Story by Keith Errington, art by Nimue Brown

“STOP!” old Jedbrough Smallpinch commanded, and the youngster halted his slow progress along the narrow path to the curious object ahead and turned to face him.

“That there’s a Thistlebomb nest, it’s dangerous,” explained Jedbrough.
“You said everything is dangerous, but despite that, we needed to catalogue everything through careful examination. I was being careful.” His new apprentice responded with an air of petulance in his voice.

“There’s careful examination, and there’s sheer foolhardiness! Come back here, and we’ll find a way around.” Jedbrough was relieved when the young lad did as he was told; he really didn’t want to lose a new signup on the first day.

“Is it really that dangerous?” The young lad asked.

Jedbrough sighed. The impetuousness of youth. This lad will either learn or he won’t. And the won’t is the bit that will involve questions, paperwork, digging and burial. “Yes, it is.”

“Why, what does it do?” the young lad asked.

Jedbrough was going to run out of sighs at this rate; he thought as he sighed once more. But he had to admit it was a good question for a newbie to ask, so, having checked the area around an old log, he beckoned the youth to come and sit and then proceeded to answer
the young lad’s query. “Let me tell you a story…”

◊◊◊

“Thistlebombs were not always dangerous (Jedbrough began). There was a time when they were a wonderful distraction. People even planted them outside their homes or across their garden paths, little realising what was to come. There was little to know about them then.

They seemed to live quite happily on any reasonable soil and grew from a small seed into a nest, just like that one. They were known as Sudden Sprays back then. They always seemed to grow in pairs, on either side of a path or a small stream, or occasionally even in a clearing.

The nests start very small but grow to about the size you see over there. When they are ready, a curious thing happens. Together, somehow, a pair of plants would each launch a large thistle sort of thing up from the nest to a height of about 8 feet in an arc across the path, stream or clearing; at the top of the arc, they would suddenly explode in a mass of seedlings, almost translucent, with beautiful colours and patterns, accompanied by the sweetest of sighs. Somehow, the two sets of sprays would mingle, and everyone figured that this was the way they pollinated.

Only a few of the seedlings would cross paths, sometimes none, but a successful crossing would result in two more nests growing a little further up the path, stream or clearing. Of course, you could never tell when it was going to happen, so it was always a surprising delight if you caught it – there was something very magical about it, and it was considered by some to be good luck to see it.”
“That sounds delightful,” interrupted the youngster, “not dangerous at all.”

“Ah, but that was then, and this is now,” replied Jedbrough cryptically. “Listen to the story, boy, and no more interruptions, or we will be here all night!”

The boy looked sheepish and mumbled an apology.

“It was magic, of course; it’s always magic. Causes more problems than it solves, I reckon. It’s best to stay well away when magic is about. Have you heard of Grandma Kettle?”

The boy nodded – most people on Hopeless, Maine had heard the tales or caught her mentioned in a story.

“Well, Grandma Kettle went by the name Jemima Kettle in those days, and she got herself in a bit of a bind when she was a young lass; the combination of young minds and magic is rarely an untroubled one. She had tried to help a young girl in trouble with her family or some such. Anyway, she was being chased by the menfolk of that family – three in number, I believe it was – though some people tell of ten or twenty. People round here do love to puff up their telling. It was not a particularly fast chase; Grandma Kettle was encumbered by her
choice of skirt she was wearing that day, and the menfolk, well, let’s just say they weren’t the fittest or ablest of men. Despite this, they were a real threat, one carrying a pitchfork, one a heavy spade, and the third a large loofah, so the story goes, not the brightest that one.

They were catching her up, too, when she chose a very deliberate path, not too far from here, as I recall, where many Sudden Sprays were growing. The men were shouting and getting closer, but Grandma Kettle remained calm as she ran down that path. As she did so, she drew a pouch from her garments and took pinches of a powder, spreading it over the plants where she could and uttering something magical as she did so. The men were almost upon her, and they were determined to do her grave harm, I’ve no doubt.

Suddenly, all the Sudden Sprays launched their thistles at once, but these had somehow changed under the influence, no doubt, of Grandma Kettle’s magic. They were all black now, black as the darkest depths of the ocean, and spikier. The men stopped under a cluster, not sure how to react. The thistles exploded, but this time, it wasn’t with a sigh; it was with an awful bang, and shards of razor-sharp seeds rained down upon the men.

The two in front were badly hurt and fell to the ground. Some say they died in agony right there, although others say they took weeks to die. The third was a little way behind, and so he missed the terrible rain of deathly seeds. He dropped his loofah and ran off, and nobody
remembers seeing him after that.

Ever since then, the Sudden Sprays were forever changed; they became known as ThistleBombs, and these dark versions gradually replaced all the wonderful Sudden Sprays on the island. People whose families had planted Sudden Sprays across the entrance to their homes years ago when they were benign now have to climb through their windows to leave their houses.

Getting caught in their deadly rain can kill you – there have been many who have gone that way, and even if they don’t kill you straight away, they are deadly poisonous, and you are likely to have a slow, painful death. Like most deadly things on Hopeless, there is no known cure for their poison. That is why we avoid them; there is no telling when they might go off and end you.” Jedbrough finished.

“Can we go home now?” Asked the young lad.

Jedbrough sighed once more. He was not getting any younger, and his bones were tired from sitting on the cold log. He rose slowly. “Aye me, lad, that’s enough for your first day; let’s get home”.