Hazel and Holly

by Sara C. Snider

  She stepped closer to the table, studying the items. There was a pattern among them—a symmetry in their arrangement, an evenness of the spaces between them. It was as if they fit into her mind like pieces of a puzzle, and Hazel knew what to do.

  She took the bone from her pocket and put it into the bowl-shaped mortar. Hemlock came to stand next to her, but Hazel kept her gaze on her work. Her nerves had calmed, and the excitement she had felt now became an enthusiastic curiosity as her mind buzzed with a potential solution she was eager to prove right.

  Picking up the heavy stone pestle, she ground the bone into dust. She then tipped the powder into the goblet, using her fingers to scrape the mortar clean. Moving on to the wine bottle, Hazel picked up the knife and hesitated. The knife had to be there to open the bottle—there was no other use for it, if she was right. Puzzled as to why a corkscrew hadn’t been left behind, she handed the bottle and knife to Hemlock, murmuring instructions for him to open it.

  He gaped at her, knife and bottle in hand, but Hazel returned her attention to the table. She opened the wooden box, finding stalks of dried herbs and plants bundled together with pieces of twine. There was lavender and mugwort, marigold, jasmine, anise, and vervain. There was ash bark, yarrow, and a few withered, deadly nightshade berries dangling from a stalk along with dried leaves. Hazel sifted through them, running each plant’s properties through her mind, searching for the way each one fit into her puzzle. Not all of them did. There were more here than what she needed.

  She took some mugwort and jasmine and broke off some of the fragile, flowering fronds of the anise and crumbled them between her fingers into the goblet along with the bone dust. Her hands hesitated over the ash bark. She wanted to reach for it, grind it up in the mortar like she had the bone. But it didn’t quite fit. Not as well as the yarrow. So Hazel took some of the dried flowers from that instead, ground them with her fingers, and added it to the goblet.

  She turned to Hemlock. He had gotten the cork out of the bottle, his expression a mixture of puzzlement, fear, and concern.

  “What are you doing, Hazel?” he said as she took the bottle from him.

  “Finding my father.”

  “How, exactly?”

  Hazel didn’t answer. There was no time to explain, not if she wanted to hold on to this idea long enough to see if it worked. She poured some wine into the goblet and stirred it with the handle of the knife. Then she sucked in a breath—she had almost forgotten an ingredient. Hazel returned to the box and plucked a nightshade berry from its stalk and ground it into a jammy paste with the mortar and pestle. She mixed it with some wine, then poured the slurry into the goblet. She gave it another stir, then brought the goblet to her nose and sniffed. It smelled like wine, mostly, but more earthy, with hints of jasmine and anise coming through. Not all that unpleasant, really.

  “Nightshade is poisonous,” Hemlock said. “Please don’t tell me you’re thinking about drinking that.”

  She turned to look at him again, the haze clearing from her mind now that she had done what she wanted to do, and a twinge of shame gnawed at her. Yet she couldn’t turn back. Hazel still hadn’t gotten her answer, and she wouldn’t be able to rest until she had.

  Hazel brought the goblet to her lips and tipped it back.

  The liquid was thick and sludgy, tasting like chalk, ash, and iron. She downed it quickly, not wanting to dwell on the taste or let the sediment settle to the bottom. She almost laughed. Sediment. As if the sandy consistency was a natural occurrence in the wine and not ground-up bone that had been slathered with her blood. The thought almost made her retch, but instead she coughed and managed to keep it down. The chalky taste faded, replaced by sweet, floral notes from the wine and jasmine before giving way to the aromatic sharpness of the anise, and then to bitterness that she could only assume came from the nightshade.

  Hazel’s heart quickened, and sweat beaded across her brow. She put a shaking hand to her head, not wanting to think about how foolish she had been or what a terrible mistake she had undoubtedly just made. This was the only way. It had to be.

