The Puppet Maker's Bones (5 page)

Senior Partner

Trope & Co., LLP

“People are foolish,” Pavel mused as he walked to the back of his house and through the doorway of his workroom. The workroom was a high-ceilinged, vast space located at the very rear of the large house. A work table stretched the entire expanse of one wall, and connected with another table that went through the center of the room at a right angle. Every conceivable tool needed by a woodworking enthusiast, from antique to modern, hung from a pegboard mounted on the wall over the work table: band saws, drills, planes, numerous chisels—short ones, flat ones, stronger ones, fine ones—hammers, pliers, pots of glue and colored paint and brushes in myriad sizes and shapes. Situated around the room were easels of different sizes displaying unfinished canvases. Also present were tools and equipment designed for shoe repair and leatherwork as well as a pottery wheel and kiln. Shelves holding various bits of pottery and clay figurines lined any wall space not taken up by the tool pegboard. The principal occupants of the room, however, hung from ceiling hooks or lay upon the shelves in various states of repose. Some sat in chairs, as if to relax and have a conversation. Dozens upon dozens of hand-made marionettes and puppets of all designs and sizes filled the room. Some were controlled by wires, others by rods, and some by both. Dancers, jesters, peasant figures, cats and dogs— some were lifelike in appearance, while others were skeletons, or figures of a macabre nature. Puppets in various stages of finish covered the work tables.

“Hello, my dears,” he said aloud to the room.

On the opposite side of the workroom, natural light spilled in from floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the back garden. In this room, Pavel could enjoy the sight of his garden through the great windows as he worked on his various creations during the daylight hours. Heavy curtains remained drawn on the days that the gardeners were scheduled and on any other occasion that required an outsider’s presence. Years had gone into the creation of the large space where Pavel spent the majority of his days. It was in this place where he allowed himself to experience a modicum of joy.

He surveyed the windows. If he concentrated his gaze across the garden while standing at a forty-degree angle to the gardening shed, a bounce of reflected light and an accident of architecture enabled him to see into the kitchen of his home through one of the windows. Because the workshop at the back of the house was located at a ninety-degree angle to the back of the kitchen, he had discovered the ability to look from the workroom into his kitchen whenever the lights were extinguished. The ability to see into the kitchen had been useful on at least one occasion when the soup on the stove had bubbled over the pot. The light from the back window of the kitchen bounced a reflection off the window of the workshop, and if he faced the gardening shed and used it as a backdrop, he could see into the other part of the house. Odd, but it decreased the need for a surveillance system. Of course the lighting had to be correct for the effect to work, and he planned on turning off the main power to the house this evening. He sighed again.

Pavel turned on another small stereo located on the workbench. Chopin’s
Mazurkas for Piano
floated from more unseen speakers which produced an auditory illusion that the room was filled with music from everywhere and nowhere, all at once. He felt a sudden chill and pulled his cardigan around his slight and stooped frame, buttoned the top three buttons and turned off the music. He did not want to hear Chopin today and had only turned on the music to ensure the speakers were operational. He would have need for them later. Pavel had, over time, built a network of speakers all over the house. Due to the historic nature of the house, the walls and ceiling had to maintain the appearance of the original architecture, so he had made the speakers invisible by using scrims, various forms of muslin, and other painted fabrics to create sections of wall and ceiling indistinguishable from the rest of the house. The scrims hid metal grids which supported a large number of mounted speakers, each approximately six feet from the next. He designed the system to create an experience of sound without any discernible point of origin. The auditory effect was that music, or sound of any variety of his choosing, would seem to come from one or multiple directions. The idea was a deliberate construction meant to produce something alternately soothing or disorienting. If voices alone were played, the aural effect was that of disembodiment—almost like a haunted house. He had spent over a year on the concept alone and took great pains over the details of his construction, which took another year to complete. With the digital controls, he could manipulate the speakers by turning some off and others on, much like working with a puppet. Both actions involved a certain amount of artistry and a lot of expert skill. He designed it for his own entertainment, but his design had the ulterior purpose of being a very unconventional security system.

Pavel moved to a location at the end of the extensive work bench. A pedestal with the marionette of a boy, about four feet tall, faced the bench.

“Hello, David,” he said. He was met with the silent stare of the boy marionette.

“Ladies, how are we today?” He addressed three crone marionettes who looked as if they might have been used in a theatrical production of
Macbeth
. More silence.

The workbench was covered with a collection of wire mesh, metal pieces and other bric-à-brac in a large and messy jumble, inconsistent with the meticulous care reflected in the appearance of the rest of the room. Pavel reached into the mess and picked out an object. An animal snare. In the metal of the snare, he caught a slivered reflection of his cracked, spotted face and the thin hair that hung in limp, yellowed and worm-like tendrils across his head. He once had been agreeable to look upon. He put the snare under his arm and pulled out a large net from the mess of wires.

“That should be sufficient. What do you think, David?” Again, he received no answer.

