Sourdough and Other Stories

by Angela Slatter

  Then I begin to model it in earnest, sculpting from her delicate feet with their tiny toes, to the chubby ankles and calves to the dimpled knees, then the thighs, the rounded hips and pert bottom, the waist, flat chest, the neck with a line or two to suggest the last of the puppy fat. The face, the pouting lips, cherubic cheeks, the nose with its tip ever so slightly tilted, and the eyes-but-not-eyes, the carefully carved out pits that watch me blankly as I work.

  Taking a length of wire caught between two wooden handles (a tool as fit for an assassin as for a worker of clay), I cut her carefully in half, down the median line. I hollow her out, thin her skin until she is sturdy but fine. I slice a panel from her chest, halve it and set the pieces carefully aside, making sure to maintain their gentle curve, so they will fit once fired and hinged. When this is achieved, I mix an adhesive slurry and gently push the two halves of her back together.

  I wait while it dries and sets.

  Across the skull, I place tightly curled spirals of red hair. When I have planted a good two dozen, I whisper softly and smear further layers of extra moist clay over them until they are covered, the head is smooth and no one would suspect the seedlings I have put there.

  The air of the kiln-house is thick and dry. The oven I’m using has been heated to just the right temperature—it is the one I always prefer, the one I am so used to that I could feed it and fire something in it in my sleep. I slip the doll and the pieces of her chest onto a tray, which I slide onto the shelf, being careful not to burn myself.

  If I could, I would wait inside, anxiously watching as the porcelain child is baked, but the heat is too fierce. I sit outside on the steps, paying attention to no one, answering no questions, merely hoping and praying she will survive this phoenix-birth.

  ***

  Secondary Workshop is the house of colours. Subjected to intense heat, fed on blood and sputum like a plant on manure, the brilliant red hair is beautiful. Under my hand the locks are soft and thick; they will not grow much longer, but already they hang beyond her shoulders and halfway down the curve of her back.

  The blank sockets have been filled with a rapidly-setting adhesive and I slip the glass eyes in and rotate them gently until they sit just right. The merchants of the port city of Breakwater travel far and wide, saving their best wares for Tintern; they know Mater does not stint on materials. The orbs are as green as a pond and seem to have the same depths so cunningly are they made. I think if I did not love doll making so, I would like to work with glass. To finish, I stick on thick black fringed lashes, made from feathers.

  When these are set, I take the tints and permanent powders Mater has loaned me. Her very own set, the best quality I am ever likely to see or use.

  The brows I paint are black and arched. I tint her cheeks like the first blush on a rose. I add some shading to the dips and hollows of her face, so her expressions seem more real, her face more mobile. I tip the nails of her fingers and toes a pearly white. I splash crimson over her lips, darker and redder than they should be—for she, in my mind, is fearless and bold and her mouth should say so, even though everything else about her may whisper ‘doll’.

  I set her aside and wait for her colouring to dry.

  ***

  On the second to last day, I walk her to Tertiary. Her clothing has been hand-made and even though this is not one of my strengths, you would not know it from the garments lying on the table beside her. The dress is cloth of gold, embroidered with tiny green flowers. The bodice has an insert of gold lace that can be removed easily to view the contents of the chest. The skirt has panels of deep green velvet and the sleeves are tight to the elbow, where gold ribbons circle, then they flare out like wings. There are underclothes, too: delicate drawers made of fine cambric, with lace on the hems of the legs. A cobbler in Tintern with far greater skill than I has made her boots and gloves in soft green leather. A velvet cloak with a fur-lined hood also waits for her.

  She is a proper lady and I catch my breath at the thought of how she will look when she can move just slightly and blink her eyes. When you can watch the ruby pulse and beat.

  The hinged doors of her chest fit perfectly and are open, sticking up like abandoned ribs on an empty spine. I hold a small network of copper wire, which I twist to the left to compress. It concertinas down so I can slip it into the cavity. Once released, it springs back to the correct size and lodges its claws against the insides of the doll, safe and sturdy. There is a compact niche where an ordinary crystal would have sat as home to the fragment of soul. Now it’s where that grand ruby will reside.

