The Red Winter

by Henry H. Neff

  “Faeregine,” she repeated slowly. “Etymologically, that sounds like ‘Faerie Queen’ or ruler of the Fey. Am I correct?”

  Bellagrog shrugged. “I got no clue what ettee-mole-ogically means, but no matter. Faeregine’s the old name as we learned in our rhymes. Even Gurgle will remember that one.”

  With a reverent bow of their heads, the hags recited:

  With every Age a Faeregine

  Born of stars and summer dreams

  Heaven’s gift, a midnight flower

  She blossoms at the darkest hour

  Hags must listen, hags must heed

  The wishes of great Faeregine.

  “The middle part’s peachy,” Toby critiqued. “But the beginning doesn’t quite rhyme and those last two lines—”

  “Don’t matter,” growled Bellagrog. “Faeregine’s come again, sure as Sunday.”

  “What do you think, Hazel?” asked Cooper.

  His wife straightened her glasses. “Probably an old superstition. I’ve never come across the term in the Archives. If a Faeregine really appeared every age to save mankind, scholars would have written volumes.”

  “Maybe yer scholars wasn’t listenin’ to the dryads,” Bellagrog needled. “And when did I ever say the Faeregine’s job was to save mankind? Typical human to assume it’s all about them. Heck, maybe the last Faeregine was busy rescuing other folk from man. No other creature’s made such a mess of the world. And now you’re off to make war again.”

  “We didn’t start this war,” said Hazel coldly.

  “But you’re gonna finish it, ain’t ya?” laughed Bellagrog. “One little victory’s got Rowan so puffed up she’s sailing off to root old Prusias out of his palace. Lots harder to invade a land than defend one. Hope your Director knows that.”

  There was a quiet knock and they turned to see one of Bellagrog’s workers clutching his hat in the doorway.

  Bellagrog cocked her head. “Whatchoo want, Jakes?”

  “Beg pardon,” said the man. “But the decorations are blowing away as soon as we get ’em up. Even if the storm stops this minute, we’re running out of time. Can the Naming be postponed? Even tomorrow would be—”

  Bellagrog nearly choked. “And let my freeloadin’ relatives stay another day? Not on your life! Anyway, Naming’s happening tonight, rain or shine. Get the lutins to help.”

  “They’re drunk.”

  Cursing softly, the hag lit another cigar and puffed in peevish silence before suddenly glancing at Hazel. “You can make twinkly lights and all that hocus-pocus nonsense, eh?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Well, get outside, eh? Time’s a-wasting and we need this place all gussied up for the Naming. Everybody works at Shrope Hovel!”

  The teacher peered glumly at the rain-spattered windows. “Very well,” she said. Wrapping herself in a heavy blue shawl, she slipped out the back door.

  As the door clattered shut, Max turned to Bellagrog. “How are you holding up with the war?”

  The hag smirked. “War’s always been good for us Shropes. Been moving plenty of product. Next month we’re adding a line of canned vittles.” She pointed to a shelf lined with samples. “You come across anyone who wants work, you send ’em my way. I needs all the hands I can get. Three hots and a cot. Fair wages and a bonus for those that earns it.” She half turned to Bob. “I’m so desperate, I might even hire an old fart like you!”

  As the hags cackled, the ogre spooned some strawberries into a bowl. With a groan, Toby pushed back from the table.

  “Why do I do that?” he moaned.

  “What’s the matter with you?” said Bellagrog.

  The smee belched. “Dear me! My apologies, good hag, but it appears I’ve overindulged. Is there a place where I could lie down? It helps my digestion.”

  An unimpressed Bellagrog nodded toward the hallway. “Parlor rug. But don’t you go snoopin’ or making a mess. And you stay put, Gurgle!” she added as the hag also made to excuse herself.

  “Pristine’s my middle name,” said Toby, promptly belching again. “Just a few minutes off my feet and I’ll be a new smee. I think it must have been the cream.…”

  As the bear padded out, Bellagrog turned back to Bob. “So, whatchoo say, old timer? Wanna work for me? I’ll even throw in a new apron.”

  The ogre smiled. “Bellagrog is very kind. But Bob has job at Rowan.”

  The hag nodded as though this was the answer she expected. She folded her brawny arms. “So whatchoo doin’ out here?” she demanded. “Fess up or get out.”

