The Wooden Prince

by John Claude Bemis

  A massive creature sat at a table in the workshop’s center. He was bright yellow with black spots speckling his skin. A curved horn sprouted from one side of his head. The other horn was broken off behind his ear. He carved at a flaming salamander on his plate, forking bites into his fang-filled maw.

  Pinocchio had never seen one before, but he knew this must be a djinni, a fire elemental.

  “Greetings, Al Mi’raj,” Rampino said.

  Al Mi’raj looked up from his meal, taking a sip of a thick black liquid in a goblet. A thin flame shimmered on the drink’s surface. The djinni’s eyes were as yellow as his skin, with a reptilian shard of black bisecting the middle.

  “Just one?” Al Mi’raj’s voice rumbled like a volcano.

  Rampino shrugged. “Farmers are keeping their automa off the roads lately.”

  “You’ll have to venture out to new territory next time,” Al Mi’raj said, slicing the head off the salamander and crunching down on it with his jumble of teeth. He chewed disgustingly as he eyed Pinocchio. “He looks small. How much do you want for him?”

  “Look closer,” Rampino said. “Very fine craftsmanship. He looks like a lad, but he’s strong. We saw him scale a cliff with his hands. Fought like a tiger when we tried to cage him.”

  Al Mi’raj grunted, unimpressed. “How did he get the nose?”

  “Probably a malfunction. They get that way when they’re not properly maintained. Your gnomes—er, your gnome will get him tip-top.”

  Al Mi’raj surveyed Pinocchio. “He doesn’t look like a farmhand. They make these boy models as parlor-room servants. I can’t afford to have some don recognize his missing houseboy. Not interested.”

  “Ninety ducats,” Rampino said. “That’s half what I sold you the last automa for.”

  “Twenty,” Al Mi’raj said, reaching for a box on the table and counting out the golden coins.

  Rampino spat. “I could get more than that if we sold him for parts.”

  Pinocchio decided that was enough. He was not going to be disassembled into spare parts. Although he should have tried to get away when he was still outside, maybe he could make it to the door.

  He shoved Rampino and turned to run, but Rampino regained his balance and swung the flat edge of his sword against Pinocchio’s back. His gears froze and everything went black as he collapsed to the floor.

  When Pinocchio was able to open his eyes, he found Al Mi’raj standing over him. The creature was massive. Terrifying. Worse than anything Pinocchio had imagined any monster could be.

  The djinni smiled. “Yes, he has spirit, doesn’t he? That’ll make for a good show. I’ll give you the ninety ducats. Find me more like this one, Rampino.”

  Rampino stammered as Al Mi’raj deposited the coins in his hand. “Yes—thank you—I will.” He bowed before hurrying out the door.

  “Bulbin,” Al Mi’raj called. “Set up our new performer.”

  The group of gnomes around the workshop hurried over. As they approached, they collided into one another like they were made of mud. They merged together until they formed one slightly larger gnome, although Bulbin—or was it Bulbins?—still wasn’t quite tall enough to reach Pinocchio’s waist.

  “My master will come for me,” Pinocchio warned Al Mi’raj. “He’ll be angry when he knows what you’ve done.”

  “He’s not your master anymore,” Al Mi’raj said.

  Bulbin took a ring of keys off his belt and began sorting through them, holding one up at a time and comparing the key against Pinocchio. “Vitruvian Moppet? A squint too tall to be that one.” Bulbin took another key. “Vitruvian Boymunculus? No. Vitruvian Pandroid? Close. Ah, here ’tis. Vitruvian Manikin. Palace servant, eh?”

  “That’s not my fealty key,” Pinocchio said, scooting away from the creature. “My master has mine. And he’s an alchemist, mind you. Only he can control me.”

  Bulbin snickered and then broke apart into about a dozen smaller versions of himself. Each one clambered onto the others’ shoulders until they made a wobbling tower of Bulbins that reached Pinocchio’s shoulders. The one on top tried to slip the key into the back of Pinocchio’s neck, but Pinocchio twisted his head side to side irritably.

  Al Mi’raj smirked. “Stay still for Bulbin. You’ll want to stay on his good side, manikin. Unless you want him to rearrange you into a donkey cart. Or worse.”

  Pinocchio remembered Rampino’s donkey cart and wondered if that had once been an automa. “What could be worse?”

