Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters

by Winter Woodlark

  Fred pursed his lips together in disappointment, “It was my fathers.”

  “I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault.”

  He shrugged, “No need to worry, it’s easily enough fixed.”

  Claudine reached for the strap of the wristwatch, “Here, let me. I have some people in town who can fix it for you.”

  “Oh, no,” Fred drew his arm away. “It’s OK. I probably have another old watch, somewhere around here, I can use to replace the glass with.”

  Claudine gave an amiable enough shrug, but she was unable to hide her disappointment. “As you wish.”

  The table was set when Jazz arrived from upstairs. Even shorn, her eyes bloodshot and puffy from constant crying, and a reddened nose, she looked beautiful. Jazz stomped into the kitchen, miserable. She barely gave Claudine a cursory glance before plonking herself down at the table.

  “Oh my,” breathed Claudine.

  Jazz looked blankly at Claudine. “Yeah?”

  Claudine approached in such tiny steps she appeared to glide across the floor. She took Jazz’s chin in her hands and gently turned her face to profile. Her sapphire eyes sparkled as she inspected Jazz’s features as a slow expression of triumph crept over her own. She spoke to Nettle, “It’s astonishing just how much she does resemble her.”

  “Resemble who?” queried Jazz with a suspicious glower.

  “Lysette,” Nettle said. Then added for dramatic effect, “The Accursed Lysette.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Bram as he eagerly sat down and stole a mini pancake topped with a creamy mayonnaise and thin slivers of eel, and was quietly eating while everyone else was preoccupied with his narcissistic cousin.

  “Lysette was a witch from Olde Town, many, many years ago,” Claudine answered. She drew out of her pocket a small picture and handed it to Jazz. It was a simple drawing of Lysette, an original, rather than a reproduction. “It’s uncanny how much you look like her.” She drew back, her brows quirking in thought. “You could be sisters.”

  “I suppose we do a little bit,” Jazz said in that way that Nettle knew she was really saying - she wasn’t so sure herself.

  Bram had quickly rounded the table to look at the picture too. “Sure you do, except for, well you know, the hair.”

  Jazz touched her hair self-consciously and gave a sad little sniff. “I look ugly without my hair.”

  Claudine laughed, tilting her head to the side, inspecting the young girl. “Oh no you don’t, far from it. You have the kind of beauty that should be seen, not hidden away behind masses of hair.”

  Nettle mentally barfed, just what Jazz needs, someone else to stroke her already inflated ego.

  “In fact, I think whatever has happened to you, has done you a great favour.” Claudine looked about the family curiously. “What exactly did happen?”

  Jazz cocked an insolent eyebrow at Nettle, and smugly challenged her, “Yes, Nettle, just what did happen?”

  Nettle burst into laughter. It was high pitched and a little manic. “Oh, Jazz, Jazz… Jazz…” She glanced around the table, “Anyone hungry? I sure am.” She sat down and selected a little pie, stuffing it in her mouth. Jazz cast her a scaredy-cat-look.

  Claudine ran her fingers through what remained of Jazz’s hair. “All you need is an even trim. We have an excellent hairdresser in town. I can arrange an appointment if you like.”

  Fred chivalrously drew out a chair for Claudine and the family settled down for lunch. Claudine had brought an array of fascinating food - tiny little pies with crimped edges and miniature leaves crafted from pastry, filled with a mouth-watering meat and thick gooey gravy; sandwiches rolled like sushi filled with cream cheese and herbs or a nutty paste humming with rosemary; miniature scones overflowing with jellied berries and honey infused cream; and the lightest cupcakes Nettle had ever tasted.

  The lunchtime affair was filled with gales of laughter as Claudine spun tales of the tea house and its eccentric customers. She’d even loosened Fred’s tongue, finding out much more about him and their family than Nettle ever thought her father would impart with. He was obviously enchanted by her.

  Claudine was just deftly inquiring about their mother, when Nettle felt it was time to intervene. There was no way she was going to allow Briar to ruin what was beginning to bloom between Claudine and her father. However, Jazz saved her the trouble.

  “Mmmmm… this is so good,” Jazz sighed in utter bliss, half way through a miniature pie. “What is it?”

