IGMS Issue 24

by IGMS

  I tiptoe quietly into the nursery, but Grace and Alic aren't sleeping here tonight. I locate Havrim's dark form on the ground and settle down next to him, careful to keep a good hand's width apart. Maybe he doesn't like me being too close? I've heard humans can be like that, and he's still fresh in his doll.

  "Hey. I, uh . . ." I start. I don't really have much to say. No, there's plenty, actually: I managed to overhear Faerci grumbling earlier about stuff that's going on in the outside world. People are killing dolls again -- or still, probably. Nobody tells me anything. "Religious extremists" Faerci called them. But I don't want to talk to Havrim about that.

  "I guess you, uh . . . had a very different life. Before." Could Havrim be religious? Would he tell me more about it? I wonder, though . . . If he is religious, maybe he didn't actually want to get put into a doll. Maybe he thinks it's wrong. I doubt his master had a chance to ask him about it.

  "You're doing really well, you know? Faerci made you better than any of us."

  I give up. I don't want to talk about it.

  I close my eyes, wallowing in half-formed thoughts, and find myself nestling further into the thick rug. I get my shoulder in there good and deep, feeling really comfortable, like I haven't in a while. Like I'm drifting . . . drifting . . .

  I'm in Havrim's clothing shop, and he is measuring my waist, my height, the length of my arms. He touches his hand -- his human hand -- to my cheek and says, Has anyone ever told you that you have the prettiest blue eyes? I object -- I have glass eyes. And I don't know blue. Is it pretty? Blue? But you're human, he insists. Can't you feel me touching you? Not really, I answer. No, I can't. I can't feel you. Why can't I feel you?

  Havrim frowns as he dissolves along with his shop, and suddenly my head is reeling. Something outside is pushing me, trying to get in, pulsing against the back of my neck. Slowly, heavily, I shove it away. Then I jerk up and look frantically around.

  Oh. The nursery. And there's Havrim, sleeping. Still a doll. I touch a hand to my cheek. Not only did I fall asleep, but I dreamt, too. And then that thing happened again, but stronger than ever. I think my spirit had a weird reaction with my glass ball. I think I tried to . . . slip out of my body. Like Papa does with his necromancy.

  That thought makes me shiver.

  I'm never letting myself fall asleep again. Never. No.

  Still shaky, I pick myself up and stumble out of the room.

  "Tank . . . Natt-ee."

  "Okay, Havrim. Can you keep walking if I let go?"

  He makes a heroic attempt, but all he manages is to dash forward a few paces before tumbling to the rug.

  "Right. Can you get up?"

  "Natt . . . Natt-ree . . . Nattly."

  "Yes?"

  "Ank . . . tank you."

  "Why do you keep saying that? I've hardly done a thing."

  "Tank . . . ah -- fa . . . ther."

  "I will," I say seriously.

  I oil and brush my hair in the middle of the night, and wonder what it feels like to die.

  No -- I'm no good in the dark. I pull my brush faster through my hair.

  But lots of people know where to find us; otherwise, we couldn't do business. Bad people could find us. They could find us. People with knives and bats and . . . and fire and . . . tattoos and scars on their faces . . .

  Apparently it's not considered murder if you were supposed to be dead in the first place. Not that anyone in this house will give me straight answers, but I'll get a snippet from Cook and a hint from Grace, and if I listen closely whenever Faerci blows up . . . I put it all together and think: the world outside is falling apart.

  I stop to drip a couple more drops of oil onto my brush. I know what religion is but . . . really, what is it?

  I asked Cook about it, once. He went on about believing in some all-powerful being who makes humans like Faerci crafts dolls, but when I tried to get deeper into it, he just gave me "the frown" and sent me on my way. So I asked Faerci, What does religion have against necromancy? His exact words: "Spineless bastards think they know what God wants."

  I find it hard to believe that so many people could be wrong, though. I mean, I've never met anyone who isn't, deep down, afraid of dying. So, why would they ruin their chance to keep living if they didn't have a really good reason? Right?

  Still, I know that I could never be religious. Not after watching Papa come back sweaty and trembling from a transfer. Whatever's on the other side . . .

  . . . well, I'm pretty sure it's not God.

