The Dockenmacher

Nestled in the artisan district of downtown Clarksville, the “Bell Witch Doll Hospital” had several examples in their shop windows, with a black velvet curtain behind both them and the door, blocking the view within. A handcrafted sign, wood, hung on the inside of the door, at eye-level: “By Appointment Only.” The Bell Witch was a local urban legend, one that involved dolls that looked like a nightmare out of Toy Story. The figures in the window were well within the lines of that mythos: a mixture of plastic, cloth, bisque, and even carved wood sat in the window, with painted symbols and a patchwork of clothes and sequins and sparkles of all sorts. Each, regardless of the material with which it was made, looked as lifelike as any human; the eyes seemed to follow the observer, the limbs seemed on the verge of movement. The locals never stopped at the windows to look; one could tell the tourists by that act alone. Invariably, a sense of pediophobia would overcome even the most stalwart window-shopper, and they would move on within moments. The feeling was intentional; the shop existed to not sell anything.

The backroom of the boutique was dark, lit solely by a flat-screen monitor which flickered to a new image every three seconds, cycling through the ten camera lenses that watched over the rooms like a jealous lover. Along the back alley: empty. Above the front door: empty. Storefront from the corner: empty. Above the back door: empty. Left window: dolls. Right window: dolls. Counter: empty. Sidewalk in front: maybe a passerby, but no one who was interested in the closed shop. Storefront from rear: empty. Backroom…not empty.

In the middle of that room, facing the monitor, though her eyes were closed, sat a woman. She was perched on a stool, wearing a simple sundress, dark blue with yellow floral designs speckled across it. Her hands rested on her knees, which were folded crisscross, almost but not quite the lotus position. Her hair hung to her waist, free-flowing, black. Her feet were bare, and she wore a mixture of bangles and charms on each wrist and ankle. Her skin was pale, especially in the monitor’s light, and she looked to be in her teens. But appearances are always deceiving.

The cycle of images repeated every thirty seconds, with no changes as the time passed except for the sun, as the shadows outside grew longer and the day dimmer; the interior shots were all unlit, so they never changed. Eventually, as night fell (not long after 8), the external lighting of the city came on, bathing the scenes in the pale glow of LED. Once the sun set, there were ten more cycles of images, and then…two people entering the alleyway, walking toward the camera. Another thirty seconds and they had reached the door; it was two women, both appearing mature: one in her fifties, the other in her seventies. Each walked with the assistance of a cane, both in modest dresses matching the woman’s inside. The next cycle, the more elderly had a small ring of keys, unlocking the seven locks that kept the door shut. As the door opened, the two visitors entered, and the Dollmaker opened her eyes in greeting. Her words carried a German accent: “Thank you for coming. It is time.”

The woodcarver’s shop in Nürnberg was full of sawdust which irritated the eyes and nostrils of most visitors; but they would stay despite their sneezes and tears because of the beauty of the carvings within. Most of the items on display were furnishings or everyday needs: fancy chair-backs and tables; ornate chests and headboards; spoons with fantastical figures along the handles and bowls with matching imagery. But that was not what captivated the viewers; those were the dolls. Religious effigies of both saints and sinners; figures of local renown or even the occasional legend from foreign lands; even jointed marionettes and ragged moppets for children of both high- and low-class. Each individual doll was made with loving care and attention to detail such as to make each as human as, well, the observers. Most of the observers.

One visitor had come after sunset, his servant having arranged a private viewing due to other obligations. The stranger was dressed as an Eastern European, and spoke to his servant affably, quietly conversing in Yiddish, common among the Jews that immigrated to Franconia. Master Hans Schnitzer did not care if he was a Jew or not; Jewish silver was worth the same as Christian. Eventually, the foreigner addressed the woodcarver, motioning toward the wooden figures. “You… you carved all of these dolls?”

Hans shook his head, hands folded together. “No, sir. I can make dolls, but none such as these. These were by the hand of my younger daughter, Ursula. She has even crafted one on order by Emperor Sigismund himself!” His pride was quite clear.

At the mention of her name, Ursula Schnitzer stepped through the curtain at the back of the shop, while Agnes remained behind to watch. Ursula was fifteen, with long dark hair and sunken face. Her eyes perceived more than she could comprehend, but her hands would translate that into her carvings. Her father had clearly told her to remain in the back unless explicitly called, but the magnetic personality of the stranger drew her in, enticing her much as her dolls did others. She had to remind herself to blink, and did her best to resist her fits of coughing, though the dust did not help.

The visitor’s eyes flickered from the father to the daughter and back, a smile playing across his lips. He spoke: “I wish to apprentice her, to impart upon her the knowledge of my lifetime.” He then said something in Yiddish to the servant, who pulled out a sack which clinked with the music of metal within.

