The Winter Riddle

by Sam Hooker

  Santa nodded, picked up the former Tickler gently, and put him over his shoulder.

  “Follow me,” said Tickler.

  Tickler led them through more secret passages, past a hidden door, down a few more hallways, and finally out into the grey and snowy yards on the side of the castle. He grabbed a pick and shovel along the way, which they used to dig out a grave. Once they’d gotten him buried, Krespo took off his hat.

  “Would anyone like to say a few words?”

  Tickler reached up, hesitantly, and took off his mask. That is to say, she took off her mask.

  “You’re a girl!” exclaimed Volgha.

  “So are you! My name’s Matilda.” Tickler looked to be about thirteen years old.

  “I thought you were supposed to keep your identity a secret,” said Santa.

  “We’re all wrapped up in each other’s secrets now,” said Matilda. “Call this a token of good faith.”

  “Thanks,” said Volgha. “Your secret is safe with us.”

  “I feel better,” said Matilda, “knowing that somebody else knows. Knowing that there will be someone who can put a name on my grave when I go.”

  “You won’t have to worry about that for a long time,” said Santa.

  “I hope you’re right. In any case, though I don’t know his name, I’d like to thank the old man for his years of service. He said he’d been Tickler for a long time, and he helped us all live in peace. Now it’s my turn.”

  13

  On the bright side, said Osgrey, Santa will be off the hook for the tailoring.

  Volgha felt awful. It was one thing for her sister to have thrust unwanted advances upon Santa, but hunting him? She was mostly aghast, but also insatiably curious as to how a bit of light romance had evolved into the Most Dangerous Game. Perhaps, after several years and twice as many liters of wine, Santa would retell the tale.

  Between the fashion fiasco, the hunt, and the corpse disposal, Santa had no good will left in him. He scowled like a moody teenager and kept mumbling swear words under his breath.

  “Let’s get you home,” said Volgha. “I have one more thing to do here, but I can sneak you into the stables first, and—”

  “No.” Santa started lumbering off, away from the castle. Did he mean to walk home? He was nearly naked under his grimy blanket cape.

  “Where’s he going?” asked Matilda, who’d put her Tickler mask back on.

  “Don’t worry about us.” Krespo started to jog after him. “Santa’s always prepared. We’ll be in touch!”

  Krespo waved. Volgha and Matilda waved back. Santa continued storming off.

  “I’d better get to bed,” said Matilda. “Thanks for your help, you really did me a great service.”

  “No problem,” said Volgha. “We helped each other.”

  Matilda nodded. “Where will you go?”

  “The belfry, then far away from here.”

  “I can get you close. It’s on my way.”

  They made their way through the hidden tunnels until they were back in the servants’ hall. Matilda opened a secret door that was cleverly disguised as a normal door, but one that had been locked for as long as anyone could remember, and everyone had given up on locating the key.

  “Thanks again.”

  “See you.”

  The door shut, and Volgha was alone. She took a deep breath and savored the silence. People were great in small doses, but they never seemed to run out of things to talk about.

  Indeed, said Osgrey. Alone at last!

  Fun while it lasted, then. Having Osgrey aboard like a geriatric hitchhiker had nearly put her off the idea of pairing up permanently with a familiar, but that would be different. Animals, magical or otherwise, are not people. Whereas people have a tendency to muck up silence with their presence, animals are able to just sort of become a part of it.

  Down the hall and up the stone steps. Her broom and cloak were right there where she’d left them, along with the rest of her ingredients. The moon was shining brightly through the clouds, and she heard an eagle calling in the distance. It was a lovely time for a summoning, barring the unnatural warmth. No matter, she’d look into that in due time.

  Any questions about the spell? asked Osgrey.

  “No, I think I’ve got it.”

  Very good. I believe I’ll have a nap while you’re at it. Good luck!

  “Thanks.”

  She started by tipping her hat to the wind, which obliged her by dying down a bit. She was glad that the wind responded to courtesy, as her circle of ashes wouldn’t fare very well otherwise. Drawing the circle took quite a while, what with all of the little sigils she had to mark around the outer edge. Then she started burning a mixture of moonstalk and chillwillow in a brass bowl with a little bit of sulfur.

