A Sprinkle of Sorcery Page 10

  ‘How sad,’ Fliss murmured, and promptly retched into the bucket. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, white-faced. ‘I’d better go out on deck for some air. It’s just too . . . urgh . . . fishy in here.’ She wobbled to her feet and left the wheelhouse, cold air swirling in before she closed the door again.

  Moments later, she was back, looking even more ashen and breathing shakily.

  ‘What’s up?’ Betty asked. ‘You look even sicker than you did a minute ago.’

  ‘I – uh . . .’ Fliss quavered, her eyes wide and glassy. She pointed at the windows. ‘Outside,’ she managed. ‘Look outside!’

  Alarmed, Betty turned to stare through the glass. She froze as she realised what Fliss had seen.

  Wisps, dozens of them, emerging from the marsh mist and shrouding the boat like a glowing silvery veil. Betty watched, an icy chill rippling down her spine, as the wisps bobbed against the cabin windows from all sides.

  They were surrounded.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Don’t Listen to the Whispers . . .’

  ‘I’VE NEVER SEEN THAT MANY before,’ Betty whispered. The sight of the glowing orbs clamouring round the boat was deeply unsettling. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck sticking up, rather like Oi’s did when anyone tried to stroke him. ‘It’s like . . . like an army of them!’

  Willow stood up and peered through the glass. Betty could tell she was trying to seem brave, but there was a telltale trembling of her knees through her dress. She looked scared, and younger than ever.

  ‘They must sense the one in the boat,’ she said. ‘And us.’

  Fliss swallowed. ‘Betty, can we speed the boat up? Go through them, or outsail them?’

  ‘We can’t shake them off, not by outsailing them,’ said Willow.

  ‘Then how do we get rid of them?’ Fliss asked, her voice rising. ‘What do they want?’

  ‘To be heard,’ said Willow. ‘And seen.’

  ‘So how do we get out of this?’ Betty was frantic. More and more were swarming the boat – it was getting harder to see past them.

  The wheelhouse was filling with an eerie grey light, making spectres of them all. At the edges of the door, thin slices of light glowed and trails of mist leaked under as if reaching for them.

  And then came a low whispering sound. Betty whipped away from the window to face Willow and Fliss.

  ‘What?’ said Betty, nerves rattling. ‘Did someone say something?’

  ‘No,’ Fliss said. ‘I thought it was you?’

  The whispering came again, so softly that Betty could hardly recognise it as being words. She could see now that neither Fliss nor Willow was moving her lips.

  ‘Then who is that?’ she said faintly. ‘Who’s whispering?’

  ‘Them,’ said Willow.

  There were so many now that all Betty could see was the strange white light engulfing the boat.

  ‘What do we do?’ Fliss croaked.

  ‘We lull them,’ said Willow. ‘But the more there are, the harder it is. Even for someone who knows how to do it. They can be wild, unpredictable.’ Her eyes were wide and frightened. ‘I’ve never lulled this many before.’

  ‘How do you do it?’ Betty asked, her eyes still fixed on the glowing window as her heart raced.

  ‘By singing them a song,’ said Willow.

  ‘Singing?’ Betty’s hopes lifted. ‘Well then, teach Fliss and me! If we all sing it, then maybe we could get rid of them even faster. Fliss’s singing usually gets rid of anything.’

  ‘This is no time for jokes, Betty,’ Fliss said tightly.

  ‘I wasn’t joking,’ Betty said in earnest. ‘Your singing really is dreadful, but that might be a good thing for once!’

  ‘It won’t make them go away,’ Willow said. ‘It puts them in a daze so we can move past them, but it’s not something I can teach you . . . not in time, anyway.’ She glanced about the wheelhouse. ‘And we’ll need other things . . . nets, jars. Do you have any?’

  ‘Nets and jars?’ Betty asked, bewildered. Another whisper sounded, this time closer, and she swatted at it, unnerved. She ducked down, rooting under the cabin seats. ‘There are a couple of small nets from when we took Charlie crabbing, and one or two jars she used for tadpoles. What do you need them for?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ said Willow. ‘But we have to hurry.’ She took a couple of deep breaths, as if readying herself, then reached past Fliss for the cabin door. ‘After I go out, I need you to wait for my signal. Then bring out the nets and jars quickly. I’ll tell you what to do next and, whatever you do, don’t listen. You mustn’t listen to the whispers.’