  “How’d a talking chamber pot suit you, Al Mi’raj?” Bulbin asked.

  Pinocchio froze.

  The gnome laughed as he got the key in the lock and the tumblers clicked. He turned the key, and a strange sensation came over Pinocchio’s body. A feeling that he was weightless, that he could just float away.

  Then Bulbin said, “Al Mi’raj is your master now.”

  It was as if lead anchors had snapped onto his limbs. He felt temporarily crushed. He fought against it, trying to think of Geppetto. He was his real master. Not this revolting djinni. But as Pinocchio felt his nose return to its normal size, he knew he had to obey Al Mi’raj.

  The tower of gnomes toppled and collapsed into the larger version of Bulbin. “Done,” the gnome said with a satisfied clap of his hands.

  Pinocchio stood, glaring at them. “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Your fellow actors will explain. Wiq! Come show our newest member to his quarters.” Al Mi’raj strolled back to the table to finish his meal. Pinocchio eyed the smoking, half-eaten carcass with disgust. Fire eater, eh? Well, he hoped Al Mi’raj choked on the salamander’s tail!

  The half-beast boy who had answered the door appeared. “Follow me.”

  Wiq didn’t seem very friendly. In fact he seemed angry, although Pinocchio couldn’t guess why.

  “Doesn’t Al Mi’raj have a master?” Pinocchio asked once they were down the hall.

  Wiq didn’t answer. Pinocchio thought that maybe the grumpy boy didn’t understand why he was asking. “It’s just I’ve heard that elementals like him serve alchemists—”

  “Al Mi’raj and Bulbin don’t work in a normal workshop,” Wiq said, his tail swatting side to side. “They run the theater for the lord mayor of Siena. They serve him, as the mayor serves the empire. Good, obedient servants. You know all about that, don’t you, puppet?”

  “My name’s not Puppet. My name’s Pinocchio.”

  “Be quiet, puppet.” Wiq kept marching him down the twisting hallways.

  “Look, did I say something wrong?” Pinocchio felt he must have offended the boy. “I’m sorry if—”

  “I said don’t talk to me, automa. I don’t like your kind.”

  Pinocchio frowned. “Well, it’s a funny place to work, then, don’t you think?”

  “You think I choose to work here?” Wiq growled. He touched his hands to a metal collar around his neck. “I might be a slave, but I’m no puppet like you!”

  Wiq opened a door, gave Pinocchio an abrupt shove through, and slammed it behind him.

  The room was a large, vaulted cellar lit by pixie bulbs that were hovering up above like oversize soap bubbles. Wardrobes and chests lined the walls, along with racks of costumes and heaps of fabric. The room was crowded with dozens of automa.

  They all stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at him. Some had been sewing costumes. Others were sparring with wooden swords. Another was painting a mask of what looked like a hysterical rabbit. The closest automa seemed like he had been rehearsing some sort of speech, and he stopped midsentence with a hand flung up dramatically, before facing Pinocchio.

  “How now, cousin?” he bellowed. “Good greetings. ’Twas fortune that brought thee to us, and fortune that will guide thee in our midst.”

  “Uh, what?” Pinocchio said.

  He’d never heard an automa—or a person, for that matter—talk like this. And what a strangely shaped automa! His belly had been designed to look like an enormous ball, and his face was pain
ted bright red. He wore a tight-fitting black-and-white-checkered costume.

  The automa flung an arm around Pinocchio’s shoulder and gestured to the others. “Welcome…to Al Mi’raj’s Grand Marionette Theater!”

  The other automa placidly went back to what they were doing.

  “Oh,” Pinocchio said. “Thanks.”

  “I am Pulcinella. Thou mayst call me Punch.”

  “Are you the chief butler?”

  “No, lad, no,” Punch replied. “Methinks thou art confused. Speak I with the common tongue of an automa servant? Can thou not hear how the ingenious master gnome Bulbin has bestowed me with the vocalizing of a grand orator?”

  “Is that why you talk like that?” Pinocchio said. “He won’t do that to me, will he?”

  “Nay,” Punch said. “Thou wilt be a performer. Through thy gestures and acting, thou wilt assist thy fellow performers in creating theatrical productions of high drama.”

  “I wilt? I mean, I will?” Pinocchio said. “How will I know what to do?”

