‘Oh, me ’ORRID aunt, where’s me stove?’ whispered Oswin, peering out at the scene, his eyes creeping above the top of the hairy bag in absolute horror.
Her eyes widened as she saw elves with blue skin, bows and arrows on their backs as they hunted among the trees. There were wood sprites, who looked like they were made of green smoke, dashing up the colourful bark. Their laughter was loud as they gathered fruit and nuts in heavy woven baskets, which they transported up the network of trees so fast it was impossible to see how they did it.
There were people going about their day, making tools, preparing food and walking or flying as they chatted in groups – though they weren’t like any people Willow had ever seen before. They were the ones she’d been told about, with leaves for fingers or flames for hair, hooves for feet … and WINGS. They were the ones who’d been transformed by the wild magic of the forest.
‘I never saw them when I was here before,’ she breathed, eyes wide as they flew over one of the treetop villages. She stared down at the treehouses, which were shaped like vast teardrops, intricately made from electric-coloured vines. Some were brightest pink while others were vivid blue or green or brilliant white. They dangled from the branches like strange, beautiful birdcages.
‘The last time I was here, we flew high, way above the canopy, towards the Great Wisperia Tree. I never saw this,’ she exhaled.
The broomstick shuddered and dipped as Sprig turned back into a boy. Willow twisted round to look at him as he said, ‘It’s here, closer to the ground, that you see what Wisperia is really like.’
‘Have you spent time here?’ she asked in surprise.
‘Some,’ he acknowledged. ‘Mostly as a raven. The magic doesn’t really affect me much when I’m in bird form – can’t speak as a bird either,’ he added, explaining the reason he had transformed back into a boy. ‘They’re really interesting, the people here. They don’t talk like us; they communicate like birds, in song. It’s their own language, though only the forest-touched can understand it.’
Willow’s eyes widened at this. As they flew, they passed a group of what looked like children perching on top of a branch. They all had different-coloured leaves for hair and arms, from turquoise to bright pink, gold and flame-orange. As she stared, they jumped off the branch, their leaf-like arms acting as wings. Keeping pace with Willow’s broom, they turned and spiralled, each attempting to outdo the other as they performed beautiful aerial displays, which Willow realised were for their benefit. There was a sound almost like laughter as she clapped at their colourful display, then they turned and headed back, something like birdsong sounding sweetly in the air.
‘What was that about?’ breathed Willow in wonder.
Sprig shrugged. ‘I think they’re just as curious about you as you are about them. Not many regular folk come to Wisperia, see. The young ones haven’t learnt to be fearful of outsiders yet.’
Sprig’s words made her frown slightly, despite her delight at the youngsters’ antics. She supposed not everyone who came to Wisperia was kind to those they deemed different to them.
As the afternoon wore on, they flew towards the heart of the enormous, colourful forest, where a giant pale tree the colour of blue sea glass dominated the landscape. It was the Great Wisperia Tree, where, up at the very top, Nolin Sometimes’s house perched on stilts, swaying gently in the wind.
There were rocks suspended in the air that made a ladder up to the house, and everywhere there were strange plants in teapots, some with fur or hair or eyes.
Willow made for the porch, and left Whisper outside propped up against the railing.
It felt strange to be here without Sometimes to welcome them. She noticed that without him the rocks and lanterns that usually lit up outside his stilt house weren’t illuminated, and couldn’t help feeling his absence more than ever.
She opened the door to the sound of snoring. There was a faint ‘Oh, OSBERTRUDE, oh, me ’orrid aunt, I forgot about ’im!’ from the carpetbag.
The snoring stopped as their footsteps sounded at the entrance. From the cluttered wooden desk near the door there was a loud humming sound.
‘The furlarms,’ Willow remembered, coming forward to touch one of the funny, hairy creatures. It stopped humming at her touch, only to look at her balefully.
Abruptly, something heavy and large hit the floor, and Willow turned to find that Harold, a large brown dog with lots of wrinkly skin and a long, lolling tongue, had jumped off the bed by the window. He yelped excitedly to see them, and Willow bent down to give the dog a scratch and a cuddle, to Oswin’s harrumph of annoyance.
‘Sorry, Harold, it’s just us,’ she said as the dog moved on quickly from them to the door. He stared out hopefully for Sometimes’s return, then howled softly when he realised he wasn’t coming.
Willow’s heart sank. She felt terrible for him. ‘That’s why we’re here. We’re going to try and get him back.’
‘I don’t think he understands that,’ said Sprig, looking at the dog, then grinning at her.
Willow nodded, but couldn’t bring herself to return his smile. It was all too sad being here without Sometimes. ‘I’ll check around in here,’ she said, and Sprig suggested he look outside for any signs of who had taken Sometimes.
Willow started with the small kitchen in the corner, filled with yellow cupboards and hundreds of teapots, looking for signs of a struggle, hoping that there would be some clue left behind.
The only thing she could find was the back door open, slamming against the wind. On the mat, there was a faint scuffmark, and a plant that looked like it had been crushed, perhaps from Sometimes’s hasty departure. She knelt down to pick it up and a tiny plant frond seemed to lift itself towards her before it stopped moving.
Willow bit her lip. The plants Nolin Sometimes collected always seemed somehow more alive, more unusual. She took it to the kitchen and let it stand in a small saucer of water, hoping that would revive it – though she doubted it sadly. Sometimes would know what to do for it.
Her chest felt heavy as she carried on searching through the rest of the treehouse. Whenever she felt this way, like there was no hope left, she saw Granny Flossy’s face. She closed her eyes and shook the image away, a tear forming at the corner of her eye. What if she didn’t find Sometimes? Would she lose him too?
A noise made her turn. Sprig had returned. ‘I couldn’t see anything outside in the garden – no telltale signs. I think they must have caught him while he was running away.’
Willow nodded. That’s what she thought too, her heart sinking as if a lead weight had pushed it down to her toes. She turned away to dab at her eyes surreptitiously. She walked back towards the large, cluttered desk near the front door, where the furlarms were sitting quietly. It was strewn with an array of plants in jam jars, dried leaves, botanical sketches and feathers. Night was beginning to fall, and it was growing ever darker in the treehouse.
Where was he? Who had wanted to take him and why?
She picked up notebooks and feathers, unable to speak past the lump forming in her throat.
Suddenly there was a loud pop, and Oswin cried, ‘Oi, wot ’appened to the sofa?’
Willow blinked, her heart starting to race. Had she made it disappear?