A Sprinkle of Sorcery Page 9

  Charlie.

  Betty’s eyes prickled. Don’t cry, she willed herself. This is not the time to cry.

  ‘That old book – I remember it now. Full of stories, legends of Crowstone.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fliss, nodding vigorously. ‘The Crowstone Chronicles!’

  Betty closed her eyes. She could almost smell the yellowed, musty pages. And in her head she heard Father’s voice, and the story he had told so many times.

  She took a breath, opened her eyes and began.

  ‘There was once a poor man who had three sons . . .’

  THE CROWSTONE CHRONICLES

  The Crone, the Raven and the Labyrinth: Part I

  THERE WAS ONCE A POOR man who had three sons. They lived on an island surrounded by marshes, where the only path to anywhere was by water.

  As is often the way with siblings, the three brothers were very different. The eldest, named Fortune, was good-hearted but conceited. As the firstborn, he had been given the best of what the family had, and was blessed with charm and good looks. The second son, Luck, was brave but foolish, and resented living in Fortune’s hand-me-downs. The youngest brother, Hope, was the kindest and wisest of the three, but was overlooked.

  The family scraped by, just surviving on their father’s work as a shoemaker. Where his craftsmanship had once been fine, age made his hands unsteady and his eyesight poor. Customers failed to return. After a particularly harsh winter, the old man was unable to work at all. Fearing for the family’s survival, the three sons began to plot how they could save themselves from ruin.

  ‘I will go out and find work,’ Fortune declared. But he had few skills and only ever managed to bring home copper Rooks and Feathers, which were not enough to feed them all. Then, one day, he came home with something else: a mysterious tale that he had overheard.

  The story told of a strange island that hid a vast labyrinth, at the centre of which were riches beyond compare. But the labyrinth was riddled with puzzles and traps, and the way to it could only be learned from a one-eyed crone who lived on the marshes with her raven.

  Self-assured as always, Fortune boasted that he would be the one to reach the heart of the labyrinth. Only half believing the story, but desperate enough to try anything, their father agreed. So off Fortune went in their small boat, following the directions he had been given across the marshes to find the crone.

  Now there was a reason the crone had chosen to live alone, and it was because she didn’t like people very much. She disliked their constant requests for help, and the way they turned up unannounced. Most of all, she resented the way they looked at her, because she was different. It so happened that she was also a witch.

  When she saw Fortune approach, hollering for her attention, she stirred up the sea into a dreadful storm. Fortune, however, as strong as he was conceited, managed to steer the boat safely to the rocky crag where the crone lived. There he found that a large black raven on her shoulder spoke for her in clipped phrases.

  Silently, the crone pushed a stone into Fortune’s hand. At the centre was a hole, crusted with tiny gemstones.

  ‘Look through, look through,’ the raven instructed.

  Fortune lifted the stone to his eye and cried out in wonder. A mass of land that hadn’t been there before had appeared on the horizon. Immediately, he knew this must be the location of the hidden labyrinth.

  The crone held a cauldron in her hand, which she offered to him now.

  ‘Take one, choose one,’ said the raven, blinking a yellow eye at Fortune.

  In this cauldron there were all manner of curious things: a pair of fine leather shoes that were exactly his size; a plush velvet cape; a jewelled dagger; a lucky rabbit’s foot; a ball of yarn; and a golden egg. By now Fortune had guessed that one of these items would help him, and his mind was ticking. If he failed, he reasoned, wouldn’t it be wise to choose something of value? That way he wouldn’t return home empty-handed.

  ‘I already have good shoes,’ he reasoned, ‘and the dagger and cape will not compare to the riches that await. The rabbit’s foot I will not choose, because my luck should not be at the expense of another living creature’s. The yarn is worthless.’ In the end, he chose the large golden egg.

  Because she was so ugly, Fortune failed to see the witch’s scowl of annoyance. He had spent a long time dithering, and the cauldron was heavy. Her old arms ached. However, Fortune, so busy congratulating himself on his cleverness, forgot to thank her as he clambered back into his boat, once again stirring her temper. She conjured a wind that blew his boat off course and set him back another day.

