Hazel and Holly

by Sara C. Snider

  “What kind of ideas?”

  Hemlock remained silent, seemingly taking a great interest in stirring his tea. So much so that Holly leaned over and peered into his cup along with him.

  “Is it the future?” she whispered.

  Hazel set down her cup with a loud clank. “For all that is blessed, Holly, let the man speak!”

  Holly pouted. “You’d be sorry if I was a diviner,” she muttered, then slunk away to peruse the books.

  “I apologize for my sister and for my outburst,” Hazel said.

  Hemlock shook his head. “Don’t apologize. In fact, it’s probably for the best.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He leaned over to her and lowered his voice. “The truth is, your father is suspected of experimenting with… forbidden magic.”

  Hazel clenched her hands in an effort to keep her expression calm. “Necromancy, you mean.”

  Hemlock nodded.

  “Yes, I suspected as much myself.”

  He blanched. “What has he done?”

  She looked away. “Nothing that I am prepared to talk about.”

  “I want to help.”

  “You don’t even know what the problem is.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Necromancy…” Hemlock’s voice had risen, and Holly peered at them over the top of a book she was pretending to read. He lowered his voice again. “Necromancy is a vile art, forbidden for good cause. As a fellow warlock, I can’t help but feel partially responsible.”

  “Why on earth should you feel responsible?”

  “Warlocks hold Conclaves for a reason. There must have been some indication in his behavior, an alluded reference that went unnoticed. We—I—should have been more vigilant.”

  “It wasn’t anyone’s fault but his.”

  They sat in silence for a while. Hazel wanted to tell him to not interfere, that this wasn’t any of his concern, but once again she couldn’t form the words. Was her reluctance really from a desire to keep the problem contained within the family, or was there another reason? She tried telling herself it was because he was a warlock and no warlocks were to be trusted. But that wasn’t it. The truth of it was that her father’s betrayal was like an open wound on her heart, and she didn’t know if she could endure having her pain so exposed to the world.

  Yet as much as Hazel hated to admit it, she might need him.

  “How could you help?” she asked, unable to look at him.

  “We have another Conclave coming up soon. I could make enquiries.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as finding any of his acquaintances, his haunts and habits. You might be surprised at the kind of information that is revealed during the banal chit-chat of warlocks’ Conclaves. Most don’t pay that much attention anymore. Conclaves have become more a formality than anything of substance. That is where we have gone wrong, and it is, I believe, where we must begin.”

  Hazel met his gaze. “Then let us begin.”

  Sunlight shone down on Holly as she sat outside the cottage. The air hummed with bees buzzing in and around the hive boxes Hazel kept. Nearby, a young doe grazed in the herb garden. “They’re up to something,” Holly said to the doe. She poked a needle into a skirt lying across her lap and pulled the thread through. “But they won’t tell me what it is. I don’t know why. Either they think I’m stupid, or… or I don’t know what.”

  The doe poked her head up and peered at Holly, chewing on a mouthful of sage as her long ears twitched.

  Holly waved a hand. “That’s enough of the herbs. Go move on to the carrots or something.”

  The doe ambled over to where the vegetables grew.

  Hazel came home along the woodland path, a basket slung over her arm. The doe bounded away and disappeared among the trees.

  Hazel stopped, narrowing her eyes. “Was that deer grazing in the garden?”

  Holly focused on her sewing. “No,” she said, unable to keep herself from sounding sullen.

  Hazel pressed her lips into a thin line.

  “What?” Holly said, growing annoyed. “You think I’m hiding something from you? Bet you wouldn’t like how that feels, would you?”

  Hazel let out a heavy sigh. “Not now, Holly,” she said and walked into the cottage.

  Holly shook her head and continued sewing. Not now? Not ever, it seemed. What were Hazel and Hemlock doing anyway? They met from time to time, talking in hushed tones whenever they thought she couldn’t hear. And then when she walked up to them, they’d put on those creepy fake smiles and talk about the weather or who might win the Honey Tankard for best mead during the Haernan Festival.

