The Wooden Prince

by John Claude Bemis

  Pinocchio gritted his teeth. That wasn’t true! Was it?

  “Doesn’t really change the fact that we can’t stay in this mill forever,” Sop went on. “The kid comes with us or he stays. But we’ve got to go.”

  Pinocchio slid down the broken tiles of the roof and landed on the ground. He’d show stupid Sop and Mezmer that they were wrong. He just had to wait a little longer.

  Mezmer opened the door. “Pinocchio, what are you—”

  “Leave me if you want!” he shouted. “Go back to being outlaws or whatever you do. But Geppetto wants me to be his son! He’s coming for me. You’ll see!”

  He began running. Mezmer shouted, “Wait!”

  But he kept going. It was good to work his legs, after sitting night after night up on that roof. They felt strong in a way that wasn’t just his gearworks. He ran until his legs grew tired, and then he leaped on the seven-league boots, rocketing up into a tree, where Mezmer and Sop wouldn’t be able to find him. He pulled the chameleon cloak around him, vanishing into leaves and shadow.

  He clung to the branch, panting for breath. He could sit up in this tree forever. He didn’t need food. He didn’t need to sleep. He would wait here as long as it took for his father to find him.

  Heavy clouds loomed low overhead. Fat drops of rain began to fall, a few at first and then coming down all at once. Pinocchio closed his eyes and listened to the pounding rain.

  How much time had passed? He was dimly aware that the rain had made his fingers and feet, with their squishy flesh, go cold. It was unpleasant being cold. He tried to ignore it. Tipping his head back, he let the rain patter against his wooden face, which felt no cold or wet.

  How strange to be stuck between being wood and flesh, trapped between being an automa and becoming a boy. His fingers felt cold only because flesh wanted to be warm. But wood felt nothing, wanted nothing. Was it better to feel the cold as well as the warmth, or was it better to feel nothing?

  He fingered the jasmine loop around his wrist. If he felt nothing, he wouldn’t miss Wiq so. But if he felt nothing, if he were an ordinary automa, he never would have befriended Wiq at all. He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them up.

  The sound of the rain reminded Pinocchio of the footsteps of the lonely traveler in Maestro’s song. Even within the roar of the downpour, it was as if notes were forming that weren’t quite matching the drumming of the rain. Was he just imagining this? Pinocchio cocked his head. No, there was a faint sound forming. He was certain. And it was almost a melody.

  Pinocchio sat up straighter on the branch. He tried to answer the melody, to hum the tune, but already the song was fading, drifting off through the forest.

  “Maestro!” he called. “Is that you?”

  He listened. The song had vanished. Pinocchio was left with only the thrumming of rain against the leaves.

  Pinocchio rose to his feet, putting a hand to the trunk to stay balanced. “Maestro?” he called again. “Father? Are you out there? I’m here!”

  Thunder rumbled through the forest.

  He shivered, the wet and cold seeming to creep up his limbs deeper into the core of his body. Had he imagined it? He pulled the chameleon cloak off his head, hoping against hope that he might hear them coming back.

  He cupped a hand to his mouth to scream their names, when something flew straight at him and landed on his nose.

  “Pinocchio? Is that really you?”

  “Maestro!” Pinocchio gasped.

  He couldn’t see the cricket clearly in the dark rain, even though—or more likely because—he was right before his eyes.

  “Oh, Pinocchio! You wonderful, incorrigible scamp!” the cricket rejoiced, dancing on his nose. “I’ve been searching for you everywhere! I thought I saw you head out the north gate of Siena, and I followed the road, playing that song through every grove and hedgerow. You wouldn’t believe how hard I’ve searched. And my poor wings…”

  Maestro! Good ol’ Maestro. Pinocchio was so happy to see the fussy cricket. He couldn’t wait to hear him babble on about different wing techniques for altering the pitch and melody, but first—

  “Father!”

  Pinocchio brushed Maestro from his face and leaped out of the tree. The landing hurt, stinging his fleshy feet, but he didn’t care. He spun this way and that, peering through the rain-drenched forest to find him. “Father, I’m here!”

  Maestro fluttered down onto his shoulder. “He’s not with me, Pinocchio.”

  “Is he far behind?”

  “He’s not here,” Maestro sighed. “He’s in Venice.”

