Hazel and Holly

by Sara C. Snider

  Hazel closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “I’m sorry. It’s just… I’m at my wit’s end trying to figure out how to fix this, and yet no one else seems to care.”

  “I care,” Holly said in a small voice.

  They watched each other. Then, letting out a breath, Hazel waved towards the reams of fabric. “You’ll not get this fabric worked into a dress with it draped around like this.”

  Holly smiled. “I know, but it’s just so sumptuous I couldn’t resist. I hope I have some left over for curtains.”

  “You have everything you need? Thread? Buttons?”

  Holly opened her mouth but hesitated. Then she said, “Mostly.”

  “Mostly?”

  She cringed. “I was hoping Chester would have renewed his stash, and he has… partially. But it’s not enough.” She went to a corner of her room and, from a hole in the wall, pulled out a mouse the color of chestnuts.

  Hazel backed out of the room “No.”

  Holly followed her. “Please, Hazel.”

  “If you think I’ll have anything to do with that filthy little beast, then you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

  Holly gasped. “He’s not filthy! I bathe him twice a week.”

  Hazel gave a disgusted grunt. “Of course you do.”

  “Please. I’d do it myself, but I need all the time I can get to make this dress before the twenty-third.” Holly’s clear blue eyes turned liquidy as she stared at Hazel.

  Hazel sighed. “Fine.” When Holly squeaked, she added, “But just this once! You’ll not ask me to do anything like this ever again.”

  Holly clamped her mouth shut and nodded. Hazel waited as Holly returned to her room and rummaged around. After a few minutes, she walked back out, mouse in hand, who was now equipped with what looked to be an oversized vest with pockets.

  “What on earth is he wearing?”

  Holly beamed. “It’s his fetching vest. It’s got deep pockets so he has a place to stash his spoils. I made it myself.”

  Hazel tried to keep the horror from showing on her face, but she suspected she failed miserably. “And what is it I’m supposed to do with him?”

  “I need you to take him to Zinnia’s place and… well… let him loose.”

  “You want me to set that filthy creature loose in a fellow witch’s house? You’ve gone mad!”

  “He’s not filthy!” Holly took deep breath. “Zinnia’s house might as well be a museum, what with all the junk she has stashed there. She keeps everything. We’re doing her a favor by relieving her of some of the clutter.” She petted the mouse on his tiny head. “Chester will do all the work. You just set him loose and wait for him to return, empty his pockets, and send him back until you have enough supplies. He’s very polite and well trained, never leaves behind any droppings, and he never chews on anything. She’ll not even notice he was there.”

  “Except for her missing possessions.”

  Holly scoffed. “There’s enough for everyone. Not my fault she doesn’t know how to share.”

  “And how much is ‘enough’?”

  “Well,” Holly began, looking thoughtful. “As much as you can carry, really.”

  Hazel’s mouth hung open.

  Holly beamed and offered the mouse on her outstretched hand.

  Hazel backed away. “What are you doing?”

  “You need to take Chester with you, silly. That’s the whole point.”

  “I know, but… I’m not going to carry him… like that.”

  “No, of course not. Chester usually likes to ride on top of my head, all nestled in my hair. Or on my shoulder. Or, when he’s sleepy, in my pocket. He’s very versatile.”

  Once again, Hazel’s mouth fell open. This conversation with Holly was starting to make her feel like a lackwit. “You’re joking, right? No, I know you’re joking, because I will die a spectacular, frenzied death before I ever allow that to happen.”

  Holly emitted a guttural sigh. “Fine.” She returned to her room and, after a few minutes, came back and held out a little wicker cage, the lower portion of which had been woven with strips of colorful ribbons. Chester, still wearing his vest, sat inside, nibbling on a scattering of sunflower seeds.

  Ignoring the sickening feeling settling in her stomach, Hazel took the cage. “How am I supposed to get in her house? I’ve not been invited. Unless, of course, you’re going to suggest I wait until she leaves and then break inside.”

  “Of course not,” Holly said. “You don’t need to go in. Just let Chester loose outside and he’ll find his own way. He’s very resourceful.”

  “Clearly.”

