A Sprinkle of Sorcery
Page 26
Betty began to run, her breathing ragged. The distraction had slowed her, allowing the glowing beetles to slip a little further ahead. Every glance over her shoulder told her the figure was still there, neither falling back nor coming closer. Always the same, as constant as her own shadow. Perhaps there was a way she could hide? She tugged the nesting dolls out of her pocket, standing still in the dark. Carefully she undid them – nudging the third doll out of alignment so that only she, not her sisters or Willow would be affected – and left the second doll with her hair inside lined up. She twisted the outer doll to render herself invisible, and continued after the fading beetles. Quickly, she saw it made no difference. Somehow she knew the shadow could see her – or perhaps sense her.
She sped up, forgetting to be quiet now, and not bothering to readjust the dolls. Not caring about noise, just wanting the shadow to be gone and the beetles to lead her somewhere, anywhere out of the never-ending dark. Keep hope, she thought, chanting it in her head, but with every step it slipped further away from her. What if her sisters fell foul of Ronia’s determination to find riches? What if they were already gone? What if . . . ?
She felt dampness on her cheeks, and realised she was crying. The little lights of the beetles dimmed, like mist over a starlit sky. She looked back, then wished she hadn’t. The witch’s shadow blurred, somehow even more terrifying in its ambiguity. She’s waiting for me to give up, Betty thought, faint with fear as things twisted in the darkness at her feet. Roots snaring her ankles, clinging to her legs. She knows it’s only a matter of time . . .
Time. The word lit up in her mind like a match. Time was running out for Willow and her father, and for her sisters in Ronia’s grip. They couldn’t be parted like this! She had to make it back to them. She dashed the tears from her cheeks, desperately searching the undergrowth for the fading glow of the beetles. There! One tiny spark remained, trailing into the darkness.
Betty plunged after it, summoning all that was left of her courage. She had to keep going, couldn’t lose it, this last little speck of light that was her only hope . . .
And then, when she no longer knew whether her knees or her heart might give way first, a sound broke the silence: the trickle of running water.
Betty forced herself onwards, stopping abruptly as her foot left the crackling undergrowth and sank into sugar-soft sand. The instant her boot set down it was as though a veil had been lifted, light flooding over her, its brightness almost blinding. She glanced back into the trees, curiously no longer coated in darkness. On the fringes of the wood, the tiny beetles glittered like light on glass. How long would she have been wandering in the darkness without them? How long had she been wandering? The sky was still light but fading to pink, the sun having vanished beyond the steep cliffs encircling the island. A thin slice of moon and faint stars were already visible.
‘Thank you,’ Betty whispered to the beetles. One by one they flickered out, vanishing.
And yet the shadow remained, no closer but no further away, silent within the trees. Waiting and watching for her next move.
Braver now there was light, Betty took a few more steps on to the pale sand. It swept from side to side in a curve, smooth as fresh snow, with only a few rocks and boulders dotted here and there as it tapered away to a shore. Water lay ahead of her, crystal clear and turquoise. She had reached the lagoon. The heart of the island. Without the shadow at her back, she might have enjoyed the beauty of it, but as her eyes swept across it her gnawing uneasiness grew.
The water’s surface was flat and glassy, a mirror of the sky. And yet that made no sense, for at the back of it a waterfall was churning, its spray a pale blur at the furthermost edge of the lagoon.
A movement drew her attention. Betty passed a boulder and stared along the crescent of sand. Further up in the distance a group of figures stood along the shoreline, surrounding something on the ground, half in the water. Fear clutched at her. Was it a person lying there? It was too far to tell, or make out any expressions. She headed closer, counting them. She made out Charlie’s tangled hair and Fliss next to her. Spit was beside them and there was Ronia, sword drawn. Willow stood a little way back, appearing to be swaying on her feet. Miraculously, the bucket containing Saul was next to her.
Betty crept closer, weak with relief. They were all there; they still had a chance. She just had to get them past Ronia and – and . . . ?
She scanned the lagoon, thinking of the three brothers’ story. They’d had to reach the heart of the island in order to get Fortune and Luck returned to their true forms before they could leave. And for Betty, it must end here, too – but how were they to return home – and restore Saul to his human self?
