The Good Fairy stood up to speak, and Mr. Firkin lifted the shovel over his head. “One more word out of you,” he said, “and you’ll be kindling. You heard the Queen. It is forbidden.”
The threat of violence chastened them all, and they returned to their places. Nix picked up three balls and commenced juggling. The Three Sisters retired to the trough and swooned. Visibly shaken, the Queen sought the counsel of Mr. Firkin in a private spot.
Under the miniature puppets dangling from the crossbeams, the conspirators huddled together as far away as possible, given the tiny confines. The Devil sat on his tail and wrenched it from under his legs. Noë fought the temptation to play with her new hair, but the Good Fairy was stolid as a tree. They said nothing at first, pretending to sulk, but Kay could see in her friends’ eyes the determination to thwart the royal edict.
“The Queen has gone too far this time,” the Devil said. “Does the power reside in the monarch or in the people?”
“Ever since you’ve come to Vermont,” the Good Fairy said, “you’ve become a regular socialist.”
“When in Rome…” He smiled and stroked his beard. “We must convince the others to stand up to them, to go with us, then old Firkin won’t be able to use his scare tactics.”
Kay pointed to the Queen on her throne and Firkin whispering in her ear. “You won’t persuade those two. Or Nix, either—he does what the fat man asks. And I don’t think the Old Hag is brave enough to join the cause. That makes four for them, and four for us.”
“What about the Three Sisters?” the Good Fairy asked. “They seem too dissolute to care about politics one way or another.”
The Devil tapped his horny nails together. “You must give the voters a reason to vote. Leave it to me.”
World-weary, trapped in their sense of life as a gray and dismal condition which must be endured, the Sisters lay in deep and listless indolence. The Devil crept into their boudoir.
“Old chort.” Olya barely lifted her head. “So heppy to see you again, dahlink.”
“Mesdames, you are looking well. Beautiful Olya, elegant Masha, and ravishing Irina.”
Sighing, they sat up to hear his flattery.
“We are planning a revolution. Join the masses and we’ll be seven to four. Five if you count the Dog, though I’m not sure he is a radical. I want to take you out of this place. Some music, some dancing. A little romance, perhaps?”
Fluffing her cottony hair, Irina sat up straighter.
“There’s a bunch of Russian dissidents. Refuseniks. They haven’t seen one of their countrywomen in ages.”
While the younger two responded with interest to the news, Olya frowned.
“There are others, darling,” said the Devil. “A samurai, perhaps? A pair of young and foolish men who like to swap lovers. And there are many more puppets besides, up in the loft.”
“I will go,” Olya said. “Not for some man but for the sake of freedom and revolution.”
The conspiracy of puppets marched to the other side of the room to confront the Queen. She wobbled and nearly fainted when they told her they were going to the loft and that they would not, could not be stopped. When Mr. Firkin reached for his shovel, he was stopped by the iron grip of the Devil’s left hand.
“This is treason. Unhand me, imp.”
The Queen waved him aside with an imperial flutter. She shook her head sadly. “I suppose this day was inevitable, what with such sedition all around. But you should know that I act only in the interests of my people. Yes, it may seem a perfectly charming invitation, and we ourselves have been yearning for some new company, new conversation, for some time. But the rules are made for your protection. You will remember that we did not consort with the Original back at the toy shop. He in the Front Room, and we in the Back Room. It was better that way. Safer from his unpredictable nature.”
The puppets gathered at the door into the dark.
The Queen abdicated her power. “Go, if you must, but take heed you are not tempted to lose your place or forget your roles. We are as we are and have been long before we came to this … barn. Always behave with your integrity and pedigree intact. As puppets of the Quatre Mains.”
Nix set down his juggling balls and groveled at her feet. “I should like to go as well, Your Highness.”
“Where are we going?” the Old Hag hollered and lifted the fan of her hand to her ear.
As the Queen and her lackey Mr. Firkin sat together forlornly in the empty halls, the others set off for the celebration. Even the Dog joined the Devil’s entourage. They had just rounded the corner to the vestibule on their way to the stairs when a loud croaking sigh seeped through the floorboards, followed by a bang on the walls below as the Worm twitched in its lair.
