Hazel and Holly

by Sara C. Snider

“For the love of the Lady,” Hazel whispered, “keep your voice down.”

  A little flame bloomed in Holly’s cupped hands, illuminating her face in a flickering orange-yellow glow that pushed back some of the darkness.

  The room looked unremarkably ordinary. A long, shadowed form of a sofa stood before even darker shadows of an open hearth. A narrow table stood behind the sofa, upon which sat an unlit lamp. Everything else remained in shadows. Holly walked over to the lamp and lit it with her flame, and the darkness receded a little more.

  Sheaves of wheat and straw littered one corner of the room. Rows of shelves lined the walls—nearly from floor to ceiling—upon which little shadowed figures sat. Hazel picked up the lamp from the table and walked over to a shelf. The shadowed figures were dolls made out of woven wheat and clothed in rough-spun dresses. Most were faceless, but some had been given expressions fashioned out of black beads for eyes and strips of red string for mouths.

  Tum grabbed a doll then scampered down a darkened hallway.

  “Tum!” Hazel hissed, but he had already gone.

  Wooden floorboards creaked overhead, and Hazel froze. She thought about extinguishing the lamp but decided against it. If they were going to be discovered, better that they get discovered in the light rather than skulking in darkness.

  From the hallway where Tum had disappeared came a wavering glow of candlelight. It dimly illuminated a set of stairs, and then a pair of slippered feet appeared with bony ankles peeking out from underneath a long nightshirt.

  “Hello?” Hazel called, thinking it best to make their presence known. “The door was unlocked, so we let ourselves in.”

  A thin, birdlike man in his elder years descended the stairs and blinked at her from underneath an oversized nightcap that slouched over his wrinkled brow. “We? Are there more of you?”

  Hazel waved the others into the hallway, and they all filed in. Hawthorn gave a slight bow, Hemlock a slight nod. Holly seemed transfixed with the man’s knobby ankles.

  “Goodness me,” the man said, pushing back his cap and raising his candle as he blinked at them some more.

  “I apologize for our intrusion,” Hazel said, “but the weather turned dreadful, and we didn’t know where else to go.”

  The man nodded. “Yes, of course. You had to come in. I heard the thunder booming out there and I thought to myself, ‘Francis, you take your two coppers and chuck ’em out the window, ’cause you’re not going to get any luckier than this.’”

  Hazel glanced at the others, but they all looked as perplexed as she felt. “Um, yes. Exactly.”

  Francis beamed at her. “So what brings you out here? And in such a mysterious manner?”

  “I’m afraid the mysterious manner was unintended, as the weather delayed us. But we’ve come for… Well, it’s a long and complicated story. But the short version is we’re looking for someone.”

  “And you think this someone came here?” He shook his head. “No one comes here. Why, I don’t think we’ve had a visitor in our town since… well… the crop blight some twenty years ago. Sad business, that. But nothing a good tarring and feathering won’t fix.” He beamed at her again. “Am I right?”

  Holly pulled her gaze from his ankles and stared at him in horror. “You tarred and feathered someone?”

  Francis chuckled. “Goodness me, no. That was Emmond, our mayor.” He put a hand to his chest. “I was merely in charge of collecting the feathers. Had to raid Martha’s chicken coop for all it was worth, but we got a nice feast at the end of it, so all in all, a good day.”

  The grandfather clock ticked and tocked in the silence as everyone stared at him.

  “You folks hungry?” Francis said.

  Holly screwed up her face. “That depends. You got any creepy servants lurking around here?”

  “Creepy servants? Lurking? Goodness me, I hope not. I’ve not paid any servants wages, so if they’re lurking, I’d rather not find out what they’re planning.” He turned and headed further down the hallway, leaving Hazel and the others to trail after him.

  He led them to a kitchen where an extinguished lamp sat on a table. He lit it with his candle, turned up the wick, then took it with him as he rummaged through the cupboards.

  Strands of wheat littered the table and floor. From the ceiling hung a legion of dolls among bundles of herbs, braids of garlic, and nets of cured ham.

