The Red Winter

by Henry H. Neff

  The others came over, peering out the window. Below, Bellagrog’s employees were working frenetically to sweep up debris, restake tents, and plant what looked like a maypole atop an enormous mound of dirt.

  Cooper grunted, squinting up at the sky, which had a peculiar, reddish cast. “That isn’t normal. This is some kind of witchcraft.”

  Scathach opened the window to peer out. “Who would be doing this?” she wondered. “Who even could?”

  “Don’t know,” said Cooper, tossing his pack onto an old card table. “But it’s not going to make our jobs easier. Depending on the information I get from this Ozerk, I might need to peel off and start my mission tonight. Are you two all right seeking the Fomorian on your own?”

  “Yes,” said Max. “But what about Hazel, Toby, and Bob?”

  “Bob is staying until he can leave with Mum,” said the ogre firmly.

  “Then you might be waiting a long time, mate,” said Cooper. “If that’s your decision, you’re on your own. No hard feelings.”

  “No hard feelings,” Bob agreed.

  “What about me?” asked Toby, still in his native shape and lounging on a trunk. “I’m not staying here with a bunch of hags. Apparently, I’m ambrosia!”

  “You and Hazel will come with me,” said Cooper. “Once we’re across the Channel, we’ve got safe houses you can use until the army lands.”

  “Or they could catch up with Sarah and Lucia,” Max suggested. “I’m sure they’d be welcome in Enlyll.”

  Max’s friends, Sarah Amankwe and Lucia Cavallo, had journeyed with them across the ocean until Ormenheid set them down on an isolated stretch of Blys’s coast. A faun had been waiting at the rendezvous, a former Rowan charge that had agreed to guide the girls through the backcountry to their destination. If all had gone well, the two would be halfway to Enlyll, Connor Lynch’s sun-soaked barony in what used to be the French Riviera.

  Connor was not merely a former classmate; he was now a minor brayma in Prusias’s kingdom, having surrendered a soul in exchange for lands and title. In a letter to Lucia the previous winter, Baron Lynch had encoded a message implying that Rowan should seek out the Elder vyes, as they might be valuable allies. While Ms. Richter could not spare any Agents to pursue such a cryptic lead, she had approved Sarah and Lucia’s proposal to visit Enlyll and investigate.

  “That decision can wait until we’re across the Channel,” said Cooper. “In the meantime, let’s figure out what we’re doing during the Naming. I’ll want to speak with this Ozerk alone. Bob, what’s your plan with Mum?”

  From his pack, the ogre produced a small iron box. “Bob will see if Bellagrog likes gold better than bullying.”

  “Be careful,” said Cooper. “Bellagrog’s liable to get your gold and you’re liable to get nothing at all.”

  “Bob will be careful,” said the ogre quietly.

  Hazel hurried into the attic, blowing on her hands. The shivering teacher was practically blue. “Have you ever seen such a Midsummer?” she asked incredulously. “I nearly froze out there, but I daresay the decorations came together nicely. Dear Lord! Now, what to wear, what to wear …”

  “What do you mean ‘what to wear’?” asked Cooper.

  His wife was now searching through her things. “The Naming,” she replied. “Surely you don’t think we’re going to attend wearing what’s on our backs. We have to get ready.”

  “I look fine,” said Cooper, glancing down at his dusty, muddied clothes.

  “You most certainly do not,” said Hazel briskly. “We’ve been sailing up rivers, tromping all over the countryside, and we’re not going to attend a ceremony—even a hag ceremony—without cleaning up. You can wear that scent I bought you. You haven’t even cracked the seal and it was very expensive.” Her husband looked semi-mortified as she fetched a crystal bottle of amber liquid from his pack.

  “A Hag Naming,” said Scathach, now rummaging through her own clothes. “I didn’t pack anything like a dress, but maybe I could improvise something.” She glanced at Max. “What should one wear to a hag Naming party?”

  Max arched an eyebrow. “Armor?”

  By late afternoon, much of the ice had melted away and hags began emerging from the inn. They trickled forth in startling numbers and diversity: green hags, blue hags, frizzy heads and bald. Down the gravel paths they came, a procession of waddling tanks, hobbling crones, and lanky horrors that moved with a heron’s undulating steps. Some wore dresses, others wore robes or even smocks, but all carried handbags.

