A Sprinkle of Sorcery

by Michelle Harrison

  A silent sob shook Willow’s shoulders. She seemed to be almost hovering now, flickering like the tiny light beside her which, before their eyes, merged into her to become one. ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘Willow-the-wisp,’ Fliss said, her eyes flooding with realisation. ‘And she led us here. We . . . we followed her and that’s the worst thing we could have done!’

  ‘We didn’t follow her,’ said Charlie. ‘We followed the map. We helped her.’ She took a tentative step towards Willow, the pale glow from the girl playing over her face. ‘I’m still helping her.’

  ‘There’s still a chance,’ said Betty, summoning her courage. ‘Whatever she is . . . she’s holding on. If we can get off this island, maybe we can save her. And we have to hurry – now the wisp has . . . has joined her, she’s running out of time!’

  ‘How do we get off, though?’ Spit asked, his gaze locked on Willow. ‘We found the lagoon, but I sure as heck don’t want to end up like Ronia!’

  ‘The brothers made it back,’ Betty whispered to herself, thinking of the story. ‘There has to be a way.’ She took out the map once more. Nothing had changed; no words had appeared. Only the cave mouth, the well and the lagoon at the island’s centre were visible. The chest, however, was gone.

  ‘Let’s see that,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I’ve looked.’ Exhaustion crept into Betty’s voice, but she passed the map to Charlie. ‘There’s nothing different.’

  ‘Not different,’ said Charlie. ‘But the same.’ She lifted an object to the waxed paper – Willow’s hagstone spat from the treasure chest. Charlie laid it on the map next to the island. ‘They’re the same shape!’

  Betty stared at the inked drawing and the barnacled stone. They were, undeniably, identical.

  Fliss clutched at her arm urgently. ‘She’s right!’

  ‘It’s a hagstone,’ Betty said slowly, her eyes drawn to the swirling water. ‘The lagoon at the centre . . . it must go all the way through. The island itself is a hagstone!’

  She lowered the map. ‘And, if you can only find it by looking through a hagstone, maybe you can only leave it by . . . by . . .’

  ‘Going through the middle,’ Fliss finished.

  ‘You want us to go through that?’ Spit repeated. He threw out his arm, gesturing to the wildly swirling water. ‘Look what happened to Ronia!’

  Betty shook her head, understanding sparking within her. ‘Ronia came here for riches that weren’t rightfully hers,’ she said. ‘It made her cruel, and selfish, and she was punished for it. But Willow brought us here to clear her father’s name. She came for someone else. That’s how the island works. The greedy are punished and the selfless are rewarded.’

  ‘Then that must mean us, too.’ Charlie tugged at Betty’s sleeve earnestly. ‘We came for Willow, didn’t we?’ She glanced worriedly at the chest. ‘I never actually ate any of the sweets, even though I really wanted to. And I promise I would’ve shared.’

  ‘I know you would have,’ Betty said, hugging her. ‘And you’re right. I think this is the way home, for all of us. We have to trust it.’

  ‘Betty?’ Fliss said, her voice trembling. She jerked her head back at Willow. ‘What about her?’

  Willow was still glowing, brighter now, her eyes glassy and unseeing. A wave of panic took hold of Betty. Willow had to hold on, had to get back. They knew the truth – that her father was innocent. But, until they returned, no one else would – and Willow would stay a wisp. Roaming the marshes, unable to rest. But even if they succeeded – what then? Could Willow still survive, somehow? Or was she already lost?

  ‘How will we stay together?’ Fliss exclaimed. ‘It’s a whirlpool – it’ll tear us apart!’

  ‘With this.’ Betty pulled the string out of her pocket and unravelled it. ‘Loop it round your hands, and don’t let go.’ She grabbed Willow – almost afraid her hands would pass straight through her – before bundling her towards the water. She glanced fearfully at Charlie, squeezing her other hand, then Fliss. All holding on to each other. All holding on to hope.

  ‘And the fish?’ Fliss gasped, suddenly remembering the bucket.

  ‘Give it here,’ said Spit, pale-faced, taking the bucket from Fliss. ‘I’ll try and keep it above water for as long as I can.’

  ‘Now us,’ said Betty. She squeezed Willow’s hand. That cold, glowing, pale little hand that had sent shivers through her ever since they’d met and she only now understood why.

