Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters (12 page)

He fingered
the string, testing the tautness of the line to the trap. Surely by
now the rats had smelt the odious cheese.

What
the..?

Jazz’s hair
came to life. Locks of messy red curls, leapt up in the air, waving
and fluffing about.

Schnick….
schnick… schnick-schnick…

Bram looked on in bewilderment
, leaning forward to squint through
the peeping-hole.

What is going on?
The noise, it sounded like metal slicing
together…
metal slicing together?! Oh no!

Tufts of
Jazz’s gloriously treasured locks fluttered and scattered all over
the blankets. A horrible sinking feeling gripped Bram. He felt
ill.

Jazz begin to
stir.

The rats immediately halted their labouring and Bram
thought he could hear a single rat sniffing the air.
The
cheese!

A rat dove from the bed, moving like lightning, scurrying
along the floor to run straight into Bram’s makeshift trap. Bram
jerked on the string, releasing the trap door to capture the
rat.
Got
it
! A thrill
of exhilaration ran through him. Jazz was going to have to believe
him now.

The rat,
trapped and frightened, squawked and flung itself around the trap.
When it realized it was well and truly ensnared, the creature let
loose a blood-curdling screech.

Jazz woke
up.

She sat
bolt-up in bed, except, for her hair.

All of Jazz’s
lovely hair remained on the bed beside her. The rats had shorn her
like a sheep, and badly. Ragged coppery tufts was the only thing
left on her scalp.

Jazz, still
half asleep, blinked dazedly about. She wiped the drool from her
chin with the back of her wrist.

Bram pressed a hand firmly to his mouth. In equal measures
he was horrified and trying not to laugh.
Nettle’s going to sorely regret
missing out on this.

He could see Jazz was trying to figure out why all her
clothes were dumped at the foot of her bed in a heap. Her mouth
clamped together in a thin line as she scowled darkly, and he could
read her mind -
those stupid cousins!

Jazz smacked her lips, running her tongue around the inside
of her dehydrated mouth, and stretched her arms, upward, rolling
her neck from side to side. She didn’t like to be rudely awoken,
and she certainly did not like waking up at Blackthorn Cottage. She
rolled her eyes and groaned despondently
.
So far, every morning she’d been roused by
some horrific happening, and those nasty cousins of hers were
always at the heart of it. Why were they so hateful? They were
jealous of her, she supposed. She was beautiful and smart and
wealthy and witty and excellent at hockey -
what wasn’t there to be jealous
of?

So what were
they up to now? Since they’d destroyed pretty much everything she
owned there was little else they could do to her. She gazed about
the bedroom suspiciously.

Why is there a pile of clothes there?

She didn’t
remember piling her belongings at the foot of her bed. And what was
making that horrendous racket?

She leaned over the bed and saw the trap. It was moving.
Something was inside, rocking the trap from side to side, shrieking
and squealing. She shook her head slightly, her eyes narrowing with
annoyance. Nothing those cousins of hers could do would surprise
her any more.
No doubt some stupid rat Bram claims can talk.

A lock of hair
fell across her eyes. She flicked it back with a finger. It
fluttered to the bed.

Huh?

It took a long
moment for Jazz to realize that there were strange piles of red
stuff stuck to the blankets and pillow. She picked up a handful of
this red fibre and inspected it. It looked strangely like hair.
Puzzled, she ran a hand over her head and felt… a soft furry
sensation.

“Oh em gee… oh em gee… OOOHHHEMMMMGGEEEE!!!”

Jazz pulled her hand away
, her pupils growing bigger with horror as
she found scraps of red curls threaded through her
fingers
. My
hair… my hair… MY HAIR!!

She opened her
mouth and screamed.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Welcome to Olde Town

Nettle had
unzipped her jacket to allow the crisp fresh air to cool her as she
worked hard against a strong headwind. She forged against it,
peddling over the wooden bridge and down the wide dirt road leading
to Olde Town. It had taken nearly half an hour to traverse the
marshlands, feeling out the winding path that had led Bessie safely
across days earlier, but she’d managed it.

