Hollo (The Magic of Thedes, Book 1)

CHAPTER TWO - ANOTHER BIRTHDAY

ARTISANS OWNED MOST of the lots in this part of the city, and the property adjacent to Hollo’s was home to the bronze-casters. Upon completion, their work was displayed in a private, overgrown yard that bordered Hollo’s garden.

Just below the ceiling of her attic bedroom was a round window with a flat ledge large enough to sleep in. This space, in the summertime, was where the first light of day warmed and brightened the otherwise dim attic. And with the sunrise, the Casters set to work.

Hollo was already awake, lying as she had been sleeping with her face against the glass, though with her eyes open and on the craftsmen. The three of them labored with metal tools, cutting into the ceramic casing of their latest project.

The statue was the size of a man, though lumpy, bulky within the ceramic, and hidden.

Her imagination was alight with the expectation of what new artistry was to hatch beneath her bedroom window. The mold came away at the highest point, revealing a helmet, gleaming in the morning light. Then the face of a man, a soldier. A bronze casting of bronze armor, a bronze mustache, and a hardened leader of men shone for the first time in the sun.

Despite the ferocious gaunt uniformity of the figure’s face, Hollo saw it as a newborn. An infant man seeing the world for the first time. Just as she had. Just as suddenly.

Throwing open her window, she leaned out and laughed with delight. 

A pair of large gulls startled, beaking complaints with wings stretched wide.

Good morning to you as well, she said as they inched towards her. No, you may not come in.

The men below neither heard nor saw this. She could not be seen by those looking in - an exceptional thing that her house did - she was invisible in this place. Except to the birds. All the birds in town meant to make a roost of her lovely attic. Their flapping and noises were as unnoticed by the men below as she was.

Standing in the open window, she reached out to the rope that hung down three stories to the ground below. She shut her window. The Gulls complained. The feathered pirates would claim her belongings as their own if she let them.

The wind blew jostled her, rousing her senses as she descended, carefully silent in passing by her father’s room. She did not wish to wake him just yet - mischief first. 

In her own garden, she crept across the stones, choosing a silent footing she knew well from her numerous secret ventures into the neighboring yard. There existed a hole in the fence. Hollo expected it was her magic that allowed her to step through from her shielded world into the world she watched from her bedroom window.

There was, however, an obstacle she faced: a tiny, decorative mirror that hung from the branch of the lemon tree at the edge of the yard. Hollo had long ago learned a way to outsmart it.

She slept fully clothed with high socks and knee-pants under her short flowered dress. The socks especially helped sneak around. Besides keeping her hard feet quiet, the socks could also baffle tiny watchful mirrors.

She rolled the sock off her leg and then crept up behind the little glass, slipping it up under it gently so as not to rouse it and alert her father of activity in the backyard. Satisfied by her wiles, she hurried to her hole in the fence, reaching her fingers into her front dress pocket, and pulling from it her long circular thread.

Weaving it between her fingers, she began a rhyme: twisting, tugging, and pulling the thread into the shape that she felt most resembled a barrier.

Under fences, here and back, open little door. Let me through, into view, and I’ll come home once more. The silver thread glowed briefly and then faded, and nothing further happened, as she knew it wouldn’t. In fact, she didn’t know if the chant had any real effect or not, but since it worked the first time she had done it, better not to leave it out.

Tucking the string safely back into her pocket, she was through the fence, into the wildly under-tended, thorny brush of the bronze garden. 

The three Casters were back working in their shop beyond the hedge. This, Hollo knew by the acrid smell of the foundry, and also because she could hear them cursing at each other - beautifully foul words Hollo didn’t know. She’d love to one day ask what a Codderpot was, but approaching the men was entirely out of the question. Besides how strange she appeared - made of wood - the bronze-casters might forbid her meddling in their garden. Not to say that she was disrespectful of the statues, contrarily, she loved them. She found them beautiful and perfect and delighted in the mastery of their shapes.

