The Asylum for Fairy-Tale Creatures (3 page)

Finally she was done. Exhausted, she admired the results of her toil. Sitting on the work bench was a perfect little girl. A doll like none other, so radiant that she almost lit the room herself. Every feature a lesson in beauty. From her golden curls and sapphire eyes, to the silks and laces of her dress. All she lacked was life. However the doll-maker was prepared for this also.

Before the doll-maker had begun her project, she had read ancient tomes on the dark arts, necromancy and witchcraft. If she would not be able to produce a child by nature, then she would turn to the unnatural. Over the next few nights she burnt black candles until they ran down to tar, and sacrificed rodents to whichever supernatural creature would listen. She chanted for hours on end, until her voice ran to nothing, pleading for the perfect doll to be turned from a hollow nothing to a real child. Alas her efforts were for naught: whoever the doll-maker prayed to in the darkness ignored her cries and the doll remained lifeless. Too weary to carry on, the doll-maker fell into a deep, drowning sleep. It was then the doll-maker dreamt again of whispers that hinted upon a more hideous course of action. The very next day The Doll House had a grand reopening. Overnight balloons of all colours were tied to every lamp post of the town, marking the occasion. By each bunch of balloons bobbing in the summer breeze, there was an excited crowd reading an exciting sign. It read:

“To all children for one week only, The Doll House will be giving away one doll to any child that enters of their own free will.”

And every child did; they queued for miles, coiled around the streets like a huge excited snake. Into The Doll House they went, the doll-maker, as good as her word, giving a doll to every child. The town’s folk cheered and laughed at the doll-maker’s generosity; they would speak of this for years to come. However, they all failed to notice that for every five children who went in the crowded Doll House, only four came out.

“Here, child,” said the doll-maker to a girl with blonde curls. The girl beamed back and curtsied at the doll-maker.

“I love your golden hair, I wish I owned hair like yours” the doll-maker whispered while stroking the little girl’s locks. “Would you like a special doll?”

The child gasped with excitement and the doll-maker took her tiny hand. Through the crowd they moved beyond the red velvet curtain.

The week went on and soon there were no dolls left and all the pieces, the eyes, arms, legs, head and torsos had been used in the demand for dolls. Yet the jars had been refilled with other softer parts… The missing children, however, did not go unnoticed and the police guard turned the town upside down searching for any sign of them. The night filled with the wails of loved ones, begging for someone to return their children. It was when the guards came to the last place to be searched: The Doll House.

Again the door was bolted and shutters closed, but the guards turned them to splinters. They tore it down, wishing they hadn’t and some wishing they were born without eyes. For they found the doll-maker sitting on the floor, cradling a doll like no other. They also found the children, of sorts. The doll-maker looked up with a content yet distant smile on her face. The guards recoiled in purest terror and revulsion at what greeted them, In years to come when the city guardsmen were old and grey; they would still contest to nightmarish visions plaguing them in the dark. The doll turned it;s head towards them. The thing resembled a child, but only in the same way a child could resemble a goblin. The doll was a mismatch of the taken children, held together with black string. A jigsaw of young body parts.

“I’m Thumbeana,” it cheerily sai as the guardsmen screamed.

A hangman’s noose came quickly to the doll-maker. The Doll House was torn down and replaced with an oak tree, long before the mourning for the lost children ended, which would be never ever. The townfolk wondered what to do with Thumbeana. In the end she was not destroyed, rather it was decided she be sent to the orphanage. As Thumbeana was literally made from the town’s children, it seemed a second loss of their loved ones would be too much to bear.

Thumbeana, so innocent and childlike yet so unlike a child, enjoyed the orphanage. The nuns were mostly pleasant and hid their repulsion of Thumbeana well. The children there, however, were quite cruel. They sang songs about her:

“Thumbeana the patchwork girl
,

Watches while you sleep
.

Thumbeana the patchwork girl,

Jealous when you breathe
.

Thumbeana the patchwork girl,

Has locked the bedroom door.

Thumbeana the patchwork girl,

Has been in the kitchen drawer.

