The Winter Riddle

by Sam Hooker

  “Just making a fool of myself, probably.” Santa smirked. “I wanted to distract them so we could hear what they were answering.”

  Volgha smiled. “Well played.”

  “Thanks. Sounds like they’ve got some cousins in the area, and they’re saying hello.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Didn’t you hear the howling?”

  “I did,” said Volgha, “but that wasn’t wolves.”

  “It sounded like wolves to me. What else could it have been?”

  “I’m not sure, but it definitely wasn’t wolves. Wolfish may translate poorly, but it always means something. That was gibberish. Wolves don’t waste time with gibberish.”

  The wolves kept howling. More elves emerged from the long house, bleary-eyed from sleep and bundled in their cloaks. The wind moved the grey clouds slowly along the ever-darkening sky. No one spoke.

  Volgha scanned the horizon, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary. She strained to hear the howling in the distance over the howling of the wolves, but it was no use. They could obviously still hear it and were persistent in offering answers, so she could only assume that it hadn’t let up yet.

  “Prepare the sleigh!” Santa turned and strode off in the direction of the house. Volgha followed.

  “Where are you going?” Volgha’s legs were not as long as Santa’s, so she jogged to keep up.

  “I’ll figure it out once I’m beyond earshot of the wolves. I need to find out where that noise is coming from.”

  “No time like the present then,” said Volgha.

  “Indeed. Feel free to stay as long as you like.” Apparently, Santa liked to work alone. Or possibly with his elves, but Volgha got the distinct impression that she wasn’t invited.

  “Thanks,” she said, “but I’d better be on my way. Things at home need my attention.”

  Santa nodded. “Safe travels.” He didn’t look at her. He was focused on the task at hand. She walked a few paces behind him back to the house, where he went his own way, and she went back to her little guest room. She was already dressed, so she gathered the few things she’d left in the room, then threatened her broom severely and was on her way home.

  8

  No surprises awaited Volgha upon her return to the cottage. That was good. She took great pains to ensure that the cottage was no more and no less than exactly what she wanted it to be, so it stood to reason that there could be no such thing as a pleasant surprise.

  Even on the rare occasions that they were pleasant, surprises tended to be needy. They couldn’t wait. She’d have to drop whatever it was that she was doing and say, “oh thank you, isn’t that just lovely!” Otherwise, she’d seem ungrateful; and even if she was, her gratitude was her own business, as was her seeming.

  Volgha preferred surprises that came with sufficient notice to decide whether she’d prepare to receive it, or possibly pretend that she wasn’t at home.

  She wasn’t tired, even though she felt as though she should be. Her mind had the events of the last several evenings running on an endless loop, and she knew she’d be useless until she’d had a proper rest in her own bed. She lit a fire in the hearth, added some venison and potato to the stew, and boiled some snow down to make tea. A nice cup of rockwort tea would convince her mind that it was tired.

  Among rockwort’s many uses was a sort of forgetful, tingly feeling that it produced when the tea was made just right. Not the swimmy-headed, giggly feeling like with earthbloom, which tended to make every idea sound like a good one, especially when it came to writing poetry about former sweethearts and then sending it to them. Rockwort had no poetic side effects.

  As the cauldron and the kettle got down to business over the fire, she started leafing through the Grimoire, looking for any mention of a Warden. The few that she found were cryptic, off-hand references along the lines of “look ye to the Warden before ye pass,” or “seek ye the Warden’s approval,” or “bring ye the Warden some of those nice cheeses he likes.” The last one was circumspect, having been scrawled in the margin.

  Osgrey had said that the kingdom needs a Warden, and that she should go back to the castle. She already had a job, thank you very much. Why should she take on extra work, especially if it meant having to solve problems all the time? Did the Wardenship come with assistants?

  The Grimoire wasn’t answering any of her questions. All it told her was that the land needed a Warden because the Warden was important. That sort of circular logic was very popular among politicians, but witches refused to think of anything as useful until it could be put to use.

