Hazel and Holly

by Sara C. Snider

  Hazel stood in front of it. It had yellow, watery eyes that watched her as she moved. Its shadow stood off to the side. It would walk away a short distance, shiver as if strained, then move back to stand next to its fleshy counterpart.

  This thing had once been a man. Hazel could see that now it no longer had shadows to clothe it. But now it was nothing more than a collection of flesh, cut and scarred, made to ambulate through town for reasons Hazel couldn’t figure. It stared at her with its yellowy eyes, looking on the verge of weeping pus-filled tears, and Hazel felt sorry for it.

  Hemlock stood next to her. His brow was furrowed and his hands clenched, his gaze shifting between Hazel and the flesh golem.

  Hazel met the golem’s gaze. “The graveyard. Can you take us there?”

  The golem remained still, but its shadow nodded. It headed down the street while its scarred collection of flesh lumbered behind it.

  Holly, Hawthorn, and Tum zigzagged their way through town. Darkened forms shambled along the shadowed streets, following flickering lights that flitted around like springtime swallows. Each time a shambler crossed their path, the group had to alter their course. So their progress—and the night—dragged on. It felt like dawn should be approaching, but the sky remained dark and devoid of stars save for a scattering of the brightest ones that managed to wink through the alchemical haze of light emanating from the lampposts lining the streets.

  “Are we almost there?” Holly whispered as they crouched behind a collection of leafy, thorny shrubs. A shambler a stone’s throw ahead of them made wet, rasping sounds as it breathed through its mouth. Holly cringed and resisted the urge to clench her eyes shut. She needed to know if the thing decided to come towards them.

  When it finally moved away, Hawthorn whispered, “It shouldn’t be much further.” He rose and started walking.

  Holly reached into the shrubs and poked at Tum. “Come on, we’re going.”

  Tum stuck his head out through the leaves. “Isn’t right, being out with the shamblers. If you and Miss Hazel had any sense, we’d all be drinking beer in the cellar.”

  Holly didn’t much care for beer, but she had to admit it sounded more appealing than being on these creepy darkened streets.

  They followed Hawthorn and soon came to a tall stone wall adorned with snarling gargoyles perched along the top. They followed the wall until they came to a massive wrought iron gate, over which arched the words In Morte Divinitas.

  “What does that mean?” Holly said.

  “In death there is divinity.”

  She screwed up her face. “What kind of saying is that?”

  Hawthorn shrugged. “I make no claims over the quality of such slogans. But that is what it says.”

  Holly narrowed her eyes at him. “You know an awful lot about this town, with all its creepy streets and creepy sayings in weird creepy words. More than you ought to from stories alone.”

  He pushed the gate open—it didn’t so much as squeak—and gave her a flat look. “Well, we’re here. Shall we go in? Or have you reconsidered?”

  Holly pressed her lips together. “We’d better go in and look around.” She passed through the gate, followed by Tum. Hawthorn quietly closed the gate after them.

  They walked along a stone path that snaked over grassy hills, past shadowed tombstones and mausoleums with lanterns of flickering blue flames hanging near thick, iron-studded wooden doors. Statues dotted the hills and lined the walkway, like sentinels watching their passing with lifeless eyes. One statue was of a woman in a full dress looking off towards the horizon, another of a baby lying in an intricately carved crib guarded by a sleek dog. Winged and snarling grotesques crouched in thatches of wild grass, then a pensive man, perusing a book.

  “Are these all people who died here?” Holly asked while eyeing the statues.

  “Probably,” Hawthorn said. “Except for the grotesques, of course. I imagine those are more for protection than remembrance.”

  “Protection from what?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever these people might fear after death.”

  They came to an empty, open grave. A shovel rested against the lichen-encrusted tombstone.

  “Or maybe they fear whatever they dig up,” Holly said.

  Tum tottered over to the grave and hopped down into it.

  “Tum!” Holly hissed, trying to keep her voice low. “Get out of there!” She couldn’t even see him down in the shadows of the hole.

