Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters

by Winter Woodlark

  “What’s this all about?” Burban enquired, his brown eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  Nettle stood up, her fingers still linked with Bram’s. She looked down at Burban, her mouth set in a determined line. “Dad. He’s been taken.”

  Burban gave a ponderous blink. “Taken? What do you mean?”

  Nettle shrugged. “I don’t know.” She felt Bram draw close, letting go of her hand to wind his arms about her waist. “The Woodstock Twins sent a message. They said he’s been taken and for us to leave, immediately. But we can’t go without Jazz.”

  “Gone?’ Burban said distantly, his voice crackling like pebbles rolling down a beach. “Just like last time...” The next moment he was full of purpose and he opened his mouth wide to bellow, “RIGHT LADS - TIME TO WAKE!!” The cottage’s clearing came alive with grumblings as Burban’s companions were abruptly awoken. “COME ON! TIME TO WAKE! TIME TO SECURE THE BLACKTHORN’S!!”

  All around the cottage the copse rustled and whoomphed like someone beating dust from a rug. Burban began to baaaarrRRROOOOOMMMM!!!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The Accursed Lysette

  Nettle had peddled as fast as she could, the wagon bouncing behind the bike, to arrive twenty minutes later at Olde Town, her clothes sticky with perspiration and her face red-cheeked and slick. She dumped the bike and wagon beside the welcome gate and ran up the steps, dodging Mr. Fussbinder leading a new group of visitors; threading her way through the various plateaus where guests clustered around milk-maids handing out balloons and ribbons; jugglers in orange and purple coloured tights, spinning apples in the air and a piper leading a group of giggling children. Lysette, the eldest daughter… It kept niggling at her. The eldest daughter I’m led to believe of a family rumoured to have Kin-Folk blood...

  As Nettle passed O’Grady’s Bookstore she found herself wondering if she had the time. There was that book she’d come across earlier in the store, the Accursed Witch of Olde Town. Maybe it might unearth something new, and explain to why she felt so uneasy about Benedict’s journal.

  Nettle disappeared into the bookstore a step or two behind a middle-aged man, who was almost as wide as he was tall, and slunk off to the alcove she’d discovered before and located the book she was after. Smilla stood cleaning the wooden counter with a yellow rag and a half-hearted attitude.

  The customer had a voice that boomed, disturbing Nettle. “Tea, bah! Everyone’s offering bloody tea wherever I go. I’ve swilled enough tea to fill a lake. What’s so special about yours?”

  Nettle peered through a small gap between books. The squat man was dressed in a three piece suit that was straining at the seams. His bulging form dwarfed Smilla, who’s timid voice whispered something Nettle couldn’t make out. She needn’t of worried, for the man with the portly stomach bellowed, “Cowslip, lovage and raspberry? Sounds flipp’n arty-farty to me.”

  Smilla said something else to which the man replied, “Ah go on then, pour me another, and show me where you’ve got the Brownlee Radcliffe books. I’ve a mind to read a good espionage book while the wife traipses about the place, burning a hole in my wallet.”

  Nettle heard the clinking of china and liquid pouring into a tea cup. The man quickly finished the cup and passed it back. “That were an interesting drop.”

  Nettle’s dark hair fell like a curtain as she went back to studying the book and that’s when she saw out the corner of her eye the air above the man’s head began to shimmer and undulate like the surface of a puddle reflecting the morning sun. A thin thread of gold wafted from the top of his head to his ceiling.

  Nettle’s head snapped up, her eyes widened, and her heart began to beat faster. Maybe I’m just seeing things that really aren’t there? But she wasn’t. There was definitely some sort of vapour rising from the man, twisting and curling upwards in misty puffs. Smoke? Maybe his hair or his jacket’s on fire.

  And then, the vapour was gone.

  Nettle rubbed her eyes, and looked again.

  Nothing.

  She shook her head, giving herself a silly grin. I am tired. I must be seeing things. Though she tried hard to reassure herself that it must be all in her mind, she couldn’t shake Jack’s voice – they’re not who they’re pretending to be – and the feeling that something very wrong was at play here.