  Punch motioned across the room. “Our star, Harlequin, shall instruct thee.”

  Another automa was approaching. Unlike Punch, Harlequin was tall and nimble. His wooden face was painted midnight black, and he wore a costume of bright blue, red, yellow, and green diamonds.

  He did a series of cartwheels, stopping next to Pinocchio. He produced a wooden bat from behind his arm. With a swing, he knocked Pinocchio in the back of the head.

  “Hey!” Pinocchio said, stumbling forward.

  Harlequin leaped over Pinocchio and, when he landed, bashed him in the waist, forcing Pinocchio into a bow. With an acrobatic twirl, Harlequin swiped Pinocchio’s knees, spilling him flat to the floor.

  Punch applauded approvingly.

  Pinocchio stood up, grumbling, “What was that all for?”

  “Entertainment, lad. Entertainment.”

  Pinocchio frowned at Harlequin, but the automa simply stared back impassively.

  “Is he going to just knock me around onstage?” Pinocchio asked.

  “Most assuredly,” Punch said. “Tomorrow at evenfall, we perform. Thou wilt lend thy talents to our show.”

  “What do I have to do?” Pinocchio asked. “Speak lines?”

  “Nay. That would be most dull. Thou wilt fight.”

  Pinocchio eyed the other performers. A female automa was touching up the paint on her eyebrows in front of a mirror. An automa with a comically sad expression carved on his face was stitching up holes in his floppy white sleeves. An automa wearing a black jaguar’s mask practiced elaborate moves with a poleax. The blade on the end wasn’t wooden. It was metal.

  “Fight?” Pinocchio gave a shiver.

  “How be thy skills sparring with a sword?” Punch asked.

  “I’ve never tried.”

  “Can thou swing thy arm?”

  “Yes,” Pinocchio said.

  “Marvelous!” Punch exclaimed. “Do so dramatically. Harlequin will rehearse with thee.”

  Pinocchio glanced warily over at Harlequin, who handed Pinocchio a wooden sword.

  Punch called out to the automa who was painting her face. “Columbine, wouldst thou assist…um…” He looked at Pinocchio. “I beseech thee, what is thy name?”

  “Pinocchio.”

  Punch waved to Columbine. “Locate a costume for fair Pinocchio.”

  She applied a final touch of red to her wooden puckered lips, then put down her paintbrush to head toward the racks of clothes.

  Punch walked away, calling over his shoulder, “Prepare thyself, Pinocchio, for tomorrow we entertain all the good folk of Siena.”

  With a flourishing sweep, Harlequin cracked his bat against Pinocchio’s head one last time.

  Columbine chose for Pinocchio a black cloak tipped in vibrant blue and white feathers, as well as a black helmet with a long beak. Apparently, he was supposed to be some sort of bird. A magpie, she explained. When she handed him a pair of black slippers, he remembered with a start. He couldn’t let the others see how his feet had become that strange fleshy material.

  “May I keep on my boots?” Pinocchio asked. “I think they look more…uh, dramatic.”

  “If you wish.” Columbine batted her eyes with automa indifference. “You’ll play the part of one of the half-beasts, led by Scaramouch. Just follow what the others do. Fight off Harlequin’s troupe, playing humans. Harlequin always wins, so you’ll have to be defeated in the end. Just don’t let them hack you up too soon. The audience is here to watch us battle.”

  “Hack me up?” Pinocchio said. “We won’t really damage each other, will we?”

  Columbine handed him a curved scimitar. He was relieved to see that it was bronze, so it wouldn’t disrupt his gearworks. But when Pinocchio touched the edge of the blade, it nicked a small chip of wood from his finger.

  “It’s sharp!” he said.

  Columbine pulled up her sleeve. Her arm was crisscrossed by cracks and cuts, as if her arm had been severed many times. “The gnome is skilled. He will glue you back together afterward.”

  A valve in Pinocchio’s innards gave an anxious whine.

  While the others went about their preparations, Pinocchio decided he had to escape. The gnome’s hammering had been silent for hours, so hopefully it was late in the night by now. The other automa weren’t watching him, so he tried the door. To his surprise, it opened. Didn’t Al Mi’raj lock them in? Was he so used to automa just doing as they were ordered that he never expected any of them to try to escape? Pinocchio didn’t much care.

