Hazel and Holly

by Sara C. Snider

  A witch stepped forward. “Who approaches the Circle this night?”

  Hazel sighed. “You know it’s me, Aster.”

  Aster raised her chin. “The Circle does not recognize this response.”

  Hazel tightened her jaw. Aster always was a stickler for formalities. Taking a breath, she replied, “The Witch Hazel approaches the Circle.”

  The line of women moved around Hazel until they had formed a circle around her. Aster said, “The Circle accepts the Witch Hazel.” She took a candle and lit it from Hazel’s lamp. Then she used the flame to ignite another witch’s candle and so on until each woman held a lit candle of her own.

  Hazel gazed straight ahead, letting the flames around her fade into a haze of gentle light.

  Aster stepped out of the circle and walked towards the torch. She lifted it from the ground and, with a spell, extinguished the flame. Then she thrust the torch back into the earth and transformed the smoking branch into a tall, forked staff. She turned back towards the circle.

  “The Witch Hazel will step forward.”

  The women standing in front of Hazel moved aside, and Hazel stepped forward.

  “Decree to the Moon and Sun, to the Trees and Sky, why you have come here this night.”

  “I come here to dedicate myself to the way of the Sky, if she will have me.”

  “Lady of the Sky accepts all who approach with humble hearts. How does the Witch Hazel approach?”

  Hazel knelt on the ground in front of the staff. She held out her arms to either side, her palms facing upwards. “The Witch Hazel approaches with all due humility and respect for the Sky and for herself and for all her fellow witches.” Hazel felt ridiculous for referring to herself in the third person. She wished the Circle would stop insisting on these rituals. They weren’t necessary—not like this. Her choice of discipline was a personal one, and so any respect paid to the Lady of the Sky should also happen in private. Unfortunately, nobody else seemed to share her opinion.

  Aster said, “Then rise, Hazel, Witch of the Wyr.”

  “Witch of the Wyr,” said the other witches in unison, and Hazel got to her feet.

  Holly squeaked and clapped but then stopped when no one else joined her.

  The witches filed out of the grove. Hazel and Holly took up the rear of the procession.

  “That went well,” Holly whispered. “You did so much better than when I approached the Lord of the Trees. You didn’t seem nervous at all.”

  “I wasn’t nervous.”

  Holly blinked at her. “Really? I was so nervous I thought I might throw up. But then we had cake and it all went away.” Holly pawed at Hazel’s arm. “Do you think we’ll have cake tonight?”

  “Probably. It wouldn’t be a proper dedication ceremony without cake, and Aster isn’t one to deviate from propriety.”

  Holly sighed. Then, sounding wistful, she said, “I still remember the carrot cake from my ceremony. Do you remember?”

  “How could I possibly forget? It’s been three years since you dedicated yourself, and you still talk about that cake.”

  “I like carrot cake.”

  “You like all food.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “All right, you like all food without meat.”

  Holly giggled. “Okay, that’s true. Though there are worse things than liking something that keeps you alive.”

  Hazel snorted. “Is that how you rationalize it? Because the amounts you eat go well beyond the need for survival.”

  “You never know when a famine will come, and you can’t let the food go to waste.”

  “And what about taking food from a poor old woman trying to eat her midday meal? Because there was no famine, and it certainly wasn’t going to waste. So where does that incident fit in that perplexing mind of yours?”

  “That was one time, and she was rude. People that rude shouldn’t get delicious food to eat, especially not pie. They should get… lumpy porridge or something. Cold porridge. Served her right.”

  “I see.”

  The witches left the woods as they approached Aster’s house. They formed into a line, and Hazel and Holly waited as each witch extinguished her candle at the threshold, left it in a box on a chair, then stepped inside.

  By the time the sisters made it indoors, the room was cramped with all the women and the air stifling despite the hearth remaining cold.

  Aster appeared from the crowd and thrust a silver spatula at Hazel as if it were a source of despair.

