In the times when people knew better, which was, if you listen to most people, apparently any time but the present, there was a shop that sold unnecessary things. This is not unusual, as most shops now will fall under that category. But unlike those places, this shop was not stocked with frozen mini pies or objects shaped like whimsical animals, although one may argue about the occasions where these things might be useful.
Its inventory varied depending on the mood of the populus, but it faithfully delivered what it promised, it always stocked what was not needed. Sometimes these were bell jars filled with swirling clouds of Mob Justice, sometimes there were vials and philters with lavender coloured liquid Pseudo-intellectualism and usually one could find chests overflowing with Misplaced Good Intentions.
The most dangerous items were kept in the secret heart of the shop under the shopkeepers lock and key, past the tinctures of False Hope and the heavy urns of Panic and Despair. One day, a maiden came to this deepest, most ruinous bit of the shop desperate for Perfection In Every Way.
“You may have it”, he said, “since I just got some fresh last Tuesday. But Be-ware! For although it is not the most dangerous item I sell, it is the most fickle, and you may find that if you do not also have Faith which I have run out of stock of, or Self Worth, which I never sell, your Perfection will have but a fleeting effect”.
She ran swiftly away with the box under her arm. Within the plain unmarked wooden box were three identical dolls’ heads, their fragile upturned egg-shell faces wearing the same mask-like rigorously arranged expressions of vapid serenity.
On the first night, she slid into the Room of Moonbeams in a sweeping gown made of the cobalt midnight sky riven with the remnants of fallen stars on its hem. Every guest had to produce a gift to contribute to the theme in order to not be cast out, and the theme of the evening was music. Every surface imaginable was covered with instruments or creatures that twanged, spangled, tinkled or warbled. When it was the maiden’s turn she slipped the first doll head over her own, and sang her gift in a clear, crystalline voice. The gathered crowd seemed to approve- but then she caught sight of a float of nightingales that were mocking her and her song began to sound like a wailing cry. A crack in her voice seemed to spread to her throat, and in a moment, her facade was nothing but a lacy network of faults and fractures as she ran past a gang of lutes and lyres that shimmered their disapproval.
On the second night, the maiden tripped into the Chamber of Starlight. She wore a dress of black cobwebs held together by the gossamer wings of dragonflies. The theme of this evening was dancing, and in order not to be cast out, the guests were whirling fiendishly below a dome of clear glass on a floor of polished black onyx that reflected the shifting clouds of the night sky. Once more, she placed another doll’s head over her own. Under the watchful eye of the Master of Ceremonies, she pivoted and twirled with such decisive symmetry of movement that she startled a group of mayflies. But then she slipped on the polished floor and fell, and where her cheek rested, a gaping dark stellate shadow with jagged edges like teeth revealed the face she wore to be nothing but a broken mask. A group of music-box automatons shook their heads jerkily at her as she fled in embarassment.
On the final night, with the one remaining doll head in her hand, she trudged into the Hall of Mirrors. Her dress was made of grey cloud studded with snowflakes. The goal of the evening was for each guest to mimic the other as a sort of distinguished kind of flattery. So as the group of people within chattered and wittered and sounded exactly like one another, she moved to a silent corner of the room to fix the final doll’s head on hers. As she lifted her eyes to survey the Hall, she saw, once again, a glint of disapproval reflected in many many eyes fixed upon her, despite the ceramic flawlessness of her face.
Of course the eyes, the disapproval - everything- were, and had always only been her own, whether they had been reflected in the mirrors of the hall or in the faces of others. But, even though she realised that, she decided to give up, because her snowflake dress was making her very cold indeed, and because she would never be able to be complete without the immaculately formed doll’s heads.
So she returned to the shopkeeper of unnecessary things and turned herself in. And there she belongs.