  Sitting in my highchair, I push my forehead into the corner of the table. Over the years, I've managed to pick away a little notch in my head. It's a bad habit I have when I'm nervous or angry. Or bored. Now, I line that notch up with the corner of the table.

  I fit.

  "Stop that."

  I'm swatted back, and look up to see Faerci frowning down at me with a mouthful of stew.

  I don't even know why I was invited here. I've barely seen a human face for a full week -- Papa pretty much locked himself in his room and both Faerci and Cook were gone somewhere -- and now that they're all back, they decide to have dinner together for a change. My joining them is Cook's wonderful idea. Part of the family, I guess.

  I rest my chin on the table and watch. They shovel lumps of slimy mush into their mouths without even bothering to look at each other, let alone make conversation.

  Now that I'm watching, though, I'm mesmerized. It's so weird. I wonder what it feels like. Broth dribbles down Papa's chin. Faerci burps into the back of his hand. When I talk to the other dolls about what it's like to be transferred, they usually make a point about feeling numb, like they're floating or something, and that they'll never get used to it. But the next thing they always say is that they miss eating. I just don't get it. Probably never will.

  I try to imagine myself eating. Opening my mouth and putting something in it. Chewing . . . swallowing. Smiling. Laughing. I've seen nothing but dolls for a week. I'm a little uncomfortable as I listen to the slurping, squishing sounds, and Faerci's heavy breathing, and Papa clearing his throat . . .

  Suddenly all of the messy activity jumps away from me, and then everything goes black. I hear wood clatter somewhere. I am, for a moment, empty. Weightless, free. I am swelling up, stretching, expanding.

  "Miss Nattly." Cook's distant voice nudges at me.

  And then I'm back, dizzy, looking into Faerci's face as he pokes and prods around my head and neck.

  "Except for that blasted chip in her forehead, she's fine." Faerci lifts me limply out of my seat and onto the table. "Ah, she's back with us. Where'd you go?"

  He pulls up my dress to examine my middle. Where did I go? What happened? Both Cook and Papa are looking at me. My head feels woozy.

  Faerci lets me go and I react by jumping off the table. I pick myself up, find my legs, and run away. Cook's calls of "Miss Nattly" follow me out of the room.

  "No, arctic-late."

  Aw, Havrim. Now he's teaching the newest doll how to speak. Arctic-late?

  "Huh -- har . . . duh," protests the doll. "Har -- d."

  "I know. You get use . . . used to it."

  I sink my elbows deeper into the thick carpet. It's been a few months since Havrim was "reborn." Now it's that man named Roy's turn to learn his voice box. Grace is here without her other half -- Alic's somewhere else, which is a shock. And Havrim has Roy's head in his lap.

  Me, I'm tired, bored. Feeling lazy. I still can't get over Havrim teaching.

  "Hey, Havrim," I interrupt. "You remember screaming and throwing a fit when you were reborn?"

  I expect him to complain, but instead he looks over my shoulder at something, distracted. It's only a moment later that I hear the footsteps that Havrim must have noticed first.

  Oh, Faerci did make him better than me!

  I glance over and am surprised to find Cook. "Hi, Cook," I call.

  "Ah, Miss Nattly. Of course you'd be here. Your father sent me to find you."

  Oh? I s
tand up and walk over, and Cook actually reaches down and grabs my hand, just like when I was a baby.

  "Alright, Cook. Lead on, I guess." I glance back over my shoulder and am met with three empty glass stares.

  Cook stays with me all the way to Papa's door, still holding my hand with his thumb and two fingers. Then he looks down at me and says, "There you go, Miss. Properly escorted. I have work to attend to, but I wish you good luck."

  I nod, slowly. Cook is strange today.

  Pushing the door open, the first thing I see is a pile of three empty dolls, naked and still bald. Okay . . .

  Then I look up to find Faerci in the rocking chair instead of Papa. His weight makes the chair groan where it usually just chirps. Only then do I notice Papa sitting on his bed, staring at the floor.

  "Finally found her," Faerci grumbles. "Pick your doll, Nattly, that's what I'm here for. Your father wants to transfer you today, so you've got a choice of these three right now."

  Papa changed his mind? Does this have anything to do with me blacking out again in front of Cook? I notice then that one of the dolls doesn't even have a face -- just a big hole where the glass ball will fit.

