Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters (17 page)

She turned to head back along the path toward the cottage,
when something faint, crying out from the dim recesses of the
forest, stopped her.
What was that?

Jazz peered around, wondering at first if she indeed heard
what she thought she had. Though the woods were cool and damp, it
was the swelling unease in the pit of her stomach that caused her
flesh to feel clammy. Her uncle’s warning came back to haunt
her:
Never,
ever, go into the forest.

Jazz began to
jog back the way she came.

“
Help...”

Oh no,
Jazz, groaned,
why is it always me?

“
Help me… please…”

Jazz didn’t know what to do. It meant leaving the path and
stumbling around in the woodland and that seemed quite an icky
thing to do. She was in pain herself,
didn’t they know that?
And who knows what
kind of situation she’d encounter. She didn’t pay the least bit of
attention in First Aid last year, and any form of blood made her
feel violently ill. Right now, even looking at her own
blood-puckered skin caused her to feel queasy.

“Help...”
came the plea, this time a little closer.

Jazz heaved a sigh of irritation, her face scrunching with
annoyance.
I
am so going to regret this.
Despite her misgivings, she left the path and
pushed her way through ferns and low hanging branches, trying to
keep her mind from thoughts of spiders and other creepy
crawlies.

She
headed toward the voice pleading for help. “All right, all right,
I’m coming!” she cried out with exasperation. “Jeez, calm down
already.”

Then the voice
stopped.

Jazz stood
motionless, listening.

Nothing.

“Hey,”
she cried out, “where are you?”

It was
strange. There was no sound - not the chirrup of a cricket, nor the
stirring of a breeze in the leaves, could be heard in the depth of
the murky green landscape. It was as if the entire forest held its
breath.

“
Heeellloooo?!”

Right behind
her came a sound of dead leaves crunching underfoot. Jazz’s heart
pounded in her chest. She spun around and found herself facing a
strange man. His weathered face was framed by thick whiskery
sideburns, leading into a gray beard with bushy silver eyebrows. He
stumbled toward her, arms outstretched. “Help me… please…”

Jazz skittered
back, raising her fists. “Keep back!”

The gaunt man
stopped himself and proffered his palms. “Please, I don’t mean to
frighten you.” To see Jazz in a pair of skimpy shorts and tee-shirt
obviously took the man by surprise, and he openly gawked. Jazz in
turn, thought he was rather oddly dressed, in a thick woven suit
with a green polka dot scarf tied around his neck, and a crumpled
top hat perched upon a thick crop of wild and knotted hair. A rusty
pocket watch dangled from his vest. “Pardon my ill behaviour, I
have not even introduced myself. I am Winston Sanders.” He gave a
sharp bow to Jazz, and then paused, as if he waited for something
in return. Jazz wasn’t sure what he expected, so did nothing. She
did however, relax her stance and lower her fists.

He gave a
disconcerted smile and continued, “I am so very, very glad to see
you.”

“
Are you all right?” asked Jazz. He seemed to be perfectly
fine, which gave her immense relief not to be faced with some kind
of horrible accident that she knew she wouldn’t have the skills to
tend. “Are you lost?”

“
Yes, indeed.” He broke into a wide smile, revealing blackened
rotten teeth. The tension in his shoulders relaxed with relief. “My
wife and I were on our way to Olde Town this morning, when our
carriage’s wheel broke. I went to seek assistance-”

“
This morning?” queried Jazz, wondering how a carriage would
be able to pass through the thickly knotted wood. Or even, who
still rode in carriages these days.

“
Have you seen my wife?” His faded blue eyes, glanced over
Jazz’s shoulder and scanned the woods. “Did someone come and fix
the wagon’s broken wheel, and take her on to Olde Town?”

Jazz
slowly shook her head. “I’ve seen no one else. I don’t know of any
road that cuts through.”

