The Winter Riddle

by Sam Hooker

  “You’ll see,” said Santa. “Something that everyone will enjoy, I’m sure.”

  “Speaking of everyone enjoying things, I have a contract for you from my steward.”

  “Contracts, gifts—are you a monarch or a messenger?”

  “I’m a witch,” said Volgha. “Vex at your own peril.”

  “My apologies. What does Matilda have in mind?”

  “She says it’s a surprise.”

  29

  “It’s for Ghasterly,” said Volgha.

  “Clever,” said Krespo with a smile. “Santa always gives the best gifts.”

  “We’ll soon put that to the test, won’t we?”

  It was a heavy steel box with a padded suede interior. In addition to being a finely crafted work of elfish art, it was the perfect size to hold the bottle in which Ghasterly’s spirit was trapped. It could probably keep the bottle safe on a drop from the belfry, though Volgha was not eager to test that theory.

  “So he accepted Matilda’s contract?” asked Krespo.

  “He did.” Smiling, Volgha gave a brief nod. “He was enthusiastic about it, actually. I think it will help him keep his mind off the war, and someday put it behind him.”

  “It’s certainly going to be a challenge. A gift for every Aurorian subject, all delivered on the same evening! I’m having trouble wrapping my mind around the logistics.”

  “He seemed confident that he could manage the production.”

  “I’m confident as well. Have you ever seen him forge a set of wrenches?” Volgha shook her head. “Well, if you get the chance, don’t blink. Anyway, it’s the delivery that’s going to be problematic.”

  “Right,” said Volgha. “That’s where you come in.”

  “Happy to help, but not if that flying machine is going to be involved. Nothing but trouble, that thing.”

  The two of them exchanged a stern nod. Their mutual dislike of Santa’s flying machine was sufficiently potent to ensure that the infernal contraption would never rise again.

  “It’s starting to look like a proper wizard’s cellar in here,” remarked Volgha, who had no idea how a wizard’s cellar should look. Wizards worked in towers. That was the proper way of things, wasn’t it?

  Forests beat towers every time, said Osgrey.

  “You would say that,” said Volgha, “you’re a druid.”

  I was a druid, now I’m a tree!

  “You were a tree, now you’re freeloading in my thought space, you ephemeral old goat!”

  “You have a tree in your brain?”

  Krespo needs to learn that court wizards should never appear to be confused, cawed Redcrow, especially when they are.

  “Agreed,” said Volgha. “Anyway, good job on the cellar.”

  “Right.” Krespo still seemed confused, which was fine for the moment. Even among her friends, Volgha needed to maintain mysterious airs.

  “Any ideas?”

  “Well, it doesn’t need window treatments. It hasn’t got any windows.”

  “I mean for Santa’s transportation problem.”

  “Oh, that! Yes, actually. I’ve had some luck with reindeer.”

  “Reindeer?”

  “He’s going to have to fly, you know,” said Krespo. “You remember the sleigh ride with Loki? That’s not going to cut it. If he’s going to make the whole trip in time, he’s going to have to fly alarmingly fast. He’ll enjoy that, the lunatic.”

  “You’ve lost me. What do reindeer have to do with flying?”

  “Well, he’s going to need something to pull the sleigh, and I don’t know of any birds that are big enough. Easier to magic some large animals into the sky than to harness an entire flock of birds.”

  As if we’d stand for being harnessed! Redcrow bristled.

  “Why not horses?”

  “I’ve already done some tests,” stated Krespo. “As near as I can tell, they’re simply too attuned with the ground. Put a horse a few inches up in the air, and she’ll panic. They’re no help to Santa on this one.”

  Volgha’s brow furrowed. “And reindeer are different?”

  “Strangely enough, yes. It barely even requires any magic to get them flying. Reindeer don’t like being told what to do, you see.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “You simply have to suggest to them that they don’t belong in the sky, and they bleat out a phrase which I believe in their language means ‘oh yeah?’ Then it’s just a quick flick of the wand, and they’re banking and diving like birds.”

  That’s thin ice, cawed Redcrow. Now it’s easy to be a bird, is it?

  “I’m sure that’s not how he meant it,” said Volgha.

  Well, that’s how he said it. I doubt he’d appreciate me saying ‘cut a Viking off at the knees, and he’s an elf but for the pointy ears.’

  “Redcrow didn’t like the bird comparison?”

  “Was it that obvious?”

  “He’s not that hard to read,” said Krespo.

  Redcrow squawked.

  “Well, you’re not!”

  Volgha had never heard a crow growl before that. It was amusing, in an unsettling way.

  “Let me know if I can help,” said Volgha.

  “Oh!” Krespo leaped from his chair and ran to a stack of crates. “I almost forgot.” He rummaged through one of them and drew out a candle, which he handed to Volgha.

  “It’s a candle,” said Volgha, in lieu of offering thanks.

  “It’s a teleflame.” Krespo smiled broadly. “It’s one of a set. When you light it, say the name of another person who has one, and theirs will light as well. You’ll be able to talk to each other!”

  “Clever,” said Volgha, who was leery of being on-call. “Who else has them?”

  “Matilda and I each have one, and I’m sending one to Santa as well.”

  What is the world coming to? Osgrey wailed. Whatever happened to courtesy? You used to have to call on people in person if you wanted to talk to them. This ‘teleflame’ is so impersonal!

  Osgrey’s resistance to the idea made Volgha like it a little bit more.

  It’s a step up from the giant green flame that Ghasterly conjured, cawed Redcrow.

  “I’d forgotten all about that,” said Volgha with a frown.

  “What?”

  “Ghasterly conjured a portal in my cottage,” said Volgha. “A giant green flame. I don’t know how to close it.”

