The Wooden Prince

by John Claude Bemis

  As if he needed another reason to worry about getting his hands or feet hacked off in tomorrow’s performance. What would Al Mi’raj do if he saw his automa bleed?

  “Prithee!” Punch called out the following afternoon. “’Tis time for the performance, majestic marionettes. Gather your props. The show is at hand.”

  Pinocchio reluctantly followed the other actors down the hall. Scaramouch’s troupe of fifteen or so were dressed as half-beasts. They wore an assortment of masks—wolves, baboons, mice, lizards—and carried all manner of bronze weapons. Scaramouch, in his jaguar mask, made a lazy windmill twirl with his poleax.

  Harlequin stood beside Columbine and about a dozen other automa without masks, who were playing humans. Each carried a bronze sword. Not nearly as menacing as the arsenal Scaramouch’s side had, but if these swordsmen and women fought the way Harlequin did, Pinocchio wondered if being turned into a chamber pot would really be so bad.

  When they reached the shadowed courtyard, Pinocchio heard the noise of the crowd outside. Al Mi’raj was standing beside a grumpy-looking Wiq.

  “Pulcinella, if you’re ready,” Al Mi’raj said.

  “Down to my fantom, Your Worship,” Punch replied before strolling out into the piazza.

  Trumpets blared and the crowd cheered as Punch waved to them. Pinocchio pushed his way through the other automa to get a better look at what lay outside. He found himself next to Wiq, who ignored him.

  Punch climbed a tall podium that rose from the middle of the wide piazza. The whole arena was illuminated by large pixie bulbs hovering about twenty feet above the brickwork.

  “Lord Mayor! Most esteemed dons and donnas,” Punch’s voice echoed, magnified, Pinocchio guessed, by the gnome’s handiwork. “If music be the food of love, I beg you take your leave. But if high comedy and exhilarating combat be your nourishment—hark!—you will be fulfilled.”

  The crowd roared. Stands had been erected around the outside of the seashell-shaped piazza. Above the stands, finely dressed groups of people watched from balconies. And to one side rose the biggest building, a crenellated hall with a tall clock tower.

  “That’s the Palazzo Pubblico,” Wiq whispered, “where the lord mayor and his council watch.”

  Pinocchio looked at the boy, surprised that he was speaking to him.

  Wiq continued, “Make sure the lord mayor can see you when you get hacked apart. Al Mi’raj doesn’t like getting complaints that the mayor’s guests couldn’t see the show properly.”

  Pinocchio wilted.

  From the podium, Punch boomed, “On this eve, we introduce you to a ferocious band of half-beast rebels.”

  Scaramouch marched into the piazza with his chest puffed out, followed by his half-beast band. The audience booed and hissed. Wiq had to give Pinocchio a shove. “Get out there!”

  Pinocchio scampered to catch up, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Peering through the eye holes of his mask, he spied the lord mayor and his council laughing raucously. Pinocchio could only guess why. Automa butchering one another seemed to pass for high comedy in Siena.

  “Defending the empire against yond beasts be your champions.” Punch waved a dramatic arm. “Harlequin and his spellbinding swashbucklers!”

  Harlequin bounded across the piazza in a series of somersaults that made Pinocchio dizzy. Harlequin’s troupe raced after him and drew their swords in unison, the metallic chime echoing around the arena.

  “Let the performance begin!” Punch cried. The cheers of the audience swelled into a deafening roar. Pinocchio’s knees threatened to quit.

  The two sides charged each other, leaving Pinocchio momentarily behind. He raised his scimitar feebly and ran after the others. Maybe he could just stick to the back.

  At first it seemed an all-out barrage of automa doing their fiercest to hack one another to pieces. But as Pinocchio scuttled around behind Scaramouch’s masked troops, he noticed little performances occurring among the battle.

  The lovely Columbine was surrounded by a trio of automa wearing jackal, lizard, and parrot masks. Pinocchio thought she was about to be chopped to pieces. She cried for help, and Harlequin burst onto the scene like a slashing tornado. In a series of motions too fast to see, Harlequin scattered all three of Columbine’s attackers to the cobblestones in mock deaths and severed pieces. Harlequin gathered Columbine in his arms, and she planted a kiss on his cheek. The top of his head popped open, and a little whistle of steam erupted.

  The audience roared with delight. Pinocchio found it bizarre.

