Work Text:
Colossal, ravenous fire spread through the room, eager to devour whatever laid in its path. Paper from book pages, wood from the shelves, even the dolls’ wooly entrails. All were the same to the fiery beast. All were charred as voracious tongues brushed against them.
Minutes after blossoming, flames already engulfed the shop in its entirety, blackening air and furniture alike. Among the latter, a survivor stood alone: a humble glass case, just big enough to house a child. And not a human girl, but a marionette sat within. Her dainty hands balled into fists, pounding the glass as hard as possible, for the case wouldn’t be a safe place much longer: if she didn’t smash the surface open, debris soon would.
It wasn’t long before she was joined by the glove hovering above her head. Three hands now thumped with all their might; yet the glass wouldn’t budge. Gigi paused to stare at the aching wood of her own fingers, chipped from the pounding and yet unsuccessful in their task. Her eyes shot back up, met by their reflection on the glass lid. Tight as the space was, she stepped back, then charged forward. No longer with her delicate hands, but with the elbow she resumed striking. One time, then two, then three.
A sharp crack, that of a single piece shattering into thousands. Her body tumbled to the ground, sagged and limp, a weak mass of timbers overwhelmed by gravity. Gigi sprung to her feet, aided by Mitt hauling her up by the strings. Synchronized with the glove’s finger work, the puppet dashed away from her case, swift yet careful to keep her legs out of the embers’ reach. In another time and place, her flight could’ve been a brisk dance, one of the many she would perform before an audience of bookshelves. Survival was instead front of mind as the doll found herself peering through smoke, desperate to glimpse the nearest exit.
Breaking through the all-consuming black and orange, a different color peeped in the corner of the puppet’s sight. Not the woody tone of a door, nor the navy blue of the night sky. It was fabric, tinted a deep shade of green.
Gigi froze in her tracks. Frantic tugs at her strings, Mitt’s wordless pleas for her to keep moving, went unanswered as she turned. The ballerina’s hand rose to her face, fanning smoke away as she retreated into the inferno. Her gaze darted around in search of that speck of emerald, dreading the thought of finding it buried beneath ashes. It was eventually spotted in a corner, bent over itself. And as the doll scurried closer, she confirmed it wasn’t alone. Keeled over breathless, a woman was wearing that very fabric. Her voice, barely a mumble broken by wheezing, sounded a pair of identical syllables as their eyes met. –“Gi-gi…”–
The puppet shushed her before she could continue. A wooden arm laid across the woman’s back while the other held her stomach, forming a soft pinch that would hopefully keep her stable. –“It’s alright miss Juju, come here…”– The human in turn laid one of her weak arms across Gigi’s shoulders, using her as a crutch while stepping forward, guided by Mitt and its pulls at the doll’s strings.
The two marched, slow but constant, headed toward the front door of the shop, where safety awaited. Smoke and flames were closing in, but sheer willpower ensured their legs never stopped. Juju was still making efforts to speak, not bothering to save breath for the escape. –“Gigi… I-I… It’s-” A fit of coughing silenced her. It sounded raw, overpowering, as it suffocated more than just her words. Her skin was clammy with sweat bleeding from her pores, thick beads leaking out as if afraid of boiling inside of her system.
Gigi stayed at her side throughout, a powerless observer of her struggle. While the puppet’s wooden body was only vulnerable to the scorching element itself, the witch had more to worry about. Soot already filled her airways, and the fire threatened to sear her flesh before even touching her. And it stung like a dagger. Not just for Juju to experience, but for Gigi to witness as well. It wasn’t any woman the doll was carrying; it was her family, the only she still had besides Mitt. When Master left them behind, it was the witch who took them in. And when they asked for a place to stay, no matter how small, it was the witch who offered her home to share for as long as they needed. Now that it was the human’s turn to be helpless, Gigi refused to let her down.