  It seemed that the role was vacant at the moment, so there was a job not getting done. Furthermore, it sounded like a high-profile sort of job, the kind that Volgha was keen to avoid. She’d thought renouncing her crown and moving to a cottage in the woods meant she’d given stressful work a miss. She’d hoped that, anyway.

  She needed more answers from Osgrey. She needed to know more about this Warden business, namely how she might go about getting someone else to do it.

  The water boiled and Volgha steeped the rockwort. It had a smoky smell, slightly pungent. She spooned a bowl of stew out of the cauldron which, coincidentally, smelled smoky and pungent as well. She read on.

  There were a few other passages that mentioned the Warden, but she must have read them wrong. They seemed to refer to an animal, not a person.

  The tea was strong, and it went to work right away. It wasn’t long before she was having trouble keeping her eyes open. The pages of the Grimoire stopped making sense, not that they were easy to follow to begin with. Unlike wizards, who were known to eschew sleep for weeks at a time, witches knew that no good could come from meddling with otherworldly forces while drowsy. One careless mistake and a glance into the wrong mirror could reveal the shambling terrors held back from devouring our world by the flimsiest of tethers. A single glimpse of them could make one forget how to do anything more than scream themselves to sleep—or so Volgha had heard.

  Time for bed, then. She’d neglected to warm the blankets, but she was tired enough that she didn’t care. She could have fallen asleep in a snowdrift. It was a good thing, because that was exactly where she woke up.

  What happened? She didn’t remember having left her bed, though she must have done so. Had her sleeping self decided to break with the tradition of not freezing to death? That was the sort of thing she really wanted her sleeping self to clear with her first.

  As her thoughts lumbered clumsily into her head from wherever they’d been while she was dreaming, one thing was clear: she’d somehow managed not to freeze to death. There was something warm behind her. She turned around, and there was Sigmund, the snow lion.

  She wondered how long they’d lain there, nestled together at the foot of the tree that had once been Osgrey. She undoubtedly owed her life to Sigmund for sharing his body heat. Osgrey had once told her that Sigmund had never once been indoors, not even in the middle of winter’s long night. He was immune to the cold somehow and had casually shared that immunity with her, like a southern beachgoer with an extra towel.

  “Thank you,” she said to him, through lips that were loathe to move. He gave her a slow blink, which in cat might mean anything from “you’re welcome” to “if you wanted to drag a bit of string along the floor, I’d be much obliged.”

  Even with Sigmund’s aid, she was nearly half dead; but that meant that she was still mostly alive, which was cause for celebration. The party consisted of lurching slowly toward the cottage. The h’ordeuvres were troublesome numbness and the threat of frostbite.

  She only fell about a dozen times on the way to the cottage, which was an admirable performance for a woman who couldn’t feel her legs. Fortune further smiled upon her when she was able to move a couple of fingers well enough to work the door latch. It only took a few minutes to get the door open and fall onto the rough-hewn floorboards. Yes, things were definitely starting to go her way.

  Her cold-wrought deliriu
m seemed to have converted her into an incurable optimist, which would feel wonderful for as long as it lasted.

  She didn’t have enough feeling in her hands to work a flint and steel, much less build a decent fire. There was half a log sitting in the hearth, which would be good enough for starters. She waved her hand over it and mumbled an incantation.

  Everything that’s capable of burning can do so because it has a little bit of fire sleeping within it. There’s a lot of fire sleeping in tallow and lamp oil, a good bit in dry logs, and even just a tiny bit in water. If a witch needed to get a fire going quickly, her best bet was to look into the thing and awaken its inner fire. It’s a difficult thing to explain, but it’s sort of like the way one can stare at a person just right and make them notice.

  Whoever had created the fire-summoning spell must have thought through this scenario. It was an unusual incantation, but very conducive to recitation through numb lips.

  The log began to smoke and crackle. A little flame started to take root in the half of a log, and Volgha breathed a shivering sigh of relief. She was still painfully cold, but she was going to be all right.

