Harla's Night

Two best friends gripping whittling knives sat by the fire in the Estate kitchens, both bent over round objects in their hands. One was a tall, golden-headed prince, the other a stocky, dark-haired groom, both about ten. The Prince stopped frequently to squint at his work, while the groom carved and carved, the tip of his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth.

The dark one finally stopped to appraise his friend’s work. “The nose is wrong.”

“What d’you mean, ‘the nose is wrong.’ Skulls don’t have noses!” said the other.

“Course they do,” said the first. “Or the hole where a nose should beee! Oooooh! Temmiiiinnnn! I’m comin’ to git yoooouu, Temmiiiinnnn!” He waggled the carved turnip in his friend’s face, like a miniature, malevolent ghost.

“Say, that looks pretty good! Gimme that, Alvy, lemme see.” Alvo handed over the turnip. “Huh, this is good enough it’ll win tonight. Thanks!” said Temmin. “You can have this one!” He tossed his own half-finished spirit lantern at Alvo, and ran off cackling.

“Hey!” said Alvo, catching the turnip. Temmin was a lot taller; it was useless trying to catch him, and Alvo knew that sooner or later, he’d be back, apologetic and slightly miffed that Alvo didn’t chase him. He sighed. In the meantime, he had a half-finished spirit lantern to work on.

Night fell, and the children of the Estate were gathering in the Great Hall for the spirit lantern judging, all in their costumes; their parents, servants all and dressed in their market day best, gossiped around the sides of the room as the children played in the middle, squeaking and excited. On the musicians’ stand, a little group of players made up of Estatesmen--the best among the grooms, gardeners, footmen and other servants--waited to tear through every Harla’s Night song they knew; the piper warmed up with murmuring variations on “In the Deep, Dark Hill” while the string players tuned their instruments, eyes absently fixed on an empty corner of the ceiling.

Temmin’s sister Sedra wore a gold foil crown and an old ballgown of their mother’s; though she was only thirteen, it was nearly too short. “When are you not pretending to be a queen?” said her younger sister Ellika.

“I don’t pretend, and besides, you always go as Little Snowflake,” huffed Sedra.

“I like Little Snowflake! It’s my favorite fairy tale!” said Ellika.

“Well, I’m too old for fairy tales!”

“You’re not too old for spirit lanterns!” rejoined Ellika. The two girls performed their annual bicker down the stairs to the Hall.

Temmin brought up the rear, face guilty. He wore a garish late 8th century Sairish privateer’s bandana on his head, an ancient, ratty red mustache made out of a scrap of fox pelt, crepe paper attached to the tops of his riding boots to form deep, old-fashioned cuffs, and a wooden sword thrust through a bright yellow sash tied round his middle. He held Alvo’s meticulously carved spirit lantern in both hands. It would surely win, and Temmin had made sure to write Alvo’s name on the bottom. He had fully expected Alvo to chase him, and when Alvo didn’t, he was too irked to go back to the kitchens, and more irked when Alvo didn’t search him out looking for the lantern. Did he really think I’d just take his lantern like that? Temmin wondered in peeved repetentance. And here I got all dressed up as Rustyblood Binkins. Will he still come as Blackbeard Binkins, or d’you suppose he’s really mad at me? Can’t have one of the Binkins Brothers without the other, really, can you?

Once in the Hall, Temmin placed Alvo’s spirit lantern on the judging table and wandered over to the holiday board, stacked to the ceiling with spongeballs fresh from the fryer, one tray of spiced, and one tray filled with blood red currant jelly; an irresistable odor of nutmeg, cloves and cinnamon filled his nose, and his stomach gurgled loudly. Baked apples, piles of sweetnuts, buttery caramels, greenish black licorice, little custard pies crusted with brown sugar, spiritsmilk with brandy for the adults, without for the children--he longed for the judging to be over and the treats to begin.

An elbow hit him in the ribs. “Hey,” came a voice issuing from beneath a prickly black horsehair mass of fake whiskers; it was Alvo, dressed as Blackbeard Binkins.

“Hey,” said Temmin in relief. “I was afraid you were mad.”

