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The Black Female Warrior Races Through – Part 03

“What is it?” Avril urged.

“It’s rumored that the dolls made by the doll maker Grafenstein were infused with souls through a deal with the devil, earning them the reputation of being evil dolls that walked in the night. However, rumors are often quite inaccurate. There was a completely different reason why the dolls he crafted appeared magnificent yet somehow sorrowful. You see, the doll maker had tragically lost his beloved in the chaos of the Great War.”

“Oh, my!”

“Apparently, she was considerably younger, practically still a young girl. Grafenstein, on the other hand, was already old, and his only son, born from his late wife, was a middle-aged man at this point. Saubreme’s high society expressed their disapproval of his relationship with a girl who might as well be his granddaughter.”

“Oh, my…”

“Grafenstein had already established a considerable reputation as a doll maker, but his lover had no relatives and had been working alone in a rundown tavern since her teenage years. High society, acquaintances, as well as his family, were all unaccepting of the ill-suited lovers. And then…”

“And then?”

“And then the war began, and one fateful night, German fighter planes bombed Saubreme.”

“I know that one! ‘The Moonlit Night When Stars of Death Fell’. There were a lot of civilian casualties. We learned about it in class.”

“The young lover was hit by the German army’s stars—that is, their bombs—and died.”

“And then they began roaming the corridors at night, covered in blood. Now that’s what I’m talking about!”

“Do you really think that a calm, collected, and bright individual such as myself would bother with such a silly story?”

“Oh, that’s not it? So it’s not a ghost story? Boooriiing.”

“Of course, it isn’t. I simply explained the reason why Grafenstein’s later works all have a sorrowful expression,” Victorique said in a husky voice, puffing on her pipe.

Avril’s shoulders dropped in disappointment. “Will there be ghosts?”

“Why would there be ghosts? Some time later, Grafenstein came to the village…”

“Oh! Inspector Blois mentioned the same earlier. He said that Grafenstein moved out of his workshop in Saubreme and lived the final years of his life in the village.”

“That’s correct. All of his later works were actually made in this village, including the doll that my brother always carries around.”

“Hmm…”

Before she knew it, Avril was leaning closer into the hole, listening to Victorique’s story.

The winter sky sparkled brightly. The wind was cold, but the sun was gentle and pleasant.

Joyful voices of students resounded in the distance.

---

Ten years ago.

The events I’m about to recount took place a decade ago, in the year 1914.

New residents from the city arrived in a sturdy abandoned house on the outskirts of the village. They brought with them only a handful of household belongings and a large container filled with doll-making materials. The newcomers consisted of two men and a young girl—Grafenstein, his middle-aged son, and his daughter, that is, the doll maker’s granddaughter.

Without even greeting the neighboring villagers, the trio secluded themselves in the house, quietly starting their new life. They didn’t have any servants, so a local farmwoman, thinking an all-male household might need some help, recommended a part-time worker, but Grafenstein, immersed in his doll-making, just snapped back at her, telling her not to disturb them.

When the woman returned home angrily, she said, “It was a complete mess in there. The floor was littered with apple skin and cores, vegetable scraps, along with hardened bread.”

“Of course, the old man is free to do whatever he pleases. He can eat apples and bread, then throw them on the floor, but his granddaughter is still a child. Imagine a ten-year-old just running around with dirt on her face. She’s not much different from my youngest son, and it’s just unbearable to look at.”

The woman’s remarks caused more and more people to come and knock on the house’s door, asking, “Do you need any help?” However, the old man only growled and yelled at every one of them. It didn’t take long for the family to earn a negative reputation in the village.

One day, however, something unexpected occurred. In the small, shabby house adjacent to the barn where the farmwoman lived, someone suddenly arrived during the night.

Autumn was just beginning to give way to winter, and it was raining.

Opening the door revealed the little granddaughter of Grafenstein standing there, trembling.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s bad, Auntie. Grandpa has a fever…”

“What? You mean that mean and unpleasant old man? That is bad!”

The woman immediately sat the girl down next to her husband and sons and offered her warm soup to drink. Then, rolling up her sleeves, she took her eldest son with her to the doll maker’s house.

And then…

---

“I get it!”

Interrupting Victorique’s explanation, Avril drew closer. Victorique swatted her away with her pipe.

Snow drifted down softly from the bright daytime sky, landing on Victorique’s tiny golden head, then melted.

Trapped in the hole was a young girl dressed in a vibrant red dress, her movements restricted, and standing beside her was a fearless girl adorned in warrior attire, holding a bow. From a distance, they resembled a trapped tropical bird and a hunter who had stumbled upon it.