  She stumbled to the bed and pulled a blanket from it, then wrapped it around herself and returned to the tiny fire. It grew in size and brightness, consuming the log and soothing Volgha’s shivering. After a while she regained enough feeling in her arms to add a couple of fresh logs to the fire, and before long she couldn’t see her breath on the air anymore.

  She sat quietly by the hearth for a long while, shivering so expertly one would think she’d taken lessons. By the time she’d managed to make herself a cup of tea and take a sip, she felt more or less herself again.

  Well, not less. More herself, actually. Or, rather, more than herself. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was some piece of her that hadn’t been there before.

  What’s going on with the stew?

  Volgha’s head whipped around frantically but saw nothing and no one. She looked back at the fire, at the cauldron of stew that was steaming over it. It had the same smoky, pungent smell it’d had before her sleepwalking episode. That had occurred to her just before someone most certainly had asked about it, she just couldn’t figure out who.

  Shadows danced across the walls, courtesy of the flames in the hearth. Volgha heard her heart beating in her ears. She was alone, wasn’t she?

  “Hello?” she asked aloud, feeling only slightly ridiculous. It seemed her cold-induced optimism was wearing off.

  It used to smell different, said the voice from every direction at once. It sounded familiar.

  “Osgrey?”

  What?

  “It is you, isn’t it? Where are you?”

  Well, of course it’s me, and I’m right here! There’s no need to shout.

  “I can’t see you.”

  I’d imagine not! The windows are shut, and my tree is outside.

  A chill washed over Volgha. Not the sort of chill you get from having slept in the snow for who-knows-how-long, but rather the another-tenant-has-signed-a-lease-in-my-brain variety.

  “Wait,” she said. “What? How did this happen?”

  Well, I imagine you’ve been putting the wrong herbs in it.

  “Not the stew. You! How did you get in my head?”

  You should remember, you were there.

  “Well, I don’t! I was asleep!”

  That’s no excuse, said Osgrey. I do some of my best work in my sleep. Consciousness muddles the faculties. Have you ever tried Thinkery?

  “Will you please just explain what happened?”

  Oh, all right.

  And with that, a memory poured into her mind just as the fire’s warmth had poured the feeling back into her limbs. It was like a memory of her own, except she could see herself in it. She watched herself stride from the cottage, through the snow, and stop in front of Osgrey’s tree, or rather, Osgrey.

  Sigmund was there. He had a sort of growling conversation with the sleepwalking Volgha, who mostly nodded and gave the occasional grunt. Then he stood by and watched her place her palms on the tree and begin chanting. It wasn’t any spell that she recognized, but her sleeping self seemed to know what she was doing.

  Suddenly, an inky puff of smoke erupted from the tree, and the sleepwalking witch breathed it in. She collapsed on the ground, and everything went black.

  Do you remember now?

  “Yes,” said Volgha, her brow creased in confusion. “No,” she amended. “The memory is in my mind, but it isn’t mine.”

  Think of it as ours. Neither yours nor mine, but a combination of the two.

  “You’re really in my head then.”

  For now.

  “For how long?”

  Osgrey shrugged, though Volgha wasn’t sure how she knew that.

  As long as it takes. I thought you’d be more pleased.

  “I’m glad we get to talk, but this isn’t the sort of thing I usually go in for.”

  Typical youth. When I was your age, I’d have loved to have a wizened elder set up shop in my noggin!

  “Maybe druids and witches differ on that score,” said Volgha. “What did you mean by ‘as long as it takes?’ As long as what takes?”

  Sigmund and I can’t be the Warden anymore. You have to do it.

  “So you’re both the Warden? How does that work?”

  For now, suffice it to say that it does work, said Osgrey. The more important question is how does the land work without one?

  “All right, how does the land work without a Warden?”

  Suffice it to say that it does not.

  Volgha had never been a fan of sufficing to say things, considering it a crafty way of saying, “I can’t be bothered to explain it properly.” Witches only ask important questions. The audacity of this cerebral interloper, evading important questions! And with all of her experience intimidating bits of trees!

