A Sprinkle of Sorcery

by Michelle Harrison

  Betty picked it up, feeling something flutter in her chest. Hope. ‘Looks like we have our yarn, after all.’

  • • •

  The first signs of Ronia and Spit were on the path leading up to the caves.

  ‘Look.’ Betty pointed, breathless, to a scuffed area of dirt and a handful of weeds that had been half wrenched from the soil. ‘One of them must have slipped and grabbed on to that to keep their balance.’

  ‘Hopefully Ronia,’ Fliss said viciously.

  ‘But not her cat,’ Charlie added, a crease of worry appearing between her eyebrows.

  Fliss looked over her shoulder and grimaced. ‘It’s a long way down.’ She tightened her grip on Charlie’s hand and urged her onwards. ‘Don’t look.’

  ‘Just keep heading for the top,’ said Betty. She thought back to the story. Would they find something there, an answer to the mystery of what had happened to the friend of Willow’s father? Even if they didn’t, it would surely be safer there than on this precarious path.

  They continued to climb, picking their way along, saving their breath for the climb rather than conversation. Only when the ground levelled and stretched away to a grassy area before a crumbling cave did Betty allow herself to pause, resting her aching legs. Her mind was fraught with worry. What she had said was true: they had to help Willow, but at the same time she was afraid. If the stories of the witch and her magical objects were true, then this vast island really was a trap. How likely was it that they would find the evidence they needed, when they didn’t know what they were searching for? And then of course, there was Ronia . . .

  Betty forced the doubts away. The map – and the Winking Witch – had got them this far, and Charlie had chosen correctly from the cauldron. She needed to continue to trust in the magic of the island – and herself.

  One thing she couldn’t reassure herself of, however, was Willow. If the girl had seemed sickly earlier, she appeared almost deathly pale now. She looked fragile, like a bleached twig about to snap off in the wind.

  ‘Willow?’ Betty said gently. ‘Are you sure you can go on? You look so unwell. You’ve been losing strength ever since we had to fight off those wisps.’

  Willow blinked slowly, as if trying to clear her thoughts. ‘My head feels . . . fuzzy,’ she admitted. ‘My thoughts are jumbled. But we’re so . . . so close now. I need to know the truth. If my father can be saved, I have to go on.’ She looked at Betty, her eyes feverish. ‘I can’t give up now.’

  ‘I found something!’ Charlie shouted from behind an area of scrubby bushes near the cave entrance. ‘Over here!’

  ‘What is it?’ Betty called, hurrying to her with Fliss on her heels. ‘Careful – don’t touch anything!’ The thought of the island’s traps leapt to the forefront of her mind.

  ‘Look,’ said Charlie, pointing. ‘An old well.’

  A circular wall of grey stones stood round a deep hole in the ground. Above it, a wooden spindle was bare of rope. There was no sign of a bucket.

  ‘It says something,’ said Fliss, tracing her fingers over letters that had been scratched into the stones round the rim. ‘Some of them have been worn away over time . . . I can’t make them all out. “ . . . he well of ost . . . tune . . .”?’ She squinted, her lips moving soundlessly. ‘ “The well of most . . . tunes?” That doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘The Well of Lost Fortune!’ said Betty, the answer arriving in a flash. ‘The eldest brother in the story was called Fortune, and he fell into the well and turned into a—’

  ‘Help!’ a voice cried faintly, interrupting her. ‘Is someone there?’

  ‘Was that . . . ?’ Charlie began. ‘Someone’s calling from down there!’ She peered into the depths of the well. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Charlie, don’t!’ Fliss grabbed at her. ‘It could be dangerous!’

  The voice sounded again weakly from below. ‘Someone, please help!’

  ‘Wait,’ said Betty, recognition sparking. ‘I’m sure that’s . . . I know that voice!’ She leaned over the side of the well, cupping her hands to her mouth. ‘Spit! Is that you?’

  ‘Yes!’ Spit’s voiced echoed back up at them. ‘Get me out – I’m stuck down here! And there’s a creepy fish that won’t leave me alone!’

  ‘Fish?’ Betty whispered, recalling the three brothers’ tale. ‘The story! Spit, are you a fish?’

  There was a pause, then Spit’s voice sounded, faint but incredulous. ‘What? No!’