  The ogre cleared some of the empty dishes. “Rowan needs allies,” he said in a measured tone. “We talk with those who might join fight.”

  Bellagrog gave an incredulous laugh. “You askin’ the Shropes to fight Prusias?”

  “No,” said Bob. “Rowan ask others to do that. But since we not far, I ask if we make little trip to visit Shropes on Midsummer. All haglings get names on Midsummer, no? Bob has always wanted to see Naming. And—he will not lie—he wanted to see his little Mum. Bob is old and it might be last time he can. But he wants no trouble. If Bellagrog wants, we go.”

  The hag turned to Max. “That true, love? You’re in these parts seeking allies?”

  Max nodded. “These parts” was open to broad interpretation. “The Director didn’t send three members of the Red Branch just to visit Shrope Corner.”

  Bellagrog grunted. “I didn’t think she did.” With a low whistle, she swiveled back to study Bob with her shrewd, piggy eyes. “You sure are a sorry sack o’ something. So you tagged along to see your Bea. Whatchoo think she was gonna do? Run away with ya? Bwahahahaha! Ya don’t understand hags at all. Bea will do what I say till she’s pushing up daisies. But you be my guest tonight, Bob—for old time’s sake. Enjoy the Naming, have a bite or three, and then get your wrinkly behind off my property.”

  The ogre bowed to show his appreciation.

  A crash sounded from another room followed by a panicked shrieking.

  “Murder! Mischief! Fire!”

  The cry came from the front of the house and was followed by a crash. Popping up from the table, everyone hurried out of the kitchen. Max was the first out the door, ducking through the doorway to rush down the hall. From the parlor, he heard gruff curses, breaking china, and a furious hissing.

  “Go away! What’s happening? Help! HELP!” shrieked a bloodcurdling falsetto.

  Dashing into the parlor, the group arrived upon a confused and hectic scene. Five gray-skinned haglings swarmed about the parlor looking ferocious despite their colorful pinafores. Trapped within their midst was Toby. Unfortunately, the smee was in his native shape and could do little more than wriggle around an antique coffee table that had been flipped over. Although a smee’s natural state—mottled, limbless, and tapered—was universally repulsive, the haglings were keenly interested in getting their hands upon him. The only thing keeping them at bay was Nox. Crouching by the smee, she whipped about, quicker than a mongoose, to swipe her claws at any who ventured too close.

  “Oi!” Bellagrog bellowed. “What’s going on?”

  “We caught a magic yam!” cried a hagling.

  “A yam that smells like meat!” crowed another.

  With a gasp, the smee twisted toward the speaker. “I’m not a yam!”

  “Sounds like a dandy,” quipped a third. “Give ’em a nip, Five.”

  Five was the largest of the haglings, a powerful, swaybacked brute with a turnip-shaped head, beetle-black eyes, and a stubbly jaw. Dressed in periwinkle, she sucked a cut on her hand.

  “I ain’t getting near that kitty again without my cleaver.”

  “Oh no,” cried Bellagrog. “No one’s cleaving anything in their good pinafores. Gurgle, Gertie, and Specs, see yourselves out. Haglings, line up!”

  While Bellagrog’s cousins grumbled and left out the back way, the haglings acted as if their mother had cast a spell. Dropping their chairs and makeshift cudgels, they arranged themselves by height against t
he parlor wall. When all were at attention, the smallest curtsied.

  “Number Seven!” she piped, a toady runt in puffy pink sleeves.

  “Number Two,” called the next, plucking her purple tights.

  “Number One,” cried her neighbor, twirling a greasy pigtail.

  “Number Four,” hissed a saber-toothed monstrosity.

  “Five,” muttered the last, folding her massive arms.

  “Bwahahahaha!” cackled Bellagrog. “Naming Day hasn’t come too soon for Five, now, has it?” As Bellagrog heaved the heavy table upright, Cooper plucked Toby up by one twisty end. In two bounds, Nox settled in Max’s arms, her coat resuming its glossy sheen as the quills lay flat. Nursing their wounds, the haglings glared sulkily at the lymrill. When Bellagrog ceased her inspection of the damage, she wheeled upon her daughters.

  “Who broke me Nan’s table?” she demanded, pointing at a crack down the center. “Tell me true.”

  “I will when you tell us what these humans is doing here,” said Five.