  I think about it again—I have looked at the gem, touched it every one of the past four days, felt the smooth oiliness of its skin, measured it carefully, over and over to make sure I made the cage the right dimensions, so I might calculate the size of the sliver needed to animate the creature. I have stared at the reflection of my own face in its dark red surface and wondered what else I might see there if I simply watched long enough. I still have the key to Mater’s office, so I might come and go as I need to examine the jewel.

  I wrap the doll in a length of thick black velvet and put her into a box, about two feet long. I slide the lid closed so she may sleep. The clothes I hang carefully on tiny hooks so they will be ready for her.

  Tomorrow I shall embed the jewel. I will cut into my own soul and make a thing that almost lives, almost breathes. A tiny abyss for a child to pour affection into. A beautiful emptiness.

  And if I do it well, perhaps I will win my heart’s desire. And if I do it well, perhaps I will not. Perhaps it will not matter.

  ***

  I have hardly seen Selke in the last few days. I’ve been falling exhausted into bed as early as I can and she has been entertaining her new friend. When we have crossed paths, we’ve exchanged very few words, as if we’ve had an argument and are now uncomfortable with each other. In truth, there’s been no such event. It’s distraction and self-obsession that keep us apart, secrets and wishes and hopes that we fear to share lest they be found still-born if spoken too soon.

  This night, though, I cannot sleep. I toss and turn in my worry-creased sheets, feeling the coverlet as either too heavy or too light. I am troubled by everything, the weight of my hair, the way it bunches beneath the skull, how my nightgown rides up or twists about my legs and waist, how my toes are oppressed by the tight-tucked sheets at the end of the bed.

  ‘Did you see it?’ Selke whispers, even though our beds are crowded into an alcove at the far end of the dormitory. We can talk into the night should we so wish with the least disturbance to the other girls.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what. The Luck.’

  ‘Oh, that. Yes. Saw it, held it, measured it, weighed it.’

  ‘They’ve kept it in Mater’s office, haven’t they? Do you still have the key?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say without thought.

  ‘Bitsy, will you show me?’

  ‘With your sticky fingers?’ I joke. ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘What kind of friend are you, not to trust me? Tomorrow you’ll finish and it’ll be gone. This is my last chance—I’ll never see its like again. Be kind, Bitsy.’

  ‘No, Selke. I only have the key because Mater trusts me. I won’t betray that.’

  She’s silent and then venomous. ‘She’s not going to give you the position, you know. We discussed it tonight. She’s making me take it.’

  I feel sick. My head throbs and I want to vomit, but fear if I start I will not stop.

  ‘So, you see, it doesn’t matter how good a girl you are, Bitsy, how lovely your work for Holgar is—Mater is still forcing the position on me. You’ll get your guild badge and that’s all. There’ll be no room for you here.’ Her voice slithers. ‘Poor Bitsy, all that devotion, all that loyalty so ill-rewarded.’

  Every one of my nightmares seems laid out and realised before me: where I’m out on the streets of Tintern, trying to make a living, offering to create toys for food. I dream myself starving in the dep
ths of winter, not good enough to find a place in the lowliest of fraternities; left with no option but to sell myself.

  ‘But Bitsy, what if I’m not here? She won’t be able to give it to me—she won’t. If I’m not here . . .’ in her voice is a catch that tells me how much of this she’s planned. Clever Selke, always thinking. I know she’s manipulating me, but still I listen, I let her pour misery into my ears.

  ‘There’s no need for you to run away, Selke,’ I say weakly. ‘Talk to Mater, she’ll let you go. She’ll know it’s best to have an ally in Lodellan—if you’re ensconced in the Archbishop’s household, making unholy terrors for him, it can only benefit the Academy.’ I feel her fear; I know Selke sees nothing but the boredom of the classroom for her, days and days stretching end on end without ceasing.

  ‘She won’t let me go. She won’t you know. I loathe teaching, I loathe being here but she’ll make me stay. And you’ll have to find somewhere else to go, all because my aunt insists we keep it in the family.’