  “It’ll be all right,” came Tum’s voice from the darkness. “Closest thing I’ll find to a cellar here, and a cellar is where old Tum belongs.”

  “You’re supposed to help us find Hazel.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out. Stand guard, see? Makes more sense to have eyes in many places than all in one place.”

  “Well, I… I suppose. Will you be all right here alone? What if whoever dug this grave comes back? Or a shambler?”

  “No shambler’ll see me down here in the dark. And anyone else, well, old Tum will give him what-for, that’s what.” He flung some dirt up into the air.

  Holly backed away from the flying soil. She didn’t want to leave him, but she didn’t want to stay there either. A bent shadow stood silhouetted against a distant lamp near one of the mausoleums—much too near for Holly’s comfort.

  “Well, you come find us if there’s any trouble, okay?”

  “Right!” Tum shouted as he flung more dirt.

  Holly hurried on. She glanced behind her, but the shadowy thing didn’t look to be following. Hawthorn strolled at her side, seemingly at ease, which did nothing to settle Holly’s nerves. It didn’t feel right, him being so calm.

  They passed under towering great oaks that cast mottled, moonlit shadows along the path. Eventually they came to a great stone building that looked like a mausoleum only much bigger. Massive wooden double doors adorned with intricate iron scrollwork formed an entryway, flanked by a pair of smooth stone columns around which twines of ivy grew.

  “The path ends here,” Holly said. “I… I guess we should go in then.”

  Hawthorn grabbed hold of a great iron ring attached to a door and pulled. The door creaked and groaned on its massive hinges, and Holly cringed. She glanced around the graveyard and at the shadows, hoping beyond all reason that they weren’t overheard. She hurried inside, feeling strangely grateful when Hawthorn pulled the great door shut.

  Silence settled around them as they stood in a vast chamber with a high ceiling that disappeared into darkness. In the center of the chamber stood an alabaster statue of a woman shrouded in a long veil. A circle of lit candles surrounded her on the floor, washing her in a warm, gentle light. Her hands were outstretched, and in one she held some dried flowers, in the other a few sprigs of wheat. The veil, despite being carved from stone, looked sheer, showing the outline of her closed eyes, her shapely nose, and delicate mouth.

  “She’s beautiful,” Holly whispered. How could something so beautiful exist in a place like this?

  “Mother of the Lost,” Hawthorn said. “She is said to guide wayward souls to rest and offers protection to those buried without proper rites. She is often revered by the lonely—those without any family to speak of, who have no one to care for and, in turn, have no one to care for them.”

  “How sad.”

  “I suppose. Not everyone is blessed with a loving family. Such people normally have no one to turn to. At least they can turn to her.”

  Holly studied him as he looked up at the statue. “How do you know so much about this place, Hawthorn?”

  He said nothing for a while. Then, still looking at the statue, he said, “I lied earlier. I’ve been here before. Several times.”

  “Why would you lie about that?”

  “Father used to bring me here, to Sarnum, though to this graveyard as well. He thought it an important part of my worldly education to learn of this place. Of the customs here, both good and bad.”

  “But why lie about it?”

  “Father alway
s favored me, in his way. I was the eldest, heir to the estate. He… never showed much interest in Hemlock, and Hemlock envied our relationship.” He shook his head. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have lied, but I feared Hemlock wouldn’t understand.”

  Holly stared at him. “You’re looking out for him. You care about his feelings.”

  Hawthorn frowned and glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “You needn’t sound so surprised. I am his brother. Of course I care.”

  She smiled. “It’s nice of you.”

  He turned towards her, and before she knew what she was doing—before Hawthorn knew what she was doing—Holly kissed him.

  “I-I…,” Hawthorn stammered, his cheeks turning red.

  “Sorry!” Holly said as her own face turned hot. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “N-no, it’s fine. Really. You just took me by surprise is all.”

  “Really?”

  “Y-yes. Of course.”

