by Mav Skye
The doll wondered what this meant. She picked up her axe and continued on down the trail. Because her eyes worked better now, the doll could see the reflection of the water between the trees ahead. So, she continued following the dirt path until it led her to a rotten bridge. Mist floated in cloudy swirls and whirls just above the water, and from the murky depths a swamp green troll crawled onto land. Its eyes were black obsidian. Its nose protruded like a knobby tree branch and it was much, much taller than her. It gripped the bridge’s rails with powerful hands, its muscular form kissed by moonlight. Black lips drew back and smiled at the doll. She didn’t know why, but her eyes were drawn to the dimple on its chin.
The doll felt the edges of her lips draw into a half moon of a smile. A strange feeling tickled her insides, and she clutched her tummy with her free hand.
The troll noticed this, and its grin deepened. Its voice was bold and charming. “Naughty little doll, does the witch have you smashing pumpkins?” It took a step toward her, and the doll took a step back, clutching the axe. A new word flit to her mind, and she realized that the troll was not an it but a he.
She said, “Stay back or I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” He cocked his head and grinned, and she found herself looking at the dimple once more.
The doll gulped. Should she swing the axe at him like she did the pumpkins? Should she run away? She wasn’t sure what the butterflies in her stomach were trying to tell her.
Fear, whispered the witch.
“I…I fear you,” said the doll to the troll.
“Are you sure that’s fear trembling in your veins?” He cupped his hand around his ear. “I can hear your heartbeat from here.” A mischievous twinkle lit his eyes.
The doll felt heat in her cheeks, she touched her collar bone, gazing at him with wonder.
The troll held out his giant hands, palms up. “There’s nothing to fear. I just want to talk. Wouldn’t you like someone to talk with?”
The doll tilted her head, considered and nodded shyly.
“Then come with me on the bridge and we’ll talk.” He held out a hand to her. She went to touch it, then drew back, clutching her axe in both hands.
He frowned at her, clucking his tongue. “Be that way then. Come along.” He turned his back to her and walked onto the rotting bridge wood. She followed him, bringing a hand to her nose. The swamp smelled horrible and things that looked like faces floated just below the surface of the murky water.
He said, “What do you plan on doing with that axe, other then murder innocent pumpkins?”
The doll glanced at her new toy, then back at him. “I must take a life.” She brought the axe to her shoulder, and took a step toward him.
The troll threw up his hands and edged back. “Don’t even think about it. I don’t count. Does this look like a life to you?” He spread his arms showcasing the swamp. “I’m cursed, you know.”
The doll watched him carefully. He’s lying, whispered the witch.
But the doll wasn’t so sure.
They stood side by side on the bridge, and the troll pointed at the moon. “I’ve heard dolls like that kind of thing.”
“What kind of thing?” she asked.
The troll shrugged. “Moonlight. It is rumored that it is the only thing that can make a doll real. Actually, there’s two things—”
“That isn’t what the witch said.”
“Oh, and you believed her? She’s jealous of you, you know.” He smiled at her, and lifted a finger to the lead heart on the doll’s porcelain face. She dodged his hand.
He said, “Beauty such as yours, she could have never created. That was the work of the moon goddess, bless her.”
He nodded back up to the moonlight.
The doll gazed up at it too, feeling the waves of gold caress her glass skin. She didn’t know for sure, but it indeed felt like magic. But why would the witch lie to her?
“Haven’t seen one as pretty as you for years, Dolly. You know, I’m not really an ugly old troll.” He inched near her until their shoulders touched. “I’m a prince.”
And she felt the butterflies in her stomach again.
Now fully in the moonlight, the doll observed the troll from the corner of her cat’s eye. His shirt was ripped and torn over wide shoulders and muscled arms. His pants split up his calves. She thought of her black and pink tights all torn and dirty, and she’d only been here for a few hours. The doll could see how turning into a troll would take a toll on a person’s appearance. The doll decided he wasn’t quite as dark and looming as she first thought, but he looked far from a prince. She glanced away before he caught her looking, but somehow he already knew she’d been checking him out.
