A Rag Doll's Guide to Here and There

by Richard Roberts

  Sandy did the eyebrow raising again. “So, you’ve heard?”

  “We don’t ever leave the trash heap,” said the tic-tac-toe doll.

  “And we’re all from Here,” said the burned doll.

  Delicately, awkwardly, the patchwork asked Sandy, “I see you have food, human child. Would you happen to have brought any tea?”

  “Tea!” said a dozen voices, rippling up and down the courtyard within hearing. A lot more let out whimpers of longing.

  One of those whimpers was mine. Anger squeezed my heart, an entirely unfamiliar emotion. It came and went quickly, but did Pincushion have to not only betray me, but interrupt the one good tea party I’d had since the Picnic ended? The danger and fear were bad enough, but clearly tea deprivation was the biggest burden of adventures.

  I had no choice but to answer, “I’m sorry, but no.”

  Sighs rippled around the trash heap as this dark news was taken in.

  Sandy let our moment of group mourning pass before resuming her interrogation. “You don’t take orders from princesses, but you would listen to a witch, wouldn’t you? If I told you to go eat Pincushion’s fluff, you’d do it.

  “Witches certainly are very There,” admitted the patchwork thoughtfully.

  The fire burned doll next to the entrance pinched her face. “Eating someone’s fluff sounds gross.”

  “I could use more stuffing,” said tic-tac-toe face.

  “Can we chant ‘Fluuuuuuuff’ and stagger along with our arms out?” asked a little bitty doll near the base of the patchwork’s pedestal.

  A scream of terror sounded way out in the forest, and got fainter and fainter as if the screamer was running away very fast. Pincushion must have been spying on us with magic.

  “Fluuuuuff,” groaned the doll with half a head. Dozens of clothlings sat up, arms extended.

  Sandy raised her hands in sudden panic. “No, no, I don’t want you to do it, I was only asking a question!”

  “It was purely a hypothetical request!” I squeaked, wrapping my arms around Sandy’s neck.

  “Oh. Hypothetical,” said the burned doll, lowering her arms. Dolls all over the courtyard shuffled back into their original position.

  As she settled against the clothling she’d been laying back to back with, tic-tac-toe face noted, “Hypothetical is a good word.”

  An approving murmur floated around, with occasional comments of, “A very good word.”

  Sandy let out her own sigh of relief, which puffed out dramatically between pursed lips. Pushing back her hair (which looked dark gold in the moonlight), she said to me, “We’re safe for the moment. We need a plan to avoid Pincushion, but we have time to figure one out.”

  The patchwork doll spread apologetic hands. “That would be beyond me, oh witch. You would have to ask Amy.”

  “Amanda,” corrected one of the dolls on a ledge on the far side of her pedestal.

  “Amie,” insisted the burned doll.

  “Amora,” argued a clothling I could barely hear behind a glass cabinet door.

  Ignoring them, Sandy asked the patchwork, “Who is Amy?”

  Folding her hands again, the patchwork said, “Our china doll.”

  I blinked, then smacked my hand over the bridge of my glasses. My hands were soft enough that was perfectly safe to do. “Oh, my. Of course you have a china doll. I’m sorry. You’re so smart, I thought you’d be in charge. Sandy, you should speak to the china doll immediately.”

  “Mostly just old,” said the patchwork sadly. She patted the pedestal surface hard enough to make a soft fwump. “Mystery, could you take them to Amy?”

  “Amie,” the burned doll repeated, a touch angrily.

  A marionette slumped against a set of shelves stood up. He wore a cloak and hood that concealed most of his head and his entire left side, but I caught hints of a deep gouge along his face and the way the cape moved suggested he had no left arm. Bowing wordlessly, he set off toward the nearby keep.

  Sandy took one step, but tilted her body so that her head still hadn’t moved. “Before I go, I’m Sandy and this is Heartfelt. What’s your name?”

  “Comfort,” answered the patchwork doll. Oh, my, great name.

  “I’m Bibbity!” called out the burned clothling by the door.

  “My memory got messed up, so now I’m Scarface,” said the one with the tic-tac-toe rips.

  Everyone ooo’d at how scary that name was, even though they had to have heard it before.

