The Fiend and the Forge

by Henry H. Neff

  “Sounds like the hags were having fun,” the attorney suggested with a knowing leer. “It sounds like a particularly cruel, premeditated crime.”

  “I guess.” Max shrugged.

  “No further questions,” said the attorney, striding to his seat. “Incriminating testimony from the defense’s dear friend. I think the court has heard all it needs to hear.…”

  “Oh, I might have a question or two,” interjected Bellagrog.

  “By all means,” said Ms. Richter. “Your witness.”

  Bellagrog adjusted her pants and swaggered toward Max like a prizefighter. She wagged a finger as though Max had been a very naughty boy.

  “Those were some pretty nasty things you had to say about the Shropes, young man.”

  “I’m just reporting what I saw,” said Max, slouched and miserable.

  “Was you coached by the plaintiff?” inquired Bellagrog. “Did Dr. Rasmussen and his lawyer fella tell you what to say?”

  “No …,” said Max hesitantly. Bellagrog spoke with such casual confidence that Max knew something—some haggish trick—was just around the bend.

  “I see,” she said. With a puzzled frown, she stroked her chin. “But then how could you possibly know what happened if you wasn’t there?”

  “What are you talking about?” Max snapped. “Of course I was there!”

  “Oh, I’ll concede that a Max McDaniels was there on the night in question, but how can we be sure it was this Max McDaniels?”

  The plaintiff’s attorney immediately objected while the crowd burst into excited chatter. Standing at the judge’s bench, Ms. Richter cracked the gavel several times before anything resembling order was restored. She glared at Bellagrog, whose face remained open and innocent.

  “The defense will clarify what it means and cease making a mockery of this court,” said Ms. Richter.

  “Will do, Your Honor, will do,” Bellagrog promised, waddling back to her table and snatching up her papers. “I’ll ask the witness if Max McDaniels visited the Frankfurt Workshop last year?”

  “Yes,” replied Max.

  “And while Max McDaniels was in the Frankfurt Workshop, did he willingly surrender three drops of his blood to the Workshop in exchange for some fancy contraption?”

  “Yes,” said Max, somewhat defensively. “I had to in order to get Bram’s Key.”

  “Of course Max did,” said Bellagrog. “The Max McDaniels I know is a heroic, noble boy. Which is why we can’t let a lying imposter like you sully his good name!”

  “Explain yourself, Bellagrog,” said Ms. Richter, before Rasmussen’s attorney could object yet again.

  Bellagrog grinned broadly, revealing two full rows of crocodile teeth. “The defense asserts that the Workshop has cloned the real Max McDaniels. The defense asserts that this witness is an imposter planted by the prosecution to further their case. The defense asserts that the testimony of this false, coached witness should be stricken from the record. And finally, the defense asserts that the real Max McDaniels must be in terrible danger and we should abandon this silly case to find Rowan’s hero!”

  Max sat, dumbfounded, while Dr. Rasmussen’s attorney stood and issued a stunned objection.

  “Whatchoo objectin’ to?” thundered Bellagrog, wheeling on the man. “You said yourself that the Workshop kidnaps living things so you can clone ’em! How can you say that this is the same Max McDaniels from the night in question? Huh? Answer the question, ya blubbering man-thing!”

  Dr. Rasmussen’s attorney turned helplessly to his client. Jesper Rasmussen grimaced as though he’d chewed something profoundly unappetizing. His revulsion changed to a dark, murderous glare directed toward the crafty hag, who beamed expectantly. Whispering in his attorney’s ear, he subsequently slouched and stared at his shoes.

  His attorney stood and cleared his throat. “My client has informed me that this young man cannot be a clone of Max McDaniels, because he can attest that the McDaniels clones are all accounted for.”

  Even Bellagrog looked shocked.

  The news spread through the vast audience like a tremor whose aftershocks were a sibilant hiss of disapproval. Max could not believe what he had heard—far off, in some Workshop laboratory, there were clones of him. He glanced across at Julie, but she was white-faced, frantically scribbling on her notepad. Every other reporter was doing the same.

  “Your Honor,” continued Bellagrog, “the defense moves to dismiss the case, as the plaintiff can’t prove that this particular boy was ever present at the scene of the alleged crime! Bwahahahaha!” she cackled, dancing a victory jig before Rasmussen’s table.