Betty glanced over her shoulder warily. The witch shadow lingered in the darkness, but Betty felt stronger now, revived by the sight of her sisters, for however much danger they were in, there was still . . . hope. The word chimed in her head. Was it her imagination, or had the shadow faded a little? She took another step toward her sisters. Unmistakably, the witch drew further back.
She’s losing her hold on me, Betty realised. In the dark, when I was afraid, she almost caught me. And now she can’t. She edged closer to her sisters, heart soaring at the sound of their voices – just fragments at first but becoming clearer with every step. When she looked back next, the shadow had vanished – but a movement caught her attention.
The wooden reel, fat with twine, emerged from the fringe of the trees and rolled to rest against her foot, as though someone had accidently nudged it. Betty picked it up and pushed it safely into her pocket before continuing.
She moved closer still, glad of the cloak of invisibility the dolls provided. Soon Betty was near enough to hear every word. Charlie was sniffling, not interested in whatever the thing on the sand was. She stared back up the beach towards the path leading up the cliffs, tugging Fliss’s hand.
‘We have to find her, Fliss! Betty’s out there somewhere—’
Fliss wrapped her arm round Charlie’s shoulders, making shushing sounds, but her own face was tear-streaked and fraught.
Betty crept nearer, almost close enough to touch. A mixture of love for her sisters curdled with loathing for Ronia. And then Charlie gripped Fliss’s hand hard, pointing. Betty froze – she was invisible . . . wasn’t she?
Betty looked down, understanding at the same moment as Fliss. Her footprints were visible in the sand! Quickly, she dropped to her knees, using her finger to scrape a word: Shh!
A gappy grin broke out on Charlie’s face, but Fliss pressed a finger to her lips, shaking her head slightly. Charlie stopped grinning immediately and pretended to give a little sob.
‘Stop that child from snivelling. Or I will,’ Ronia snapped, ‘and get the lid open.’
Lid? Hastily, Betty brushed away the writing in the sand and peered past Ronia.
A huge wooden chest was half submerged in the sand. It lay at an angle, its curved lid tilting down, crusted with seaweed. Even though the lower half was buried, Betty could see that it was easily big enough to fit a person inside. A terrible sense of foreboding prickled at her, and it seemed she wasn’t alone.
‘I don’t think we should open it,’ said Spit, his voice low, urgent. ‘Anything could be inside. It might be a trap. We know what happens when people touch things they shouldn’t – Rusty Swindles showed us that.’ His eyes were haunted.
‘Yes,’ Ronia said, swinging her cutlass. ‘That’s why you’re opening it.’
Reluctantly, Spit heaved at the lid with Ronia, Fliss and Charlie looking on. Only Willow stood back, caught by some strange shaft of the fading light that illuminated her, almost painting her in blue. Betty frowned, further unsettled, although she couldn’t explain why . . . but as the chest creaked open her gaze was pulled away from the little girl.
A collective gasp went through them. Betty clapped her hand over her mouth, afraid of giving herself away, but Ronia was too busy staring into the chest.
It was full of maps, more maps than Betty had ev
er seen. Glimpses of ink – black, gold and silver – peeked out from rolls of fine parchment. Their curling edges were like beckoning fingers and, almost in a trance, Betty felt herself taking a step towards the chest. What kinds of maps were to be found on an unmapped island? The mystery of them sang to her, luring her like a siren’s song.
‘Oh,’ Charlie whispered, breaking Betty’s thoughts. ‘Look at the toffee on those apples! And those fruit drops – I’ve never seen so many colours!’ She squeaked and pointed in delight. ‘And those sugared mice are bigger than Hoppit!’
Betty shook her head faintly. Toffee apples? Sugared mice?
Ronia elbowed Charlie out of the way, leaning over the chest. Amber light played over her features, lighting them up in a way that didn’t make sense. In a way that might have been light reflecting off gold. ‘This isn’t a game, you stupid child! It’s riches. And they’re mine.’
‘Riches?’ Spit said faintly. ‘Is that what you see?’
‘Mice!’ Charlie insisted, her eyes still huge. ‘Great big ones with liquorice whiskers and tails!’
Betty blinked in bewilderment, seeing only maps.
‘That’s not what I see,’ Fliss murmured.
