The Puppet Maker's Bones (21 page)

“Yes, I know. I was there. Contrary to what you might try to convince yourself, they lived the normal lifetime of normal people. But they were careful.”

“
Normal
people.”

McGovern’s eyes searched Pavel’s. “Žophie was also normal and subject to the same lifespan as other people. You would have seen her die after a normal, healthy life had she not been taken so abruptly. Had you done what your friend urged you to do and remained her friend.”

Pavel whispered, “I fell in love with her. I could not let her go. I was going to. I thought of all the best ways to break it off. I couldn’t. I loved her.”

McGovern shifted in his seat and appeared to change the subject. “Are you religious at all, Pavel?”

Pavel seemed to remember this man, or someone, asking him that identical question. Who was it? It must have been a lifetime ago.

“You know that I am not. Don’t tell me
you
are. I don’t remember you being so.”

McGovern regarded Pavel with scorn. “You choose to remember little. Some of us are. Perhaps I am. A little. Now. Not always. It is hard to live as long as we do and not adopt
some
sort of belief in something powerful over time.”

Pavel stood and joined McGovern in pacing the kitchen.

“On the contrary. I have ascribed everything to the natural sciences.”

“Very well. As you know, some of us enter the clergy as a way of keeping to themselves. I suppose after a period of playacting at that, they begin to believe. Or the customs become a kind of comfort to them.”

“Why would you adopt a belief in something that has others believing that you are something evil and that you should be killed? How many of us believe that we are angels of death sent by God who has tired of his creation? That’s what Trope tried to tell me. We were sent here to do God’s bidding? Get rid of the whole lot of this failed experiment called humankind?

McGovern stopped in his tracks. Pavel was in a dangerous mental state at present and had to be dealt with carefully.

“So, you do know. You never forgot.”

Pavel made a disgusted noise that came out of the back of his throat like a gurgling rasp that made him cough.

“You don’t honestly believe that? Do you feel this way as well? Because if you believe as they do, then you must think that of us. Are you here as my executioner today? Is our little conversation to precede my demise? If so, then please make sure that Cheidu gets everything, and try to come up with a good story for Žophie’s family—why she died and why I was put to death.”

McGovern shook his head. “You have seen many years in the theatre, Pavel. You are quite dramatic, I give you that. Your wife’s father will be informed, by
you
, distraught as you may be, that she became ill during the voyage from Prague to America and that you put her immediately in hospital upon arriving here. As far as Eduard Rychtar will ever know, his daughter never arrived at her new home. The two of you never had the opportunity to act as husband and wife. There was no opportunity that could have resulted with her being with child before she became ill. The marriage was never consummated.”

“Why is that important?”

McGovern got up again and moved to the drawers, opening and shutting them until he found pen and paper. He began writing.

“What are you doing?”

McGovern continued to write, ignoring the question, speaking as he went.

“Why is that important? Because if any of us is ever exposed it appears it would be due to you and your careless and unconscionable actions. You cannot appear to be in any way responsible for your wife’s death. You had separate berths on the journey here. We need to make that separation extend to your getting off the boat, discovering she had taken ill during the journey and taking her to the hospital. There was no intimate contact. None. Do you understand? You cannot draw attention to the rest of us. We must protect ourselves.”

“But I killed her.”

“Yes, Pavel. Yes, you killed her.”

McGovern handed the piece of paper to Pavel.

“What is this?

“This is the letter you have written to your wife’s father explaining the tragedy of her death. Please read it and sign it in your hand.”

McGovern glared at Pavel until Pavel took the pen, and with a weak hand, signed the paper, sliding it back across the table to McGovern. It was then that the reality of Pavel’s actions seemed to sink in.