  Of course Hawthorn never came by, much to Holly’s disappointment. They’d had a real connection during the party, but then Hazel had been Hazel, and Holly hadn’t seen him since. She sniffed. Hazel was always scaring the men away.

  She finished the last stitch in her sewing, tied off the thread, and cut it with her teeth. Then she stood and held up the skirt to examine her work. She’d sewn the hem of the skirt together, turning the garment into a sack.

  “Mighty fine work there, missy.”

  Holly spun around. A short little man about as tall as her knee grinned up at her.

  “Who’re you?” she asked.

  The man bowed. “Name’s Tum. Say, you going to do something with that bag of yours?”

  Holly narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

  “Bags are for keeping, and I’ve got bits that need to be kept.”

  “Oh? What kind of bits?”

  Tum waved a hand. “A bit o’ this and a bit o’ that.” He grinned.

  Holly pursed her lips. “It’s not for secrets! Well, not your secrets anyway.” She raised her chin and said, “Good day.” Then she walked off, heading towards the woods.

  Tum scampered after her. “Where we going?”

  “I’m going gathering. You’re not invited.”

  “Don’t be hasty, young miss. You’d do worse than having a cellar gnome help you gather.”

  “If you’re a cellar gnome, why aren’t you in a cellar?”

  Tum grinned, showing rows of yellowed teeth. “Currently between jobs. Say, bet you can help me with that. I’d make it worth your while.”

  Holly stopped and peered down at him. “How so?”

  “I seen you with your mouse, the one with the vest. I can fetch bits just as good as him, only the bits I fetch’ll be bigger.” He winked at her. “Bigger, right?” He cackled.

  Holly frowned, not getting the joke. “And what do you get out of it?”

  “I get a cut of the spoils, a spot in your cellar, and beer twice a week.” He paused. “Three times a week. Plus I’ll look after your underground space. Won’t have rats causing any mischief without my say-so.”

  Holly gave it some thought. Rats were such filthy creatures, and they never listened to her, always doing as they pleased no matter what she said. “All right, Mr. Tum, you have a deal.”

  “Ho, ho, and off we go!” He held out his hands. “Gimme the bag.”

  Holly pursed her lips and clutched the bag against her chest.

  Tum waggled his fingers. “Come on, now. Can’t go gathering spoils without a spoils bag. Simple laws of nature and all that.”

  “That’s true,” Holly murmured. “But I’ll make those same laws of nature turn you into a stunted little tree if you cross me!” She twisted her face into what she hoped was a frightful countenance and handed over the bag.

  Tum chuckled, and Holly’s heart sank.

  “Fair enough,” he said. He held up the bag as he looked at it and whistled. “Fine material, this. Where’d you get it?”

  Holly drew herself up. “It’s the skirt of my old festival dress. Got myself a new dress, so I don’t need it anymore.”

  “Must be fine times you’re living in if you’ve got no need of material like that. Fine times indeed.” He lowered the bag and peered around. “Right, so where we spoiling?”

  Holly scratched the back of her head
. “Well, it’s not really called spoiling, is it?”

  Tum screwed up his face at her. “Gathering fish is fishing, gathering mushrooms is mushrooming, gathering spoils is spoiling. Pretty obvious, really.”

  “Fine, whatever.” She also looked around. “Normally I’d head over to Zinnia’s, but she’s still pretty angry from last time.”

  Tum nodded sagely.

  “Other than her,” Holly continued, “I’m really not sure where to go.”

  “Well, if you could go anywhere in the world—anywhere in walking distance, that is—where would you go?”

  Holly started to give it some thought when Tum leaped towards her.

  “Answer quickly,” he said, waving his arms. “No time to think. Quick! Quick!” He poked her in the leg with a stout finger until Holly, backing away while swatting at him, finally said, “Hawthorn’s! I’d go to Hawthorn’s house. Now leave me alone, you vile little beast!”

  Tum stopped poking. “Well, all right then. Hawthorn’s it is.” Bag in hand, he headed off into the woods.

  Holly squeaked and scampered after him. “No, no, no, no, I didn’t mean we’d go to his house to go gathering. We can’t do that!”

