Hazel and Holly

by Sara C. Snider

  Hemlock nodded. “I created an illusion of the Witness earlier, and it worked for a little while. But it was too simple, too crude, and they saw through it. If we can work a keyhole illusion of the Witness, well, if that doesn’t send them running for the hills, nothing will.”

  Holly waved a hand between the two brothers. “Hello? Will someone please tell me what we’re talking about?”

  Hemlock took a breath and turned towards her. “A keyhole illusion is basically a cross between a conjuration and an illusion and requires two practitioners in Wyr magic to pull off.”

  “Only the tricky part,” Hawthorn added, “is that whoever does the conjuring bit risks breaking his own mind.”

  “What?” Holly said. “How?”

  Hemlock rubbed the back of his neck and said, “The summoner, in this case… conjures the entity within him, rather than externally.”

  “He becomes the conjuration, essentially,” Hawthorn said.

  Holly’s mouth hung open. “I don’t understand. Is it a spirit? This sounds like necromancy.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Hawthorn said. “No souls are involved—it’s not at all the same.”

  “The discerning difference between a conjuration and an illusion,” Hemlock said, “is that others must be present to observe the illusion for it to work.”

  “But since others can’t see what is inside oneself,” Hawthorn added, “it must be a conjuration in this particular instance.”

  “But what will it do?” Holly asked. “Why can’t you do the conjuration outside yourself?”

  Hawthorn said, “Despite the complexities in summoning them, conjurations are simple creations. You can create a conjuration of a giant or a fierce beast, but they will not necessarily act as you wish. They have no souls, no wills of their own. They are not alive, and just like an illusion, they can sometimes be seen for what they are.”

  Hemlock said, “But if you summon a conjuration within you, well, it’s like it changes you. You… become what you summon. At least mentally. Externally, you’ll look the same.”

  “Which is where the second person comes into play to apply all the necessary outwards illusions.”

  “Oh, I see,” Holly said. “So you basically give the thing your soul. Tell me again how it’s not like necromancy?”

  Hawthorn gave her a flat look. “I’m not giving it anything. Lending perhaps is as far as I would go. And you would be surprised how thin a line separates many of the disciplines from one another. But this is strictly a Wyr spell, I assure you.”

  “Though it is forbidden,” Hemlock said.

  Hawthorn chuckled. “Ah, yes. The Conclave wasn’t at all pleased at the rising number of drooling warlocks cooking their brains from attempting keyhole illusions.”

  “But why the conjuration at all?” Holly said. “Why not just act the part?”

  Hawthorn shrugged. “I suppose one always could take that approach, but you will never get the same kind of authenticity by acting. For all intents and purposes, we will be bringing the Witness into the world in a way that acting could never replicate.”

  “It’s why it’s called a keyhole illusion,” Hemlock said. “Because they say it’s like looking through a keyhole into another world.”

  “Or like bringing another world through a keyhole,” Hawthorn said. “It depends who you ask.”

  From further down the road, the murmuring of voices and the scuffling of footsteps grew louder.

  “I’ll do the conjuration,” Hemlock said. “You do the illusion.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Hawthorn. “You’ve never done this before. I’ll do the conjuration.”

  “It’s my idea; it’s my risk to take.”

  “And all of us are at risk if it’s not done properly. We have one shot at this, and we don’t have time to argue.”

  Hemlock glowered at Hawthorn, but before he could say anything else, Hawthorn started his spell. He spoke a series of unfamiliar words, and the familiar glint in his eyes faded and was replaced by something wholly foreign. A chill bore into the base of Holly’s neck, and she took a step back.

  “WHO DARE STANDS BEFORE ME UNPREPARED?” Hawthorn’s voice boomed as he spoke. There was a sliver of his usual voice present, but the rest sounded like someone else. Hemlock worked his illusion, and right before Holly’s eyes, Hawthorn transformed.

  He grew taller in stature, his purple-black coat replaced with a long, black tattered cloak. His beautiful features were eclipsed with a horrid waxen mask, similar to the one Holly had seen earlier. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. She hadn’t really thought it possible, but Hawthorn was gone. This was the Witness.