  “I’m Action Murgatroyd!” shouted the bald plastic doll, waving an upraised arm.

  “Thank you. Thank you all. I promise I’ll pay you back someday,” said Sandy, bowing repeatedly as she scooted off after Mystery.

  We didn’t have to go very far. We were just heading to the nearest keep, after all. It wasn’t that big, what with the limitations of cushions as a building material. Just a big box with a little crenellation around the top.

  Crenellation! Hadn’t I been looking for that word? These glasses were amazing.

  There wasn’t even a door, just an empty doorway. Inside, the floor had been covered with round, flat pillows, and the one room laid out like a bedroom. It had its own bookshelf and a toy chest, with clothlings—

  I looked away. Those were definitely not alive, poor things. A silver chandelier hung from the ceiling, but had no candles. Light instead came from a couple of jars with fireflies in them, one on a table by the doorway, and another on a table next to the bigger-than-human bed.

  The china doll sat on the bed. Sort of. Like the marionettes at the entrance to Here, she had been tied in place, in her case with long ribbons attached to the ceiling and walls. Aside from the ones gripping her wrists and neck, the ribbons disappeared into her dress.

  And what a dress. I’d never imagined a china doll like this. She put Teapot Princess and even Butterscotch Dream to shame. What showed of her surface was so pale white it glowed in this dimly lit room. The gown had ruffles, and ribbons, and laces, and multiple layers of skirts, and tears, some of which might have been deliberate. Netting rather than opaque fabric covered most of her upper chest, and she had a shape with more complex contours than anyone else I’d ever met, more like Sandy, but thinner. Striped stockings, red and white on the right leg, black and white on the left, reached above her knees, but not quite to the hem of the gown itself. Her full lips were painted blood red, and she had long black lashes and long, black hair. A red heart on the oversized belt around her waist and one on each side of her skirt were the only color except black on the dress itself.

  Her condition…

  I felt a little ill. Who would do this to a china doll? It was hideous, criminal. It was almost like attacking a human, who at least were adventurers and could defend themselves. All of her visible skin was covered with cracks. A chunk was actually missing from her left cheek, letting us see into the hollow of her head. The belt didn’t fasten right because it had been cut in two by claw marks, and from the hanging right side another jagged gap was visible in the china doll’s waist. Her right arm bent wrong in its long, poufy sleeve, and had an extra ribbon holding up the middle. It was also no longer in one piece.

  Unafraid, Sandy walked right up to the bed, and held out a hand, palm out, toward the china doll’s middle. “You’re not like anything else I’ve seen since I arrived.”

  In a slow, slurred, but still musically feminine voice, Amy answered, “We are all made to our purpose, great witch.”

  That seemed to mean something to Sandy, because she was silent with a thoughtful expression for a few seconds before asking her next question. “How did this happen?”

  “I am sorry, little one. That is another human’s secret. I hope my little scamps have not been rude?” Amy answered sadly.

  Turnabout was fair play. She’d changed the subject, and Sandy changed it again. “You have a French accent. Everyone else speaks English or gibberish. All the books are written in English.” Looking down at me, she asked, “Everyone Here and There spea
ks English, don’t they?”

  She smiled. A china doll with a perfectly movable mouth. She was exquisite, a work of defiled art.

  Trying not to get distracted, I said, “Yes? I mean, everyone I’ve met or heard of. Unless they’re beavers or something, with languages no one else can speak at all.”

  The smile on the china doll’s little bud mouth turned wry. “Yes. I am so broken that I cannot entirely change languages when a new child arrives Here. That is why my name is always Amelia, and my charges can never remember it right.”

  Sandy jerked fully upright, pumping a fist in the air. “Ah ha! So Somewhere exists just for the children who visit it!”

  I blinked up at her. “Well, of course. I could have told you that. I thought I had told you that. Have I told you that? It’s been a busy few days.”

  “Even I knew that,” said Tumbles, bouncing on his talons next to Sandy. He was such a good dargon, following her around with such loyalty.

  One of Amelia’s fingers waggled. “Somewhere was made by human children, for human children. That does not mean it is always safe, especially There. You are fortunate that the last few visitors have been concerned with making Somewhere more peaceful.”