There was no exclamation from Pavel, no outburst. The entirety of him seemed to break and come apart when McGovern said those words. First his eyes went dead. The bluish swirl that moved and changed within his pupils went dark. All color left his face. Then Pavel seemed to crumple in upon himself, like one of his puppets left to sit in repose, each part of him collapsing upon the next part, hands and arms hanging limp, head dropping forward as if unsupported by his neck, legs askew as if not supporting any weight. The fact he did not slide off the chair and onto the floor surprised McGovern, who got up and put the kettle back on to reheat the water. He sat down again and faced Pavel across the table. The two sat like that for several hours. McGovern would get up after long intervals to freshen the tea, and Pavel did not once move. After several hours had passed, Pavel lifted his head with effort, as if his neck no longer supported the weight of his head, and he merely watched McGovern. Because of the falling darkness, McGovern had lit the lamps and come back to the table to wait.

“Drink this. It’s fresh.” McGovern put yet another cup of tea in front of Pavel, who did not take it.

“I’m going to give you some answers that will lead to more questions,” McGovern said. “I ask for your respect and that you hear me out.” Pavel said nothing. McGovern took a sip from his tea. He seemed to be considering his words.

“You appreciate the natural sciences. I do too. Imagine for a moment that there is a person who carries something physical in their blood or their liver, and that when that person is in a state of extreme passion, rage, for example, it spreads a sort of disease in a wave from the person while they are in that state and affects everyone in proximity. Is that something you can comprehend?”

Pavel made no indication he was listening.

McGovern shook his head. “How to explain something to someone who was so sheltered. It is obvious that living with people who kept you stimulated with those things that stretched your imagination and creativity, that your deeper passions were never compromised or fully ignited. We should have anticipated that.”

McGovern got up again and began pacing. Pavel asked one question.

“If the person is a carrier of some sort of biological disease, then explain the wings.”

McGovern stopped. “This is where I need you to be silent and hear me out.”

Pavel kept his mouth shut.

“In ancient Egypt, students have found histories that have numerous stories of the god Ra, the Sun God. In one story, Ra becomes angry with his people, and decides to wipe them out. He sends winged children into the homes and temples of all his people to charm and enchant, but the winged children carry a terrible poison that will kill any and all who came in contact with them.” Pavel’s pupils remained dark and unresponsive.

McGovern continued to pace, his arms becoming more animated as he spoke.

“In Greek mythology, Zeus, God of the Heavens, becomes enraged with his human subjects one day and decides they should be destroyed, so he orders Hades, God of the Underworld, to kill all humans by sending winged demigod children into their midst who would play music on small flutes and harps that would lull the people into a permanent sleep. Hades, not wishing to have his Underworld overcrowded, puts a little wrench into the works. He removes the last remaining Virtue from Pandora’s box—Hope. He renders Hope into millions of tiny pieces and places a piece into the heart of each of the winged demigods. This tiny bit of hope in each of them makes it impossible for them to see the humans as something that should be annihilated, and they put down their instruments.”

Pavel seemed to stir at that. McGovern held up his hand to silence him before he could interject. His pacing increased.

“I mentioned the Daoine Sidhe from Celtic or Pagan mythology earlier, and the Pagans have creatures or beings or Gods and Goddesses for about every element that can be found in Nature, much like the Greeks; however, there is a darkness and a mischief to their gods, and they do not tolerate disrespect of any kind without some form of retribution. The punishment of humans for egregious acts by winged children was another variation. The Sidhe would replace a human child with one of its own to be raised by the humans. The winged child would come into the home and eventually poison the hearts of everyone in the house until they turned upon each other in acts of murderous rage.”

“We have had nothing but time and years to study the various texts and apocryphal manuscripts attributed to many cultures. Ancient Babylonian gods who bring upon plague and destruction, rabbinic writings of the Jews in the Talmud, Arabic writings, et cetera, all show references to some sort of angel of death, always a child with wings. One of the many lost books of the Bible depicts God, angry yet again and desirous of wiping out the entirety of his human creation, sending an angel of death in the form of a new infant to homes all over the globe. The child is born with the wings of an angel to fool the people into believing that they have been somehow blessed and are held high in God’s favor. As soon as they kiss the baby, they fall into a poisoned and permanent sleep.”