  I let a whimper escape me and leave my bed, bare feet silent on the rug-covered floor, and look out the window. It’s not yet frosted with winter’s breath, but the milky moonlight feels cold. Below, there is movement in the thick darkness. I squint and see Dante gliding past the kiln-house and the cooling rooms, across the packed dirt of the main yard. He slips along the wall of the wash-house and the kitchen and refectory wings. To the side gate, not the main one, but the one that leads out to the gardens.

  ‘Selke,’ I hiss. ‘Selke! Look—that’s Velatt’s son.’

  She is beside me in a heartbeat.

  ‘No,’ she says in a strangled voice. ‘He said—’

  ‘Selke, what have you done?’ I feel heavy with dread.

  ‘He just wanted to go home. I gave him a key to the room they’ve got him in, so he could escape. And he promised me . . .’

  Dante opens the gate and instead of slipping out, he pulls it back and solid shadows pour in—they are not Holgar’s troops, not the large blonde Northerners. These are shorter with cropped black hair, and they carry swords rather than the double-headed axes the Duke’s men favour.

  ‘What have you done, Selke?’ I repeat and grab her by the arms and shake her.

  ‘He promised me a place in his house. He promised his father would ’prentice me to their Armourer. If I helped and brought him The Luck, he’d take me with him.’

  ‘Oh, Selke. You idiot. He hates Holgar, he doesn’t care who he hurts. Our friends and family are in danger all because of you.’

  ‘I have to warn my aunt.’

  ‘We need to lock the doors here—soldiers and little girls don’t mix. Then we need to go to Holgar.’ I remember the fate of Dante’s sisters and don’t like to think anymore upon it.

  ‘Holgar?’ asks Selke.

  ‘He will be with your aunt,’ I say and she looks at me strangely. How can I know so much about Mater and she seemingly nothing? Does she not see the sideways looks that pass between the two? Or is she so caught up in her own doings, her own plans that nothing else penetrates? How can Mater not know this?

  We wake the others in the dormitory and urge them under their beds to hide. There’s no way we can escort forty weeping things along the corridors—the sounds of fighting are now clear, travelling quickly through the night. The girls are afraid but they listen to us. We bid Kina, the oldest, to lock the door after us.

  The hallways never seemed so long or dark. There’s nothing but moonlight to guide our feet and we pelt along towards Mater’s rooms.

  Selke is well ahead of me (she has always been more fleet of foot) and she takes a corner wide, abruptly stopping short. She flicks a frightened glance at me and I duck behind an oversized urn, my knees shaking. Into my field of vision steps Dante Velatt. I can hear other men crowding the corridor behind him, but none of them dare to move ahead of their young leader, so I cannot see them and do not know how many there are.

  The thought strikes me that perhaps Selke will betray me. I have the key on me. Perhaps she will betray us all; perhaps her finger will at any moment point towards my hiding place.

  ‘You lied,’ she says to the dark boy. I cannot tell from her tone if she is more upset at her loss or at being deceived.

  ‘A little. You didn’t expect me to pass up the chance to put Holgar and his whore to the sword, did you? But you can still come with me. I’ll give you your dearest wish.’ He raises a hand to her face and traces a line from her temple to the tip of her chin. I see a movement in her throat, a convulsion and she spits in his face. Her disgust is as much for herself as for him, I think. I turn, hearing the sound of a slap as he tells her precisely how much dissent he will tolerate.

  I take quiet steps on tiptoe and go the opposite direction. I slip out a window and stand in the shadows of the main yard, trying to catch my panicking breath.

  On the night air I can hear blade against blade, the clunk of swords countered by shields, the whoosh of the double-headed axes; all these noises crowd in my ears and render me deaf and afraid. I imagine the sound of heavy boots behind me, but there are none, at least not yet. I swallow the taste of fear and make my way to Primary.

  Gaining the workshop’s door, I slip inside; I do not turn the lock for there will be no hope if what I create cannot get out.

  I look at all the porcelain shells on the walls; perhaps fifty in all. They range in size from large babies to small children. Most have eyes, but their faces have not been painted to distinguish them from one another. I do not need them to be distinguishable.

