Martine Leavitt
To my parents,
James and Mary Webster,
who, in their love and wisdom,
gave me a frowning doll.
One wants a Teller in a time like this.
Ones not a man, ones not a woman grown,
To bear enormous business all alone.
Chapter 1
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Be silent. I am talking.
My people, lay down your stones.
Before you stone this Annakey Rainsayer, you know it is the law and her right to have her story told. It is my duty as Dollmage to tell it. Each villager has the right to one stone, and no one will forbid you to throw it. But listen to me, and when I am done each of you will decide for yourselves if this Annakey is worthy of execution.
That is right. Lay the stones at your feet, keep them close by if it comforts you. So few of you? The stones will get heavy before the story is done.
How your hands itch to throw your stones. You hate her. You blame her for what has happened to our village. You see how I understand you? Good — now let me increase your understanding.
You see Manal standing behind me, the biggest stone of all in his hand? That stone is for whoever first casts a stone at his Annakey. He cannot fight you all, of course, but the stone he holds will take off the head of one of you. Who will be the one? Which one of you will it be?
There, I see you are now more willing to listen.
Must the ropes be so tight on her wrists? She has not tried to escape her fate. She has broken a promise and for that she must die. This she understands.
You will not loosen them a little? Ah, Annakey, they have dragged you until your arms and back bleed and small stones are embedded in your flesh.Your face is welted and bruised. Who has been so cruel?
You, Areth? You heft your stone as one who will not rest until you have thrown it. You would willingly throw a stone at me to silence me, if you were permitted more than one, would you not? You glower at me — and so you should, for some of your story will be told tonight as well. I see it angers you, Areth, that Annakey does not weep or cower. Though she has scarcely left her girlhood, she has suffered worse hurts than these. It is Manal who weeps.
Areth, I remind you that this is the law: Before a villager can be stoned, she has the right to have her story told. Break this law and you are in danger of stoning yourself.
As for the rest of you, perhaps what makes you hasty is your fear and hunger. Greppa Lowmeadow has prepared Annakey’s execution feast, a savory stew to celebrate a young womans death. I say we eat it now, and perhaps it will quiet some of the rage in your stomachs. You will not disobey me, Greppa, though you mutter and pout. I am still your Dollmage, even now.
Listen while you eat, my people, and believe, for I am old and I have no reason any longer to lie. I no longer hear as I used to. I acquired so many brains as I aged that they press against my ears. My eyes, too, grow weaker. They have seen so much they are bored with seeing. But God sees fit not to let me lose my memory, for with it would go the memory of my sins, and God wills it that my repentance loses not its ambition. This is my repentance: to tell this story. How can I face God, my soul constipated with secrets?
The story, the story, the children say Get on with the story. Very well, then, I will sit. Yes, yes, children, the story. Come closer, round the fire. Lay down your heavy stones. It is not your fault that you are rude and disrespectful. It is the stew’s fault. How can one be patient when one’s stomach is full of such gristle? Remember, Greppa, the biggest buck does not always the best stew make. What, you stiffen under the assault of my proverbs, Greppa? Think: It cannot be as bad as this stew.
I begin my story on the occasion of Annakey’s birth, with the making of her promise doll. It was the day Renoa was born also, and you, Manal, and you, Areth. I grip my promise doll, symbol of the promise God has put into me. By this you know that I speak only what is true. You must forgive me as I tell the story, as I have forgiven Greppa for this stew that is like to kill me.
Now listen, and love me anyway.
Chapter 2
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Speak valley people,
make your tale heard.
You are the letters in my word.
Sing greening valleys,
rivered and long.
You are the music in my song.
The older ones will remember: Annakey and Renoa were born the day my husband died.
He had been ill since the snow covered the peaks to the timberline.
“Do not die,” I said to him.Was I not his Dollmage? Could I not command him?
He got worse.
“I forbid you to die,” I said to him, loudly, every day.
I gave him feverfew and bloodroot and saffron tea. I made my best healing doll for him. The healing doll did not work.
With his lifeless hand in mine, I stared out my window for many hours. Four great mountains make our valley, and this day they held up the sky, a great bowl of melted blue. I could not breathe this heavy, wet sky. Outside my window I could see a bough of the plum tree. The plums baked in the sun. The bees dropped sluggishly from fruit to fruit and flew home sadly to make hot honey. My past and many years weighed down my heart, and I realized I was near the end of my powers.
I had feared for some time that my powers were getting old along with my body, and now I took my husband’s death as proof. What was I to do, since I had no daughter to take my place? I was far past the age of bearing. Neither had I chosen a successor, one with the gift, to whom I could teach the art of dollmaking. Now I had expended every strength to make my man live, and I had failed. I was sure I had no power left at all. I grieved for myself and for my people.
In the evening, when my husbands body was stiff and cold, I went into my garden to comfort my heart, and found my husband’s ghost hiding behind the root shed.