The Death Doll

*This is an amateur translation of the original piece found on the Polish version of the blog.

A rag effigy of a woman on a wooden stick leads a procession of almost equally ragged people. Her head was wrapped in old cloth, a grim, deathly face painted with charcoal and chalk. She was dressed in an old, once-white shirt trimmed with a red ribbon. The ribbon on the sleeves, torn and frayed, brought to mind the bloodied arms of an executioner or butcher. The doll stared ahead, unwillingly, towards the lake pier, where it was to end its existence. A person with a vivid imagination might see a tear welling up beneath the painted eye. Those more grounded would say it was dew shaken from passing spruces.

And there was plenty of dew as the column marched through the grove. They trod step by step, heavily planting their feet. Some barefoot, some only in footwraps, few in woven bark sandals. They were just men, gazing toward the shimmering water at the end of the woods, each face drawn in solemn gravity. The path was lit by juniper incense. Branches full of resin, rolled into bundles, slowly smoldered, warding off unfriendly forest spirits. Hopefully.

The Marzanna, as the effigy was called, was carried by a young man, a boy almost, with sandy hair and a sparse, short mustache. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunken. You could almost hear him swallow nervously. He felt the weight and responsibility of the task entrusted to him. For the first time in his life, someone else's fate lay in his hands. After this dreadful winter, bloody as the sleeves of the carried doll, the concentrated hope of the whole village rested on Wszemił.

The lad glanced furtively to the side, towards the needle-covered thicket. Is it...? No, no, it can't be... He turned his gaze back to the front. They told him - don't look aside. Don't look back. Especially after the rag doll has already sunk.

A drop of sweat trickled down his temple, through his cheekbone, to stop at his lips. He instinctively swallowed the sweat. An acrid, salty taste of liquid struck his dried-out mouth. He dared another glance towards the trees.

He saw yellow eyes, watching him from above the wolf's saliva-dripping muzzle.

Wolf.

Wolves. The whole pack followed the procession, sticking only to the edge of the trees, cautiously treading in the shadow. Wszemił's heart skipped a beat or two. Wolves. They hadn't been seen in the area for quite a few years, and now the entire hungry, emaciated pack was trailing the procession of emaciated, hungry men.

Cold sweat increasingly soaked the youth's forehead and neck. He tried not to pay attention to the monstrous menagerie, but the glowing, yellow eyes attracted his gaze like a moth to a candle. And just as quckly as the moth burns in the flame, the column of men could end here and now with Marzanna still in hand.

Trying not to lose his composure, Wszemił tried delicately to get the attention of Wuk, the elder of the village, walking on his right side. Wuk stared firmly ahead. It was he who ordered the boy not to look anywhere but towards the lake, and he himself adhered to his own advice. The young and desperate man had already opened his cracked lips to say...

"Hush!" the elder interrupted him with a quiet hiss. "Eyes forward. Mouth shut."

Wszemił's saliva was as thick as tar. To relieve his restless eyes from the approaching pier, he looked up at the carried doll. It bounced in rhythm with the steps, time after time. Hay protruded through the holes in the ragged clothing, which fell out with each stronger shake, leaving a small trail behind the procession. Every now and then, the doll was brushed by smoke from the carried incense. The boy stared blankly at the increasingly blurred face of the doll.

The combination of movement, water, smoke, hunger, and fear began to play tricks on Wszemił. With each passing second of staring, the dead, ghastly visage of the doll came to life. The old canvas stretched like rubber, as if something was trying to break free from the doll's head. At times, it seemed as if the specter had indeed escaped its confines, as if the painted face had become truly alive. No, un-alvie. In an instant, Wszemił saw a woman as old as the world itself. With thin, sparse, gray hair falling in disheveled tufts on her face. With eye sockets and lips empty and dark as night.

At the same time, he saw the reflection of the universe in them. In that brief gaze, he saw all the known stars and planets, as well as those that would remain undiscovered for a long time. He paled. He became as white as birch trees, which incidentally were increasingly taking the place of conifers. Wuk noticed it, who delivered him a sharp jab to the ribs.

"Come on! Focus! I don't want to regret letting you carry the Death Doll! Look down or towards the water... Not much longer."

Like he said, so it was. The grove quickly ended, its place taken by loosely growing birches and willows, their roots dipping into the waters of the lake. It was a new moon, and the water seemed black as pitch. Stars reflected in its clear surface; much like in the eyes of the specter-Marzanna. Tonight was exceptionally suitable for such witchcraft. A new moon, a time of transformations, a time of endings and new beginnings.

With uncertain steps, Wszemił stepped onto the pier. Meanwhile, the elder of the village gathered the juniper torches and bundled them into one large bunch, billowing sharp, resinous smoke. He slowly approached the youth, who now turned to face the crowd. Wuk looked straight at the boy. The old man's eyes seemed ordinary, blue, slightly bloodshot, but at the same time empty, drained of life, happiness, emotions. Wszemił momentarily averted his gaze from the elder of the village. He looked at the crowd. The people, with whom he shared bread, in the dim light of the stars and the smoking juniper looked like strangers. Empty gaze, sunken cheeks. Powerlessness. Anticipation. Behind them, obediently lined up in another row, stood the wolves. All the while, on the edge of the grove, their eyes shone brighter, glimmering like will-o'-the-wisps dancing over marshes. Among the wolves, however, a figure... A person, or...?

"Death Doll! Marzanna! Oh Lady of Winter and Cold that freezes our bones!" Wuk howled, diverting the youth's attention from the unexpected guests. "You've given us a hard time this year. Three of our youngest, four of our oldest, and one in the prime of their life, may the earth be light upon them," the elder spat into the water.