The dirt road
to Olde Town had been crudely made, some great machine had simply
ploughed through the Forgotten Wilds. The trees had been smashed
down, unearthing stumps and all, and dumped on the side of the
road, along with a lip of dirt now covered with new undergrowth,
green fern and prickly scrub. Mainly tall douglas-fir, ash and
silver birch lined the road, but there were others, a few beech,
rowan and elm. Thick green creepers wound round their lichen
clothed trunks, and dangled from branches, like a thin lacy veil,
casting shadows on the ground so all that could be seen, as the
road gently curved, was the cloud-streaked sky above.

Despite the brisk weather Nettle found it to be a glorious
morning, enhanced no doubt by the thrill of adventure. She
thoroughly enjoyed the anticipation of what she might find around
the upcoming curve.
A few stone cottages?
A remodelled village in garish colours?

To Nettle’s surprise, the road abruptly ended against the
foot of a small hill. A couple of tour buses were parked beside one
another within a cul-de-sac where a grand entrance with two
magnificent stone gateposts stood sentinel and iron gates were
hung. ‘
Welcome to Olde Town
’ had been wrought within its design. A cluster of
newly arrived tourists were huddled before the gate, chatting
loudly amongst themselves. A few were snapping photographs of the
gates or taking selfies or trying to wrangle their children back in
line.

Nettle skidded to a halt, her booted feet resting on the
dirt, to marvel at the knoll. Beyond the iron gates a stone path,
wide at the bottom and edged by a waist-high solid wall, led up the
hill. The mound was heavily covered in evergreen shrubs and trees
and a ribbon of stonework appeared at intervals at varying levels.
It was hard to see from her position, but she was sure she caught
sight of people strolling along.
Does the path spiral upward around the
entire hill, right to the very summit?

Nettle leaned
her bike against an old beech tree, hefted her satchel across a
shoulder and made her way to the group of tourists. An excited
smile crept over her face. She couldn’t wait to see what she would
discover in this newly rejuvenated village.

The tour
guide was a tall bony man with a long hook nose and twitchy
fingers. He was dressed in a period costume – an ill-fitting coat
with brass buttons; heavily embroidered waist coat and breeches
tucked into knee-high leather boots. A frayed lace cravat was tied
around his throat and he tugged at it uncomfortably. He had three
companions; short squat young men with hooded dull eyes and wispy
moustaches, dressed more comfortably in peasant attire.

“Welcome
to Olde Town,” he said with a voice as reedy as his physique. “I am
Mr. Fussbinder.” He gave an elaborate bow accompanied by a thin
smile. “And I will be escorting you to your accommodation.” He
loudly whispered to the taller of his three companions, “This group
is staying at Deadheaded Rose’s Inn for the week.” He turned his
attention back to the tourists and urged, “Come along, come along.
Your luggage will arrive momentarily.”

Mr. Fussbinder
led the tourists through the gates while his companions left to
unload the tour bus. Nettle fell in behind.

As the group
made their way up the hill, Nettle let her hand glide over the top
of the rough stone railing, sometimes running across soft patches
of lichen, enjoying the difference in textures. Wrought-iron lamps
with golden bulbs were spaced at intermittent intervals along the
pathway and, strung between them, golden bunting fluttering in the
breeze.

They’d cleared the forest’s canopy and now were rounding
the hill gaining ground and view. The hill itself seemed to have
erupted from within the sea of surrounding forest, the Wilds
bursting with riotous gold, amber and scarlet. Nettle
grinned,
it’s like I’m walking on top of fire.

Evergreen
leaves from a variety of small trees and shrubs, provided a shady
canopy of sorts above the cobblestone path as it curved around the
hill, with flights of steps leading to the first plateau. Nettle
purposely looked away, running her hands over the leaves as she
passed feeling the differing sensations of each foliage as she
attempted to deduce to which plant they belonged. Long, spiky,
curly, shiny or softly-downed; it was a game she played with her
father. She silently mouthed the names of the trees and shrubs as
she passed - glossy ash; holly with its spiny leaves; leathery
privet; ivy; a mop-head flower, hydrangea - and glanced back, her
mouth curving to a satisfied smile, pleased she’d been correct on
all.