  “I’d like to make it happier, but it’s so easy to do too much,” said Sandy.

  Amelia did not reply, just smiled.

  I nudged Sandy’s shoulder. She understood. “Oh, right! We’re new to There, Amelia. Our enemy who works for the princess—”

  “The evil tyrant princess!” I interjected.

  “So evil! Boogity boogity!” agreed Tumbles.

  Sandy gave us a disapproving glance, and resumed, “—is tracking us with magic. My magic, that she stole. Do you have any advice?”

  “Ask a witch,” Amelia replied, her smile turning softly amused. It would be natural for someone who couldn’t move around to be gentle, wouldn’t it? She didn’t have an option to be mean. Hmmm. I wasn’t sure that theory held up, but I’d keep it in mind.

  More focused than me, Sandy tapped her forehead. “There would be witches over There, wouldn’t there? But I think this is powerful witchcraft.”

  That didn’t ruffle Amelia at all. “Then you need a powerful witch.”

  A memory sparked in my head. Hauling out my book, I flipped through the pages to the map. No, the page after the map. Running my hand beneath the words, I read out, “The Maze. Here lives Belle Tower, the great witch, who rules over There.”

  Amelia’s head twitched. Maybe an attempt at a shrug? “‘Rules’ is a bit much, but she is the guardian of There who maintains our forest.”

  “And There is practically all forest,” said Sandy.

  Wonderful! Negotiating the Maze would be difficult, but even with a crystal ball, it would be just as hard for Pincushion. I flipped the page back and pointed at the map. “The Trash fortress goes right up to the edge of the Maze, where we entered There. No winding paths, we can walk straight there. Then we just need a convenient entrance, and to get inside before Pincushion catches up.”

  Amelia waved a finger in a circle. “Easy enough. Mystery, go tell the others to move enough planks to form a bridge between the gate wall and the Maze. We will give our guests an entrance where their pursuer cannot follow. Stolen magic will do her no good in Belle Tower’s maze. She is as powerful as any witch can be who is not human herself.”

  Sandy clasped her hands together. “Thank you!” She leaned forward, and I had to tighten my grip on both book and her neck as she leaned forward to hug Amelia, then thought better of it. “I don’t think people There are actually less nice than Here.”

  Now Amelia frowned. “That is a dangerous assumption.”

  It gave Sandy pause. She nibbled on a fingernail, and nodded in concession. “I’ll take them on a case by case basis. You and your discarded friends are certainly nice. I’d like to help you, if… that’s okay? I’ll try not to take things too far.”

  “I could not tell you ‘no’ if I wanted to, and I do not want to,” said Amelia.

  Sandy stepped out to the doorway, looking at the damaged dolls on their displays. Sliding me down into her arms, she asked me, “Heartfelt, what do clothlings do, normally?”

  “Socialize. Talk to each other, and everyone else. Pass along information. And organize. We’re very good organizers. I’m sure you noticed how Comfort barely needs a china doll to lead her.”

  We were still close enough for Amelia to say, “There does not like to be organized.”

  “Hmmm.” Sandy’s mouth set in a tight, thoughtful line. Then she spoke up, her voice clear and commanding. “Comfort. Come here.”

  She slid immediately off her pedestal, waddling on her mismatched legs up to meet us. “Yes, Witch Sandy?”

  Sandy waved one of her long arms around the courtyard. “Throwing you all away is a waste. You, and There itself, need more human attention than you’re getting. Therefore, as the greatest and truest of witches, I send you out on a mission. Go to every corner of There. Observe. Find out what is too organized, what is too neat and too much like Here. Bring the information back here—”

  “Pssst. There,” I whispered.

  “—to this fortress, and file it. If I don’t come back, keep the information current, and another human will visit soon enough and make use of what you’ve learned. Keep an eye out for librarians, as well. They may need guiding on their quest to find lost books.”

  I felt her magic spreading out throughout the Trash fortress. Not physically, but in the change of mood. Damaged clothlings who’d been sitting perfectly motionless looked around. A marionette with one good leg pushed himself up, and a small clothling with no legs at all pulled a wooden spear from the rack she sat on, tossing it toward him. It wasn’t a very good toss, but then, he wasn’t far away. Catching it, he used the spear as a cane to limp over to her, picking her up so she could sit on his free arm.

