by Mav Skye
Dolly said, “That wasn’t so hard, we can free all your people and then you can be together.”
The scarecrow shook its head, and in a sad, sullen voice whispered, It is not to be at this time, but for my freedom I will grant you one wish.
“Oh?” asked Dolly thinking of the troll prince lying dead on the bridge. “Anything I want?”
He whispered, Anything within my power.
Dolly turned and glanced at the house upon the hill.
She said, “Can you swing an axe?”
If you so wish, the scarecrow replied.
“I do,” said the doll. And when he bent low to the ground to show respect to the one who had earned his freedom, therefore loyalty, she slipped the old weathered cowboy hat on top of his head like a crown.
* * *
They crept around the side of the house upon the hill, the scarecrow being careful to duck low when moving beneath the windows. Dolly couldn’t help but notice how her shadow stretched long and dark across the green grass, the axe over her shoulder. A word alighted in the macabre images of her mind, executioner.
At the side of the house, she glanced up the trellis. Ivy climbed all the way up to a window where a rusted wind chime in the shape of a carousel blew in the wind. The little silver horses tinkled as they spun around and around. Dolly remembered that sound, especially in the dark of night when there was nothing to see, but everything to hear. The window was in the little girl’s bedroom, the girl who had left her behind.
Dolly motioned to the scarecrow to show that she was going to climb up the trellis. He simply nodded back. Dolly stretched out her porcelain arms and grasped onto the trellis when she noticed a tiny crack from her wrist all the way up to her elbow. She frowned at it, then lifted herself up and climbed carefully, knowing that if she fell, she would shatter into a thousand pieces. Occasionally, she’d touch the rope used to bound the scarecrow’s neck now securing the axe on her back, to assure herself it was still there.
Once, she looked down to see how the scarecrow was faring, but he only stood there looking up at her, the moonlight haloing softly about him and the doll felt a fierce affection for the man made of corn stalks, and along with that fierce affection came anger. It was different than what she had felt toward the witch, it was a righteous anger at the farmer and his family—the little girl—for what they had done to the scarecrow and his kin.
At the top of the trellis, Dolly was sure to steer clear of the wind chime as she gazed into the window.
Inside, a night light was plugged into the wall and Dolly could see the shape of a child resting under pink blankets with puppies on them. She touched the window and to her luck, it was open just a smidgen.
She fit her slim fingers beneath and began to lift when she heard the slight sound of glass breaking. The pain was instant on her wrist, and she looked down to find another cobweb of fractures in her porcelain arm, then suddenly the scarecrow was beside her lifting the window and then, picking her up and setting her inside.
Dolly glanced at the resting girl, and she didn’t as much as stir. Then, Dolly looked out the window and saw that the scarecrow’s feet still touched the ground. The corn stalks in his legs had attached to one another and lifted his torso high, high, high into the air as if on stilts. The scarecrow waited patiently as she closed her gaping mouth, and stood back. He placed his hands on the windowsill and lifted himself through as if he were light as a feather, again retaining his normal giant height as before.
The doll hadn’t time to wonder about this marvel for the little girl could wake any time soon. She drew the axe from the rope on her back and handed it to the scarecrow who took it. They tiptoed to the little girl’s bed. A fluff of blonde hair peeked out from beneath the pink blanket, and right as Dolly was about to signal to the scarecrow to swing the axe, moonlight flooded the room and the little girl sighed and turned on her back.
The moonbeams revealed secrets that had been hidden away.
Dolly looked upon the girl’s face, and memories flitted as softly and gently as a newborn chick’s downy feather into her mind. The time they had a picnic in the sunshine beneath the apple tree. Sitting on the counter watching the little girl as she and her mother made cookies. The little girl bringing a tea cup to Dolly’s mouth as the rain pounded outside the window. She remembered other things, too. Darker things—secrets. Hiding in the closet when the little girl’s father, the farmer, hit her mother with his belt. The little girl crying when the father also hit the little girl’s brother, and later watching the girl and her mother digging a grave in the garden for the boy. Tony.
Dolly shook her head. This girl was precious. It was not the life she was meant to take. The scarecrow lifted the axe high above his head, and Dolly grabbed his hand before he swung.
He looked at her with a confusion and Dolly shook her head. “Not this one,” she said. Then leaned over the girl and kissed her on the cheek. “May you be blessed by the moon goddess,” Dolly whispered to the girl. The girl that the doll loved, and forgave.
She motioned to the scarecrow as she crept across the floor boards and out of the bedroom door. The scarecrow slung the axe across his shoulder and followed.
The next bedroom down, Dolly peeked through the open door and saw the little girl’s mother resting on the bed. Wet tears still pooled in the hollow of her cheeks, and she clutched the bible between her hands, holding it to her breast while she slept. Dolly continued down the hall, and then the stairs stepping ever so gently.