Just before she reached the plateau, chatter and song and
smells of freshly baked bread assaulted her senses. The plateau had
a series of attached houses, now converted into a small row of
stores. The buildings were three stories high. While the lower
level was hewn from stone, the second and third stories were wooden
additions with newly painted whitewashed walls and exposed black
beams, their peaked shingled roofs sporting awkward chimneys. Bram,
Nettle thought with a twinge of guilt at leaving him behind, would
know exactly what period the village architecture was from.
Tudor
perhaps?
Nettle didn’t really have a clue.

In front
of the stores was a wide courtyard paved in cobblestones with
plenty of room for the visiting tourists to mill about. There were
performers – jesters, jugglers, and three gentleman playing a
sprightly melody on pan-flutes and reed pipes weaved through the
crowds, while a young woman in a simple linen dress and mop hat
sold bags of roasted walnuts drizzled with salted
caramel.

The
stores bustling with trade, had lattice bay windows and colourful
doors lacquered in ocean blues cast open wide. Above each store a
wooden placard announced their name: Whitemoth Haberdashery, Penny
Pincher Ironworks and Droogan’s Bits and Bobs.

Like the
group of tourists she tagged behind, Nettle gaped, charmed by the
old-worldliness of the village. Mr. Fussbinder led them onwards,
urging with barely concealed impatience to quicken their pace and
not lag behind. Nettle had only half listened to Mr. Fussbinder as
he dropped tit-bits of information as they climbed higher and
higher, retaining only that the village had been built many
centuries ago, founded by a Thomas Cornelius.

A little further up the path, Nettle found it thick with
sightseers and noisy with chatter. Many of them milled about a
viewing platform, which jutted out from the path, taking snapshots
of the Wilds. A flock of black birds took flight from the tree top
of a tall silver birch, wheeling about the sky, darting this way
and that, before disappearing from sight.
Magnificent,
Nettle thought
and wished she’d brought her
camera. A moment later, she realized the tour group was
gone.
Oh
well, I guess it’s time to get to work. Here will do, as any
other.

Nettle
shrugged out of her jacket and tied it around her waist. The higher
they climbed, the gentler the breeze. It was even beginning to feel
warmer, a little summery, as if Olde Town had its own particular
climate compared to the rest of the Forgotten Wilds. The path was
also becoming more populated. Tourists, no matter how old or young,
all delighted in exploring the cobblestone path with its quaint
businesses and amazing views of the Forgotten Wilds.

Nettle found
Olde Town was built on a series of levels. Each business was
uniquely named and owned by equally intriguing owners, attired in
brocade dresses with full skirts and tight bodices, gentleman in
velvet coats and three cornered hats or soft linen shirts and
waistcoats, others walked the path selling wares or sat strumming
harps and beating drums. Entertainment was rife. There were cries
from sellers, or jesters eliciting laughter, solo singers,
quartets, play-actors, dancers, stilt-walkers and men who threw
fire-sticks. All very noisy, but in a good way. It was comforting
to hear the chatter of tourists, children in the midst of laughter
or their parents soothing a tantrum. There were in fact many
families, but very few elderly amongst the tourists. She supposed
the climb up the hill would be too much for old people.

On this
particular level, perhaps half-way up the hill, a rugged gentleman
with a salt and peppered beard plucked at a lute outside the
Spotted Pig Tavern. He sang a lament for a girl who’d lost her love
to the Black Widow and was desperate to join him. A Punch and Judy
puppetry show had a group of children seated on velvet cushions,
enthralled.

Beside the
tavern was Quidfinger’s Pastries, the smells coming from it made
her stomach grumble, urging her inward. Nettle couldn’t decide on a
pastry from the many peculiar pies, until the woman with a ruffled
blouse and massive bosom picked one for her. “Porcupine,” she
grinned as she handed over the pie. Nettle started a little and the
older woman winked. “Trust me, tastes just like chicken.”