“I can see you don’t believe me. Fair enough.” This time when he lifted a finger to the lead heart on her cheek, she let him stroke her skin. And when his finger slipped over her poison gloss lips, her insides quivered. His skin was warm. He didn’t smell like the swamp, but of pumpkin pie and old spice.
“You didn’t let me tell you what else you need to become real, other than the goddess moon, of course.”
The doll looked up at him now, his rich, dark eyes drawing in her one blue eye, and one green eye. “What else?” She asked softly.
He reached for the axe.
No! screamed the witch. It’s a trick. Kill him! The doll clung to the axe, hesitating, but the kindness in the troll’s eyes was more overwhelming than the witch’s voice. His eyes told her to let go of the axe, so she did.
He took the axe in his hands and raised it up, smiling at her. She threw her hands over her head, and for a moment she thought the witch was right, that he was going to slice and dice her like she had done to the pumpkins. But instead he threw it into the swamp. It made a splash, the axe head sparkling in the moonlight before sinking into the murky waters.
The troll turned back to her and took her hands. “Now that is over, I’ll give you what you need to be real and I’ll take what will break my curse.” He drew close to her, closer, his face a breath away.
And then his lips touched hers. And she tasted a lifetime of his. The castle with all its winding halls and candlestick lanterns. The feel of his mother’s hand touching his cheek, then tucking him into bed. The first kiss with a young maiden, hair the color of sunshine. The king patting him on the shoulder, offering him his first sword. Black clouds as he mourned the death of his mother. Balls and dances as all the beautiful virgins of far away countries competed for his attention. And then dragons the color of fire and sea filling the skies, breathing their fire, burning villages. He is on a white steed with a bow and fiery arrows, shooting at the dragons. But one (turquoise with a familiar beauty mark just above its mouth) swoops out of the sky and snatches him from his steed. It flies over mountains, valleys, and seas until finally dropping him in a murky swamp, no longer a man nor a prince, but a troll. Its duty was to guard the swamp, protecting the witch from outsiders.
The doll was an outsider.
The doll gasped and drew back. The troll was no longer a troll, but the handsome man she saw on the white steed. He smiled at her with a lopsided grin. “The curse is broken. I couldn’t hurt you even if she enchanted me. I couldn’t even hurt that little girl. The girl that left you by the witch’s hut.” He touched her again, gripping her shoulders, and running his thumb down the curve of her throat.
The butterflies inside fluttered once more. The doll felt the beat inside her chest thump harder, harder, and was that blood? Yes, it was. Warm, delicious blood throbbed through her veins. “Am I real?” she asked, wrapping her porcelain arms about his neck, tingling as her body touched his.
“Let me check,” he murmured against her lips, then stopped, and clutched at his heart. He choked, gasping for air.
“What’s wrong? Troll?”
He broke away from her, struggling for breath. He looked at her incredulously, hurt in his eyes. “Poison. You’ve poisoned me.”
“No, no, I haven’t.”
&
nbsp; He fell to the bridge, and she touched his chest. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”
He coughed and choked, touched her lips. “Your lips are… poison.”
“My…” She touched her mouth as well, realization sinking in.
And then he grew still, inanimate as a doll, his face paler than her porcelain.
The doll closed his eyes. As she did, she felt tears, real tears, drip down her cheeks.
In the night, she heard the witch cackle. “Life for a life. Bring me his heart, and I shall make you real.”
The doll held onto the prince’s cold, dead hands and begged the moon to bring him back to life. The moonlight no longer felt warm or magical, but cold and harsh.
Far off in the distance, a cat cried.
* * *
In the darkness, the doll saw the witch riding a stick across the night sky. She thought quickly, and called out to her. “I demand a rematch.”
