The Dollmage

She shrugged. I named the child Renoa after the baby I never had, and I began to love her.

Then I went to see Vilsa Rainsayer. Her roof needed thatch, and the shed door was in poor repair, but what was to be expected? Her husband had still not returned. When people suggested that she mourn for her husband, she only laughed. She refused to believe that he was dead. She was a quiet lass, but bone stubborn.

Vilsa sat in a rocker, cradling her babe as if she had given birth to her own heart. The floor of stone flags was clean as a river pebble. Before the fire were two sturdy chairs, and on them were thick, soft cushions, newly sewn, the stuffing smelling sweet of ladies’ bedstraw. The fire was cheery, the mantel dusted, the hearthstone scrubbed, and the chimney breast decorated with a swag of dried flowers.The pottery sink was without stain, the cream pans were polished, and the kettle scrubbed. Through the bedroom door I could see a bed, thick with quilted comforters, and a few worn clothes hung clean and mended on hooks. A chest at the foot of the bed had been freshly oiled. There were clover tarts in a basket on the table, the scent of them warming the house as much as the fire.

I love clover tarts, but today the smell of them made me gag.

“How could you clean today?” I asked.

She was pale, but prettier for it. “My friends have been kind,” Vilsa said.

“You were not supposed to be the one,” I said to her.

“Forgive me, Dollmage, but is God not the one who gave me to deliver in the storm?” Her voice was deferent, but strong in the truth. When was she going to learn not to be more right than me?

“Perhaps,” I said, “but she will not be Dollmage.”

“Have you made her promise doll already?” she asked, surprised.

“No.”

“Then we will see.”

She did not see that I wanted to slap her for her insolence. Everyone else feared and flattered me, and I had become used to it.

She could not keep her eyes off her baby child. Why did that also cause me a small pain at the back of my heart?

“What will you name her?” I asked in the most civil tone I could manage.

“Annakey, for her father loves that name.”

“Let me give you some advice,” I said.

“Yes, Dollmage.”

“It is foolish to love your Annakey so. A child who is adored and meets with nothing but kindness in its own home will be baffled when it meets the world full of greed and cruelty. A child who is protected does not learn to fight, does not learn to be wary and sly.”

Vilsa smiled and said respectfully, “Dollmage, did our grandmother not teach us that a child who is loved in her own home will grow to look for love everywhere?”

Why must she remind me of our shared heritage? Why must she ever contradict me?

She saw my look and said quietly, “Dollmage, in my joy for my child, 1 have forgotten your sorrow in losing your husband. I am so sorry for your loss.”

“Your husband, too, is dead,” I said. I wanted to hurt her. Had she not hurt me?

She looked at me for a long moment. She was pale from childbirth, but she became even paler then. Finally, she shook her head. “I would know.”

“You cannot know.”

“Dollmage, you have made a valley doll. My husband had great faith in your art. He will find the valley, and then he will return.”

“If he does not, it will not be my fault,” I said. “I told you all before I made it that there is nothing beyond these mountains.”

Vilsa looked down at her child and held her even more tightly. “My husband will come home with a story to tell.”

Then she forgot me, and began to sing to her child a sweet song of love.Vilsa’s husband was gone, but God had given her a child to comfort her heart.

Summer turned into fall as I found the perfect wood for each infant’s doll. I fasted and prayed to find the promise that lay hidden within.

It did not come to me. It would not. I went without sleep many nights. One day I went to Mabe Willowknot’s home. I picked up the baby Renoa and took her to my house.

“Poor babe,” I said. “You waited too long to come, and now there is no power in me even to make you a promise doll.”

Baby Renoa began to wail, but even as she did, I knew how to make Manal’s promise doll. I let God guide my hands as I carved away the wood that hid the promise of the child’s life. When it was done, I knew how to make Areth’s, and then the dolls of the infant girls. I borrowed on tiny Renoa’s powers.

One day I climbed upon Weepers Stump to announce the day of the promise doll ceremony for the four babies. As you gathered, I rejoiced to be alive, and to have found a way to serve you until Renoa was old enough. I rejoiced in our good valley, for black cows in a gold field, and for white geese growing fat on the hay stubble. My husband’s ghost was nowhere to be seen.

“The promise doll ceremony for Renoa, Annakey, Manal, and Areth will be at the next full moon,” I said.