The Fifth Doll

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  “Sounds odd.” Her father watched her, waiting for explanation.

  Matrona tried a small smile. “Oh, it’s this strange plant in the wood, something . . . Slava told me about when I met with him yesterday. Small with white tips.”

  “What are you babbling about flowers for?” her mother asked, standing from the table with a burst of energy. She scooped up her plate and cup as though they offended her. “Make use of yourself, Matrona.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Matrona collected her dishes as well. She had risen early to do the milking, but the small barn needed cleaning, as did one of the milk barrels. There was always butter to be churned and bread to be baked.

  Unfortunately, Matrona wouldn’t have time to do any of it until later in the day.

  She took the pail and brush outside for scrubbing, making sure her mother saw the supplies for what would be a time-consuming chore. She set them on the table in the barn, but left her apron on the rack.

  Just me this time, she thought, leaning against the table, eyeing the bin of cheesecloths that needed to be laundered. The opening of the first doll had affected other people, but the last two had only affected her. Neither of her parents had experienced the same strange visions that had flitted through Matrona’s mind last night. Now those visions perched in faded colors alongside her memories.

  She’d dreamed strange things, too—tiny izbas and large gardens of half-dead plants. Steam and smoke rising from odd buildings far larger than even the tradesman’s home. Blocky things with long rows of square windows. And gray—everything around them was gray. The sky, the buildings, even the broken snow that littered the ground in uneven patches.

  Her temples began to throb anew, and Matrona rubbed her head, trying to ease the strangeness away. She thought to ask Slava what it meant, but he never gave her clear answers. She could only hope that, after the last doll, the puzzle would be solved.

  Lowering her hands, she thought, Find my center. What does that have to do with . . . this? The humiliation, the darkness, and now these gray, cold images. When Slava had told her she would be separated from the village, had he meant the others would ostracize her?

  She thought of Feodor. Best not to mention the snow—or any of this—to him.

  Matrona pushed off the table, smoothed her dress, and hurried to the nearest pasture fence, moving carefully to keep the barn between her and the house. She skirted around the Grankins’ potato farm before finding the road that cut through the village west to east. She spied Irena Kalagin—her doll had been painted to make her look younger—outside the cobbler’s, chatting with Lenore Demidov. Lenore’s eyes found Matrona first, and Irena’s followed. Their talk quieted instantly, and Irena’s face soured. Matrona averted her eyes, pretending not to notice. She may have advanced to the third doll, but not enough time had passed for the village to forget her shames.

  She wondered if Slava viewed her any differently.

  The village grew noisy as she reached its east side. The sounds of striking hammers, working bellows, and tossed firewood cracked through the air. Boris crossed her path, carrying a yoke across his shoulders, a full bucket of water tied to either end. She hurried around him, avoiding another pair of judging eyes, and entered the pottery.

  The workshop teemed with people today. Zhanna Avdovin waited in the corner with her arms folded, tapping her foot impatiently. Alena Zotov held an urn in one hand and used her other to make wide gestures as she spoke to Viktor Maysak. Behind him, Kostya—the one Matrona had seen out with one of the village girls last night—leaned sleepily over a slate, writing down instructions dictated to him by Rolan Ishutin, Boris’s father. Beyond them, Galina swept the floors. In the back of the pottery, Matrona spotted Jaska dressed in a dark-viridian kosovorotka. It looked new, and the ends of his hair brushed its stiff collar.

  Matrona glanced at the villagers around her, most of whom hadn’t noticed her arrival. Of course there would be people here to witness her approach Jaska. She sighed, then remembered the door tucked away behind the kiln. Escaping out the wide doorway, Matrona hurried around the pottery, finding the door across from the basement where Jaska had hidden her just yesterday. Slipping through it, she inched into the pottery, hoping to remain unseen by the bustle of people at the front.

  Jaska didn’t see her; the firelight of the kiln reflected brightly in his eyes. A rag tied about his crown kept his hair back from his face. He hefted a large hook and shoved it into the kiln, sliding it around a large pot there. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up above his elbows, and Matrona watched the lines of his forearms tense and shift as he hauled the pot from its oven.