  Bewildered, hesitant, and hopeful, Comfort asked, “May I consult with the others?”

  Sandy nodded, firm and confident. “You may. I don’t want you to hurry. Do this right, and do it safely. You may be on this mission for a long time, after all.”

  Comfort curtseyed low, and waddled back toward the entrance. She was around a corner of the pillow wall, but I heard Bibbity say, “We’ll need to leave a crew here to greet new brothers and sisters.”

  “Those of us who would be damaged further by travel,” agreed Comfort.

  When the chatter had spread all around us, Sandy let out her breath, sagging back into her normal, slightly worried posture. Voice low, she said to me and Tumbles, “That didn’t seem too extreme, and now they won’t have to sit in a cemetery and be bored all the time. Maybe it will even be Charity who uses whatever they learn to make There a better place.”

  I hoped it would be anyone but Charity, but again, I didn’t say it. Sandy did not seem to want to hear just how awful her friend was. She had to know better than me, but… the Picnic.

  Sandy dragged my attention away from that memory by asking me, “Which way to the Maze, sidekick? We have a witch to meet.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Leaving the fortress of discarded toys was much easier than getting in. We walked a straight line back north toward the spot we entered There, with no obstacles worse than stepping around display shelves and Sandy stopping to eat.

  Word ran ahead of us, whispered from mouth to mouth, even if some of those mouths weren’t in the right place. By the time we got there, half a dozen roughly intact clothlings had wrestled the planks free of the gate entering the Trash heap. With her superior strength and leverage, Sandy laid them across the gap between the tower and bridge, then crawled over awkwardly.

  Tumbles strutted across with complete confidence, dragging a cushion behind him. “I used to work on a dam! I did this all the time!”

  Sandy giggled, rubbed the top of his head, and threw the cushion onto the ground on the other side, before jumping down on top of it. Hmmm. Humans were vulnerable to falling damage. I re
ally needed a pencil to add notes to Theodosus’ journal.

  Tumbledown did what his name described, and did it brilliantly. He keeled right off the end of the plank, and bounced several times on the dirt floor of the maze. Myself, I hung from Sandy’s neck and analyzed our surroundings.

  “Well, this is good. As you can see, the corridor runs in the wrong direction to reach the entrance we saw posted earlier. We could be a few hundred feet from it, or miles, but this is certainly promising.”

  Sandy edged toward the center of the hall, watching the walls suspiciously. “I didn’t expect this to be a maze of mirrors.”

  Mirrors there were in plenty. The walls themselves might be made of densely twisted thorn vines, but you couldn’t tell from the inside. Mirrors lined them floor to open ceiling. We walked in a sea of reflections.

  Distorted reflections, lumbering like giants with heads in the sky, or shrunk down so small that Sandy was my size. I shook my head in answer to her unspoken anxiety. “Don’t worry, Miss Sandy. I believe a mirror has to be perfect to be used to transport you home. Pincushion could only use that one in the hall of mirrors in Port Rait, and the mirror she brought with her to intercept us was straight as well.”

  I attempted to test this, as Pincushion said that only desire was necessary to cast the spell. Unfortunately, I didn’t want Sandy to leave, and wasn’t sure I could even fake it.

  As Sandy started walking, I watched the parade of reflections around us. “If the purpose of a mirror maze is to make it difficult to identify the walls from open space, this isn’t working well. It only takes a moment to make sense of this. For example, there’s a side corridor right there.”

  Frowning thoughtfully, Sandy replied, “Yes. It doesn’t take much, though, does it? Being in a maze is harder than seeing one from the outside. A little bit of a distraction, and you won’t be able to keep anything straight. You might not even know you’re confused.”

  “All I have to do is look down at the floor!” said Tumbles, waddling beside her.

  We passed the right-hand branch by, and a second as well. When we came to a left branch we took that, even though it just ran parallel to the hallway we’d been in. Whatever took us farther from the main entrance, and slowed Pincushion down.