Dante's Heart
Vassalisa's Doll
Now Anna’s eyes became blind, furious pools. She didn’t see what I saw.
The high fence made of scrubbed bones that surrounded Tsarevich Pyotr’
s fine house. The sharp canines that glittered wet with saliva when he
opened his mouth to laugh. The moss-covered graves under the fir trees,
chiseled with the names of his other wives. Nor did she see where he went
at night when the moon rose like a callous silver coin. But after dark she
heard the wolves howling and circling outside, and she shivered under the
bed furs and listened with the rest of the household to the shrieking and
baying in the dark wood. In the morning, when the sun shone on the wet
black trees and steam rose from their branches, she dismissed it as a bad
dream that lifts like fog.
Anna began to shake me again. “I don’t know why my mother gave you to
me. You are quite useless! If you won’t help me, I’ll throw you out to lie on
the rubbish heap.”
She flicked a piece of my stuffing off the green velvet. I lay silent in her
hand. After a moment, she knew I wouldn’t speak again. My mouth was dry
wool and old flax as she tossed me into the ash bucket and called for the
boy who lit the fires to take me away.
Now I’m half-buried in the rubbish pile. I haven’t eaten in a fortnight. My
wool is heavy and caustic with ash and rainwater. A crow comes each
morning and pulls at my button eyes. Flies pace restlessly upon me, their
landings an endless irritation. Cold water drips on me from the fir tree
overhead, and I can taste its pungent tar. I have an excellent view of the
distant moss-covered graves, and this morning I hear the sound of a chisel
echoing as the stone-carver, his face a mask of granite, shapes a new name
into stone with slow, patient taps.
The End
Now Anna’s eyes became blind, furious pools. She didn’t see what I saw.
The high fence made of scrubbed bones that surrounded Tsarevich Pyotr’
s fine house. The sharp canines that glittered wet with saliva when he
opened his mouth to laugh. The moss-covered graves under the fir trees,
chiseled with the names of his other wives. Nor did she see where he went
at night when the moon rose like a callous silver coin. But after dark she
heard the wolves howling and circling outside, and she shivered under the
bed furs and listened with the rest of the household to the shrieking and
baying in the dark wood. In the morning, when the sun shone on the wet
black trees and steam rose from their branches, she dismissed it as a bad
dream that lifts like fog.
Anna began to shake me again. “I don’t know why my mother gave you to
me. You are quite useless! If you won’t help me, I’ll throw you out to lie on
the rubbish heap.”
She flicked a piece of my stuffing off the green velvet. I lay silent in her
hand. After a moment, she knew I wouldn’t speak again. My mouth was dry
wool and old flax as she tossed me into the ash bucket and called for the
boy who lit the fires to take me away.
Now I’m half-buried in the rubbish pile. I haven’t eaten in a fortnight. My
wool is heavy and caustic with ash and rainwater. A crow comes each
morning and pulls at my button eyes. Flies pace restlessly upon me, their
landings an endless irritation. Cold water drips on me from the fir tree
overhead, and I can taste its pungent tar. I have an excellent view of the
distant moss-covered graves, and this morning I hear the sound of a chisel
echoing as the stone-carver, his face a mask of granite, shapes a new name
into stone with slow, patient taps.
The End
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