  She flushed and tucked loose hairs behind her ears. Jaska noticed her then and started ever so slightly. Attention back to the pot, he grasped it between thickly gloved hands and carried it to a stone block beside the kiln.

  “Matrona.” He glanced to the front of the shop. Matrona’s cheeks flushed hotter—did she embarrass him, too? He passed her, moving to a small table against the wall, upon which sat three clay jugs ready for baking. He hesitated and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “I spoke with Slava last night.” The noise of the pottery almost swallowed her voice.

  “You did?”

  She nodded. “I opened the third doll.”

  Jaska glanced again at the front of the pottery. Picked up one of the jugs and brought it to the kiln. Glanced back at her, as though he wasn’t sure where to settle his eyes.

  “Nothing happened at first, but these images . . .” She struggled to make sense of them, to not sound foolish in front of the potter. “They’re like . . . memories, almost.”

  Jaska hefted the jug into the kiln and shut its door, then wiped his forearm across the bridge of his nose. Glanced at Viktor, then at Matrona. “Maybe now isn’t—”

  “I know what snow is.”

  He dropped his arm, and for a moment he was still as a painting. Licking his lips, he reached toward Matrona, but then lowered his hand and instead gestured toward the back door. Matrona gratefully fled to it, eager to be away from onlookers.

  The air outside felt blissfully cool, and she took in a deep, refreshing breath of it. Jaska shut the door and stepped around her. Pushed both hands into his hair, then grabbed the rag and pulled it off. “My mother, she talks about snow all the time. I haven’t a clue . . .”

  He gazed at Matrona with a strange sort of intensity—almost like Slava’s, yet different. It made Matrona’s stomach clench.

  He asked, “What? What is it?”

  She forced her body to relax. “It’s cold. It’s white.” A new image came to her head—pale blankets of clouds, soft down floating through the air. “It falls from the sky, like rain.”

  Jaska turned away, paced a few steps, then turned again and leaned against the wall of the pottery. “‘Falls from the sky, like rain,’” he said, not incredulous, but thoughtful. After a moment, he glanced at her. “You’ve seen it?”

  She nodded. “I have . . . in a sense. Not with my own eyes, yet . . . it’s like I did, once upon a time. A strange sort of memory. Like an old dream.”

  She thought the words too poetic, but Jaska merely nodded. His mouth worked for a few seconds before he managed, “My mother knows, too.”

  “We could ask her . . .” Matrona tried, but the words faded before she could finish them.

  Jaska offered a sad sort of half smile. They both knew Olia didn’t answer questions. She didn’t comprehend sense at all. And yet, she knew.

  “Tell me the rest,” Jaska pleaded. Kostya hollered his name inside the pottery, but Jaska ignored it, shortening the distance between himself and Matrona to no more than a pace. “What else did he show you?”

  Matrona looked down, in part to pull her focus from Jaska’s nearness, in part to concentrate. She told him about the gray skies, the cold. The houses scattered along a muddy road, smaller and far drabber than the ones in the village. She described the snow and the large buildings puffing smoke into the air, the ec
hoes of marching footsteps.

  “I feel . . . like there’s more,” she continued, “but I can’t quite grasp it. Like it’s too far away.”

  Jaska was silent for a long moment. She wondered if he was processing the strangeness of her visions, or if, perhaps, he was trying to compare them to his mother’s ramblings. Something inside the pottery broke, but Jaska didn’t seem to hear it, and Matrona dared not disturb his silence.

  She looked away, studying the grass growing between the pottery and the Maysaks’ home, the basement doors, the tips of the wood beyond. A few people passed them, but none looked their way.

  Then Jaska’s warm hand clasped hers, and everything else fell away.

  “Matrona.” His voice was just above a whisper, his hand calloused and dry. His skin looked tan against hers, the nails clean and trimmed. Clay stained a few knuckles.

  Her entire body became a heartbeat.

