The Fiend and the Forge

by Henry H. Neff

  INSTRUCTOR: MAX MCDANIELS, RED BRANCH

  “I don’t know anything about this,” he breathed.

  “Well, the registrar does,” said Julie. “I tried to switch my schedule to take it. She laughed and told me that every single Agent has already tried to register. Apparently, I’m not even qualified to be on the waiting list.”

  “This doesn’t even make sense,” said Max, craning his neck to see if any teachers were present. Several tables over, he spied Miss Boon breakfasting with Agent Cooper. He and Julie hurried past the thick stone pillars and the bustling tables of students and families. As they approached the pair, Max saw that Miss Boon and Cooper were not alone. A gray-brown hare was on the table, holding a pair of spectacles as he stood on his hind legs and harangued them. Miss Boon’s expression was polite and attentive, but Cooper’s cold blue eyes were wandering.

  “Do the math, you silly girl!” exclaimed the hare in an imposing Scottish burr. “We need more scribes. I need a hundred more scribes this very afternoon! I’ve got all the Highland hares chipping in—even the bumbling clans—but you know perfectly well that our paws aren’t well suited for—”

  “Tweedy,” said Miss Boon calmly. “You know that I’m as sympathetic to the situation as anyone, but I need to clear your request with the Director.”

  “Fiddlesticks!” cried Tweedy, hopping up and down in exasperation. “And exactly when can one make an appointment with her? I’ve submitted dozens—hundreds—of reports, suggestions, and queries to her office without receiving a single response!”

  “I’m sure you have,” said Cooper, maintaining a straight face.

  “Is that sarcasm, you monosyllabic buffoon?” retorted the hare, turning to glare at the Agent’s pale, disfigured face. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but I thought Hazel was a woman of education and refinement.…”

  For a second or two, Max thought the defiant hare’s mouth might have gotten him into serious trouble. But Cooper’s scarred features merely writhed into a small, uneven grin. Pulling his black knit cap over the shiny burns on his head, the Agent eased up from the table and winked at Miss Boon.

  “Me go now,” he said evenly, stepping aside so Max and Julie could take the open seats next to the young Mystics instructor.

  “I’ll see you later, William,” sighed Miss Boon as Tweedy raised his paw to make another point.

  “Continuing,” said the hare briskly, beginning to pace. “Even with Mystics, I’ve calculated that we still need approximately five hundred additional volunteers working in twelve-hour shifts to have a chance—a chance, mind you—of making the merest dent in the job.”

  “What job is that, Tweedy?” asked Julie.

  “Oh, nothing important,” retorted the hare, bristling. “Only salvaging the accumulated knowledge of some five millennia. But why should we worry ourselves that Proust and Hume and Aristotle and Archimedes are all fading into oblivion? I’m shocked that Agent Cooper isn’t more concerned over the imminent demise of his pulpy spy novels or whatever godforsaken trash occupies his leisure hours.”

  “Tweedy,” snapped Miss Boon. “That’s enough.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Max.

  “This!” shrieked the hare, pushing a thick book on musical theory toward them. “I’m talking about this, boy!”

  Max scanned a page of dense paragraphs and charts. It appeared to be comparative analysis of string instruments and the sound frequencies they produced.

  “I don’t get it,” said Max, looking at Julie, who merely shrugged.

  “The print, the print!” cried Tweedy, pointing with his paw.

  Max saw that the print was a mild gray on the clean white paper, as though it had been bleached in the sun. Looking closer, he saw that some sections were, in fact, difficult to read.

  “Maybe it’s just old,” suggested Max, trying to calm the irate hare.

  “Idiots!” shrieked Tweedy. “I’m surrounded by idiots! I’ll have you know, young man, that this is my personal copy. This book has been meticulously maintained, and two short weeks ago, its print was as rich and fine a black as any in creation. Now it’s fading by the day!”

  “Did you spill something on it?” asked Julie soothingly.

  “All the books are fading!” thundered the hare. “With the exception of handwritten manuscripts, everything is vanishing! Every scrap of paper that’s seen the business end of a printing press is fading to little more than wee wisps of ink! When I think of the formulas and musical scores and equations and reproductions—Oh! It’s enough to make a hare weep!”