  “YOU WILL ANSWER ME,” the Witness said as he took a step towards her. “OR BEAR MY WRATH.”

  “I…” Holly began.

  Hemlock, standing behind the Witness, waved towards the road.

  Holly nodded and took a deep breath. “They stand before you unprepared!” She thrust an accusatory finger at the throng of people just as they topped the hill.

  The Witness rounded on them, and as he did, the entire group froze. For one hopeful moment it looked like they might run away. But then a man stepped forward.

  “It’s all a trick!” he said. “This isn’t the Witness!”

  That solidified the courage in the rest of the group, and they charged forward.

  The Witness lifted his arms, and the entire group ran into an invisible wall with a series of grunts and cries of pain. Several of them staggered back and fell down with bloodied noses.

  The Witness bent down next to a man on the ground cradling his jaw and grabbed the back of his head. The man seemed to shrink within himself as the Witness brought his face close to his. He stared into the Witness’s eyes, and then he began to scream.

  “It’s him! It’s the Witness!”

  Panic broke out among the crowd. Most were trying to cover their eyes as they scrambled to their feet, resulting in a clumsy dash as the townsfolk collided into one another as they ran for all they were worth back down the road.

  Holly let out a breath, then the Witness turned on her.

  “YOU,” he said. “YOU MUST ATONE.”

  She staggered back. The illusion fell from the Witness, and he looked like Hawthorn again, but he still came towards her with a gleam in his eyes that Holly didn’t recognize.

  “Hemlock?” she said as she backed up against the porch.

  Hemlock worked another spell, and the foreign gleam in Hawthorn’s eyes faded, replaced by one of befuddlement. Then he fell over.

  Holly ran over to him. She fell to her knees and scrabbled at his coat and patted his cheek.

  “Hawthorn? Wake up. Please wake up.” She looked up at Hemlock and felt a pang of panic at his distressed expression.

  “How do we wake him up?” she said.

  Hemlock shook his head as his mouth hung open. “I… I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? Do something!”

  “I—”

  Hawthorn groaned and put a hand to his head.

  Holly helped him sit up. “Are you all right?”

  He stared at her and mumbled something incoherent.

  “He’s cooked his brain!” Holly said.

  Hemlock said, “Just… give him a minute.” He squatted down and put a hand on Hawthorn’s shoulder. Looking into his eyes, Hemlock said, “You’ve ruined your best jacket, brother.”

  Hawthorn’s expression remained vacant as his jaw slackened.

  Hemlock tightened his grip on Hawthorn’s shoulder. “Not to worry though. I’m sure Holly can sew you a new one out of the curtains.”

  Hawthorn continued to stare at his brother for several heartbeats when his brow twitched into a frown. “Curtains?” he murmured, his voice raspy and strained. “On me?” He let out a sharp wheeze that might have been a laugh. “Only if you put it on my cold, turgid corpse.”

  Hemlock smiled and gave his brother’s shoulder another squeeze. “He’s
fine.”

  Holly wrapped her arms around Hawthorn and hugged him tight. Then she shoved him. “You stupid idiot! What were you thinking, doing a spell like that?”

  Hawthorn grinned. “I was magnificent, wasn’t I?”

  “No, you were creepy. Don’t do it again.”

  “Creepy because I was magnificent. You’ve never seen anything like it before, have you?”

  “No, and I don’t want to. So promise you won’t do it again.”

  “I’ll do no such thing.”

  Holly grabbed one of his ears and twisted it.

  “Ow!” he cried. “Let go, you torturous harpy.”

  “Promise!”

  “Fine, I promise. Now unhand me.”

  Holly pursed her lips and let go. “Well, all right then.”

  Hemlock hid a smile behind his hand.

  Hawthorn smoothed his hair and attempted to brush his jacket clean, but he gave up and sighed.

  “Come on,” Hemlock said as he clasped Hawthorn by the forearm. “Let’s find you some clean clothes.”

