Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters (4 page)

“
Well... you know...”

“
It’s been seven years.”

Fred glanced away, pursing his mouth in that way that
Nettle knew he was thinking hard and fast, and whatever he was
going to say, it’d be vague. “Well,
ah
, you know, I wasn’t sure how long we were going
to be away.”

“
Why though?”

“Well, I
guess, I thought we’d find your mother sooner.”

“In all
that time, didn’t you think she could have come home?” Fred
stilled, his dark olive eyes widened, staring at his daughter in
what Nettle thought was disbelief and a pinch of disquiet.
“Couldn’t she?” Nettle pressed.

Fred
was saved answering by a shriek coming from the back of the
home: Jazz’s distinctly irritating wail of annoyance.
“
Arrrrgggghhh
, Uncle Fred!” Jazz, wrapped up in a towel, stormed out of
the bathroom. She jabbed a finger at the bathroom, the shower still
running. “There is no HOT WATER!” She glared furiously at her
Uncle. “Like, NO hot water, Uncle Fred. None.”

“
There’s no electricity Jazz.”

“
OK, right, well, get it on OK.”

“You
don’t understand. The whole house doesn’t run on
electricity.”

Jazz sagged.
Her mouth fell open and she gawked. “Huh?”

“We, of
course, can get hot water, but it’ll take some time. We need to get
the fire in the woodstove lit, and before we can do that, I’d
better clean the chimney.”

Jazz had
little to say, her mouth slack-jawed while her mind tried to grasp
the fact, that a house could run without electricity. What was she
going to do without her hairdryer, her hair straightener or even
TV? It didn’t bear thinking about. Jazz walked back into the
bathroom. Before she closed the door behind her, she tossed
imperiously over her shoulder. “OK, I guess I’ll have to wait
then.”

“Hang on,” called Nettle, “If you want a hot shower, we’re
all going to have to collect firewood.
All
of us.”

Jazz
turned to stare blankly at her younger cousin, who smiled
reassuringly back. “Come on,” Nettle coaxed, “a little hard work
isn’t going to kill you.” Her cousin, she could see, was doubtful
about that.

Fred
jumped in, “There’ll be firewood in the woodshed out back.” He gave
them a stern look. “No one goes into the forest to collect wood.”
Then like sunshine peeking through rain clouds his mood lifted.
“And once you’ve collected the firewood, why don’t you guys clean
up the bedrooms. We can sleep here tonight, it’ll be
fun.”

Nettle’s
thick black eyebrows rose in surprise. “Really?”

“Of
course it will be. We haven’t slept in a real house in years. You
can use your bed sheets and blankets from Bessie before we wash the
linen cupboard.”

“But,
the rest of the house is a mess.”

“Sure,
but we’ve got Bessie to eat and cook in until we can sort out the
cottage properly.” He waved his hand about in the way that said his
decision was final, and went back to sifting through the mess in
the living room.

This
time, Nettle shared her cousin’s scepticism.

M
uch
later, she realized her father had been quite clever in redirecting
her from any further questions regarding her mother.

CHAPTER THREE

Rats
in the Walls

The cottage at night was definitely creepy, Bram decided.
He lay on his mattress
that they’d dragged up from Bessie and set up on
the floor of his old nursery - the cot being far too short for him.
With the sheets tucked up under his chin, he couldn’t sleep.
Instead, he lay awake, his heart skittering at every eerie and
unexpected noise of a house breathing at night.

The
gnarled old ash tree caught the surges of wind and clawed at the
bedroom window, while the cottage’s wooden floor cricked and
groaned. Clouds partially obscured the moon, creating sinister
shadows which skulked across the walls of Bram’s bedroom and
exaggerated the little carving of a gnome into a leering demonic
grimace, sending a shiver down Bram’s spine.

Bram’s
nose crinkled in distaste. Despite having the window open all
afternoon to air the bedroom out, it still smelt musty. He buried
his face into his pillow and breathed in the familiar smells of
Bessie. He missed her. This room, this house, was far too big to
feel at ease in. He’d spent pretty much all his life in Bessie. The
motor-home was tiny for a family to be living permanently within,
but she was cosy, and more importantly he’d always felt safe.
Tonight was the first time, since a baby, he’d slept in a proper
bedroom, in a proper house, and he didn’t like it.

Suddenly, Bram sat upright. Goosebumps prickled across his
shoulders and down his arms. His stomach lurched nauseously.
What was
that?
He
strained to listen in the silence of the room for where the sound
had come from. There was nothing, not a single noise for a lengthy
moment.

Bram quietly shook his head, smiling, quite
relieved.
Stupid, stupid,
he called himself, and leaned back into his
mattress.

The
n
it came again: a pitter-patter, scuttling and
scratching.

Bram sat back up. The
loud scurrying came from between the walls of the
house. Bram rolled out of bed quickly and quietly. He pressed his
ear against the wall.

Rats,
he thought. He heard a series of squeaks and
squeals,
definitely more than just one rat,
he surmised. The critters sounded as
if they were passing through the very wall his ear was pressed
upon. A solid thud landed against the wall, jolting Bram from his
position. He stuffed a hand into his mouth stifling the shriek of
fright. And then almost immediately splayed his fingers across his
lips to stop the giggles at his absurd reaction.

Along with the scampering feet
, it sounded as if they were dragging
something between them, something metallic judging by the odd sound
of clinking. Besides that, his brow furrowing, for a moment, he
swore he’d heard the word – “lost.” Then again, maybe it was the
wind.

Nettle
was fast asleep in her four poster bed, when Bram dove in beside
her. “Bram,” she groggily slurred, “what are you doing?”

“Ugh,”
he shivered. “Rats in the walls, and either them or the wind is
talking to me. I’m not sleeping in there alone.”

