Fungal Halo

Month by month, my ability to function degrades. Something in my knee pops, every step summoning an agonizing grinding noise. One hand twitches violently whenever I do not concentrate on keeping it still. Noise creeps in at the edges of my vision.

I am running out of hope.

If one braves the journey through the northern wilds, climbing inhospitable cliffs, crossing raging rivers, and cutting through dense forest, one may reach the land ruled by an ancient and immortal Queen of Evil: the Forbidden Kingdom of Hxail, where the living do not dwell.

A long time ago, when these woods weren’t quite so thick, so uninviting, so hostile to intruders, a witch and her beloved wooden doll lived in a cozy little house.

That doll, so well made, outlasted both the house and the witch.

“It’s kinda romantic, don’t you think?” the mechanic asks, staring at the massive combat unit.

Your friends thought there was something wrong with you when you got engaged to your doll.

“It’s not even a real person,” they objected.

They just didn’t understand how pure your love was. Why couldn’t they see how perfect you were together?

I stand on the shore of a great ocean—one that isn’t an ocean at all—and I start to feel the occasional wave’s surge reach me and tickle my toes. I can still turn around, make any other choice.

I don’t.

I stand in front of a witch house, and I do not belong here.

“I’m so sorry!”

At first I thought apologizing might be enough this time. She’s always so kind and gentle under normal circumstances, after all, and she responds to my words with a gracious nod and a reassuring smile.

And then she moves toward the mask.

Delicate doll of glass, a thing not meant for labor or for play, a thing made to be admired from afar, on display where you can see it and ache to explore it as much as it aches to know the touch of anyone at all.

Graceful figure, catching the light in such a haunting way.

Now where’d that hat of yours go? You’ve been looking everywhere, and…

Oh, there it is, resting on the head of your First Doll, which appears to be imitating your body language as it gives orders to the other dolls.

You hold out your hand, giving it a pointed look.

When the doll accidentally drops the teacup, shattering it, she knows just what to do. She takes her time wiping up spilled liquid and carefully picking up each shard to throw away.

Then, with equal care, she follows the trash, climbing into the garbage can herself.

It’s a house party for witches, and you thought you’d just be able to enjoy a calm and relaxing evening with a couple friends, something of a break from the chaos of managing the affairs of your own house. The host, however, seems to have something more in mind for you.

Once, there were three of them.

One who was almost an angel.

One who was almost a doll.

One who was almost a person.

The three of them were almost friends.

I’ve been coming to this library increasingly often after I found the twists and turns through the aisles that take me to where they keep their most interesting books.

Not many people visit this isolated wing, which adds to the appeal.

“…are you sure you’re not a doll?”

“Oh, c’mon, don’t act like that’s not normal.”

“You seriously believe everyone growing up practiced their facial expressions in the mirror until they could imitate the people on TV?”

“You make it sound like I’m doing impressions.”

See, the problem is that you keep thinking of witches and their dolls as collections of individuals. That’s not quite right.

Now, some folks intuitively grasp that the dolls, at least, are more like the limbs and organs of a larger superentity, right? That’s obvious enough.

It seemed like a nice date at first. She cooked you an elaborate meal, she shared such interesting stories, and the way she looked at you with those arresting eyes made you squirm in your seat.

Then she told you that the pie had been poisoned and all the doors were locked.

She smiles when she breaks you.

It hurts, of course, like nothing you ever felt in your life. How could it not?

Not just a pain that jolts through the nerves of your body, this is a shattering of awareness, a fragmenting of your selfhood.

“What about this one, sir? Its self diagnostic sounds good aside from the crushed leg. Could probably hot-swap that out and have it on the field again without much fuss.”

“Don’t just rely on the doll’s self-report, kid. You gotta learn to use your eyes. Look at this.”

There was a place for her once. There was a city and a home and an address there. Friends and loved ones grew their roots together with her.

Even now the crowd unconsciously parts as though making space for her to walk among them.

The witch cracked the sky open to unleash the full force of her power. She hurled frigid winds and a torrent of ice, each shard a dagger flying through the air.

There, in the center of the storm, a doll stood, unmoving.