Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters (2 page)

Nettle
shrieked, “Dad, what are you doing?!”

“Whoa,
way to go Dad!” yelled Bram, not caring that his chess pieces flew
everywhere.

Nettle
gripped the edges of her seat, bracing herself with her feet jammed
firmly against the dashboard. Bessie lumbered slowly onto the
marshland guided by Fred who barely blinked, focused on the
precarious navigation of the soft ground before him.

The
motor-home rocked from side to side as it moved over tussocks and
reeds, dipping into the mud sucking recesses of the marshlands. Yet
the trusty Bessie managed to weave across the marshland on a path
obviously well known to her father, and safe enough to cross for
such a huge and heavy vehicle.

“Where
are we going?” Nettle whispered, not because she didn’t want anyone
to hear her ask, but because her breath was sucked from her with
fright. At any moment, she was convinced they were going to get
stuck and slowly sink into the quagmire.

“There,”
her father said. “Right into the Wilds.” Fred drove Bessie toward
the pair of hawthorn trees. Nettle was jostled as Bessie’s tyres
gripped a firm hold upon solid ground, the vehicle dragging herself
from the soft sludgy marshland onto the hardened ground of the
forest. Nettle sighed with a deep sense of relief to have survived
the dangerous bog.

As Fred
turned the motor-home toward the Forgotten Wilds, Nettle wondered
how the vehicle was going to get through the densely packed trees.
She need not have worried, for a moment later Bessie passed between
the pair of hawthorn trees, and as their prickly foliage scraped
over the vehicle, it was almost as if the forest parted, granting
them permission to enter its depths.

Nettle realized they were
actually on an overgrown driveway.
Branches noisily scratched Bessie’s sides as they cut through the
thick woodland on a winding avenue lined with a myriad of trees:
alder, yew, birch, dogwood, elm and pine and so many, many more
trees, scraggly, stunted, knotted, prickly, covered in lichen and
dripping with creeping ivy. Mid-autumn had burned many leaves a
variety of hues ranging between lemon, peach and gold, with the odd
fire-red, stripping many, but not yet all of the deciduous trees
their leaves. The canopy overhead arched over the driveway,
allowing only a scattering of dull sunlight through.

Despite
Jazz’s protests, Nettle wound down her window and rested her chin
upon folded arms. The persistent itch between her shoulder blades
eased as cool damp air pinched her cheeks cold. She closed her eyes
and drank in the pungent smell of moist rich earth and decadent
decay. Insects noisily buzzed in the murky light while Bessie’s
wheels crunched upon a deep layer of crisp dead leaves. It felt
good to be surrounded by nature.

A moment
later, Nettle realized Bessie had come to a slow rolling halt
half-way down the long bumpy driveway. Nettle pushed herself from
the open window to give her father a quizzical look.

Nettle’s eyes, framed by short thick
eyelashes
,
flashed wide. “Dad? Are you OK?” Fred was staring ahead, gripping
the steering wheel with white knuckles. Small beads of sweat had
gathered at his hairline and he looked waxen and incredibly
nervous.

From behind,
Bram poked his golden head out his window, scanning the driveway
ahead. “Has Bessie broken down again Dad?”

“Uncle
Fred,” whined Jazz, still sitting in the dinette, completely
absorbed with holding her cell-phone aloft at different angles, “I
can’t get reception.”

Fred
turned to Nettle. Long dark locks of hair were plastered to
his forehead. His haunted dark olive eyes unnerved her. She asked
in a hushed voice, not wanting to worry Bram, “Dad what’s
wrong?”

Fred’s
rough calloused fingers tightened around the steering
wheel. His voice was a broken whisper. “I don’t know if I’m doing
the right thing.”

“
What do you mean?”

“I
shouldn’t have brought you back here.”

Nettle
was confused,
why is he suddenly so afraid to be here?
“You’ve done
nothing but talk it up for the last two days. Bram’s excited to see
the place. We can’t exactly turn around and leave now.”