  “Why not?”

  “Well… because…”

  “Because you’re sweet on him?”

  Holly’s face turned hot. “What? No!” She tried to laugh but only managed to snort while inhaling a bit of spittle, which then sent her into a fit of coughing. She doubled over as she tried to catch her breath and managed to wheeze, “Not sweet.”

  “Right,” Tum said flatly. When Holly had recovered, he said, “You know, it’s a well-known fact that men love women with proper spoiling skills.”

  Holly wiped at her watering eyes with a sleeve. “Really?”

  Tum gave another sage nod. “Oh yes. Has to do with providing for the home. Everyone knows that a woman who can gather her weight in spoils has the makings of a wondrous wife. A real ünderwench, as we gnomes like to call it.”

  Holly stared at him. “You have a name for it?”

  Tum drew himself up as tall as his little frame would allow. “Of course. It’s not proper unless it’s got a proper name. Everyone knows that.”

  For someone that lurked in cellars, Tum seemed to know an awful lot of the world. Holly nodded, feeling ignorant and unable to argue against such sophisticated wisdom.

  They headed over to Hawthorn and Hemlock’s estate and came to the tall wrought iron fence.

  “Well, now, that’s a problem,” Tum said.

  “Can you squeeze through?” Holly picked up Tum by the collar of his shirt and thwacked him against the bars.

  “Hey!” Tum said, flailing. “I’m not made of clay, you know. You can’t just remold me however you like.”

  Holly dropped him on the ground and mumbled, “Sorry.”

  Tum glowered at her while straightening his shirt. He turned back towards the fence and kicked at it. “This thing got a door or something?”

  “Down that way,” Holly said, nodding to the left. “It’s usually guarded though.” In a whisper, she added, “Stupid guards.”

  Tum shook his head. “Nope, don’t do guards. Next idea.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “It’s inefficient, and they got grabby hands.” He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like grabby hands.”

  “Well, how else are we going to get in there?”

  Tum gave it some thought, then stepped inside the bag and pulled it up around him.

  “What are you doing?” Holly said.

  “You’re gonna have to fling me,” Tum said.

  “What?”

  “That’s right. I sit in the bag, and you fling the bag over the fence. Easy.”

  “But… you’ll get hurt!”

  Tum scoffed. “Hurt? I think not. Just dirt I’ll be landing on, and no dirt ever hurt any cellar gnome, not ever. It’s in our bones, you see. Now water…”—he clicked his tongue—“now that’d be a different story.” He settled himself deeper within the bag. “Come on now. Time’s wasting. Up and away.”

  When Holly hesitated, Tum waved his arms and shouted, “Away!”

  He kept on shouting until Holly, fearful he’d attract the guards, said, “All right! Shoosh!” She grabbed the ends of the bag and lifted it up, bundling Tum inside.

  “Now give it a good fling,” Tum said, his voice muffled from the fabric. “Don’t hold back.”

  Holly gently swung the bag from side to side, testing the weight.

  “I said, give it a good fling!”

  “All right,” Holly shouted. To herself, she whispered, “Crabby monster.”

  “I heard that.”

  “Good!” Holly said though her cheeks warmed. She spun around with the bag, gathering speed until, fearful she’d lose control, she lobbed the bag over the fence and went tumbling backwards.

  The bag arced over the iron bars and rustled through a patch of leaves from a low-hanging branch before landing on the grassy ground with a hollow thud.

  Holly held her breath as the bag lay motionless. Then, after a moment, the fabric moved and Tum crawled out. He waved.

  Holly waved back, but then her heart sank. How was he going to get out? She opened her mouth, about to shout her question, when Tum grabbed the bag and scampered out of sight.

  Hazel sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea from a chipped ceramic cup as she peered out the window. Where had Holly run off to? Not that she should complain. Hemlock would be coming over soon, and it was growing increasingly difficult to talk to him without Holly coming by to see what they were doing.

