by IGMS
I'm surprised to hear a small chuckle out of Faerci for that comment. The boy-doll is trembling very slightly.
"All right, calm down. No one's going to hurt you. You know what, you can't even feel pain anymore, isn't that nice? Now, I'm sure you more or less realize what's happened, but it usually helps to hear it out loud. So. Before you died of . . . typhoid, was it? . . . you were brought to us by --"
I stop because I hear a small hiccup come from his direction. Oh no, he already figured out his --
"Ahh! Ah -- ahh! Ahh!"
. . . voice box.
I notice Faerci plug two fat fingers into his ears and he starts to yell something to me, but I can't make it out over the screaming. It doesn't matter, though. I know what to do.
I clench and unclench my wooden hand -- fifteen independent joints sliding snugly back and forth. "All right, guy. If you're going to act like a baby . . . then to the nursery you go!"
I jump over and snatch his wrist out of the air. Then I drag him, kicking and screaming, one tug at a time down the hall.
"Papa?" I shove my back into the door to Papa's room, pushing it open the rest of the way. Inside is the typical scene: Papa sitting in his rocking chair, staring vacantly into space, oblivious to everything. Probably training his spirit for his stupid necromancy somehow or other. No, actually . . . probably just staring into space.
"Papa." I walk over and tug on his pant leg, push my forehead into his knee. "Papa."
"Oh. Nattly," he says, but I don't stop tugging -- he sounds distracted. "What do you want?"
"Papa." I look up at him, and his gaze slides away from my carved wooden face, even quicker than usual. "Papa, please."
"What, Nattly? What do you want?" He still sounds distracted. He always does. I hate it.
I begin to swing lazily from side to side, hanging onto his pant leg. "I think the new doll is better than me. I even caught Faerci smiling at it. It's his best." I stop swinging. "Replant me?"
"Don't be foolish. That's what you're bothering me for?"
I start tugging again. "But I need to bother you, Papa. You should stop. You should have stopped a year ago. Papa, for me?"
Replanting me into a new doll isn't such a big deal, it just means moving the glass ball with my spirit in it into a new doll. Faerci does most of the work, even. But actually transferring a person's spirit into a glass ball in the first place . . . that's costing Papa too much, and he should stop.
Papa's gaze lingers on my face a moment longer this time. His hair is falling out, his jowls are drooping, his eyes are dark and sunken in his face.
"Nattly, I can't stop."
Stupid Papa, I think. You're scaring me.
"Consider all of those dying who depend on me."
That's not what you meant. "Papa, let Faerci replant me! I want bigger veins in my hands so that I can get a better grip and push around the new dolls. Please!"
"Nattly, no!" There's more of him in that voice.
"I bet all of my spirit will stay in the glass ball."
"No. I said no!"
"And so what if some gets left behind? I won't miss it."
"Nattly! Your spirit's constantly in flux, there's no predicting what would be lost. Your memory. Your . . . your personality. I would miss it!"
"Maybe you'd like me better."
"Get out!"
He tries to get up from his chair but collapses back into it. His knees are hurting him again. He puts his head back; already, the energy I managed to coax out of him is fading. That's why he needs to listen to me. Because of what he's doing, his spirit's gradually crumbling away to nothing.
Papa, hypocrite. He's so protective of my spirit, but look what he's done to his own.
He is lost again, to his other world of necromancy and spirits. I slink out of the room, and then stand on my tiptoes to reach the doorknob and tug it closed.
Instead of leaving, I push my back against the door. I stick out a left-hand finger and, with my right hand, pretend that I'm carving it. I always watch Faerci carve the dolls. I make a sprinkling motion over it, pretending that I'm inserting the crushed-glass veins for the spirit to flow through and work the joints. Then I hold it up and flex it: finished.
"It's the best doll hand in the world," I announce. "And yet . . ."
I still won't be able to beat Cook at arm wrestling, I think glumly. Even Papa's body is better than mine. Not fair.
Stupid Papa, I'm thinking, walking down the hall. I get a fluttery feeling in the back of my head. It's bad enough that I have to stop and steady myself against the wall. After giving it a moment, I shake it off.