“No?” He searched the table until his eyes lit upon the last thing he would need. A coil of razor wire.
Why did I buy this?
he wondered. No matter. He added the razor wire to his collection of items and spoke to the marionette he called David.

“What do you think of my dangerous collection?” He was met with more silence from the various marionettes that filled the space. He stood in the vast workroom, his arms full of his strange collection of objects, as the poem crept back into his mind.

Wednesday’s child is full of woe, Thursday’s child has far to go
. He brushed the poem from his thoughts, for he had work to do, yet the poem persisted.

Thursday’s child has far to…
He seemed incapable of denying the poem access to his head and buzzing around his memory like an annoying and aggressive wasp. He could not place the importance of the poem, but the bits and pieces that insisted upon inserting themselves caused a sting.

Pavel was not without resources. His memory was not what it was in certain areas, and while certain sections of his past seemed to be hiding behind other sections more accessible to his aging mind, his brain did still work and his body had not failed him. His muscle memory seemed to make up for what he could not remember. Decade after decade of discipline and routine was so ingrained in him that there was little chance, even if he lost his mind, that he would vary from his way of doing things. He had full capability to draw upon any of his extensive skills at any time. He knew he was more than able to look up the source of the poem that stung every time a line invaded his thoughts; however, he did not want to. He had numerous books and references to consult the origin of the poem, had he been so inclined. In fact, any shelf not inhabited by a tool or a puppet held a book of some kind. Something nagged at him, however, and the thought of investigating the source of his torment worried him.

Modern technology had made Pavel’s solitary state rather easy. He had a computer and access to the Internet. He ordered most of his deliveries over the Internet because anything he needed for the workshop could be ordered online, even items only available from overseas. Had it not been for the computer, he would never have been able to obtain the materials necessary to install his impressive network of digitally controlled speakers, nor the components necessary for the manufacture of the accompanying control board. The first time he ordered anything over the computer, he marveled at the advanced level which humans had reached in their ability to avoid interaction with other people. Through the use of technology, everyone could live, if they so desired, like Pavel—cut off from connection, communication and touch. He had increasing difficulty remembering why he lived like that but knew that he had for a very long time. The poem might shed some light on why he thought he should live in isolation, but remembering those nagging bits and pieces might cause him further distress. He had other things to concentrate on at present. An uninvited guest would be arriving soon.

“People are foolish,” he repeated to himself. There had been other uninvited guests in the early years. The years before Her. Prochazka and Nina had protected him, and when Prochazka became old, he’d made a great effort to teach Pavel how to protect himself from people who were foolish.

1735

“B
ring out the demon!” An angry mob gathered outside the home of Prochazka and Nina. Many carried torches, others carried sticks, clubs or farming tools. Another cholera epidemic had laid waste to much of the community. Lack of proper sewage and the dumping of waste into the river Vltava made the drinking water a source of outbreaks. The terrified people sought blame on supernatural forces, and often that blame fell on those in the community who were
different
. Other. People who were not getting sick. Prochazka and Nina got all their drinking and cooking water from their own well. They emptied the chamber pots several meters away from the residence in a large hole that Prochazka had built in the ground with a structure around it that kept any person from falling in it. Prochazka would, at varying times throughout the year, cover up the hole and dig another elsewhere. Being a practical and smart man, he poured lye into the hole, thus reducing the odor and the possibility of filth spreading elsewhere. Prochazka and Nina kept a clean home and an even neater workshop at the theatre. The couple had a rational approach to maintaining order. While the rest of the town fell ill and many died, they remained healthy. This caused others to be suspicious, rather than curious about Prochazka, Nina and the strange adopted child in their home, Pavel. Many in the village thought them unnatural creatures who cheated illness and death—Pavel was a thirty-one-year-old man who appeared to be a youth of about thirteen years. Prochazka and Nina explained, on numerous occasions to villagers who never tired of asking, that the boy was stunted and did not grow at a normal rate. That explanation was irrelevant to the terrified townspeople who fell ill, or who were still well enough but had become desperate and irrational.

“You people are insane and you are imbeciles!” Prochazka came out of his home, bellowing. The mob moved toward him, ready to storm the house, but unsure of themselves once confronted by the large, red-faced man. “That boy has done nothing to you! If you people would stop drinking your own shit, maybe you would stop getting sick. Did that occur to anyone?”

“The boy is a hobgoblin!” said one.

“He carries the marks of the Devil on him!” said yet another.

“He protects you because you have made promises to the Devil!” The mob grew nearer to the door.

“No one is to harm one hair on that boy’s head. No one is harming anyone today! You are all fools!” Prochazka ran back into the home and hoisted the large pot from the stove filled with boiling water. He hefted it to the doorway.

“
This
is why we are not sick!” Prochazka heaved the scalding water out the door, splashing some of the mob as he did so. There were a few screams.

“We boil our fucking water, you idiots!” The people moved away from the large, red-faced man and then away from the house.

That particular evening Nina, Prochazka and Pavel remained safe.