  He found himself so caught up in watching, he nearly forgot where he was. Until he noticed automa charging at him. Lots of them.

  As one of Harlequin’s swashbucklers reared back with his sword, Pinocchio panicked and leaped straight up. The seven-league boots propelled him above the automa’s swing, all the way up into one of the pixie bulbs hovering over the piazza. It shattered and glass tinkled down. The tiny incandescent creatures inside scattered like stardust into the sky.

  When Pinocchio landed, he saw one of Harlequin’s swordsmen rushing at him. Before Pinocchio could leap for safety, the automa swung his sword directly for Pinocchio’s chest.

  Something happened.

  Pinocchio wasn’t sure where it came from. It was like the uncontrollable instinct that caused him to grab a person’s hand if it came too near his chest. Lightning fast, Pinocchio twirled his scimitar to defend himself against the blow. He stared in surprise as his blade blocked the automa’s sword.

  The shock only lasted a moment.

  Pinocchio found himself parrying and blocking with unbelievable precision. This was amazing! With an acrobatic spring, he jumped to avoid the next blow. As he landed, his scimitar chopped clean through the arms of an automa. Pinocchio winced.

  A chant was rising from the crowd: “Magpie! Magpie!”

  They were cheering for him. He was the one the audience was watching.

  And he had discovered his role to play. Harlequin was the acrobatic clown hero. Scaramouch was the prowling villain. Columbine was dainty but lethal.

  And Pinocchio was the soaring magpie.

  He might have been smaller than the others, but he was swift. With his seven-league boots, he could leap. He could bound. He was practically flying! All the time, he fought with a ferocity he hadn’t known he had.

  The audience loved this. “Magpie! Magpie!” they cried.

  Pinocchio smiled as he fought his way through one cluster of Harlequin’s swordsmen after another. He soon discovered that, aside from the jaguar-masked Scaramouch, he was the only one of their troupe still left fighting. He had no time to marvel at his good fortune. The entire horde of Harlequin’s swashbucklers surrounded him.

  He sprang high in the air, his magpie cloak flapping out like wings, and landed on top of a hovering pixie bulb, this time managing not to break it. The automa below helplessly swung their swords, too far out of reach.

  “Come now,” one of the automa called up to him. “You cannot hide up there. Jump down and get killed like the others.”

  Pinocchio decided to ignore this suggestion. He pretended to be caught up watching Scaramouch and Harlequin, who were in the thick of combat. Poor Columbine lay sprawled on the ground, fortunately with all her limbs still intact.

  Pinocchio discovered that Al Mi’raj, over in the courtyard, was glaring furiously at him. Pinocchio knew he was in big trouble. Al Mi’raj pointed directly at him, then pointed to the ground where the armed mass of swashbucklers waited. Al Mi’raj drew his finger across his neck. Pinocchio had no doubt what the djinni was saying.

  He tried to pretend he hadn’t seen Al Mi’raj’s order. But too late. His nose began to grow.

  A collective gasp rose from the crowd, and Pinocchio saw that Scaramouch had knocked Harlequin onto his back. Scaramouch pressed one foot to Harlequin’s chest and roared a surprisingly realistic jaguar howl. He reared up with his poleax, preparing to make the final blow.

  “Ha, Harlequin,” Scara
mouch said in his flat automa voice, “what do you have to say to that?”

  Harlequin cocked his head. “I say: look behind you.”

  Scaramouch turned. Columbine came to life, springing like a wildcat and landing on Scaramouch, cleaving a pair of hand axes into his chest.

  “Oh, I am dead,” Scaramouch said, and collapsed to the ground.

  Columbine embraced Harlequin, and he swept her up in his arms, kissing her and sending another jet of steam from the top of his head.

  The applause was thin this time. Most of the audience was grumbling.

  “Well now,” Punch said, looking pointedly at Pinocchio. “’Twould appear that all the half-beasts are not yet dispatched.”

  It wasn’t just Punch looking at him. The entire city of Siena was staring. So was the mob of automa, even the fallen ones. Worst of all, Al Mi’raj was giving Pinocchio a look like he wanted to set Pinocchio’s head on fire and eat it.

  His nose grew a few inches longer, mashing into the end of the beak of his mask. His automa impulses told him to obey Al Mi’raj. But if he did, he was doomed!

  “Get down,” Columbine scolded.

