Mialka's Doll

 Mialka was a sweet little girl, hardly five years of age, who lived with her father and elder brother in a little cottage at the end of the path which ran through the woods. Surrounding this little cottage made of the cheapest timber there were no other signs of civilisation for miles. The closest village was on the other side of the woods and walking to it took almost a day. As a result, Mialka had grown up almost completely cut-off from civilisation.

Behind her father’s cottage was a small patch of fertile land where the family grew grains and vegetables. The harvest was never enough to sell, but almost always enough to feed the three mouths. The family’s only source of income was the wild berries the men of the house plucked from the woods and sold in the marketplace every fortnight.

A tiny portion of this meagre earning was given to Mialka and Dolohaev, Mialka’s elder brother who was in his late teens. With their allowance the children were free to do whatever they wished – Dolohaev saved his to help his father in times of need while young Mialka spent hers on little trinkets she found in the marketplace.

Despite lacking severely in money and other comforts, the family was happy.

***

“Little girl, do you want me to read your future?”

Mialka was surprised. Her father and Dolohaev were in the woods gathering berries, firewood and other necessities. As was common practice, Mialka had been left behind at the cottage as she could not keep up with the long strides of the other two. This practice wasn’t dangerous in itself – their cottage was so isolated that passers-by never came and the woods were devoid of dangerous animals. Mialka too knew not to wander away. What she didn’t know was not to talk to strangers – that was a life lesson nobody had ever bothered imparting to her as they failed to see its need.

Mialka might have been surprised, but she wasn’t scared.

“Where is the writing that you read?” she asked with her eyebrows scrunched.
“It is on your palm, little girl,” the old woman replied, for the stranger was an old woman dressed in colourful rags of clothes. Silver-coloured jewellery hung from her veined neck and hands. “I can read your destiny off your palm,” she continued.
“What is desteeny?” Mialka asked with confusion in her voice.

The old woman laughed softly.

“It is that which shall come to be provided no effort is made otherwise,” the old woman supplied. Seeing that the young girl’s brows were still furrowed, the old woman simplified, “Destiny, little girl, is the future. It is what will happen.”
“Oh,” Mialka muttered.

The old woman smiled but remained quiet, allowing the young girl to digest her words.

“And you can read that?” Mialka wondered aloud.
“Why, yes, little girl. I can read that.”

Mialka was silent for a few moments before she asked, “But why do you want to read my desteeny?”

“It is ‘destiny’, little girl,” the old woman corrected her gently. “And it is not that I want to, but what I have to.” The old woman wasn’t usually so open to her possible clients, but there was something about the innocence and inquisitiveness in the little girl’s face that brought out the truth from her. It was, perhaps, that this girl resembled her own daughter when she had been younger. The old woman had doted on her. She had been a young lass of only seventeen or so when she had run away from home. The old woman had never seen her again however much she had searched the many villages and winding roads that dotted the countryside.

“Why do you do it then?” Mialka asked, breaking the old woman’s train of thought.

“I’m sorry, little girl. Do what?”
“Read destiny. If you do not like it, why do you do it?”

The old woman laughed to herself again. The young girl seemed to bear an uncanny resemblance to her daughter who had often pestered her with endless questions. As the old woman wondered what to answer, she felt a pang in her heart. She only wished she had been as patient with her own child as she was with this girl.

“Little girl, don’t you have to do some things that you do not like very much?”
Mialka thought for some time then nodded her head very vigorously.
“Yes! I do not like eating berries but Papa says that I must!” She made a face as if remembering what those “horrid” berries tasted like.
“And why must you eat those berries?” the old woman asked gently.
“Papa says it is to be big and strong. Then I can go with him and Da to the biig jungle and fight monsters!” she said excitedly.

The old woman chuckled to herself.

“And I must do this to fight monsters too,” she said.
“What monsters do you fight?” Mialka asked curiously.
“Oh… Starvation, poverty and such,” the old woman said with a slight shrug of her shoulders.
“Are those monsters scary? Scarier than the wood monsters?” Mialka asked fascinated.
“Oh yes, little girl, oh yes. Those monsters are very scary.” When she saw the girl’s eyes widen in fear, she added kindly, “But you can ki-, I mean, fight them easily.”
“How do you fight those monsters?” Mialka questioned.
“Well, you can fight them with money,” the old woman supplied.
“Why do you read future then?” Mialka interrupted.
“To get this money, little girl,” the old woman explained.
“Oh,” Mialka said. Her face was scrunched up and she appeared to be in deep thought.