Stupid Papa.
"Nattly."
I look up. "Oh, Grace and Alic," I greet the two dolls in front of me. I must be out of my mind; look where I've ended up. "What brings you to the nursery?" I do tend to wander here when I'm frustrated, though. All Papa's fault.
Alic looks at me with those beady glass eyes. He tilts his hat up, and then hooks a finger into his suspenders. "I forgot that you call this the nursery. I suppose it is one, at that."
Grace, clinging to his other arm, rests her head on his shoulder. "We heard that the doll was a little . . . lively waking up this morning. We're sorry we missed it. He's calmed down a bit now, we just met him." Her voice is deep and melodious. I want her voice box. Oh, how I want it.
"Yeah?" I say. "Never saw a doll find his voice box so quick. Where is . . . ooh, I see him!" What I actually see are two legs sticking out from behind a big, squishy pillow. I assume they belong to him. The nursery is littered with pillows of all sizes. My idea.
"His name is Havrim," comments Alic. "I remember because it sounds like Hevlah, and I had an Aunt Hevlah. Looks a bit like her, too, in an odd sort of way."
"I thought so, too!" I blurt out. "Well, I don't know about your Aunt Hevlah, but the girl part . . ."
Grace picks her head up from Alic's arm. "We should really go, dear," she says. "I want to see how my lilies are doing before it gets dark."
"Oh, you and your lilies," he chides.
"Yes. You know I get grumpy if I miss seeing my lilies."
"Well, I certainly wouldn't want that."
"No, dear, I'm sure that you wouldn't. Goodbye, Nattly."
"Bye," I say. That couple. I watch them walk away, arm in arm, their life probably little different now than when they were human. It gives me a bubbly feeling that maybe Papa is actually doing some good.
As Grace and Alic leave the room, I realize that I'm suddenly in a better mood; but they're good at that. I bounce over to the new doll.
"Havrim!" I cry. "And how are we progressing? I heard that your name is Havrim. I'm Nattly, by the way."
"Ah. Uh," he answers.
At least he's sitting up. No one's bothered to dress him yet, so I can see all of the clever joints that turn his middle into an accordion. Faerci's so good. He really is, I can't even imagine.
"Yeah," I say, "that voice box is tricky until you get used to it. Try to forget the way your old body worked -- completely different. You were just born! Think of it like that."
I decide that he needs clothes. Boy clothes. That might do the trick. I keep walking past him and poke my head into the closet. No dolls go naked in this house.
"So, besides your name, which I heard from Alic, I also heard that you were an apprentice tailor. And that it was actually your master who brought you in when you were sick and paid your fee. True story?"
"Uh . . . huh."
"Uh-huh? Wow." I riffle through the clothing on the closet floor. "I'm Faerci's apprentice. Well, sort of. I like to watch him, and some day I'm going to convince him to teach me for real. Were you and your master close?"
I turn around with a wad of shirts in time to catch him nodding.
"Uh-uh, you've gotta use your voice. Practice. Articulate. You can do it."
". . . mm."
I kneel down next to him. "I'm sorry, I forget that you're so new to all this. I bet you miss your master." I p
ick up his arm and push it through a sleeve. "Anyway, don't worry, you'll see him again as soon as you get used to your new body. I don't know if he can use a doll in his store, but that still wouldn't mean there isn't a place for you. It's not bad here, you can stay as long as you like. I mean, it's not like you have to eat or anything. And then, when you're ready, there are places where dolls can do meaningful work. Okay? Sound okay?"
"Ah. M-mm."
"Good. Can you hold yourself up for a moment?" I have his pants around his ankles, but I need his butt off the ground. With some fumbling, we manage to get everything on properly and more or less straight, and I give him a satisfied nod. His shirt's baggy enough that he could probably fold his knees in there with him, but what can I do? So I'll tell Faerci our supply's inexcusable and he'll grunt in response and the next doll will have to wear his shirt like a dress.
Well, I think, now Havrim just looks like a feminine boy. Progress, I'd say, progress.