Hans held the bag carefully, assessing its weight. If pfennigs, the most common coin in the land, there would be about two hundred. Enough to pay for Agnes’s dowry, not to mention no longer being responsible for Ursula. A fair bargain, but…. “As I was saying, sir, she has crafted for the Emperor himself.”

The servant interrupted with a completely different accent, possibly from Österreich? “Those are not pfennigs, Schnitzer.” It was definitely rude, but his master did not move to correct him, not at this moment, so Hans chose to ignore it for the sake of negotiations.

Besides, the implication was significant. If they were hellers instead? Despite being worth less, they were significantly smaller, meaning the sack might be worth more than twice as much. Four hundred pfennigs’ worth would be quite a help for the family, but…. He drew Ursula to him, gripping her shoulder with his free hand. “Your offer is most appreciated, but since my wife died, my daughter is—”

The interruption was harsher. “Not hellers either, sir.” Which could only mean that these were groschen, recently introduced by Sigismund’s mints. That would be well over six times what Hans had believed the original offer.

The stranger spoke this time, his voice soft and gentle, as if he could read the man’s mind. “Meister Schnitzer,” he said, a smile playing across his lips. “The coins, they are not silver. Open it.”

Ursula had only seen a single gulden, when the Emperor’s commission was paid in full. As the gold coins poured from the sack like water from a cup, she knew that she would never see her family again.

The Dollmaker filled three flutes with red liquid, thick as syrup, staining the glass. “Thank you for coming,” she repeated, as she passed the drinks to her visitors. She addressed the younger-looking woman, “Mary, you are looking well. Has Emma been taking good care of you?”

“Yes, she is, Ursula. Thank you for the gift.” The Dollmaker rarely thought of herself as Ursula anymore. She looked at her image on the monitor as it flickered past the three women gathered together; she appeared the same now as she had in her father’s shop over five centuries before.

She turned to Emma, addressing her as well. “And you, my old friend. Has Mary been taking care of you?” She was saddened by the age which showed upon the woman’s face; by all rights, she was the youngest of the three. But her life had already been extended by nearly a century; she had outlived her children’s children. “How much longer is your road?”

Emma smiled, and gently rested a hand on Mary’s leg. “She takes very good care of me, Mistress, as you once did. I could not ask for a better pair than the two of you. Thank you for everything.”

The Dollmaker smiled again, and sipped her drink, her tongue sliding along her teeth and lips in remembrance of times past.

She looked out the window of the Gramercy Park building, out at the city lit up in the middle of the night as if not a single person slept. The three women were gathered in Mary Richmond’s office, the other two seated at opposite sides of the desk. She was bored and eager to leave, but it was an important meeting, one which she could not abandon. This particular road had taken decades to reach, and she was eager to continue her journey.

Emma, who looked to be in her late thirties, was speaking: “It’s simple, Miss Richmond….”

Mary, nearly twice her age, cut her off. “It’s ‘Director Richmond,’ thank you. I worked hard for this title and will not have you forget it.”

Emma sighed again. “Director Richmond. We have been reading your papers and watching their effects, and we believe that you have greatly advanced humankind with your work. It is a noble effort, and we simply wish to help you continue that work for as long as possible.” The Dollmaker recognized the edge in Emma’s voice; she was getting frustrated. She was making a valiant effort, but….

Director Richmond stood, clearly signaling the end of the meeting. “Mrs. Clear, I have given you the time you requested, and that is enough. I don’t know why you insisted that you and your daughter meet at midnight, but I have played your silly games and—”

She spoke for the first time since they arrived. “I am not her daughter.” Her voice was firm, though still thick with the accent she never renounced.

Mary turned to her, confused. “What?” But Ursula could tell that she’d been caught by her spell. “She’s not your mother? Then who—”

Ursula interrupted again. She hated to do so even once, but sometimes it was necessary. “She is my servant—and we have been lovers for the past decade.” She could see the disbelief in the woman’s eyes, but continued. “I know about your cancer.”

That silenced Mary. She sat down as suddenly as she had stood up. “You… you know?”

Ursula nodded and crossed the room, behind the desk, and touched her several places, almost clinically. “There, there, and there are major growths. You have others as well. Your prognosis is not good, nein?”

Mary sat in stunned silence. Emma was looking at her with pure empathy and compassion, reassessing the woman across from her. Ursula, on the other hand, did not have the time. “What if I could offer you a way to continue your work, to try to improve the lives of men and women the world over, not just in one small city in one small country? Would you be willing to consider that?” She could see the thought process, easily, as if it had been her own. In fact, once, it had been her own, shortly after Sabriel purchased her from her father, oh so long ago; consumption was a horrid disease. The passing memory of Sabriel saddened her, though; she missed him still. But the look in Mary Richmond’s eyes, as fear changed to acceptance to intrigue, she knew that she was right, and that she would not be alone for much longer.

