The Dollmage

“Can I keep it?” Renoa asked, not of Annakey but of me.

“Yes,” Annakey said. She said it breathlessly, as if she had fallen into a winter river. “It is for you, Renoa, for you, who will one day be my Dollmage.”

Renoa held the blanket to her as if she thought Annakey would change her mind and take it away.

I had disliked Vilsa before, but now I felt contempt for her. It seemed obvious to me that she hoped to ingratiate the future Dollmage to her daughter, and I thought it cruel of her to make Annakey give up the wondrous blanket. Is it not curious how we can justify only our own cruelties? I held my tongue, however, for Annakey was not smiling now, and that put my mind at peace.

The peace was short-lived. Slowly Annakey did begin to smile again, and more and more, until her whole face shone like polished porcelain. She turned to her mother. “You are right, Mama. It is in the making, not the having, that I was happy,” Annakey said. She turned back to Renoa. “And in the giving.”

Only then did I realize what Vilsa had done. She had not done it to ingratiate Renoa to her daughter. She had taught Annakey how to have a happiness that is beyond making oneself happy.

I saw that it had cost Vilsa. Her eyes were more shadowed with sadness, and her hand trembled as she bade Annakey good-bye.

It was the first time Annakey had been in my house, and she was stupid with wonder. She could barely listen to my words, so taken was she with the dolls that hung from the rafters and the curios on the shelves and the stuff upon my tables. She held her arms stiffly, forbidding herself to touch, though Renoa carelessly picked up this bauble and that brightly colored ribbon, and tossed them back on the table. I was seduced by Renoa’s confidence, whereas Annakey’s respect made me want to be lordly in her eyes. I resisted, as any good Dollmage would do. I bade them both to come into another room of my house.

“You have long wanted to see what lies behind this door, Renoa,” I said. “Now you shall see.”

“And shall she see, also?” Renoa said, pointing to Annakey with one hand and clutching the sky blanket with the other.

“Yes,” I said. We spoke to each other and did not look at Annakey.

I opened the door.

The girls looked. There were shelves on three walls of the room, and on them were Sacred dolls, filled with the lore and wisdom of our people. In the middle of the room was a large, round table, and on the table was a model of Seekvalley.

It was easily immediately recognizable as our village, so true was the replica, complete with a painted river, tiny models of each bridge and house, and trees to represent the wood. Renoa looked and then looked around, as if to say that this was not enough to be kept secret in another room. She went back to examining her blanket. Annakey swallowed the sight with her eyes, raised her hands as if she could not keep them from touching it, then folded them over her breast.

“These are the Sacred dolls,” I said, gesturing to the shelves holding them. “As Dollmage, I care for them, study them, guard the stories that are hidden in them. See. Here is the Charter doll, with a scroll in it, describing the limits of each family’s land. Here is the War doll. It is all right to fear it. I, too, am afraid when I look at it. Here is the Calendar doll, and here, most sacred, the God doll. Someday, Renoa, when you are Dollmage, you may study the scrolls hidden in them. By them and by the laws written there, will you guide and judge our people.”

“Who made them?” Annakey asked softly.

“Certain great Dollmages have added to them over the ages. There have been many Dollmages, but few have made a doll worthy of becoming a Sacred doll. Not even I have done so, nor will I now in my old age.” I swept my arm toward the table. “On the table is our village doll. No house is built in Seekvalley until it is first made here in miniature. No bridge is built until it is first fashioned for the village doll. I am the storymaker. I make the story of the village. It is the most important part of my work as a Dollmage. Look.”

I took a bucket of water and poured it over the center of the village. All the water ran to the rivers and flowed off the doll. Annakey laughed with delight, but Renoa shrugged. “It is nothing more than what I have seen from the heights ot the mountains,” she said.

Annakey looked at the blanket Renoa was tightly clutching. “Renoa’s blanket is like a doll of the sky,” she said, smiling, as if she had just figured out the rules of an intricate game. We ignored her.

“Here is my house,” Renoa said, poking at one of the tiny houses.

“Renoa, be gentle and pay attention,” I said. “I will tell you what no one else in the village can know, and the reason why I brought you here. Last night I found a black feather behind my shed.”

“Black?” Renoa said.

“Black”.

“It was blue.Your eyes are old.”

“It was black.”

“Someone is playing a trick on you because you are a rude old woman.”

“My ax is gone.”

Renoa grimaced as if she had just bitten into a sour apple.