Thumbeana the patchwork girl,

Has brought a shiny knife,

Thumbeana the patchwork girl,

Slice, slice, slice.”

Thumbeana tried to fit in. She brought the girls gifts, necklaces of sparrow heads, as a sign of friendship, but the orphans only screamed and threw rocks at Thumbeana. It was when Thumbeana squatted in the mud, pulling rocks from her skull, that she had an idea. Perhaps the orphans would like her more if Thumbeana was just like them? The morning came and the nuns were woken with the shrill screams of the orphan girls. They ran like banshees, hair wild and thick, nightgowns billowing, into the sleeping dormitory to find each of the girls bawling for mothers they didn’t have. Some orphans stumbled and others ran. Some simply sat not knowing what to do. Each of the girl’s scalps was red raw and gone. And there was Thumbeana wearing the hair, stuck to her with red wet mess. In her hand a bloodied pair of scissors. And around her, what was left of the orphans’ hair in messy scraps.

“Now I’m beautiful,” she said.

Shortly after, Thumbeana found herself leaving the orphanage as a black carriage and blacker horse came to take her away. She waved as the driver ushered her within. The nuns watched in silence from the orphanage window as the asylum called to the girl.

The Asylum for Fairy Tale Creatures

The journey to the asylum was long and lasted days. The prisoners rocked this way and that in the dark, knocking against the bars. A single oil lamp hanging from the ceiling shook and failed to penetrate the dark. The red-hooded girl’s thoughts wandered back to her village, where they locked her into the stables; she screamed to be let free and was ignored As the sun sent beams through the cracks in the wood she was visited by the village magistrate, a balding and very short fat man who was also the village butcher and smelt of pork.

“You must confess, child. We sent the huntsmen to the cottage. There was no wolf—they only found the remains of your grandma,” he said. “Was it madness or witchcraft, girl? Confess. If you wish to save your soul, confess.”

“It was a wolf, yet it spoke, it spoke,”

A brown cow with an udder dragging and dripping milk along the floor, chewed straw to cud oblivious to events of the barn. It was a rank creature that would fetch only a sum of beans at market. Flies flirted with its hide, and in the warmth the stench was strong enough to choke upon. Leaning back against the wooden wall the Huntsman, head to toe in the skins of his prey, stroked his crossbow as if it was a pet. He spoke with the gruffness of a thousand dead animals.

“Wolf don't skin its prey, wolf don't wear disguise, wolf don't speak ".

The magistrate nodded in agreement and wiped the sweat from his brow at the same time.

"I'm not sure what has happened to you young lady, but I have to think about the good of the village. I sent word to get you help"

The girl could not move. She had been bound by rope against part of the fence that kept the cow wandering the barn. Her long dark hair messily covered her face.

"I want my mother, I need to tell her what I saw."

The magistrate stood to his full four foot height, "that's impossible I'm afraid. Your actions were the last straw"

The girl pulled at her ropes, which bit into her wrist.

"I want my mother," this time more forcibly

The magistrate sighed and moved to leave. The huntsman opened the barn door. Light poured in.

"Your mother has gone. She threw herself into the river. We found her this morning. She had filled her pockets with rocks,"

The barn door closed with a bang.

The girl was left with only misery for company until after one day and night he stable doors were opened again and she was dragged into the sunlight. The jeering crowd of villagers, ,screaming murder, parted and a huge black carriage waited, drawn by an equally black mare that snorted at her approach. In the carriage seat, a leather-clad driver held the reins. The driver’s body was covered head to toe in black leather: boots, long coat, gloves and a three-cornered tricorne hat. His face was obscured by a crimson velvet mask that had no features at all.

A lumbering guard opened the back of the carriage to which there were bars on the windows and the door. He walked with a huge sway, creating his own shadow. He wore a dirty white smock apron. He was huge, his head the size of a shaved boar and just as bald. As the girl was passed to the guard she saw his eyes, ears and mouth were completely sewn closed with metal pins. The crowd parted and fell silent as the guard thudded past, the girl in his massive arms. He placed the girl in the carriage, chaining her by the wrists to a small cell, of which there were four. The door was closed and locked. All the girl could do was sob. As the journey began she rocked this way and that in the dark, knocking against the bars. As the journey continued exhaustion gripped her and squeezed; however, every time her eyes rolled the carriage lunged and exhaustion’s hold loosened.