At the bottom of the stairs, they heard a stir from the couch. Dolly froze. A man murmured to himself, bringing a bottle to his lips and drinking, then babbled more at the moonlight. He dropped the bottle to his lap, and Dolly saw there were many, many bottles at his side, and even more on the carpet at his feet. The man said, “You ain’t no son of mine, crying after taking a beating. If that makes you cry, then anything’ll make you cry. And you know what happens, they bury you.” He shook his head. “They’ll bury you. So, I saved you the hassle, son of mine. And I’ve no doubt your sister and mother will follow you down to the grave.” A noise came from the farmer’s other hand. A word came to Dolly’s mind. Gun. The man held a gun. She beckoned for the scarecrow to follow her as she tiptoed to the couch.
The farmer took another long gulp out of the bottle and said, “Just working up the courage, you know, to do the deed. Killin’ ain’t no easy business, but a man has got to do what a man has got to do.” Dolly didn’t know who he was talking to, her guess was the moon. They all spoke to the goddess in one form or another.
They were behind him now, and Dolly startled when the man suddenly stood and cocked the gun. “I’m going to do it. I’m going to do it while I gots it in me. Molly?” he yelled, “I’m coming for ya, honey.”
The farmer turned and just about jumped out of his skin when he saw the doll and the scarecrow with a raised axe standing behind him. The doll snatched the gun out of his hand before he fired, and the scarecrow swung the axe.
* * *
The doll now understood what the deep holes in the garden were for, and she and scarecrow buried the farmer there. They filled in the other hole as well, and the doll placed a rose petal upon the grave of the little girl’s brother, Tony. She covered the petal with dirt, and prayed the moon goddess would cause it to grow for the little girl and her mother, so that their hearts would be healed.
After, she took the farmer’s heart from the scarecrow and they walked back into the woods, following the dirt trail that led back to the bridge.
It was there they were greeted by the witch. She held a compact mirror and was lining her lips scarlet when she spotted the doll and the scarecrow.
“Who is this?” she demanded, pointing at the scarecrow.
The doll said, “This is… uh…”
The scarecrow spoke a single word out loud for the first time. “Bartholomew.”
“Oh,” said the doll, smiling at him. “That’s a very handsome name.”
“
Thank you,” he replied.
“My name is Dolly, the troll prince named me.”
“Extraordinary,” replied the scarecrow, holding out his hand.
Dolly wiped the blood off her right hand, and holding the farmer’s heart in her left, shook with Bartholomew.
The witch flicked her compact mirror and lipstick into the swamp. She rolled her eyes. “Well, aren’t you two sweet.”
Dolly said, “We brought you a heart, a human heart, just like you asked.”
The witch held out her hand, and the doll approached her and sat the heart delicately in the witch’s palm.
The witch said, “Why, thank you, my sweet.” She grasped the doll’s porcelain chin with her left hand. “Where’s the poison gloss I painted on your lips.” The doll glanced back at the scarecrow and said, “I wiped it off.”
“After all the trouble I went to,” the witch let go of the doll’s chin. “You do make me sick.” She placed her left hand on the farmer’s heart and began to pet it, she gave a wicked glare at the doll, then turned.
Dolly followed her across the bridge, and when they reached the troll prince’s body, the witch merely stepped over it and kept walking. The doll said, “Wait! Wait, you forgot your side of the bargain.”
“Oh, what was that?” said the witch, turning slightly.
“A life for a life, you were going to use the heart to bring the troll prince back to life.”
The witch began laughing, then the laughing turned into a cackle. She held up the heart, a mess of torn muscle, veins and dripping blood and she kissed it, then licked her lips. “This,” she said, “is what keeps me young. This is what gives me power. It has nothing to do with your troll prince.”
“You killed him.” The doll marched right up to the witch. “You killed him, because you wanted me to protect your bridge.”
The witch said, “Wrong! You killed him, deary, not me. And after I’ve eaten this tonight,” she held up the heart, “I won’t need you nor him to protect me.” She whirled around again, and walked away.
The doll chased her down the bridge and grabbed her arm. “But you promised! You can’t just walk away from this.”
The witch shoved her back. “Can and will.” And that is when the doll grabbed the witch’s dark and glossy hair and yanked it, and when the witch’s head flung back, the doll knocked the farmer’s heart out of the witch’s hands and into the swamp water.
“You!” screamed the witch, suddenly she held a hammer in her hands. She swung it at the doll’s face when the scarecrow stepped up behind the doll and slammed the axe down into the witch’s skull.
The witch stared at them utterly amazed, and dropped the hammer. And then, she began to shriek as her skin lit a fire.
The doll gasped and held her hand over her mouth as the witch wailed and wailed into the night. Her skin bubbling and melting into a midnight puddle of tar upon the crevice of a wooden slat.
After, Bartholomew knelt beside the doll and stuck his hand into the tar and what he pulled out made the doll gasp again.
It was the necklace with the sapphire potion bottle that she had worn about her neck. He handed it to Dolly, and she threw her arms about the scarecrow. “Thank you!”
He patted her gently on the back. “We haven’t much time. It can only be done after a witch has died on All Hallows Day, at the witching hour, the exact stroke of three.”
The doll and the scarecrow scrambled to the other end of the bridge where the troll prince’s body lay. And the doll lifted his head, and uncorked the potion bottle. The final drop of innocence touching his tongue as church bells began to ring far, far away.