  He looked squarely at her, eyes perfectly level with her own. “I want you to open my doll.”

  Her spine prickled, and she pulled her hand from the potter’s grasp. “Jaska, no. You don’t understand—”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll suffer through it. I need to know what you know, see what you see. I want to know what’s at the center of those dolls.”

  Matrona shook her head. “Then let me open the last one and tell you what I see.”

  She found herself thinking again about the warning Slava had given her: “You need to separate yourself from the rest of the village.” What did it mean? Would she even be able to speak with Jaska once she finished Slava’s work?

  “I need to know for myself. I have . . . questions, Matrona,” he pleaded, keeping his voice low, glancing up once when someone passed by. “I’ve felt it for a long time. These dolls . . . If what you say is true, perhaps my answers lie in Slava’s home.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that.” He slouched a little, coming closer to her height. “I want to understand this. I want to understand you.”

  Matrona tried to swallow a sore lump in her throat. “If Slava knows I told you—”

  “That’s why I’m asking you to do it. If I thought it possible, I would go myself—”

  “Don’t do that.”

  He smiled, one dimple peeking at her. “Please. Just open the first one. If I can’t handle it, we can stop, right?”

  “You don’t understand.” Matrona wrung part of her skirt in her hands. “Everyone will know your secrets, Jaska. Including Slava. He’ll know we opened it.”

  He leaned back, a sigh passing over his lips. “And he’ll know it was you.”

  “It couldn’t be anyone else.” Matrona chewed on her lip, watching Jaska’s expression fall. Slava had never told her not to open the other dolls, had he? Just not to share the secret. Which, of course, she already had.

  Even so, wasn’t Slava’s plan for her to replace him, and soon? Once that happened, she would be keeper of the dolls, and they would be in her stewardship. In a sense, they were already hers. Why shouldn’t she open Jaska’s doll?

  “Jaska!” Kostya bellowed.

  Jaska straightened, though his whole person seemed to wilt. “I have to get back inside.”

  “Tonight,” Matrona whispered.

  He looked taken aback.

  “Tonight, after sunset,” she clarified, “When full dark settles. I think Slava is leaving for another trip, if he hasn’t already.” She thought briefly of Pamyat, but the kite hadn’t attacked her the first time she’d entered the room, and surely the beast was used to her by now. “I can go then, when the others won’t see—”

  “Let me come with you.”

  She nodded. “But not into the house. I won’t risk that.”

  “Agreed.” Jaska clasped her hand as though they were two men making a business deal. But the smile had returned to his face.

  Heavens, he was handsome.

  He released her and reached for the pottery door. “Thank you, Matrona,” he said, then slid inside. Seconds later, Matrona heard Kostya shouting at him.

  Matrona took a deep breath and leaned against the pottery, staring up into the blue, cloudless sky. Her fingers trembled, and she fisted her hands to still them.

  One doll. It was just one doll. She’d come this far; Slava would have to be forgiving. And wouldn’t it be a relief to have someone share the burden with her?

  Yet as Matrona walked away from the pottery and met the scornful glare of another villager, the still-fresh memories of her humiliation bubbled to the forefront of her thoughts. Jaska would suffer that, too, and it would be her fault.

  Then again, he was Jaska Maysak. Surely his secrets were light and easily dismissed. Surely he hid nothing of which to be ashamed . . .

  Chapter 11

  Matrona made it back to the cow pasture without so much as a glare from her mother or nod from her father. She wiped down the table and equipment in the barn, swept it out, then took to filling the villagers’ dairy requests—Georgy Grankin came by for milk, Nastasya Kalagin came for cheese, and Pavel came for butter. Matrona silently wondered at Pavel as she wrapped up his butter and set it in the basket, which was already filled with potatoes from the Grankin farm. Was his appreciation for white horses so strange? She studied him as he left, trying to piece it together for herself, but Pavel was like every other man in the village, just as his doll was like every other doll.