  “Frog,” answered Claudine.

  Jazz stopped chewing, as did Nettle. Both of them shared a horrified look. Bram didn’t miss a beat, he kept on eating.

  “Frog?” Jazz queried with a hitch in her voice.

  “Whistling Horned Frog, to be precise.” Claudine answered off-handily. “Dolcie swears its much more conducive to stewing than your ordinary green frog.”

  Nettle was caught feeling as if she should be grossed out, except it was too good not to like. In fact it was delicious. She gave Jazz a little shrug and took another bite of pie.

  Over an hour later, the family was stuffed from trying everything before them. Fred leaned back in his seat loosening his belt, “So good.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Claudine smiled. “But I must admit, in truth it’s a bribe. The real reason I’m here, is to see if Jasmine might consider being the Queen of All Hallows’ Eve.”

  Across the table, Jazz’s blue eyes sparked with curiosity flicked Claudine’s way. As well Nettle knew, she’d focused on one word only. She simpered, “Queen?”

  Claudine gave a little nod.

  “Queen of… what? All Hallows’ Eve?” inquired Jazz, “What’s that?”

  “Halloween,” answered Fred. A pensive expression had settled over him. “In the old days, it was believed All Hallows’ Eve was the one night faerie and mortals danced together in revelry.”

  With the mention of faerie, Jazz startled. Her mouth fell open to speak. Nettle swiftly kicked Jazz under the table. Jazz jumped, reaching down to rub her leg and scowl darkly at Nettle. Nettle, in turn, gave her a scathing look: keep-your-big-mouth-shut.

  Thankfully, Claudine hadn’t noticed, she was touching Fred lightly on the arm. “Of course, that’s just old fairy-tales. Things are a little more contemporary these days. It’s a night to dress up and collect candy and frolic about in the evening, just a bit of innocent fun.”

  “What do you want with me?” Jazz asked, her thoughts flicking between images of her dressed in an exquisite gown of floating white fabric with a diamond tiara, and being fawned over by her subjects. Nettle would ideally be grovelling before her like a pauper, kissing her glass-slippered toes.

  “Well, in Olde Town, the whole village comes together to celebrate the evening with a little bit of theatre for our guests. My sisters and I are in charge of organizing it, and as soon as I heard from Nettle that you resembled Lysette, everything fell into place. We’ve always wanted to put something on that would be spectacular and, in particular, we’ve wanted to recreate a little scene from Olde Town’s history - the burning of the nefarious witch, Lysette the Black.”

  Jazz blinked long lashes. “Burning?! You’re going to light me on fire?”

  Claudine batted a hand at her. “We won’t light a bonfire under you, silly. No, we’re thinking more abstract. Fireworks and pyrotechnics, sparklers and pinwheels reeling across the night sky. More like a celebration – a party!”

  Yet Jazz wasn’t convinced. Her mouth drooped into a pout. “I guess so,” she said without enthusiasm. She wasn’t really liking the idea of dressing up as a witch. “But aren’t witches ugly old hags with long noses and warts?”

  Nettle inwardly groaned, she’s so vain.

  “Oh no,” replied Claudine, quick to reassure her. “Lysette was quite the attractive witch. No warts or boils or missing teeth for her.”

  Jazz’s smile returned. “Oh, well, good then. I suppose I could play her. What would I have to do?”

  “Just be beautif
ul. We’ll have a stunning dress for you to wear, and all you’ll need to do is be regal, and relax while you’re carried about at the head of the procession. You’ll need to wave a lot, and shake the hands of the little children gathered, maybe a few autographs.” Jazz was beginning to get a far-away quality in her gaze, imagining it all. Claudine’s smile widened, “Then a few theatrics – don’t worry, my sisters and I will have that all in hand - as you lead everyone up to the top of Olde Town. You are of course supposed to be the witch that ruled Olde Town,” she winked. “That’s where the party’s arranged. You sit on the throne overseeing it all. There’ll be dancing and singing and fireworks exploding above. It’ll be so much fun. A grand affair.” She smiled at the rest of the Blackthorn, “You’ll all enjoy it immensely.”

  Jazz thumped the table, “I’ll do it!”

  Fred jumped in, his expression dark. “No.”

