The Motion of Puppets(73)

“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 widened 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.