  Pinocchio looked below. There were far too many to fight off, especially with Harlequin among them. He’d be splinters in an instant, he knew it.

  “Prithee, young magpie,” Punch said. “Thy chase is up. All battles must come to an end.”

  “Halt!” All eyes went to the top of the Palazzo Pubblico. The lord mayor was standing. He spoke hurriedly to one of his attendants. The man nodded and disappeared down the stairs.

  Pinocchio gulped. This was bad. The lord mayor, frustrated with Pinocchio’s lousy performance, was surely sending orders for some dramatic, gruesome punishment.

  Al Mi’raj marched into the middle of the square as the lord mayor’s man hurried out from the front gates of the Palazzo Pubblico.

  The djinni hunched submissively. “Signore Enrico, please give the lord mayor my deepest apologies. The automa is new. It’s clearly malfunctioning. I beg the lord mayor’s forgiveness. I’ll have it destroyed at once.”

  Pinocchio winced.

  “No! No!” Signore Enrico waved his hands. “Please don’t destroy the Magpie. The lord mayor is quite taken with his performance.”

  “He is?” Al Mi’raj’s voice dripped with disbelief.

  “Why, yes!” Signore Enrico laughed. “A magpie. What a perfect choice for his role! The way he flew across the others as he fought. And when he landed atop the pixie bulb like a bird in a nest! Most amusing. I thought Harlequin was masterful, but that one…that Magpie…the way he wields a sword! Well, he’s tremendous.”

  “Yes, he is, isn’t he?” Al Mi’raj looked like he’d just eaten a rancid salamander.

  “The lord mayor gives you his compliments and requests that you not allow such a magnificent performer to be mangled by these second-rate automa. It would ruin the day.”

  “It would?” Al Mi’raj mumbled.

  Pinocchio’s eyes grew wide in the mask. This was an excellent turn of events!

  “The lord mayor requests that you call off your swashbucklers and allow the Magpie to display his full talents in single combat with Harlequin.”

  Pinocchio’s smile fell.

  “Yes, of course, signore.” Al Mi’raj bowed.

  Signore Enrico swept his cape around his arms and returned to the Palazzo.

  Al Mi’raj growled at Punch, “Clear the stage.” Then he pointed at Pinocchio. “I want you down here at once.”

  “Yes, Master,” Pinocchio mumbled. If his nose grew any longer, it would break the mask. He slid from the pixie bulb and landed on the cobblestones.

  Al Mi’raj clamped a hand around Pinocchio’s beak. “You will fight. No hiding on pixie bulbs. Fight! Do you understand, Magpie?”

  Pinocchio tried to nod, but Al Mi’raj’s furious grip made it impossible.

  “You will please the lord mayor, or you will find that Bulbin can turn you into worse things than a chamber pot.”

  As Al Mi’raj left, a chant rose from the crowd—just a few voices at first, but it grew, until there was a thunderous “Magpie! Magpie! Magpie! MAGPIE!”

  “Well,” Pinocchio said as Harlequin approached. “I suppose the lord mayor wants to see me beat you.”

  Harlequin ran a finger along the blade of his sword, leaving behind a curly wood shaving.

  Pinocchio tried again. “Didn’t you get that impression from him?”

  Harlequin swung the sword so fast it was as if it had burst from a catapult. The tip of the beak disappeared from the front of Pinocchio’s mask. Fortunately, he didn’t lose any of his nose.

  “Oh!” Pinocchio forced a laugh. “Good thinking. Best give them a show first.” He tried to find a sturdy hold on the scimitar, but nothing felt right. His fleshy fingers felt weak and slippery.

  Harlequin somersaulted backward. When he landed, he began a dramatic series of twirls with his sword. Pinocchio wanted to run. Preferably all the way out the gates of Siena. The dashing Magpie! That’s what they’d call him. Of course, that sort of dashing wasn’t the kind of show Al Mi’raj and the lord mayor had in mind.

  Harlequin launched at Pinocchio. Pinocchio dodged, but Harlequin’s sword clipped his collar, chunking out a splinter of wood.

  The blow was enough to ignite the protective impulse around his fantom panel. Pinocchio felt a surge of strength run down his arms. His eyes focused into unbreakable concentration. With quick back-and-forth slices, Pinocchio drove at Harlequin.

  “Magpie! Magpie!” the audience chanted.