An opening, less of a door and more of a crack in the ash-coated wall, stood in the distance. So tiny from afar, yet expanding as they drew closer, taking up more and more space in their vision until the threshold was crossed.
The human sank down. Knees and hands met the earth, fingers locking with soft grassy blades. The aroma of flowers and dew made its way into her nostrils, not yet replacing the stench of burnt wood, but beginning soothe her senses. She breathed, feeling the air run deep down her throat, until all muscles had relaxed. She perceived a weight on her shoulder. A glance to the side showed a periwinkle hand, chipped and sooty but so very graceful. The witch’s gaze traveled up the arm and body of the puppet, until she was looking in icy blue eyes. Inches below, wooden lips curled in a beam. –“We’re safe.”–
Finding comfort in the statement, or perhaps just innately, Juju mirrored the doll’s expression. Her plump mouth, inky with lipstick, smiled together with her cheeks as they rose up to twinkly eyes. Quick as it had come, joy then vanished from her face. All her features dropped, with the sole exception of the stretched eyelids. From the depths of her throat, a gulp and a cry of terror. Not a shriek or any typical word, but a name.
–“Gris-Gris!”–
She scrambled to her feet, body springing up and around in the same motion. To do what, she wasn’t sure. Rushing back inside was as likely of an option as just standing there, gawking at the inferno, praying it wouldn’t claim her assistant. Neither scenario became reality, as the violent twisting of her body shot daggers into her sides. Her airways closed, and she was left again to wheeze and gasp for air, helpless on the grass while the shop burned.
Gigi stood frozen, eyes darting back and forth between Juju and the fire. Mind racing, jumping from thought to thought, evaluating risks, picturing outcomes, aware a decision had to be made quick. Much unlike her arms, both paralyzed, held back tight by strings anchored to Mitt, who’d guessed her plan. But restraints were of no use deterring the puppet. Not when Juju’s other friend, whom the witch herself had crafted, risked carbonization. How would she react should a flame touch the smaller doll? What if, after all embers had been smothered, she found charcoal where her companion used to be?
Gigi’s arms pushed forward, away from Mitt. Still chained to its fingertips, the marionette resorted to thrashing about like a critter in a trap. Torso and limbs alike twisted on themselves, straining the fine bindings. Even her head turned, not to squirm like the rest of her, but to face the breathless human kneeling beside. –“Where is it, miss Juju? Do you remember?”– She watched her head lift between coughs. The human fought the ashes in her throat to utter a syllable, which Gigi identified as ‘shelf’. No sound was to be heard above her head, but she felt her joints being released.
The puppet straightened herself, fully unsupported. Her body felt at once lighter and heavier as the relieved tension was replaced by gravity pulling her down. She took hesitant steps, one leg after the other; and the moment she gained confidence, stepping turned to running, broken pieces of string dangling down her arms.
Gigi scurried through the charred remains of burnt furniture, hands back at eye-level to fan away the dark fog. Two minutes of resting outside had translated into thicker smoke, and multiplied flames too; with her vision filled with black and gray, the doll was forced to rely on her memory of the shop’s layout to dodge obstacles, as well as her heat perception to avoid stepping into the fire.
It wasn’t long before she reached the area where Juju kept her potions, labelled and filed neatly on shelves. Some mounted at Gigi’s same height, but most out of reach — and she was already on tiptoes. The puppet wasted no time scanning side-to-side every shelf she could see the top of. Bottles and ampoules of who-knows-what stood beside books and handmade voodoo dolls, none of which resembled Gris-Gris. Her train of thought veered in a morbid direction as the checking and double-checking proved to be ineffective.
The corner of her eyes stung as she jerked backwards, aiming to make a run for it and pray at least she would be fine. But a sudden whoosh overhead, followed by a flash of lime inches from her face, froze her in spot. Next thing she knew Gris-Gris was sitting at her feet, button eyes gazing up at her. The ballerina fought against shock and panic to grab the tiny doll and bolt in the door’s direction.