  ‘What would happen if we did?’ Fliss asked, in a choked voice.

  ‘That’s how people get lost,’ said Willow. ‘First by following the light. Then by listening to them. Being drawn away.’

  ‘And you’re going out there alone?’ Fliss huddled into herself, clearly horrified at the thought of it.

  ‘I have to,’ said Willow. ‘If I don’t, we won’t get away. And more will come.’

  She seized the door handle and slipped out of the wheelhouse into the swarming glow of wisps. Betty caught one last glimpse of her face, pinched with fear, before she vanished. She and Fliss drew closer together, trying to make out the small girl through the silvery light. Everything that happened now, to them and Charlie, hinged on what Willow was about to do.

  ‘Listen,’ Betty murmured, pressing her ear to the door. ‘Do you hear that?’

  ‘W-what?’ Fliss clutched at Betty’s hand. Her palm was clammier than Betty had ever felt it before. ‘Willow said not to listen to the whispers!’

  ‘Not that.’ Betty leaned closer to the door, a draught tickling her ear. ‘It’s Willow.’

  It was faint at first, a strangely deep crooning sound that could almost have been coming from an animal. Slowly, it rose and fell like the waves of the sea and, as Betty strained even harder to hear over the whispers, she understood now why Willow couldn’t have taught them the song.

  ‘It’s in the old tongue,’ she realised. ‘Old Crow, the language they used to speak here hundreds of years ago.’ Granny had tried to teach them some of the few words she knew, but Betty had never managed to grasp them. Above Willow’s song, the susurrus of whispers continued, like leaves in a rough wind. Willow went on singing, her voice growing in strength.

  ‘Look!’ Fliss pointed, uncurling her fingers from Betty’s. ‘It’s working.’

  Betty’s eyes darted to the window, which was rapidly darkening once more. Fliss was right: the wisps were gliding away, one by one, taking their whispers with them.

  ‘Where’s Willow?’ Betty asked, craning her neck. ‘I don’t see her – she must be at the stern of the boat.’

  ‘Stern?’

  ‘The back!’ Betty said, exasperated.

  ‘What shall we do?’ asked Fliss.

  ‘She said to wait for her signal,’ said Betty. ‘Once we get it, we need to stick our fingers in our ears and grab those nets and jars.’

  ‘How can we grab them if our fingers are in our ears?’ Fliss shot back.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Betty snapped, unable to help it as the tension set in deeper.

  She eyed the wisp inside the wheehouse with them, glowing softly in the lamp once more. At Willow’s song, its light seemed to have been dampened a little, and it had stilled, as though listening.

  They stood, shivering with cold and anticipation. Betty’s hand rested on the latch. Outside, Willow’s voice began to fade. Perhaps her song was drawing to an end, and they would soon be free of the wisps. Betty squeezed her eyes shut, listening and hoping.

  ‘Betty?’ Fliss said urgently. ‘Does it seem . . . brighter in here to you again?’

  Betty’s eyes snapped open. She blinked at the windows, where wisps had begun clamouring once more. Out on deck, nothing could be heard except swirling wind and lapping water.

  Betty stiffened. ‘Something’s wrong. Willow’s not singing.’

 
; ‘Maybe she’s finished,’ said Fliss uneasily. ‘But then why are the wisps back at the window?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Betty. She drew in a deep breath. ‘We have to go out there.’

  ‘B-but the signal . . .’

  ‘What if she can’t?’ Betty said urgently. ‘She needs our help – I know it.’

  Fliss hesitated. ‘I’m scared,’ she admitted. ‘I’m not brave like you.’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ said Betty. ‘I’m scared, too. But we’re still going to help Willow, and that’s what bravery is.’

  Fliss nodded, looking slightly less terrified. ‘She who tries, triumphs,’ she murmured. ‘That’s what you always say, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Betty, because she couldn’t think of anything else and she didn’t want Fliss to see that her teeth were chattering. She flung a net over her shoulder and tucked a jar under her arm. Then, sticking her fingers in her ears, she indicated for Fliss to do the same before she swung open the door. Once she was sure her sister had covered her ears, Betty screwed up her courage and stepped outside.