His voice
cracked with emotion. “You see, I’m not sure where my wife is. I
cannot find her. I cannot find any sign of her, of the horse, or
even the carriage.” He took a few quick steps nearer to Jazz. A
wild unhinged glaze seeped into his eyes. “Why is the lane so
overgrown? Why are there no wheel ruts in the ground?”

Jazz backed
away, he was giving her the creeps.

“
Why do I sport a beard when I left home this morning
clean-shaven.” His bony fingers raked through his gray hair. Jazz
noticed spider webs spun around his hat and a thick dark moss had
grown all over his leather boots. A brown wood-spider scurried out
between knotted wisps of hair in his beard. “I couldn’t find the
farmhouse, and I became so tired, so very, very tired.” His voice
became a little choked with fear and apprehension. “I sat down for
a moment, just a moment...”

He took another step closer and Jazz found herself pressed
against the rough trunk of a tree, with no escape. He frightened
her. There was no way she wanted him to touch her.
Ugh, gross,
she couldn’t help
but cringe at the sight of his long dirty fingernails.
He’s like one of
those homeless tramps rummaging through rubbish bins.

“
I swear, I slept for only a few moments. But it feels as if I
have slept much longer... Such strange and fanciful
dreams...”

He reached out
a bony hand to touch her cheek, and there was no way to avoid it.
His fingers felt cool and papery-thin. Jazz stifled a shriek.

“
Please, help me-”

As soon as
they touched, Winston stilled. Jazz heard the deep breath he drew
in, filling his lungs to capacity, but the release of air never
came. His gaze locked with hers. He was petrified.

Jazz didn’t
know what to do.

His skin
seemed to pale, to become translucent and dehydrated like
parchment. His veins desiccating like worms on a scorched
pavement.

“
Oh my...” gasped Jazz. Before her very eyes, Winston
Sanders’s flesh crumpled to dust. A cool breeze blew his remains
over her tee-shirt and face, dusting her in a fine white powder of
ash.

Jazz let out a
warble of a scream while frantically trying to brush the dusty
remains of the strange old man from her face and clothes.

She was still
screaming when Fred crashed through the undergrowth minutes later,
finding her rooted to the spot, trembling with shock.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A
Scuffle with an... Ogre?

Nettle cycled
down the driveway, jostling about as she navigated around potholes
and muddy ruts. This time around, the ride from Olde Town had flown
by. At first, she was a bundle of excited emotions - hopeful,
elated, jubilant - at the prospect of her father meeting Claudine.
She couldn’t wait for tomorrow. That was until half an hour ago,
when an image of her bumbling father greeting the polished Claudine
flashed into her mind. Now as she rode back home, she was anxious,
even slightly disheartened, at the thought.

What am I going to do about Dad?
Firstly and most importantly, what
was she going to do about her father’s appearance? At the best of
times he appeared dishevelled. Charming to the right kind of woman,
but certainly not for the refined Claudine. Recently he had started
looking worse than dishevelled. Nettle was worried her father now
resembled a hobo.

She cringed.
What is Claudine going to make of him?
He had stuck to
wearing the same hole-infested clothes for the past few days; his
stubble, now several days old, had thickened to the beginning of a
bristly beard; his hair needed a trim. It would be easy enough to
convince her father she should cut his hair, but what about his
clothes? They were worn and stained, a wardrobe full of basic
slacks with navy jerseys. She let out a deep groan,
I’ve got a lot of
work ahead of me.

Nettle rode
into the front yard. The prickly shrubs that encircled the property
had grown even higher since the morning, but it left no impression
on Nettle, her mind full of plans to find the best of her father’s
clothes and wash them in time for tomorrow. She circled around the
cottage to the old lean-to out the back, where she propped her
bicycle and unloaded the supplies she’d picked up from Goodmire
Grocers. That’s when she saw her father leaving the Wilds with
Jazz. Fred spotted Nettle. He waved her over with an exaggerated
gesture.

Claudine’s
impending visit dropped from the forefront of her mind as anger
flashed through her like wildfire.