  Volgha called on the inner fire in the moonstalk, and it set the mixture in the bowl roiling with smoke. She spoke a few words of magic and the winds came back with renewed vigor, in a pattern that sent her little column of smoke spiraling up into the air. Once the top of the column had risen out of sight, she crushed a couple of the pearls with the pommel of her little knife and sprinkled the dust into the bowl. It shot up the column of smoke, causing it to sparkle in the moonlight.

  Volgha whispered another incantation. Nothing happened. The column of smoke was still there, but it was starting to dwindle. Not wanting to lose the fire, she crushed two more pearls and sprinkled the dust into the bowl. The column sparkled even more brightly, and she repeated her incantation.

  Then she heard a call. The call, she was sure of it. It wasn’t the eagle who’d called before, but it certainly wasn’t a wolf, and that was a relief. It was the unmistakable caw of a crow! Definitely that, but it had a certain rumbling underneath it. A hot, searing rumble which lingered on the air ever so briefly.

  Then she saw it. The silhouette of wings beating toward her, in front of the moon. She watched it approach, and she didn’t have to wonder if the spell had worked. She felt him. She felt the rush of the wind as though it were on her own face, felt the lithe, powerful muscles in his wings working to stay on the current. She spread her arms in greeting and felt a smile spread across her face.

  With a great final flap to slow himself, he touched down on the stony ledge. He stood there in the moonlight, staring at her while she stared at him. There was something … peculiar about him. She’d thought it was just a trick of the pale light at first, but after a moment, she realized that it was not.

  Red crow, she thought. You’re a red crow! Her eyes grew wide as she took in the sight of him.

  Oh, that’s good, cawed an unfamiliar thought in her mind. The thought wasn’t hers, but it came from within her. It wasn’t the same as Osgrey speaking in her thoughts, more like the shapes of words and the shades of their meaning. She detected the shape of sarcasm as well.

  “Hello,” she said aloud.

  Yeah, hi, cawed the crow, using her mind as its voice. Is that really the best you could do?

  “What do you mean?”

  Redcrow, cawed the crow. A bit on the nose, isn’t it? What do they call you, Big Haired Witch?

  “I’m Volgha, and for the record, my hair doesn’t usually look like this.”

  Too bad, cawed Redcrow, I could have nested in that. Looks all tangly and cozy.

  “You’re just a bit surly, aren’t you?”

  Well, I would be, wouldn’t I? Summoned and given a name like “Redcrow.” How would you feel if you’d been named “Pasty Human?”

  “I didn’t mean that it should have been your name, I just—”

  Oh, that’s perfect, cawed Redcrow. Did you even read the post-summoning spell, or are you just making it up as you go along?

  “Post-summoning spell?”

  Right, never mind. The first thing you do is tell me my name, and it’s not something you get to think about. It’s set now. Is this where you live?

  “Of course not,” said Volgha. “This is a belfry!”

  Oh, brilliant. You�
��re supposed to do the spell from home so I can anchor to it.

  “I didn’t know,” said Volgha, suddenly feeling very sheepish. “I was worried I’d end up with a wolf if I did it from home.”

  Oh, that’s just capital! Wolves! So I’ll be woken by howling at odd hours, assuming I’m able to find my way home. This is just coming up roses for me, “me” being a red crow named Redcrow.

  “That’s enough,” said Volgha, relying on the classically taciturn inflection of a witch who is inches from being vexed enough to do something about it. “We’ve had a bit of a stumble, but we’re together now, and that’s what counts.”

  If you say so, cawed Redcrow. Just get me home, so I have a chance of learning where it is before all I can remember is this belfry.

  Volgha opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out so she shut it again. How was it that Redcrow—who she’d assumed would already have a name, though now that seemed like an obvious oversight—knew more about this than she did? She wasn’t a formally trained witch, but there was no university for that sort of thing. Was there a university for potential familiars? What would be the mascot?