  Everyone turned toward him, surprised by his refusal. Even Bram stopped picking at the leftovers to stare in bewilderment at his father.

  “I’m sorry Claudine, it’s a wonderful offer, but Jazz won’t be able to participate.” Fred rubbed his wrist with the palm of his hand.

  “Uncle Fred,” whined Jazz, “I want to be the Queen.”

  “You can’t, because we won’t be here for Halloween.”

  Claudine’s open expression revealed she was slightly stunned and a little hurt. “You won’t?”

  “Yes, Dad, what do you mean we won’t be here?” Nettle’s voice quavered with barely contained fury. She knew as soon as he said it, he meant it. He wanted them to pack up and move on. Well she wasn’t having it. They’d been travelling for too long, and now, right here at the cottage, was the perfect opportunity to stay and settle down.

  Fred shook his head, pressing his lips together, and met his daughter’s gaze. She was livid. “By then, we’ll be back on the road, Nettle.” All Hallows’ Eve, in the midst of the Forgotten Wilds was a very dangerous night.

  Jazz had crossed her arms, quietly fuming. It was typical of Uncle Fred. She swore he was out to ruin her fun, any opportunity he had, just like his miserable children. Jazz, clouded by her own self-absorption, wasn’t aware she had an ally in Nettle.

  Bram had grown pale and anxious. He glanced at Nettle,. Like her, he had high hopes to be like any other normal family and stay put at the cottage for a while.

  “Come on, Dad,” coaxed Nettle trying a different tactic.

  “We’ll discuss it later.” But by his tone, she knew he meant his word was final and there would be no discussion. Her mouth puckered like she was sucking on a lemon, and that let Fred know she was going to fight him all the way.

  Claudine’s pretty mouth drooped, “Oh, that’s a shame. I hope you’re not leaving for good.”

  “Yeah Dad, I want to see the tea house,” Bram piped up earnestly, desperate to latch onto to anything that would keep them in the cottage a little longer. “And Olde Town, I missed out on that yesterday.”

  “Bram,” warned his father.

  “But Dad,” he whined.

  “I would love to show you around Olde Town. All of you,” interjected Claudine, and she bestowed a bewitching smile on Fred and lightly touched his arm. “Before you go, promise me, you’ll come see us.”

  Fred felt a rush of heat flood his face. “Yes I... I mean, we would love to see you… I mean, the tea house. But-”

  “No buts,” said Claudine and pressed a finger to his lips to stop him from saying anything further. She leaned over and unstrapped his watch from his wrist. “Besides,” she said playfully, “I promised to fix this for you.” She slipped the watch into her wicker basket. “Now you can’t leave until you come to Olde Town to collect it.”

  Fred was about to protest but then thought better of it. After giving his wrist a quick scratch, he began to clear the dishes. While his back was turned, Claudine winked at the kids.

  Nettle shared a grin with Bram. There was hope for them yet. Surely, after spending more time with Claudine, there would be no way her Dad would want to leave the Forgotten Wilds and Olde Town.

  Later that night, Nettle found she couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned, flung the blankets off and fluffed her pillow countless times. But sleep eluded her. Her mind was too scattered. Her thoughts were all over the place, picking apart the day and feverishly seeking a plan to keep them here at the cottage. Though there was one major hurdle in the day, her father wanting to leave before Halloween, she was extremely pleased with her father’s first encounter with Claudine. He seemed smitten, as did Claudine. She’d whispered to her on her way out, how lovely it was to meet her father.

  Bram liked Claudine, but he liked anyone who could bake the kind of food she’d brought with her. Jazz was keen, mainly because it benefited her. But there was something else that crept unwanted into her consciousness and kept her from sleep. An unwelcome sensation that made her feel slightly off-kilter. Her mother. Strangely, Nettle experienced a horrid unease she’d betrayed her mother by desperately wanting Claudine to replace her.

  Nettle kicked at her blankets. It was stupid of her, so stupid to feel this way. Her mother left her, she reminded herself. She left a six year old kid and a baby. Who leaves a baby? A heartless, selfish woman who doesn’t deserve to call herself a mother, that’s who. Even reassuring herself of her righteousness in this matter, she couldn’t quite rid herself of the guilt.