  “You sure have a lot of dolls,” Holly said as she stared at the ceiling.

  “Of course I do. I’m a doll maker.”

  “Do you manage to sell any dolls out here?” Hazel asked. “Wouldn’t you be more successful selling them in Sarnum?”

  Francis pulled a stack of plates from a cupboard. “Selling? Goodness me, these dolls aren’t for selling. They’re for protection.”

  “Protection? From what?”

  “Oh, the usual. Pox and blight. Stillborn babies and calves. You know how it is.”

  “You need protection from all that?” Holly asked.

  “The town does, yes. Had to step up production after that blight twenty years ago, but we haven’t had one since, so it must be working.” He set the plates on the table along with a loaf of bread. He then grabbed a long knife and, climbing atop a chair, teetered on his tiptoes as he cut down a cured ham among a thatch of dolls and bundles of dried sage.

  “What utter nonsense,” Hawthorn said as he poked at a doll hanging over his head. “Wheat dolls don’t do anything other than produce mold and invite in moths and vermin.”

  Francis dropped the ham onto the table with a resounding thud that made the plates clatter. “What did you say?” His knuckles gripping the knife whitened.

  The air turned tense, and everyone shifted their gazes to Hawthorn. He opened his mouth, but instead, Hemlock said, “I think what my brother means to say is that we’re not familiar with such forms of protection. It is undoubtedly most effective, and I’m sure we could learn much from our most gracious host.” He turned to Hawthorn. “Isn’t that right, Hawthorn?”

  Hawthorn glanced between Hemlock and Francis and then inclined his head. “Of course that’s what I meant. Apologies if I was unclear.”

  Francis beamed and hopped off the chair with a sprightliness that was unexpected for his advanced years. He waggled his knife at Hawthorn. “I knew I liked the look of you folks. Coming in with the turn of the weather like that, good omens, I say. Good omens. But you can never be too careful nowadays.”

  “I’m not disagreeing with you,” Holly said, “but how is us coming in with the weather a good omen? The weather’s horrible. Seems like it’d be a bad omen to me.”

  Francis pointed the knife at her before using it to cut away the netting encasing the ham. “I can see why you’d think that, and I know some folks that’d agree with you. But not me. Oh sure, foul weather can be frightful and unpleasant, but ultimately it’s a good thing. The water nourishes the ground and keeps the crops thriving. And I don’t care what that old crank Robert says, if your barn gets struck by lightning and catches fire and burns down, then I say it’s ’cause you did something awful and had it coming. I don’t got anything to fear from lightning, let me tell you.”

  “That’s good,” Hawthorn said as he sat down at the table, “because with all this straw and wheat in here, the house would likely go up faster than a harlot’s skirt.”

  Francis cackled as he sliced the ham. “Don’t I know it!” He put slices of ham and bread onto a plate and set it out for the others, along with a pot of mustard that he fetched from a cupboard.

  “Do you have anything else?” Holly asked. “Something without meat?”

  Francis looked crestfallen as he blinked at her.

  Holly shifted in her seat, but then Francis brightened and hurried to a door on the other end of the room and disappeared behind it.

  Hawthorn helped himself to the food. Hazel and Hemlock did the same. Holly nibbled on a piece of bread.

  After a while, Francis returned with a jar of pickled eggs. He set
the jar on the table and, leaning towards Holly, said, “I think I found one of those unsavory servants you mentioned. A short little man was lurking in the cellar while changing into a pair of pyjamas. He ran me out, clearly displeased over his lack of wages. I… I’m not sure what to do.”

  Hazel had to bite her lip to keep herself from snickering. But Holly just looked at Francis with the utmost severity and said, “Beer. Give him lots of beer.”

  Francis was a kind and generous host even if he did seem a little soft in the head. They ate sandwiches of ham and mustard (eggs and mustard for Holly) until they were all full and nearly falling asleep at the table.

  “I’ve only got a single spare room,” Francis said, “so you need to decide amongst yourselves who gets it. The rest of you can stay in the barn.”

  To Hazel, Hemlock said, “You and Holly take the bed. Hawthorn and I will sleep in the barn.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Hawthorn. “I refuse to sleep out in the cold and filth with unwashed animals.”