  Holly nodded, trying to feel reassured, but it eluded her. She never felt so mortified in her entire life. Well, except for that time at tea she had made an utter fool of herself in front of Hawthorn.

  So it was almost a relief when the great double doors swung open.

  Hazel and Hemlock walked into the vast mausoleum to find Holly and Hawthorn standing before a statue, both looking flustered and uncomfortable. Holly wouldn’t meet Hazel’s eyes.

  “Is everything all right here?” Hazel asked. “I’ve been worried sick about you, Holly.”

  Holly, looking away, nodded. “Sorry. I…” She trailed off without finishing the thought.

  Hawthorn, meanwhile, took a great interest in studying the statue. Hazel gave Hemlock a questioning look, but he just shrugged.

  She turned back to Holly. “Never mind about it. Let’s get back to the inn. It’s not safe being out here like this.”

  As if on cue, the creature Hazel had subdued shambled inside. Its severed shadow shivered and lost cohesion and wrapped itself once again around the scarred flesh of the golem’s body like a shroud.

  “What is that?” Holly said, sounding panicked. She took a step back.

  Hazel spoke the word that had earlier brought the golem under her control. Nothing happened.

  A rhythmical sound erupted from the fleshy husk, slow and guttural, almost like a laugh. Then the sound altered, taking on a cadence like language, but it wasn’t any language Hazel knew.

  From within the shadows of the mausoleum came a screeching of grating metal. A whispering stirred the air, causing an icy breeze to snake across Hazel’s skin. The candle flames surrounding the statue flickered in agitation. Some went out.

  Holly grabbed a candle and whispered a spell. The candle flames around the statue grew brighter, revealing numerous glinting eyes peering out from the darkness.

  Hazel searched her mind for that dark part of herself that told her things she didn’t want to know, but it remained quiet. Her mind went blank, and all she could do was stand and watch as Hemlock and Hawthorn stepped forward to conjure shimmering, prismatic creatures with long crystalline limbs and wings of spun glass. The conjurations soaked up the feeble candlelight and cast it back out to the shadows, banishing the darkness and exposing the creatures that lurked within it.

  They were horrible. Grey twisted things with gaping wet mouths and black, shiny eyes like chips of polished coal. Lines of ribs protruded through dusky, desiccated skin stretched taut across their bodies like old book bindings. And the smell—growing stronger as they shuffled forward—was sharp and acrid like rotting teeth and stomach bile. They squinted their glossy black eyes while peering up at the prismatic creatures but otherwise advanced unhindered.

  Hawthorn backed away. “Perhaps we should leave.”

  Holly started for the door but stopped when she found it blocked by the flesh golem.

  Hazel cringed. What had she been thinking? Dabbling in forbidden magic she didn’t understand, putting them all in danger, and justifying it by saying it needed to be done. Hemlock was right—she didn’t recognize herself. Here she was not only practicing but depending on necromancy, and when it failed her, she turned helpless? That wasn’t who she was. That wasn’t who she wanted to be. She was a Weaving witch, been one most of her life. How could she forget that?

  The shadowed golem shuffled towards Holly, and she cried out and staggered back. She pulled flames from the candles and threw the fire at the creature. But the shadows surrounding it extinguished the flames.

  One prismatic creature swooped at the golem and poked at its eyes. From its own shadows, the golem summoned an imp with blackened wings like curling smoke. The imp leaped at the shimmering form, dug its claws into it, and both creatures disappeared.

  Enough. Hazel worked a spell of Transformation, and the statue of the veiled woman groaned as the stone turned pliable and began to move. She stepped over the candles, knocking some over with the solid veil that trailed behind her, and moved towards the horde of grey, husk-like creatures that balked at her approach.

  Turning aggressive, the prismatic summons darted at the husks, poking at them and harrying them before flying away. Those that weren’t harassed seemed transfixed by the massive statue that moved towards them. The statue dropped the bundle of dried flowers she had been holding and extended her hand, and several of the creatures scurried away.