‘Nor me.’ Spit’s expression was haunted. ‘I see . . . a family.’
‘No, it’s a staircase,’ Fliss continued, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘The one leading up from the cellar into the Poacher’s Pocket.’ She grabbed Charlie’s hand. ‘If we took it, it’d lead us home, I know it!’
‘Ain’t no staircase!’ Charlie protested, licking her lips. ‘That’s sweets, that is!’
‘Stop with your nonsense,’ Ronia hissed. ‘It’s clear what’s happening here.’
‘Untold riches,’ breathed Spit, pausing, his eyes wide. ‘It was all true! Only everyone’s ideas of riches are different. It’s showing each of us what we want.’
‘Well, only one of us will be leaving with them,’ Ronia said viciously. She thrust a hand into the casket, and in that moment the maps Betty saw vanished. Golden coins and bright jewels tinkled through Ronia’s fingers. She laughed delightedly, unearthing a firestone the size of a lump of coal, before plunging her arm in even deeper.
‘What?’ Charlie whispered, eyeing the glinting coins in confusion.
A strange expression crossed Spit’s face, and Betty followed his gaze to Ronia, the captain he had so admired. She cackled like a magpie, her face contorting into something almost unrecognisable. As if the treasure itself had possessed her in every way.
‘It’s huge, vast,’ she crooned, admiring the casket like it was the crib of a longed-for child. ‘Bigger and better than any chest we’ve ever found.’
‘Yeah,’ said Spit softly. ‘And you want everything inside it for yourself, don’t you? To heck with the Rusty Scuttlers.’
Smirking, Ronia dug her arm deeper into the tumbling coins. But then the smirk faltered, replaced by confusion. She withdrew her arm, and swung a foot into the chest, pushing down through the treasure. ‘I – it must end somewhere . . . It’s—’
The coins gave way beneath her, as if a trapdoor had fallen open. Ronia screamed as she was sucked into the coins that were disappearing into the chest’s hidden depths like quicksand. As her fighting arm flung out to save herself, her cutlass sliced silently into the sand.
Fliss swooped on it, but already Betty could see that Ronia was shoulder deep and in trouble. Gold spilled over gold, and gemstones crushed against each other, grinding like pepper in a mill.
‘It’s swallowing her!’ Charlie yelled, wide-eyed in horror and fascination.
Instinctively, Spit grabbed Ronia’s arm, his face pinched with shock.
‘Spit, no!’ Fliss shouted. ‘It’ll take you, too!’
‘I can’t let her die!’ he cried. Coins flew up, hitting him in the face. One of them landed on the sand, rolling to a standstill to reveal it was nothing more than Willow’s hagstone. Another layer of coins gave way and Spit was jerked further into the chest.
‘No!’ Betty yelled, breaking her cover. She leaped forward, grabbing his waist and holding on. ‘Fliss, Charlie – help me! Don’t let him go.’
Coins slid all around them, golden light shining in their eyes, blinding them. ‘Pull!’ Betty roared.
Ronia’s eyes were bulging, one arm locked on to Spit’s, the other gripping the edge of the chest.
A growl rumbled from within the coins.
‘Ronia,’ Spit gasped. ‘Take my other hand.’
With an effort, Ronia released the side of the chest and began reaching for Spit. A firestone rolled away from her, flashing red on her skin . . .
‘Don’t!’ Spit yelled. Unable to resist, Ronia lunged for the stone, her fist closing round it. Her eyes registered jubilation . . . then shock as she plummeted back, slipping from Spit’s fingers. Gold light played across her terrified face.
The lid crashed down, sealing Ronia inside the chest.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hagstone
‘GET BACK!’ BETTY CRIED, FEELING the sand beneath them sliding inwards towards the lagoon. The water began to glow and stir, sucking hungrily at the chest. They scrambled back up the shore, watching in disbelief as the chest was dragged through the sand like a spoon through sugar. Then everything – water, sand and chest – lurched to the left as the lagoon began to swirl. They could only stare in shock as the chest rushed inwards, drawn closer and closer to the centre of a giant whirlpool.
‘That was our way home!’ Fliss cried, blinking tears away. ‘I saw it!’
‘No,’ Betty answered. She twisted the dolls in her pocket, rendering herself visible. ‘It was temptation. A trap, like Spit said. Nothing more.’
