The Dancer and The Doll

~Finding Meaning~ (2)

The Dancer moved gracefully away from the record player, passed the crackling fireplace and stopped. He extended his hand towards the sheet-covered lump. He hesitated, fingertips hovering mere inches from it, he took a deep breath and pulled the sheet off.

The Dancer's eyes were greeted by Rose's diamond ones, but they did not sparkle. Her joints were rusted; her silver arms and fingers were dull and filthy. The doll's once fine painted face was peeling and her hinged mouth hung open. Her dress was stiff, dusty and torn in several places, moth-eaten in many more, the wig horribly frayed. The Dancer took in the doll's appearance, and felt saddened at her state of disrepair.

But the sadness was suddenly stomped out by determination. He clenched his fists, looking Rose up and down. He would fix the doll! He would repair her, clean her up and sew patches into the dress! Pulling the doll from her corner and into the midst of his odds and ends. He slipped between the piles of junk until he came to a heavy can of oil that he'd been using to keep the doors hinges working.

Cold wind smashed against the old windows, creeping in through cracks and holes to chill the already cold attic room. The Dancer pulled his cloak tighter about himself as he walked back towards Rose with the oilcan in hand. He set it down on one of the cluttered tables and carefully selected a dull knife, and began using it to scrape rust and grime from Rose's joints. He patiently worked away, removing little by little.

Over the years, the Dancer had developed an immense amount of patience. With no dances to practice, shows to go to or people to see, he had learned to be careful and spend a lot of time on projects. The longest projects filled his lonely hours with a purpose. Often when he finished, he would wander the halls of the mansion, searching for a new task.

Sometimes it was days before he settled on a new objective and other times a new one was started the same day. The Dancer slowly worked at the doll's joints, the rust and grime, falling away. He patiently continued, soon, an hour had passed and he stepped back to examine his work.

The joints were no longer tarnished, but in good condition again. Setting the knife down, and picking up the oilcan he slowly went over all the areas once more and carefully oiled each one. Satisfied, he straightened and put the oilcan aside. The next task was cleaning Rose's delicate silver limbs until they shone. The Dancer dumped a bucket of metal scraps onto the floor, went and filled it with water and grabbed a rag. He did not soak it, for he knew it would only cause rust. He dampened the rag and started the next stage of repair. Soon Rose's limbs and joints were back in peak condition. The Dancer put his bucket and rag aside, pondering what to work on next.

Hours had passed, and hunger gnawed at him. Reluctantly he went in search of food passing by an old pile of fabrics, needles and buttons on his way down the stairs. The Dancer decided he would repair the doll's dress next. Sidestepping the broken and rotting planks, he touched down on the main floor at the bottom of the staircase. He spun on his heels and marched down the left hall towards the pantry. The Dancer had been living off of the remaining food in the kitchens of the mansion. The stores were beginning to get low... and the nagging fact that he would have to leave when the food ran out continued to nip at his mind, but he for now brushed it away.

His footfalls caused dust to swirl up in the kitchen and it made him cough. The Dancer selected a small meal from his thinning stash. He took his cracked plate holding a chunk of hardening cheese, dried bread and fruit over to the tap. He pumped the handle several times over before water began to run. Patiently waiting for the yellow and brown water to flush out and run clear. He filled his glass and strode out briskly after stopping the pump. The Dancer was very careful not to dump his plate or spill the water as he slowly climbed the old staircase back up to his attic room.

Sitting by the fire he put food on a wobbly wooden table. The Dancer removed Rose's tattered silken dress and began the long, tedious task of repairing it.

He eventually began to grow tired of constantly stopping to fetch supplies. That is when he remembered... Clockwork! How could he have forgotten that old doll? The Dancer stood, finished the rest of his meal, and then went to search the endless sheet-covered piles.

The Dancer searched until he finally discovered his old fetching doll: Clockwork. He brushed the dust off the doll's head and observed the state it was in. Surprisingly enough the hardy little fellow had fared much better than Rose. Clockwork – much to the Dancer's relief – needed only to be dusted and oiled. And he was done this chore in a short half-hour.

The Dancer set the oilcan down and gave the little doll a once-over before determining that Clockwork was fit for duty. Clockwork stood approximately three feet tall, starting at the bottom with a set of four wheels to move around and from there up was a torso with arms that nearly reached the ground. He had a bristly moustache underneath his little round nose. Both of his green eyes were open, an eyeglass over one and a bowler hat up on his head. The Dancer had often referred to Clockwork as being a 'right proper butler doll'.

He wound the key in Clockwork's back many times around until it clicked, then let go and stepped back, hoping it would run.