  ‘Hold on, just a little longer,’ Betty told her. Whatever happened, they owed it to Willow – and themselves – to see this through to the end. ‘It’s nearly over. Everyone ready? Let’s go!’

  She waded into the churning water, screwing up her courage, breath held. Instantly, her feet were swept from under her and she was pulled sideways with such ferocity that it knocked the breath from her lungs. The string pulled tightly round her wrist as she was sucked to the left.

  ‘Betty!’ Charlie shrieked, hurtling past her with Fliss and Spit close behind. They whipped in dizzying, ever decreasing circles that dragged them towards the centre of the maelstrom. The water roared, a black void opening up in the centre, twisting and plunging, faster and faster, until all Betty could see and hear were blurs. A leg, a glowing hand, a tufty fin. A waxed, yellowing map . . . A blur of yowling white fur and Willow’s eyes, closing as they were sucked down, and down and down . . . Water in her ears, over her head and the surface far, far above . . .

  . . . Then up, rushing through light and bubbles, and a roaring noise that gave way to something like a cackle and a raven’s screech echoing in Betty’s head.

  She burst to the surface, the terrible sound still ringing in her ears. Spluttering noises surrounded her, water thrashing and splashing, hungry breaths being drawn in and misting the air.

  ‘Fliss? Charlie?’ she choked, tasting salt. The sky above was inky now, the moon hidden by cloud. ‘Spit?’ She glanced round frantically, lifting the hand that had been holding Willow’s and finding only an empty wooden reel.

  ‘Over here!’

  Grateful sobs shook Betty’s body as she swam to her sisters.

  ‘We’re out,’ Fliss gurgled. ‘It’s gone. The island has vanished!’

  For the first time, Betty saw it was true. They were floating in a vast expanse of water, with no island in sight. Only their slightly battered old green fishing boat was bobbing a little way away, tethered to nothing.

  ‘So has Willow,’ she whispered, tightening her grip on the reel. ‘I had her . . . and now she’s gone.’ She whipped round, searching the water and teetering between hope and anguish.

  ‘And who’s that?’ Spit asked, pointing to a figure floating motionless in the water nearby. He struck out, swimming quickly, and arrived by the person’s side, turning him over. The man groaned, clutching his head. A tuft of hair poked out from above each ear in a vaguely familiar way.

  ‘Feels good to breathe . . . air again,’ he murmured. ‘And to speak words instead of bubbles.’

  ‘The fish,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s Saul! We did it.’ Her face crumpled, tears spilling down her already wet cheeks. ‘We did it for Willow.’

  Betty continued to search the waters desperately, but there was no sign of Willow. What did it mean that she was gone? Where was she now? What was she now? A pale little wisp haunting the marshes? Or had the Widdershins’ help been enough? The thought that they might have failed to save her was too much to bear, but Betty hadn’t the heart to speak her thoughts aloud and dash her sisters’ hopes.

  ‘Come on.’ Betty’s voice was clipped in her effort to contain her feelings. She shivered, nodding towards The Travelling Bag. ‘Before that gets away from us for good.’

  One by one they scrambled aboard, pushing and pulling until everyone had finally collapsed on the deck. Stars peeked through the clouds. On top of the cabin a thin shape licked water droplets from its fur, then paused to stare into the water with a mournful yowl.

  ‘Bandit!’ Charlie exclaimed, undet
erred as the cat hissed back at her. ‘I knew we’d end up keeping you.’

  ‘Charlie,’ Betty said, passing her a blanket from the wheelhouse. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  ‘What?’ Charlie stuck out her tongue, grinning mischievously. ‘I’ve got a plan.’ She tickled Hoppit’s chin, whispering, ‘Don’t worry. You’re still number one.’

  ‘There’s only one plan we need right now,’ Betty answered, stepping over to the wheel. ‘Getting home.’ But as she took the wheel in her hands she stiffened. For there, in front of the window, was a familiar map.

  ‘How did that get there?’ Fliss asked, pausing from rubbing her hair dry. ‘I thought it was lost in the whirlpool . . .’

  ‘It was in the lagoon with us,’ Betty said, frowning. ‘It doesn’t make sense that it’s here now. But then . . . perhaps magic and sense don’t go together.’