  To take one piece without Mater’s overseeing, without having done the proper preparation, would simply be indelicate, slightly dangerous, but I would survive. I would be disoriented when the soul is slivered, for a skerrick of the mind goes with it; the two are inextricably linked. I know the theory of it, all the magic. But what I must do, the thing I must make happen, the only way I can think of to save the people I care for, will ruin me forever.

  Holgar’s men are too few and taken by surprise. Only an army will save us.

  I take one of the heavy bronze knives from the shadow-board that hangs on one wall. It is sharp and has a good weight. Time to be decisive; I fill my lungs, pause for the briefest of moments then slash the blade across my palm, my wrist and in the soft curve of my elbow where the flesh is tenderest. Blood comes. I begin to chant, low and steady, my voice timing in with the beat of my heart and the cadences of my breath. The cuts hurt, but I ignore the pain and concentrate, breathing deeply.

  This is the last time I will be me. This is the last time I will be clever. This is the last time I will tell any story.

  There is a heated agony in my chest and a lightness in my head as my soul and mind begin to slip their bonds, tiny pieces of each fusing together and marching out of my mouth in between the words and notes of my enchantment. They lodge in the bodies of the dolls. I see each of those strange manikins begin to move, to kick their feet and flail about with their arms; they climb down from the shelves clumsily. Some fall and smash, but others learn quickly how to use their limbs. They come to rest in front of me, a fragile battalion awaiting instructions. I fold an order, a command, into the animation spell.

  I feel sick and dizzy and begin to sway, but I keep up the chant, even though I grow weaker and my voice begins to fade and eventually, I am so empty I forget who I am and was, and I faint.

  ***

  ‘Shall I tell you a story? The tale of what you did?’

  Selke stirs honey and cream into the bowl of porridge, just the way Bitsy likes it. Tears have fallen in, too, but she doesn’t think Bitsy will mind. Bitsy doesn’t mind anything much now. On a chair beside the blank-faced girl sits the doll, with vivid red hair and green, green eyes. She will not be without it in the days since the Academy was saved; she carries it around like a talisman, like a child, like a sibling.

  ‘You should have seen them, Bitsy, when your little army came. Dante and his men weren’t expecting them to be dangerous, so they la
ughed when they saw those toddling monsters. Some of the soldiers picked them up to cradle like babies. Then the dolls latched on and sucked their breath out. When that was gone, they began on the blood.’ Selke sits down and spoons the porridge into her friend’s waiting mouth. Bitsy seems to find this funny, this daily feeding, but until her arm heals she cannot feed herself, she’s too weak and the pain from the cuts is such that she cries. Like a child, she doesn’t understand why she hurts and this makes her weep all the more.

  ‘They killed Dante, too, you know, no less than he deserved. All his men are gone and no one knows what I did. Not even you anymore. I’m sorry about your cousin, though, truly I am. Dante had no call to cut out his tongue.’ She spoons in another mouthful, then wipes the escaping dribbles from lips and chin.

  ‘You gave up everything you were to save us. That’s what you did. I know it’s no good to tell you, but I need to. Mater says you’ll never come back, but I need to hope that you can and if you do, you should know what you did.’ Selke looks into her one-time rival’s pale blue eyes that have forever lost their focus and fierce intelligence. Instead there is just a wide fey stare and a gentle, idiot’s smile. ‘I would never have done it. Could never have done it.’

  She puts down the now-empty bowl and unwraps a cloth bundle. The enormous Velatt ruby lies on the rough linen wrapping. ‘Holgar left this. He was so scared of you! But he wanted nothing more to do with this thing and he needed to show he was grateful. I’ll give this to Fra and it will help him look after you properly. Perhaps he can get a good price for it in Lodellan.’

  Bitsy’s fingers trace the lineaments of the jewel. Selke lets her hold it and it sits heavy as a life in the palm of Bitsy’s hand. The girl stares into the depths of the stone, as if her eyes might find secrets beneath the facets. Inside the gem something moves and it makes her laugh, a sound that startles Selke. The laughter is pure and lovely and rings like a crystal bell.