  A twinge of guilt gnawed at Hazel for excluding her sister, but it really was for the best. Holly had a simple, gentle soul, and this grisly business with their mother was upsetting—for both of them, yes, but perhaps even more so for Holly. She didn’t need to be dragged into the details of finding their necromancer father. And who knew what awaited them when they did find him. Knowing Holly, she’d likely hug him and forgive him on the spot, conveniently forgetting everything he’d done. It would be easier for all of them to keep Holly ignorant of the matter and resolve it as quickly and quietly as possible.

  If, of course, it was even possible at all. Hemlock’s enquiries at the last warlock Conclave had failed to produce results, and the next one was weeks away. She and Hemlock had been meeting to discuss their options, but they seemed to be dwindling without much else in sight. It all might be a glorious waste of time, along with Hazel’s efforts to protect Holly from any unsavory details.

  Hazel continued to sip her tea, waiting and wondering, until Hemlock appeared on the woodland path. She got up and opened the door just as he was about to knock.

  He blinked at her. “Ah, Hazel, hello. Fine day, isn’t it?”

  She pulled him inside and closed the door. “It’s summer; the days are almost always fine and terribly boring to discuss. Let’s just get to business, shall we?”

  Hemlock adjusted his glasses and said, “Ah, yes. Of course.” He cleared his throat. “I have sent letters to warlocks of acquaintance to make inquiries. They, ah, unfortunately have all gone unanswered.” He blinked at her some more. “I will keep trying though.”

  Hazel sat down on the couch and shook her head. “I am beginning to think it’s all quite pointless. No one seems to know anything, or if they do, they’re not talking. I’m not any closer to finding my father than I was before our… partnership.” She looked at him. “I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I…”

  Hazel got up and opened the door. “Thank you, Hemlock, for everything you’ve done. But perhaps we should part ways now before wasting any more time and making utter fools of ourselves.”

  Hemlock’s mouth worked soundlessly awhile and before he found his voice, Tum bolted through the open doorway, dragging behind him a bulging bag.

  “Close the door!” he shouted. “Bar it, barricade it, whatever you need to do, just do it!”

&n
bsp; “What—” Hazel began when Holly ran through the door after him. She darted into her bedroom and closed the door and didn’t come back out.

  “What on earth is happening?” Hazel said.

  “Guards!” Tum said as he tried wedging himself under the couch, but he was too big. He burrowed under the cushions instead. “They got grabby hands, and I don’t abide grabby hands.” He pulled a cushion down on top of him and disappeared, visible only for the slight bulge on the seat of the couch.

  “Watch out!” Hemlock said and pulled her away from the door as a pair of guards charged into her living room.

  “Now see here!” Hazel said, but the guards paid her no mind. They walked up to the bag Tum had left lying on the floor, grabbed it, and upended the contents. Silver spoons and plates clanged to the floor, along with a teddy bear, a knitted striped scarf, and a few crumpled pieces of paper.

  Holly poked her head out the door. “That doesn’t belong to you!”

  “It certainly doesn’t belong to you!” one of the guards said as he turned towards her, and Holly squeaked and disappeared back into her room.

  The other guard bent down and picked up the teddy bear. “Hey, Garret. Look.” He held up the bear and in a high-pitched voice said, “I will love you forever.”

  Garret scowled at him. “Don’t be an ass, Sid.”

  Sid sniggered and continued to wave the bear at Garret while making kissing sounds.

  “I said knock it off.” Garret swiped at the bear, but Sid yanked his hand back. Garret lunged towards him, and Sid laughed and threw the bear out the door, where it landed at the toes of Hawthorn’s finely polished boots.

  Both guards straightened, and Sid cleared his throat. “Didn’t see you there, sir. We were just retrieving your things, as well as apprehending the thieves.”

  Hawthorn picked up the bear and gently dusted it off. He clutched it to his chest, his furrowed brow creasing his otherwise perfectly glamoured face as he eyed the guards, Hazel, and Hemlock.

  “Hemlock, how could you?”

  “I-I didn’t…,” Hemlock said.

  Holly stepped out of her room. “It was me. I took them.” She lifted her chin at the guards. “Do your worst!”