“After Grafenstein passed away from a high fever, the house became haunted!” Avril exclaimed with enthusiasm. “The ghost of a frail old man appears to beautiful girls on nights of full moon, searching for his young lover!”

“Wrong again.”

“…Oh.”

Avril’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. Victorique carried on with her tale.

Snow continued falling. The chilly wind brushed against the girls’ cheeks.

---

Upon arrival, the woman saw the doll maker lying on a shabby bed, calling out the name of his deceased lover in a delirious state.

“You’re such a child!” the woman huffed.

Nevertheless, she had the doll maker change into clean clothes and fed them a nutritious soup. The woman’s son quickly cleaned up the mansion, which was practically a garbage dump at this point. As for the doll maker’s son, all he could do was cower helplessly.

The doll maker had spent his days creating dolls in his workshop, with his son assisting him. Stones of lovely colors—blue, green, red—lay scattered in the workshop.

“What’s all this?” the woman asked.

“My father embeds them into the dolls’ eyes,” the son explained.

Opening the window to let in fresh air, the woman grumbled, “Isn’t that old man supposedly famous in Saubreme? He came to the sticks and immediately turned his house into a garbage dump. I hope he realizes what he needs now.”

By the time the doll maker’s fever finally subsided, the woman was walking around the house as if she owned the place.

“I’ve prepared stewed meat, bread, and salad in the kitchen,” she said. “The living room is sparkling clean, so go over there. Get out of bed, quick! I need to wash the sheets.” She took charge of all chores.

The doll maker was initially annoyed by the woman’s unnecessary meddling, but his son convinced him to hire the farmwoman.

“Let’s just let her do it,” he said. “She’s actually a nice person.”

The granddaughter quickly grew fond of the woman and followed her around while she cleaned. The woman also adored the little girl. Eventually, the woman’s youngest son started picking her up every morning to go to the village school together. If there were any problems in the house, the woman’s husband came to help. He would enter the living room and play a game of chess before leaving. The doll maker’s family and the farmer’s family gradually became close, like one big family.

Over time, the farmer’s family learned that the doll maker had lost a young lover and holed himself up in his workshop to craft new dolls to remember her. The son was busy every day, helping with Grafenstein’s work and handling contracts with doll shops and collectors from Saubreme. The granddaughter also loved the dolls her grandfather made and did her best to help in her own way.

The farmwoman, on the other hand, was born in the village, but spent most of her childhood in the orphanage after losing her parents. When she left the orphanage at the age of fifteen, she returned to the village with the intention of starting a family and successfully found a compatible partner. Fifteen years had passed since then, and her eldest son was already fourteen, almost the same age as she was when she left the orphanage. Time flies quickly.

“At first, your nasty attitude pissed me off,” the farmwoman said. “But now, I think if my real father were still alive, he’d be like you. Right, Gramps?”

“Stop yapping and sweep the floor!”

The woman clicked her tongue. “Stupid geezer.”

“What did you say?!”

The doll maker and the farmer spent their days arguing incessantly but getting along. Both the doll maker and the farmwoman, as well as their sons and grandchildren, gradually grew older. And so, eight years flew by in the blink of an eye…

---

“And then the farmwoman passed away. Every morning, a ghost appears by the bedside and tells them to get up so they could wash the sheets. Isn’t that right?” Avril insisted.

Snow fell gently from the clear blue skies. The chatter of students drifted from the distance.

Victorique let out a bored yawn. “So, you think ghosts wake up earlier than the living and wash sheets at first light?”

“Well, um…”

“Unfortunately, that is not the case. The farmwoman in question is still alive. If you visit the village, you might see her. According to Kujou, there’s a self-service vegetable corner across from the general store. Do you know about it?”

“I do, actually! They have all sorts of fruits, and they even sell homemade jam and large liver pies. Whenever I pass by, I can’t resist treating myself. I’m actually quite the regular there. I think a lot of students from the academy also go there.”

“The jam you enjoy is made and sold by the very same woman. She’s very hardworking. She does household chores, looks after the doll maker’s family, tends to the fields, and on top of that, she oversees the self-service corner, stocking items and collecting money.”

“Oh, I bump into her sometimes. I asked for lingonberry jam, and the next week, it was there. Wait, we’re talking about that lady? But she’s alive! I saw her just a couple of weeks ago.”

“That’s precisely what I’ve been saying.”

“Then who died?”

Victorique took a puff, her gaze drifting into the distance. “It was the doll maker and his son,” she said, her voice soft as a sigh. “Both of them passed away on the same day, but in far different places.”

A bird took flight, wings flapping. The winter wind blew, its chilly breath rustling the edges of Avril’s valiant warrior costume.

The thin smoke rising from Victorique’s pipe swayed uneasily in the wind.