  Hemlock stood in front of her and grabbed hold of her shoulders as he studied her face. His knees were bent, bringing his eyes level with hers, and she realized his eyes were hazel. Green flecked with brown—colors of the earth. The color of her name. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? He must not have noticed the similarity either, or he wouldn’t have been frowning like that. She giggled, wanting to tell him, but her laugh came out sounding gurgled and foreign. She sobered, acutely aware of her racing heart and of the shadows that had gathered around her vision.

  Her legs buckled, and Hazel collapsed onto the floor. The shadows grew, turning white and wispy as they took over her sight. They gathered around Hemlock, pulling at his skin and eclipsing his face, but the stillness in his body indicated he didn’t notice. Hazel closed her eyes as they throbbed with a dull and distant pain that made the world shiver. When she opened them, Hemlock had gone, and all that remained were the pale, wispy shadows, as if all life had been leeched from the world, leaving behind only a smoking, pallid husk.

  Her breath echoed through her chest and ears as if she had been hollowed out like a harvest-time gourd. Alone, alone, dead and alone. The thought echoed in her mind along with her breath, and she grabbed hold of her head and bent over in an effort to quiet them.

  Silence. No, a heartbeat, fluttering and florid. Like a butterfly trapped in a jar, wings singed by searing sun. When had she become like sand, dissolved by wind and whisked away by the rapids of a rushing river? She looked for an anchor, letting the pale wispiness of the world wash over her like shimmering sunlit water.

  She calmed, and the room came back into focus. Hemlock was there, kneeling in front of her on the ground. But it wasn’t really him—it was only a pale shadow, an outline of a mirage that shimmered and pulsed like a heart with a beat of its own. Hazel reached out to him, but her hand passed through where his face should be. Her movement displaced the shadows, only to congeal back into place once she withdrew.

  The rest of the room looked much like Hemlock—bleached and bland, a shimmering, tenuous echo of what had once been there. Hazel got to her feet, and the room shifted, moving along with her, though for some reason Hemlock’s shadow remained fixed in place.

  She walked to the table, but the stone floor became like sifting sand, pushing her back even as she struggled to move forward. Yet still she managed, coming to a pale and wan table that seemed to disassemble itself and then reform every time Hazel blinked.

  The table looked much the same as far as Hazel could recall through the haze of her mind. There were the clean white bowl and neatly folded cloth, the herb box, wine bottle, and mortar and pestle. There was the goblet with its dregs of wine and silt of bone dust drying along the silver edges of the cup. The bone dust gleamed like crystalline snow.

  Hazel looked up and out beyond the room, beyond the shifting hollow mist, and looked for the same sparkling gleam out in the world. And there, beyond the shivering, shadowed stones that served as a wall, a glimmering that matched the cup winked in the distance.

  She held her breath, wondering if it were true or if she had only imagined it. How could she be sure of anything here, a world that refused to solidify into color and bone, stone and blood?

  Hazel passed through the table, sending it to ripple in her wake as if she walked through water. She made her way to what served as a wall, and then she walked through that as well. The city of Sarnum rippled into shape before her, as if a mist had dissipated in the morning sun. It was neither night nor day; everything was equally wan and devoid of color. She fixed her gaze on the glimmering point of light winking through the haze like a candle in a distant window. But where was it? She had no bearings. There was no sun to tell her east from west, no stars to tell her where the north lay. It was all just haze and fog, shimmering heat and rippling water for air. She tried to focus through it all, the same way she had when the room had coalesced fr
om the mist. Again she let it wash over her until in the distance… Was that a hill? There was something on it—a house or maybe a mill. Hazel narrowed her eyes, trying to see, but then her stomach cramped, and she grabbed her abdomen as she doubled over.

  “Hazel?”

  The voice boomed in her mind, making her wince even as bile rose in her throat. She swallowed and inhaled a deep breath, relaxing with momentary relief before she doubled over with another sickening cramp. This time she retched, the mist cleared, and she was back on the floor in the cellar of the abandoned house.

  The solidity and vivid color of her surroundings were jarring. Hazel could only blink before she doubled over again, vomiting onto the floor.