  No matter. They were off to a rocky start, but things would turn out smoothly in the end. Time to get home, then. The two of them took to the warm sky together. Bathed in crimson and violet sunset, they found a high current and followed it to Volgha’s grove in the valley.

  A thick mist shrouded the grove. It was very cold, as is customary in the North Pole, but not in the usual way. It was usually a very dry cold, but the mist made it very humid. Stranger still were the frozen puddles in the snow. Water didn’t usually collect outside in its liquid state. It was too cold. It was still too cold for a puddle to remain a proper puddle for very long, but the collection of little depressions all around her house with the frozen discs in them could hardly be anything else.

  Had it … rained? She was fairly certain she was saying the word correctly. She’d heard it once as a child, when a southerner had visited the castle and told her about drops of water falling from the sky. Like snow, only warmer.

  This is intolerable, cawed Redcrow. How do you live here? Why would you want to inflict this horrible dampness on others, namely me?

  “Knock it off,” said Volgha. “It’s not usually like this. Why is it all wet?”

  Oh, good, cawed Redcrow, it’s usually a dry hovel.

  “It’s not a hovel!”

  If you say so. It’s got all the telltale signs of being a hovel from where I’m sitting.

  “It’s not flashy, if that’s what you mean. Where were you nesting that was so posh?”

  Atop the tall tower. The one that’s taller than your belfry.

  “The wizard’s tower,” said Volgha. “That might explain why you’re red. All of the magic leaking out of that place can have side effects.”

  My color requires an explanation now? Is that the sort of casual racism that passes for normal with you? And what side effects does all of this wet have on your hovel?

  “Stop calling it a hovel! It’s your home, too, you know.”

  Well, that’s just perfect.

  In the south, they say that the rain lets a homeowner know where the roof has a leak. In Volgha’s cottage, the rain was far too kind in its thorough summary. Just as the puddles had frozen outside, there were little splashes of ice covering everything she owned, and tiny icicles hanging from dozens of spots on the ceiling.

  Volgha’s heart sank. All that she wanted was to close her eyes for a bit and recuperate. She knew that as soon as she lit a fire, the ice in the cottage would all melt, leaving everything miserably wet.

  Warm enough to melt, but still cold enough for frostbite. What a perfect storm of discomfort you live in.

  “Something’s warming the air,” said Volgha. “It’s never been wet like this.”

  Likely story. I’ll leave you to it.

  Redcrow fluttered off to a shelf and perched between two books, in what may have been the one dry spot in the entire house. If he was scoffing at her, he at least had the courtesy not to think it aloud.

  She beat the little shards of ice off her top blanket, then used her broom to knock most of the icicles from the ceiling, and swept as much ice as she could from the furniture. That would keep the damp from sinking in too deeply when she lit the fire.

  The wet wood was slow to start, so she waved her hand over the hearth and mumbled an incantation. She found the fire sleeping inside the log at the bottom, and slowly coaxed it out. Just a bit. She didn’t want it to burn too quickly, but she was cold, tired, and fed up with the lip she was getting from her new familiar, who had no lips. Getting warm was the one thing that was within her power to fix right now.

  She hung her blankets and put the kettle on for a cup of tea. There was a clump of herbs on the table that had once been dried, but was now reconstituted. She dropped them into the big cauldron of stew and gave it a stir.

  Redcrow cawed a swear word. What is that stench? I think it’s singed my nostrils!

  “That’s a proper stew,” said Volgha. “If you don’t like it, you can go find your own supper. And you shouldn’t use words like that. Where did you learn it, anyway?”

  I’ve got your vocabulary now, cawed Redcrow smugly. No one to blame but yourself.

  She had to admit that she was making a fairly poor first impression, though the warm and the wet were hardly her fault. Oh, what did she care if Redcrow had a foul mouth? She was the only one who could hear him, as far as she could tell. Besides, it was every other word for her on particularly difficult occasions. Might as well get used to it.

  That’s pragmatic of you.

  “Are you going to listen to my thoughts all the time?”

  Probably not all the time, cawed Redcrow, but you can hardly blame me. You’re a loud thinker.