  ‘Or perhaps the map can’t be destroyed,’ Fliss said, yet despite her quietness her voice was heavy with a responsibility that Betty also felt. It was upon them to ensure the map wasn’t passed on. To prevent others going in search of the mysterious island.

  Carefully, Betty rolled the map up and replaced it with a larger one, one that showed the way home. ‘Here, take the wheel a moment,’ she said to Fliss, pushing her way out of the wheelhouse. ‘There’s something I need to do.’

  She made her way to the back of the boat. The water stretched behind it, as black as a raven’s wing and fathomless. Guarding the island and its secrets.

  Betty lifted her hand, letting the wooden reel slip from her fingers.

  It slid beneath the waves, vanishing as completely as the island itself.

  Chapter Thirty

  Spitting Feathers

  CROWSTONE HARBOUR WAS TEEMING WITH warders by the time The Travelling Bag arrived back.

  ‘There’s Father!’ Charlie squeaked, pointing through the dark uniforms. ‘And Granny! Ooh, she looks awful cross with them all.’

  ‘Spitting feathers,’ Fliss agreed. ‘Oh, look – she’s seen us!’

  ‘Just remember our story,’ Betty murmured, her pulse racing as the crowd swarmed towards the boat, lanterns in their hands and questions on their lips. ‘We discovered Charlie at The Sorcerer’s Compass, no sign of her kidnappers. On the way back, we got lost, and went off course, ending up at the Winking Witch, where we found Saul.’

  ‘Reckon anyone will believe that?’ Spit asked.

  ‘Well, it’s the only story they’re getting,’ said Betty. ‘And they’ll sure as peck never believe what really happened.’ She barely believed it herself. ‘And Saul,’ she said. ‘You have to tell the truth. I mean, not all of it . . . not the fishy part. But the rest – or most of it. And you have to hurry. Willow’s father is due to be executed tomorrow – you can stop that.’

  But what of Willow? She glanced at the sky, dotted with bright stars. Betty gulped, on the brink of tears. Had they been in time to save her? Or were they too late?

  They had sailed through the night, and during those dark hours, when nothing seemed quite real, Saul’s story had emerged. How he had been the one to discover the strange old map on a drifting boat, and convinced Willow’s father to join him in the search for the mysterious island. And shamefully, how, at the discovery that the island existed – and the thought of what it held – he had been overcome by desire and determination to keep any riches for himself.

  ‘We fought,’ he’d whispered, hanging his head. ‘Conroy insisted we split whatever we found, or he’d return home. But I didn’t want to lose the boat. There was a struggle – he caught me in the face, and drew blood.’ His face crumpled. ‘And I . . . I hit him with an oar. I thought I’d killed him, so I panicked. The island was in sight by then, close enough to swim to. So I . . . I left him in the boat to drift. I cheated my friend, and I deserved all I got. But you have to believe me – I didn’t mean for him to take the blame for my disappearance.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Betty had replied, more kindly than Saul deserved. She had seen what the island did to people, witnessed the madness in Ronia’s eyes, and her own brief temptations. ‘But his life is at stake. It’s up to you to save him now.’

  As the sisters, Spit and Saul stumbled on to the dock, Granny came stomping through the crowd, sweeping the three of them into a hug that was strongly scented with tobacco and whiskey. ‘Charlie! You found her,’ she wept between a slurred stream of questions. ‘You got her back! But how—?’

  ‘Granny,’ Betty said in a rush, her voice almost lost in the depths of her grandmother’s ferocious hug. ‘The girl, the runaway . . . did they find her? Is she . . . is she alive?’

  Granny hiccuped, eyes clouding with fresh tears. Betty felt a wave of dread engulf her, steeling herself for what Granny was about to say.

  ‘Poor mite,’ she muttered, making the sign of the crow. ‘Horrible business, all of it. No one expected her to survive – half drowned she was! Barely alive, from what people have said, but then just a few hours ago she pulled through, against all the odds. Her poor mother was frantic.’

  ‘She’s alive?’ Betty burst out, a lump coming to her throat. Joy bubbled up inside her, and somehow within Granny’s hug she and Fliss found each other’s arms and squeezed so hard that it was sure to leave fingerprints for a week. They hadn’t just saved Willow’s father – they’d saved her, too. Willow was alive!