  “We can’t leave with that thing guarding the door,” Hemlock said, nodding towards the golem.

  A brown field owl flew into the chamber and circled over Holly’s head before flying around the room, swooping down with clawed talons at the grey creatures and the golem’s shadowed head only to fly away again before any of them could react.

  Hazel conjured for the statue a gleaming silver sword with beveled edges. The statue leveled her sword at the golem and advanced on it. The golem, seeing the threat, split its shadows into two darkened figures shaped like men. Hawthorn created an illusion of himself—smart jacket and all—wielding a long silver sword that it used to swipe at one of the shadows and sent it leaping back.

  The grey creatures began to scurry forward. Hemlock summoned a dragon the size of a horse with white, pristine scales that shimmered with color depending how the light hit it. The dragon opened its maw and exhaled a crystalline breath. Most of the grey creatures scurried out of the way, but the breath caught one and its murky skin paled like frost on a windowpane before it shattered into dust.

  Dumbfounded, the creatures stared at the remains of their fallen companion. But then their shiny black eyes hardened, the gaping holes of their mouths widened, and in collective body they hissed, filling the chamber with their acrid stench that made Hazel gag. The husks swarmed at the dragon, stepping over the ones that got caught in the dragon’s breath and collapsed on the floor in frozen, ashen heaps.

  Hazel made the statue quicken its step. It lifted the sword and brought the blade down on the golem’s shoulder and severed its arm. The shadows battling Hawthorn’s double retreated and shrouded themselves around the golem’s fleshy husk once more.

  But before the golem could open its wretched mouth and speak more of its foul words, Hazel infused the sword with gleaming light, and the statue ran the sword through the golem’s head. The shadows dissipated, and the golem thudded to the ground and remained motionless.

  With the dragon overpowered, the grey creatures scrambled towards them. Hazel and the others ran out the door—the owl flying after them—and slammed it shut. Hazel made the lock catch and fuse together.

  Tum strolled over, covered head to toe in black dirt. “Hey, Miss Holly. Told you I’d find Miss Hazel. Easy.” He made a futile effort to brush some of the dirt off his hands, then pointed at the mausoleum. “What’s in there? Any good spoiling?”

  “No,” Holly said as she took him by the arm and marched towards the cemetery gate. “Everything’s already been spoiled.”

  Nobody spoke as they walked back to the inn. When they reached the Backwards Buck, Holly threw the door open and r
an upstairs. Hazel and the others followed her. Except for Tum. He grumbled something about beer and returned to the inn’s cellar.

  Hazel walked down the lamplit hallway and to the room she shared with Holly. Hemlock and Hawthorn followed close behind her, right up to her door. She raised her eyebrows at them, but Hawthorn just waved impatiently at her, so she opened the door and they all stepped inside.

  Holly sat on the bed, burying her face in her arms while hugging her knees. Hazel sat down next to her as Hawthorn sat in the chair by the desk, leaving Hemlock to sit on Hazel’s luggage.

  Hazel stared at her hands, waiting for the accusations to be flung at her, but they never came.

  “It was my fault,” she said, no longer wanting to wait for the inevitable discussion. “Everything that happened tonight…” She took a deep breath. “My fault.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hawthorn said. “Do you mean to tell me you summoned those ghastly things and set them upon us?”

  “No, but I brought that golem to the mausoleum and then lost control of him. I shouldn’t have done that. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t done that.”

  Holly peered at her. “What’s happening to you, Hazel?”

  Hazel shook her head, blinking away stinging tears. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  “Is it all really because of Father?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t keep blaming him, certainly not for the poor judgment I’ve shown tonight. I’m not even sure why I’m here anymore.”

  “To save Mother.”

  “At what cost?”

  Holly fell silent a long while. “Where did you go tonight?”

  Hazel told her about everything—the potion she made and then drank and the otherworldly vision that it caused.

  “But potion-making is a Hearth skill,” Holly said. “What business has necromancy in making potions?”

  “I don’t know. I really can’t explain any of it.”