Sweetheart Ruffie
DiademLocated sixty kilometres into a dense forest, the town was so insignificant that it did not have a name. Or perhaps it did at one time, but even its inhabitants had long forgotten it. It was simply referred to as "the town up north," or "the town in the woods." Any news of the outside world came from the occasional traveler. Even so, it was always the same: the death of a man a couple towns over, the birth of a baby boy to a noble family, or perhaps a famine that wiped out a hundred people somewhere across the sea. Rarely did news concern the local folk, and rarely were they concerned by it.
Deeper into the forest lived an old man. He was an odd sort of fellow, a hermit of sorts. Like the town, he had no known name. The children called him the Toymaker, though Dollmaker would be more appropriate. An hour's drive out of town, the Toymaker's cabin doubled as his workshop. Through the frosted dirty glass, porcelain dolls could be seen scattered on the dusty floor, occupying every available space. They were placed in neat rows on the windowsill, their dresses made from old fabric and tattered tablecloths. Some were upright, backs as straight as iron poles while others sat regally, hands folded on their laps. Five of the Toymaker's most beautiful dolls perched on his lone bookshelf, their marble eyes gleaming blue, green, brown and gray in the dim light.
The five dolls were flawless, resulting from weeks of hard work and a precise eye. They were painted with care, and not a single detail was overlooked, from the rosy blush on their cheeks to the tan freckles dotting their noses. They were dressed in immaculate Victorian style clothes: frilly dresses with pinched waists and delicate bonnets for the girls, black frock coats and colourful vests for the boys.
The local folk would whisper that in the darkness of his cabin with only a single candle to work with, the Toymaker poured his very soul into those five dolls. They muttered that the Toymaker was a crazy old man, and that he had never been the same after the death of his wife. At the end of the day, the exhausted townsfolk would laugh, and shake off the rumors. They would turn them into jokes, telling their children to eat their vegetables "or the Toymaker's dolls will come!" But soon enough, mothers would stop whispering about the Toymaker. They would start to talk, with eyes stretched wide open, about the girl who mysteriously appeared on Saturday. This little girl was simply referred to as "Saturday," the girl found wandering in the middle of the woods with only a light nightgown to protect her from the winter chill. Saturday was an orphan, or so she led the townsfolk to believe. That was what he had told her to say. When questioned, Saturday sometimes spoke of this man, a fatherly figure of sorts.
The village folk would soon forget about Saturday's strange appearance, or how she seemed to take everything with a wide-eyed wonder. "As if she'd never seen snow, foolish girl," mothers would say, sneering. But there was always work to be done, and the townsfolk only minded Saturday if she got in the way.
Not two weeks after Saturday's arrival, yet another child was found wandering towards town. Tuesday, he was dubbed. This little boy was dressed in fine clothes, as if he was born a nobleman's son. Tuesday was treated better than Saturday; the townsfolk decided that if Tuesday was indeed a nobleman's son, there would be a hefty prize upon his return. But like Saturday, Tuesday refused to talk about his family.
Now, had anyone cared to visit the cabin of the Toymaker, they would have seen little sparks of light erupting from the chimney. For the first time in several decades, a roaring fire warmed his cabin up to a toasty temperature. Should a curious visitor had peered inside the window, they would have seen the Toymaker seemingly thrust his precious dolls into said fire. No doubt they would have called in yonkers, and completely off his orbit, but the Toymaker knew exactly what he was doing.
In his hand was a doll, one of his favourites. Her name was Eminence, the first doll he made for his youngest daughter. After his family's unexpected death resulting from a fire, Eminence had journeyed with the Toymaker to this isolated town. He needed several years to collect his thoughts and during those years, he had researched. Several hours every day was devoted into formulas, potions and spells that could make these dolls come alive. The Toymaker was starving for company, the company of his dolls. Inanimate childrens' toys simply could not shatter his loneliness.
For thirty years, the Toymaker had worked tirelessly on a formula, making necessary changes when experiments proved it to be faulty. But now, now he already had two successful attempts, both of which were thriving fairly well with the miserable townsfolk.
Throwing a pretty green bottle into the flames, the Toymaker watched as the powder started its magic. The flames turned from a warm orange to dull green, before fading into baby blue. It was vital that the Toymaker waited for precisely the right moment. Ah, there it was! The tips of the flames flickered gold, a lovely liquid amber gold, and Eminence was tossed into the burning pit. The Toymaker watched grimly, the flames creating dancing shadows on the walls behind him, as if some dark creature was extending its arms to grab him into the ether. Five minutes passed, then ten. Had the procedure gone wrong? He was beginning to worry. But no, what was that? Something was emerging from the flames.
With a strangled cry, a little girl stumbled from the fire, her Victorian dress, with its delicate ruffles smeared with black ash. The Toymaker smiled as the girl dusted herself off.
"Welcome, Eminence."
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