  When it dawned on Tweedy that Shakespeare—beloved, worthy Shakespeare—might also fade to indistinguishable blank volumes, he began to hyperventilate.

  Miss Boon stroked the trembling hare’s fur. “You’ll have your volunteers,” she promised. “I’ll find them, or I’ll see if David Menlo can brainstorm a better spell to quickly copy the books. At the very least, we know you’ve memorized Shakespeare for us.”

  The hare’s small paw patted her hand appreciatively. “That’s true,” he acknowledged. “The Bard is safe. Thank you, Hazel—I knew I could count on you.”

  Clutching his book to his tufted chest, Tweedy hopped down from the table. Miss Boon watched him go, her mismatched blue and brown irises following the hare’s hurried progress out of the hall. When he began bounding up the steps, she pursed her lips and rubbed her temples.

  “Sometimes … sometimes I wish things could just be how they used to be.” She sighed and glanced warily at Max and Julie and the schedules they clutched. “What can I do for you two?”

  “Well, you’re my adviser,” said Max slowly, “and I have something funny on my schedule. It says here that I’m teaching a class?”

  “Dear Lord,” she moaned, running her fingers through her short brown hair. “Max, this is all my fault. I was supposed to give you this last week. Things have been so absurdly busy in preparation for tonight’s events that it completely slipped my mind. Please accept my apologies. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think any significant preparation is involved—no syllabus or reading lists to compile. It’s my understanding that the Agents simply want to study the techniques that you learned in the Sidh.” She rummaged through the bag at her feet and produced a small stack of papers.

  Max unfolded and read the first of several handwritten pages. It appeared to be an employment offer and a contract for services rendered.

  Julie looked over his shoulder. “Max will be part of the faculty?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Miss Boon. “If he chooses to accept.”

  “Can a C student be on the faculty?” asked Max, incredulous.

  “You’re not teaching physics, dear,” said Miss Boon delicately.

  “Why is he being paid in gold?” asked Julie, pointing at the final paragraph.

  “What other currency would you suggest?” asked Miss Boon. “Cattle? Land? Wheat? Salt? You’re aware, of course, that the very word salary stems from the age when soldiers were given an allowance of salt.… If Max would prefer another means of compensation, I can speak to the Director.”

  “What about plain old dollars?” inquired Max.

  “And where do you intend to spend those?” retorted Miss Boon, cleaning her glasses. “The value of paper money is only as stable as the country that issues it, Max. And to my knowledge, there is no government of the United States. If I were you, I’d take the gold—managing a herd of cattle might be a headache.”

  “What if I don’t want to teach a class?” asked Max.

  Miss Boon shrugged. “Then I suppose you’ll be assigned to physical training along with your classmates. It meets at six each morning.”

  Max promptly snatched up the pen near Miss Boon’s teacup. “And so where exactly do I sign?”

  “Bottom right.”

  “It’s funny,” said Max, carefully signing his name. “With everything that’s happened, you wonder why we even bother with classes and school.”r />
  Miss Boon stiffened. Retrieving her pen from Max’s hand, she rapped it once on the table and fixed him with a hard stare that made him sit up straight.

  Her words arrived in a shrill staccato. “We ‘bother’ with classes and school because they mean civilization, Max McDaniels. Civilization. Don’t you ever forget that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have five hundred volunteers to find.”

  “I wonder if we should postpone tonight’s bonfire,” Julie mused.

  Miss Boon stopped in midstride and spun on her heel. “No, Julie,” she said. “It’s important that the students have an opportunity to celebrate this evening. While I’m sure it will be lovely, you will have to enjoy it without Max’s company. All teachers are required to attend a council following the feast.”

  “But that’s not fair,” protested Max.

  “Welcome to the faculty, Agent McDaniels,” said Miss Boon. “You’ll find that being a teacher has many rewards, but an enviable social life is not one of them. Good day.”

  For several minutes, Max and Julie sat in silence, taking turns reading the letter and its accompanying details. Apparently, a respected family of domovoi—obsessive, gnomish creatures—would oversee all payments, weights, and measures. They had been handling such tasks for centuries and, despite the reputations of their distant cousin, the carefree leprechaun, domovoi accountants had an impeccable reputation for careful fiscal management.