  “They is guests,” retorted Bellagrog. “And watch yer tone. This ain’t yer Hovel.”

  “Yet,” growled Five, returning her mother’s stare. An uncomfortably tense silence ensued. Max feared the two might come to blows, when Five suddenly blinked and looked away.

  “That smirk ain’t ladylike,” Bellagrog snapped at Seven, who was enjoying the showdown.

  “So why is the humans here?” asked Four.

  “That oaf of an ogre brought ’em,” said Bellagrog, pointing at Bob, who was half crouched in the hallway. “Seems he missed your aunt Bea and he wants to see ya Named. Speaking o’ which, no more roughhousing or nipping—you’ll ruin your dresses and appetites.”

  Five jerked her thumb at Toby, who had curled like a salted slug. “What about him?”

  “Off-limits,” sighed Bellagrog. “He’s a guest and we don’t need no bad juju. It’s practically snowing outside. One of ye can help me with my hair. The rest can share your plans with these boys and see if they gots any pointers.” The hag gestured toward Max and Cooper.

  “Why?” demanded Five.

  “ ’Cause they’ve been in the Workshop, sassy mouth. And Red Branchies know more about this sort o’ thing than the likes of you.”

  “I remember him,” hissed Four, peering at Max, her nostrils aquiver. “He’s the one what fished that Workshop git from the kettle.”

  Five’s piggish eyes narrowed. “Aye, that’s him—the boy who ratted us out. What’s he doing here?”

  “Dunno,” answered Bellagrog, “but don’t go blaming Max for us setting sail. He played it straight and I can’t ask no more. It’s your auntie what sank us. So show ’em your plans and see if they don’t have a tip or two.”

  “Is that staying?” asked Two, looking anxiously at Nox.

  “Nox won’t hurt you,” said Max, stroking the lymrill’s glossy black quills. “She was just protecting Toby.”

  “Is Toby the yam?” inquired One.

  “I AM NOT A YAM!” roared Toby, indignation trumping trauma. “I am a smee who was unjustly ambushed. You’re lucky I’m a pacifist.”

  “But why aren’t you still a bear?” asked Max.

  “Oh,” said Toby, growing sheepish. “Eating too much can cause us to revert to the ‘form divine.’ That’s why I left the kitchen. Surely you’ve heard of Balthazar’s Accident. Every smeegrub knows that unhappy tale.”

  “Nobody wants to hear about Balthazar’s Accident,” said Cooper, setting him upon a chair. Sitting down on the floor, he beckoned to the haglings. “Let’s see your plans, ladies.”

  Max and Scathach sat beside him as the haglings crowded around, elbowing and jostling. Five unfolded a large sheet and smoothed it flat upon the table. Stroking Nox’s ruff, Max surveyed a variety of maps, intricate diagrams, and dense blocks of small, neat writing. Cooper looked equal parts impressed and amused.

  “So, what’s the mission?” he asked.

  “Operation Gertie,” said Five proudly. “We’re busting her out o’ the Workshop.”

  “Right,” said Cooper, drumming his fingers as though considering how best to dissuade the eager, young, and foolish. His pale eyes flicked back to the map. “You know the Workshop’s almost seven hundred miles away?”

  “ ’Course we do!” said Four.

  “Across the Channel and over dangerous country?”

  “We likes danger,” sniggered One.

  Cooper nodded. “And you know its museum is underground? Miles and miles underground?”

  Two gave her sisters an incredulous look. “This fella thinks we just spawned!”

  The Agent weathered five beady stares. “Let’s cut to it, then. How are you going to infiltrate the Workshop, find ol’ Gertie, and get her out?”

  Max was stunned by the sophistication of the haglings’ plans. Every stage was planned in meticulous detail and leveraged an impressive network of relationships. The Shropes had contacts with many merchants and shippers, some of whom did a thriving trade with goblins across the Channel. Some of these contacts worked for the Workshop and had access to various outposts and depots, including some near Verilius, the demon city that had once been Frankfurt.

  “This here is right over a train depot,” said Five, pointing to a building on her map. “Workshop’s got miles and miles o’ tracks and tubes underground. Most connect to mines and ports, but they’ve even got a fancy train to ferry bigwigs between the Workshop and Prusias’s city. Anyway, the Spindlefingers—they’re a goblin clan—are the ones that do most of the maintenance ’cause they can climb into wee places and don’t mind the heat. They’re gonna let us in that building and smuggle us into the Workshop proper.”