The bronze knight was smooth and not yet warmed by sunlight. Her hands scratched softly as they ran over the delicate folds of the Knight’s bronze cape. She marveled up at the face of the frowning military man, his eyes piercing and forward. Hollo had come to understand that it was not unusual for statues to look this way. Deeply ponderous, or more as if recently made aware of some foul smell. She preferred to imagine the latter.

Her fingers were already in her dress pocket, fishing out her thread. A quick glance assured her the Casters remained busy. All she needed was the tiniest, faintest bit of magic. Unnoticeable.

Weaving the loop of thread between two hands at first, she then worked it into one, creating a circular web between five fingers. Once finished, she checked for the Casters a final time, and then, certain she was alone, made her rhyme.

Little baby of copper and tin, today is the day your life begins, she sung under her breath. But only just to talk to me, ’cause if you’re found they’ll come for me, she finished, shivering with excitement as her five-finger web came to golden, glowing life.

She placed it against the bronze, feeling the shiver run out her fingers. In an instant, the statue relaxed its posture and turned wild, fearsome features down at the child who had bothered him.

She smiled up expectantly, putting a finger over her mouth, miming quiet. He nodded slowly, confused for a moment, and then gathered himself back up into his dignified pose.

He sniffed, loud, causing Hollo to glance fearfully back towards the shop.

Ugh, the bronze man grimaced. What’s that putrid odor?

Hollo’s eyes widened. I knew it! she muttered to herself. 

Oh dear, the man said with his pompous air. Is that my smell? Is that coming from me… he looked down at his body, suddenly aghast. Ah, blast! I’m covered with the stuff, what terribly terrible rot!

You’re made of it, Hollo said up to him. You’re made of metal.

He frowned at her, as though she had been insensitive. And you’re made of wood, he grumbled at her, returning the insult.

Yep, she nodded.

Hmm, the Knight said, inspecting her. Doesn’t seem to bother you much; certainly, wood might be a little more comfortable than metal. Whatever do you want, anyway, little wooden person?

I wanted to say hello. I watched them make you.

He snorted pompously at her.

And wish you a happy birthday, she smiled.

Indeed, the Knight raised an eyebrow. Why yes, indeed, I suppose it is, isn’t it? Well, that’s charming, my birthday, indeed! His mustache curled into a knightly smile.

I had to come see you, Hollo continued. You and I share a birthday, that makes us something, I suppose, she said.

Is it really? the Knight looked amused now, transformed from his former irritation. Hollo had come to expect irritability from newly awoken statues. She imagined it must be hard to be made of metal.

Well, indeed, that makes us comrades-in-birthdays, or some such something… he pondered. Well, my little wooden lady, a very happy birthday to you.

He returned to the full height of his initial posture as Hollo’s weave grew faint. What wonderful…luck… he trailed off. 

Happy birthday to me, she whispered.

A clatter of anger arose from the workshop, and Hollo quickly hid out of view as a voice announced the upset of the largest and oldest of the three Casters.

Magical taxes! the big man she knew as the leader barked. What nonsense, they’re robbing us!

Master Chester, now you know they’ve ears and all ‘round the world, the skinny apprentice said.

I’ve told ’em before and I’ll say it again I’ve no use for magic in m’work! the leader, Chester, bellowed.

But they’s sure it’s you making the witchcraft and not the Engravers across the way? asked the apprentice.

That’s wot I said to the damn Magickers! They’re sure that there’s magic in m’bronze, and I said ‘no, sirs, no certainly!’ And do you know what they said? he asked the skinny one. Nothing! Chester spat. Not a thing, help me, besides that there was magic in m’bronze! 

The third Caster arrived, a younger man, though older than the apprentice. His name was KitFalermeyer, Hollo knew by hearing the name bellowed by Chester all the way from her room. Even with the window closed. Sometimes he was called Dammit-Falermeyer, when something went wrong, and other times, he was simply called Kit.

Dammit-Falermeyer! Chester shouted, as was appropriate in the circumstances. I tell you to find me copper what’s not been tampered by outlaws and you bring me rubbish!

The young man shrugged. Well you can’t have it all in life, Boss. You’ve only what you’ve got and nothin’ more.