  The book – The Accursed Witch of Olde Town - elaborated on what she’d learned from Grandfather Benedict’s diary and in part was based on the account of an elderly priest, Linus Plinchett, and his days working as a young pastor in Caddland.

  Young Linus had been sent from Caddland to Olde Town after the clergy had received a troubling letter from one of their own. He was accompanied by the Arbiter, Jedidiah Boon, and his companion, a foreigner, described by Linus as having “a chilling sort of beauty.”

  When we arrived in the small hamlet, we discovered the priest who’d sent the letter had died only a week before. Olde Town was an eerie place to be and filled me with a great dread - and I wished, not for the first time, nor the last, that it wasn’t I who had been called upon to accompany Arbiter Boon - for I found the villagers’ behaviour most troubling. They were quiet and subdued and there was something vacuous about their gaze as if they weren’t present in this world. They would not speak to us at all, scuttling off to slam doors in our faces rather than talk to us. From the way the paint had flecked and chipped, we could tell they’d decorated their doorways some time ago with pagan symbols and wardings to protect themselves from the pestilence that was rife, but this alone would not save them.

  What troubled me most, was the silence. There was no talk, no laughter from children. In fact there were no children to speak of.

  Under Arbiter Boon’s instructions, I rummaged rather reluctantly through the priest’s belongings, finding his personal journals. Within them I discovered Olde Town had suffered a series of unfortunate incidents, beginning with the death of a young girl earlier that year. Soon after, there were a rash of departures, mainly young men and woman supposedly leaving for the allure of my own village of Caddland. Later, their bodies were discovered, murdered in macabre rituals, hidden amongst the forest that had encroached upon Olde Town. The villagers began to whisper of Devil-Worshiping and it was hard for the priest to dissuade them, for in his heart he saw this as the truth.

  As mid-summer arrived, a devastating blight struck the crops of the villagers, poisoning leaves, and rotting roots. There was little to sustain the villagers through the winter months, which proved to be incredibly harsh. Not only did many of the town folk starve to death, along with their livestock, others were struck by a sickness that brought boils and bloody pustules, and killed indiscriminately.

  When young children, who had not died from this sickness began to disappear, murmurings of witches grew rife amongst the priest’s flock and some spoke out against the one family that flourished amongst this utter ruin and devastation. Their crops grew, their livestock fattened, the plague didn’t touch them.

  Before long, the priest dispatched a letter to the clergy with his suspicions.

  That was when I realised the importance of Arbiter Boon’s companion and why we as a group had been sent here to Olde Town. He was a Witch-Hunter.

  Soon after our arrival to the village and the unearthing of the priest’s journals, Arbiter Boon declared Olde Town under the nefarious spell of a witch. It didn’t take Arbiter Boon long to point the finger at the only family surviving – the Balfrey’s.

  When the girl was brought before Arbiter Boon, it was hard to look upon her and see her for the witch she was accused of being. She was young and beautiful and her face angelic, and I had a deep desire to protect her. How could someone so beautiful be accursed?

  At only seventeen years of age Lysette was accused of witchcraft and heresy, and Arbiter Boon condemned her to judgement in a trial of Witchcraft tests governed by his companion, the foreigner.

  I was not admitted to these trials, and I daresay I was glad not to be there. The dreadful so
unds coming from the barn in which the tests were performed can never be forgotten and most nights, even now in my dotage, plague my dreams and turn them into nightmares.

  It was Lysette, herself, who after being tested and unveiled, exposed her true nature. She proclaimed quite vehemently herself a witch – amongst other profanities shouted at Arbiter Boon - and was arrogant and conceited about having murdered those who had made her childhood miserable. She had brought this darkness to Olde Town not in the name of the devil, but for a love denied her. And it was for this love she’d set in motion a wicked plan to re-unite herself with her true love. Whoever this person was, I never learnt, as she shielded his identity right until her end.

  On March 9, 1793, Lysette was burned at the stake, something that even I could not watch and had to turn away from. She did not die willingly, nor quietly. Her death was attended by her mother, Lucinda, and her siblings (sisters) much younger than herself.