  But hags were not the only guests. From the surrounding woods and lanes, other creatures were arriving: elegant fauns and willowy dryads, cackling lutins, and tiny moss maidens that traveled in downy green clusters on the backs of their badgers. The goblins arrived last, cracking their whips and hallooing as their ponies and wagons came clattering up the gravel drive.

  There was no receiving line or official welcome, no opening ceremonies or remarks. The party simply began and gained momentum as more guests arrived.

  While the haglings had yet to make an appearance, Bellagrog was in fine form. She ambled about, shaking hands and clapping backs. Even when Max couldn’t see the hag, her unmistakable cackle could be heard above the din of music and games, laughter and singing.

  The only attendee who didn’t seem to be enjoying herself was Mum. The little hag sat alone at a trestle table, sipping from a mug and eyeing the other revelers.

  “How’s the ale?” asked Max, sitting next to her.

  “All right, I guess,” came the glum reply.

  “Have you tried the mince pies?” asked Scathach gamely.

  “Which ones?” asked the hag with mild interest.

  “I don’t know. They had a shiny blue wrapper.”

  “Charna Schrupe’s,” sighed Mum. “Steer clear of those, dearie. Charna runs a mortuary.”

  Scathach went pale.

  Bob came to join them, pulling over a barrel to sit on, as his legs would never fit beneath the table. The ogre was dressed in gray wool trousers, a gingham dress shirt, and his best suspenders. One hand held a mug of steaming cider while the other cradled his moneybox.

  “Tell me about Rowan,” sniffled Mum, looking plaintively at him. “Tell me about my cupboard and my pots. Tell me about—”

  “Here you are!” chortled a voice behind them. Max turned to see Bellagrog accompanied by a hunched, viridian hag wreathed in fox furs and wearing a purple kerchief about her tapered head. “Max, I want ya to meet Looker Magda. Magda’s right famous among hags.” Bellagrog lowered her voice. “She’s got the Gift.”

  “The Gift?” said Max.

  Looker Magda peered at him through a pair of cracked opera glasses. “I see things,” she purred.

  “Look at his mark!” exclaimed Bellagrog, pointing at Max’s tattoo. “It’s him! The Hound of Rowan come to bless my babies’ Naming.”

  “I don’t need to see his mark,” replied Looker Magda dismissively. “I knew the Hound would be here. Why else would I have come?”

  “For free food and drink, that’s why,” huffed Bellagrog.

  Looker Magda ignored this. Her attention remained fixed on Max as she raised a bangled arm and pointed. “Behold a conqueror!” she intoned. “A king. A tyrant. Kithslayer. Kinslayer. Your own Furies come for you!”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” said Max flatly.

  “Oi!” cried Bellagrog, snapping her fingers before Looker Magda’s unblinking eyes. “I didn’t bring you over here to insult ’im.”

  “Don’t blame the messenger,” sniffed the seer.

  “If you see so bloody much, why don’t you tell me who’s gonna win the Greengully Stakes?” demanded Bellagrog.

  “A horse.”

  “Buzz off,” grumbled Bellagrog, sitting across the table from Bob. Draining her mug, she set it on the tray of a passing faun with a stern directive to bring another. Drumming her fingers on the table, she looked at the sky and then around at her company. “More rain’s a coming. Where
’s Scarecrow and Boon?”

  “In the Hovel,” said Mum, hooking her thumb. “I said they could use the kitchen for their meeting with Pompy and Ozerk. It’s quieter in there.”

  Her sister’s face darkened. “Did ya now? Since when does you give people leave to use my kitchen?”

  Flushing, Mum stared at the table. “It’s my house, too,” she said meekly.

  Snatching a fresh tankard from the faun, her sister thumped it on the table. “No, it ain’t,” she said pointedly. “You is an assistant beekeeper who’s lucky she’s got a roof over her lumpy little head. Don’t forget that.”

  Bob leaned forward to rest his knotted hands on the table. “Perhaps Bob can do Bellagrog favor and take lumpy little head off her hands.”

  “How’s that?” said Bellagrog.

  “Bob wants Mum to come home,” said the ogre evenly.

  “She is home, ya toothless gimp. What’s in that cider?”

  “Bob must disagree. Rowan is Mum’s home.”

  “Stuff and nonsense! Bea’s a Shrope and this here’s Shrope Hovel.”

  “Rowan is where she is happiest.”