Her legs, while awkward, mostly remained swift through the lack of support, allowing for nimble movements around flames. But speed alone couldn’t compensate for the total lack of visibility. Soot overloaded the air around Gigi, preventing her from knowing what part of the store she was even standing in. She snapped her head left and right to no avail: a coat of ashes had been cast upon the area. No walls nor furniture to act as clues, only grim shades of gray clouding her eyes. Not even a single tongue of fire could be spotted, making every step a suicide mission.
The puppet squeezed Gris-Gris’ body without even being aware of it, trying to get rid of the adrenaline she knew was useless in that circumstance. Her fingers quivered as they sunk into the stuffed rag; an earthquake seemed to break her apart as the rest of her figure followed. Thoughts came rushing back, together with a dull pang in her chest. How was that possible without a heart nor lungs, she didn’t know. Just like she didn’t know where to go, when her eyes were useless and her body only felt scorching heat all around.
Out of nowhere, a white spot appeared. It could’ve been an illusion, a trick of her own hopelessness. But quick as it had come into view, the entity materialized by her side. Gigi found herself gaping at the familiar sight of a disembodied glove.
Her first instinct was to yell its name as if there was need to confirm the creature’s identity. But as her mouth opened, the glove thrust its soft white fingers in front of her. The marionette’s instincts told her to clutch its pinky, to which the glove reacted by tugging away. She got the hint and started running in the direction it pulled her toward, trusting it to lead the way.
As the smoke died down to a fog around the three, outlines and colors of flames and burnt-down furniture grew clearer. Gigi couldn’t believe she felt relieved to see them again, but there she was. Droplets of relief turned into a waterfall washing over her as a wide-open door emerged from the soot, awaiting on the horizon like a rising sun.
Mitt pulled harder than ever, desperate to save itself and the dolls. The puppet’s legs ran as fast as they could to keep up with the glove, forcing the sore wood into a final sprint. Strain and heat meant nothing to her as long as they got out.
There came the threshold, almost within reach…
Gigi let out a yelp as something held her in place, feet away from safety. Her eyes shot down to see a piece of thread, still tied to her right elbow, caught in a charred-beyond-recognition piece of furniture. She had let go of Mitt’s finger, leaving the glove to fly alone for a moment. It soon rushed back, puzzled by her sudden halt. All the ballerina could do was motion at the string, and watch as Mitt dove down and fiddled with the culprit.
Restlessness grew within Gigi, who began to visibly fidget on the spot. With the glove so far unsuccessful in freeing her, she switched Gris-Gris’ location from her left hand to her right. As Mitt kept struggling to extricate the thread, her now-free left hand messed around with the knot tying it to her elbow. This way either Mitt unhooked her quick, or the bond would get loosened off.
While the puppet’s eyes stayed glued to the string, the corner of her vision caught a glimpse of cherry red movement. From the other side of the door, where damp grass replaced the embers, the brightly-colored mass of locks lifted to reveal a face peeking underneath. The skin was stained with soot and make-up flowing like black rivers down her face. Less than an hour prior the former element wasn’t there, while the dry cosmetics were likely to enhance the appearance of her eyes, rather than make the woman look like she was already grieving her store. Those very eyes, dark and round like splotches of ink, gazed into Gigi’s. So full of emotions the doll couldn’t decipher, and the woman herself would’ve been unable to describe, as the once-powerful witch sat with her knees to the earth and her lungs full of ashes.
Her focus split between the human and the knot on her elbow, the ballerina almost failed to register a series of delicate taps against the back of her hand. She finally glanced at the source: Gris-Gris itself, who up to that point had been calling for her attention. As she finally laid eyes on the doll, the tapping ceased, replaced by an oversized plush limb raising skywards. Gigi paused her fiddling with the string to peer up. The ceiling looked closer compared to when, minutes earlier, she had broken out of the glass case. The puppet watched it lower further, as its burnt wooden boards shifted around.