Nettle
shared her pillow with him, and rolled over to her side, her
eyelids closing heavily. “Oh, OK.” A moment later she was fast
asleep.

Bram was
wide awake. He lay there listening to his sister slumber. Since
learning of their impending return to Blackthorn Cottage, his
thoughts had turned more and more upon his mother, and tonight was
no exception. “Nettle?”

It took
a moment or two, and a dig in the ribs, before she was roused.
“Hmmm...”

“
Why do you think Mum left?”

She yawned and rubbed her
face, resigning herself to the
conversation. “I don’t know.”

“Dad’s
always talking about, she had something to do, she had something to
finish, but he doesn’t really answer properly, does he?”

Nettle
rolled over onto her back, she was wide awake now, staring at the
shadows the leaves cast on the ceiling. She fancied she saw within
the play of light and shadow menacing creatures with skeletal
fingers and hollow eyes. Maybe that was just because of her mood.
Mentioning her mother always stirred resentment and a bitter anger.
She didn’t like to discuss Briar, but now they were back home at
the cottage, her mother’s presence was everywhere.

“I
mean,” carried on Bram. “It’s been nearly seven years. Surely
whatever she’s gone off to do, or finish, she should have by
now.”

She was
curt. “Mum’s not coming back.”

Over the years
they’d had this conversation before. She’d brushed over it lightly,
not wanting him to get the wrong idea. But tonight he did. How
could he not, now it was evident Briar was never ever coming
home.

“
Because of me? Because she didn’t want another
baby?”

Her heart
twisted at the anguish in his voice. She tugged his hand hard.
“Ouch,” he yelped glaring at her, achieving what she needed, him to
snap out of his present line of thought.

“
No Bram,” she said with authority. “Not because of
you.”

“
Why did she leave then?”

“She
wasn’t happy Bram. She didn’t want to be a mother anymore, or a
wife. She didn’t want to be with us, not even with Dad.”

“
But why?”

“She
couldn’t have wanted to. Else, she wouldn’t have left.” She spoke
softer now, reaching over to link her fingers with his. “She’s not
worth thinking about. Don’t give her any head space. Mums - real
mums - don’t leave their kids behind.”

Bram’s
throat constricted a little with threatening tears. “Yeah,
I guess you’re right.”

“Dad needs to get over her.”
Like I have
, Nettle added silently.

The
siblings lay in the dark of the bedroom a little longer, each
entrenched within their thoughts.

A little
while later Bram said wistfully. “You know, it’d be easier if Dad
found someone else, don’t you think? Mum may never come back. But
this place, it’s our home. Maybe, we could stay put, not travel
from town to town. I’d like to go to school. I’d like to have some
friends.”

Nettle
squeezed his hand. In the dark, Bram could hear the smile on her
lips even though he couldn’t see her face. It was a thoughtful,
contemplative smile, the kind she always had when she struck upon
an idea. She leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
“Bramble, you’re a genius.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Bonkers!

Nettle crouched in the dewy grass
, rapidly tapping the ground with
small sticks to induce vibrations within the earth. Bram had read
about worm charming, and though this method mostly worked, this
morning it seemed to be taking forever. She and Bram had waded
through the overgrown front yard and created a working area by
trampling a small patch of grass beneath their boots to get at
their current task: breakfast for Willoughby.

The bleak morning was biting
and the air heavy with moisture. Nettle
tapped away, rapidly losing patience. Her leggings were becoming
increasingly uncomfortable with dampness and the irritating itch
had returned right between her shoulder blades. She stopped to
scratch her back with a stick, relieved at the temporary respite.
Though the icy wind ruffled her hair and got beneath her jacket to
tickle the back of her neck with a horrid clamminess, it wasn’t its
bracing touch that made her uncomfortable. It was the Forgotten
Wilds.

Nettle
shivered, casting a glance over her shoulder.

A patch
of douglas fir loomed at the edge of the property, casting a
troubled shadow over where they worked. Beside the bushy pine were
dishevelled dogwood, already a fiery crimson and becoming patchy as
they lost their leaves to autumn. Most of the trees surrounding the
property were afire with burnished leaves, a few completely naked,
their straggly branches clawing at the sky. But there were pockets
of evergreen, an overbearing and domineering assembly of holm oak
with enormous twisted trunks and gnarled roots jutting from the
ground, looking as if they were about to wrench themselves from the
earth and stride toward them.

The
Wilds.

It was
unnervingly quiet. There was barely the sound of bird call.
An uneasiness prickled down her spine. Nettle felt watched. Not as
if she was being intently studied, it felt more like, the forest
itself was slowly awaking to their presence.

Finally, with a relieved sigh,
Nettle watched the soft dark earth
being pushed aside, as the worm she’d enticed dug its way up from
beneath and wriggled out from the ground.

“That’s
a fat, juicy one for Willoughby,” grinned Bram, plucking it between
pinched fingers. The earthworm twisted and coiled up over itself as
he lowered it into the jar, along with the others they’d collected
that morning.

“That’s
enough,” said Nettle rising. “Let’s get to Bessie, and have some
breakfast ourselves. I’m starving, and I’m over being cold and
wet.”

Upon entering Bessie, they discovered Willoughby’s cage was
gone. “Dad,” was all Nettle said with a shrug of her shoulders. It
wasn’t unusual for their father to move his cage into a sunny
position outside.
Not that today’s overly warm for sun-basking,
she
thought.

Bram plonked the jar of wriggling worms onto the
wooden counter
beside the stove. “Mmmm porridge…” he said with a hopeful glance at
Nettle.

“Go on,”
his sister replied with a wry smile. “I’ll make breakfast, then
we’ll look for Willoughby. But first, I need to change.”