  Hemlock stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Do not test me, Hemlock. I’ve put up with much, but I can only be pushed so far. I don’t care who I share that bed with, but I will be sleeping in it.”

  “It’s fine,” Hazel said. “Holly and I will sleep in the barn. Right, Holly?”

  Holly clapped her hands. “I’ve always wanted to sleep outside with the horses!”

  “See? It’s fine.”

  Hemlock rubbed his eyes and nodded. “I’ll join you out in the barn, if you don’t mind. I’ll send in the driver, and he can bunk up with Hawthorn.” He turned to his brother. “If that’s all right with you?”

  Hawthorn drew himself up. “Why wouldn’t it be? I’m nothing if not reasonable. Have him bring in the luggage while he’s at it.”

  Francis showed him to his room upstairs while the others made their way outside to the barn. They had a lamp this time, so they were able to avoid the swathes of mud that the rain had caused. The downpour had lessened to an even pattering of drops that thrummed against the wooden planks of the barn. Despite the storm, the interior was surprisingly dry in most places. Holly walked around to pet the horses before making a little bed of hay for Chester. Then she gathered a great big pile of hay for herself and lay down in it. By the time Hemlock had finished helping the driver carry in Hawthorn’s luggage, she had already fallen asleep.

  “That didn’t take her long, did it?” Hemlock said as he sat down next to Hazel in a pile of hay.

  “She’s a champion sleeper,” Hazel said.

  “I wish I could sleep so soundly.”

  “You and me both.”

  They fell into silence.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Hazel said.

  Hemlock shook his head. “I don’t know what to think anymore. Hawthorn can be a real bastard sometimes. But now… I don’t know. Maybe I’m just as bad as him.”

  “You’re not as bad as him.”

  “And yet I’m still as much to blame for our strained relationship. I… I never realized that before. I feel awful.”

  “So fix it.”

  “How?”

  “By doing better. By trying to do better. I don’t know if it’s enough. All I know is that I’ve put my foot in it more times than I can count when it comes to Holly and me. But I always try to own up to it when I’m wrong, and I try to do better. It all seems terribly inadequate, but it’s all I have. It’s all I know how to do. I need to believe that it’s enough. I hope it is.”

  “I hope so too,” he whispered.

  She took his hand, and he peered at her through the gloom. Then he kissed her, gently, and they lay down in the hay together, finding comfort and warmth in each other’s embrace.

  * * *

  Hazel awoke to a cock crowing in the silver-lighted gloaming. She groaned and rolled over, covering her ears with fistfuls of hay, but it didn’t help dampen the racket. Unable to fall back asleep, she sat up, picking strands of hay out of her hair as she blinked at her surroundings.

  Thin streams of blue-grey light filtered through the wooden slats of the barn. The air smelled sweet and, despite the animals they shared their lodgings with, surprisingly fresh. She nudged Hemlock and woke him up.

  Hemlock blinked at her, then groaned and rolled over. “No.”

  “What do you mean, ‘no’? It’s morning.”

  “It’s dawn. That’s not at all the same thing.”

  “Well, it is today. I can’t sleep.”

  “Lie down, and then you’ll sleep.”

  “Come on. You’re as bad as Holly.”

  “She’s clearly the wiser sister.”

  “Oh, don’t even.” She took his arm and tried pulling him up, but instead, he grabbed her and pulled her down on top of him.

  He grinned. “That’s better.”

  Hazel tried to look annoyed, but the smile stretching across her face betrayed her. “You’re really pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Quite.”

  Hazel let the moment stretch on, enjoying the quiet closeness with Hemlock, wanting to linger there with him just a little while longer. “We should get up,” she whispered.

  Hemlock smiled and continued to look into her eyes in such a way that made the heat creep up her neck and her heart quicken. Then he nodded and let go, and they both got to their feet.

  Holly remained oblivious and continued to sleep like a felled tree.

  “Let her sleep longer,” Hemlock said. “We can wake her after we look around.”

  Hazel nodded, and they made their way out of the barn.