  “You need to cut the cake,” Aster said. “It’s almost nine.”

  “Ah, yes, and the cutting of cake past the ninth hour is a dreaded ill omen.” Hazel waggled her hands. “How could I forget?”

  “Do not make light of such things. This is a dedication cake. You need to cut it by a certain hour, or it will lose its potency.”

  “Its potency? What potency is that, exactly? Will the Lady of the Sky strike us with lighting? Will we all get a bout of indigestion? I’m curious.”

  Aster narrowed her eyes. “Just cut the cake.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Hazel said and followed Aster through the crowd until they came to a table bearing a cake iced with a thick layer of whipped cream.

  Aster wrung her hands as she watched Hazel. Hazel made a silent plea for rhubarb, then cut the cake, mildly disappointed when she found it was blueberry.

  Aster exhaled a heavy sigh and said, “Let’s eat!” She even smiled.

  Hazel found a chair in a corner of the room and sat down as she ate. She eyed the other witches, taking note of who attended and who didn’t. Zinnia wasn’t there, though that wasn’t too surprising.

  Holly bounced up to Hazel. “Blueberry!” She gave a purply grin. “Not as good as carrot cake but still yummy.”

  “I was hoping for rhubarb.”

  “Hearth witches sometimes get rhubarb. But usually lemon or orange. Sometimes raspberry.”

  “Aster needs to rethink her cake themes. There’s no reason why a Hearth witch should get rhubarb and not a Wyr. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Holly shrugged and took another bite. “It makes sense to her. I just hope she doesn’t go back to her fish cakes for Weaving witches. That was gross.”

  Hazel chuckled. “True.”

  Holly grew silent as she studied her plate. “So do you know when we’re going to leave for Sarnum?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Soon, hopefully.”

  “I can help, you know! You can’t leave me behind! I’ve got potions and everything, so you have to take me along!”

  “I was never going to leave you behind, Holly. You’re a part of this and a grown woman besides—however you might not act like it. I can’t protect you forever.”

  Holly blinked at her. “Oh.”

  “And what potions are you talking about?”

  Holly poked at her cake and mumbled something incoherent.

  “What’s that?” Hazel said.

  “Possibility potions.”

  “Which are…?”

  “A gift from Odd.”

  “Of course, how silly of me.” Hazel closed her eyes and shook her head. “Never mind, we can talk about it later. Apparently, cutting cakes and conversations with my sister are two things that shouldn’t happen past nine.”

  Hazel stood in the living room of their cottage as Holly held out a box of crystal vials containing a clear liquid.

  “Possibility potions,” Hazel said flatly.

  “That’s what Odd said they were.”

  Hazel reached out to touch one of the vials but pulled her hand back instead. “I don’t understand. How are we supposed to use them?”

  Holly shrugged. “He said that it will let us see decisions we never made. He said we might be able to change the decisions we have made.”

  Hazel frowned. “I don’t understand how that’s possible.”

  “Well, neither do I, but that’s what he said.”

  “You’re the Hearth witch. Potions are supposed to be your
area of expertise.”

  “Hearth’s only my secondary. I’m a Wild witch, really. You know that.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” Hazel waved her hands at the box. “Well? What do we do with them?”

  “I-I don’t know. Drink them?”

  Hazel wrinkled her nose and took a step back.

  “What?”

  “I don’t trust them. Potions made by a gnome don’t exactly instill confidence.”

  “Iris made them.”

  “Which were then tampered with by an alleged gnome named Odd.”

  “He’s not alleged; he really does exist. And you should have seen his workshop. It was amazing. I bet these potions are amazing. They could help us.”

  “Or ruin everything.”

  “Well… maybe. But I doubt it.”

  “You doubt everything sensible.”

  “Not everything.”

  “My mistake.” Hazel held up a hand. “Just… hold on to them for now. In case we get desperate or stupid enough to try them out.”

