The Wooden Prince (8 page)

Pinocchio stumbled on his boots. “Then I'm glad I'm not alive.”

They wandered through room after room, but anything of interest had long been taken. At last they sat by a window on the fourth floor, looking down on an overgrown garden. The roses had turned spindly and lost their flowers. There was a brick walkway in the shape of a circular labyrinth, now overtaken by dandelions. At the far end of the garden, against the outer wall, Pinocchio spied two broken rectangular slabs.

“Maestro, what are those stones back there?”

The cricket crawled up the windowpane to look. “Oh,” he said. “Those are the tombs for Geppetto's wife and son. Looks like the vandals even broke open their graves looking for treasures. Monsters!”

“Would Master be upset if he saw them like that?”

“He won't go back there,” Maestro replied. “But don't tell him about it.”

“So, yes?” Pinocchio asked, wondering why crickets and people couldn't just answer questions properly.

“Yes,” Maestro said. “He wouldn't want to see them like that.”

“I'm going down there.” He headed for the door. “Are you coming?”

“No,” Maestro said, tucking his wings and antennae back. “You go explore. I'll sleep right here. That was a long journey from San Baldovino.”

Pinocchio went down to the garden. The shadows had grown long with late afternoon. Starlings swooped across the tops of the wall, catching insects. He thought the birds might have had something to do with why Maestro had not joined him.

As he reached the pair of tombs, he saw writing on the shifted slabs. He couldn't read the words, but he could tell from the carved figures which tomb contained Geppetto's wife and which held his son. He knelt by them and traced his fingers over the images. In the carvings, they looked as if they were sleeping. Was that what death was? Like when humans slept?

Where the slabs had been slid aside, he saw dark openings. He had come to put the slabs back in place, but curiosity crept over him. The carvings were so nondescript they could have been anyone. What did Geppetto's wife and son really look like?

He peered into the shadows. The light was such that all he saw were vague lumps down in the holes. He cast a glance back at the villa. Geppetto wouldn't be finished yet. He slid the slab from over Alberto's tomb a little more to let the light in. The boy below was wrapped in a shroud. Pinocchio reached into the tomb, but couldn't take hold of the fabric.

It wasn't very far down. He could climb in and still get back out easily enough. Pinocchio lowered himself into the grave. Kneeling by Alberto's side, he pulled back the shroud.

He had been expecting to see a sleeping boy, like the one carved on the tomb. What he saw was something else. Something horrific.

Pinocchio yelped, standing up so suddenly that the seven-league boots shot him against the portion of the slab still covering the tomb. He frantically scrambled out. With all the strength of his gears, he shoved the slabs back into place over Alberto and Cornelia.

He sat back against the tomb, feeling something awful in his gearworks. Was
that
what happened when humans died? No wonder life was valuable. If what he had seen was death, that was a horrible way to be, worse than being locked in a trunk or made to sit on a stool for a thousand nights.

He couldn't stop thinking about poor Alberto. Then he spied an apple tree that grew in the corner of the garden, and he went over to break off a thick limb. He tore at the bark and smaller branches, getting it down to a piece that could have been made into his own leg.

With his fingertips, he shaved the wood, working and shaping it. He didn't know how long it took, but when he finished, the sun had set and the sky was turning a purple-blue. He sat admiring the wooden sword.

“What are you doing out here?”

Pinocchio shot up. Geppetto stood over him.

“Where's Maestro?” his master asked.

“Resting inside, I suppose,” Pinocchio said, holding the sword behind his back.

Geppetto grimaced, his face weary from his work. “What are you up to? Show me what you're hiding.”

Pinocchio hesitated before holding up the sword. It didn't look as nice as he had hoped. The handle was crooked, and the sides were far from symmetrical.

“Planning to fight off any half-beasts who set upon us tonight?” Geppetto asked.

“It's for your son, Alberto,” Pinocchio said, suddenly worrying that Geppetto might be angry with him. “It's…well, you said Prester John sent a sword for Prince Ignazio's tomb. I know it's not as fine as that sword, but I thought that maybe Alberto…”

Geppetto blinked, his eyes dark in the dimming light.

“I wanted to put it on his tomb,” Pinocchio said. “As a blessing.”

Geppetto stared at him. Then he reached for the sword. He held it, running his fingers along the blade.

“You made this?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“How?”

Pinocchio held up his hand. “Just carved it. I think I cracked one of my fingers. I'm sorry, Master. I know it's not good enough for—”

Geppetto threw his arm around Pinocchio's shoulders and pulled him against his side. “You incorrigibly wonderful little scamp! It's finer than any treasure from Abaton.” He handed the sword back to Pinocchio. “Go ahead. Put it on his grave.”

Pinocchio smiled and laid the wooden sword on the chest of Alberto's carving. Then he stood by Geppetto's side and looked up at him. His master's face was no longer pinched with anguish, but Pinocchio couldn't quite figure out Geppetto's strange expression. His eyes seemed to glisten with moisture.

“Are you all right, Master?”

“Yes.” Geppetto took a shuddering breath and lifted Pinocchio's hand. “Come, my boy. I can fix that finger before I put your new feet on.”

B
ack in the laboratory, Pinocchio sat beside Maestro on the table while Geppetto repaired the crack using alchemical compounds he had simmered in a series of glass beakers over a flaming salamander's tail. Finished, Geppetto removed the jeweler's glass from his eye and wiped his hands on his leather apron. “Should be good as new, if you don't go poking at anything tonight while it dries.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Now for the feet.”

As Geppetto removed the seven-league boots, Pinocchio glanced over at the new pair of feet lying on the table. Although made from a darker wood, they were almost identical to the ones he'd had before, if not better. He was admiring how each toe was articulated, with nearly seamless joints, when Geppetto gasped and dropped the boot to the floor.