Fred
’s gaze flitted back to the driveway. “Maybe we could… I
could take you to my sisters. It wouldn’t be…”

When Nettle heard the sadness and despair in his voice it
finally made sense.
Oh,
she realised,
he’s afraid to open the door and find the cottage
empty.
For
once, in regard to her mother,
she felt a pang of heartache for her
father.

“Aunt Ma
e,” said Nettle, a little louder than anticipated, “is
trying to track down the Accountant.”

“Pardon?” interjected Jazz, overhearing her mother’s
name.

“Dad’s
talking about taking us to your parents,” Nettle explained to her
cousin. Nettle continued quietly so only her father could hear.
“They can’t take us in Dad. They’re the ones who sent Jazz to
us.”

“The
bankruptcy is temporary,” Jazz said, suddenly appearing right
behind them. She glared at her younger cousin with a pout. “Daddy
will find that crook of an accountant, we’ll get back our money,
our home, and no-one need ever know about the bankruptcy. At least
my friends believe I’m on a camping trip.”

“But, you
are
on a camping trip.” Bram rolled his eyes at his older
cousin. “Dad, you promised we’d come home,” he said, his voice
betraying hurt and confusion.

“Not under these circumstances,” Fred
said quietly.

“Oh, it’s supposed to be when Mum comes home? Not
likely.”
Ugh
,
she could of kicked herself, but it popped out without thought.
Snide comments about her mother were always close at
hand.

Fred shot his daughter a sharp look. “What was that?”
Nettle’s own expression began to match Jazz’s pout. Maybe being
back here was going to be good for him. He needed to finally accept
his wife had gone for good and she was never coming home.
Nettle glared back
at her father, her lips a tight line, refusing to
answer.

Jazz was the
one who piped up. “She said -”

Nettle
lunged over the seat and pinched Jazz on the arm. “Ouch! Uncle
Fred!” Jazz shrieked, leaping back rubbing her arm.

“Nettle!”
Fred gave his daughter a withering stare. His glasses slid
down his nose. He pushed them back with a finger while waiting for
his daughter’s apology.

Behind
her uncle’s back, Jazz gave Nettle a smug look. Nettle’s thin lips
hardened and her green eyes narrowed into slits.

“
We’re waiting,” said her father.

Nettle
turned reluctantly to her cousin. “Sorry, Jasmine,” she said
knowing fully well what kind of response she’d elicit from her
cousin.

“Jazz,”
shrilled Jasmine. “You know it’s Jazz!” She turned to her Uncle.
“Squashed up in this tin-can may suit you, but I am in need of a
bed, a real bed. Uncle Fred, you promised us proper beds and proper
showers.”

For the
longest time Fred was silent. He looked over at his children and
niece. His decision made, he took a deep breath, his slumped
shoulders straightened and a determined glint re-entered his gaze.
“OK, we’re going in. But there is one thing you must promise me.
All of you, including you too, Jasmine.”

“Jazz,
Uncle Fred.”

“OK, Jazz.” He stared hard at each of his children. Nettle
felt a lecture coming. “Do not leave the house.
Do not
go into the woods.”

Huh,
Nettle wasn’t expecting her father to deny them the woods.
The forest wasn’t exactly inviting, but they were kids, and up for
adventuring. Why bring them home if they weren’t allowed
outside?

Bram was
snappy with his questions. “Why, what’s in the woods? Is it
dangerous?”

“It’s
just not a safe place to be. People have gone missing in there,
it’s easy to get lost and…” Fred looked into the distance, lost in
thought.

“
And what?” This time it was Nettle asking.

“The
woods are home to some very dangerous creatures.”

“What
kind of creatures?” asked Bram, a little too curious for Fred’s
liking.

“Ah, well, you know, the usual kind…” The three children
stared at him, demanding a precise explanation.
“
Silver-moss
springs, grenick-vines, toadstools…”

“Springs
and toadstools?” Nettle echoed with disbelief.

Fred
flushed and changed tactic. “Just don’t leave the house,” he said
firmly.

“What if
we need something from Bessie?” Bram asked.

“Yes, of
course, you can get whatever you need from Bessie.”

“
So we can go outside?”

“Yes. No. I mean, yes,” Fred
flustered. “You can go outside. But just
stay in the yard OK.”

