It was the first man she had seen in her entire life. He had hair on his face…as white as the hair on his head. It curled around his nose and for a moment it made her want to giggle. His rosy cheeks were large and full and his thin lips were turned up into a smile.
“Welcome, my child,” he said. “Please, come in! Come in!”
Don’t be fooled— the voice in her head began. But then the smell of wood and flowers filled her nose and she followed the small man into the cottage without a moment’s hesitation.
Inside, there was a roaring fire that made her feel more at home than her mother’s stuffy drawing room ever had. The chairs were made of turned wood that still looked like trees in a forest. Forests were fairy tales, as were the other beautiful things in the cottage. She had loved the fairy tales Oona had red to her as a child, and now seeing the odd carving tools and the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling and the many, many dresses…it was all so overwhelming…
There is a reason for that…wake up…wake up!
“Here, my child,” the old man said, offering her a cup of tea. “Drink up! We have so much to discuss.”
“Do we?” Wendy asked, taking a sip of the tea.
WENDY! DON’T DRINK ANY MORE TEA!
The voice in her head was so loud and so insistent that she nearly spilled her cup. The old man looked at her for a moment as if something was wrong. Then he smiled again and sat down in a chair opposite her.
“Your mother tells me that you are a little nervous about our Visit.”
“Yes…yes Sir,” Wendy said, feeling the voice in her head faded away briefly. But it still called on her…demanded she not drink.
“Well, I am here to tell you that what you are doing is very brave…very brave indeed. To keep the story of your mother alive and well…it is a love that only a daughter could give. I’m sure your Oona tells you all about your grandmother. Just think how wonderful it will be for your sister’s children to have you around, keeping your mother’s story alive.”
“If she has children,” Wendy said. “She’s been trying for a very long time…at least her letters say so.”
“The church has provided her with a good man, I am sure,” The Doll Maker said. “I am sure you will be telling them stories for years and years to come. But let’s not worry about that right now…for now…let’s finish your tea and try on a dress or two…or ten!” he laughed and Wendy felt she must laugh with him. But as she stood up, she noticed the smell of the room seemed to get sweeter…sweet like the smells of a butcher shop…
Run!
“Here,” The Doll Maker said, “is a dress I think would suit you nicely.”
He pointed to a lovely dress with a red bodice and a white skirt, flanked with a plaid pattern. And as soon as he had pointed to it, it was on her. She gasped and was about to drop her still full cup when she saw herself in the mirror. Her hair had changed as well; no longer long and brown but moonstone white with braids along her crown and two horsetails hanging beside her face.
“I see you like it.” The Doll Maker said. “Please, finish your tea and have a closer look.
The tea… don’t drink it…
“It’s…It’s beautiful…” she said, watching the small man come up behind her in the mirror. The smell of the fire was fading and it’s crackling gave way to the sound of buzzing. And the small man’s brilliant white hair had faded and looked far rattier than it had before…as had his face…
“Drink your tea,” he said, his voice no longer cheerful and kind.
“I…I’m not thirsty…” Wendy said.
Suddenly, The Doll Maker grabbed her by the arms and threw her to the ground. Wendy looked up and saw that in his hands he held a large pair of shears, large enough to remove her head in a single snip. His rosy cheeks and kind eyes had become sallow and dark. He was taller now, and far slimmer.
“Your aunt shared a tear with you, didn’t she?” he hissed.
“What?” Wendy cried out. No! No, she—”
“Lies!” He screamed. “She will burn for this. She’s in you now…talking to you…telling you to run!”
Now The Doll Maker was looming over her, a slender spider of a man whose head bumped the ceiling of the little cottage. The dried herbs had become wooden limbs with segmented joints that creaked as they swayed back and forth. She scuttled to the corner of the cottage and pressed her hand down on something warm and sticky. When she did, the sickeningly sweet aroma filled her nostrils and the sound of buzzing nearly consumed her.
“You should have drunk the tea,” The Doll Maker said.
Wendy screamed and leaped across the room, bowling The Doll Maker over. He cried out with a fury that shook the cottage as she began to run up the street. The Constable turned at the top of the street and began to make his way slowly toward her.
“Stop her!” The Doll Maker shouted.
She turned and saw that the cottage was gone. Now it was a squat building, rusted through and swarming with flies. Her legs wouldn’t move…her mouth hung open…she couldn’t breathe.
Run, my love! The voice in her head shouted…the voice of Oona…Oona whose tear she had kissed away to hide from Mother. Run!
Dressed in her Doll’s clothes, Wendy ran to the gates of the convent, the Constable lumbering behind her, the sound of the Doll Maker screaming behind her. The women who had made their Visits before kept in front of the giant to delay him, their wooden hands degloved to use as weapons.
But when she reached the gate, the key shook in her hand.
GO! GO! GO!
The Constable was behind her. All she had to do was open the Convent Gates.
Right behind her.
Run! Be free!
The key turned in the lock just as the sound of The Doll Maker’s shears creaked open.
To Be Continued…
It’s such nervousness! First, let’s admire the dresses and wig in this chapter:
a lovely dress with a red bodice and a white skirt, flanked with a plaid pattern:
moonstone white with braids along her crown and two horsetails hanging beside of her face:
Did Wendy run away? I’m so worried about her. Let’s see her next week. And I hope you like the dress that Wendy wore.