“What is it, Master?”

Geppetto hurried to undo the laces on the other boot. Pinocchio stretched out his bare foot. It was no longer burned. In fact, it had an odd leathery quality. He flexed it around, wiggling his toes.

“What happened to it?” Pinocchio said in horror.

Geppetto wrenched off the other boot. “Great Vesuvius! It's healed as well.”

“Healed, Master? You mean fixed.”

“Fixed!” Geppetto shouted. “Who could have fixed you? This is a transmutation beyond what any elemental could have achieved! And what's this material?”

He grabbed Pinocchio's foot, twisting it side to side. Pinocchio had to clutch the table so he wouldn't fall off.

Maestro leaped out of the way. “It looks like hide.”

Geppetto squeezed Pinocchio's foot. “It's hard as wood. And I still see some grains, but it does look like…”

“Like what, Master?” Pinocchio asked.

“Flesh,” Geppetto whispered.

Pinocchio winced. “Why would seven-league boots turn my poor feet into flesh?”

“They shouldn't. They couldn't.” Geppetto wrinkled his brow half a dozen ways before saying, “No, it wasn't the boots.”

“Then what?” Maestro asked.

Geppetto reached for Pinocchio's chest. Pinocchio's hand shot out, crushing Geppetto's knuckles.

Geppetto grimaced, digging the fealty key from his pocket. “Let…go!”

Pinocchio couldn't until Geppetto jammed the key into the back of his neck. “I'm sorry, Master! I'm so sorry. Why did you do that? You know I can't help it!”

Geppetto staggered away, clutching his hand to his stomach. “What's happening to you?”

“I don't know, Master.” Pinocchio curled his feet up under him, trying to hide them with his hands. “It's that pinecone, isn't it? I haven't felt right since Prester John stole my fantom and put that dreadful pinecone in me. He did this to me!”

“But what exactly has His Immortal Lordship done?” Maestro asked.

Geppetto looked dazed. “Prester John is in danger,” he muttered. “All I can assume is that he performed some spell on you, so you could help me rescue him. Although why would you be turning to flesh?”

He pulled down jars from the shelves, scattering their contents on the benches.

Pinocchio slid from the table and quickly put the seven-league boots back on to cover his feet. What was happening? Geppetto had told him flesh was the one material that no alchemy could make. This was impossible. And yet, here he was, transmuting from wood into flesh. He looked over at Maestro, but the cricket's distant black eyes gave him no assurances.

“Here!” Geppetto jingled a bag of coins. “I knew I had tucked some away. Montalcino is two days' walk. Once we get there, we can buy passage on a coach to bring us to Venice.” He stuffed the coins into his coat pocket.

“But you haven't slept,” Maestro said.

“I can't sleep now anyway,” Geppetto said, untying his apron and shouldering his cloak before marching toward the door. “Let's leave this place.”

They walked through the night. Despite his anxiety about his transformed feet, Pinocchio found that they worked much better in the seven-league boots than his old feet. He wasn't making unexpected bounces anymore. By dawn, however, all the walking made his new feet ache, and Pinocchio wanted nothing more than to stop and give them a rest.

He had never needed to rest his body before. An automa could work tirelessly. Pinocchio gave a little grumble under his breath. Yet another reason to dislike Prester John and his meddling!

Fortunately for Pinocchio, Geppetto was beginning to stumble with weariness by the time the sun was coming up. They found a grove of trees hidden from the road where his master could sleep.

Geppetto lay in the leaves, rolling his cloak into a pillow. “Listen out, Pinocchio. And watch the skies for airmen. Wake me if you sense danger.”

“Master?”

“Yes,” Geppetto mumbled, not opening his eyes.

“Are you upset with me? Because…because I've taken you from your old life at the shop and caused all this trouble?”

“No, lad. It's not your doing. You've done nothing wrong.”

Maestro landed on Pinocchio's shoulder. “Let him sleep,” he whispered.

Pinocchio walked to the edge of the grove, where he could see the orange sunlight play across the hills. In the distance, a floating barge made its way across the dawn sky, sails flapping from the sides like the fins of a great fish. The faint voices of the half-beast slave crew called in unison as they cranked the wheel on deck. Pinocchio watched until it disappeared over the horizon.

“Maestro,” Pinocchio whispered.

The cricket hopped to a log beside him. “What is it?”

“Will you play that song for me?”

“Which song?” Maestro said, a little irritably.

“The one I heard you play back at Master Geppetto's shop when he was going to bed.”

“I can't remember what song I was playing then,” Maestro said. “My musical knowledge is immense, the number of songs in my repertoire countless. It could have been a nocturne or a sonata or an aria. Not that I'd expect you to know the difference.”

“It had a slow beginning, just a few notes you kept repeating.” Pinocchio closed his eyes to remember. “Then the pace picked up, and you did this little thing—I'm not sure if you use your mouth or your legs—”

“My wings, actually.”

“Well, it sounded almost like—I'm not sure how to describe it—like a voice in the distance, calling a lonely traveler. And it sounded like the traveler was calling back. It was amazing how you were able to make all those different sounds. The music was like a painting in my mind. Or more like a story, because I imagined that the lonely traveler was about to reach the other voice, and he was getting quite excited, when…” Pinocchio opened his eyes and chuckled. “Well, then Master gave a snore and you stopped playing.”

Maestro stared at Pinocchio with his black droplet eyes.

“Do you know what song it is now?” Pinocchio asked.

Maestro was dead silent another moment before he said, “‘Orpheus.' The song is called ‘Orpheus.'”

The cricket was talking so breathlessly, as if he was in a trance, without any of his usual high-and-mighty tone. It gave Pinocchio the creeps. “What's the matter with you?”