  Hazel walked out of the tincture room with the latest drawerful of bottles as Hemlock and Hawthorn walked in. Hawthorn was filthy, and he dragged his feet as Hemlock helped him towards the sofa, his head hanging as if it were too much to bear.

  “What happened?” she said. “I heard commotion out there. I’ve been trying to pack up everything I can find so we can leave.”

  “Resplendent victory happened,” Hawthorn said in a sudden display of renewed vigor. “Victory!” He stumbled over his feet and fell onto the sofa.

  “Is he drunk?”

  Hemlock chuckled and shook his head. “He just cooked his brain a little, but he’ll be fine.” At Hazel’s perplexed look, he added, “I’ll explain it all later, but the townspeople have gone and I don’t think they’ll be coming back. So we should have some time.”

  Hazel let out a long breath as she set down the drawer of tinctures on the floor near the door along with three others. “I can’t say I’m not thankful for that. I have no idea what I’m looking for here. My only plan was to grab everything not nailed down to take with us and sort out later. I could really use the extra time.”

  Hemlock smiled. “Well, you have it.” He nodded towards Hawthorn. “I’m going to find him some new clothes. I’ll be right back.” He walked out the door as Holly walked in. She started for Hazel, but then noticed Hawthorn curling up on the sofa, and headed towards him instead.

  She pushed Hawthorn’s legs aside, sat next to him, and prodded at his arm. “I don’t think you should lie down, in case you fall asleep. You probably shouldn’t fall asleep so soon after cooking your brain.”

  Hazel asked, “Why does everyone keep saying he’s cooked his brain?”

  “Well, he didn’t actually cook it, but it’s not like he didn’t give it a good go.”

  Hemlock came back with a bundle of folded clothes. He took them over to Hawthorn and roused him out of his half-asleep stupor.

  “What took you so long?” Hawthorn murmured.

  “Sorry, but I’m unable to summon your cherished vestments with a snap of my fingers.”

  “Do work on that.”

  Hemlock let out a sharp breath that almost passed for a laugh. “Sure.”

  Hawthorn got to his feet and swayed as he began to unbutton his coat. Hemlock reached out to steady him. Holly just stood there, looking on.

  Hazel said, “Holly, I could use some help searching the mill outside.”

  Several moments passed before Holly started and turned to look at her. “What?”

  “Come help me outside. Hemlock can help Hawthorn get dressed without you looking on like a creepy window lurker.”

  “I wasn’t lurking,” Holly said as she headed towards the door, casting one quick glance back at Hawthorn as he peeled off his dirty jacket.

  “No, but you have the creepy part covered well enough.”

  Holly opened her mouth again, but Hazel said, “Oh, just come on.”

  Once they were outside, Hazel said, “I thought you said you weren’t interested in Hawthorn anymore.”

  “I’m not, but,” Holly lowered her voice to a whisper, “he’s still very pretty.”

  Hazel shook her head and opened the door to the mill. Inside, the few narrow windows were shuttered and the room stood dark. A little flame blossomed in Holly’s cupped hands.

  Her wavering light showed a cramped, circular interior dominated by a pair of great millstones, one stacked atop the other. A thick wooden shaft that turned the bottom stone—when the mill was in use—disappeared into the low timber ceiling that served as the floor of the second level, accessed by a narrow set of stairs along one part of the wall. The air smelled stale and dusty but also tinted with a pleasant nutty aroma.

  “Well,” Holly said, “what are we looking for?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s just see what we can find.”

  Holly ran a finger along the hopper that fed grain into the stones. “Why would Father come here?”

  “I don’t know, Holly. The reasons why Father has done anything in his life are well beyond me.”

  The two sisters poked around the ground floor of the mill, but all they found was dust and remnants of old flour and a scattering of tools hanging from pegs. They took the stairs to the second floor but didn’t find anything there either.