“You were asleep,” said a tiny yet shrill voice from the dark.

The girl did not reply. Her entire body ached from the motion of the carriage. Each jolt felt like another bruise.

“You spoke, you know. You said ‘wolf’. Have you ever seen a wolf?”

“Once,” the girl replied.

Thumbeana lifted herself up towards the bars. In the dim candlelight, Red could see stitched fingers poking through.

“What was it like?” Thumbeana whispered.

“Big. And it spoke.” Her voice was shaking.

“What kind of wolf does that?” Thumbeana wanted to know.

“The big and bad kind.”

“My name is Thumbeana. What’s yours?”

The girl didn’t reply and Thumbeana smiled from her bars expectantly.

“How about you?” Thumbeana turned to the other cell. There came from it a tiny rattle as a small teddy bear climbed from its own chains that were too large to hold it.

“I was called Thread Bear.” The bear looked solemn as it spoke. “At least that’s what she called me.”

“Little bear, you are so sad, so cute—let me tell you my story.” Thumbeana giggled.

Thread Bear nodded excitedly and listened as Thumbeana told her story. From her misery the girl listened also. When Thumbeana had finished the Thread Bear told its own tale. The girl listened also and when the bear’s tale was done, she told her own. The journey went on, only stopping when the girl was fed and watered and her chamber pot was slopped and changed. The girl worried to herself that she would forget what sunlight felt like and her eyes would adjust to darkness forever, ever after.

“Where are they taking us?” the red-hooded girl asked.

“When the doll-maker died I heard of a place,” Thumbeana volunteered. “An asylum where they put insanity.”

“Are we insanity?” the bear asked.

Before they could reply the carriage came to the end of its journey.

She put her ear to the wood in hope of hearing the outside world. Thumbeana shrank back to the shadow of her cell. The Thread Bear broke the silence with its soft cotton voice.

“We are here,” it said.

The carriage door was opened and light poured in, making the girl wince. The accompanying guard from the journey unlocked each cell and guided the three prisoners outside. The girl was glad to stretch as she stood and the cool air felt exhilarating, but this was nothing compared to the anxiety that gnawed at her stomach like a trapped rat. Her eyes adjusted to the light and with tangible and overwhelming horror she saw the asylum.

The girl, Thumbeana and the Thread Bear stood on a gravel courtyard. Surrounding them were high grey stone walls and towers that went so high, they hid their spires among the clouds. A thousand barred or shuttered windows looked out to the world. There was a coldness radiating from it, a stern, harsh coldness. A thick black gate closed behind them as another horse and carriage left to seek out those whose minds had broken. It was the first time she had seen her travel company fully. Thread Bear was a =normal-looking toy bear that every child is given and it stood no taller than her own knee. It looked at the girl through button eyes and she could tell the bear was as scared as she was. It shook with visible nervousness and looked this way and that. Thumbeana, however, was skipping in circles and hopscotching excitedly. Her mismatch grin grinned from mismatched ear to mismatched ear. Her dress was as much a patchwork as her flesh. Thumbeana was literally a rag doll of corpses.

The guard fed the great black horse a sugar cube, for which it showed its gratitude by emptying its stomach and creating a steaming pile of manure on the ground. The guard chuckled to itself as Thread Bear was nearly buried. The driver sniggered from his seat and leant over, patting the creature.

“Hello there and welcome,” said a voice.

The three turned to see a tall nurse striding across the gravel towards them. The girl noted that with each step the nurse made no sound.

She was dressed in the whitest of uniforms. There was a bright red cross on her apron that contrasted like blood drops on snow. She held her hands together gentle touching each of her own fingers against the other in slow deliberate movements. Her face held impossibly wide eyes and a grin that was frozen from cheek to cheek. Behind her a lumbering guard stood watching through eyes sewn shut.

“Welcome to the asylum for fairy tale creatures. I am Mother May I” “Why is she grinning?” Thumbeana asked the bear.