  “What’s in it for them?” asked Cooper.

  “Formula Thirteen,” answered Seven. “That soap cuts right through grease and machine oil. Spindlefingers love it.”

  “We’re giving ’em a year’s supply to smuggle us in,” said Five. “They looks away when we goes in and looks away when we comes out with Gertie. Easy as pie.”

  “Where’d you get all this info?” asked Cooper, his eyes fixed on the railway connecting the Workshop and Prusias’s capital.

  “Pompy Frogmaw,” replied the haglings in unison.

  “Who’s he?” asked Cooper.

  Five shrugged. “A goblin who’s always trying to steal chickens. Last time we caught him, we whipped his fanny purple. He howled and said we’d catch it hot, ’cause Pompy knew ‘important folk.’ Said his cousins was tight with the Workshop and they’d give Pompy all kinds o’ weapons to teach us a lesson. Well, when I stopped laughing, I gots to thinking. Maybe Pompy did have cousins that had something to do with the Workshop. So, we untied ’im, slapped a balm on his fanny, and gave ’im a crate o’ soaps to share with these cousins. He showed up three months later with a big order from the Spindlefingers. Turns out they were batty for Formula Thirteen. That’s how we started gettin’ their business and some information besides—all on account o’ little Pompy Frogmaw.”

  “He’s coming to the Naming,” said Two. “Bringing his cousin, too. They’s picking up the Formula Thirteen and giving us a lift down to the Channel.”

  “This cousin,” pressed Cooper. “He’s a Spindlefinger? He works on the Workshop trains?”

  “Aye,” said Five. “He’s a mechanic in the main depot, least Pompy says. We ain’t met him yet, but ’is name’s Ozerk.”

  The Agent looked hard at Five. “I want to meet Ozerk.”

  When the haglings had mentioned a railway linking the Workshop and the Blyssian capital, Max knew Cooper would be on it. The Agent was traveling with them for the time being, but his ultimate mission had nothing to do with Mum or even the Fomorian. Although Cooper was the Red Branch commander, the title was largely ceremonial. The man had no more interest in supervising people than his colleagues had in being supervised. The twelve members of the Red Branch were notoriously independent and each developed their own methods and specialties. Max and Scathac
h were its finest warriors, Natasha Kiraly its swiftest tracker, and Ben Polk its most merciless assassin. But William Cooper was unequivocally its finest overall Agent. His mission would be of prime importance.

  Max suspected it involved infiltrating the enemy’s capital, but he could not be certain. Despite his frequent attempts to wheedle information, Cooper would divulge nothing. The little Max knew he’d overheard two weeks ago aboard the Ormenheid. Late that moonless night, Hazel had taken her husband astern and voiced her concerns in an urgent hiss. The sea had been reasonably calm, allowing Max to make out the occasional snippet.

  “—not fully recovered …”

  “—can send someone else. Natasha’s capable—”

  “—suicide mission!”

  At this last pronouncement, Cooper simply embraced her and gazed a long time at the sea. Max had not heard anything about his mission since, but there was little doubt that Cooper regarded this Workshop train—and a secret way aboard it—as having real value. The only issue now was to make sure they were dressed properly for the Naming.

  Bellagrog had Number Seven lead them up to the attic, where they could store their things and change for the party. The stairways twisted up three stories, leading them past many portraits and dim hallways. The Hovel was old but meticulously maintained. The banisters had an oiled gleam, as did the dark floors and moldings. Every aspect of the creaking house—even its smells—smacked of tradition in a way that was both oppressive and comforting. One could almost hear the footsteps of past generations, of hags great and small that had called it home.

  Max peered out between the attic window’s curtains. It took a moment for the scene to fully register. The sky was brightening from the passing storm, but the landscape had changed. Every roof and chimney, every leaf, hill, and paddock was sheathed in a thin coating of ice. The effect was so surreal and spellbinding that it was hard to differentiate between Hazel’s faerie lights and the returning sunlight winking on the ancient hornbeams. There was no snow, or even frost—simply a dazzling, gleaming carapace that covered the rolling scenery.

  “Look at that,” said Max. “There’s actually ice.”