  “And be sure to wait for him! Don’t you dare leave him behind or smoosh him or whatever terrible things you’re probably thinking right now. I’ll never forgive you.”

  “Noted.”

  “Promise.”

  Hazel rolled her eyes. “I promise I won’t hurt or abandon your trained rat.”

  Holly gasped. “He’s a mouse. Rats are filthy.”

  The day was waning by the time Hazel made it to Zinnia’s house. Shadows had grown long, and the blue sky had shifted to pale gold. Hazel cursed herself for taking on this fool task, especially so late in the day.

  Just outside Zinnia’s garden, Hazel positioned herself behind a tree that would, she hoped, provide cover from unwanted eyes. She knelt and opened the door to the little wicker cage. Chester scampered out and sniffed the air, then started washing the backs of his ears with his paws.

  “Go on, you foul little thing. Get.” Hazel waved her hands at him, but Chester didn’t move.

  “Hazel? Is that you?”

  Hazel turned and found Zinnia walking towards her with a basket hanging from her arm. “Zinnia… hello!”

  Zinnia smiled, though the warmth never reached her eyes. Her gaze shifted to the ground. “Are you looking for something?”

  Hazel’s heart lurched into her throat, but when she looked down, Chester was gone. “Um… no. Everything’s fine. I was just looking for some herbs. It seems I have a mite infestation that I’m not sure I’ll recover from. I was looking for new cuttings for my garden.”

  “Shouldn’t you get rid of the mites first?”

  “What?”

  “The mites, you’ll need to rid them from your garden. Otherwise, your new plants will be infested as well.” Zinnia screwed up her weathered face at Hazel.

  Hazel forced a smile, her cheeks growing hot. “Of course. I know that. It doesn’t hurt, though, to locate new cuttings now should they be needed.”

  Zinnia nodded, adjusting the basket on her arm while casting another glance at the ground. “What’s the little cage for?”

  Hazel winced inwardly. “Holly’s lost her pet mouse. I bring the cage with me in case I find him while out looking for herbs.”

  “I see. Well, good evening to you then.”

  Hazel tensed. Zinnia’s tone told her it was time to leave, but she dared not. She had promised Holly she wouldn’t leave that miserable mouse behind. So she said, “Good evening,” and continued her ridiculous charade of pretending to look for herbs.

  Zinnia cleared her throat, so Hazel put on a smile and said, “I have a peppermint cordial that works wonders for coughs. I could give you some, if you’d like.”

  Zinnia’s face reddened. “It’s getting late, you know. Surely you can’t search for herbs in the dark?”

  Surely not, but she couldn’t leave without a certain overdressed rodent. “Don’t worry about me. I find that searching for herbs at night often gives one a new perspective on the world. You should try it sometime, Zinnia.”

  Zinnia scoffed and drew herself up. “I should think not, thank you very much.” She pursed her lips, then said, “Well, at least come in for tea. It makes me nervous, having you out here skulking about. Come in for tea so you can’t fault my hospitality, and then you’ll search for your herbs elsewhere.”

  Hazel didn’t want to have tea with Zinnia. The woman smelled of dirt and overly perfumed soa
p. Not to mention she was supposed to wait for Chester. Would he know where to find Hazel if she moved? It seemed unlikely that a rodent—bathed twice weekly though he was—would be self-possessed enough to think on his feet… or paws, as it were. But what else could she do? She couldn’t refuse, not without going straight home. Anything else would be unforgivably rude. So Hazel clenched her jaw, put on the most gracious smile she could muster, and nodded.

  The inside of Zinnia’s home smelled like freshly turned earth and an overabundance of roses, lavender, and lilacs. It was both cloying and pleasant, unsettling as well as comforting. Hazel didn’t at all care for the contradictory sensations.

  Zinnia led her through a labyrinth of tall shelves littered with odds and ends before coming to a long, polished dark walnut table. “Please, have a seat.”

  There should have been eight chairs around the table, but in place of three of them stood three wooden statues nearly as tall as Hazel. One was carved into the shape of a bear, one a wolf, and the other a squirrel. Each wore a garland of dried flowers upon its polished head. The bear clutched a cane in its wooden paws.