McGovern stopped his pacing, broke off another piece of chocolate and put it in his mouth, savoring it before he continued. He held the block of chocolate out to Pavel, who waved it away. Pavel sat expressionless. After so many hours, his exhaustion brought about by grief and extreme guilt caused him to shut down. His eyes went blank, the pupils no longer swirling, changing from blue to red and back to blue, but rather they remained deadened and black. He continued to listen to McGovern. He had no choice.

“My point is, Pavel, that there are too many similar legends from too many different places from too many religions that normally disagree with each other, sometimes with violence, yet they all share a story of winged children coming into their homes to destroy mankind after their God or Gods are angered by them. Every single one. It warrants attention.”

Pavel hugged his arms to his body.

McGovern continued. “Alright, dismiss religion or mythology if you will. Let’s consider science. Scientifically speaking, I am sure there would be no end of fascination and wonder about our kind, all the while dissecting and experimenting on each and every one of us. Cutting us open, weighing our organs, cutting off the top of our scalp to test regions of our brains with needles and probes, examining our veins to see if blood flows through them like other people. Religion and science are not so very different from one another. One kills over fear, one kills over curiosity. Which one is right? Either way, it is our belief that if discovered, we would be annihilated or worse, used for murderous purposes.”

“You mean used as weapons?”

McGovern shrugged. His small physical action was almost dismissive.

“And how does Mr. Trope fits into all this? His leadership of the rest of us?” Pavel asked.

McGovern ignored the question and excused himself to use the privy, exiting the kitchen, leaving Pavel to sit in his spot at the table. Pavel briefly considered bolting out the door, to disappear forever and never come back but he dismissed the thought as soon as it entered his mind. He knew well that the others like him would have no problem locating him. Insertion into the lives of those like Pavel was their specialty. Pavel reached over and poured himself a fresh cup of tea, set it down, then rubbed his face vigorously to make himself more alert. They had been up several hours, and the conversation and circumstances were emotionally draining.

McGovern reentered the kitchen. “Ah, well, I see you haven’t run away while I’m gone.” Pavel looked stunned. Could McGovern read his mind?

“Mr. Trope deserves your respect, not your scorn.” McGovern continued. “His offices are around the globe and their sole purpose is to protect our kind from discovery, and help our kind so that we do not resort to our baser nature. You ignored them and avoided them. You cannot blame Trope for this, Pavel.”

Pavel considered McGovern’s words.

“I have a question. We are supposedly bound by hope. We bring it to others and we are bound by it ourselves and that keeps us from acting out when impassioned.”

McGovern waited for a question.

“Do you believe this idea come from the Greek myth? Is that where you believe this comes from?”

“Pavel, we live to be very old and there have been many of us along the way, philosophers, doctors, inventors, great minds that had years upon years to go back and forth examining our own natures. I guess you could say we did our own experimentation over time, without the torturous dissection. Yes, we researched similarities in all the mythology surrounding the winged children. The angels of death.”

Pavel interrupted him. “The concept of hope was only in the Greek myth—the lost virtue.”

McGovern rubbed his hand on his chin. They had been talking and sitting together for so long that red stubble was appearing on his face.

“I suppose you might find the belief to be quaint or romantic. But yes, we do believe, whether it came from self-examination over time, trial and failure resulting in disaster, or from some myth about Zeus and Hades, that each of us possesses the ability to access hope during times of despair and loss, and times of passion. It keeps us from acting on our original purpose. A sort of built-in defense mechanism, so to speak. We do believe our original purpose was the destruction of mankind. We do not believe that we are an accident of nature, or a scientific mutation. We believe we were born into the world very deliberately with that intention, by whomever or whatever pulls the strings, to use an analogy to your own profession. Infants have no impulse control, no way of knowing that their cries for hunger or to be held, or their rage because they dropped a toy, will cause plague or destruction. An infant child is the embodiment of passion. That is why so much death surrounds the birth of one of our kind. It is only if we live beyond that, that we can learn to control our baser nature and be something else. Most of us take years to study how to get very quiet within ourselves so that we do not become angry or passionate in any way.