Nolwenn Karst restuffs mattresses in Liskavane, and she knows a hagged bed before the ticking is open. Inside, the wool has been worked into hard gray knots the size of hazelnuts, hundreds of them, each pulled tight as though by a fingernail, and they lie in a line from pillow to foot. Wool mats evenly or not at all. This is something else. She cuts the seam, rakes the knots into a pail and washes her hands in cold water only, since warm water, she says, lets the sleeper's dreams soak into the skin.
By midmorning she is on Cord Lane with a sack of carded fleece from the wool fair at Wovrenti, and every bedpost she passes through an open door carries a stocking hung heel down. The household rule is old: a night hag takes what is whole, so each evening someone in the house darns a sock, badly and on purpose, and hangs it at the head of the bed. Two winters ago every post on the lane held one. This year Nolwenn counts nine stockings on twenty-two posts, and her order book has grown to match.
She delivers the last mattress at dusk and sees the hag. The creature is crouched on a roof ridge across the lane, folded so that her knees stand higher than her shoulders, gray as wet slate, with arms so long her hands hang past her heels onto the tiles. She faces the windows and never turns toward anyone watching her. Her work leaves a plain trail. The sleeper wakes with feet like river stones and lips split at the corners, and on the inside of the window glass, even in July, there is a single handprint of frost.
Nolwenn holds that the hag keeps a warm stone behind her breastbone and adds a new layer to it from every sleeper she wears down, and that the stone is older than the town. I have no means of confirming this. What I can confirm is the bed in the room above Nolwenn's workshop, where I lodge, because I woke there past midnight to find the hag seated at its foot, chin on her knees, watching a sock hang from the post. She stayed until the stocking's loose heel stirred in the draft, then unfolded through the wall. In the morning I laid a pocket rule across the dent she had left in the ticking and pressed a pencil down to its floor. The hollow was nineteen inches across and four deep.
- Classification
- Fey crone, sleep-feeder
- Habitat
- Rooftops and bedrooms of old towns
- Danger
- High
- Size
- 7 ft unfolded, 4 ft crouched
- Activity
- Nocturnal
- Realm
- Border of waking and sleep
- Binomial
- Somnophaga cinerea
- Diet
- Sleep and dreams
- Temperament
- Patient, watchful, cold