  Nettle stilled. The Crone! The old woman couldn’t remember her name, she’d tried hard to recall it, remembering it started with L. It couldn’t be Lucinda? Could it? That would be impossible. But the old woman also made mention of, me and my fair girls…

  Nettle read on hurriedly.

  The broken Balfrey family departed Olde Town as soon as it was over. Afterward we buried Lysette’s bones in an unmarked grave near the summit of Olde Town.

  The only fortunate occurrence amongst all this wretchedness, was that the foreigner made a terrifying discovery and learned the whereabouts of the missing children. Lysette had ensorcelled the villagers’ children and set them to mine the very hill that Olde Town was built upon.

  Many of the children we freed were in a terrible state, starved, near death and most did not survive our ministrations. What in particular Lysette had set them to mine for, was never learned, for as soon as the accursed Lysette had died they were set free from her spell and with it the knowledge of what they’d been digging for.

  Nettle rocked back in astonishment – mine Olde Town?

  “Bristol!” Smilla suddenly exclaimed, diverting Nettle’s attention. She peeped through the gap and discovered the rotund man had obviously left while she was reading, and an old man dressed in an oversized tweed coat, dirtied and torn, was behind the counter engulfed within Smilla’s thin arms. They were about the same height as one another. Bristol had a large head with a thinning comb-over. He struggled to extract himself from his wife’s grip. “Easy,” he grumbled. “Anyone would think you actually cared.”

  Smilla batted him playfully with a hand, but let him loose. “Of course I do, and you know it.”

  Bristol brought out something small and slim from the inside of his coat. He held it carefully in his hands. Nettle rose on tippy-toe, angling to see what he was showing his wife. Smilla squinted, taking a long moment to take in the leather pouch. Her voice was thin and reedy. “You did it then.”

  “Course I did it,” smarted Bristol. “Have you no faith in me, you old hag?”

  “I don’t like it,” said Smilla, shrinking away from the pouch. “I wish you heeded me from the first. We should never have gotten ourselves mixed up in this.” Her voice sounded worried, yet there was a certain kind of told-you-so in her tone.

  “Heed you?” spat the old man, round spectacles perched on the tip of his bulbous nose. “You were the one who egged me on. ‘Get in with them,’ you said. It was you who got us mixed up in all of this. And look where it’s gotten us. Heeded you. Ha! I should have heeded my mother. She warned me not to marry you.”

  “Never married me?!” near shrieked his wife, “Bristol O’Grady shame on you. You can’t do anything right without me. You can’t even find your hat.”

  “My hat is on my head, Smilla.” Bristol scowled, reaching up to grab it. Except there was no hat on his head. His fingers pawed the air where he’d assumed it sat. His wrinkled and chapped mouth puckered in annoyance.

  Smilla rolled her birdlike eyes heavenward. “You’d lose your head too if it weren’t for me.”

  Bristol couldn’t let it pass, he glanced away mumbling, “Would have had a few more coppers to my name, that’s for sure.”

  “What was that?” Smilla snarked.

  “Nothing my dear,” Bristol lied.

  “Shush yourself.” Smilla swatted him on the arm. She nervously glanced over her shoulder. “She’ll be here any moment.” She retrieved a soft bundle of material and placed it on the counter.

  I bet that’s one of those strange bulbs again, Nettle wondered.

  Bristol tucked the pouch back into his pocket, and gave his wife a grim smile. “Couldn’t be any sooner.”

  Smilla didn’t like the dark look in her husband’s eye. “Bristol O’Grady, what are you up to?”

  “Never you mind.”

  “Bristol!” snapped Smilla, “If you’re dragging me into one of your imprudent, no good ideas-”

  “I’m done with penny pinching,” bit her husband. “This will afford us a very nice retirement, and if I have my way, youth and another century to live. And you can thank me later.”

  Nettle didn’t know what to make of that odd comment, what a strange thing to say.

  “Thank you later?!” Smilla yowled. “You stupid old fool!”

  Bristol tisked, but said nothing to defend himself, besides “I’ll find my hat on my own, you old hag.” He trudged past his wife and disappeared into the back room of the book store.