  Holly squeaked and jumped up and down. “I hope so!” Then she ran into her room.

  Shaking her head, Hazel walked into the kitchen. On the table sat a thick, worn book nearly the size of a bread basket. She flipped open the cover, narrowing her eyes at the ridiculous and insulting title: Waxing Wyr: Deception Made Simple for the Aspiring Witch. Written by a warlock who called himself Nightshade. Pompous ass. It was the only book on Wyr magic the Circle had, and so it was all Hazel had to teach herself. But she couldn’t even look at the book without getting angry. She’d have to go to Bellota for help, and that made her angrier.

  She shut the book and poured herself a cup of tea. A knock came at the door. Hazel ignored it, hoping that whoever it was would go away. But the knocking continued.

  Holly poked her head out of her room. “Are you going to get that?” she called.

  “No, are you?”

  Holly emitted a loud, exaggerated sigh and walked to the door. There was a murmured exchange of voices, then approaching footsteps. Hazel turned and found Hemlock standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “Hemlock. What are you doing here?”

  “We haven’t spoken in a while. I wanted to see how you were.”

  “You mean you wanted to check on me. I assume you’ve heard about my Wyr dedication ceremony.”

  “I did, but that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Is that so?”

  He looked off to the side. “All right, perhaps it is. But I’m not here to check on you. I just wanted to see how you were doing. To see if… you might need any help.”

  “Of course, because a witch couldn’t possibly learn Wyr magic on her own.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “I know it’s true. Do you?”

  Hemlock held her gaze. “Wyr magic is a difficult discipline. Books on the subject are notoriously poor, filled with the blustered nonsense of self-important warlocks who are more in love with their own prose than they are with teaching anything of worth. Which means that if you don’t want to subject yourself to the mind-numbing tedium of idiotic warlocks rambling about their own exaggerated qualities, you’ll need to find a witch to teach you, and the only witch that can do that is Bellota.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know the woman well, but she frightens me. I’d not inflict her on anyone.”

  “Not even Hawthorn?”

  “Especially not Hawthorn. He’d probably enjoy it.”

  Hazel giggled before she could stop herself. Hemlock smiled.

  She cleared her throat and straightened her back, trying to regain her composure.

  Hemlock clasped his hands and took on a serious expression.

  Hazel tightened her mouth, trying to find her previous anger, but it was gone. She let out a breath. “You’re right, of course.” She jabbed a hand towards the table. “That book is all but worthless. I can barely stand looking at it without wanting to pitch it in the fire.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “I mean, really. Nightshade? Does he think that makes him sound mysterious? Intelligent? Scary? His real name’s probably Bogwort or something.”

  “Or Pussywillow.”

  Hazel snorted and clasped a hand over her mouth. Then she laughed.

  Hemlock grinned.

  She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. “I don’t know. If I cared enough about Wyr magic, I could probably suffer my way through that book. But I don’t, not really. I’m just doing this to find my father, but I’m not sure it’s enough.”

  “Let me help you, Hazel,” Hemlock said softly.

  She shook her head. “I don’t want your help.”

  “I know, but maybe you need it. We all need help sometimes, whether we want it or not.”

  “And how do you propose to help? Warlocks aren’t supposed to teach witches, you know.”

  “And witches aren’t supposed to teach warlocks. Yes, I’ve read the pamphlets.”

  “Well then?”

  He shrugged. “I thought you might like to take the opportunity to snub some of our society’s more asinine rules.”

  Hazel grinned. “Well, I do love a good snubbing.”

  Hemlock grinned along with her. “I was hoping you would.”

  Hazel trailed behind Hemlock as they climbed up the steep face of a rocky cliff. The stones were damp and coated with moss. Hazel grabbed on to a clump of the growth to pull herself up, but it tore free and she had to clutch on to a tree root to keep her balance.

  Hemlock glanced down at her. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Let’s just keep moving before I fall and break my neck.”