  Harlequin never seemed to be where he struck. He was just too fast, too agile. No, he had to find a different way to beat this perfect performer. Think! Think!

  Harlequin came down on him in a flurry of blows. Pinocchio leaped, but not quickly enough. Harlequin stabbed his sword deep into the wood of Pinocchio’s back.

  Before Harlequin could pull the sword back out, Pinocchio circled out of reach. Harlequin was weaponless. But quickly he picked up a double-bladed ax that had been left on the ground. Pinocchio gulped. Great Vesuvius, that ax was big!

  As Harlequin charged, the crowd cheered. Were they turning against him? He needed to think fast.

  Evading Harlequin’s heavy blows, Pinocchio realized what he could do that Harlequin couldn’t. Think. Harlequin wasn’t smart at all. He was just an ordinary automa who had been designed to perform amazing flips and feats. Pinocchio, on the other hand, was strategizing. That certainly wasn’t something he’d done before Prester John shoved that pinecone in him.

  So how could he outsmart Harlequin?

  After a series of jabs and parries, an idea struck Pinocchio. If this went wrong—and there were so many ways it could—he’d be chopped into about a dozen pieces. He set his jaw, ready to attempt this final insane plan.

  Pinocchio feigned dropping his scimitar. As he bent down to retrieve it, he prepared himself for the inevitable. Sure enough, Harlequin’s ax bit deep in the wood of his back next to the lodged sword. Pinocchio gave a quick twist, and Harlequin lost his grip on the ax.

  Pinocchio sprang several strides away, the ax still lodged in his back. He had to wait. There were no other weapons around. Let Harlequin come for the ax. That’s what he’d do. He wasn’t considering trickery. He was just performing as he’d been designed.

  “Come on, you show-off,” Pinocchio muttered, bending his knees for a seven-league jump.

  Harlequin did a double flip and reached for the handle of the ax.

  But the ax wasn’t there.

  Neither was Pinocchio.

  He was ten feet in the air. Down he came with the scimitar, taking off Harlequin’s hands. Then he spun around, cleaving the blade into Harlequin’s wooden skull. The force of the blow caused the lid to pop open on his head. Steam whistled out.

  The audience exploded to their feet, howling, “MAGPIE!”

  Pinocchio backed away, not sure what to do if Harlequin continued the attack. But Columbine and Punc
h were running to him. Harlequin didn’t seem to know how to perform a dramatic death. He just stood there, looking up at the scimitar stuck in his forehead.

  Punch flourished his hands to the audience and then to the lord mayor. “Our dazzling Magpie hast claimed victory!”

  Columbine planted a wooden kiss on Pinocchio’s cheek.

  The crowd whistled. The lord mayor was standing with his party atop the Palazzo Pubblico, with a smile on his face that Pinocchio couldn’t miss.

  Pinocchio grinned and took a dramatic bow, the sword and the ax still lodged side by side in his back. An automa could get used to theater life, he thought. This wasn’t so bad. Not bad at all.

  Later that night, Pinocchio sat with the other automa down in the cellar, trying to repair the holes in his feathered cloak. Bulbin had removed the sword and the ax from his back and filled the notches in his wood.

  Pinocchio felt relief wash over him. Relief that he’d survived the battle and that his secret was safe. He was replaying the exciting moments of the day in his head when Wiq came in.

  “Come on,” Wiq said. “Be quick. There’s something I want to show you.”

  Pinocchio put down his needle and cloak and followed him out the door. “What is it?”

  “You’ll see. Just follow me. But be quiet so Al Mi’raj doesn’t hear us.”

  Wiq led him up a narrow circular staircase to a rooftop terrace. A misty moon drifted overhead, and Siena was cloaked in quiet. The huge piazza below was empty. The stands had been taken down, and shuttered market stalls stood in their place.

  “Over here,” Wiq said from the other side of the terrace. He pointed down to a narrow street. “Can you see what’s painted on that wall?”

  It was hard to make out in the dimness, but a pixie bulb outside a shop cast enough light for him to see that someone had painted a black-and-white bird on the side of a building.

  “What is it?” Pinocchio asked.

  “Can’t you tell?” Wiq said with a flick of his floppy ears. “It’s you. The Magpie. You’re famous!”

  “I am?”

  Wiq relaxed an elbow against the railing. “I heard Al Mi’raj say all Siena is abuzz over the dazzling swordsman who beat Harlequin.”