some witches get dolls so easily, it seems. traumatized and empty Shells flock to them to be changed into a thing that feels less wretched.
sometimes the transformation is grisly, graphic, with fluids all over the workshop and the stench of internal organs no longer needed. sometimes it’s sublime, the doll-to-be drawn up into the air by an invisible string, golden light beaming from its fingertips, its eye sockets, its joints, as its skin transforms to porecelain and its organs harden and reshape themselves into clockwork.
sometimes a witch prefers to build a doll from scratch, to sew the cloth, or carve the wood, or sculpt the clay, and imbue that with life. wake it up somehow, or find some loose spirit that wants to possess it.
not to say that those processes are effortless or worthless, but these witches never seem to want for magic, or energy, or raw materials, and they can make a doll whenever they choose, or keep as many dolls as they like.
my sister tried to make a doll once. but the meek little Shell she worked her magic on turned into something strange. something wrong. it grew to three times its size, black ichor oozing from its joints, its limbs lengthening, going gray, its delicate hands turning into claws. it looked down at itself, then at Sis, screaming in anguish. the noise made her pass out. it went on to break out of the workshop, screaming, sweeping pedestrians out of its way, searching for a building to break itself against. it was the College that took it down. then they forbade Sis from ever making a doll again.
she wouldn’t have been capable anyway. her magic shut itself off. she couldn’t fly anymore, or light a fire with her wand, or bring back unwatered plants from the brink of death. i had to take care of that kind of stuff for both of us. the only way we knew she still had magic was that the fairies still gathered around her whenever we visited the forest, and she could still understand them.
that did little to cheer her. i understood she was suffering from pain i could hardly even imagine. i could see her withdrawing, becoming a shell of herself. it was inevitable, i thought, she’d need sometime to turn her into a doll at some point. she’d want it to be me.
it’s weird talking about all of this dollmaking stuff. some of us guy witches just have an uncomfortable relationship with it. of course guy witches can have dolls and many do. it’s just for me, the combination of being raised as a girl, and showing magical aptitude, made everyone kind of take it for granted that i would love dolls. i got dolls every year for my birthday, empty forms for me to enchant, and my relatives would ask after them. how were they doing? could any of them walk or talk yet? they were trying to be supportive. it really freaked me out. i did enchant a few, found some friends to foist them off on, felt guilty as all hell. just couldn’t deal with their little empty eyes following me around the room.
weirdly, that stopped when my facial hair came in. most of my relatives stopped talking to me too, which is why my new family is the other witches. anyway, i’ve worked with a few dolls since then, when their witches were busy and needed someone to look after them. dollsitting. but i’ve never made or owned a doll and i’ve never had any desire to. i really wrestled with if i would be able to do that for Sis, if she wanted. if i could make her my doll. if i could, then i’d have a doll and lose her, in a way. or at least our relationship would change, permanently. would she still be Sis? if i couldn’t, she’d have to find another witch, and I’d lose her to them.
when she was finally ready to tell me what was on her mind i tried to change the subject before i realized she was looking less Empty than i was used to. “no, Bro, I don’t want you to make me into a doll,” she said. “i want you to help me make a doll.”
she thought, if we held hands, i could channel her inaccessible magic, into a form, or a Shell, and if the doll went wrong, if the same thing happened as before–she could count on me to stop it–kill the abomination before it got out of control and went on a tirade and got itself killed by the College. the fairies had given her this idea.
“so all of this time you’ve wanted a doll of your own. we could adopt one, you know. there are many dolls without witches. i know a few.”
“i’ve thought about that. it’s not the same. i need to make a doll, with my own magic. i need it to be mine. can’t you understand?”
i tried to. “but you know I’ve never wanted to make dolls. making a doll with you would be… and everyone would think i made it, that it was mine, and i’d have to go along with it.”
“yes. but i need this, and you’re the only one i want to do it with. you’re the one who has stuck by me all these years, when the other witches wanted to shut me out. if you can’t do it, i understand, i’ll just have to figure out…something else.” something i’d like even less.
“but if something goes wrong, if the doll becomes a monster, i’m supposed to help you kill it? that’s like… i’m just a guy…”
“i know it’s a lot,” she said, the empty look returning to her, “and you’re scared. don’t be scared. you don’t have to do it. i’ll figure out something else.”
i was more scared of losing her. i told her i would think about it. please let me think about it.
she said she didn’t want it anymore.