Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters Read online

  Fred paused to look up at her. “Nettle are you all right?”

  She nodded and swiftly arranged a nonchalant expression. Satisfied, her father handed Bram a black and white photograph. “Is this me?” Nettle’s brother asked, surprised at the fat little baby.

  “You were quite chubby. You liked your milk. A lot.” Fred replied.

  Nettle watched her father. Could it be that we left mum, not the other way around? “Dad,” she carefully began, “why haven’t we come back here sooner? At least, to put things away, do a bit of tidying up. Maybe, even rent the place?”

  “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.

  Much 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.

  Then 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 t
hey’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.”

  Tucked into the rear of the motor-home was the bedroom she normally shared with Bram. However, while Jazz was vacationing with them, Nettle had been forced to share their bedroom with her cousin, who was a notorious snorer and had no notion of how to keep quarters tidy. Bram slept on the couch and their father in his poky bedroom above the cab.

  Nettle changed into a pair of fresh leggings. As she dressed, her thoughts found their way back to last night’s inspiration: how to convince their father to stay permanently at Blackthorn Cottage. It wasn’t easy being back here surrounded by memories of Briar, but Bram was right, they should settle down, stop the travelling, and stay put. Now that Olde Town was seemingly re-established, Nettle was sure there would be families living and working in the village, and a school they could attend. Bram needed friends his own age, as too, did she.

  The idea of meeting a group of friends and keeping them was thrilling, and a glorious daydream she indulged in when her spirits were low. It wasn’t as if Nettle and Bram never met kids their own age as they travelled. The problem was keeping in touch. Creating history and cementing deeper friendships was hard to do if one couldn’t even give out their forwarding address. And their father forbade it. However her father did allow contact, as long as neither of them mentioned where they were or where they were going. Ugh, he’s so over-protective, stupidly so, Nettle thought. Most of the time they didn’t even know where they were headed next, it was simply on whim.

  Nettle was able to trade emails with the friends she’d gathered along their travels. But in most cases, after time, most of her friends emails would simply fall few and far between, until they finally ceased contact.

  There were a couple of photographs on the walls: the tousle-headed Bella and her younger brother Benny, whom they met a few years ago at a camping ground near a lake, where the four of them had gone trout-fishing almost every day; Cameron, Izzy and their tubby cousin Ron, arms wrapped around one another, laughing, as they flew by on a flying fox; twins Mei and Megu, swimming in a river, who taught Nettle the art of origami.

  There was one friend whom she still kept in contact with: Alice with her choppy blond hair, freckled face and gappy teeth.

  Last night Nettle had an idea, an absurd, ridiculous idea. One she was positive would ensure a new focus, a new direction for her father. That was if, and that was a big if, she was able to pull it off. And that was it, she wasn’t exactly sure how to go about it.

  Wonder what Alice would think of my plan?

  Nettle resolved to email her friend later that day… until she groaned, I can’t, no electricity, no internet connection, no satellite coverage. With a sigh she left the bedroom. She was sure the answer would come to her in time, but for now, she was starving.

  Bessie was parked up and had her sides drawn out, creating a more comfortable living space between the dinette and the long cosy couch. Nettle stood at the compact stove, stirring the bubbling pot of porridge, while Bram, as usual, sat at the dinette with his nose in one of his books. He was thoughtfully chewing on a pencil while commenting on all the things he was learning. “Did you know…” was his catch phrase. He was the smartest eight year old she knew.

  This month he was all about che
ss, so it took her by surprise when he said, “Did you know that oldest known giant sequoia is 3,500 years old?”

  There could only be one reason for the subject matter change. “Researching the Forgotten Wilds, are you?”

  He nodded without even looking up from the book. “As much as I can.” And he jotted down something of interest into his journal.

  It was warm and toasty inside Bessie when Nettle poured their breakfast into bowls and they both tucked into the hot sugary porridge.

  “This is so good,” Nettle grinned with a mouthful of delicious chewy oats. Bram nodded in agreement, his golden head bobbing up and down.

  Suddenly an almighty ruckus came from outside. Bessie’s door blew open and crashed against the outside wall. Jazz stepped inside, her hands clenched around her battle-scarred hockey stick, holding it much like a baseball bat. Bram and Nettle shared a puzzled expression.

  Jazz, to say the least, was completely hockey mad. Captain of the school team, she was obsessed by the game. She lived it, breathed it, slept it, created play moves on her iPad, and diligently practiced a series of drills every single day. She glared at the siblings, her blue eyes blazing with fury, thwacking her hockey stick in the palm of one hand. “Alright, which one of you two has it?!”

  Bram gulped and wondered if he could slide under the table and hide.

  Dressed as usual, in her hockey uniform - a crisp white polo shirt with ‘St. Miriam’s School for Girls’ blazoned on the pocket in black thread, pleated skirt with knee-high white socks and sneakers - Jazz looked set to implode. “Come on,” she threatened, raising the hockey stick higher and wagging it slightly. “My earrings, where are they?”