Fliss hugged Charlie close. ‘Then how do we get out of here? How do we get back? The map pointed to the lagoon – but why?’
‘What if we can’t get back at all?’ Charlie added tearfully. ‘I want Granny!’
‘Wait,’ Fliss said suddenly. ‘Where’s Willow?’
Betty turned, shaking herself. She had almost forgotten the strange girl who was the reason they were on this island in the first place, and the realisation unnerved her. Yet, as she clapped eyes on Willow, that feeling only grew.
Next to the pale little girl the wisp flickered faintly, but it was clear at a glance that it was losing its light. Vanishing. As if it were being leached away somewhere . . .
‘What’s wrong with it?’ Fliss asked. ‘It’s like . . . like it’s dying.’
Willow swayed on her feet unsteadily. But now, in the near darkness, Betty could see why she looked so strange. At first she had thought it was the moonlight making Willow appear so white and unearthly, but now she looked properly she saw it was nothing of the sort. A strange pale light was glowing out of Willow, blurring her edges and rising off her almost like steam . . .
. . . or marsh mist.
‘Willow?’ Betty managed, in a choked voice.
‘What’s the matter with her?’ Spit asked, backing away. ‘Why’s she glowing like that? She looks . . . she looks like a wisp!’
Willow lifted her hands, staring at them in puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. Her voice sounded muffled, far away. ‘What’s happening to me?’ She looked round with pleading, confused eyes. ‘I needed to do something, but it’s getting harder to think . . .’
‘We were helping you,’ Charlie said gently. ‘Remember? You escaped from Torment. You were running away, trying to reach this island. You came to us in the night . . .’
You came to us . . .
Something sparked in Betty’s mind. A memory of words uttered by Willow herself.
Wisps hold on because of unfinished business. Sometimes it’s a feeling: anger or sadness. Sometimes they’re vengeful; sometimes they want justice . . .
‘Justice,’ Betty whispered, with a glimmer of understanding. ‘That’s what you said. Holding on to clear your father’s name. Now it makes sense.’ Thoughts tumbled over and over in her head, piecing together.
‘Betty, what are you saying?’ Fliss hissed. ‘This still doesn’t answer why she’s . . . glowing like that!’
‘I think it does.’ Goose pimples raised on Betty’s arms and neck. ‘Because Charlie saw her, so could we. Otherwise we might not have seen her at all. And then we invited her in. We made her . . . real.’
‘Please stop,’ Willow whispered, her hands trembling. ‘I don’t . . . I don’t . . .’
Another memory pushed its way into Betty’s head. Voices, rippling round the Poacher’s Pocket when the news of the escape had broken out.
Two runaways . . . One washed up, half drowned, not expected to survive the night . . .
But something of Willow had survived . . . or had clung on to what little life she could.
‘Something happened when you escaped from Torment, didn’t it, Willow?’ Betty asked gently. ‘The boat got into trouble. You went into the water. All this time, I thought the wisp was your mother – that she hadn’t survived. But it was you.’
Willow frowned, her forehead creasing. ‘I . . . yes. We hit a rock, I think. The boat tipped, and I fell into the water. Away from Mother. It was so, so cold, and I couldn’t breathe, but I . . .’
Images flashed in front of Betty’s eyes: of Willow, surrounded by marsh mist in the backyard. Dripping water that had never properly dried out. Breath that hadn’t misted the air. Pale as the fog itself.
Pale as death.
‘. . . I don’t remember getting out,’ Willow finished, frowning. ‘I just remember thinking about the map, and knowing I needed to get here. And running, and running . . . and hiding.’
‘What are you saying?’ Spit whispered.
‘Don’t you see?’ Betty asked. ‘Willow hasn’t just been followed by a wisp. She is the wisp!’ A sense of loss threatened to overwhelm her, and she blinked back tears. Poor, lost Willow. Dimming through the night, a soul fallen to the marshes. Trying to make someone listen. Trying to make someone follow. ‘When someone’s lost on the marshes . . . or at sea . . . that’s what becomes of them. Heck, we even missed the biggest clue of all.’ She chuckled, but it was mirthless and empty. ‘Your name. It’s not really Willow, is it?’