  "Lucky you're a girl," Faerci continues in that deep voice that I have trouble hearing. "There's only one complete boy left. Then I really will have to plant the next one into a girl. Hmmph."

  I look over at Papa. "Are you sure? Papa, you'll really let Faerci replant me?"

  "Transfer," Faerci interrupts. "I said transfer, not replant. The whole works, a new glass ball. One of those dolls is better than the others, by the way, but it's your body, so you go ahead and choose."

  I look over and find the separated face of that one doll propped against a table leg. I pick it up and run a finger over its carved wooden lips, its plump cheeks. She's pretty, I guess, if young-looking. I flip it over and trace out the hollow where the glass goes.

  "My spirit's coming loose . . . isn't it?" As soon as I say it, my head starts to flutter and I look down to see my hands shivering. I drop the doll-face and cross my arms, grabbing my elbows.

  "Careful with that!" Faerci yells, leaning down to pick up the face that I dropped. "I never expected your transfer to stick from the start. On a newborn? But you're a stubborn thing, aren't you? You didn't just hang on, you grew up half normal, too."

  Faerci leans forward in his chair then, grabs me by the shoulder, and rubs his thumb over the chink in my forehead. "Ah, look at that. How am I going to smooth this over for the next one?"

  Getting jerked around doesn't help the feeling in my head -- I pull away. Faerci grunts and heaves himself out of the chair.

  "Fine, then," he says. "I've got work. Choose your doll, and I'll send Cook up later with a fresh ball." He pauses at the door, though, and looks back over his shoulder. "Ah, right. The one with the almond eyes has got a nice voice box in it. You'll like it. Trust me."

  Faerci's gone, I think. I'm feeling light-headed and it's hard to focus. Faerci left, and I'm going to black out. Why haven't I yet, actually? It never creeps up like this. Usually just . . . swoops down.

  I remember that Papa is here and I turn around to face him, but my eyes have trouble keeping up with where I'm looking and I lose my balance in the confusion. "Papa," I call, pushing myself up off the ground. He jerks his head up at his name. "Papa, is it really okay to transfer me? Are you sure it's okay? A . . . a double-transfer?"

  "Nattly, don't be ridiculous," he answers, staring at the space above my head. "You're still on that? You might end up . . . hmmph, like me. Forget it. If you're dying, perhaps then, but not before."

  Papa? Didn't he just hear Faerci explain it all to me? Did he forget that he agreed to it? Papa's been slipping, lately. Really bad, I think.

  Then he looks at me -- actually looks at me, at my face -- and it's like he just then realizes that I'm there. He shifts forward on the bed and then suddenly he's jerking all the way down to the floor, wincing the whole way.

  "Now I'm at your level," he says, smiling distantly.

  "Papa, don't transfer me! Don't transfer anyone, anymore. Stop already!"

  Instead of answering, he just waves his arms at me. I don't know what he wants me to do.

  "Come," he beckons, and I stumble over, having a tough time concentrating on where I'm putting my feet. I get there, and he leans forward and wraps his arms around me. I can't remember Papa ever hugging me before. I'm pinned, I can hardly move. But, surprisingly, I'm okay with that. I feel . . . safe.

  "Papa, I don't think I can hold on any longer." I'm all floaty and can't feel my fingers. There's a stretching inside me, a pulling away. "I need to be transferred. Right now, probably." The sense of urgency won't come, though. I feel like I'm fading. Dripping away. Anyway, didn't I just tell him not to do any more transfers? That's right, he should stop.

  I vaguely notice Papa looking at me, the rough skin on his forehead squishing together into lines of concentration. He actually sees me, now; sees my spirit, even. Sees me coming apart. Then I feel myself unhook, and the last thing I see is the horrified look on Papa's face.

  I am floating. Suddenly, I can feel Papa's arms around me. I'm swimming in them. I'm in a dark place, crumbling apart, but he's holding me together. And that's it, that's all there is, that feeling. Being held together by Papa. I remember this feeling, fuzzily, as though from another life.

  Then it's gone and I hear Papa splutter. I am on the ground, and everything feels completely wrong. I want to go back to where I just was: Papa holding me and holding me. He grunts louder. No -- I'm the one who's grunting.