  Ah, ah, ah, tutted Osgrey, you must learn to be patient. You can’t intimidate all of your problems away.

  “Please,” Volghapleaded, pacing around the cottage, “can you stop speaking in riddles long enough to tell me something—anything—about the Warden? What does the Warden do, apart from being a druid and his familiar?”

  Hmmm, what? Oh, right. Sorry. Give me a moment. Trees don’t think as quickly as old men, you know. Have some of that stew, will you? It’s hard to think over your hunger.

  Osgrey was right, Volgha was starving. She spooned herself a bowl of stew and started eating.

  To each their own, I suppose. I never had a taste for cragflower.

  “It’s my stew now,” said Volgha, “no one asked you. Now tell me about the Warden.”

  Fine. All right, the Warden, let’s see ... oh, yes! The Warden is a sort of emissary, you see. It helps if you think of the spirits of winter as a sovereign nation, and you send emissaries to sovereign nations. Only they’re not a sovereign nation. Not really.

  “Okay,” said Volgha. “You said that you and Sigmund were both the Warden, so the Warden is a half-man, half-lion emissary to the non-sovereign, non-nation of the spirits of winter?”

  Well yes, in a manner of speaking. However, if you look at it another way, that’s not true at all.

  “And what way is that?”

  A far more accurate one.

  “Then why did you explain it that way?”

  The truth is a moving target, said Osgrey. In order to hit it, we must dance around it until we can predict its path. Then we strike.

  “Go on then.” Volgha gave a wave of her hand. “Maybe I’ll get the gist of it if you just keep talking.”

  Here’s hoping, said Osgrey. The peace between the spirits and the people is like a gift. So long as it is given freely and gladly, the peace remains.

  “So the Warden brings gifts to pacify the spirits?”

  No, not as such. Please don’t interrupt.

  “Sorry.”

  It’s like a gift, only it’s not. The people have needs, too, and the spirits are m
ore than happy to provide, so long as there is respect. Not that the spirits need the people to show respect to them directly, of course. It’s sort of … symbolic.

  The explanation wound its way through another bowl of stew, several cups of tea, and eventually one of the most uncomfortable trips Volgha had ever made to answer the call of nature.

  Oh, that’s it! The call of nature! Not that nature actually calls on the Warden, you understand.

  “Not at all,” said Volgha, “but I’m starting to notice a pattern.”

  Why yes, it seems that you are! But it’s indistinct. Try putting it into words.

  “Well,” said Volgha, the beginning of a thought starting to coalesce—but that couldn’t be right, could it?

  Oh, just blurt it out. At worst, you’ll eliminate one wrong answer.

  “It’s the thought that counts?”

  Volgha could feel Osgrey’s mind playing with the idea, but couldn’t exactly read his thoughts.

  That’s not bad, he said after a while. A bit oversimplified, but you’ve got the heart of it. Oh, you’ve got the makings of a Warden after all!

  “Thanks,” said Volgha, “but no thanks. I’m sure we can find someone better qualified who would—”

  Nonsense, said Osgrey. You’re the one, I’ve known since the first time I saw you. Don’t be nervous.

  “I’m not nervous,” Volgha replied. “I just don’t want to do it.”

  You don’t have to want to. It’s your duty. Duty and wanting rarely go together.

  “How is it my duty? I didn’t enlist or anything!”

  Your familiar should have explained all of this to you.

  “I haven’t got a familiar.”

  Haven’t got one? Why not?

  “You were going to help me with that before you turned into a tree.”

  Osgrey went silent, except for a pang of regret that Volgha felt from him. He hadn’t wanted to become a tree, she realized.

  “Becoming a tree,” Volgha began, “it was your duty?”

  Something like that, said Osgrey. Spilled milk now, not worth crying over. In any case, you’re going to need a familiar if you’re going to be the Warden, so we’ll need to sort that out.