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First, the hill. Best not to leave any supplies behind that could be carried. As he approaches, he stares up at the carved wolf and lamb. Still he doesn’t know which he is.
Blood spurting from his father’s throat. No, his throat. Dennis’ throat, that’s right. Not Da’s. Always needing the reminder, though he never hit him, even when he—
Even when.
On the hill, he mills about, nudging not-Da’s things, kicking away the ashy remains of the fire. He collects the water skins but leaves the wine skin behind. Never did care for the taste.
There’s nowhere to go, but it would be worse to stay.
He descends. He looks back, sure. He looks back. He maps the wolf and lamb with his eyes. Then, he turns, and he walks.
-
Days don’t pass like they used to. All is gray and weary, like a long stretch in October, only never-ending. Always he keeps his gun. Always he keeps his knife. Now and then he kills, when man or beast pushes him to, but life is more or less bloodless, without Dennis, and quiet, too, save the music, which carries him wordlessly. The only tunes he recognizes are Ma’s old lullabies, but they don’t come so often, which is for the better, because the missing of her is the sharpest wound in his heart. It pains him to know she is alone with Da, with no one else round for him to sink his teeth into.
But the pain don’t last long. Not here. The memories neither.
He drifts. On and on. He walks. On and on.
-
The scarab finds him at a river. He has crouched there to refill his water skins, and then stayed there, because there's nothing much better to do. He almost kills it, on instinct, but it’s a curious thing, more vibrant than the water, even, with its little scuttling legs, its horns lifting, lowering. Instead, he sets his hand down, and up it crawls, tickling his palm.
There it sits. They look at one another, its beady black eyes shining.
Then comes the voice. Would you like to live again? And there, unbidden, blooming from his heart: Sunshine, sea wind, fields of green. Oh, green. What a marvelous color. A sky so blue the eyes ache. Tears catch in his throat and fill his vision, but he knows better than to let them fall. He scrunches up his face until the urge passes.
He’s still got no words for his mouth. Might never. He nods.
You need a body, the scarab tells him.
A body. Ain’t he in one?
A body, the scarab tells him, from the Dollmaker. Only that will do.
-
The scarab rides in the collar of his shirt. It’s quiet, too, for the most part. Now and then it nudges his neck with its horns, as if checking that he’s still alive. Not-alive. Whatever this affliction is.
The Dollmaker’s fields do not frighten him. He touches the sleeve of one of the scarecrows and finds cold, stiff, damp flesh, and doesn’t flinch. Da took that fear from him. Or, Dennis did. Or, nothing did, and it’s never been there to begin with.
The house is novel. He approaches slowly, like a hunter ought. He unslings his gun and stops at the door. There’s a sign above it, with script he can’t parse, the letters all curled and twisting. Makes his eyes hurt. When he lifts his hand to knock, the scarab pinches his neck.
No. Enter.
Reluctantly, he shrugs the gun over his back. He tests the doorknob. It gives. And, just like that, he is inside the Dollmaker’s abode.
-
He doesn’t like how big the Dollmaker is, doesn’t like the way they loom. But, on the whole, he ain’t scared. Curious. The broken map of the Dollmaker’s face reminds him of a quilt. He’d like to touch it, follow the seams.
“Aren’t you an interesting sort of friend,” the Dollmaker says. They reach for him, and he flinches, but they wait with their palm up and long fingers extended until the scarab climbs into their palm. “Another? Why this one?”
Their eyes flicker between the scarab and the boy.
“Well,” they say. “Isn’t that…interesting. I would never have guessed. Though, I suppose I should have, given the…gun,” spoken with some distaste.
He grabs the gun’s strap defensively.
“Very well, née Butcher. What shall I call you, hm?” They wait. “Ah. I see. No name it is. I suppose you shall find one soon enough. It took me some time, as well. Come, come.”
Dennis, he thinks. That’s what the other one was called. Dennis. It fits well enough. But his tongue will not unstick.