  Neither the O’Grady’s nor Nettle had heard the doorbell ring, and now Claudine stood in front of the elderly woman, her wicker basket hanging from an arm. “Smilla,” she admonished with mocking timbre. “Surely, that’s no way to be talking to your husband.”

  Smilla started a little, and pulled her shawl about her shoulders with gnarled fingers. “If you were married to him, I’m sure that’s the least you’d be advising,” she mumbled, but she bowed her head politely.

  Nettle felt a surge of relief wash through her. Claudine, she’ll know what to do. Just seeing the lovely Claudine brought a smile to her lips. She went to greet her.

  The laughter that rang out was light-hearted enough but there was something unkind in Claudine’s tone. “Yes, you’re quite right. Better you than I, to be wed to Bristol,” and she delivered a contemptuous look at the old woman, as if it baffled her that Smilla willingly chose to marry the old fool.

  Nettle pulled up short, confused at the way Claudine mocked the old woman. This wasn’t the Claudine she knew.

  Claudine unwrapped the bundle of fabric with long tapered fingers and lifted an orb high enough to inspect the smoky content. It was indeed one of those peculiar orbs like the one Smilla had given Jack a day or so ago. Nettle’s whole body tensed. Inside the bulb was a golden smokiness, just like the filament drifting from the portly man’s head who came into the bookstore looking for a Radcliffe Brownlee book.

  Claudine gave a dissatisfied tisk. “It’s hardly full... not even half full.”

  Smilla kneaded her hands, her voice tremulous. “We don’t have many customers-”

  “No I expect not, and you’re more the fool for it,” retorted Claudine sharply. “I’ve told you before, Smilla, you need to have some of those silly holiday-fluff books that sell so well in airports to bring people in here.”

  Nettle hadn’t heard Claudine speak so harshly before, it gave her quite a shock. She knew she should have made them aware that she was in the bookstore straight away, but she’d hesitated a little too long, and now she didn’t know what to do. If Claudine spotted her, she’d instantly believe she was eavesdropping, and in truth, wasn’t that what she was doing?

  Smilla cleared her throat and replied tentatively, “You know Bristol, he’s very particular and refuses to stock those types of books.”

  “Well that’s unfortunate for you, Smilla,” answered Claudine, one of her feet making a sharp clack on the wooden floor as she stamped her foot in irritation. She produced from the wicker basket a small brown vial and handed it over.

  The
old woman turned it over in her worn hands, her expression crestfallen. “I thought we’d-”

  Claudine’s sapphire eyes glittered dangerously. “You thought what, Smilla? Earned enough to remove a few more wrinkles? Take a few more years off your age?”

  Nettle drew in a sharp breath. Whatever did that mean? Bristol made mention of something similar earlier.

  Smilla tried one more time, her gnarled hands splayed in supplication. “Bristol and I... we’re both getting old and tired.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Smilla, when you produce the quota everyone else collects, you’ll earn the same.” Claudine paused to eye the old lady keenly. “I’d hate to think you weren’t grateful.”

  “Of course we are,” Smilla said hastily. “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

  “No. I should hope not.” Claudine rapped her fingernails impatiently upon the countertop and looked over the old woman’s head to the back door. “I’m done bantering with you,” she waved dismissively. “Bristol!”

  After a moment Bristol made his appearance, still with no hat. Claudine gave him a smile that had no warmth. “I very nearly didn’t think you’d return in time.” Or return at all, Nettle wondered, thinking that was what Claudine actually meant.

  “Neither did I,” Bristol grumped.

  Claudine’s eyebrow arched. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble laying your hands on it for us, but it plays a very integral part in the ceremony.”

  She means All Hallows’ Eve - Jazz’s ceremony, Nettle thought, her stomach beginning to roil with unease. An image jumped out at her, unbidden, Pippa’s fingers drawing the words in the salt – Jazz in danger.

  “I near thought it was the last of me. Dangerous it was. Almost lost my life duelling that old troll.” He lay a protective arm about Smilla’s waist.

  Nettle had tensed as soon as Bristol had mentioned the troll. That’s what Rory had said! Aunt Thistle had been abducted by a troll.