  ‘Never mind!’ she yelled, feeling rather silly. ‘Is the bucket in there?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Spit shouted up. ‘It snapped off!’

  ‘We’re getting you out,’ Betty called, but the memory of the brothers’ tale made her wonder if the fish, too, had any significance. ‘Get the fish in the bucket and bring it with you.’

  There was a bewildered pause before Spit answered. ‘Whatever. Just get me out!’

  ‘Charlie, quickly,’ said Betty. ‘The string!’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ Charlie shook her head, arms crossed defiantly. ‘Nope.’

  Fliss gaped at Betty. ‘Surely you’re not helping him? He left us on that rock, or have you forgotten that?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Charlie. ‘He nicked our boat!’

  ‘Ronia stole the boat,’ said Betty. She was angry at Spit – there was no question about that. Yet, at the same time, she’d seen another side of him back at The Sorcerer’s Compass. He could have turned his back on them – but he hadn’t. He’d helped, even though he was afraid of Ronia. She swallowed, trying to imagine living in fear of the only family she had ever had. ‘I know Spit went along with it, but he didn’t want to!’

  ‘Then that’s even worse,’ said Charlie.

  ‘It is,’ said Betty. ‘He was wrong. But before that he helped us. We can’t just leave him. He’ll die.’

  Sulkily, Charlie passed her the reel.

  ‘Tie this to the bucket!’ Betty shouted, throwing the string into the well. She felt the end of it moving as Spit complied. Under her fingers, the string felt flimsy, like it was about to break any second. It would take some very strong magic, she thought despairingly, to haul a person up.

  ‘This could still be a trap,’ said Fliss, looking over her shoulder as though she expected Ronia to come charging at them at any moment.

  ‘I know,’ said Betty. ‘But there’s no way either of them expected us to turn up here.’

  ‘It’s ready!’ Spit yelled.

  Betty felt a weight at the end of the string. She pulled, and slowly a battered wooden bucket came into view. Inside, a large silvery green fish with strange little tufty fins stared up at them with unnervingly human eyes.

  ‘Spit’s right,’ said Fliss. ‘That’s one creepy fish!’

  ‘It speaks, too!’ yelled Spit. ‘Keeps telling me it’s a sole. Don’t look nothing like a sole! Don’t look like any fish I’ve ever seen!’

  ‘Sole?’ Betty frowned glancing at Willow. ‘Wait . . . Saul? SAUL! Jumping jackdaws! Could it really be—?’

  A small cry escaped Willow’s lips as she leaned over the bucket, gripping its edges tightly with her fingers. ‘Saul?’ she whispered, her voice trembling.

  The fish flipped in the water, breaking the surface. ‘Saul,’ it said, bubbling through the water. ‘Saul.’

  Willow gasped. ‘Saul! My father – you have to tell me what happened that night . . .’

  ‘Saul,’ the fish repeated, staring back, unblinking.

  Willow’s face fell. ‘He can’t tell me.’

  ‘Maybe it’s not really him,’ said Fliss gently. ‘For all we know, it could be one of the island’s tricks.’

  ‘Talking ravens,’ Spit muttered in the well. ‘Now talking fish!’ He spat loudly.

  ‘Swim clockwise if it’s really you,’ Willow urged.

  Immediately, the fish changed direction, swimming to the right.

  ‘It’s him!’ Willow insisted. ‘I knew it – it has his eyes! He’s alive.’

  ‘And still a fish,’ Betty said grimly.
‘If we take him back, it doesn’t prove a thing, especially if he can’t tell us anything.’

  ‘Then we have to go on,’ said Willow.

  ‘If it’s really him,’ said Betty, ‘then yes, we do. And we’ve got this far, there’s no turning back.’ She thought of the three brothers, and how Fortune and Luck had only been restored to their true forms after Hope had navigated the island. Just as the brothers had, they were being drawn deeper into its clutches with no real answers. What if Fliss was right – what if it wasn’t Saul? Either way, they had no choice but to go on. ‘But first we’ve got to get Spit out.’

  ‘You can’t get him out with that,’ said Fliss, plucking the string. ‘It’ll snap.’

  ‘Perhaps if we twist it double, or even triple it . . .’

  Betty never got to finish the sentence for before her eyes the reel of string rolled out of her grasp and began weaving itself deftly into a thick, strong rope.