What the blasting-wax does that mean!? Chester yelled. What I’ve got in life is now the less in the amount of… he trailed off to inspect the letter further. Twenty-seven teningots of steel or the equivalent value in untainted copper, he quoted. They’re charging that for what I’ve not even done, all ’cause you can’t find me honest raw metal! What’s next might be m’ firstborn son if ever I do anything against the law!

Kit nodded sagely. You’re a lucky man then.

How’s that? Chester grumbled.

You’ve no sons, Boss. Kit replied cheerily. Only Timtree, and he’s just a statue.

Chester set off on a wild bout of oaths and curses and stormed back into his shop. The apprentice wrung his hands with a fearful expression, looking imploringly at Kit.

You think we’ll be run bankrupted? the younger asked.

Kit laughed. Not a chance, we’ve that much spare copper lying in the waste around the shop. Isn’t a bother to sweep up and ship it to the Practitioners. You don’t fret and leave the arithmetic to me, and we’ll be fine.

The younger looked worried still. You’ve not really had dealings with Hermetic Magickers, right Kit?

Kit patted him on the head. Silly question, dealing with Hermetics. Like I’d know how to find one! he laughed. That’s what makes them Hermits, not wanting to be found. If the Practitioners have so much trouble tracking those magey-rogues down, how’s you suppose that I, myself, could find one?

Kit started wandering through the garden at that point, trolling his way in Hollo’s direction, with the young apprentice following closely after him. Besides, Kit continued, amiable. Metal changes a lot of hands before it comes to us here to be melted and cast. Suppose at some point someone uses some magic to shave a little profit off the top for themselves. Just the way the world is nowadays, us common folk payin’ for the ill dealings of those with the power to abuse. Can’t be helped, really. I’d do the same if I could, he added reasonably.

Hollo saw a grin spread over his face through the brush. His wandering had taken him to the statue she'd played with.

See there? He pointed at the helmeted, mustached face. The apprentice went pale. Sure enough, there’s magic lingering in the metal here; our gaunt brigadier-general got a smile on his face just now!

Hollo heard this as she slipped back through the fence. A pang of guilt and clumsiness hit her, listening hard, wondering if there was to be trouble.

Kit burst out in laughter. That’s marvelous! Think what ‘ol Chester’ll say when he sees this! Shh, don’t say a thing to him. It’ll be funnier if he finds it himself. The Practitioners’ll be having words with him about this pretty soon, I’ll bet.

Hollo let out a sigh of tentative relief, glad to have the boys be so easy in believing that her tinkering was the result of some far away, other mischiefs.

The young casters retreated to their foundry again and all was well. Hollo slid the sock ever so carefully off the mirror and back onto her foot. Deep in the dark of the glass, she could make out her father, asleep in his bed, his mouth open in what she could guess was a snore.

She raised a finger and tapped on the glass. He gave a start, vaguely acknowledged her, and then rolled away to fall asleep again. She grinned, drew her golden thread around the mirror in several loops, and spoke into it.

Dad! Guess what today is?

He rolled back towards his bedside mirror, regarding her with one eye open. He took hold of the mirror, and then from nowhere drew a golden tread from it and held the other end in his mouth. Well, he began, speaking into the thread. That is a good question. Whatever could today possibly be? I’ll take some tea with that riddle if you don’t mind.

Hollo smiled and left the mirror hanging, returned to her bedroom rope and climbed back up to her attic room. By the time she had made her way downstairs, her father was already at his desk at the kitchen window with a pen in one hand and a glowing golden thread in his mouth. The thread disappeared up into the rafters, connecting to the network of other threads that ran through the house. His free hand pointed at a boiling pot of water. He waved sleepily at her without turning around and she hurried to make a cup of tea, then presented it to him.

Now, he said sipping. You’d put forth a peculiar question as you woke me, for whatever reason, from the garden, where you’ve been playing at the crack of dawn for no reason which I, in my boundless worldly wisdom, can puzzle out.