  Yesterday’s storm had passed, leaving a clear morning to shine upon a freshly washed world. Hazel could see now they weren’t in a town at all. It was just a house and a barn, surrounded by tree-dotted fields.

  “Is this it?” she said. “I thought this was supposed to be a town.”

  “It was difficult to see last night in the storm. We might have taken a wrong turn somewhere. I’m sure Francis can point us in the right direction.”

  “He seems like an odd one, doesn’t he?”

  “Well, we don’t exactly keep normal company ourselves.”

  Hazel chuckled. “True.”

  The cock continued to crow behind the barn, so Hazel and Hemlock headed in the opposite direction, past the house to a quaint field surrounded by a wooden fence with a ramshackle shed in one corner.

  “What do you think’s in there?” Hazel asked as she nodded towards the shed.

  “Farming supplies? Outhouse?”

  “Let’s go look.” She started towards it.

  “If it’s an outhouse, I really don’t think we’ll want to look,” Hemlock said as he trailed after her.

  “We’d smell it, if that was the case. And I don’t smell anything.” She reached the shed and nudged the door open. The shed was windowless and dark inside—not much bigger than a closet—and the air was thick with dust and smelled of rusted metal. An assortment of tools hung on the walls. A table took up most of the space and bore a crate covered with a filthy cloth. A few flies buzzed around it. Hazel reached out to take a peek.

  “You looking for something?”

  Hazel started and jerked her hand back, spinning around to find Francis standing a stone’s throw away. He was dressed in stained overalls and a fraying straw cap. His overalls were too short, and his bony ankles peeked out over his well-worn, plain leather shoes.

  “No, just looking around. We didn’t think anyone was up yet.”

  “I’m always up with Rufus. Didn’t you hear him?”

  “Rufus?”

  “The rooster.”

  Hazel suppressed a grimace. “Yes, I did.”

  Francis studied her a moment, then nodded. “Breakfast’ll be on in a minute. You can go inside and wash up if you’ve a mind.”

  Hazel smiled, hoping it didn’t look forced. “Thank you. I think we will.” She and Hemlock headed towards the house.

  “What was under the clo
th?” Hemlock whispered.

  “I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t farming tools.”

  He eyed her. “It was just a covered crate. I’m sure it wasn’t anything remarkable. Certainly nothing we need to worry about.”

  Hazel pursed her lips, but she nodded. “You’re probably right.”

  They walked into the house and found Hawthorn milling about in the front room, perusing the shelves of dolls. “There’s water on in the kitchen for you to wash up.”

  Hemlock lingered a moment, fidgeting with his hands. He opened his mouth but then snapped it shut again and headed towards the kitchen. Hazel trailed after him.

  He busied himself with transferring some of the heated water on the stove to a pitcher, all while avoiding Hazel’s gaze. “I don’t know if I can do it,” he said eventually. “Apologize to Hawthorn.”

  “You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Hemlock.”

  He stared out the kitchen window as he held on to the steaming pitcher. “I know. I just… I don’t want you to think less of me.”

  She took the pitcher from him, and he turned to blink at her. “The man is insufferable at the best of times,” she said. “So, trust me, my esteem of you is in no threat of diminishing in that regard. Just make sure that whatever you decide to do—or not do—it isn’t something you’ll later regret.”

  Hemlock nodded.

  “I’d better go wake up Holly.” She held up the pitcher and smiled. “Thanks for the water.”

  He smiled with her. “My pleasure.”

  She walked out to the barn and to where Holly still lay sleeping in the monstrous pile of hay. Hazel nudged her with a foot. “It’s time to get up.”

  Holly groaned and mumbled something incoherent, then fell back asleep.

  Hazel pursed her lips. Then she grinned. She tipped the pitcher over Holly—just a little—and dribbled some water onto her face.

  Holly twitched and swiped at her cheek but remained sleeping.

  Hazel increased the dribble to a steady stream, and Holly bolted upright as she sputtered and coughed.

  “Good morning,” Hazel said, smirking.

  Holly wiped her face with a sleeve. “You poured water on me?”