Starfell: Willow Moss & the Forgotten Tale

1

Leaf-Mail

Dear Willow,

By the time you read this, I will be gone.

My experiments with cross-pollinating a memory flower with samples from the Great Wisperia Tree have worked. I am happy to report that I can now see ten minutes into the future. Unfortunately, I have just seen that my kidnappers will be arriving IMMINENTLY! Which means, alas, I can’t even have a decent cup of tea before I send this letter via leaf-mail.

I once had a rope swing that might have offered a means of escape, but the baby dragon, Floss, accidentally burned it to a crisp during a rather unfortunate coughing fit on his last visit. So I fear my captors are likely to catch up with me soon. (Well, in seven minutes and thirty-three seconds, to be precise.) My attempts at getting ahold of the cloud dragons through pepper-tree communication haven’t gone according to plan. . . . So I thought I’d drop you a note to ask if you wouldn’t mind terribly trying to rescue me? Also, could you please look in on Harold while I’m held hostage? He gets a bit lonely when I’m not here. Though he is very capable of feeding himself.

Hope you are well otherwise? The apple-pie blossoms are in bloom again and they always remind me of you. . . .

Must dash—

Your friend,

Nolin Sometimes

Oh dear, thought Willow, putting the leaf-scroll down on the cluttered attic table, her heart starting to thud.

The post had arrived in a rather unusual way. Willow had answered a knock on the attic window only to find herself confronted by a rather grumpy oak tree with a face carved deep within its trunk. The tree had scowled at her with thick, bushy twigs for eyebrows, hard knots for eyes, and a grim slash of a stick for a mouth. It had made an annoyed and windy huffing sound as it handed over the leafy scroll. Then, after giving her one last thunderous glare that seemed to scorch her very soul, it had slumped back to its usual spot by the garden wall, leaving a steady stream of acorns in its wake—and a fair bit of swearing too. Mostly about being rudely awoken from a rather enjoyable two-hundred-year nap and NOT being a blooming postal service.

Willow hadn’t known that trees could move, never mind swear or deliver mail. But she’d had a good guess, before she’d even read the leaf-letter, that it had something to do with the forgotten teller, Nolin Sometimes, and the way his rare ability helped him make use of the hidden magic of plants. Still, even Willow Moss, who was used to a bit of odd in her life, had to admit that this was all something of a shock.

Willow wasn’t the only one surprised by the strange visit. So was her best friend, Oswin, who greatly resembled a cat, but was in fact a kobold—a type of monster—who usually lived under her bed. At this moment, his panicked wailings could be heard from the fat blue stove in the corner, where he had shot off to hide when Willow answered the knock on the window.

"Oh NO! Oh, me ’orrid aunt Osbertrude, WOT fresh eel is this?" (Kobolds regularly overheard popular sayings from beneath beds or other hiding places, but often got them a bit confused.)

Ignoring Oswin, which was sometimes the best approach for general peace of mind, Willow took a deep breath and tried to summon Sometimes from the clutches of his kidnappers. If only he’d said who they were! She concentrated hard, her eyes scrunched up tight, silently begging her magic to work. Though begging hadn’t had much effect lately, to be honest.

Alas, her face formed a rather regrettable expression that made Oswin snicker behind a fluffy green paw. Looks like yew needs the loo.

Willow ignored this. Her heart pounded, but, despite how much she tried, her hands remained empty. She just couldn’t seem to find her friend. . . .

Which was unfortunate, as Willow had a magical ability for finding lost things. Like shoes, or socks, or, most recently, a lost day that had been stolen by the Brothers of Wol, using a thousand-year-old spell. With the help of her friends, including Nolin Sometimes himself and Moreg Vaine, the most powerful witch in Starfell, Willow had gotten it back.

But she had never tried to find a missing person before. The closest she had ever gotten to that was when she found Oswin. She had summoned him from a neighbor’s stove a few years ago and never quite gotten rid of him since.

Willow sighed, then glanced at Oswin with a frown. Never mind how I look. Nolin Sometimes has been captured!

Oswin sat up fast, releasing a puff of blue coal dust into the air. In his outrage, his fur went from the color of lime cordial to bright pumpkin in an instant—one of the side effects of his koboldish heritage. He blinked large, lamp-like eyes and his ears flattened to his skull in shock. WOT? Why’d they take ’im?

Willow shook her head. I don’t know! Maybe he’s made someone a bit cross or something?

The kobold shrugged a shaggy shoulder, as the idea of Nolin Sometimes making someone a bit cross was entirely possible.

He couldn’t exactly help it. As a forgotten teller (or an oublier, to use their official name), Sometimes had visions of other people’s memories when he was around them—even the shameful ones. To make matters worse, he then blurted these secrets out loud. He didn’t know what was happening when the memories washed over him, so he couldn’t control this. Still, it made some people a bit angry . . . murderous even, if the stories of what had happened to some of the other forgotten tellers over the years were true. And the trouble was, when Willow stopped to think about it, Nolin Sometimes could have been taken by just about anyone, really.

She looked at the leaf-scroll again, as if hoping it would offer something—anything—else to help her find him. But aside from a tiny splotch that looked a bit like a flower, where the ink had run next to the forgotten teller’s name, there was nothing. Willow sighed and paced the dusty attic floor, leaving a small trail of sock prints behind. Then she tried to use her magic again, hoping that this time it would just work. But the problem was that lately it just wouldn’t.

Unbidden, her sister Camille’s voice flared in her mind. "Well, I’ve never been unable to use my magic before, not even when I had rumble fever and was nearly on my deathbed. But then I suppose it’s hard to lose a really powerful ability. Maybe yours was so weak, Willow, that all it took to make it disappear was a really good sneeze."