She bounced on the balls of her feet, her excited hands weaving her thread into a quick series of shapes. S’ my birthday!

No, no no, he waved a hand at her, with a drowsy half-heartedness. Not ‘till the twentieth, silly. You’ll have a birthday tomorrow.

But it is today, she grumbled.

Nope, certainly not today, it is most certainly tomorrow, he sung at her. 

Tomorrow is your birthday.

Dad! she whined. It is the twentieth! Today it is, you’re wrong!

He appeared affronted and turned in his chair to face her. She narrowed her eyes right back at him and he pointedly cleared his throat. As you’ll find, he said airily. I am never wrong. I’m your dad, and dads are never wrong.

She rolled her eyes. And then they get old and forgetful, and then they’re even wrong about being right.

He gasped, apparently slighted. I’m not old, I’m yet thirty!

You’re at least a hundred and forty, she corrected.

Nonsense, that’s not even a real number!

She nodded airily. You are.

We’ll see about that, he returned the thread to the corner of his mouth and a pulse of golden light beaded through it and away into the ceiling. Then a similar bead of light came immediately back.

He gasped. This treacherous home of ours seems to agree with you.

Hollo jutted her jaw out, triumphant.

You two are always ganging up on me, he grumbled and then gasped. 

But then, if that’s true… and I’m a hundred and forty, which is just silly, then you…

He seized a fresh piece of parchment paper, and with an elaborate show of complicated calculation and arithmetic came to a gasping conclusion.

Why Hollo, he began slowly. You must be twelve years old!

Yes, yes! she pleaded. I am, I am twelve.

You silly child, he shook his head. You’ve almost missed your birthday.

It’s today, today’s my birthday, she bounced, tugging at his waist jacket.

Not according to that face of yours, he shook his head. You don’t look a day older than a teenager, and surely not near as young as the single digits.

Yes yes! It’s’ cus I’m twelve!

Well how wonderful! he said and then turned thoughtful. You know it’s a good thing I happened upon a present for you, else the house would’ve locked me out of the bathroom again.

What is it? she hushed to a whisper. My present?

He smiled, and opened his mouth, then paused, feigning confusion. You know, I just can’t seem to…

She squealed and bolted away. Her feet, muffled by socks, went like hailstones away and up the stairs.

Fredric smiled to himself, returning to his writing, and returning the thread to his mouth, into which he said: And you don’t give it away.

The house settled and shifted in the morning warmth.

. . .

In the attic, not a trace of Present could be found. Not a glimmer of Gift made itself known from the stacks of things she knew so well. The house was very cleverly packed full of stuff: handy and rare things which Fredric used for his work. Hollo knew nothing of their uses, but you would think to find the new, secret something would be easy amidst the familiar piles.

Perhaps the thing you want to find hides somewhere else frozen in time, 

Fredric whispered cryptically from the attic mirror.

Instantly she was off, to the broken clock in his bedroom on the floor below, and when she arrived, flung the glass door open.

No, no silly me sorry, spoke the hand mirror on his dresser. Not there, maybe … perhaps you seek to find instead, a package in the house of bread.

House of Bread, she whispered to herself. The ninth house, she recited from her books. The constellation of The Maiden … the painting! she cried, spinning on a heel.

Erm, no, the pantry. He mumbled.

Aha! she sped downstairs.

The pantry smelled of dried fish, and it occurred to her that if this was indeed the final resting place of her present, it would be a present which forever would smell of fish. It was likely that even if this house fell down and was taken apart, that pantry, even without walls, would smell of dried fish.

Zooming past Fredric through the kitchen, she shouted at him. Is it here? Is this it!?

Well now, he mumbled to himself. From what we know, I’d say it’s unlikely.

In her excitement, she had forgotten to turn the handle and it very nearly came off in her hands. She took a calming breath, lowered her expectations, and tentatively drew open the pantry door.

Dried fish grinned at her from the racks, and on the floor in the middle of the little walk-in there lay a bundle of brown packing paper. Eyes wide, she sat down, then scooted herself closer to it. The parcel was not square, nor