The hours passed by as the night went on. Their drinks were never finished; they would take occasional sips but mostly out of habit than need. They talked of their pasts, both together and apart, celebrating their lives once more.

The Dollmaker noticed the clock on the monitor, its little block numbers in the bottom corner, no matter the image that showed. “It is almost time,” she told her old friends, her old lovers, her old students. “My road is set.” She looked at Mary with kind eyes. “Are you ready to continue yours?”

Mary nodded, glancing down, a finger dabbing at her eye. She looked the same as the day they first met, as stern as ever. “Yes, Ursula. The modern era definitely has needed my expertise, and has been a font of knowledge and experiences. Thank you again for, well, this.” She looked away, focusing on the monitor instead, its cycle of images something to grasp.

Emma wasn’t so quiet, sniffling and wiping her cheeks repeatedly. “I don’t understand. Can you please…?” She gripped Mary’s hand, who tightened her hold and wrapped her other arm around Emma’s shoulders in comfort, still keeping her eyes on the monitor. Seeing it for three seconds every half minute was better than experiencing it in full right now.

The Dollmaker smiled, stood, and kissed Emma on the forehead. “I cannot explain to anyone, only to myself.” She bowed her head down, pressing her forehead to Emma’s. “Help her choose a new servant. She will need it in this day and age. It was easier when you were a young woman; now, she’ll need all the help she can get.” As Emma nodded, crying, the Dollmaker contemplated her own explanation.

Sabriel lived near the Marienplatz in München; there he was known to most of his neighbors as “the Rabbi.” If anybody commented on the agelessness of either him or his young female student, as the decades went past, there were no indications; she believed that the goodwill engendered by their efforts, plus the treatment the Jews received at others’ hands, kept them safe from harm.

Ursula had recently taken up residence along the banks of the Isar. It was close to the woodcarvers she still held dear, as well as a handy escape route should things come to their worst. She had brought another of her wax dolls as a gift, though she had an idea as to what his request intended. She preferred the challenge of carving out the negative space, as opposed to making a plaster mold; the latter was just too… effortless. And for her understanding of the human condition to advance, she needed all the challenges that she could find, even above and beyond the ones that existed for their kind.

Melchior opened the door for her and nodded. She was still not used to him, despite the decades he had served; she missed Leopold greatly. The servant didn’t speak—he rarely did, another thing Ursula did not like—but led her to Sabriel’s study. The walls of the house were lined with shelves, and on each was one of her creations. Ranging from wooden dolls nearly two hundred years old to wax such as the one she held in her hand, each was a unique creation, and captured the image of someone that she had met in the course of her life. She felt as if she had placed a piece of their soul in each. And yet she was not done; she did not know when or if she ever could be. The road before her was long, and beyond the horizon she did not know where it led.

In his chair, Sabriel looked tired. She handed him the doll, and he studied it. Then he looked in the mirror. “You finally made one of me?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

She nodded, a sad look in her eye. “I felt that it was time.”

He smiled, took her hand, and kissed her palm. “Little one, thank you.” He passed it back to her, and she embraced it in her arms.

“What now?” Her voice trembled, though she already knew the answer.

He stood and hugged her shoulders, holding her close to him. “You do what you must. You survive. You thrive. You pass along what you’ve learned—from me, from yourself—to whomever you find to follow. Make use of Melchior; I know you are not fond of him, but he is as devoted to you as to me. And there will be others, both servants and an apprentice.”

She squeezed him tight. “How will I know?”

He smiled, and released her, and bent down to look directly in her eye. “You will. It may not seem like it now, but one day….”

The alarm she had set on her phone went off; it was 6:00 am. The Dollmaker smiled once more, before remembering. “Oh! You’ll need this.”

She handed a sign to Mary, who passed it to Emma. The sign read: “Store closing. All sales final. Any offer accepted.” Each line was in her clear concise script, like the sign on the front door. The other two women each nodded; there would be nothing to keep them here anymore.

She led the trio to the front of the store. Glass cases and shelves held dolls and parts; walls held pictures of her work over the years. She took one wax doll, dear to her, and hugged it to her. “Take care of yourselves. Be safe.” Her voice was soft.

Emma unlocked the front door for her, kissed her briefly, then turned away.

Mary gave one last hug and kiss, keeping watch.

Ursula stepped outside into the empty street and faced eastward. The monitor inside watched for three seconds as she turned to flame and ash, as she felt sunlight for the first time in forever.