* * *
Egon picked the constellations from the sky, remembering his childhood in Québec and his father naming the stars to him. Nights had been their time together. Under the cover of darkness and away from inquisitive strangers, they would escape in its thrall, their differences diminished when they were alone. He lit a cheroot and blew smoke at the heavens, wondering what had become of the old bastard. He enjoyed his little cigar down to the end.
How did I get caught up in such a strange plot? he thought. One day running the back of the house for the cirque, a good steady gig, the next hunting for missing girls and finding puppets. On a rescue mission with that egghead Mitchell with his history and mythology, and that other egghead Harper with his philosophy and obsession with that dirty old photographer. The world spins in crazy circles. His feet were wet, and he was cold and tired and not so eager to discover what might be inside the barn. Puppets gave him the willies.
The small entrance into the cote was fronted by a swinging gate, and he imagined those long-ago sheep and goats lowering their heads and butting it open. With one good push, it gave way and he stepped inside. The ripe smell of ammonia filled his sinuses and made him cover his nose. He trained the flashlight to the crossbeams dappled with swifts’ nests, and he nearly tripped over a bag of quicklime resting near the door. Running the length of the cellar, a black mass swelled from floor to ceiling, nearly taking up the entire available space. His instinct was to hurry out of that place as quickly as possible, but he was drawn toward the strange object. Metallic red and gold shimmered in the circle of light. Scales like snakeskin, but the size of dinner plates, were arranged in perfect symmetry. As he drew closer, he could see each one was decorated in delicate bands of green along the borders. Unable to resist, he ran his fingers along the scales, relieved to discover that they were made of paper covered with foil. Along the bottom and running down the spine was a jagged feathery plume. A dragon, like the ones he had seen in street performances for Chinese New Year, a long wormlike thing that took several men hiding under its skin to maneuver. A taloned foot rested under its belly two yards away and another one further along, and he realized that he was at the tail end of the beast.
“Maudite marde,” he muttered to himself. “That is a big feckin’ worm.”
Small clawed feet scrabbled on the wooden floor, and he worried about encountering a mouse or, worse, a rat. Nothing worse than a rat. He swept the light around the room and saw the stairway near where the dragon’s head must be. Between the monster and the row of goat stalls lay a passage barely wide enough to squeeze by. One hand on its side for balance, Egon inched along the walkway. Each step was made with trepidation, for the side of the dragon undulated under pressure. Egon stopped, pressed his ear against the shiny scales, wondering if it was breathing or if he was merely hearing the pulse of his own blood in his ear. From the floor above, muted voices rose and fell like the end of an argument. He wanted another smoke to calm the hell down.
The back of the dragon’s head looked like a flower. Ornate flames resembled bright yellow petals, and on the very top, two stylized horns curved like parabolas. Egon peeked around the fearsome head and saw at once the bright green eye, dead as marble, the long whiskered muzzle with nostrils wi
dened to spray fire, two rows of dagger-like fangs, and a blistering red and yellow tongue.
“Fortune favors,” he said and wrapped his fingers around one pointed tooth. Cardboard and hollow.
The dragon sighed, a sudden intake of air and then a croaking exhalation that caused Egon to pull back his hand and reconsider. From head to tail, the beast’s body rippled and then repeated the motion tail to head. The jaws opened wide. It seemed a trick, a toy automaton sprung into action by some hidden lever or button that he had accidentally touched. He shone the light down the dragon’s throat, paint and paper, real and not real. Curiosity overruled common sense. Egon stepped inside the dragon’s mouth. The jaws snapped shut, and he was gone.
* * *
Bloodred in the night, the barn hulked against the sky, nearly blotting out the stars. Theo craned his neck to catch their faint light. At his feet, dried pokeweed and witchgrass clung to the ground along the building’s perimeter, and he came across a rusty gear abandoned in the weeds. The owl in the cupola screeched once and took flight in pursuit of something rustling in the dead leaves. Theo was in no hurry to make his way around to the front, not with the fresh memory of that vicious dog. Cigar smoke curled around from the sheepcote entrance, and he toyed with the notion of going back to his friend to find some courage there.