  “That’s Grandfather Bear,” Zinnia said. You can sit next to him, if you’d like. He’s the most even-tempered out of the three. I’d stay clear of Sister Squirrel though. She’s a bit of a trickster.”

  “Is that so?” Hazel said, but Zinnia had already disappeared among the stacks of shelves.

  Taking Zinnia’s advice, she sat down next to the bear. The chair creaked under her weight, the cushion exuding an aroma of musty rose. Holly had been right; the place was like a museum. Stacks of shelves filled the room, all cluttered with bones and feathers, colored glass bottles, and little jeweled boxes. There were tiny silver figurines shaped like men, birds, and fish. There were dusty books and yellowed scrolls, pearl-embroidered gloves, and bolts of cloth in countless colors and materials.

  The shelves seemed to close in on Hazel. The smell of dirt thickened, as did the cloying scent of flowers that now held a hint of decay.

  Something soft brushed against her hand, and Hazel cried out and jerked back. On the table sat Chester, the pockets on his vest bulging.

  “Is everything all right?” Zinnia said, poking her head around a corner.

  Hazel put her hands over the mouse, gritting her teeth at the way his whiskers tickled her palm. “Yes, quite all right. Just saw a strange shadow, is all. Perhaps Sister Squirrel is playing her tricks on me.” Hazel forced a smile.

  Zinnia lingered a moment, frowning at Hazel. Then she turned and disappeared.

  Hazel let out a breath as she removed her hands from the mouse. Then, wrinkling her nose, she fished out the goods from Chester’s pockets. Two buttons, three tiny beads, and a polished crystal that might have once been set in a ring. Hazel put the items in her own pocket as Chester scampered off. Holly had told her to bring as much as she could carry. At this rate, she’d be here all night.

  Zinnia returned with a tray bearing a steaming teapot, two cups, and a plate of brown bread. “I trust you don’t take sugar or cream in your tea. I never do. It’s bad for the constitution.”

  “Plain is fine.”

  Zinnia poured the amber tea into the cups and handed one to Hazel. Hazel brought the tea to her nose. It smelled like dirt and flowers, just like the house. She put the cup back down. When Zinnia offered the plate of bread, Hazel took a slice. It was coarse and dense.

  “Would you happen to have any butter or jam?” she said.

  “Butter and jam are the quickest path to an early grave, mark my words. You’d do well to go without.”

  Zinnia’s hospitality was wearing increasingly thin. Hazel gave a tight smile. “Of course,” she said and nibbled on the dry bread.

  They drank their tea in silence. Zinnia’s gaze kept darting to the wolf statue and back to Hazel, then she’d narrow her eyes and sip her tea. It was terribly unsettling, though Hazel did her best to not let it show.

  She waved to the surrounding shelves. “So, where did you find all this… treasure?”

  “Here and there,” Zinnia said.

  They fell back into silence.

  There was a scratching sound, then Chester scampered across the floor and under the table. Hazel’s face grew hot, but Zinnia seemed not to have noticed the mouse. Her unwavering gaze remained fixed on Hazel.

  “The bread is wonderful. I wonder if I could get the recipe.”

  “No.”

  Hazel blinked. Refusal to share a food recipe was considered rude. Given that all other types of recipes—be they for spells or potions—were closely guarded secrets, sharing recipes for meals was considered a show of good faith, a way to connect in an otherwise secretive world. “I beg your pardon?”

  Zinnia narrowed her eyes. “You come to my home, tell me lies, and then expect me to share a recipe with you? I think not.”

  Hazel swallowed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Zinnia slammed her cup onto the table, spilling tea onto the polished wood. “You think I don’t see what goes on in here? Brother Wolf watches; he’s seen what you’ve done.” She got up from her chair. “Thief!”

  Hazel also got up. “You’re right, I shouldn’t have come here.” She fished out the trinkets Chester had procured and put them on the table. “I shouldn’t have let Holly talk me into this foolish plan of hers. I apologize. Sincerely. I’ll fetch the mouse and never bother you again. You have my word.”

  “The mouse stays.”