  Bellagrog scoffed incredulously. “Happiness? What does happiness have to do with family? Oi! Ya think I’m gonna let some brute—and a foreign brute, too—waltz off with my only livin’ sis ’cause she’s mopey? Your brain’s gone to mush.”

  “Bob will pay.”

  Bellagrog waved him away as though he were a bothersome fly. “Get outta here. A hag o’ my standing don’t want no stinky hides or knucklebones or whatever a dumb ogre thinks is money.”

  Bob set his moneybox on the table.

  A gleam kindled in Bellagrog’s crocodile eyes as she sized the ogre up. “C’mon now,” she chuckled. “Rowan pays you diddly. Don’t yank a hag’s haunch.”

  Opening the heavy clasps, the ogre emptied the box onto the table. The pile was mostly silver with a handful of large gold coins and semiprecious stones scattered throughout. The sight of this not-inconsiderable wealth drew many onlookers.

  “What’s goin’ on, Bel?” asked a tipsy Gurgle.

  But Bellagrog had turned beet red and was shaking with laughter. “Bwahahahaha!” she cried, trying to catch her breath. “This kooky ogre’s tryin’ to buy my sister! Look at that haul! You’d think Bea was the most valuable hag in the world!”

  “She is,” said Bob, ignoring the growing hoots and jeers.

  Mum was utterly stunned. Her eyes darted from Bob to the money to her sister and back again. “That’s your life savings,” she whispered. “You’d give all that up … for me?”

  “Yes,” said the ogre, closing his hand over hers. “You are Bob’s little Mum and it is time you came home.”

  “Take it, Bel!” shouted someone.

  “That’s ten times what wee Bea’s worth!” called another.

  “Try fifty!” Bellagrog chortled, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Bless yer heart, Bob. You sure did save your pennies. Whew! I ain’t laughed so hard since Bea tumbled down a well trying to guess how deep it was.”

  Bob pushed the glinting pile toward her. “We have deal?”

  Reaching into it, Bellagrog plucked a shiny gold coin and sniffed it as though that alone would tell her its authenticity. With a sigh, she tossed it back onto the pile. “Ain’t nothing worse than temptation,” she chuckled. “Bea’s right worthless, but I can’t sell my sister like she’s a bushel o’ cabbage. Wouldn’t be right.” The head Shrope wagged a finger at Mum. “See what you cost me, you ninnyhead? Don’t think I won’t remind ya the next time you wants to sleep in!”

  It was too much for Mum. With an ungodly shriek, she leaped up from the table and bolted through the revelers. Max went after her, dodging through hags and goblins, fauns and satyrs.

  Slipping through the crowd, he made his way down the wooded hill where Mum had fled. Behind him, drums had started to boom. Glancing back, he glimpsed the haglings marching single file from the barn in their starched pinafores. Among the watchful crowd, umbrellas were sprouting like toadstools as an icy drizzle began to fall. The drums played on.

  It was not difficult to find Mum. The turf was wet, her footsteps deep, and broken branches pointed the way like semaphores. She had not gone far into the woods—just far enough to collapse by an icy stream bordered by some willows. Max hurried to her side.

  “Mum,” he said, looping an arm around her.

  “I’m so tired of everyone laughing at me! I j-just can’t take it anymore. Even the haglings treat me like dirt.” The hag sobbed and sobbed, clinging to him like a barnacle as he tried to soothe her. From up the hill, trumpets sounded.

  “The Naming,” Mum wailed. “I’m missing the Naming!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Max firmly.

  “But it does,” she sobbed. “They’re my nieces! I carried ’em on me back and it’s their Naming day!”

  Cymbals crashed in the distance.

  “Bel’s named the first!” Mum cried. “It’ll be Seven—she’s the runt. Help me up!”

  Max heaved the compact but improbably dense hag to her feet. Wiping her nose, she clung to Max’s arm as they trudged their way back up the hill.

  Cheers and applause followed more cymbal crashes.

  “Just two left,” wheezed Mum, waddling faster. “I have to see Five get named. She’ll be running the Hovel someday. Come on!”

  Grunting and cursing, Mum forged ahead through the drizzle. As they climbed, Max heard Bellagrog’s powerful voice carry on the chilly breeze.

  “In another litter, Number Four mighta been top hag. Strong as an ox, a whiz at soaps, and she’s got the deepest bite in the county. Just have a look at those choppers—show ’em, girlie!”

  There was polite applause.