Across the road, the farmhouse was silent, the girl, the boy, and the dog hopefully asleep for the night. He walked to the barn door and waited for it to open, expecting Egon with good news. From deep inside the building came a mechanical croak and the crash of something heavy against the walls. Things that go bump in the night. He tried the doors, certain that they would be locked, but was surprised when they swung open. Faced with the opportunity to find some clue about Kay, he hesitated. In his darkest moments, he thought she must be dead. There had been no sign of her for months, and if not for the chase after these puppets, no connection or clues at all. He had no reason to think it might be otherwise without any actual proof or evidence, but part of him would not relinquish hope, however scant, that she might be alive. Love is the madness which allows us to believe in magic.
He stepped into the barn, and when his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he realized the entrance fronted a small gift shop of sorts. Silk-screened posters and pamphlets on how to make your own puppets were for sale. Donations were accepted in an old coffee can. Fishing coins from his pockets, he dropped them through the slot and they clattered to the bottom, a startling noise in that quiet space. He noticed that a light was on in the room around the corner, and he went to it like a moth.
At the back wall, perpendicular to two rows of old stalls, rested two puppets. Sitting on the floor was the giant queen, ten feet tall, swathed in her regal robes, and standing beside her was a life-size effigy of a man in a bowler hat and a walrus mustache and a barrel-shaped body. Their presence startled him at first, but they were as still as mannequins. Theo recognized them from the video of the Halloween parade and wondered where the other puppets might be. Where was the one made of sticks? Where was the juggling clown? The old crone? Where was the one who looked like Kay?
Here and there on the floor and the wooden partitions lay the husks of dead bees, dry and light when he held them in his hand. Above the stall farthest from him, tiny figures floated from strings hanging from a beam. Primitive dolls in muslin gowns that looked like the work of a young child, the girl from the house perhaps. Drawing close, he saw each had a crude face that had been fashioned out of pins and buttons, marks of a pencil to create a mouth. One of the tiny marionettes reminded him of Sarant, that contortionist acrobat from the cirque, and another had hand-drawn goggles like Reance, the man who had followed Kay. He stood beneath the flying dolls, wondering about their connection to her days in Québec. Egon would know. Where has he gotten to? Theo wasn’t sure he could inspect the other rooms without him.
Dominating the room, the two effigies leaning against the wall had an uncanny lifelike quality that put him on edge, even though he could tell they were made of paper and wire, decorated with paint and dressed in old clothing. He drew close to study their faces. The queen stared at a spot near the ceiling, but the barrel man’s eyes were closed, though ready, it seemed, to blink awake at any moment. His mustache appeared to be made of the trimmings from a broom. Curious, Theo touched one finger to the whiskers, and the puppet flinched and sneezed.
24
Giddy as schoolchildren, they took the stairs as if walking on air. The Devil led the way, and a great roar from the mob of puppets in the loft resounded when his horned head appeared. One by one, the others, too, were welcomed with cheers and hooting, shouts and whistles, a great cacophony that made them feel like stars.
Kay stopped at the top of the stairs, astonished by the sheer number of puppets in the great loft. Crammed into the space like a Manhattan cocktail party, dozens milled about. Tall as the Queen herself, the four Rushmore presidents—Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and Teddy Roosevelt—were engaged in a political colloquy. The Children from the Shoe played hide-and-seek, laughing and chattering in squeaky tones. The bunraku witch was frightening the Three Little Pigs with her demonic transformation, and they squealed in mock horror. Oberon was chatting up a young Juliet as Romeo flirted with Titania. Four ghostly figures on sleek black horses fumbled with the fairy marionettes, tangling crossed wires and laughing through ruined mouths. Hanging from the rafters a giant moon rolled his eyes from scene to scene and smiled at the new Quatre Mains puppets, and underneath the moon, a cat played folk songs on a fiddle accompanied by a tall white man with long black curls, who strummed on a ukulele and sang falsetto.