The moonlight graced upon them when the final church bell struck, and the troll prince opened his eyes. The doll saw herself mirrored in them, and suddenly she knew that she was real. She had been all along. The deception was what she had believed that made her real—it had nothing to do with skin nor bones, but everything to do with what was inside her heart, inside her mind.
The troll prince sat up and grasped both of her hands, then kissed them. She was no longer made of glass, but of smooth, milky skin. Her eyes were no longer made of glass nor of stolen cat eyes, but her very own sea green.
“The moon goddess has blessed you,” whispered the scarecrow.
Perhaps Bartholomew was right. Her reality had also come about with a breath of magic and blessings. Grasping the troll prince’s hands tight in hers, she turned to the scarecrow and made a promise. “We will free your people, Bartholomew, every last one of them until I no longer have breath.”
The scarecrow removed his weathered hat and held it over his heart, singing a silent song of his people, as the doll—no longer a doll— and the troll prince—no longer a troll—kissed under the moon’s golden beams.
The witch had spoken one thing that was true. Tonight was a night of magic because of the little girl, the little girl who had left her behind, and her house upon the hill.
* * *
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Afterword
What does it mean to be real? It wasn’t until I finished the final draft of Poison Lip Gloss that it struck me how often I write about this topic. I struggled quite a bit with my “reality” when I was younger, and even sometimes now. I can touch a blade of grass and know that it exists to me, but do I exist to it? Well, if I can bend the blade down to the earth, then I have affected it. My presence, my touch, has changed that leaf and though it has sprung back up the same as before, it will never be the same because before, it had never been touched by a human hand. And even more, I have left a fingerprint like a stamp. It is the same with people, isn’t it? Through the senses, every single person you come in contact with, you affect positively or negatively, and the same vice versa. But, I think it goes deeper than the senses, because that is physical, let’s go down, down, down shall we say to a subconscious level. If facts represent a straight line, then intuition (what we know and sense between the facts) is a wavy line weaving in over and under the facts. We all have this subconscious level, but not everyone is aware of it. It probably depends on your ancestry and DNA, whether your ancestors needed to depend on intuition for survival. But it’s like the wind, you can’t see, touch, smell or taste it. It just is.
In The China Doll, I think both Sabel and her mother knew there was something wrong with the doll. The mother senses trouble, but does not know where to look for it. She is blinded by sensibility, as most adults are. Sabel, being young, sees the trouble head on and directly, but she is too young to know how terribly wrong it is that a doll moves and talks and… murders. In the end, her dad, who is war-wise, knows that Sabel is telling the truth and he deals with the doll the way he thinks is best…but at the same time, he underestimates it. Sabel knows this, she is more wise to the world and its evils now. What is her last wish?
In Simply Wicked, it is a similar case with Jane as it was with Sabel, only with her upraising she is very confused about right and wrong. She also has trust issues. So if her favorite doll befriends her, sure it’s weird, but it’s her only friend, and she believes every word her doll says. In the end, you could say the Wicked doll’s reality overpowered Jane’s. It stole what Jane possessed. And that scares the devil out of me.
And then there’s Poison Lip Gloss where I explore the theme fully. We delve into the physical and intuitional aspects, and even deeper than that. Dolly learns about self. She is affected by the actions of characters whom she considers “real.” What she doesn’t realize until the end is that learning, struggling and understanding the how, why, what, where, when’s of the world is the very essence of reality. Dolly is no longer an inanimate object sitting on a shelf. She is doing, she is learning, she confronts her inner moral code, tests it and ultimately, along with recognizing that she was “real” all along. She does not only open herself to the far and wide possibilities of what she is capable of, but she forms a life goal that is grounded in her newly found sense of justice, empa
thy and compassion, and fierce loyalty to Bartholomew, the little girl, and the troll prince.
Am I real? Well, I have created stories with living breathing (and often murderous, but loveable) characters. Are you real? You have read, are reading, these very words that I have typed. In somehow, someway, you’ve been affected by my words, you’re thinking about them, and have formed pictures in your head that would not be there if you hadn’t read it. It takes the both of us for a story to happen. So yes, this makes me and you both very real, and even more, together we have birthed worlds and universes that spin and breathe and is…
Love and be loved. Be fierce in what you believe, and forgiving when you are wronged. Be fierce, courageous and strong. But most of all, be real.
Until we meet again,
Mav
About the Author
Mav Skye was about five when her Ronald McDonald doll caught fire. She was taking a nap and the doll fell on top of a baseboard heater near her bed. When she awoke, its hair had caught fire and its face began to melt. To her horror, Ronald McDonald kept smiling and smiling and melting and smiling... That moment instilled a life long fear of dolls in Mav. Her horror short stories have been published worldwide and she is currently working away at a suspense series involving stalking killer clowns.
I’d love to hear from you. Hit me up!
@MavSkye
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www.mavskye.com
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Also by Mav Skye
Stand Alone Novels
Wanted: Single Rose
Clown with a Hatchet Series (Coming soon!)
Girl Clown Hatchet
Chasing Clowns