  So on Fortune went, using the stone to guide the way. When he arrived at the island, exhausted, he circled it, finding no path, only craggy white cliffs. Odd branches jutted out where roots had grown in cracks over the years. It was now he realised the crone’s storm had resulted in him losing the rope to moor the boat. With nothing to tether it, he had no choice but to leave it drifting.

  Wearily, he climbed the cliffs. But the footholds were few, and several times he lost his grip and slid, sending up clouds of dust that got into his throat. Miraculously, the golden egg survived the climb, but already Fortune was doubting his choice. The egg was heavy and cumbersome, and he had a long way to go. It was nightfall when the path came to an end and he found a small area of land before a cave, and he could have cried with joy when he discovered an old stone well tucked away within the greenery.

  His joy didn’t last. Peering into the well, he saw a bucket floating far below with no means to reach it. The only way to satisfy his thirst was to pull out handfuls of the wet moss that grew inside the lip of the well and squeeze the moisture into his mouth. By then, he was ravenous, too, and had begun to dream about what size yolk might lie inside the egg.

  ‘Only a fool would starve to keep an egg that could feed him,’ he said to himself. ‘What use is a golden egg to a dead man?’ And he cracked it open.

  Alas – a black raven erupted from the egg to cackle at him. Lunging at it in temper, Fortune missed and fell headlong into the well. The bird – for it had been the witch’s all along – heckled, ‘Too bad, too bad!’ and flew back to the crone.

  And Fortune’s little boat drifted further from the rocks and floated away.

  Chapter Ten

  A Silvery Veil

  BETTY BROKE OFF FROM THE story as Fliss pushed past her to the door. A moment later, she could be heard heaving over the side of the boat, before returning, pasty-faced, to the wheelhouse. Meanwhile, Betty had been puzzling over the tale and unpicking it like knots in a thread. She had always thought the tale of the three brothers was merely that – a cautionary tale to be read to children at night. But, if there was truth in the legend of the one-eyed witch, then maybe there was some truth in the existence of the island, too. The question was, what was Willow hoping to find there?

  Riches beyond compare . . .

  She heard Father’s voice clear in her mind. Had Willow and her mother really risked so much, and come all this way, because they had been motivated by greed? The thought of it filled Betty with anger and disgust.

  ‘What exactly are you hoping to find on the hidden island, Willow?’ she asked, her voice icy. ‘Did you and your mother really risk everything, and did Charlie get kidnapped, all because you thought there was a chance you could get rich?’

  ‘What? No!’ Willow protested, her face crumpling. Tears spilled down her pale cheeks and dripped off her chin. ‘I’d never even heard of the riches on the island – it’s nothing like that!’

  Betty ground her teeth in exasperation. Even if Willow had never heard the story, her mother might have, and been foolish – or greedy – enough to think that riches would solve their problems. Perhaps they hoped to buy Willow’s father out of jail.

  ‘Betty.’ Fliss gave her a warning look, and shook her head slightly. Betty decided to keep quiet, for now. Perhaps Willow might respond more readily to Fliss, who had a way of charming people into doing what she wanted, rat
her than blundering in like Betty.

  ‘If it’s not riches you’re after, then why are you so keen to get there?’ Fliss continued. ‘You must know what happens to people who’re caught trying to escape! To put yourself through what you have tonight, you must be—’

  ‘Stupid,’ Betty growled.

  ‘I was going to say desperate,’ Fliss added. ‘And we know how that feels, don’t we, Betty?’

  ‘Never mind us,’ Betty snapped, too annoyed to be reasonable. ‘I want to know about her. Because so far her story is full of holes, and I’m not just talking about the hagstone!’

  ‘We are desperate,’ said Willow miserably. ‘We knew how dangerous it was to escape, but we had to – for my father. To prove he’s innocent.’

  ‘Innocent of what?’ Betty asked, the coldness seeping from her voice. Could it be true? Could Willow and her mother really have risked their own lives for her father? She glanced back at the prison vanishing behind them into darkness. She and Fliss both remembered how awful it was to have someone they loved locked inside its walls.

  ‘Murder,’ whispered Willow.