“
How big is the yard?”

“Big
enough, just don’t go into the woods, OK.”

“How far
away are the woods? How do I know if I’m playing in some trees,
that it’s OK, and not the woods?”

“Bram,
you’ll know,” answered his father with thinly veiled vexation. “Now
promise me, you’ll stay in the yard, and not go into the
woods.”

Bram
nodded, like Fred knew he would. He was a good boy and reliable.
Jazz agreed with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders and toss of
her coppery hair, and Nettle said nothing. “OK?” He
pressed.

“OK,
whatever,” said Nettle still smarting at having to apologise to
Jazz.

“Right,
then,” said Fred heaving a sigh. “Blackthorn Cottage it
is.”

Bessie
advanced forward once more. It wasn’t long before they broke free
of the woods and drove into a clearing of sorts, for most of it was
an overgrown yard of weeds and broken picket fencing.

To call
Blackthorn Cottage a ‘cottage’, was modest. The precarious stone
house was tall and narrow, and three stories high. Thatch clad the
roof of the house, including the tower that jutted slightly above
its peaked gables. The years had aged the thatch to light silver. A
rampant white rose bush had twisted itself around the porch
balustrade, pushed between its wooden floorboards, and crept up the
cottage’s stone walls, around window sills, and through a broken
window pane, as well as beneath the gap in the front
door.

“This is
it?” Jazz asked. Her tone and imperiously arched eyebrow flaunted
mockery. “Blackthorn Cottage?”

Nettle
nodded, her mess of long black hair bobbed. “It’s exactly how I
remember it, except for the broken windows.”

“The
yard could do with a tidy up,” Fred mused.

Nettle
cast a glance over waist-high grass and tussock. “You think?” They
both broke into grins.

“I’ve
got dibs on the bathroom!” Jazz lithely leapt from Bessie. Bram
scurried after his cousin as she skipped up the rickety porch
steps.

“Hey,”
called Fred, leaning out the driver’s window. “You’ll need the
key.” He produced an old fashioned brass key from the glove box and
held it aloft.

But Jazz
had already twisted the door handle and the cottage’s front door
swung open. She entered; Bram right behind her.

Fred
jumped out of the driver’s seat, “Hey,” he yelled. Fear urged him
to sprint toward the cottage. “Don’t go in there!”

Nettle
hurriedly pulled on her sheepskin lined boots, pushed open her
door, and slid out of Bessie. She caught up to her father at the
porch steps. “Dad! What’s wrong?!”

“
I locked the door before we left.”

Fred bound up
the steps and into the cottage. Nettle ran after him, the wood
groaning beneath her weight.

CHAPTER TWO

Return
to Blackthorn Cottage

Nettle left the front door open, stepping over the thorny
branches to enter
a large open room comprising the kitchen and lounge. The
once white plastered walls were now yellowed with age and lack of
cleaning. There was a small section walled-off for the bathroom,
washhouse, and pantry. In the very centre of the room was an
enormous fireplace, built from river stones. The enormous chimney
spread its girth through the next two floors, the heat of the
stones warming the upper levels on cold nights.

The rampant rose bush had pushed under the front door and
through a broken window pane quite some time ago
, Nettle concluded. The
creeping green tendrils had rambled up the room’s front wall, its
shoots twisting around crooked paintings, latching onto rustic
curtain rails and slinking over shelves, making it seem as if the
wall itself was part of the wild garden outside.

A
curved entrance opened to the tower that housed the spiral
staircase leading to the upper levels, from which Nettle realized,
the sound of thumping feet and doors slamming were coming from.
Nettle supposed it was her father, hurrying from room to room. As
to why her father was in such a panic to search the cottage was
blatantly obvious to her now. The room she had entered was a mess.
Blackthorn Cottage had been ransacked. Every draw and cupboard had
been opened and their contents strewn over the floor.
But who? And
why?
Great
slashes of silver scorch-marks scoured the walls. Nettle leaned
close to inspect what looked to her like silvery glitter still
imbedded within the pock-marked walls where the paint had been
blistered by intense heat. Yet nothing obvious had caught on
fire.