As I turn to leave, I hear behind me, "Buh . . . Nna."
Bye, Nattly? I'll take it.
That night, after dark, I can't resist: I sneak back into the nursery.
"Havrim, are you awake?" I whisper as quietly as my voice box will go without cracking. "No, don't get up. Don't talk -- I won't even make you talk."
Grace and Alic are passed out across the room and I don't want to wake them, so I'm curled up right next to Havrim with my forehead pressed against his cheek and his hair in my eyes.
"I just wanted someone to talk to who won't talk back. You can even go to sleep. I've always been a doll, so I don't know how to sleep right. And it's usually pretty lonely at night. But . . .
"What was it like being a human? No, don't talk, I'm just thinking out loud. I always wonder, if I were magically turned human one day, would I miss being a doll? I think humans have all the advantages. But I mentioned that to Cook once, and you know what he said? He offered to trade his left hand with mine. He said mine won't hurt or bleed when he cuts it."
The room is so quiet. Just the lazy creaking of this old house, and those pillows jutting up out of the darkness.
"I'm sorry, I keep saying the wrong things around you. Being a doll's not so bad. You're alive, and that's what counts, right? I mean, you will get used to it."
I nestle deeper into the rug and hug my arms around myself.
"I promise."
I stay like that for a while and try to fall asleep, see if I can anymore. I hear Grace or Alic shift, and I turn a couple of times, but Havrim might as well be a rock he's so still. Eventually I get up and walk back to my room, but as I'm feeling for the door in the dark, I'm suddenly hit by another dizzy spell and I clatter to the floor. I hear Grace or Alic getting up, and I crawl out of the room before they see me.
On the other side of the door, I slowly pick myself up.
I must be defective, I think casually, nervously. If I am defective, then Papa has no choice but to replant me, right? He'll have no choice!
I take three steps and then stop.
But what if my glass ball's defective . . .?
"Faerci and Cook," I exclaim. "In a room, together? Do I need to get my eyes fixed?"
"Hello, Miss Nattly." Cook speaks into the air; I know he hasn't figured out where I am yet. It's so unfair being short.
"Watcha makin'?" I ask. "Oh, Faerci, wait -- don't go. Give me a new voice box? Please! Like Grace's."
"Bah." He waves me away, mouth full of bread.
Cook says, "But we've grown accustomed to Miss Nattly's voice as it is."
"I know, isn't it disgusting? I've had this stupid voice box since I was born." Literally! They say I couldn't even cry when I came out of Mom, and then poof! -- Papa transferred me. This voice box. "I really wanted a whole new body, but Papa . . ."
"Hmmph," grunts Faerci, and he trundles off. Probably to his workshop with all of the severed wooden limbs hanging on the wall, where he hunches over his worktable and carves the delicate pieces. It's what he lives for.
"Sorry," I say. I seem to have a knack for saying the wrong things these days.
"Master Faerci's proud of your doll, Miss," says Cook. "He's always comparing the new ones to it."
"Really? Hmm . . . Well, not anymore. He went and made a better one. So, anyway, Cook's actually doin' some cooking. What're you making?"
He grunts as he stirs some thick batter in a giant bowl. "It is my job, Miss. Among others, of course. Honey rolls, for the woman who brought the ill man. I finally got her to admit that she likes them."
"Papa's doing another one! Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"Well, they only just came in, and we don't like to worry your pretty little carrot top about it, Miss, until we have to."
"Don't call me that!" I complain, and Cook frowns at me. He knows I can't see color.
"Well, what's wrong with reminding you that you've a pretty carrot top? Sorry if I offended, Miss."
It's Mom's hair, anyway. I bet mine would have been dark, like Papa's. Oh, what does it matter!
"Cook," I say.
"Yes, Miss?"
"Do you think you could convince Papa to stop?"
"Come again?"
"You know, stop his . . . necromancy."
"Well," he responds carefully, "I'm sure I'm in no place to suggest such a thing."
"No, I doubt it would work, either. He needs to stop, though. He comes back with less of himself each time."