  “Venice?”

  “The old fool got captured by the doge’s men.”

  Pinocchio couldn’t believe this. His knees felt suddenly weak. “No! He couldn’t have been.”

  “Well, he was,” Maestro said. “Trying to rescue you. He’s been desperate to find you again, Pinocchio.”

  Pinocchio felt a welling of love for his father. He knew Sop was wrong. His father did want him. Why had he ever listened to that cat?

  “Will he escape?” Pinocchio asked. “He has to, doesn’t he? We’re supposed to be together.”

  Maestro fidgeted uneasily on his shoulder, his wings rattling. “He won’t escape this time. I’m sorry, lad, but…What’s that?” He leaped around. “Someone’s coming!”

  Footsteps sounded on the wet forest floor. Mezmer came charging out of the gloom with Sop waddling, wet and grumpy-faced, behind her.

  “There you are, dear!” the fox said, relaxing her hold on her spear.

  “You know these chimera?” Maestro asked Pinocchio.

  “We escaped from Siena together.”

  Sop adjusted his eye patch and cut a surly eye at Maestro. “Who’s that bug you’re talking to?”

  “I am no mere bug, I’ll have you know,” Maestro chirped indignantly. “I am Maestro of the Moonlit Court, royal musician to His Immortal Lordship, Prester John of Abaton. What do you say to that, you rogues?”

  “You look like a bug,” Sop said, crossing his arms over his soft belly.

  “Maestro is a friend,” Pinocchio said, “to me and to my father.”

  “There, Mez,” Sop said, giving Mezmer a tug on her arm. “We’re not leaving him alone. He’s got his musical bug buddy. Come on.”

  “No, don’t leave!” Pinocchio cried.

  Sop flattened his ears. “And why not? You seemed to want us to go before.”

  Pinocchio had. But now his father wasn’t coming.

  Ever since he’d lost Geppetto, he’d been expecting to be rescued. The fealty lock at the back of his neck directed him to wait for orders, like a good automa. But if he wanted to see his father again, he’d have to be the one to rescue Geppetto, not the other way around. The thought made him tremble.

  Mezmer flicked her tall ears, tilting her head as if she sensed his struggle. “What is it, darling? Has something happened?”

  “It’s my father,” Pinocchio said and everything began to pour out. “He’s been captured by the doge and is imprisoned in Venice with Prester John….”

  Although Mezmer had to swat Sop several times to keep him quiet, the fox listened intently as Pinocchio explained how he’d come to Geppetto, how he’d begun changing, and the danger he and his father—as well as Prester John—were in. When he finished, Mezmer gave a gasp of understanding.

  “So it’s His Immortal Lordship who gave you this power of resurrection. He made you this way. It makes sense now! Why you began acting like an ordinary automa after you saved me.”

  “Acting like an ordinary automa?” Maestro chirped. “What’s this about?”

  Pinocchio had been so foggy during those times, but Mezmer was able to fill in the pieces of what had happened at Al Mi’raj’s theater as best she could. “Pinocchio is clearly changing. Maybe even becoming…alive. But if he uses the power to save the life of another, he turns back into a thoughtless automa. It’s as if all the life he’s gained leaves him.”

  Pinocchio knew wha
t Mezmer was saying was true. But he also knew that each time he’d changed back, he’d also eventually become himself again—his true and living self.

  “Mezmer, I need your help. We have to go to Venice.”

  “What!” Sop yowled. “You think the four of us can rescue your master from the doge’s fortress? And you thought our escape plans were terrible. What you’re proposing is ludicrous…it’s impossible!”

  “It can’t be!” Pinocchio said.

  Mezmer shook her snout. “I’m afraid Sop’s right.”

  Even Maestro seemed to agree. “Pinocchio, I know Master Geppetto is in great danger, but rescuing him…well, yes, it’s impossible. Think of all the airmen and Flying Lions guarding that floating fortress. How would we get past? I’m not sure we could even enter the city of Venice, much less find a way up into the Fortezza.”

  Pinocchio’s insides were burning with desperation. He had to do this! His instincts screamed at him to take action, no matter how impossible, if he was ever to be reunited with his father. He had to convince the others to follow him.

  “You say it’s impossible,” Pinocchio began. “Isn’t it also impossible that a wooden servant could come alive? And Sop, you couldn’t believe a human would want an automa for a son. But Geppetto does. Tell him, Maestro.”