  Hemlock grabbed the ceramic bowl off the table and set it on the floor in front her. Hazel emptied her stomach into it—purple-brown sludge peppered with bits of desiccated leaves. She closed her eyes, not wanting to look, fearful of getting sick all over again.

  A minute or so passed, then Hazel spit acid from her mouth and pushed the bowl away.

  Hemlock handed her a cloth—the neatly folded linen square from the table. Hazel managed a feeble smile. She had been right about the puzzle of items—though it was difficult feeling particularly pleased while her nose and throat stung.

  “Are you all right?” Hemlock said.

  Hazel wiped at her mouth with the cloth. “Yes.”

  Hemlock, crouching on his haunches, moved his legs out from under him and sat on the floor. He let out a heavy breath and ran his hands over his face. “What was that, Hazel? What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking I was trying to find my father.”

  “By performing necromantic magic? Do you understand what you’ve done?”

  Hazel stiffened her back. “I’m not a fool, Hemlock. I know what I’ve done.”

  He stared at her, his brow furrowed. “Then how can you sit there and pretend that it’s all right?”

  Hazel tightened her jaw. “I’m not pretending anything. I did what I needed to do!”

  “Do you hear yourself? Do you even recognize yourself? Because from where I’m sitting, I’m not sure I recognize you at all. Maybe you’re right—maybe you are just like your father. Maybe I’m the fool for not listening.”

  Hazel swallowed and looked away, feeling as if he had wrenched a knife in her gut—wishing his words hadn’t held so much truth.

  He sighed. “I’m sorry. That was unworthy of me.”

  “No, you’re completely right.” She made herself look at him. “I am undoubtedly just like him. How else can you explain what I’ve done? I know how to work necromancy, Hemlock. I wish I didn’t, but I do. I doubt it’s a coincidence.”

  They fell into silence.

  “What do we do now?” Hemlock said.

  “I… saw a light after I drank the potion. I think that might be where he is.”

  He frowned. “A light? What kind of light?”

  She squinted her eyes. “It’s hard to explain. But the bone I ground up, after I drank the potion, it’s like it glowed. I saw the same light off in the distance. I think it might be him.”

  Hemlock stared at her, and Hazel forced herself to hold his gaze. Then he asked, “How far was it?”

  “I don’t know. The world looked different. I couldn’t say how far. I don’t even know where it was. A building, perhaps a mill, up on a hill.”

  He nodded. “Well, then. I suppose that means we’ll have to find the hill.”

  “You don’t have to come along.”

  “What?”

  “I know you’re not comfortable with this. I’m not comfortable with it. But I need to see this through. You don’t.” She took a breath. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to leave.”

  Hemlock shook his head and took her hand. “There’s no turning back now, Hazel. For either of us.”

  He helped Hazel to her feet, and they left the house and returned to the inn.

  But when they got there, they found their shared rooms empty and their siblings gone.

  “Where could they have gone?” Hazel said. She had to remind herself to breathe. Nothing had happened. There was no need to worry.

  Hemlock shook his head. “I don’t know. Hawthorn is more familiar with this town than I am. If he and Holly are together, they could be anywhere.”

  “That’s not reassuring.”

  He smiled. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

  “We need to go look for them.”

  “They’re probably out looking for us. It might be best to wait here. They could come back at any moment.”

  Hazel stared at the empty bed, still rumpled from where Holly had lain. “You can wait here then. I’ll go out.” She turned and headed down the hallway.

  Hemlock hurried after her. “You don’t know what’s out there, Hazel. You shouldn’t go out alone.”

  “I’m going. Whether or not I’ll be alone is up to you, isn’t it?” She hurried to the stairs and was about halfway down when she heard Hemlock’s footfalls following behind her.

  Neither one said anything as they crossed the common room before stepping outside into the dark night.

  “It’s dark,” Holly said, her breath pluming in the sterile blue-green light of a lamppost. “And cold. Why is it so cold here? It’s supposed to be summer.”

  “It’s cold and dark because we’re out in the middle of the night,” Hawthorn said. “Perhaps you should have thought about that before you dragged us out here.”