  ‘Meddling magpies,’ said Betty, as the rope coiled neatly at her feet. ‘It’s definitely strong enough now!’ She picked it up. ‘Spit, watch out! I’m throwing you a rope. Grab on!’

  She launched the rope into the well.

  ‘Got it,’ came the faint reply.

  ‘I’m going to need help pulling him up,’ she said. ‘It’s a long way down.’ Together, Betty, Fliss and Charlie hauled on the rope. ‘Keep going,’ Betty panted.

  ‘I see him,’ Charlie exclaimed. She dropped the rope and leaped on to the edge of the well for a better look. ‘He’s nearly at the top!’

  A moment later, Spit’s golden head emerged and he flung an arm over the side of the well. Then he pulled himself out and rolled on to the ground, chest heaving. Behind him the rope began unravelling as quickly as it had made itself, looping back round the wooden reel at Betty’s feet. Spit eyed it warily.

  ‘More magic?’ he said eventually. ‘Follows you everywhere, doesn’t it? Just like bad luck.’

  Betty ignored him. ‘Where’s Ronia?’ she asked. ‘How did you end up in the well?’

  ‘Did she push you in?’ Charlie asked, barely concealing a smirk. Betty elbowed her.

  Spit shook his head, his expression darkening. ‘She may as well have.’ He hauled himself to his feet and spat on the ground. ‘That pesky cat of hers pounced on a bird at the edge of the well. Missed it but fell straight in. Ronia ordered me to climb down and get the cat in the bucket so she could wind it back up. She got Bandit out, but of course it wasn’t strong enough to pull me up. Snapped right off.’ He shrugged, rubbing his nose angrily. ‘She said she’d come back for me . . .’

  ‘Maybe she was planning to,’ said Betty. Privately, she doubted this, but Spit looked so crushed, so broken, that it was all she could think of to say. In any case, he remained unconvinced.

  ‘You didn’t see her face,’ he said, a haunted look in his eyes. ‘Once she got that key, it was like . . . like that was all that mattered. The closer we got to the island—’

  ‘On our boat,’ Fliss interjected coldly.

  He nodded, shamefaced. ‘The closer we got, the less she seemed to care about getting back to the Rusty Scuttlers and the more she talked about what riches there might be. All I wanted was to help her, and to prove myself. But I’d started to wonder if . . .’ He hesitated, still struggling with some deep-rooted loyalty. ‘If she wanted me with her at all.’ He gulped, his voice cracking. ‘If you hadn’t come along . . . I . . .’ He broke off, frowning. ‘How did you get here, anyway?’

  Betty exchanged glances with her sisters. ‘You wouldn’t believe us if we told you,’ she said. ‘But one thing’s for certain: we’re leaving on our boat, and neither you nor Ronia is going to stop us.’

  Spit nodded, hanging his head. ‘Got it. I hate to break it to you though, but I reckon Ronia’s going to get to it first. Same goes for the treasure.’

  ‘We’re not here for treasure, so Ronia can keep it,’ said Betty. ‘We’re here for her.’ She turned to where she had left Willow, and felt a stab of panic. Willow wasn’t there. ‘Where is she? Willow?’ she called, searching frantically.

  ‘Here.’ Willow’s voice sounded softly from the cave entrance. She continued to stare into the gloom as, one by one, they joined her. The wisp hovered at her side, barely visible in the daylight. ‘The brothers went through the caves, didn’t they? That must mean we have to follow their path.’

  Betty tied the end of the string to the low branch of a tree just outside the cave.

  Spit raised an eyebrow. ‘That so we can find our way back?’

  Betty nodded. ‘In case we take any wrong turns. It’s all we’ve got now that Ronia has the map.’

  ‘She doesn’t.’ Spit reached into his shirt, removing a roll of paper. He handed it to her.

  Betty gasped, seizing it. She unrolled it, flicking water off the waxed surface. ‘How did you get this?’

  ‘Ronia dropped it in when she was leaning over the well,’ Spit replied. Anger flashed across his face. ‘Even that wasn’t enough for her to get me out. She said we didn’t need it any more – that it had got us here and she could do the rest.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Charlie, pointing at the map. ‘It’s changed again. Look! That wasn’t on it before.’