  Somehow they managed to reach the top, and Hazel hoisted herself over the edge with about as much grace as a slug in a sink. Mud coated her dress, and a hole had been torn in a sleeve where she had snagged it on a branch. “Tell me again why we’re here?”

  Hemlock smiled and spread out his arms. “What better place to practice Wyr magic than atop a hill, where we can see the sky and feel the wind.”

  Hazel turned and looked over the vista. The Grove sprawled out before her, the treetops like a vast green blanket. “It’s beautiful.”

  Hemlock rubbed his hands together. “I thought to start we’d talk about illusions.”

  Hazel took a breath and turned to face him. “All right.”

  “Now, how much do you know?”

  She shrugged. “They’re illusions. They make something appear different than what it is.”

  “That is one way to put it, yes, but there is more to illusionism than that.”

  “Such as?”

  Hemlock put out a hand, and with a spell, a luminescent baby dragon materialized on his palm. It scampered up his arm and to his shoulder, then took flight to where it disappeared among the clouds. “Illusions can bring into being visions of what could be but still isn’t. It is a sensory magic—it can elicit sensations of touch and scent, sight and sound, where there were before none of those things. It’s very similar to conjuring. Yet conjuring doesn’t require an observer to take effect, whereas illusions do. You could conjure the image of a cat that would exist in the world—even if there was no one there to observe it—for as long as the spell lasted. That dragon I created, however, only existed because you were here to see it, and it stopped existing as soon as it faded from view.”

  “What about you though?” Hazel asked. “You were here to observe the dragon. Isn’t that enough?”

  Hemlock shook his head. “Illusionary magic is about altering the perceptions of others. As I am the one creating the spell, it is not possible to alter my perception because I am already aware of every facet of the item I am creating. I am dictating how others will perceive it. It is, essentially, manifesting my will in a perceptible form, but others must be there to perceive it, or it will fail. Otherwise it is a conjuration and not an illusion, and conjuring is slightly different in terms of spellcraft and enunciation.”

  Hazel nodded.
“I understand.” Well, that wasn’t entirely true, but she was sure she would once she had a moment to let all the information settle.

  Hemlock eyed her a moment. “Why don’t you give it a try?” He told her how to craft a spell and pronounce the words, and then he stood there, smiling and nodding and exuding an enthusiasm that Hazel didn’t share.

  “I wouldn’t know what to create,” she said.

  “It could be anything. A scent, a sensation on the skin. It’s best to start simple at first—like single sensations—and then work your way up to multisensory objects.”

  Hazel blinked and nodded again. She shouldn’t hesitate. She needed to learn this, so there really was nothing for it than to give it a go. Her hands had turned clammy, and she rubbed them on her skirts. Then she spoke the words as she imagined the soft sensation of a warm, gentle breeze.

  But nothing happened.

  She rubbed her forehead. “I’m terrible at this.”

  “Everyone is terrible when starting out. You need to work your way up.”

  “Except I’m not anywhere. How can I work my way up from nowhere?”

  He smiled. “It’s hard, but it’s possible.”

  She tried to feel encouraged, but it eluded her. “Have I made a mistake?”

  “Your pronunciation wasn’t exact. It needs to be exact for the desired effect to take hold.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Hemlock was quiet a moment. “No, you haven’t.”

  “This should be simple. Trying to stop my necromancer father? That will be difficult. If I’m having trouble with this, then what hope do I have of stopping him?”

  “This was never going to be simple, Hazel. Which is all the more reason why you need to do it. You get through this, and getting through to your father will be the simpler for it.”

  She tapped her fingers against her leg. She hoped he was right. She wanted to believe he was. He seemed to believe in her; she wanted to believe in him. “So the pronunciation needs to be exact?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not even a little deviation?”

  “That’s the opposite of exact.”

  She took a deep breath. “All right, let’s try it again.”