The next instant was a chaotic blur. A blend of events and people and feelings, happening right then and there. Not around, but within Gigi. Past joys and sorrows flashed before her, intertwined with flickers of danger from the present. The future being nowhere to be seen, demanding she choose with her guts rather than head.
The knot was intact as the hand undoing it slid away from her elbow to her wrist. She snatched Gris-Gris away from her own right hand; then she hurled it through the threshold, away from the crumbling hellscape.
As it landed by Juju’s side, finally safe thanks to her, the ballerina turned to Mitt. The glove was still there, busy trying to free her, blissfully unaware or perhaps just uncaring of their impending doom. It would be following her, wherever she was going to end up — and that was her one regret.
Her ears were bombarded with the harshness of charred wood snapping.
~~~~
Juju wasn’t coughing anymore.
Alerted by neighbors, doctors had come to inspect her airways, provide hospital treatment, check her body for latent damage. She had been given the all-clear by dawn, and was advised to go home and rest before even thinking of rebuilding her business.
Instead, the rising sun met her at the ruins that were once the Oddities Shop. The embers had died down, cooled by the night breeze and lack of any more fuel to burn. It allowed the witch to lift debris off the ground, giving her at least a glimmer of hope she could still savalge something. Or someone.
–“Gris-Gris!”– Resounded her cry as another piece of singed wood was thrown away, –“I wouldn’t mind some help here, you know?”–
It tried to obey by lifting the edge of a board off the ground. But the doll’s tiny size meant there was only so much it could do. Realizing this, it resorted to crawling under the rubble, like a worm digging through the earth. Juju watched as lime cloth slithered beneath the blackened wreckage, then disappeared under an especially big pile of debris.
When it resurfaced seconds later, the doll was holding something coated in soot. The human paused her search to kneel down, extending her palm so to prompt her assistant to hand over the item. Her first action upon receiving it was to brush away some of the cinder. The now-clean object, a magician’s glove, was a light tint of cream. The fire had left black spots here and there, but it wasn’t unsalvageable. Its soft fibers, likely quality cotton, bore tears and rips making it resemble a sheet of fabric with fingers. Again, nothing unsalvageable, though she estimated it would take her at least an hour of sewing to fix everything.
The glove’s wrist displayed an odd, pitch-black symbol, which Juju recognized as the closed eye. Concerned by its immobility, the witch’s finger tentatively poked an inch below its lashes. This resulted in a second of squinting, then the eyelid lifting to reveal dark sclera surrounding an icy blue dot. It stared deep into the human’s pupils, perhaps an attempt at communication despite being mute. Her fingers brushed again against the fabric, this time to comfort rather than clean. It seemed to work at first, with each stroke of her digits taking away some of the worry in Mitt’s fibers. But then, struggling somewhat, the glove tensed again.
The woman cupped her hands into a warm nest around Mitt. One of its quivery fingers was pointing down, where the scorched ruins formed a dark, shapeless pile on the ground. –“You want us to look there, honey?”– Juju asked out loud. The glove couldn’t speak, but it weakly managed to raise a thumb.
She laid the creature back in Gris-Gris’ arms before rising back up. She stepped over to where it was pointing and resumed digging through the debris, one piece at a time. In the back of her mind, the human already knew what it was pointing towards. Or who, to be exact. Yes, it had to be a ‘who’. It had to be Gigi down there, not just a limp wooden body. Mitt had survived with a few burns and tears, so why shouldn’t she?
Juju kept digging with a prayer in her heart. Holding her breath as well as words, she begged any god or spirit that might’ve been listening to prove her right. To confirm that below those planks and roof tiles, her loyal friend was waiting to be rescued.
But Gigi was nowhere to be found. Under the rubble, all the witch could see were the smoldering remains of bolts and screws, together with the metallic appendage that was once a leg.