  “Am I?”

  Has no one ever told you? That’s surprising. You’d think your inner monologue had one of those … oh, what do you call them … the big horns that shepherds blow atop mountains.

  “I can never remember what they’re called.”

  I know.

  She sipped her tea and ate a bowl of stew, much to Redcrow’s chagrin. She liked that stew, and she didn’t care what Redcrow thought. It had history. Character. Those weren’t flavors that you could just whip together in a pot, they were the result of … well, not planning, but persistence at the very least. And history. It was a proper stew with a lineage all its own.

  She let her mind wander as she ate. She’d been through a lot lately, and she needed to try and make sense of it all.

  If you’re going to keep shouting, cawed Redcrow, you may as well do it sensibly. What’s the whole story with this Loki fellow?

  “A friend of my sister’s,” answered Volgha.

  As she was telling him the tale of Loki’s riddle, she had a sudden realization. The rising heat levels started during the time between the two sips of the potion that Loki had taken. The two have to be connected, but how?

  So the dampness is your fault!

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Volgha. “I may have been obliquely involved, but if there’s fault here, it’s Loki’s!”

  Touchy, touchy, cawed Redcrow. You could be right, though. It’s warm all over, and that sort of magic is beyond your capacity.

  Volgha took umbrage with that, its accuracy notwithstanding. This new means of sharing thoughts was going to take some adjustment. Normally, one would speak the thoughts they wanted other people to hear as they liked. Redcrow, it seemed, had unfettered access to the archives of her thought, and could peruse them at his leisure.

  It’s weird for both of us. And at least I know when I’m shouting.

  “I’m sorry!” Volgha threw up her hands. “I don’t know how to think any more quietly or I would!”

  All right, look, I’ll help you, cawed Redcrow. I can tell you’re tired, just get into bed, and I’ll give you something to practice on.

  Volgha stoked the fire,
then wrapped herself up in her blankets and curled up in bed. Redcrow opted to remain in his dry spot on the shelf. After a moment of settling in, both of them were still and quiet. The straw mattress was damp in a few spots, but Volgha managed to mostly avoid them.

  All right, cawed Redcrow. Now relax, and think about a tree.

  Volgha closed her eyes, and the first tree that came to mind was the one that had formerly been Osgrey.

  No, no, no! You’re thinking way too loudly, mostly about the old man! He’s really a tree now?

  “Yes,” said Volgha. “That’s part of the Druiding Way.”

  Wait, there’s more to it than that. It’s like I can hear him.

  “Oh right,” said Volgha. “He’s … well, he’s—”

  He’s in here, isn’t he? Inside your mind?

  “Well, yes.”

  But it wasn’t your idea?

  “Well, no. Not exactly.”

  Redcrow said a swear word from the back of Volgha’s mind. She’d nearly forgotten about that one. It had been ages since she’d used it.

  It’s not right, he cawed, setting up in someone else’s mind without their permission! Where is this knave, I’ll deal with him!

  “Leave it,” said Volgha. “It’s odd circumstances, but so is everything else nowadays. We’ll sort it out in due time.”

  All right. For now. But I’ll need to speak with this Sigmund character, at the very least.

  “That can be arranged,” said Volgha. “Let’s get back to business for now.”

  Very well, cawed Redcrow. Okay, just think of a different tree. Preferably one that’s always been a tree, and not one with whom you’ve had a conversation.

  She pictured a pine tree, covered in snow, standing tall and silent in the forest.

  Right, good. Now think about the tree’s shadow, but leave the tree out of it.

  It was difficult to picture the shadow of a tree without the tree, but she sort of crossed her mind’s eyes and faked it.

  Err, okay. Close enough. Now think about the ground under the shadow, but leave the shadow out.

  Snowy ground, undisturbed powder.

  Now you’re getting it, cawed Redcrow. She could vaguely tell the difference, and it seemed as though he was thinking more quietly, too. He guided her through thinking about the rocks under the snow, the dirt under that, the roots of the tree under the dirt, and so on, until they slipped into a state between consciousness and something rather like consciousness, only different.