“What’s that?” said the familiar voice behind her, and the doll turned to the witch with the glossy black hair and turquoise skin. “You demand? My dear, that troll—”
“Prince.” The doll corrected her.
“Yes,” the witch smiled sarcastically. “The prince had a conscience, and therefore was useless. I had thought all the royal brats were the same. I should have taken his older brother; he would have performed far better. Oh well, all that matters is that I now have you. You are mine and by right, can demand nothing.” The witch tapped the doll on the nose and turned to leave, her tall boots clapping over the wood of the bridge.
The doll thought over the witch’s every word. She didn’t know what a conscience was. Was it a fuzzy animal? A winged creature? It didn’t matter, the witch had not kept her side of the bargain.
She called out. “You must bring him back or you will have failed your side of the bargain. And I will tell.”
The witch paused on the last wooden slat of the bridge. “Oh?” said the witch, placing her hands on her hips and turning around again. “Who will you tell?”
The doll thought of the troll prince’s words and said, “I will implore the goddess moon.”
“You’ll… implore?” The witch broke out in a fit of giggles, clutching at her tight corset as if she couldn’t breathe. “My dear, nobody implores the moon goddess and she could care less about the magic of the dark arts, much less a little doll with a cat’s eye and a broken heart.”
The doll felt a spark of red fire in her veins at the witch’s words. A word came to her lips. She said, “I feel angry.”
“I feel angry,” mimicked the witch in a cruel voice. “You try my patience, doll.”
She turned again, and the doll said, “I will implore the moon goddess for vengeance against a creature who practices magic and does not keep her word.”
The witch stomped her high heeled boot, turned and marched back to the doll. They stood eye to eye, nose to nose. The witch spat, “I kept my word, damn you! I gave you three tasks and you accomplished each.”
The doll said, “Ah, but you said to take a life. But the troll prince did not have one, you had already stolen it away.”
The witch opened her mouth to argue, then quieted, realizing the doll had won.
“Oh damn, damn, damn!” she howled and stomped her foot three times. She would have looked quite adorable doing this if she hadn’t been so terribly evil.
The doll smiled. “Well?”
The witch said, “Alright, then. You have until the witching hour to take a life and I will give back to the troll prince what I have unlawfully stolen.”
The doll clapped her hands together. “Deal.”
“With one condition,” said the witch.
The doll raised her eyebrow, familiar now with the tricky tactics of the witch. “What is that?”
“That the life you take must be human. Bring me the human’s heart. One life for a life.” She jutted her chin towards the troll prince lying on the bridge.
The doll felt her heart drop. “Oh.” She felt funny about this, not the same kind of funny she felt when the troll had touched her cheek, but a different kind that turned her insides out.
The witch said, “You don’t look so sure anymore.”
The doll said, “I will do this.” She looked at the fallen troll prince. “I will do this for him.”
The witch said, “Deal.” She snapped her fingers, and once more she was placing the axe that the troll prince had thrown into the pond into the doll’s hands. She turned to leave again, when the doll asked. “One more thing.”
The witch paused with her back to the doll, and let out an exasperated. “What?!?”
The doll said, “What is my name? Everything that is real has a name.”
The witch said, “I don’t care, choose one yourself.”
“What is yours?”
The doll could see that the witch stalled, and then in a gentle voice said, “Griselda.” And she marched off the bridge and down the dirt trail that led through the forest.
The doll gripped the axe, then bent and touched the troll prince’s cheek. It was cold. What had he called her right before he told her he was a prince? Dolly. He had called her Dolly. The doll decided that was as good of name as any.
She stood and walked across the bridge in the opposite direction of the witch.
* * *
The doll followed the trail through the winding woods to a small garden where late roses still bloomed. She bent to smell the petals when two deep holes in the earth caught her eye. She plucked a red rose petal and felt its softness between her fingers as she walked over to the holes and peered inside. There was nothing there and she dropped the rose petal, watching flit and float before settling to the very bottom. Dolly wondered why one would dig such giant pits side by side when a little wooden cross caught her eye. She touched the name that had been carved into the wood. The name tickled her lips, “Tony.” And suddenly, she felt very sad. She wondered if Tony was buried deep beneath the earth, and if so… she frowned, and if so, who were the other holes for?