  The word rang in Betty’s ears. For Willow and her mother to have been on Torment, Betty had known it must be for something serious – but she hadn’t been imagining this. She and Fliss each took a sharp breath as things became worryingly clear. Prison sentences in Crowstone were always harsh, but for taking a life there was only ever one outcome. The worst outcome.

  ‘He’s going to be executed, isn’t he?’ said Fliss shakily.

  A small sob escaped Willow’s lips and she nodded.

  ‘When?’ Betty asked, her voice a dry croak now. She recalled the prison gallows once more with dread. The wooden scaffold, the gloomy prison courtyard. At one time, Granny said, they used to carry out the hangings at the crossroads for everyone to see. Nowadays they still happened, only inside the prison walls.

  ‘In three days,’ said Willow, biting her lip. ‘We tried so hard to make them listen, but no one would. And time just kept on running out.’ She wiped her runny nose. ‘That’s why we had to get away, to try to prove once and for all he didn’t do it. And, now Mother’s been caught, it’s down to me. I’m . . . I’m all he has left. I’m his only chance.’ She buried her face in her hands and wept silently.

  Not knowing what else to do, Betty reached out and gently laid her hand on Willow’s back. Despite the dry clothes of Charlie’s she’d changed into, there was a damp, clammy feel to them. As if the marsh had got its hooks into her and wouldn’t let go.

  ‘So then why were you and your mother on Torment?’ Fliss asked, confused. ‘I thought it was just for people who’d been banished, or released from prison and not allowed to return to their previous home?’

  ‘As punishment,’ said Willow. She rubbed a sleeve over her wet face and sighed. ‘Before all his happened, we lived on the mainland, in Merry-on-the-Marsh. My father was a fisherman, a good one. But he was also a wisp catcher like me.’ Her face crumpled. ‘It was part of the reason his catches were the biggest, and the best.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Betty. ‘How could being a wisp catcher help him to fish well?’

  Willow shook her head. ‘It didn’t exactly. Father says wisps hold on because of unfinished business. Sometimes it’s a feeling: anger or sadness. Sometimes they’re vengeful; sometimes they want justice. But they always want to be heard. And that’s why they can be dangerous to people who don’t know how to listen, who aren’t prepared. It’s easy to follow them, to forget yourself. That’s why folk fear them.

  ‘But Father didn’t. He wasn’t afraid,’ Willow explained. ‘He’d go where others wouldn’t. Places full of wisps that most fishing folk would stay away from out of fear. But he . . . respected them. And he taught me to, once it was clear I had the gift, too.’ She smiled faintly. ‘He said I was a born wisp catcher.’

  ‘What do wisp catchers do, though?’ asked Fliss.

  ‘We lull them.’

  ‘Lull?’ asked Betty.

  ‘It’s a way of calming them, so they lose their power over people,’ said Willow. ‘At least for a little while. Father showed me how to do it safely, but he said we must always keep it a secret. That there were people who would try to use what we did for . . . for bad things.’

  Betty felt a sudden familiar chill. Granny had said something very similar on the night she had given Betty the nesting dolls. About how dangerous they could be in the wrong hands . . .

  ‘One day he went out fishing with his best friend, Saul,’ Willow continued, frowning. ‘Mother hadn’t wanted them to go. She was worried because I’d seen them arguing about something. I was too far away to hear what they said, but I could see Saul showing Father something – a scrap of paper. Father was shaking his head, and Saul was getting angry. Then finally Father nodded. So they left . . . but something happened, and Saul never came back. Father returned with a bump on his head, and couldn’t remember how he got it, but there was . . .’ She faltered, brushing tears away from her eyes.

  Fliss managed to look up, though by now she was decidedly green again. ‘There was . . . ?’ she coaxed gently.

  Willow sniffed. ‘Blood, inside the boat. But Father had no injuries – well, no cuts. Apart from the bump on his head, there were no marks on him. So the blood had to have been Saul’s, but they never found him.’ She gazed at Fliss, then Betty, her eyes troubled and glistening with tears. ‘After Father was arrested, I searched his boat. There’s a tiny secret space where we hid money and food when we were out fishing, in case the boat was ever robbed. That’s where I found the map and the hagstone. I couldn’t think why the stone would be there, but I remembered stories of how hagstones are meant to be magical, so I looked through it. I was holding the map at the time and caught sight of the island appearing on it by chance. I knew then it must be a clue – to whatever had happened to Saul. The way he’d vanished . . . and finding the map with an invisible island, I felt sure the two things had to be connected.’