The Devil took Kay by the elbow. “See, they are just like us.”
“Opa!” a deep voice hollered jubilantly from the middle of the room, and the musicians responded with a quicker tempo. Along the walls, the puppets crowed together and started a rhythmic clapping that started slowly and rose to a crescendo. In a grand entrance, emerging from a hole in the wall near the silo, six young women burst forth and set the partygoers into ecstasy.
Ravishing in their primitive costumes, the young women glimmered with bare limbs and feet, long wild hair, and a look of madness in their eyes. Two held spears in their hands, much like the ones Kay recognized from her metamorphosis from doll-size into her current form. Two were robed in animal-skin tunics, and two had wineskins bandoliered across their chests. They waved to the audience, and the music slowed as they began to tumble and somersault and cartwheel in the space carved out in the center of the floor. Wild cheers met every leap and canter. Kay thought back to her fellow acrobats in the cirque and was mesmerized by the kaleidoscope of color and the power of their dancing.
“Who are those women?” she asked the Devil.
He stroked his beard to the point. “They are the maenads. Don’t get too close.”
From behind them came the clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and the Quatre Mains puppets parted to allow another six creatures to come bounding in, bare chested and shouting with lusty throats. They danced across the room on cloven feet, the lower half of their bodies fur covered, the hooves beating against the wooden floor. The satyrs chased the maenads, grabbing at their costumes, snatching at the wineskins to drink and spill dark red wine. Emboldened by the bacchanal, three of the gulag dissidents sauntered over to the Three Sisters and pulled them onto the dance floor. Nix took the cue and picked up three of the shoe children and juggled them in the air, the babies laughing with abandon. The little dog bounded to the cat with the fiddle and howled at his spot in the chorus. The skeletons played their bones like xylophones, beating a tattoo on their ribs. Scooping up the Old Hag in his giant hands, Teddy Roosevelt swung her round to his back and trotted about on all fours like a great moose while she cried “Bully, bully!” The Devil grabbed the Good Fairy in his arms and they fox-trotted into the mob. Pockets of laughter erupted. Shouts of feigned protest were met with delight and surrender.
A hand slid into Kay’s hand and squeezed
tightly, and she sensed at once Noë’s plaintive gesture. She allowed herself to be led away into a somewhat quiet corner where the two wallflowers could be alone, but they had to shout to be heard above the din.
“Looks like we’re not the only ones after all,” Kay said.
“There are too many. Where did they come from?”
“Same place as us, I suppose. You must be relieved to see so many others like us.”
“A relief?” Noë looked at the wild party unspooling all around them. “If anything, it makes things worse.”
“But look at all the fun they’re having.”
“I don’t belong with these puppets.” She bowed her head to avoid having to see them.
Kay bent down so she could face her friend eye to eye. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“Have you forgotten who you are?” She seemed more bewildered than ever, the madness returned.
“Noë.” Kay brushed her hand against the doll’s painted cheek. “Just who is that anymore?”
As the song stopped, the Devil and the Good Fairy rounded the dance floor and broke off to rest before them. His face was redder than ever, though the Good Fairy showed no signs of exertion. The band paused, and the noise diminished enough for regular conversation.
“Ah, you party poopers,” the Devil teased. “Join the fun. Won’t you come with me, Kay? There’s someone dying to say hello.”
Dragged away, Kay looked back at Noë, dejected against the wall, the Good Fairy wrapping a branchy arm around her shoulders. The Devil elbowed through the mobbed floor, the painted faces leering as he and Kay passed. The other puppets seemed to know a secret.
A very fat and hairy satyr with horse’s ears stopped them with two outstretched arms. “Don’t take another step,” he said with a hiccup. He wobbled unsteadily and blinked his red-rimmed eyes. “Don’t mess with them dames, turn away. The maenads are nothing but heartache and violence. Go back to your life of ignorance and delight.”
The Motion of Puppets Page 23
