I could hardly hear what was being said because my eyes were studying the bowls, the vase, and the babydoll too hard. Finally I decided the bowls were just homely toys, and nothing to punish her about. Still, it must be stopped. I emerged from my hiding place, startling Annakey and Areth.
“Hello, Grandmother Dollmage.”
Closer up, I could see that the bowls were clever indeed. For a moment the valley rocked beneath my feet. Then I saw the stubble geese squawking in the mown fields, and the hogs grunting after the acorn harvest at the woods edge, and the boys bleating among the sheep. All was as it should be, I told myself.
“You are too old to be with the boys now,” I said. “Go home, and tell your mother that she should be teaching you the arts of sewing and cooking and gardening.”
“Can we play later?” Areth said to her as she stood, cradling her babydoll.
“She will be too busy to play, for a long time,” I said.
She began to walk away with the babydoll. I thought to see a frown on her face, but she did not frown. “Perhaps, like Manal, I will find work better than play,” she said.
“Leave the baby, child,” I said.
She turned and looked at me for a long moment, and then put the babydoll carefully on the stump. She smoothed her skirt.
“Leave her,” I said, “and make no more dolls.You are forbidden.”
She stood still, looking at her babydoll, her hands at her sides trembling. “Her name is Nesbeth,” she said quietly and clearly.
Slowly she began to walk away again. Once, she stopped and looked back at the baby, and then she ran.
Areth kicked the ground sullenly and went to check on the sheep. When he was out of sight, I smashed the clever bowls and the vase. I took the babydoll home to give to my pig to eat.
For Renoa’s eleventh birthday I determined that I would make her a gift. I made a play doll of the finest clay, fired and painted and polished it until it was an exact replica of Renoa herself. I dressed it in fine lavender wool and plaited cornsilk for its hair. Even Renoa’s mother, when I presented it to her, was enchanted. Renoa tugged on the child doll’s hair, lifted her skirt, and scratched at its painted lips. Then she laid down the doll and ran off to play in the forest.
“She wastes her talent,” I said to her mother.
“It is not my fault,” Mabe said sullenly. “You chose her.”
“God chose her.”
“Then it is Gods Fault. Capital F. Maybe it is to be Annakey after all.”
“No,” I said. “Annakey’s promise doll has a frown.The bore hole in her doll is crookedy.”
“The villagers say until you name Renoa the Dollmage and give her all your powers, they will treat both girls the same. Just in case.”
I said, “That is probably wise,” but it angered me to think people doubted me. To spite Mabe, I made a play doll for Annakey as well. Out of my scrap barrel, I made a hasty creation with a painted face and mitten hands and plain pajamas. Then, because Vilsa had passed me in the village that day without greeting me, I painted on its face a frown.
Some of the stucco had peeled off Vilsa’s house, exposing the mud and lath beneath, but the ridges of turf that separated Vilsa’s land from the other had been planted bright with daisies and poppies. Vilsa was out of doors, busy tanning a fleece and rendering mutton fat for the wick that winter.
Annakey saw what was in my hands and ran to me, perhaps hoping that I was bringing her Nesbeth.
“Here, child,” I said, offering her the doll. “It is a gift for you, because you have been clever enough to live to be eleven years old.”
“Mama says it is because of her wheat bread and not because I am clever. May I please have the doll anyway?
She took the doll in her arms, saw the frown, and smiled.
She might have done nothing worse to fuel my resentment and wound my pride. Was I not Dollmage? Was I not supposed to be the wisest in the village?
Vilsa came and put her arm around Annakey.
“Annakey, you must thank Dollmage,” she said simply.
Annakey laughed. “Thank you, Dollmage. Look Mama, my baby frowns. She must be tired, or hungry....” She wandered away from the door, cuddling the doll, absorbed by its painted face.
“Are you teaching her to be a good wife?” I asked Vilsa.
She nodded. “She learns quickly.” Vilsa was one of those who is more beautiful when not smiling.
“Good, because she will not be Dollmage.”
Vilsa tilted her head to one side. “So you have said.” It seemed to please her that I felt I must say it again. With great irritation I noticed her cheese press was scrubbed and polished.
“It is time for you to don widow’s dark,” I said.
“My husband is not dead.”
“He is dead.”
She looked at me long, then. “How can you know, unless the valley doll you made is ...” Her face softened. “Dollmage, forgive me, but the valley doll you made for my husband — was there no power in it? Do not fear to tell me. I will forgive you.”
The gall rose into my throat. Nothing will make one anger more quickly than being forgiven. “How dare you question me?” I said.
She did not answer. She looked long into my face, and I could see in her eyes that there was more than a drop of my grandmother’s blood in her.
“Thank you for the gift you have given my daughter, Dollmage,” Vilsa said to me evenly. “Good night.” She closed the door slowly and softly.
After that day I rarely slept well. When I woke the next morning, the weight of the day was a comfort compared to the dreams that had pinned me to my pillow. I decided it was Vilsa’s fault. When her cow died of the bloat that spring, I forbade the villagers to give her a widow’s allotment. “She would be offended since she believes she is not a widow,” I said. The following year I made sure all the sick and feeble had more than enough firewood for the winter. There was little left for Vilsa and Annakey. “Annakey is young and strong,” I said. “Let her chop.”
I hated to go into my secret, locked room. When I did, I would furtively bring out a piece of the broken valley doll and throw it in the trash. Soon there was not any of it left, but still I could not sleep. One day, I arose before dawn to walk away my bad dreams. As the sun lightened the sky, I stopped behind the shed. I thought I had seen my husband. He was not there, but in the faint light I saw footprints in the soft soil of the path. Worse, the ax had been moved from its usual place. Had he found his way out of the forest to come and cut my kindling for me? It would be so like him. But the dreams of the night pushed in on my waking a moment later, for I saw a black feather in the path, a message from the robber people.
The robber people had taken my ax.
It meant I was losing the power to make the story of my village, and for the first time in my life, I feared for my people.
Chapter 4
Inscription on the Planting Calendar dolclass="underline"
Rutabagas are the key to happiness.
I hid the black feather so as not to alarm the village. The next morning, while the light was new and sideways, I went to summon Renoa to my house.
The clouds pinked up as I walked the path between the trees. In the clearing my shadow stretched out long and thin. I crossed the river and saw the waterbugs pluck at the water, and butterflies the color of new green leaves fly from under the bridge where they slept. No one could know by the beauty of the day that the robber people had discovered our valley. Because my house was farthest away from the other houses of the valley, because it was alone in the trees, the robber people had first come there. It was a precious thing to take, my ax, for it had belonged to my husband’s grandfather, but I knew from stories my grandmother told me of the other village that the ax would be only the beginning. The robber people are a cowardly people and would be timid at first. First they would steal an ax, then food from the gardens and sheds, then a cow. One day a woman would be gone, never to appear again, then children. The fear I felt as a child when my grandmother told me the stories returned to me now in my old age.