  As luck would have it, Feodor and his father came for dinner that night, an invitation Matrona’s mother had neglected to tell her about until an hour before, leaving Matrona rushing to bathe and dress and make herself look proper for her soon-to-be husband. She stood behind her parents when the Popovs arrived, smiling and trying to look pretty while they exchanged formalities. By the time Feodor took any obvious notice of her, Matrona again felt like a doll—not the complicated, layered one atop the table in Slava’s home, but the forgotten toy locked away inside her mother’s chest, sewn for Matrona’s vanished sister. Forgotten.

  It made her want to touch him in a way that was not at all romantic.

  Feodor and his father sat at the same side of the table as Matrona’s father, and she and her mother sat opposite them. Matrona served the shchi, ladling the steaming soup into Oleg’s bowl first, then Feodor’s, her father’s, her mother’s, and hers last. She watched Oleg from the corner of her eye, again wondering at Jaska’s words in the darkness of that cellar. Oleg was as different from Pavel as a man could be, and yet he seemed no more extraordinary than the carpenter.

  Matrona sat and, when Feodor looked up from his soup, smiled at him. He returned the gesture with a nod. A nod?

  “We have been discussing dates,” Oleg said halfway through his bowl.

  Her mother leaned forward as though Oleg were the main course. “Oh, please share. What are your thoughts?”

  Feodor answered, “We believe Pyatnitsa, two weeks from today, would be an acceptable date. It would give us enough time for final preparations without stirring up further gossip.”

  Matrona’s father took a sip of kvass. “Oh? And what gossip is feeding them now?”

  “Why we wait,” Feodor replied matter-of-factly. He seemed more interested in the food than in the conversation.

  Matrona’s stomach tingled as though the cabbage in her swallowed soup had grown wings and sought to escape. Two weeks!

  She would open the fourth doll long before then.

  “You need to separate yourself from the rest of the village.”

  Matrona cleared her throat as softly as she could and took a sip of water. She tried to tell herself that Slava didn’t matter and that what she’d always wanted—to be seen as an adult by the rest of the village—was finally about to happen.

  She thought of the hushed sound of Jaska’s voice, carried on warm breath as they hid in the darkness from the tradesman.

  Oleg chuckled. “You’re rather pink.”

  Looking up from her cup, Matrona realized he’d addressed her
, and nearly choked on her water.

  “A blushing bride,” her father joked, and Feodor smiled.

  Her father continued, “What preparations? Is there anything additional you need us to do?”

  “Simple things, really,” Feodor answered, setting down his spoon. “Working on the house, though I suspect we’ll be in my father’s abode for a short time before moving in.”

  Matrona smiled softly to herself as she thought of her own izba. A good start to a marriage. To a new life.

  Feodor continued, “I’m seeing it furnished as well. I hope to visit Pavel before we return home, to see the progression on the bed for Matrona.”

  Her smile faded, and she kept her eyes on her soup to mask it, though she needn’t have—the conversation continued around her. She had been right, then—Pavel had been working on a headboard. The disappointment came from Feodor’s words, “for Matrona.”

  So he did not expect them to share a bed. Such a thing was not unheard of; but even her parents shared a bed, and they did not act incredibly fond of each other, at least not when Matrona was around to play witness. Roksana and Luka certainly shared a bed.

  Matrona’s eyes stung, and she drank deeply of her water, blinking rapidly to prevent any tears. It’s fine, she told herself. We really don’t know each other well, not yet. Once that happens, surely we could commission Pavel to . . .

  She glanced at her betrothed, only then noticing he and Oleg had empty bowls. Silently rising from the table, Matrona went to fetch the pork kholodets from the cook fire. She stepped around Feodor’s chair to serve him, millimeters from brushing his shoulder. So close, and yet so distant. If her arm brushed him, would he notice? Would it send prickles up her arm the way Jaska’s touch had done just that morning?

  Did it matter?

  She leaned in, just a little, until their sleeves brushed. Until there was the slightest pressure between his shoulder and her forearm. There, that wasn’t so bad. Just a touch. Feodor didn’t seem to notice, even when she set the meat on his plate.