  “There’s nothing here, Hazel,” Holly said as they ascended to the third and final floor. The space in which they had to stand was narrow and cramped as the low ceiling arced to a point a few feet above their heads. They had to keep near the wall, as the shaft that came through the floor was capped at calf height by a wooden gear almost the size of their kitchen table at home. It connected perpendicularly to an even greater gear pinioned by a shaft that led to the windmill sails outside. Holly peeked through the little window that accommodated the shaft connecting to the sails.

  “It’s starting to get dark outside,” she said. “Are we going to spend the night here? Because, you know, I’d rather not.”

  Hazel said nothing as she looked around the cramped chamber. There were no tools or cupboards or anything else that looked out of place. There wasn’t even so much as a scuff on the floor to indicate their father had ever come here. Hazel let out a long breath as she peered out the tiny window alongside Holly. What was she supposed to do now?

  The sun sank towards the horizon, turning the sky golden and sending shadows from the trees to stretch across the wild, untended grass. As the fading light slanted across the windmill sails, a small, boxlike object cast its own shadow.

  Hazel narrowed her eyes as she tried to get a better look. “What is that out there?”

  “What’s out where?” Holly said as she craned her neck and brought her head closer to Hazel’s. “I don’t see anything.”

  “There’s something on one of the sails.”

  “Where?”

  “On the uppermost one to the right.” Hazel pointed. “There, near the edge.”

  Holly wrinkled her nose as she squinted out the window. “I don’t see it.”

  “Never mind about that. How do we get that sail down within reach?”

  “Um, I don’t know. Get it to turn. With some wind. We need wind.”

  A slight breeze stirred outside. Hazel worked a spell that intensified it, but the sails remained still. “They didn’t even budge.”

  “Try it again.”

  Hazel did but with the same result. She turned around to eye the machinery in the mill. “Is there a brake that’s keeping the sails from turning?”

  She and Holly poked around the gears and shafts.

  “Here’s a lever,” Holly said, and before Hazel could reply, she pulled on it. There was a clanging sound, and a wooden band rose from the great gear that joined the smaller one just above the floor. Outside, the sails lazily rotated about an arm’s length before they stopped again.

  “Closer,” Holly said.

  “But not close enough.” Hazel summone
d more wind, but the breeze was still too gentle.

  “You need to step it up a bit.”

  “I thought I was,” Hazel said. “Obviously, the nuances of conjuring wind intensity is a skill I’ve yet to master.”

  “Go get Hemlock,” Holly said. “Maybe he can help.”

  “Help with what?” Hemlock said as he walked up the narrow set of stairs into the tiny loft.

  “Hazel needs help conjuring up some wind.”

  Heat crept into Hazel’s cheeks, and she folded her arms. It was silly, feeling so defensive about such a trivial matter, but she couldn’t help it. “I can conjure the wind just fine. I just need more of it.”

  “There’s a little box or something on one of the sails,” Holly said. “I can see it now, right there.” She pointed.

  Hemlock adjusted his glasses and nodded. “All right. Sounds simple enough. Go outside and get ready to grab whatever’s on that sail as it goes by.”

  “If they get going too fast,” Holly said, “here’s the brake.” She patted the iron lever.

  “Good to know.”

  Hazel and Holly made their way outside and positioned themselves inside the sails’ arc. The sails themselves were massive—the bottommost ones brushed the tips of the knee-high grass.

  The wind kicked up, and after a few moments, the sails eased into motion. The joints creaked and groaned. After a few seconds, the one with the box swung low to the ground. The sail wasn’t moving particularly fast, but even so, it swung by and out of reach before Hazel had a chance to grab the box.

  “It’s moving too fast,” she shouted up to Hemlock.

  “Right!”

  She waited for the sail to come around again. Holly hunkered down as she readied herself. The wind calmed, but the sails kept on at the same speed. When the sail with the box made its way back down, a groaning sound resounded from within the mill, and the sails shuddered before slowing to a stop.

  The box on the sail was about as wide as a ring box but twice as long. It looked to be built into the wood of the sail itself and didn’t want to come off.

  “I can burn it off,” Holly said.

  “Not when we don’t know what’s inside it,” Hazel said.

  Hemlock joined them, but he remained silent as Hazel poked around the box.