  “Old Uncle Orn always liked to go walking at night,” Tum said as he kept up alongside them. “Usually without pants. He wasn’t too fond of the cold either.”

  Hawthorn wrinkled his nose. To Holly, he said, “Did you have to bring the gnome?”

  “We’re not leaving anyone behind. If Hazel and Hemlock hadn’t run off without us, then we wouldn’t be in this situation at all.”

  “Speaking of which, how are we supposed to find them exactly? Or is blindly wandering the streets the extent of your grand scheme?”

  “I don’t know,” Holly said. “Hazel’s got a gross bloody bone and a mind to do necromancy. Where would someone go for that?”

  “For necromancy or bloodied bones?”

  “Both.”

  Hawthorn thought a moment. “A butcher shop or a graveyard?”

  “Really?”

  He shrugged. “Plenty of bones and blood at butcher shops. And graveyards seem like the natural lurking ground for those inclined towards necromancy.”

  Holly wrung her hands. “Is there a graveyard here?”

  “Of course. A rather extensive one, from what I’ve heard.”

  She took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s go there then.”

  “Do you have any idea where she would go?” Hemlock said as he walked next to Hazel. He kept his voice low, eyeing a shadowed form further up the street.

  Hazel stopped walking. When she felt certain the shadow wasn’t coming towards them, she sighed and said, “I don’t know. They could be wandering blindly. Holly wasn’t ever one for planning.”

  “Does she know about the bone?”

  A shiver crawled up Hazel’s neck. “Yes.”

  “So she knows then, what you had intended to do?”

  Hazel shook her head. “I never told her my plan. I didn’t even have a plan. I told her not to worry about it. But…”

  “She knows. So where would she think you’d gone to do necromancy?”

  “I’m such an idiot. I shouldn’t have ever shown it to her.”

  “She had a right to know. You can’t protect her forever, Hazel.”

  Hazel bit her lip. “I know. But this… I would happily let her charge into whatever danger she likes if she didn’t have to be involved in necromancy.”

  Hemlock put a hand on her shoulder, and Hazel looked up at him.

  “So, you’re Holly,” he said. “You wake up in the night and find your wonderfully willful and enchantingly clever older sister gone to do necromancy. You march down the hall
way, drag a pretentious old warlock out of bed—under the threat of ruining his finest silk vest—and head out to find said sister. Where would you go?”

  Hazel suppressed a giggle. “How do you know it happened like that?”

  “I honestly can’t see it happening any other way.”

  The giggle escaped her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. She glanced at the shadowed figure ahead, but it seemed transfixed with one of the shop windows. “I don’t know,” Hazel whispered. “She couldn’t know about the house. I didn’t know about it, and I don’t think Holly has the same… inclination as me.”

  “So not knowing anything about necromancy, where would you go to find it?”

  Hazel rubbed her forehead. “Wherever there’s death, I suppose.” She looked at Hemlock. “A graveyard. Where do we find one?”

  He shook his head. “I have no idea. And there isn’t exactly anyone around whom we can ask for directions.”

  Hazel fixed her gaze on the shadowed form down the street. “I bet that thing knows.”

  “We don’t even know if it’s capable of thought.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.” She started towards it.

  “Hazel!” Hemlock hissed.

  But Hazel kept on. Her quickening steps pulled the thing’s attention, and the shadows around it shifted as it turned towards her.

  Hazel faltered a step, but she clenched her hands and continued on. The shadow lumbered towards her. It moved into the light of a lamppost, but the shadows remained, clinging around its form like black-stained gauze. Beneath the shadows, Hazel caught glimpses of pale, lacerated skin, the cuts looking red and angry.

  It lunged towards her, and Hazel darted out of the way. Before it could turn around, Hazel flicked her hand and spoke a single word. “Secant.”

  The shadows clinging to the thing’s skin gathered and pulled away. They formed into the shape of a man, leaving exposed the scarred husk of a body that slumped its shoulders and lowered its head.