  ‘We did it!’ Fliss whispered, sharing a jubilant look with Betty. Her eyes were bright with tears.

  ‘Jumping jackdaws, we really did!’ cheered Charlie.

  Granny’s mouth puckered. ‘They still haven’t explained how Charlie ended up involved in all this.’ Her eyes flashed dangerously. ‘But what we do know is that her kidnappers were that pair of warders who vanished a couple of months ago. Let everyone believe they were dead, so they did! The real warders were out searching for Charlie – but it was Fingerty who led them to a secret cave over near the cliffs by Skinny Woods. They found a hideout and a copy of a blueprint for that old ship of Rusty Swindles.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘I knew I’d heard them right when they threw me in that lock-up – but what I don’t understand is why they’d drag a child out there.’ Her eyes were mutinous. ‘If they ever find those two I hope they lock them up and throw away the key.’

  Betty and Charlie locked eyes, a look passing between them.

  ‘They won’t be coming back, Granny,’ Charlie whispered.

  Bunny glowered. ‘Well, we still want answers, don’t we, Barney?’

  Betty twisted round in Granny’s fierce grip, glimpsing her father’s bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But first I’d like to hug my daughters.’

  Granny gave them one last, enormous, rib-crunching squeeze before reluctantly letting go. The girls went from her plump, smoky embrace to Father’s solid, strong arms, where he held them so tightly that Betty wondered if he’d ever let go – and was quite happy for him not to. After the adventures and terrors of the past few days – runaways, wisps, pirates, and everything else – she couldn’t be happier to be home. Safe.

  ‘Charlie, why is there a white cat on the boat?’ said Granny, still sniffling. Her voice was muffled through Barney’s hug. ‘I hope you’re not thinking—’

  ‘Oh, no, Granny.’ Charlie grinned, wriggling free of Father’s arms. ‘I don’t want to upset Oi. This is Bandit. He’s going to be the harbour cat now. I’ve got it all planned out—’

  ‘And who might this be?’ said Father, quirking a bushy eyebrow at Spit. ‘Felicity?’

  ‘Long story,’ Fliss muttered, sharing a look with Betty as she squeezed Father tighter. Spit grinned awkwardly, then pressed his lips together in an obvious attempt to avoid living up to his name.

  These were only the start of many questions, endless and awkward, that none of them knew how to answer. So they stuck to their story: one of crooked warders, shipwrecks and people found adrift. A cobbled version of half-truths, like so many tales before, with no mention of will-o’-the-wisps, w
itches, hagstones, bathtubs for boats, unmapped islands. Or the old coin Betty found in her pocket some time later . . . which had once belonged to a pirate.

  Epilogue

  THREE WEEKS LATER, A COPY of the Crowstone Herald landed on the Poacher’s Pocket doormat.

  WRONGLY CONVICTED MAN FREED AFTER ‘VICTIM’ FOUND ALIVE

  A Crowstone prisoner narrowly escaped the death sentence after being proven innocent of murder. Conroy Gill was jailed for almost a year after his fishing partner, Saul Heron, vanished – but this week Heron was discovered ALIVE.

  In events that have shocked the Sorrow Isles, Gill’s daughter – too young to be named – almost drowned after escaping Torment with her mother three nights before Heron reappeared. It has since emerged that the family was condemned to live on Torment until Gill revealed the whereabouts of Heron’s body, prompting demands from locals for a change in the law.

  ‘It’s disgusting,’ said Seamus Fingerty, a former Crowstone warder. ‘They should never have jailed the man or punished his family without proof!’

  In a further twist, two corrupt warders kidnapped ANOTHER child, mistaking her for Heron’s daughter. Both men are now missing, although the child in question was found unharmed.

  Gill, now reunited with his family, has left Crowstone. Both families are expecting considerable compensation.

  When asked about his whereabouts, Heron claimed he had been stranded on an unknown island. His account bears a striking resemblance to a local legend*—[continued on pages 7 & 8]

  *From Winking Witches to Sorsha Spellthorn: A History of Crowstone’s Sorcerers – page 9.

  ‘Did you see this?’ Fliss slapped the paper on the bar of the Poacher’s Pocket, her eyes bright with excitement. ‘It’s us! On the front page, if you don’t mind!’