “Huh?” queried Bram with a stupid expression.

  “Three Wicked Sisters’ Tea House,” repeated Nettle, and added dreamily, “It’s the most delicious place ever.”

  A woman was facing away from Fred, unloading plate after plate of food from a wicker basket. She had a slim figure, was slight in height and her strawberry hair was pulled into a loose bun.

  The intoxicating smells whirling about the room found Fred. He breathed in strawberries and honey and lime and lemon and cinnamon and nutmeg and allspice and ginger and hazelnut. He gently rolled his shoulders, the tension and worry slipping away and he sighed peacefully.

  “Why, thank you,” said the woman, turning Fred’s way to place a plate of sandwiches rolled like sushi onto the table. When she saw him, she smiled. “Oh, hello. Mr. Blackthorn, I presume?”

  Both Nettle and Bram turned to see their father standing near the door to the bathroom. Nettle inwardly sighed with relief. He’d followed her instructions and even if he’d nicked himself a few times with the shaver, he didn’t look too bad. Bram had found a decent pair of cargo pants and navy polo shirt - unstained and without holes - his hair was washed and slicked back, and he’d even applied deodorant.

  Fred just stood there with a goofy expression.

  “Dad…? Dad!” hissed Nettle.

  “Huh?” Fred shook his head, it felt foggy and sluggish. He blinked several times, until he realized he was now looking at his daughter. Behind the woman, Nettle gave him a sharp look, silently telling him to get-it-together.

  Fred shot Nettle a questioning look, beginning to understand her sly motives. “Oh, hi Dad,” she said, her voice pitched a little higher than normal. With all that had gone on with the spriggan and learning about the Forgotten Wilds, it’d slipped her mind to tell him about Olde Town and her visit with the Balfrey sisters. She crossed her fingers behind her back, silently praying he wasn’t going to make an ass of himself. Here it was, her father’s and Claudine’s first meeting. She felt like she was going to implode from excitement. “Ah, Dad, this is Claudine Balfrey.”

  Claudine smiled ruefully, “I hope I’m not intruding. It seems I have come unannounced, which was never my intention.” Clothed in a simple dress of smoky grey and blues she was enchanting, mesmerising even. She walked toward him offering a delicate hand in greeting. Fred simply stared at her hand like an idiot. “Your daughter invited me today to meet Jasmine, Mr. Blackthorn.”

  Fred finally reached out and grasped Claudine’s hand in his own. His large hand enveloped her much smaller one. Her hand was as delicate and fine-boned as his was rough. “Please, just call me Fred.”

  As soon as they touched, Nettle saw it. She almost felt it herself. Claudine’s blue eyes flit
ted wide and her father drew in a sharp breath. Something tangible had sparked between them, and it hung in the air like charged electricity. The same shy smile crept onto their lips, mirroring one another.

  Fred cleared his throat, taken by surprise by his reaction. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” breathed Claudine.

  Fred reluctantly released her hand.

  “Here, try one of our teas,” she said offering him a cup.

  Fred took a sip, trying to distract himself from the fact that she smelled divine, a mixture of rose petals and something else indefinable. “Lovely,” he murmured.

  Nettle slipped Bram a wide grin. She resisted the urge to drum her fingertips together like a mastermind-villain, this is going much better than I ever anticipated!

  “I actually brought something for lunch. That is if you haven’t already organized it?” Claudine asked Fred. Neither of them had glanced away from one another. “Yes, no… I don’t know if we have,” he said, finally breaking away to look at Nettle, entreating for help.

  Nettle rescued her father. “No, we haven’t. Bram, drag Jazz out of bed. Dad, you give me a hand setting the table.”

  Fred took a step forward keeping his eyes on Claudine with the same goofy smile plastered on his lips. He accidentally stumbled against the table. In his clumsiness he knocked over the fruit bowl. Several overly ripe pears that Nettle had plucked from the old tree rolled off the table. One splattered white flesh over his shoe. Fred bent down to retrieve the fruit and knocked his head on the table’s edge, emitting an embarrassed “Ooof”. Nettle rolled her eyes heavenward hoping Claudine might find his boyish awkwardness at least a little charming.

  Claudine tried to hide her amusement and helped him back up. Her expression turned to dismay when she turned his wrist over. “Oh no, your watch.” There were cracks showing on the face. He must have smashed the glass against the table when he’d stumbled into it.