Dante's Heart
Alexandra Wells
Vassalisa's Doll
I am cold, wet, and hungry. I am pinioned by filth on top of this pile of ashes
and scraps, and my body cannot move, my mouth cannot speak. I recall the
last time I was fed: a bit of seedcake, stale and dry. Anna fed me, pulling
me from the warmth of her dress pocket, stuffing millet and poppy crumbs
into my cloth mouth, spilling them down the front of my apron where my yarn
breast was starting to unravel. Then she asked me her question.
“Help me, little doll. Shall I wear the ruby gown, or the velvet green?” She
held me out in her hands and I saw the gowns laid out on the bed for the
betrothal feast.
I opened my cloth mouth and my yarn hands grasped her fingers. “Wear
neither. Put on your riding clothes. Ask the stable boy to saddle your
horse. I’ll help you escape. Keep me beside you, and I’ll keep you safe.”
“What are you talking about? Why should I wish to escape?” Anna’s
fingernails dug into my body and she shook me. My yarn hands slipped off
her fingers. Her arms were young and muscular; the skin of her hands
smooth like the finest, strongest silk. She glared at me and I had no answer.
“You stupid thing,” she continued. “Haven’t you seen Tsarevich Pyotr?
His beard is full and thick; his thighs are the width of tree trunks. His
rooms are filled with furs and silk-woven tapestries. The bells and
trappings on his stallion are made of pure gold. Why, they say that he even
commands the wolves in the forest. And he has chosen me as his bride.”
She flung me onto the bed, and I felt a bit of wool stuffing fall out onto the
soft folds of velvet beneath me. “These gowns have no pocket for me.
How will I watch over you?” I asked.
Her eyes flashed. Her eyes were so like her mother’s. So like my good
and beautiful Vassalisa. “I don’t need you to watch over me every second.
Tsarevich Pyotr can protect me now.” But still, I saw a flicker of fear in her
eyes, and her hand strayed to the pocket of her woolen skirt.
Her voice turned soft, pleading. “Won’t you answer my question, little
doll? I must finish getting dressed.” She picked me up and smoothed back
my frayed yarn hair.
I could only say what must be said. “I have already answered your
question: you must leave here tonight. I can help you. Put on your riding
clothes.”
Page 2
Vassalisa's Doll
I am cold, wet, and hungry. I am pinioned by filth on top of this pile of ashes
and scraps, and my body cannot move, my mouth cannot speak. I recall the
last time I was fed: a bit of seedcake, stale and dry. Anna fed me, pulling
me from the warmth of her dress pocket, stuffing millet and poppy crumbs
into my cloth mouth, spilling them down the front of my apron where my yarn
breast was starting to unravel. Then she asked me her question.
“Help me, little doll. Shall I wear the ruby gown, or the velvet green?” She
held me out in her hands and I saw the gowns laid out on the bed for the
betrothal feast.
I opened my cloth mouth and my yarn hands grasped her fingers. “Wear
neither. Put on your riding clothes. Ask the stable boy to saddle your
horse. I’ll help you escape. Keep me beside you, and I’ll keep you safe.”
“What are you talking about? Why should I wish to escape?” Anna’s
fingernails dug into my body and she shook me. My yarn hands slipped off
her fingers. Her arms were young and muscular; the skin of her hands
smooth like the finest, strongest silk. She glared at me and I had no answer.
“You stupid thing,” she continued. “Haven’t you seen Tsarevich Pyotr?
His beard is full and thick; his thighs are the width of tree trunks. His
rooms are filled with furs and silk-woven tapestries. The bells and
trappings on his stallion are made of pure gold. Why, they say that he even
commands the wolves in the forest. And he has chosen me as his bride.”
She flung me onto the bed, and I felt a bit of wool stuffing fall out onto the
soft folds of velvet beneath me. “These gowns have no pocket for me.
How will I watch over you?” I asked.
Her eyes flashed. Her eyes were so like her mother’s. So like my good
and beautiful Vassalisa. “I don’t need you to watch over me every second.
Tsarevich Pyotr can protect me now.” But still, I saw a flicker of fear in her
eyes, and her hand strayed to the pocket of her woolen skirt.
Her voice turned soft, pleading. “Won’t you answer my question, little
doll? I must finish getting dressed.” She picked me up and smoothed back
my frayed yarn hair.
I could only say what must be said. “I have already answered your
question: you must leave here tonight. I can help you. Put on your riding
clothes.”
Page 2
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