  “Is that what that was? Matilda found its mate a while ago and had me get rid of it. I have Ghasterly’s wand, so it’s easy for me to cancel anything he’s cast previously.”

  “I hope that’s all you’re using it for.”

  “Of course. In any case, it should have canceled both of them. Just teleflame me if it’s still there.”

  “I’ll do that,” Volgha stated.

  30

  The huge green ball of flame was gone, just as Krespo predicted. That was good news, though it was discovered alongside a rotting stench that made Volgha gag.

  Fine hovel for a queen, cawed Redcrow. Why do you insist on living here?

  “For the last time, it’s not a hovel! It’s a cottage, and it’s a proper sort of place for a witch and her surly familiar.”

  I’m not surly, you just rouse the worst of my moods.

  “So you’re pleasant to everyone else?”

  No, I avoid everyone else. I’m stuck with you.

  In terms of immediacy, Volgha decided that sorting out the rotting stench was a higher priority than chastising birds. It didn’t take long to find the culprit, and would have been even quicker had it not been the one thing she kept avoiding, hoping against hope that it wouldn’t be.

  It was the stew.

  Perhaps the green ball of flame had produced a measure of heat after all, or the warm air had come much, much lower before Loki fixed his folly. The stew usually froze itself solid if there was no fire under it for an evening, but this time, it was a gelatinous glob of blackened putrescence. She poured it into a wooden barr
el outside, which she resolved to bury as soon as the sun unfroze the ground a bit. She filled the cauldron with snow, hoping that it could be cleaned out and salvaged.

  And she mourned, as much as it was appropriate and not at all insane to mourn the loss of a stew.

  It was a proper stew, said Osgrey. I started it with potatoes and carrots. Years passed, and I became a tree.

  A fitting eulogy, cawed Redcrow.

  “Quite,” said Volgha.

  Evenings passed, as they are wont to do. Volgha managed to quiet her mind enough to return to the Winter Court, where she officially took up the mantle of Warden. Osgrey was glad to get back to being a tree and officially beginning his retirement. Though Volgha spoke with him often, she was glad to have him out of her head. She and Redcrow both very much enjoyed being alone with their thoughts, and having only one other stream of consciousness to ignore was much easier than two. They spent many an evening in the cottage, delving into the mysteries of the Witching Way or ignoring each other altogether.

  Volgha managed to clean the old stew’s stench from the cauldron, which was a relief. She started a new stew with potatoes and carrots, as a tribute to Osgrey. It didn’t yet qualify as a proper stew, though it might eventually. Time would tell.

  She occasionally used the teleflame during the course of the year to speak with Santa, Krespo, or Matilda, usually about the gift-giving business. Krespo had worked out the flying reindeer and enchanted the rails of Santa’s sleigh so that it would fly as well. Together, they got it so finely tuned that it would move effortlessly through the air at alarming speeds; however, the time trials were never fast enough to get the whole thing accomplished in the space of a single evening.

  In the end, they found a very ordinary solution to get it done in time. The castle, the villages, and the outlying homesteads in the kingdom mustered all of the parents together under brightly decorated trees. They drank hot cocoa and sang songs until Santa whizzed by, using the trees as beacons to navigate the dark winter’s night. He dropped off presents with the parents, who brought them home and distributed them to all of the children. It was all very hush-hush, as all involved knew the children would expect presents all year round, if they thought their parents had anything to do with it. Better to let Santa take all the credit, and have some peace and quiet on the matter for the rest of the year.

  In time, older children began toying with ridiculous conspiracies. They somehow got it into their heads that there was no Santa, and that their parents had been doing all of the work themselves. Can you imagine?

  Afterword

  This was my first novel. Well, it was the first novel that I ever finished. My proper first novel was eleven pages long, written in pencil in a composition book, and is probably lost to the world for all time.

  It was Ghostbusters 2. I finished mine before Akroyd and Ramis finished theirs, though mine will likely enjoy less commercial success.

  The first version of The Winter Riddle was self-published in November 2016. It sold about 40 copies, almost exclusively to people who know me personally. I know a thing or two about marketing, but it turns out that you have to know at least 80 things about marketing to meet with the faintest whiff of success.

  I was about a week away from consigning my second novel, Peril in the Old Country, to the same fate when I stumbled into a conversation with Lindy Ryan, owner and publisher of Black Spot Books. We talked about my work for a bit, and she encouraged me to submit Peril to her for review.

  I declined. I had a plan: self-publish three novels, then go out and find a publisher. Who wouldn’t want me then, with literally dozens of readers partially interested in what I had to offer next?

  My wife, Shelly, talked some sense into me. What could it hurt? At worst, I’d set my scheduled release date back a few weeks. I had no preorders, and in fact, most of my two score readers had no idea that it was coming.

  I submitted. Fast-forward a bit, and Peril in the Old Country had more fans among the advance readers and reviewers than The Winter Riddle had after a year on Amazon. That says a lot about the amazing people at Black Spot Books, and very little about the number of friends that I have.

  Fast-forward a bit more, and The Winter Riddle comes up in conversation. Lindy thought she saw something special in it, and I saw an opportunity to tidy it up a bit. Melissa Ringsted, my eagle-eyed editor (apologies for the alliteration), tidied it up considerably more. Najla Qamber took the cover treatment to a new level, and I couldn’t have been more pleased with the outcome.

  For the record, if you read the first version, the story hasn’t changed at all; however, this one is at least five thousand times better in every way, and thoroughly worth buying at its full retail price.

  About the Author

  Sam writes darkly humorous fantasy novels about thing like tyrannical despots and the masked scoundrels who tickle them without mercy. He knows all the best swear words, though he refuses to repeat them because he doesn't want to attract goblins. He lives in California with his wife and son, who renew their tolerance for his absurdity on a per-novel basis.

  www.shooker.co