  They were met by a wall of wisps, rising up like the mist itself. Immediately, Fliss shrank back, but Betty gritted her teeth and nudged her onwards with her elbow. ‘Come on! We have to get past them.’

  The wisps enveloped them, and there was something almost . . . oozing about the movement. Slow, like tentacles or jellyfish. Up close, they were so bright that Betty’s eyes were dazzled. And the whispers, louder now, mingled into each other in a low, eerie blanket of words.

  ‘Come with me . . . need to show you . . . Something you should seeeeee . . . help us, please . . .’

  Betty jammed her fingers in her ears, her courage leaping overboard. Desperately, she searched the deck for Willow, but all she could see were wisps. A terrified gurgle forced its way up her throat. Had Willow fallen overboard? She pushed through the wisps, using her elbows to nudge them aside, although the moment one was elbowed out of the way another simply replaced it.

  ‘Willow?’ Betty’s voice emerged dry and raspy. ‘Where are you?’ Around her the wisps thickened, like curious cats watching a mouse hole. She swatted them away again, momentarily creating a path for herself and Fliss. But already she was struggling with her sense of direction, disorientated by the floating orbs. She could no longer be sure of where the wheelhouse was, let alone where Willow might be.

  Her foot struck something on the deck. Something solid but unmoving. Betty squinted through the wisps, but already she knew.

  A small leather boot, not much bigger than Charlie’s. Betty gasped and dropped to her knees. ‘Willow!’ Forgetting the girl’s earlier warning, she took her fingers out of her ears and shook the unmoving figure. Instantly, the whispers filled her head, crashing against her own thoughts and making it difficult to focus.

  ‘Set me free . . . just listen, listen . . .’

  ‘Shhhh,’ Betty moaned, grasping Willow’s boot. She followed her leg until she found Willow’s face, cupping it in her hand. Her skin was deathly cold, her eyes glassy and staring.

  ‘Is she . . . ?’ Fliss’s terrified voice cut through the whispering, warm and alive.

  ‘No.’ Betty’s heart leaped. There was a faint movement on Willow’s lips. She leaned closer, trying to catch the words. Strangely, she couldn’t feel the girl’s breath. ‘She’s saying something . . . No, wait. She’s still trying to sing!’

  She wrapped her arms round Willow, her head thick with the whispering now, thoughts muzzy.

  ‘Betty!’ Fliss was yelling now. ‘Don’t listen!’

  But it was impossible. For out of the whispers some voices rose above others. Pleading to be heard, demanding to be obeyed. Betty grappled to keep her own thoughts, battling the sensation of slipping away on the night air.

  Words crammed into her head: phrases from past lives, songs, promises, threats, secrets. Dimly, she wondered how bright she would glow, how loud her voice would be . . . and what it would say to passing travellers as lost in the mist as she was. The voices drifted over her until she felt her grip on Willow loosening, and she began to float, slowly, away with them.

  Chapter Twelve

  Seaweed

  ‘BETTY!’

  ‘Yargh!’ Betty spluttered as cold salt water hit her face. She spat it out, shivering as a thread of it dripped down her collar. ‘For crow’s sake, Fliss!’ she yelled, sitting bolt upright. ‘What are you trying to do, drown me?’ She rolled on to her knees, coughing. The deck was damp and gritty beneath her hands. For a moment, she struggled to remember what she was doing out here in the dead of night. Then, from the edges of her vision, the blanket of wisps oozed closer, the whispering taking hold in Betty’s mind again.

  ‘I’m trying to save your life.’ Fliss’s voice cut through the whispers, in a sterner tone than Betty had ever heard from her.

  Betty turned to face her sister. If circumstances had been different, she would have wanted to laugh. Now she got a proper look at Fliss, she saw that her sister looked rather absurd. Her short, normally neat hair was sticking out at all angles from where the sea wind had blown it, and she was brandishing a fishing net fiercely, along with a jar dripping with seawater.

  Betty peered closer. ‘Is that . . . seaweed in your ears?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fliss spoke through gritted teeth. ‘It was all I could find to dull the noise.’ Before Betty could protest, Fliss’s fingers were deftly poking in Betty’s ears, too.