  ‘Why didn’t you show the warders?’ Betty asked. ‘Surely you’d want to give them any proof of where Saul could be?’

  ‘Mother wouldn’t take it to the warders. She was too afraid. They hadn’t listened to Father, she said, so why would they take any notice of us? They could accuse us of being the ones to make the map, and then . . .’

  ‘And then you’d be thrown into Crowstone Tower,’ Betty finished. ‘Like anyone suspected of sorcery.’

  Willow nodded, sniffling. ‘Father’s in prison for killing Saul – but he didn’t do it! I know he didn’t – but he says he can’t remember anything.’

  ‘So they sent you to Torment,’ said Betty, ‘because they think, by punishing you and your mother, it’ll make your father admit to what he did to Saul . . . and where his body is.’

  Willow nodded tearfully. ‘And that’s why I believe him. Because he would never, ever let us stay on that horrible island!’ She slumped further back on the seat, looking every bit as hopeless as she sounded.

  ‘You said your father has been in prison for almost a year, now,’ Betty asked, her voice softer. How terrible to be punished for someone else’s deeds if you were innocent!

  ‘Yes,’ Willow answered. ‘That’s how long we’ve been on Torment.’

  ‘How wicked!’ Fliss exclaimed.

  ‘And the wisp?’ Betty asked. ‘Where does that fit into all this? And who exactly is it?’ Even though it had been perfectly well behaved since they’d boarded the boat, she couldn’t help shuddering a little at the sight of the orb still glowing at Willow’s side. At some point while Willow had been telling her story, it had drawn closer, as though it were listening.

  ‘It appeared this evening, after Mother and I became separated,’ Willow said, her voice trembling. ‘Something about it . . . seems familiar. Like . . . like it knows me. I think . . . it could be Saul? And he’s trying to show me something.’

  A sick, guilty feeling rose up inside Betty. There was another more likely po
ssibility that the wisp could, in fact, be Willow’s mother. The warders had said whoever was half drowned wasn’t expected to survive the night . . . and if Willow sensed there was something familiar about the wisp then it didn’t look good. But how can I possibly tell her? Betty thought. After all she’s been through, how can I tell her that her mother didn’t make it?

  ‘But then that means Saul really is dead,’ she muttered.

  ‘It doesn’t mean my father killed him,’ Willow replied, with the same determined look Betty had seen earlier.

  ‘No, but it doesn’t help you, either.’

  ‘It does if he can show me what happened,’ Willow insisted. ‘That’s why I need to get to the island, to prove Father didn’t kill anyone! The island is the key in all this – I can just feel it!’

  ‘It could just as easily be trying to establish his guilt,’ Fliss said. ‘You may not like what you find.’

  Willow glared at them stubbornly, her face streaked with tears. ‘Maybe not, but if my father’s going to die I have a right to know either way. I need to know.’

  ‘And if he’s guilty?’ Betty asked. ‘What then?’

  ‘Then at least we’ll have proof, and the warders won’t have any reason to keep us on Torment,’ said Willow. ‘They’ll have to let us leave. They have to.’

  There it is again, Betty thought. That desperation, the clinging to the smallest of hopes when it was all a person had to keep them going. Rather like she felt now about finding Charlie.

  ‘Earlier, you said that the wisps exist because of unfinished business,’ said Fliss, her dark eyes troubled. ‘But what happens to a wisp if whatever they stayed for isn’t resolved?’

  ‘They become more dangerous,’ Willow said quietly. ‘Their . . . their . . .’ She paused, struggling for the right words. ‘Whatever it is that once made them who they were, that fades. And all that’s left is a memory, a feeling, a secret – whatever they were holding on for. And it just drifts, a little light flickering on the marshes. That’s what Father used to say. A light that was once a soul, waiting to be heard.’