Willow took a deep breath and pushed her sister’s annoying voice out of her mind. She was fairly sure magical abilities didn’t just disappear with sneezes.

Mostly sure.

Just focus, Willow, she said aloud, picturing her friend’s wild white hair, skinny frame, and the way he always had so many pockets filled with strange plants. She tried with all her might to find him, but nothing happened.

Until . . . something did.

Something a bit unfortunate, which began with a rather loud popping sound and the familiar wailings of a certain kobold.

Oh noooo! cried Oswin. Oh, me GREEDY aunt, why’d yew CURSE me to live with witches? He dived out of the stove and shot into the much-repaired and patched-together green, hairy carpetbag near Willow’s feet, which started to shake violently.

Willow shut her eyes, afraid to look. She heard about it, though, soon enough.

There was another loud pop, followed by a bellow from her mother downstairs.

WILLOW MOSS! WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT TRYING TO USE YOUR MAGIC BEFORE YOU’VE RECOVERED?

Willow swallowed. Um. That I shouldn’t? she mumbled, reluctantly opening an eye, only to blanch. Most of the attic had vanished. What remained was the single floorboard on which they stood.

It had all disappeared.

From the kitchen below, her mother and oldest sister, Juniper, were staring up at her with identical FURIOUS expressions.

I—um . . . erm . . . Sorry, Mum, stammered Willow.

This was bad enough, but things were about to get a whole lot worse rather quickly.

Juniper frowned, then looked at the empty seat next to her and paled. W-where’s Camille?

Willow scrunched up an eye, afraid to witness what would no doubt come next. Her mother looked from the empty seat back to Willow accusingly, her lips stretching into a thin, angry line. "You had better not have made your sister disappear. Again."

Willow bit her lip, then shared a look of commiseration with Oswin, whose eyes were peeking out of the bag in fright.

Oh no . . .

2

Magic Most Peculiar

IT HAD STARTED with the spoons.

No one could say for certain if the dessertspoons went first or the serving spoons, but, by the time the teaspoons had vanished throughout the village (and no one could make a decent cup of tea, which was enough reason for anyone to start sharpening their pitchfork), the whispers began to twist their way toward the youngest witch in the Moss family.

In an ordinary village, missing spoons wouldn’t cause that much concern, but in Grinfog, home to a family full of witches, it was natural that a few questions were raised. Some with raised voices to match.

Though, as Willow’s ability was to find things, not make them disappear, she along with the rest of the family had dismissed their neighbors’ concerns. A hiccup in the greening moon perhaps? A band of spoon-stealing poltergeists maybe? Nothing to do with her, though. Until the bunfire on Elth Night, that is, when even Willow began to wonder if she was, in fact, the person responsible for all the weird disappearances.

Elths, not to be confused with elves, are tiny, hairy, bearded creatures—and rather excellent bakers—who live underground. Many years ago, at the precise moment an evil wizard named Wollace Humperdink was passing over their mound, one of the elths’ ovens exploded and burned him to a crisp. Now, all across Starfell, people celebrate the anniversary of this wondrous accident with elthish mushroom mead, bunfires, and beards.

Willow had just put aside the gumbo apple-and-currant bun she’d been toasting and removed her fake, sparkly beard to help a rather persistent neighbor who’d lost her parka. The woman hadn’t quite gotten the memo that this was supposed to be Willow’s night off.

Nevertheless, Willow closed her eyes, lifted her palms to the sky, and coughed, while she searched with her mind for Birdy Pondwater’s misplaced possession.

There was a faint popping sound, but nothing appeared in Willow’s outstretched hands, which was rather puzzling. Willow’s magic might not be exciting, but it was reliable, which was something she’d always taken a bit of quiet pride in. As Granny Flossy used to say, A bit of quiet pride does a body no harm. It’s the loud pride that can bend a nose right out of joint.

Granny Flossy had been full of these sorts of observations. Along with lots of dodgy potions resulting from a cauldron explosion in the mountains of Nach.

Willow pushed up her mental sleeves, eyes still closed, and tried again. Don’t worry, she reassured Birdy, who had begun to make a low panting sound a bit like a snuffling wild boar. Sometimes lost things just need a bit of encouragement to be found. . . . They can get too comfortable there, but I can coax them back.

Except Birdy would not calm down. She began to shriek bloody murder.

Willow saw why when she opened her eyes and found to her utter shock that Birdy’s dress had vanished, and she was standing in a tank top and a pair of rather old-fashioned red-and-white bloomers while the entire village gawked at her, their currant buns left to burn on the bunfire.

What happened to your dress? Willow whispered, wishing she had something besides a sparkly beard to offer the poor woman to protect her modesty.

Birdy spluttered, turning violently red, while Willow looked around to see if the wind had blown the dress away. But there was no trace of it. When she turned back, what she saw caused her some dismay, as everyone was staring at her in sudden fear.

Which was a bit . . . odd.

While occasionally there was some grumbling about her family’s magic, the Mosses were mostly accepted as part of the community—like, say, the way your mother will remind you that your weird aunt with nineteen cats and a collection of dish towels with their faces on them is still, technically, part of the family. . . .

A week later, Birdy Pondwater’s lost parka landed in Willow’s kitchen in a red-and-white flash. She left the parka at Birdy’s house, and a kind of stilted peace ensued, in which Willow was far less busy, and far poorer as a result, as most of her regular customers kept well away.

Camille had made the mistake of teasing her this morning, which had led to her first disappearance and caused utter MAYHEM until she’d reappeared a minute later with a loud, angry pop.

Willow had never seen Camille so furious. She had threatened to transport Willow to the Mists of Mitlaire—the strange and ethereal fog that separated the world of the living from Netherfell, from which no one returned . . . mostly on account of losing their souls. It was a