  “Order!” cried Ms. Richter, banging her gavel. “Order! The defense’s motion is denied, but Mr. McDaniels’s testimony shall be stricken from the record and the jury will disregard it. The witness is dismissed.”

  Bellagrog practically swooned with delight as Max left the stand. She did not seem to hear as Ms. Richter offered a few choice words to Dr. Rasmussen and his attorney before informing them that she would now handle the questions. Only the mention of her name brought the hag from her dreamy-eyed reverie.

  “Bellagrog Shrope, the court would like you to take the stand,” said Ms. Richter, pointing the gavel at her.

  “Oh,” said Bellagrog, her smile fading. “As you like.” She grunted as she squeezed into the witness stand, her bosom resting comfortably on the table.

  Narrowing her eyes, Ms. Richter leaned down from the judge’s bench and interrogated the hag. “Bellagrog Shrope, do you swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Did you swear a vendetta against Jesper Rasmussen?”

  “Yes,” said Bellagrog. “And rightfully so.”

  “Just answer yes or no, please. And did Bea Shrope, you, or your offspring abduct Mr. Rasmussen on the night in question?”

  “Absolutely not,” Bellagrog said, thumping the stand by way of exclamation.

  “And did you intend to kill, cook, and eat Mr. Rasmussen?”

  Bellagrog recoiled as though mortally offended. Reaching for a handkerchief, she blew her nose and fought back tears. “In that precise order?” she asked innocently, dabbing her eyes.

  “In any order, Ms. Shrope,” responded Ms. Richter.

  “No,” sniffled Bellagrog pathetically.

  “So, Ms. Shrope, you assert that you and your family are utterly innocent in this affair?”

  “I’d swear on me nan’s tombskull.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Shrope. You are excused,” said Ms. Richter dryly. “The court would now like to hear the testimony of Ms. Bea Shrope.”

  Mum glanced up from the defendants’ table, bleary-eyed and beaten. “Really, Ms. Richter … do I have to? Can’t we just leave it at Bel’s word?”

  “We are anxious to hear your account, Mum, and we need it for the record. Please take the witness stand.”

  With a sigh, Mum shuffled to the stand and was sworn in. On the witness chair, she looked like a withered bulb of garlic. Sipping gratefully from a glass of water, she managed a sad little smile, resigned to the question that would follow.

  “Mum,” began Ms. Richter, “are you innocent or guilty of the allegations made here today?”

  Long seconds elapsed while Mum sat and stared at the glass of water.

  “Answer the question, Bea,” said Bellagrog, striking the match for her victory cigar.

  Mum did not look at her sister, but instead gazed past Bellagrog at Bob, whose upright, attentive posture had not changed throughout the long afternoon. When their eyes met, the ogre’s stern face softened and a single tear made a slow, steady descent down his cheek. He offered a slight, almost imperceptible nod of encouragement before the mask of stoicism returned. With trembling hands, Mum again sipped her water and spoke in a low, pitiable croak.

  “I’m guilty. We’re guilty on all charges.”

  Silence. Even as the words left Mum’s lips, Max turned his eyes toward Bellagrog. For a momen
t, the enormous hag merely gaped while her match burned to her fingertips. Tossing her cigar aside, the hag gripped the table and seemed to swell like some nascent geological disaster.

  Ms. Richter’s voice was calm and compassionate. “Is this your final testimony, Mum? You are aware of what this could mean?”

  “Yes, Director,” said Mum heavily. “If Mum wants to be a reformed hag, she has to tell the truth. Even if it means she can’t live here no more. We did everything Rasmussen said, and if ya gots to know, I’m not very sorry. He deserved it.”

  “Understood,” said Ms. Richter. “Bellagrog, is there anything else the defense has to say? If not, the jury will adjourn to render a verdict.”

  For a moment, Max thought Bellagrog would conjure another argument, right her ship with the same wily ingenuity she had demonstrated throughout the afternoon. But the hag was speechless; her beady eyes bulged like boiled eggs as she glared at her sister in the witness stand. The pressure mounted until it finally burst in an eruption of froth and spittle.

  “TRAITOR!” she thundered, stabbing an accusatory finger. “Yer violatin’ the code! Yer violatin’ Hag Law, and for what? A toothless ogre? Human laws what forbid vendetta?”