  Maestro flittered. “It’s true, but—”

  “Mezmer, you and Sop can’t possibly want to spend the rest of your lives hiding and dodging patrols of airmen.”

  Sop’s fur rose. “Better than delivering ourselves to the Fortezza’s prisons!”

  Pinocchio was struggling for a better reason, a more convincing argument, something like what Mezmer had said to inspire her chimera before the battle. It would have to be about more than just helping him rescue his father.

  “Tell me,” Pinocchio tried, “what is the seemingly impossible thing you and every Abatonian enslaved to the empire wants?”

  Sop shifted in annoyance, but Mezmer answered, “To be free.”

  “Right!” Pinocchio said. “If we can rescue my father, we can rescue Prester John, too, and he could bring us to Abaton. Don’t you see? But more so, if we can do that, Prester John could help rescue Wiq and all the other slaves. We have to do this, not just for us—we have to do it for them. For all your enslaved Abatonian brethren.”

  He saw Mezmer give the slightest nod. She saw herself as a knight with a noble purpose. He would have to appeal to that to inspire her.

  “Mezmer, remember what you told the others before the battle. You convinced those chimera to bravely face death to show the doge that you weren’t puppets of his empire. Dying is easy. If you and Sop leave, you’ll just be caught one of these days and die a glorious death. But wouldn’t it be more glorious to risk your lives for a plan that might actually do some good—something worthy of glory like those knights of old—even if that plan right now seems impossible?”

  Mezmer and Sop exchanged glances.

  “I’ve never been keen on your whole glorious-death thing,” Sop said.

  “But you have to admit you like a good fight, don’t you, darling?” Mezmer said.

  Sop batted his paw coyly. “You know me too well.”

  Pinocchio bounced on his heels. “So does that mean you’ll help?”

  “Well…I suppose…I would like to see Abaton,” the cat said.

  Mezmer raised her snout ceremoniously and stabbed the blunt end of her spear into the wet earth. “As a knight of the Celestial Brigade—”

  “How did I know…” Sop mumbled.

  “—I owe you my life, Pinocchio. Glorious combat and daring deeds await us! You have my pledge.”

  Pinocchio smiled.

  “This is insanity,” Maestro chirped.

  “Glorious, noble insanity,” Sop agreed. “Can we get out of this rain and back to our breakfast?”

  With Maestro on his shoulder, Pinocchio followed Mezmer and Sop back to the ruined mill, feeling as giddy and light as a soaring magpie. He might be going to Venice, straight into the heart of danger, back to the Fortezza where he’d once mindlessly served the doge, but this time he was going there as a warrior, and as a son. He was going to leave with his father or die trying.

  Once they were inside and had their wet cloaks steaming by the fire, Sop stirred the pot simmering over the coals while Mezmer patted a spot on the floor.

  “Come sit with us while we eat, Pinocchio, darling,” she said. “We’ve got plans to make.”

  “So do you know how we can get into the Fortezza?” he asked, settling beside her.

  “Not exactly,” Mezmer said, “but we know someone who does. Don’t we, Sop?”

  The cat rolled his eye. “He won’t be happy to see us again.”

  “It’s been a long time,” Mezmer said.

  “That’s the problem,” Sop said. “Zingaro will be mad you haven’t come back sooner.”

  “Who’s Zingaro?” Pinocchio asked, his excitement rising at the prospect of a plan coming together.

  Mezmer rubbed her furry chin thoughtfully. “An undine we know.”

  “An undine?” Pinocchio said. He’d seen other elementals, at least djinn and gnomes, and he had the vague memory of a sylph who’d helped the alchemists repair him back in the Fortezza. But never a water elemental.

  Maestro chirped from his shoulder, “I didn’t know there were any undine slaves in the empire.”

  “Not many,” Mezmer said. “Most escaped. Sadly for Zingaro, they got a fealty collar on his neck before he got to open water. He was too important. Too smart. He helped design the Fortezza, after all, which is why we need his help. He’ll know how to sneak in, if anyone does.”

  Pinocchio could hardly wait to leave. This Zingaro would find a way for them to get into the Fortezza, to rescue his father!

  “But will he help us?” Maestro asked.