Nettle stomped toward the pair, her boots grinding blades
of grass beneath their heavy soles.
How dare he tell me one thing, and totally
disregard it himself.
Why would he take Jazz into the Wilds and not
herself?
It’s not fair!
She gave her father a disapproving glare as she
approached. She stopped in front of him and crossed her arms. “You
told us not to go into the Forgotten Wilds!” But as she glowered at
her father, annoyed at being denied a stroll through the forest,
Nettle slowly became conscious of her cousin.

Jazz was
leaning against her uncle. As Fred gently guided her toward the
cottage she moved stiffly and slowly like an elderly woman with a
crooked back. Nettle’s mouth fell open in astonishment and her eyes
grew wide. All of Jazz’s lovely hair had been shorn off; badly,
judging by the tufts and near bald patches left on her scalp. She
was also covered from head to toe in a dusting of white powder,
stained pink from blood oozing from welts and cuts criss-crossing
her body. Jazz dazedly blinked, her gaze rested on Nettle without
any form of recognition.

The anger at being excluded from the forest adventure
seeped away.
I’m such a thoughtless brat,
Nettle berated herself. Jazz looked like
she’d only just barely survived some sort of disaster, and here she
was moaning on about not being allowed to go into the woods. “What
happened?!” Nettle asked.

Fred was focused on the brown paper bag in her arms. He
eyed it suspiciously. “Where have
you
been?”

Nettle turned to her father with a vacuous expression as
her tongue grew rubbery and useless.
Uh-oh, here we go.
She knew this had been a
possibility when she headed to Olde Town this morning, but as yet,
hadn’t prepared an answer for her father if he should
ask.

“
Nettle?”

“
Oh, you know,” she mumbled with a half-hearted shrug.
“Getting some supplies… We were out of milk and bread,” she
finished weakly.

Fred’s eyes narrowed to threatening slits behind his
glasses, “And where
exactly
would you go for supplies around here?”

Nettle glanced
upwards, pretending to be more interested in the scudded sky. She
pursed her lips, trying to say it lightly as if it were of little
consequence, all the while, inwardly steeling herself for the
oncoming tirade. “Olde Town.”

“
Olde Town?!” Fred exploded. His olive eyes bulged behind his
glasses. He stabbed the air between them with an infuriated finger
as he expressed his anger at her disobedience in a rapid dressing
down. Unfortunately for him, Nettle understood nothing of what he
said as he spoke too rapidly.

“
Huh? Dad, slow down, take a breather.”

Her father
caught himself, his cheeks puffed like a blowfish as he expelled
his fury with a long exhale. Between clenched teeth he
re-explained. “I told you, under no circumstances, were any of you,
to go to Olde Town.”

Nettle decided indignation was the best form of retaliation
in this situation. “Oh no you didn’t. You said nothing of that. You
just said,
don’t go into the Wilds.
And here you are, coming out of the
Wilds.”

“
I went in there after Jazz.”

Nettle gave
her father a withering stare, drawing herself tall. “That’s beside
the point. You said nothing, at all, about Olde Town.”

Fred glared
back. A moment later, his shoulders slumped with defeat. He raked a
hand through his messy hair, staring at his daughter wondering if
he really was the idiot he saw reflected in his daughter’s gaze.
His stomach sank. He asked weakly, “I didn’t?”

“
No, you didn’t.” Nettle said crossly, silently savouring
success. Sometimes mere confidence was the best weapon against her
father. “I wasn’t aware of Olde Town being off limits.”

Fred
spoke thinly, “No, I expect not.” He suddenly grew pale. “You
didn’t go through the Wilds to get to Olde Town?”

“
No.” Nettle shook her head. “I took the new road off the
highway.”

The colour
flooded back into Fred’s cheeks and he gave a wan smile.

C
rrrriiiiicccckkkkk…KKKK!!!

Both Nettle
and Fred started. It sounded like straining timber and splintering
wood. Jazz barely registered, her lacklustre gaze turning only
slightly toward the cottage.

Ooooommmpph…
…BOOOOOOMMM!!!