The Motion of Puppets(72)
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.