"Not a grain left for the Kolach-bread to honor Jarowit's glory, only for the fields to sow in spring, and barely that. Death Doll! Marzanna! Greedy wench. Go to Veles, and do not return until the leaves turn golden again," at this moment, Wuk pressed the torch to the white dress, and it caught fire in an instant. Wszemił could swear he heard a hellish roar.

"Veles! Lord of cattle and abundance! King of Nav!" "Glory to you!" the crowd repeated like a mantra, "Glory to Veles!" Wuk continued, "We have nothing to please you with, your lover has taken everything from us already. So take her with all our prosperity to your kingdom," the elder signaled to the boy.

         Wszemił once again swallowed his thickened saliva. Until now, he had only thought he heard strange, corpse-like moans. Now he was certain of it. He looked at the doll. This time, it wasn't just the face moving. The entire figure writhed in the flames. Bound to the physical form of the burning doll, suffering from the licking flames but unable to escape. The monster wriggled like a fly in thick honey, distorting reality until it nearly broke. The crowd's chanting didn't cease; it even intensified. Absolute chaos reigned in the youth's mind; the cacophony of noise plunged him into total helplessness.

"By Perun!!! Throw her before she breaks free!!!" Wuk shouted and pushed Wszemił. He didn't dare take matters into his own hands. He wouldn't dare disrupt the already disrupted ritual in such a significant way.

        The boy finally shook himself out of it. He more or less let go of the stick with the burning doll rather than actually throw it into the lake. The doll rebounded off the pier, scattering sparks in all directions. One of them struck the youth on the cheek. Wszemił winced in pain and grabbed his face with a hiss. At the same time, he heard the words of the elder of the village.

"Here is the end of winter! Hail Jarowit! Hail Dziewanna! We invite you to this world, descend and bring abundance, health, and the birth of new life! We invite you!" The crowd changed the mantra, "We invite you! We invite..." "Follow this juniper torch," Wuk slowly raised the smoldering juniper incense from the evergreen branches, which ignited anew. At that moment, Wszemił looked up. On the pier, or rather above it, he saw two strange figures. A young man with broad shoulders and a beautiful woman with a smooth face, dancing in the fire held by Wuk. The boy slowly got to his feet. There was no trace of the wolves.

         The elder strode along the pier, and the crowd parted. Wuk entered the forest and ran on. It took Wszemił a moment to collect himself, and he slowly began to follow in his footsteps. He placed one foot in front of the other, but soon noticed that the procession had closed in front of him and was quickly gaining speed. The walk turned into a jog, and then into a full sprint. Everyone followed the torch, which was getting farther and farther away. Wszemił was surprised by Wuk's briskness, a man who had complained incessantly about his creaking knees. Now, no one could keep up with him.

         Meanwhile, the clamor from the lake slowly diminished in strength but not in desperation. Was no one else hearing it, or did the entire village possess such strong willpower that they paid it no heed? Wszemił was tempted to look, tempted indeed, but he had seen enough. He focused on the torch. He had never been the strongest or the fastest in the village, and now it showed. He lagged so far behind that he could barely see the torch. Absolute darkness reigned in the forest, and he was fixated on the fire, which was just a tiny star at the end of the wooded tunnel. Therefore, he didn't notice the root that seemed to deliberately slip under his foot.

He fell.

         Everything fell silent. No more clamor from the Death Doll, no more trampling of men, no insects buzzing, no gust of wind. He didn't dare to get up right away. He waited.

"Get up, boy...!" he heard. It wasn't a pleasant voice. It sounded as if someone was knocking branches against each other, as if someone was breaking hollow stumps with heavy footsteps. Wszemił still didn't dare to move.

       "Get up now! You're mine!" he heard again. He rose, or rather, he was lifted up as if by a puppeteer. He looked around.

He was still in the same forest, but... different. The air was murky. Not misty, but murky, opaque, disturbed. The trees seemed black, the leaves and needles gray, drained of life. Before him loomed a figure, or rather, a creature, which seemed to be giving him these imperious commands. The creature was a tangle of writhing thorns and vines, in a more or less human form. A pair of beetles climbed up his rooted leg, taking their places in the eye sockets. Worms and maggots adorned his arms and shoulders like a grotesque fur. He opened his mouth in a hideous parody of a smile. Blueberry teeth gleamed blackly.

         "What do we have here? What shall I turn you into? An owl? A beetle? Hmmm... Young, foolish, disobedient... You'll fit into my pack! Ha! Yes, indeed!" the wooden monster extended its thorny hand towards Wszemił's face. "You'll make a good wolf! Ha-ha! Another herder and guardian for my menagerie! But..."

At that moment, the demon howled in pain. It howled like the wind whistling on a stormy night. Wszemił felt heat on his cheek where the spark had struck him. In a puddle at the edge of the road, out of the corner of his eye, he saw his own reflection. Under his right eye, he had a mark - a cross with smaller crosses at the ends. The mark glowed like iron pulled straight from the forge. The boy instinctively touched his own cheek. It was cold.

         The scream of the vine-like creature soon turned into maniacal laughter, and then into words.

"You're lucky, young one! Although, I'm not sure if it's really luck, ha-ha-ha!" His laughter resembled a creaking floor underfoot. "You've avoided one curse by invoking another, more powerful one. So go into the world, Marked One! I won't interfere with my mother's plans. She seems to have something other in her mind for you," the demon laughed again, sounding somewhat deranged. From his raucous laughter, the beetles fell out of his eye sockets, the worms scattered, and the vines unraveled and penetrated the ground. The only trace of the forest creature were thirty-two blueberries arranged on the ground in a sardonic smile.

Wszemił fainted.

He was awakened by the morning dew dripping on his forehead.