He doesn’t bother trying. He follows the lanky creature down their too-long hall, on, and on. The scarab scurries onto the Dollmaker’s shoulder and stays there, its tiny horns waving.
-
The Butcher’s head is in a jar.
“Ah, all that unpleasantness, yes,” the Dollmaker says, when they catch him staring. “Should I have known you were coming, I would have put it somewhere…more discreet. Though you do not seem so easily startled. Hm?”
He forces his eyes away. This isn’t about you. You can leave. Now he understands what the feral man wanted. He’d nearly forgotten the man, the spurt of blood, the choking, gurgling, the shucking of all the gifts he never wanted.
The Dollmaker plucks gently at his gun. “If you would be so kind,” they say, “let’s put such things aside for now.”
He sets the gun on a table, then his knife.
“I will,” the Dollmaker says, “have to measure you. Of course. I, ah, must insist you strip. I cannot afford more secrets in my workshop, unfortunately. No, no, take your time.”
The boy obeys calmly. The Dollmaker’s lips go thin. “I see,” they say. “Yes, I see. You know, boy,” delicate, now, “when I create a body for you, there are all sorts of…modifications I can make. Should you like them. Hm? What do you think?”
The boy looks down at himself. He has not looked at his body in a very, very long time. The sight disturbs him. He shuts his eyes and turns his head away. He had forgotten the tense way Dennis refused to look at him. The way he spit on the ground the first time they went to wash together in a stream, and said, “Christ. I forgot all that.”
Forgot all—?
“Yes,” the Dollmaker says, very gently. “I understand. Hold still. This will all be over soon.” They lift the scarab off their shoulder and set it beside the gun. It climbs onto the trigger, where it perches, studying the affair. “You know,” the Dollmaker says, as they begin to take their measurements, “I would normally charge for such a thing. But I suppose I am soft-hearted, underneath it all. And you did already pay with your life, in a way, haven’t you?”
He stares into their quilted face and says nothing. The Butcher’s head, behind them, watches curiously.
“There,” they say. “All done. Please. Make yourself at home. The kitchen is down the hall. Go on, friend. This will be short work, for me.”
His hands shake as he dresses. He cannot look at himself. Only when the gun is on his shoulder again does he relax.
-
There is tea, in the kitchen, which he has not had in so long that it’s difficult to fathom its taste. He’s almost too short to reach the kettle. No food in the pantry—just a few moths that startle at being disturbed and flutter about his head.
The word, modifications, keeps turning in his head. He thinks he knows the meaning of the word, but can’t quite make the leap as to how it might apply to him.
Somehow, he trusts. Such an odd thing to do, and with such an odd creature. But he does.
-
The Dollmaker guides him to the table with a long-fingered hand between his shoulder blades. “Go on, boy,” they say. “Have a look.”
He pulls the blanket back. There he is. Odd. He hasn’t seen himself from the outside in—longer than he can imagine. He pulls the blanket further, further. He can’t form what he is looking for into words, but he knows it. When the blanket is around his body’s thighs, he stops, and stares, and begins to shake.
“Well?” the Dollmaker prompts—gentle, so gentle. “Is it sufficient?”
He tugs the blanket back up about his stomach. There are tears on his cheeks. He nods.
-
His organs shut down. His soul drifts. His old body stumbles, collapses.
And then, he is home.
-
Dennis, his name is. Dennis Collins. A name that fits.
-
At the Dollmaker’s threshold, he pauses, staring up into the creature’s quilted face. He swallows. His tongue unsticks, for the first time in many years. “Thank you,” he says.
“Of course,” the Dollmaker says. “My pleasure.”
And the door shuts. And the scarab says, It’s time.
-
The sky is so blue his eyes ache. The fields wide and green—an unfathomable color. Dennis touches his chest, where his heart beats. A heart. A miracle, indeed.
He stands, and turns, and runs.
His mother will be waiting.