  “Bellagrog!” exclaimed Ms. Richter. “You have been a wonderful hand in the kitchens and during reconstruction of the campus, but please stop while you have some dignity.”

  “Dignity?” roared Bellagrog. “I’ll show ya dignity! Ain’t no court o’ fools proclaiming judgment on Bellagrog Shrope! My daughters and me will be on the next ship bound for Blys! Keep yer judgments and sanctimony. You can even keep your precious Mum, the bloody traitor. Oi! Come here, my pretties!”

  Instantly obedient, the haglings clambered up onto Bellagrog. Oblivious to the haglings’ weight, Bellagrog swept her documents into a floral handbag and stormed out of the proceedings, cleaving a path through the startled onlookers.

  “See you at the party!” she bellowed, and disappeared into the throng.

  Ms. Richter watched her go, impassive, then turned her attention to Mum, who clung to the defendants’ table as thought it were a life raft.

  “Would you like to bypass this verdict and join your sister on the next ship, Mum? Or would you like to hear the court’s verdict, even though it might mean punishment or exile?”

  Max could hear Mum’s muffled sobs as she wept against the table.

  “I wants to stay, Ms. Richter,” she sobbed. “Mum can be good. Bob will help me.”

  “Very well,” replied Ms. Richter. “The jury will adjourn and make its decision.”

  While Ms. Richter led the jury away, Bob sat next to Mum at the defendants’ table. The ogre spoke softly to her, coaxing her head off the table, whereupon she blew her nose on his lapel.

  “Why is she getting all the pity?” Rasmussen demanded. “Has everyone forgotten that I’m the victim here? She should be shipped off like the others.”

  “You keep your mouth shut, Rasmussen,” warned Mr. McDaniels, half rising from his seat. “Max has saved your hide more than once, and you’ve got the nerve to clone him like he’s some … some … I don’t know what! What are you using them for? He’s got a right to know!”

  “I apologize for that,” said Rasmussen awkwardly. “I never meant for something so sensitive to become public knowledge in such fashion.” He looked at Max in direct appeal. “I’m grateful for your honest testimony, young man. You told the truth and I appreciate your loyalty.”

  “If you’re so grateful, then why don’t you turn over those clones?” asked Mr. McDaniels.

  “I—I don’t have that authority,” stammered Dr. Rasmussen, looking surprisingly earnest. “If it were up to me, I would consider it, but my colleagues …” He made an apologetic face, shrugging as though such a thing were clearly out of the question.

  “A weasel to the last,” scoffed Mr. McDaniels. “So, is the Workshop building an army out of my son?”

  Max grimaced as every reporter within earshot eagerly recorded the exchange, the volume of which was steadily increasing. Dr. Rasmussen’s face darkened as he apparently swallowed an initial retort. Recovering his dry, arrogant footing, he merely replied that such a matter was classified and turned his back to them.

  Despite his best efforts to focus on Mum and her impending verdict, Max was deeply shaken by Rasmussen’s talk of clones. Could one clone a person with Max’s heritage? Could Old Magic be replicated in a test tube?

  But as the jurors returned to take their seats, all other thoughts fell away. Bob nudged Mum and the hag stood to face the jury. Blinking away her tears, she arranged her stringy hair into two scraggly halves and smoothed her topknot. Rasmussen leaned forward in an expectant frown as the jury foreman—a middle-aged Mystic—stood and read the verdict aloud.

  “In the matter of Rasmussen versus Shrope, the jury finds the defendant, Bea Shrope, guilty of all charges levied against her, and hereby sentences her to exile.”

  There was a gasp. Mum clutched Bob’s arm and shut her eyes.

  “However,” the foreman continued, “in light of the defendant’s honesty, her genuine remorse, and the severe provocation preceding the crimes, the jury has elected to suspend the sentence and place Miss Shrope on probationary supervision for a period of five years.”

  With the exception of Hannah and Dr. Rasmussen, the crowd applauded the verdict. Max stood and cheered with the rest while Ms. Richter declared the proceedings closed. Mum, however, continued to stand at attention, maintaining a rigid, confused silence. As the jurors filed out of the box, the hag risked a glance at Bob.

  “What does that mean?” she whispered.

  “It means Mum can stay home,” replied the ogre, stroking the hag’s greasy head.

