Gingerbread Coffin

In black gauze dresses and veils the color of dried ink, they pirouetted down the hill into the garden. The flicker-flame of the bonfire drew them from the darkness like curious moths. Thorn, in her long swishy ebony corset gown, bore their trophy in her lace gloves. The others capered about, their pale feet whispering over the short dead grass.

"Stop!" Her voice was needle sharp in the nocturnal stillness.

Immediately the other girls obeyed. Without a word, they formed a circle around the bright blaze. And with the slightest of gestures, they settled to the ground, their dresses fanning out around their thin bodies.

Thorn placed the cracked porcelain doll onto a bed held together with rubber bands. She sat back on her heels, blessing the scene with just her eyes. Still silent, each girl reached for her neighbor's palm, linking fingers tightly.

"Now that the circle is formed, let the ritual begin."

Thorn's shoulders wove patterns in the air as they chanted.

"She'll rise, she'll rise."

Their words started in a ragged whisper but grew louder and louder. Soon they were shrieking. Their easy swaying had also changed into frantic jerky twitches.

"She'll rise! She'll rise!"

Each one of them could feel the Power increasing with every syllable. It engulfed them, flowing over the doll and everyone in grey smoky wisps.

Just as their throats were growing raw with effort, something happened.

The doll sat up in her ill-repaired bed. She rose to her little porcelain feet and regarded the girls. Her eyes had long ago been gouged out, leaving empty sockets to peer at them.

They stared back in equal fascination.

Thorn disentwined her hands and brought out the old teacup. She then passed it widdershins to her right. Bramble accepted the vessel, reached in, and withdrew a dead fly.

There was a slight sizzle as she flicked it into the bonfire.

By the time the teacup finished its counter clockwise path to Thorn again, there was one insect corpse left. She didn't offer it to the flames. Instead, she held it out to the doll, who ate it with delicate porcelain lips.

The girls watched as she beamed at them. They were transfixed by the results of their magic.

Thorn rose up, her skirts brushing her legs.

"Now we dance." She grasped at the ragged hem of her gown, stepping in time to a newly born rhythm. The others needed no more prompting.

Their dresses swished around their stick thin legs. In their midst, the doll joined in, shifting awkwardly at first, unused to such physical efforts.

But her porcelain limbs grew more limber the more she moved. Soon she danced as elegantly as the others.

Yet the night couldn't last forever. It wasn't long before everyone tired of flitting around the dying fire. They didn't need Thorn to tell them it was time to go. One by one, they bid the doll farewell before disappearing into the darkness, each girl taking a different hidden forest trail.

Thorn was by herself when she gathered up the doll bed and the teacup. Then she bent down to speak to the doll.

"Go to sleep."

It fell down, lifeless once more.

She carried everything home, weary but satisfied. Just as the sun greened the treetops, she lay the doll in her new resting place.

It was a small coffin made of gingerbread. She tied the lid closed with a red satin ribbon and gave it one sweet kiss. There the doll would stay until the next time they were ready for another night of frolicking.