  Hazel frowned. “What would you want with that filthy creature?”

  “Payment for your trespass.”

  “I can pay you with something else. I have a few gold coins, or I can pay you in herbs or food. Last year’s mead turned out especially well. I can give you a crate.”

  “No. The mouse is the thief; the mouse will be payment.”

  “The mouse is not mine to give.”

  Zinnia narrowed her eyes. “Then neither of you will leave.”

  Hazel tensed. “Do not threaten me.”

  “You are in my home. I will do as I please.”

  The shelves behind Hazel ground along the floorboards as they closed the path to the door.

  Hazel ran her hands along her skirts, feeling her pockets, but they were all empty. She was in another witch’s home. Her magic would not work here. The only magic she would be able to do is whatever she could focus into an item that belonged to her. She had her dress, but that was big and unwieldy, not to mention on her body. She needed something smaller that she could manipulate.

  The bear statue moved. The grooves in his carved coat rippled until the wood shivered away and was replaced with bristly fur. Grandfather Bear—a real bear now—turned towards her and hoisted himself up on his hind legs with the help of his cane.

  Zinnia peeked from around him and grinned. “I don’t think you realize what an honor this is. I could sic Brother Wolf on you. Trust me, you would not like that.”

  Hazel backed into a shelf as the bear shuffled towards her. She ran her hands along the dusty shelves as she looked for an item to defend herself. “What about the squirrel?” she said, struggling to keep her voice calm. “All things considered, I think I’d rather you sic the squirrel on me.”

  “Sister Squirrel would take far too long. Has a short attention span, that one. She’s good for diversion, not apprehension.”

  Hazel’s fingers brushed against a glass bottle, and she tried to grab it, but it toppled over and fell to the floor, shattering in a splash of crimson shards.

  Zinnia’s face twisted in anger. “Get her!”

  Grandfather Bear drew himself up taller—if such a thing were possible—and roared. He lunged at her, but Hazel darted out of the way. She tried to run across the room, but something caught her foot and she fell. Pain seared through her hands as glass cut her skin. She grabbed hold of a shard and jabbed it at the bear as he came towards her. She got him in the arm, but he seemed to not have noticed. He brought up a great black paw and struck her head against the
floor, and all else faded into darkness.

  * * *

  Water dripped onto Hazel’s forehead as a little old man about as tall as her arm was long rifled through her pockets. Startled, she pushed herself up, scrabbling across the stone floor to get away.

  The gnome gave a wry smile. “You don’t got anything worth taking. No need to be overzealous about the matter.” He picked up a lantern and started to walk away.

  “Wait,” Hazel said.

  He turned around.

  “Where are we?” Water dripped from a low, craggy ceiling that the gnome’s lantern barely illuminated. All else was dark.

  “Miss Zinnia’s cellar. Well, part of it anyway.” He started to walk away again.

  “Wait,” Hazel said.

  The gnome sighed and turned back around.

  “How do I get out?”

  “Out?”

  “Yes. Out. Where is the exit?”

  The gnome screwed up his wrinkled face. “There isn’t any out.”

  Hazel scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Her voice sounded dead and hollow in the dark, damp cellar.

  He shrugged and walked away.

  “Wait!” Hazel cried, but the gnome had gone, as had the light from his lantern.

  She stared into the darkness where he had disappeared, willing the little man to come back, but he didn’t. She sat there, listening to the racing of her heart, beating out of time to the drip-drops of the falling water from the ceiling.

  “What have you gotten me into, Holly?”

  But no one replied, not even an echo. She got to her feet and ran her hand along the wall as she walked. The stone was cool and damp. Every now and then her fingers would run over a patch of soft moss or a strand of slimy algae. When she came across an alcove in the wall, her heart jumped, thinking it a door. But it was only a deep impression, within which lay shards of bones and other items—some brittle, some sticky and soft. She jerked her hand away and moved on.

  When Hazel at last felt the rough, splintered texture of wood, she let out a heavy, relieved breath. She ran her hands all along the door, looking for a handle, a keyhole, anything that might let her out or let her see. But nothing was there. Only a solid wall of rutted, heavy wood.