  “I forgot to ask about vacation,” said Max, trying to cheer up Julie.

  “The only good thing about this,” she said, trying to manage a smile, “is that you’ll be flush with funds. I’d rather we had a dance, though. I mean, I know someone has to show up at this council or whatever it is, but Miss Boon didn’t say how long someone had to be there, right? Maybe someone could sneak away at, say, ten o’clock and come dance with his sweetie?”

  “Absolutely,” said Max.

  “Good answer,” said Julie. A genuine smile had returned to her face, and she blew Max a kiss goodbye as she left for her morning chores.

  Grabbing a slice of pumpkin bread, Max chewed thoughtfully as he strode toward the kitchens. He had not seen his father the previous day and knew Scott McDaniels would be there—dicing, slicing, marinating, broiling, mashing, and baking in preparation for the evening’s feast. As he walked, he noted just how chaotic the rebuilt Manse had become. The dining hall was teeming with people—nursing mothers, grandparents, students, teachers, Agents, robed Mystics, and even the occasional faun. Max pushed through the swinging doors.

  As he did so, he felt the door hit something. Whatever it was, it was small—the door gave only a brief shudder before continuing smoothly on its hinges. Peering inside, Max’s heart nearly stopped when he saw a diapered toddler sprawled upon its back and weakly kicking its legs.

  “Oh!” Max gasped, hurrying inside to help the child. As he kneeled down, he saw his father’s broad back hunched over the sink, where he was peeling potatoes. “Dad!” he cried. “Give me a hand—there’s been an accident!”

  “She’s fine,” said Mr. McDaniels evenly. He did not even bother to turn around. “Just make sure her mask hasn’t fallen off,” he added, reaching for another potato.

  Still panicked, Max ignored his father and made to scoop up the baby. An unexpectedly strong grip seized his finger, and as he hoisted the baby up, he found himself staring into an angry pair of black beady eyes.

  It was a hagling.

  The hagling couldn’t have weighed more than ten pounds, but Max was taken aback by the creature’s strength and determination. Pudgy gray arms flailed about, while a pair of three-toed feet bicycled furiously through the air. Its black hair had been gathered up into a pink-bowed topknot that rose like an antenna from a gourdlike head. As Max stared, the hagling’s small eyes began to well with tears. It stopped its struggles and made a pitiful bawling sound while pawing weakly at the crude leather muzzle that had been fitted over its mouth.

  “Poor thing,” muttered Max, cradling the hagling against his chest and pulling at the tightly fitted mask so he could slide it past its peninsular chin. As he did so, he became aware that a number of dark little shapes had appeared in the doorway to the inner kitchen. A cluster of additional haglings stood there watching him. Some of the creatures were in diapers; others wore pinned towels, and two had forgone clothes entirely. All had been fitted with leather masks. They tottered closer as Max’s hagling intensified its bawling and scrabbled miserably at the muzzle. It appeared to be choking.

  “Dad,” Max said angrily. “You think you could give me a hand?”

  Mr. McDaniels put down his knife and turned just as Max wrenched the muzzle off.

  “Max!” he exclaimed. “Don’t!”

  It was too late.

  As soon as Max removed the muzzle, the hagling abruptly stopped its crying. Tiny, asymmetric features smiled to reveal a single sharp tooth that projected from its upper gums like an ivory can opener. With a bloodcurdling shriek, it launched itself at Max while the others converged like piranhas.

  While Max staggered around the kitchen, he was vaguely aware of his father’s shouts, the haglings’ panting, and the jarring crash of broken crockery. The bulk of his attention, however, was focused on the sharp tooth that pecked about in a desperate attempt to draw blood. While the one hagling clung ferociously to his neck, the others had fastened themselves to his legs like barnacles or pushed against him as though trying to topple a tree. His father hurried over to help, but Mr. McDaniels slipped on a broken plate and crashed heavily to the floor. He shrieked as several of the haglings abandoned Max and swarmed over him like army ants.

  “Oi!” bellowed a voice, thundering above the din.