  ‘There,’ Betty breathed, her finger tracing the lagoon as she spotted what Charlie meant. For, sure enough, a large wooden chest had appeared at the centre of it and, as she watched, she could see the inked surface of the water softly rippling. A thrill of anticipation stole over her, the magic of the map making her fingertips tingle. It had led them here. Now they had to trust in it if they were to find their way home. ‘The lagoon is at the heart of the island. That’s where we need to get to.’

  ‘Looks like Willow was right about going through the caves,’ Spit murmured, nodding at the map. ‘Look.’

  Sure enough there was something else on the map which hadn’t been there before: a tiny lantern in the mouth of the inked cave. Flickering, as if it were inviting them in.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Betty.

  Fliss nodded at the bucket by Willow’s feet, with an expectant look at Spit. ‘Grab that.’

  Spit raised an eyebrow.

  ‘If it wasn’t for us, you’d still be stuck down there,’ said Fliss. ‘The least you can do is carry the fish.’

  ‘You planning on eating this?’ he grumbled.

  ‘No,’ said Willow, horrified. ‘My father’s life depends on that fish – it needs to survive, so stop slopping the water everywhere!’

  Spit looked at her quizzically. ‘Your father’s life . . . this fish?’

  ‘If this is Saul, then it proves my father didn’t kill him,’ said Willow. ‘He’s innocent.’

  Betty watched the fish, once again unnerved by how human its eyes appeared. She could swear there was sadness in them, and regret. Had Saul been seduced by the idea of the island’s riches and double-crossed Willow’s father for them, allowing his friend to take the blame for his murder? If that were true, Saul had paid a high price for his greed. But not as high a price as Willow and her family.

  ‘Everyone ready?’ Betty asked, nodding to the caves.

  ‘I am,’ said Charlie, slipping one hand into Betty’s and the other into Willow’s.

  Together, they stepped into the murky cavern, pausing as their eyes adjusted to the gloom.

  ‘How will we find our way through?’ asked Spit. ‘We’ve no torches, no lanterns . . .’

  The wisp trailed ahead, bobbing in a narrow part of the black tunnel. Its glow lit the craggy walls, casting an eerie pale light on everything.

  ‘Whoa!’ Spit staggered back, noticing the wisp for the first time. ‘Where the heck did that come from?’ He crossed himself, eyes wide with fear and confusion. ‘Did it follow us from the wreck?’

  ‘It’s been with us all along,’ said Betty, quietly. ‘You just couldn’t see it. It’s not like the others – it’s with Willow. And it means us no harm.’ As she spoke, she watched Willow. There was a look of worry in her e
yes, like a haze had momentarily lifted.

  ‘I . . . I thought it was Saul,’ she said, staring at the glowing orb. ‘But now I know it can’t be.’ Her expression became drawn, haunted as she made the connection – the possibility Betty had considered but left unspoken. ‘When I got split up from Mother, I never saw what happened to her . . . What if—?’

  ‘We can’t know what happened,’ Betty told her gently. ‘Or who it is. All we can do is keep going, for your father’s sake. He needs you, Willow.’

  Willow stared at the wisp, her eyes growing steely once more. ‘Father needs me,’ she repeated, stepping further into the caves. ‘He needs me . . .’

  ‘Great,’ Spit muttered unhappily. ‘Perfect. Haven’t you ever heard that you’re not supposed to follow will-o’-the-wisps?’

  ‘Don’t follow the will-o’-the-wisps . . .’ That’s what everyone always said, thought Betty. Yet, here they were, about to risk everything. Their own lives for that of a stranger’s.

  ‘We’re not following it,’ said Betty. ‘It’s just lighting the way.’ She set down the wooden reel, hoping that, once again, it would help them. ‘We’re following this.’

  For an awful moment, she thought it wouldn’t work. The reel stayed still. Then it quivered, like a creature scenting the air, and began to roll into the darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Caves of Lost Luck

  ‘I DON’T LIKE THIS,’ SAID Charlie, moving closer to Betty as darkness pressed in on them, swallowing them up. ‘I don’t like it one bit.’

  ‘I know,’ Betty answered, her eyes following the glow of the wisp ahead. Already the temperature in the caves had dropped, and there was a shift in the air. A sensation of things closing in. ‘Neither do I. But as long as we have this yarn we won’t get lost.’ She repeated it in her head, trying to convince herself of it as much as she was trying to convince her little sister. We won’t get lost . . . we won’t get lost . . .