“Nah. I finished your lantern. It’s up on the table with the others.”

“Which one is it?” said Temmin, curiously scanning the long row of carved turnips. But just then, the gaslights dimmed, and the children grew still. A black-robed, hooded figure glided into the hall, face hidden, lit by the few remaining candles, the roaring fire, and the spirit lanterns glowing a ghastly white in a wobbly line on the judging table. The children watched with varying degrees of apprehension and excitement; the younger children creeped behind the older ones, and the littlest one piped, “Ee, iss the Bloody Un ‘erself!” before a chorus of shushes erupted to silence him.

The black figure moved slowly down the line of lanterns, inspecting every one, until it came back to one in the middle of the table. Slowly an arm rose, and extended a finger--no, a finger with no flesh upon it, just bones! The ghastly finger tapped the winning spirit lantern, and sank back into the black robes. Crokker the butler reverently bowed, picked up the spirit lantern and placed it on the top of the honor stand, followed by the second- and third-place lanterns on the lower shelf. Temmin saw that third place was was the one he’d filched from Alvo; he didn’t recognize the other two. Well, at least Alvo will win third place. The spectral figure of Harla the Bloody One, Dark Lady of Death, floated out of the hall.

The lights came up again, and the children burst into lively cheers. A crowd ran up, and Crokker announced the winners, after a stare so stern the children immediately settled down. “Third place,” he said, peering at the bottom of the lantern, “Alvo Nollson.” Alvo shuffled up and took his prize ribbon, his eyes grave. I shouldn’t have thought he’d take coming in third so hard, thought Temmin, though it was a top-notch spirit lantern. The winner was just that much better, whosever it was. “Cheer up, Alvy!” he whispered to his friend. “I think it was far and away the best!” Alvo shook his head grimly.

Second place went to the daughter of the chief gardener’s first assistant, a little girl with elbows like icepicks and wide, overly-excited eyes. She clutched the red prize ribbon to her thin chest in a paroxysm of delight.

“First place,” intoned Crokker, “Alvo Nollson.”

The crowd of children gasped, and turned to Alvo as one. “That ain’t fair!” called a boy. “You can only enter once!” The children grumbled audibly, and if Alvo had been water, he’d have either boiled or frozen from all the looks they gave him, both hot and cold.

Alvo’s expression was inscrutable behind Blackbeard Binkins’ horsehair whiskers, but Temmin immediately knew he was miserable. “That was mine, wasn’t it?”

Alvo shrugged. “I thought you were gonna use mine, so...”

Temmin jumped on a chair. “Listen, that third place one is mine!” he called. “I, uh...I wrote Alvy’s name on it as a joke. I didn’t think it’d win anything!”

“Is this true, Alvo?” came a voice at the back of the Hall; it was Queen Ansella--wearing the same satin slippers as the Dark Lady had, her son noted to himself smugly.
Alvo glanced at Temmin, who gave him a look he hoped was full of command: say yes, say yes, you stupidhead! Alvo nodded, and said, “That one’s Temmin’s all right. I just--I was surprised to hear my name called, and I didn’t know what to do...”

In the end, Temmin got the third place ribbon, and Alvo took the first. They sat on the floor in a corner, plates piled with as many spongeballs as the plates could hold and not half as many as they’d eat in the end, and mugs of spiritsmilk beside them. They were warm and happy and increasingly full of sweets, as content as two little boys could be, with the party and each other. The floor was cleared, the little band struck up the first dancing tune, and the grown-ups, warmed by their own version of spiritsmilk, stomped and laughed as they danced the dobla.

“Don’t steal my stuff no more. I don’t like running after you,” Alvo finally said.

“You just gotta run faster, that’s all,” said Temmin.

“I can’t run as fast as you can, Tem,” his friend complained. “You’re always gonna be taller than me. Just don’t. Don’t run away from me any more. Deal, Rustyblood, me brother?”

Temmin twitched his disreputable fox fur mustache. “Deal, Blackbeard, me brother!” They shook sticky hands, and set to seeing who could eat the most spongeballs without getting sick.