  With a rush of excitement, he dashed upstairs and down a hallway and found he had no idea how to get out. This place was a maze! If he could only find the end of the hallway without accidentally barging into Al Mi’raj’s bedroom.

  He finally came to an end and tugged at the handle, but this door was locked. So the fire eater did lock them in. Pinocchio peered back down the hallway, listening, hoping everyone was sleeping soundly.

  He was strong. A swift kick with his seven-league boots should take the door off its hinges. Pinocchio got a running start. He sprang out horizontal, throwing his full weight into the leap, but when his feet met the door, his knees buckled, and the seven-league boots fired him back at an odd angle with a crash.

  The nearest door opened. He froze, wondering what terrible thing Al Mi’raj was going to turn him into. But it wasn’t the djinni who appeared. It was Wiq.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  Pinocchio scrambled to his feet. “Nothing. Just…uh, looking around.”

  Wiq rubbed his eyes. “You woke me. Were you trying to escape?”

  Pinocchio touched his nose and was relieved to find it hadn’t grown. Fortunately, Al Mi’raj hadn’t told him explicitly not to try to escape.

  Wiq gave him a funny look. “You were, weren’t you? Well, you can’t get out. We’re all prisoners here, of the lord mayor of Siena, and of the empire. Even Al Mi’raj. These doors are reinforced with lead. The mayor has me lock them every night—”

  “You’ve got the keys!” Pinocchio said. “Well, why don’t you leave?”

  Wiq scowled and touched the metal collar around his neck. “It’s sort of like the fealty charm that keeps you from disobeying. If I tried to escape, it would tighten. I’d strangle.”

  “Could you unlock the door for me?”

  Wiq shook his head. “I can only open it to let visitors in.” He narrowed his eyes at Pinocchio. “You’re a strange automa, you know that?”

  Pinocchio shrugged.

  “I’ve never seen one of your kind try to escape.”

  “My master—my real master, Geppetto—is looking for me,” Pinocchio said. “I want to go back to him.”

  “But why?” Wiq asked, his long ears swishing. “Why do you care about him?”

  “Because,” Pinocchio said, “he’s good. He’s kind. He wants me to be his—” But he stopped, realizing he probably shouldn’t say any more.

  Wiq brushed him away. “Go back to t
he others before you wake Al Mi’raj and get us both in trouble. I don’t know what’s malfunctioning with you, but if you know what’s best, you’ll forget your old master and obey Al Mi’raj.”

  Pinocchio’s shoulders sagged, and he slumped back down to the cellar. For the rest of the night, he sat in a corner while the others prepared for the coming show.

  He’d never forget Master Geppetto! He wanted so badly to be with Geppetto again. He longed to hear Maestro’s songs and to hear more of Geppetto’s stories and to have his master just talk to him in that way no person had ever talked to Pinocchio before—the way he imagined a father would talk to a son. A father and son…Would he ever get to really be Geppetto’s son?

  His insides burned. Something seemed to want to come out from the corners of his eyes, but there was no way for the pressure or steam or whatever it was to escape from the sealed sockets.

  As he brought his hands to his eyes, he saw something strange happening to his fingertips. The fine lines of wood were disappearing, replaced by something smoother, softer. Out of his fingers, oval-shaped fingernails of shiny pink had formed.

  Flesh!

  He held his hands out, gasping in alarm. Had any of the other automa seen? No, they were too busy. The skin extended down his fingers, crossing his knuckles and palms. Once it got to his wrist hinges, it stopped. First his feet, and now his hands! He ran over to the trunks of costumes and began furiously rummaging through them.

  “Can I help you find something?” Columbine asked.

  Pinocchio hid his hands beneath the piles of scarves and shirts. “Gloves,” he said. “Just looking for gloves.”

  “Over in that cabinet,” she said, barely glancing at Pinocchio.

  Pinocchio slammed the trunk shut but didn’t pull one of his hands out fast enough. He stifled a yelp. His thumb got pinched. A trickle of reddish liquid formed. He had seen this substance before, when Master Geppetto had been injured at the mechanipillar. This greasy, thin liquid wasn’t as bright, but Pinocchio knew what it was.

  Blood.

  Pinocchio tucked his hands under his shirt and made sure the other automa weren’t watching before he opened the cabinet, found a pair of black leather gloves, and pulled them on.