  ~12~

  HAG LAW

  By the early evening, it was time to prepare for the Samhain Feast, and Max’s attention shifted to the pressing issue of his costume. At Rowan, the celebration was officially called the Samhain Feast in memory of Solas, but the residents actually called this stretch of the calendar whatever they liked: Halloween, All Saint’s Day, Día de los Muertos, Dia de Finados, Feralia. Whatever the holiday, costumes were a common tradition to honor the dead, chase away evil spirits, and celebrate the harvest.

  Like many of the older students, Max had not intended to wear a costume. However, while he was out, Julie had slipped a note beneath his door imploring him to do so, as it would be “tremendous fun!” Unfortunately, Max was a poor hand at improvisation and had already destroyed two perfectly good sheets before Connor informed him that a ghost was a pitiful effort. Dashing out to the township, Max was forced to compete with his fellow procrastinators for the dregs.

  When he returned, the observatory was empty and Max was free to examine his costume in peace. Laying the items out on his bed, he realized that costume was too generous a term by far. It implied things that went together. As he gazed upon the array of mismatched pieces, he imagined there must be some combination that could pass for something cool. But whatever that might be, it eluded him. As Old Tom chimed seven o’clock, Max was officially late. He would simply have to make the best of it. Reaching for the largest piece, he wondered at its many buckles.

  It was a regrettably long, brightly illuminated walk from the observatory to the Manse’s foyer. On the way, Max passed numerous warlocks and witches and vampires and ghouls, who interrupted their conversations to stare at him.

  While some were undoubtedly drawn to the plumed headdress or the robber’s mask, all eyes eventually gravitated to the enormous velveteen lobster tail that swayed and bobbed behind him. This tail was attached to a spindly-legged thorax, which Max had buckled to his midsection like a girdle. As he stalked down the hallway, he imagined the head and claws in the possession of the middle-aged man who’d simultaneously discovered the costume. The tug-of-war had been a draw, and thus Max was grimly determined to be the greatest half-lobster in Halloween history. Nodding to a gawking kid dressed as a pumpkin, he marched on.

&
nbsp; Julie met him in the foyer. She was dressed in black with an eye patch and a black bandanna—a sort of pirate, if pirates wore pink lipstick. Max admired her restraint.

  “Happy Halloween,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Now, please take a turn so I can gaze upon the full majesty of your costume.”

  “It was the best I could—” Max began, but Julie held up a finger.

  “Shhh,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “You know, when I sent that last-minute request, I thought you might have time to throw together a tramp costume. Maybe a ghost. But a masked lobster priest? Max McDaniels, you’ve exceeded all my hopes and dreams.”

  Outside the Manse, Mystics had chased off the rain. The moonlit clouds gleamed like spun sugar, coaxed into a ghostly homage of Halloween shapes that drifted serenely above the campus. Beneath the clouds, thousands of flickering jack-o’-lanterns had been set to flight. Some made faces, some howled at passersby, and some merely wheeled about in slow arcs and lazy orbits.

  “I’m sorry about what happened at the trial,” Julie said. “That craziness with the Workshop. I tried to catch you after, but in all the commotion …”

  “It’s okay,” Max said. “Really. With everything else that’s going on, worrying about what the Workshop is up to feels like an indulgence.” He cast a grim look at Gràvenmuir. Every door and window at the embassy was thrown open, providing glimpses into its crowded ballrooms and salons. Astaroth’s seal had been stitched upon a huge white banner that fluttered high above the embassy roof. Max stared at its white silk whipping in the breeze—a final slap at Rowan, which carried on within its shadow.

  “C’mon,” said Julie, “tonight’s about fun!”

  She led him to a parquet dance floor near the gap between Old Tom and Maggie. Upon Maggie’s steps, a dozen musicians were playing saxophones and clarinets, trombones and trumpets.

  Max knew little about swing dancing, but Julie took to it right away. He tried to keep up, but it was not easy to follow the moves, much less maneuver around with a prosthetic lobster tail. Despite his best efforts, the tail swatted his neighbors aside, prompting him to spend as much time apologizing as dancing. For the most part, his fellow revelers laughed off the periodic knocks and swats. A conspicuous exception was a lobster-headed gentleman who seemed to think Max bumped him on purpose and promptly escorted his wife away.