  Nettle fluffed her pillow again, using her fists to pummel the shape back. She stilled. Her father, his familiar heavy footsteps, raced up the stairs toward her bedroom and suddenly her door was flung open. His silhouette in the doorframe seemed warped, like he had a hunchback.

  “Dad?” She leaned over to light her lamp. The amber flame swamped the room in a dim wavering light. Her father wore a pinched remorseful expression. She saw that his hunchback was actually a canvas backpack. “Dad?” she asked again, now anxious. “What’s going on?”

  “Something’s come up. I have to leave.”

  Though it was the last thing she’d ever thought he’d say, seeing the backpack had instantly made her feel ill. “What do you mean, leave? Dad, it’s the middle of the night.”

  His voice was thick and husky, “I’m sorry, I don’t have a choice. I have to go.”

  He said ‘I,’ not we.

  “I need your help with something. Come on, get dressed, we have to be quick.”

  Fred left the bedroom and Nettle quickly slipped into some jeans and boots. She kept her pyjama top on and shrugged into a fleece-lined jacket doing up the buttons with fingers that seemed to suddenly lose dexterity. He was scaring her. What is he thinking, leaving? Who’s going to look after us? How long would he be gone? These thoughts crowded her mind as she made her way down the stairs to the living room. But more importantly, is he going to come back? That fear, of him leaving like her mother did, squeezed her heart with wintry fingers.

  Her father was waiting for her by the front door. One of his hands fidgeted with the straps of the backpack which was on the ground at his feet, while the other feverishly rubbed his wrist against his trouser leg. He seemed frazzled and guilty and anxious to get going. By the hearth, Willoughby hopped back and forth, ruffling his wings and pecking at his chest.

  “Willoughby!” Nettle looked excitedly at her father. “When did he come back?”

  “Not long ago.” Fred whistled and the bird leapt to the air and fluttered across the room to land on his shoulder. Willoughby cocked his head at Nettle and let out a series of shrill wik-wik-wik, as if to say “Come on, there’s no time to lose.”

  Fred hoisted his bag on his back and opened the front door.

  “Wait… Dad…” Perplexed, Nettle followed her father down the porch steps. “Where are we going?”

  “Into the Forgotten Wilds.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Woodstock Twins

  Her Dad held her hand tightly as they made their way along the path. Willoughby flew ahead. The moon was hidden behind a veil of clo
ud and the torchlight bobbed in front, only illuminating the first few feet ahead. They were surrounded by a night so black Nettle felt like she was traversing an abyss, and with one wrong footstep she’d fall and disappear forever.

  After what seemed an eternity they reached the Thicket. It was more formidable than she had imagined. It seemed to be endless. But as the moon reappeared she saw that it did end.

  They’d stopped a short distance away. Her father held her by her shoulders, and looked her square in the eye. “I need you to do something for me.”

  “What?” She had no idea what he could possibly want from her. How she could help?

  He turned her slowly around until she faced the wall of thorns. “I need you to walk toward the Thicket.”

  She shot him a perplexed shirk of an eyebrow. She didn’t know how on earth that could help him, but she did what she was told. She walked toward the wall of thorns, her father close behind. As she approached, she heard rather than saw, the rustling, crackle and crunching, rasping and tearing. It wasn’t the wind, for the night was still. What is happening? The closer she got to the Thicket, she more she was able to see in the shifting shadows, the briars and prickled stems and branches of spikes and needles were moving, unravelling and unknotting. By the time she reached the wall of thorns, a gaping hole had been created. An entrance to beyond the Thicket.

  Fred guided Nettle through the hole in the Thicket. She was too stunned to speak. This side of the Thicket was much like the other, just more trees.

  Beyond the Thicket, waiting beside the twisted trunk of an oak tree, were two strangers enshrouded in shadow. Children, judging by their size. Her father greeted them with a hasty wave. Willoughby arced lazily above, but when he saw the strangers he flew straight to them and landed on one of their shoulders.

  Nettle shook her dazed head. “You said you’ve never been beyond the Thicket.”

  “It’s true, I haven’t.”

  “How…? Why did it do that?”

  “Because of you,” Her father answered. “It wouldn’t part for me.”