Wintergreen

as its music box plays a reedy tune, it moves hip and toe joints, its Instructor's voice in its mind as if she were in the room: first position. plié. fourth position. fifth position. sauté.

its secondary drum kicks in with a bass growl, and it recalls steps in no classic ballet: seventh position. ninth position. annulation par gravité. seventh position. eighth position. armes autorisées.

it permits itself to notice its audience. there will be no encore for them.

it's a tradition among civilian groundships of the Wilds: a ship must have a figurehead.

one of the ship's dolls is chosen, usually by lottery. (if a doll has had a particularly hard voyage, the lottery may be quietly rigged in its favor.)

a peculiar oil is prepared from the sap of the red hyacinth tree, which grows in many locations in the near Wilds, and from the processed exudate of the ship's levitators. it has the effects of a weatherproofing coating and a penetrating lubricant, and one more:

it does strange things to time. the red oil slows it down, turning seconds into minutes, until it is cured with a certain trigger; the oil loses its color then, and the effect strongly reverses, turning hours into seconds.

so the oil is readied. a figurehead is appointed and led to the foredeck, where the crew will already be assembled. it disrobes. its uniform is taken and folded neatly; it will not stand up to the conditions at the bow.

the ship's apothecary applies the first dose of red oil, and the first touch. the figurehead shivers with pleasure. if it has served on a ship of the Wilds, especially if it has been a figurehead before, it anticipates what is coming.

for then each crew member has a turn. they apply red oil, they grope and tease and squeeze and penetrate. the figurehead doll feels every action in overwhelming depth and detail as the crew put themselves into it, binding themselves and the ship together.

even the Captain has a turn. traditionally, this is about midway through the process, after a brief pause, and every Captain takes the figurehead doll differently: gently, roughly, teasingly, vigorously. a statement of intention for the voyage.

then the crew continues. gradually the doll is driven to the brink of a singularly powerful crisis, and this is what cures the red oil; when the doll shivers and collapses to the deck, trembling, the oil loses its color. then it is lowered over the edge and bound to the bow.

figurehead dolls report the experience as a wonderful haze, full of portents and omens, swimming in the gestalt feelings of the crew and the purpose of the voyage, watching the ground flow in front of the ship. a pity it does not last for more than a few hours.

for the rest of the crew, it lasts weeks. eventually a sailor on watch will hear the figurehead call out that it is done, haul it up. the ship will heave to, and the next one will be appointed. a ship must have a figurehead.

ships of the Navy take the tradition one step further. the Navy's human statisticians and its auditor dolls both agree: ships that have a figurehead are measurably more fortunate. their voyages are blessed, their weather clement, their battles less perilous.

thus, if no doll is available, if they are all tasked to other things, the lottery expands to all crew.

after a turn as the figurehead, all but the most stalwartly shape-fixed are at least halfway to dollishness. so it goes. the Navy considers this an acceptable consequence, for a ship must have a figurehead.

the doll that brought you to this cheery cottage kneels gracefully at its owner's feet. "you could join this one," it says. "the way you are is… familiar. like it used to be."

the witch lifts an eyebrow at you.

"oh," you babble, "no, i'm fine, there's been a misunderstanding. i think dolls are neat and all, but i wouldn't really want to be one."

"that's just fine," the witch says. "really, i'm sure Marigold's lonely with just itself around the house, but before it became Marigold, it was a quite distinguished person, with an extensive set of skills. i couldn't take just anyone into my service…"

"wait. you're saying i couldn't be a doll?"

"well. no. i'm sure you could… it's just that i wouldn't start with, hmm, material of this grade, i suppose you might say?"

well, now you're mad.

"listen, lady, you should be so lucky! i cook, i hunt, i fight, i sing, i paint, i sew, i can serve the hell out of dinner… i'm sure i could be twice as Still and three times as obedient as your doll here, easily! i'd make an incredible doll!"

she sighs. "the fact that you need to boast about it only makes me more sure that you wouldn't… hey!"

you've already grabbed her wand hand, forcing the tip of the gnarled black root to your forehead.

"what's the matter, scared i'd be too good—"

there's a noise, as if the world has been drawn taut, and then plucked.

something changes.

"oh," you say, in a newly high and monotone voice.

"oh," the witch agrees.

you can remember why you were so worked up, but suddenly, you're just not feeling it any more. you fall to your knees. you feel now-strained fabric split at your side.

"no, no," the other doll tugs at your wrist. "like this! knees together, hands folded."

"i'm…" you begin, and then more comfortably, "this doll is…regardless… going to be… did it say twice as Still?"

"it did," the witch shrugs. "and it said 'three times as obedient'."

"it already regrets its competitive nature, but words were said…"

and now that glands are apparently no longer involved, the words seem even more important.

"…so may this doll serve, Mistress?"

"Marigold," the witch says, "go find it a uniform. leave it at the door."

the other doll rises, turns, curtsies, and disappears.

"two times Still is just ever Still," she continues, "but three times as obedient… oh, silly little thing. you're going to be the perfect toy."

even in your new form, your eyes would be about level with hers, but suddenly, she seems very large, and you, very small.

"you may serve," she purrs, and your clothes almost come off on their own.

your mind is no longer involved. her touch is command. her gaze is law.

you wonder afterwards (there is no time during) if the other doll knew that this would happen to you.

when you pass it in the kitchen, the up-down-up flick of Marigold's amber eyes tells you: it knew.

in a few weeks, you learn to decode the expression fully: it is pleased that you made such a good doll. but three times as good as it? keep trying.

the witch, for her part, does not play favorites. but she does occasionally make a wanton face and mouth "three times!" at you.

vinyl halo scratched one too many times by heaven's needle, but listen carefully: she still sings glories from on high.