  ‘Oooh.’ She shivered as the cold, slimy seaweed was stuffed in place. ‘That feels,’ she said miserably, ‘absolutely revolting.’

  ‘I know,’ said Fliss, sounding muffled. ‘It stinks, too. Now come on.’ She yanked Betty to her feet and handed her a large glass jar. ‘Willow needs us!’

  Fliss elbowed the wisps out of the way to clear space around them. Willow lay slumped on the deck, unmoving. The whispers were more indistinct now and easier to ignore. Fliss’s idea seemed to be working.

  ‘Willow.’ Fliss shook the girl, gently at first. Her head lolled to one side, her eyes staring and glassy. ‘Willow!’ Fliss shook harder now, a frantic note entering her voice. ‘Come on – stay with us! Sing! We’re right here with you, Willow. Please don’t give up. We need you. Charlie needs you!’

  Fliss turned to Betty, her face a mask of shock and sorrow. ‘We’re too late. We should never have let her come out here alone.’

  ‘No,’ said Betty. ‘NO!’ She thought back, trying to recall Willow’s strange, crooning melody. While she knew none of the words, a small part of it looped in her mind, and it was this bit she hummed.

  Hesitantly, Fliss joined in, echoing the tune in her warbling, slightly off-key way, tacking on another little section that she, too, had remembered, jogging Betty’s memory. And then Fliss must have remembered something else: a single word of Old Crow: domus. This she sang, and so Betty sang it, too, and they continued to hum, repeating the only word they knew in what they hoped was the right place.

  The boat rocked softly on the water, but Willow remained motionless.

  We’ve lost her, Betty thought, numb with shock. She’s gone, and Fliss and I will be next. At the thought of this, the whispers edged closer, somehow louder in her head. She shot a defeated look at Fliss, reaching out and squeezing her sister’s hand hard. Fliss squeezed back, humming louder and more tunelessly than ever.

  And then Betty saw it: the faintest shift of movement from Willow.

  ‘Fliss, I think it’s working!’

  They hummed even louder, in time now, if not in tune, singing the one word they knew. And gradually, in shaky breaths, Willow stirred and joined them, correcting the tune and filling in the parts they had missed. Her words were so faint at first that she, too, sounded as though she were humming. Gradually, her voice grew stronger, overtaking theirs as she poured out the strange old words. She lifted her hands to her ears, blocking out the whispers that were becoming fainter as the song swelled in the air.

  Everything stilled. The air, the water, the
boat. It was as though the night was holding its breath. The wisps hung motionless around them, like a scene in a snow globe.

  Willow stopped singing and sat up. ‘It’s time.’

  ‘Time for what?’ Betty croaked. She clambered to her feet, and Fliss followed.

  ‘To collect them.’ Willow took the net from Fliss and gently swept it from side to side. And, instead of darting away like wily fish, the wisps remained unmoving and were collected in the net easily, as if they were nothing more than dandelion clocks. Scooped up into the net together in one glowing ball of light, merging together as one. If Betty hadn’t come quite so close to being lost, she might almost have found it beautiful to watch.

  ‘And now?’ Fliss whispered.

  ‘We move them, gently,’ Willow said. She ducked through the mass of wisps still surrounding them and shook the net gently over the back of The Travelling Bag. ‘My father always said that, however much we fear them, we must respect them, too.’

  Hesitantly, Betty set to work with the second net, casting it about as Willow had done, keeping it firmly at arm’s length while she collected the wisps before depositing them over the back of the boat. As the net filled, it remained oddly weightless, as if Betty were collecting nothing more than clouds.

  She caught sight of Fliss shaking out a jar and wondered if she felt as jittery as Betty did. Her sister’s face was grey, but there was a steely look in her eye. Betty had always been the strong one: the one with the quick answers, and ideas. It was easy to underestimate Fliss, with her gentle nature and frequent blushes. But when their mother had died it had been Fliss who took to mothering Betty and Charlie, nurturing where Granny was brash and fierce. There were different ways, Betty realised, to be strong.

  She worked faster, concentrating on the front of the boat. Soon the way ahead was dark and clear.