  The hagling at Max’s neck froze while those at his feet promptly released him and scattered to the far corners of the room. With a sudden, violent jerk, the remaining hagling was wrenched off Max’s chest. Recovering his breath, Max saw that Bellagrog was holding the little creature casually by the topknot. The hagling gnashed and spat at the enormous hag, but Bellagrog appeared far more concerned about Scott McDaniels. Extending the struggling hagling to an arm’s length, Bellagrog grunted and heaved Mr. McDaniels to his feet.

  “Sorry, love,” she sighed, brushing away shards of broken plates. “You in one piece, Max?”

  “I’m fine,” said Max, keeping a wary eye out for any haglings he’d missed.

  “Good, good,” muttered Bellagrog. She pivoted on a thick-soled shoe to eye each of the cowering haglings. The one held captive by its topknot had stopped struggling and hung limp in sour-faced resignation.

  “Line up!” bellowed Bellagrog. Instantly, they hurried from their corners to form an orderly line against a wall of cupboards. Seven haglings arranged themselves by height, leaving a space in the middle, presumably reserved for the plump, unfortunate creature now swinging by her hair. Bellagrog raised her up so that the two were at eye level.

  “Whatchoo doin’, nipping at Max?” she demanded. “Whatchoo got to say?”

  The hagling glanced sideways at Max. “I is sorry for nippin’ at ya,” she muttered in a hoarse undertone.

  “Does that answer, Max?” inquired Bellagrog, fixing him with her bright crocodile eye.

  “Of course,” he replied. “Bel, please, put her down.”

  “Right, then,” muttered the hag. With an unceremonious heave, she flung the hagling over her shoulder. As Max gaped, the little creature arced through the air and collided with a stack of serving trays piled atop a high shelf. Everything—shelf, trays, and hagling—crashed to the floor.

  “Bel!” cried Max, but the hag merely waved him off and stepped squarely in his path as Max sought to rescue the little creature.

  “Don’t interfere,” growled the hag. “Five’s got to learn her manners.”

  From amid the pile of trays, the hagling’s small face emerged. Flinging aside a tray, she adjusted her diaper and marched with a fierce, defiant expression to join the others against the wall. The hagling ap
peared not only uncowed, but also utterly unhurt.

  “Whose children are they?” asked Max, breathing a sigh of relief.

  “Mine!” exclaimed Bellagrog proudly. “Dropped this litter last night after I tucked in. Thought it was just a case of the midnight breezies, but I shoulda known better. Passed ’em in my sleep, and the adorable rascals almost got the best of me! Almost … but I woke up and learned ’em, didn’t I? And now here they are! Nine little haglings, pretty as pie!”

  Max scanned the row of hideous, petulant-looking creatures that were staring insolently at him from behind their muzzles.

  “Did you say nine haglings, Bel?” he said at last. “Um, I count only eight.”

  “Eight, nine—what’s the difference?” Bellagrog shrugged, scratching at her belly. “Anyway, we gots to keep ’em muzzled till they learn how to mind their nippers.”

  “Er, should someone clean this up?” asked Mr. McDaniels, gesturing weakly at the scattered trays and shattered ceramics.

  “You’re sweet to offer, but let their auntie get it.” Bellagrog sniffed. “It’s Bea’s job, love.”

  At that very moment, Bellagrog’s sister arrived in the outer kitchen. Bea Shrope, affectionately known as Mum, had been working at Rowan for decades, but her tenure meant nothing to Bellagrog. While Max did not know all the intricacies of hag culture, he had divined that it was deeply hierarchical and that the grandeur of one’s given name was a surefire indicator of status. Bea was no match for Bellagrog in girth or title, and thus the latter had ordered Mum about since arriving the previous year.

  “What’s Bea’s job?” Mum asked, offering a hesitant, inquiring smile. Her small reddish eyes gazed about the room until they finally settled on the fidgeting haglings. “Oh no!” she gasped, nearly backing out of the room. “I didn’t know you were expecting, Bel.…”

  “Neither did I!” chortled the larger hag. “But here they are, and as their aunt, you’ve got responsibilities.”

  “They’re your problem, Bel!” Mum shrieked, fleeing to the inner kitchen. “I have enough to do!”

  “Hag Law, Bea!” roared Bellagrog, folding her stout arms like two crossed hams.