The Dollmage

Only when she looked at her daughter, Annakey, did her face shine with joy. Only at the sound of her daughters laughter would she smile.

Annakey grew tall, dark-haired like her father and pretty like her mother, and as she grew, so too did my resentment. I had carved a frown into her promise doll, but the child never ceased to smile and laugh and sing. Even when her face was in repose, her lips curled up at the corners so that she appeared to be on the verge of smiling.

Only now, when her lips are swollen and bloodied, can I see no trace of a smile. This brings me no happiness, but at the time I was angered that Vilsa’s promise could be so powerful. It humiliated me to look at the child. I had made a frown on her promise doll. When would she frown? I began to think that she smiled just to show everyone in the village that my powers were aging.

I took revenge in subtle ways, in ways so soft and sly that I was able to keep them secret even from myself. I do not wish to tell you this, but I am compelled, for I am no longer in control of the story. Though it was often my lot to help villagers in need, I was usually silent on the subject of Vilsa. If someone came to me with extra wheat, or whitemeats, or a bushel of fruit, I would give it to someone else in need before I gave it to Vilsa. Vilsa only worked harder, and grew thinner and paler and more beautiful. I gave Vilsa the worst of the cast-off clothing that was mine to distribute, but she mended and altered and embroidered the things I gave her so that Annakey might be as charmingly dressed as any. Worst of all, year after year she kept her house cleaner than mine. She was a cliff-lily: delicate but tenacious, able to cling to the barest rock wall.

As Annakey grew I feared what she might do, having the promise doll of a Dollmage, but not her gift. Would she have a kind of power? Would she abuse it? I watched her hard as a toddler and as a young child, and I was strict with her. I saw no great fault in her, but just to be sure, when she seemed loud or overactive or selfish, I corrected her.

Still, she was always cheerful. One year, at the celebration of the Planter’s Moon, when all the children get large brittle-candy moons and suck on them slowly, Renoa bumped Annakey. Her moon fell to the floor and broke into pieces. Everyone around her made small sounds of sympathy, waiting for tears. Any child would have cried a little. Annakey knelt down, picked up the pieces, said, “Look, now I have a lot of little moons. Here is a crescent moon, and this one is jagged like a star....”

She frightened me.

Now, Renoa grew up the youngest of eight sisters. She was neglected by her mother and bullied by her sisters. Though her promise doll smiled, Renoa’s face was brown as bark, and stern. I pitied her and tried to protect her from her mother and her overbearing sisters. I babysat her when her mother was sick, which was often, and let her come into my house. Everyone looked on in envy for this rare privilege. I told her that her life would be better than that of her sisters. Not for her a life of cooking and weeding and scrubbing and chores. Others would do much of this for her while she practiced her art. I talked to her about the Sacred dolls, and told her stories, but she yawned and gazed longingly out the window.

Of course it was a mistake. I meant to encourage her. Instead she began to despise the people she must serve. Her sisters’ meanness did not make her meek and sensitive, it only made her mean. She ran away from them and me, and hid in the forests and glades of Mount Lair. She knew no one could find her there where there were no paths. She came to know where the berry bushes were, and the streams, and the beneficent roots and mushrooms. As she grew older, excused from womens work because of her calling, she stayed away for whole days at a time. Nevertheless, she began to show at an early age that she had a gift.

How could she not be imbued with the spirit of my gift, surrounded as she was with the makings of my magic? She had free access to my shelves and tables, covered with cloth and wood bits, with thread and odds of fur and ribbons and buttons. Every barrel, kettle, and crock was heaped with the stuff of my craft, and it was hers to explore. I gave her my baskets to dip into, full of bones and barley, teeth and shells, seeds, antlers, and colored glass. I let her play with any doll she might see: dolls made of clay and cookie, wire and wadding, apples, potatoes, socks, and bottles. When she was only five years old, I made her help in the making of Elna Greenpea’s worry doll. Remember, Elna, that you worried your daughter would marry someone with a temperament like your husband s? After you received the worry doll, your daughter married instead a man with a temperament like yours. Your worries were over as your troubles began.