Hmm… she thought about this as she walked out of the small garden into a field of dead cornstalks, still standing and whispering in the breeze. Dolly paused, this was familiar to her. She closed her eyes and listened, and the cornstalks whispered about the little girl who had gripped Dolly by her hair and dragged her through the green grass, corn fields, then the to woods. It whispered about the house with the peeling white paint that sat upon a hill.
Dolly opened her eyes and turned to the left. And there, above the cornstalks sat a house upon a hill. And the doll knew that it was where the little girl lived. She walked through the cornstalks, touching the dry rustle of leaves, listening to their words when a voice, stronger than the cornstalks called out to her.
It said, Free Me.
The doll glanced around and spotted a man made of corn nailed to a pole in the shape of a cross. Dolly approached it with two hands about her axe, though she knew instinctively that the man made of cornstalks would not harm her. A word floated gently into her mind and she said it out loud. “Scarecrow.”
Its face was made of burlap and it had coal for eyes, a stick nose, and pebbles that made a mouth, although it did not speak with it. Free me!
Dolly tilted her head. “Free you?” she asked, looking around. “From whom?” She thought perhaps the witch had cast another one of her spells.
Before the scarecrow could answer, the wind rustled through the stalks, and blew the old weathered cowboy hat off its burlap head. It leapt like a frog from cornstalk to cornstalk, and the doll, dropping her axe chased after it, giggling when the wind blew and the hat did cartwheels between the rows of dead stalks. Finally, the wind held its breath, giving the doll a moment to snatch up the hat. She sauntered back to the scarecrow, clapping the hat over her head and pretending she was the scarecrow riding its pole through the wind and night sky. When she reached the scarecrow, she took off the hat and held it between her hands and said, “I’m envious of you. You ha
ve so many friends,” she pointed toward the corn stalks, “and you get to ride the wind beneath the stars.”
The scarecrow replied in a quiet voice, Please, please free me.
“From whom? I see no one about.”
The scarecrow said, “From my cross.”
The doll walked around the scarecrow observing it in the moonlight. She could see that its arms had been nailed, and that a rope was tied about its neck tethering it to the pole.
She glanced around for something to climb on, and found a wooden barrel a few feet away. She rolled it up behind the scarecrow, and clambered atop of it. She began to work at the rusted nail at its sleeves. “Who did this awful thing to you?”
The scarecrow replied, The farmer that lives in the house upon the hill.
Dolly turned and looked at it again. The house was tall and narrow with extreme sloping roofs and dark windows. Candles lit up two windows in the attic, making them look like two burning eyes in the night.
Dolly said, “I can’t imagine that even the witch would be so cruel as to nail you to this cross.”
The scarecrow said, The humans have done it to our kind for centuries. They hang us on crosses for murders of crows to mock and laugh at us.
“That’s horrible!” Dolly plucked out the rusted nail, and slowly helped the scarecrow to rest his arm at its side. Then she went to work on the other one. “I don’t understand. Why would they do that?”
He replied, It is the way things are.
She wiggled and pulled at the rusted nail until it popped out of its ancient hole, and again, slowly lowered the scarecrow’s arm to his side. She said, “We can change that, though. The way things are. I’ll start by setting you free.”
Dolly moved to the back of the pole, where she inspected the thick rope about its neck. She climbed down the barrel, snatched up her axe, and dragged it up with her, noting again that she had torn even more holes in her tights. At the top, she swung the axe at the pole slicing the rope in half.
The scarecrow fell from its bonds.
“Oh!” cried Dolly, scrambling back down the barrel, and helping the Scarecrow to its feet, where it wobbled and wiggled before standing to its full height, which was even taller than the troll prince.