Suddenly, her eyes lit up.

“Wait a moment!” she exclaimed and ran into the cottage. After a few minutes she came out with a small cloth bag in her hands.
“Take this,” she said, and thrust the bag towards the old woman. “It will help you fight the monsters.”

The old woman took the bag with wonder in her eyes. A soft jingling sound came from within. Gingerly, she loosened the thread that closed the mouth of the bag. Inside, there were two coins.

“Child,” she said dazedly. Awe was etched over her face as tears filled her eyes.

“Why are you crying?” Mialka asked.

The old woman shook her head.

“It is too kind of you, my child, but I cannot take this,” she said, tying the mouth of the bag. “Here.”

Mialka eyed the bag strangely but made no move to take it.

“But you can fight monsters with it!” she protested.

The old woman laughed despite her tears.

“My child,” she said again. It was the first time she had called anyone ‘my child’ since her daughter Mi-. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. It wouldn’t do to dwell on sad memories and start crying again. “Surely you want to buy something with this money,” she tried.

Mialka nodded and said, “Yes, I wanted to by a top from the market.” She hesitated briefly before continuing, “But you need it to fight monsters. Papa and Da say you shouldn’t want when others need. I don’t know what that means, but I think they meant this.”

The old woman could contain herself  no longer. She burst into tears as she swooped down and encircled the young girl in her arms and ragged clothes. However much she tried to speak, only tears came out. Finally, she whispered, “Thank you,” and got up.

Impulsively, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a small wooden doll shaped like the figure 8. The doll’s body was painted pink with dots of different colours – red, blue, yellow, green and orange. The doll’s face was a dirty, stained brown. Its hair was red. Maybe the doll had two eyes, a nose and a mouth before, but those facial features were no longer visible.

“Take this, my child,” the old woman said, handing over the doll to the young girl. Without waiting for a reply, she turned around and began limping down the path that led through the forest.

“Wait!” Mialka cried with the doll still in her hands. She longed to run after the old woman, but a strange fear had gripped her heart and she stood in place.

Soon, the woman was far enough away for Mialka to know she wasn’t allowed to follow. She glanced at the doll in her hands and closed her eyes. Unbidden, she saw the face of the old woman. Somehow, her face seemed familiar, but try as she might, Mialka could not place it.

For her part, the old woman had stopped shedding tears by the time she entered the woods. She knew not what had prompted her to give her most prized possession, the doll, away. Her heart felt strange – on one hand it felt hollow, empty, just as it had done when she had returned after a hard day’s work only to see that her daughter was no longer there. The doll had been her daughter’s; the old woman had made it herself. Those days had yet to see her don the guise of a fortune teller – she was a toymaker. She had made and sold countless toys. That particular doll had been a gift to her daughter on her fifth birthday. Seeing her happiness, the old woman had vowed she would make toys for all her grandchildren and great-grandchildren too, if she was fortunate to live long enough to see them. It was her dearest wish to see her daughter’s offspring smile while holding her work in their little hands.

Life, however, seemed to have other plans.

After her daughter had run away, the old woman no longer found it in herself to make toys. Whenever she tried to hammer out a rocking horse or chip the details on a ship, it was her daughter’s face that she saw. After trying in vain for weeks to craft a toy that would sell, she finally gave up. She decided to become a fortune teller like her own mother before her. It was the only other profession she knew, yet even that brought her no joy. It seemed ironical that a fortune teller could not avert her own cruel future.

The other emotion residing in her heart, as she walked through the woods, was a lightness akin to joy and relief. But for the life of her, the old woman could not place it.

***

The sun had begun to set by the time Dolohaev and his father, Ivanich, returned from the woods. Both of them were tired after a hard day’s work.

“Remember, Mia,” Ivanich said in the booming voice of his that both the children had learnt to love, “To the market place it is tomorrow!”

“Papa,” Mialka said quietly, “There is something I have to tell you and Da.”

After Mialka had let her father and brother know of the happenings of the day, there were questions and angry protests, the latter all from Dolohaev.

“Those were our earnings, Mia! How can you just give it away to some hag? Pa, say something!”

Ivanich, however, appeared not to have heard his son. His eyes had been caught by the doll which lay on the top of the Mialka’s sleeping mat. He picked it up and turned it around gently in his large hands. Something about the paint and the carving seemed familiar to him. Suddenly, he gasped out loud.

“Pa, are you even listening?” Dolohaev exclaimed frustratedly mid-rant.

Etched with great care at the bottom of the doll was a set of elegant letters which spelt the word: Mialka.