I heave myself up onto one of the chairs and listen to the slow churning of batter and Cook's periodic grunts of effort.
"Any news from outside?" I venture.
Cook frowns at me again. "No. Nothing to call news, Miss Nattly. Nothing as such."
You think you're protecting me, but I can see it in your face. You just leave me to wonder: how bad is it?
I sit there for a while longer, thinking, tapping my fingers against the seat of the chair. Then we both hear the bell chime, echoing through the household, and Cook drops his bowl, grabs me, and races upstairs with me to Papa's room.
Everything is crazy upstairs. The man is lying on his side on Papa's bed, coughing intermittently. The woman is protesting that he still looks fine (never mind that she brought him here because he's dying), and Cook is beginning to sooth her, telling her that the Master can sense when a spirit is separating from the body. Then he uses his kind words and courtesy to cajole her out of the room, proving once again why he is irreplaceable to this household's operations.
Now Papa is looking at the dying man with hunger in his eyes -- I can see it. In order to perform the transfer, he has to let his own spirit free. From what I understand, he sort of escorts the man's spirit into the glass ball before returning to his own body. If he manages to return, that is. So far he has . . .
I huddle at the very edge of the bed, by the dying man's feet. Supposedly, I'm there to sever the connection if things go bad, but we both know that anything I do would be too late.
Papa walks over to the bed with a fresh glass ball, looking at the man's face, maybe looking at his spirit itself -- I don't know the details and I don't ask. He forgets not to slouch, forgets about me and the woman outside; only that awful, eager look is in his eyes. I want to jump up and shatter the glass, but wouldn't that be like murdering this man? And I'm not sure that Papa wouldn't throw me and maybe even break me if I did.
He sets the ball on the bed and presses it against the man's forehead. Then he slowly works his joints to lie down next to him and puts his own forehead to the glass. Now I have two pairs of feet in my face. Papa closes his eyes and the man grows still, as if already dead. All I hear is some choked sobbing through the door from his wife. He's started.
I feel alone in the room. I wonder if this is the time Papa won't come back. The way the light passes through the glass ball, it looks like the ceiling is down and the bed is in the air.
Pretty soon, I find myself trying to remember what Papa was like even three years ago. I wonder if this time I might notice exactly what he's missing w
hen he comes back. I'm pretty sure he never comes back as whole as before.
A couple of minutes pass, and I begin to think that, just maybe, Papa wants to lose himself . . . because he regrets the decision he made when I was born. He only had time to transfer me or Mom when I came out of the womb and neither of us moved or made a sound. He might have chosen Mom.
Then Papa's eyes shoot open, and I am grateful that he was quicker than usual and saved me some worry. But I also prepare myself for the most horrible part.
He jerks upright and wraps his arms around himself, shaking. He looks this way and that, silently opening and closing his mouth.
I hate this. Having to wait as he slowly remembers where he is and what he's doing. Watching him tremble and sweat. It's like he's afraid of what he just saw. I hate thinking about what he sees when our spirits leave our bodies.
Finally -- finally! -- Papa looks at me and tells me to open the door. I say that he has to stand up first and he actually listens, although it takes him three tries to get his legs under him. I make a little jump for the doorknob, and the next thing I know I'm on the ground, knocked over by the woman rushing in.
As I push myself up, I hear her saying, "Is Roy . . . is he . . . in there?" Then I look over to see her hands hovering over the glass ball like she's afraid she might damage his spirit by getting her fingerprints on it.
"Yes, Ma'am," assures Cook. "He is, and in due time he will be put into a beautiful, hand-crafted doll, just like this young Miss here."
"That's right," she replies, eyeing me in a way that I'm not sure I like. "Of course."
"Miss Nattly," Cook chimes, "I regret that the honey rolls aren't ready, but if you would be kind enough to fetch us some butter cookies, and perhaps put up some tea. I suspect that would be just the thing for all of us."
Yes, I think. To remind Papa he's still alive. Eating always brings him back, a bit.
As I leave I feel a little faint, and this time I swear it's because of that woman's eyes on the back of my neck.