  “But she ain’t top hag and so she can’t have a name longer n’ six letters. That’s Hag Law.”

  “Hag Law!” cried the many hags in attendance.

  “Now,” continued Bellagrog, “we already got Blip, Beet, and Boody. No more Bs. I’m sick of ’em. Number Four’s starting a new letter. And so, in honor of her choppers, I’m proud to present Clamp Shrope. Once she’s got ya, she ain’t lettin’ go!”

  Cymbals crashed. Mum collapsed into the wet grass.

  “I can’t,” she gasped. “All their names are longer,” she moaned. “Even Seven’s. They’re all longer than mine!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Max. “You’re Bea Shrope, the most valuable hag in the world. Students love you. Ogres quest for you. You are wanted on two continents. No other hag can claim these things.”

  “It isn’t true. It isn’t true! Keep going!”

  Max strained his imaginative powers. “You are … a creative dresser. You inhabit a cupboard with grace and style. Your roasts are exceedingly tender.”

  The hag gripped his arm. “The secret’s not to baste! It lets out all the heat!”

  “I had no idea.”

  With a delighted squeal, Mum rolled onto her belly and pushed herself up. The pair reached the hilltop just as Number Five joined her sisters on the painted stage.

  Five dwarfed the rest, outweighing Clamp by a good fifty pounds. The drizzle had flattened her hair into a dark, dripping mess, but there was no mistaking the wild, eager delight on her gray face as she surveyed the crowd. Bellagrog cleared her throat.

  “Number Five. What’s a gal to say? Every few generations, a hag comes along that raises the bar. She’s tougher, meaner, and wilier than the rest. She sniffs out all yer traps and even lays a few of her own.”

  The crowd laughed, but Number Five looked oddly emotional. Even Bellagrog swiped an eye with a hankie.

  “The Shropes are a proud lot,” she said hoarsely. “I’ve worked hard to feather our nest and protect what’s ours. Ain’t always been easy. A gal worries it’ll all go to pieces once she’s gone. A gal wants to pass things down to one of her own—one who’ll look after things with a firm and steady hand. Number Five’s that hag. I love her. I hate her. I couldn’
t do without her. I give you Callastrophe Shrope!”

  As the crowd applauded, there were several gasps and excited conversations. Mum counted rapidly on her fingers and gaped up at Max. “Bel gave her two more letters than what she’s got herself!”

  “Is that rare?” asked Max, draping a spare tablecloth over her.

  “Never heard of it,” said Mum. “One letter, yes, but not two!”

  Bellagrog quieted the crowd.

  “With great names come great expectations,” she said. “Today, my haglings become hags and begin their coming-of-age quest.” The hag gestured toward the drive and several large goblin wagons loaded with Shrope Soaps crates. “No Named hag shall go unrescued or unavenged. Hag Law!”

  “HAG LAW!” thundered the crowd.

  “That’s right,” said Bellagrog. “If my girls come back, they’ll have Cousin Gertie in tow. Dead or alive, she’ll be back where she belongs.”

  “Hear hear!” cried Gurgle.

  “There’s my girls,” said Bellagrog. “Blip, Beet, Boody, Clamp, and Callastrophe. And to bless their names and this gathering, we got one more piece of business …”

  “Queen o’ the Mound! Queen o’ the Mound!” chanted the hags.

  “That’s right!” crowed Bellagrog. “By tradition, Queen o’ the Mound caps off a Naming. And we gots quite a mound to test whoever gives it a go!” She gestured toward the two-story mound of muddy dirt and rocks crowned by the many-ribboned maypole. “So, without further ado, let the contestants get ready!”

  “What is this?” asked Max, spying several of the brawnier hags stripping down to long underwear.

  “Queen o’ the Mound,” said Mum, as though it was self-evident. “Anyone who can hold on to the pole for five minutes gets the title and whatever she wants from the hostess.”

  “Does it get pretty rough?” asked Max, spying a contestant slipping a pair of brass knuckles over her stubby fingers. Other hags were ambling about, scratching their bellies and sizing up the other contestants.

  “Beastly!” said Mum. “I never had the guts to enter one. There’s all kinds of dirty play—biting, scratching, gouging, sawing.”

  Skirting the crowd, they made their way back to their table to find Hazel and Cooper sitting along with a pair of goblins that could only have been Pompy Frogmaw and Ozerk. But it was not the goblins that made Max gape.