  Mezmer was about to answer when Pinocchio felt a strange sensation come over his insides. He clutched his gut.

  Mezmer gave him a curious flip of her fox ears. “You all right?”

  “It’s nothing,” Pinocchio said. “My insides, they…hurt.”

  “Didn’t know puppets could feel pain,” Sop said, stirring the pot.

  Maestro flittered along Pinocchio’s shoulder, giving him a worried look.

  Pinocchio’s gaze fell once more on the bubbling pot of delicious-smelling stew. “It’s not exactly pain. Just a strange feeling in my insides. Like I’m hollow.”

  “Hollow,” Sop chuckled. “You are hollow, except for your springwork and gears. Just now noticing it?”

  “Leave him be,” Mezmer said.

  The rich smells of the stew filled the air. Pinocchio’s stomach groaned loudly. The pair looked at him, their furry ears sticking straight up.

  “Was that you?” Mezmer said.

  “Yes,” Pinocchio replied, leaning toward the pot. He could hardly control himself. His mouth grew moist and the aroma made his head go dizzy.

  “Give me a spoon,” he demanded.

  Sop laughed and handed Pinocchio the spoon he’d used for stirring. Pinocchio snatched it and ladled a steaming spoonful.

  “What are you doing, dear?” Mezmer barked.

  Maestro sprang onto the spoon. “Stop, Pinocchio! You’ll ruin your gearworks!”

  Pinocchio flicked him away. He brought the scalding concoction into his mouth. The flavor of the onions and tomatoes. The sweetness of the ground corn. The rich, delicious broth.

  Mezmer and Sop stared at him, half laughing, half gaping in wonder.

  Pinocchio swallowed. The warmth spread down inside him. The hollow pain in his stomach vanished. A new feeling came over him—ravenous desire for more. He shoveled spoonfuls of stew into his mouth.

  “Quick! Get the bowls before he eats it all!” Sop shouted, wrestling his spoon away from Pinocchio. Mezmer slopped stew into two bowls and handed one to Sop.

  As soon as Sop and Mezmer sat back down to eat, Pinocchio grabbed the pot from the fire, lifted it to his mouth, and dran
k the rest in several gulps.

  Every last trace of wood vanished from his skin.

  He was an automa no more.

  The Catchfools District at the northern edge of Venice housed the city’s Abatonian slaves. Each evening after work, the elementals and chimera returned from the various alchemical workshops and war-machine foundries scattered around the city, back to Catchfools, where the gates on the island’s bridges were locked until dawn. No one could leave the district at night.

  That didn’t mean, however, that there was no way into Catchfools at night.

  Pinocchio, Mezmer, and Sop walked along the bottom of Battello Canal with bags of sand tied around their ankles. Only the tops of copper breathing tubes showed above the water, although, in the dark, not even the gondoliers rowing past noticed those.

  Maestro clung precariously to the top of Pinocchio’s tube, complaining nonstop in little chirps. “Quit slouching, Pinocchio! Walk upright. I almost got wet. There are fish circling me. Oh, be careful. And hurry it up!”

  Being underwater was now such a different experience. Before, when he’d been a wooden automa filled with gears, he’d simply sunk to the bottom. Now, as a boy of flesh and blood, he had to keep from floating up. And he had to make sure to keep breathing through the tube in his mouth. Breathing was important.

  Being alive came with a whole new set of rules for survival. He was figuring them out as he went.

  But there were simple delights, too, that came with being human. The tickle of canal minnows flittering against his goose-pimpled arms. The way his hair—which before had only been painted carvings atop his wooden head—now drifted from his scalp in soft strands. Making sure he kept breathing through the tube took concentration, but it had a certain thrill, too, to know that he was responsible for keeping himself alive.

  Mezmer tapped him on the shoulder. The pixie bulbs above barely penetrated the watery gloom, but he could see the fox pointing to a large pipe set in the masonry at the side of the canal. Sop pulled off his sandbags and swam into the pipe.

  Pinocchio was about to follow when Mezmer pointed up.

  Of course. How could he forget?

  Pinocchio took the tube out of his mouth and held it aloft with one hand. He lifted each leg to remove the sandbags before springing off the canal’s muddy bottom with his seven-league boots. He broke the surface of the water just as Maestro fluttered up from the tube.