  I open my eyes and see . . .

  I don't know. My first thought is that my eyes are broken. It's all swirly and bright and . . . and . . .

  Colors, I think, carefully, feeling something warm flush through my chest. I'm staring at the fancy rug in Papa's room, but it's different somehow. More. Could this be colors? Papa! I think I see colors!

  I try to move, but I can't. I think that maybe Papa's still holding me and that's why I'm stuck, but slowly other things begin to register. I feel uncomfortable, like I never have before. My chest feels incredibly weird -- tight. And all down my side, I . . .

  I hurt. I'm . . . I'm in pain. This must be what Papa always complains about.

  Did Papa . . . No! He couldn't have made me . . . human? No!

  My whole body shifts, though I don't know how it happened, and suddenly I'm looking into the face of one of the dolls.

  Oh no. Her eyes are closed. I'm sure that I recognize her, though. She's pretty, with slightly tinted cheeks and bright-colored hair. And a little chink . . . notched out of her forehead? I close my eyes and remember what Cook likes to call me: carrot top. And then I realize what Papa has done.

  I open Papa's eyes again. I have a good guess at the names of some of the colors that I'm seeing: Red hair and a wooden -- brown? -- face. Delicate, silver veins thread through the eyelids, the mechanism for the spirit to open and close them. But my spirit isn't in there anymore.

  I find Papa's tongue and work it through his mouth -- my mouth -- tasting its sharp and slick insides. I can actually feel my heart pounding in my chest and it affects me like nothing I've ever known before. Oh, and I'm breathing! Now that I know this, I'm able to stop breathing, and it feels like time stands still as a tremendous urgency blossoms from my middle and crawls up my throat. I let go of my breath, and the feeling of release sends my heart skipping.

  All the while, I keep toying with my other parts. Now I know how Havrim feels -- except that, in a bizarre way, this is all entirely natural. This is right, and normal. I sit up once, only to slip down again, and my empty doll slides off my lap. I manage a few more grunts.

  I hear footsteps downstairs -- probably Faerci. I thrill at how my ear actually tingles at the sound. He or Cook will find me soon, and then everything will get crazy. How do I tell them that my spirit just jumped into Papa's surprised hands, and that Papa had nowhere to put me except inside his own body?

  S
lowly, incredibly, I realize just how much my senses are being bombarded. I toss my left arm across my chest and manage to grab my right shoulder with it. I stop rooting my mouth with my tongue and try sticking it out instead. Then, experimentally, I lean forward with my head lolling until I feel my tongue touch my wrist -- and my whole body jumps with the strength of the sensation! I can feel the muscles of my face contorting.

  I wonder if I am smiling.

  Already, I can feel my spirit slipping from this unfamiliar body, and I realize that I don't have long. My cheeks are cold and wet -- I'm crying. But that seems strange, because I'm so happy. Papa tried to save me, but failed. Instead, what he's given me is a chance to experience what it's like to be human. And now that I tried it, I'll go to that cozy dark place and join him.

  The fringes of my vision fade. Everything that I managed to stiffen relaxes. Gradually, very gradually, I become numb -- just like being a doll, except now I know the tragedy of it.

  I'm floating again in nothingness, falling apart, but this time Papa isn't there to hold me together. Suddenly I'm scared. This isn't like before at all. What am I doing? Without Papa beside me, I'm crumbling, evaporating. I try to scrunch in on myself, but I can't. And there's something there -- big, pulsating, all around me.

  Papa!

  A memory of colors swirls in my vision, but there's nothing to see. It's like I'm at the highest point and falling in every direction. Into that big, hungry presence that surrounds me.

  Is this what Papa feels every time he does a transfer? Coming back to his body, shivering, too shocked to move. Is this what the extremists call God? What they mean by sending us to God?

  I'm getting lighter and lighter. I can't focus anymore. Resisting is hard, but giving in is oh, so easy.

  That force washes over and through me, dragging pieces of me away.

  Papa? It felt like Papa tugging at my sleeve.

  This is what I've been feeling. That pulse-pulse in the back of my head. This is what I've been resisting my entire life, as long as I can remember, only recently getting so much worse.