The Puppeteer

“I can’t believe I’m talking to a filthy rat…”

“Seriously? Filthy?” said the rat.

“Okay. So, you talk. I drank too much, and..."

“Um maybe... but …still a talking rat, dude.”

Pallo’s father stepped from around the stage just then and Pallo shrunk against the stones of the wall next to where they’d been holding their puppet show.

“Pally!” shrieked Karen, the lead puppeteer. “You missed yer cue,” she hissed.

The children gathered in front of the stage giggled. Pallo’s father placed his blood-stained hands on his wide hips and glared. Pallo glanced at the talking rat…then at his co-puppeteer…then at his father. Pallo’s father was huge and bald and dressed in a butcher’s long white apron. Being at work at a busy shop, the apron was rose-bloomed with deep maroon, the pale hairs on his father’s forearms bristled in sync with the white caterpillar mono-brow crouched over his flinty grey-blue eyes. Karen was a walking talking scarecrow complete with straw colored hair spiking out every which way from under her gimme cap. Her teeth were sharp as a weasel’s as she threw a fake smile at the audience and her eyes flared bloody murder as she glared at him. The rat was just plain weird.

Pallo picked his battles carefully. He looked into his father’s eyes bravely and nodded towards the wooden box with the lock on it, then out at the crowd. His father lowered his arms and nodded slowly in understanding. These were richy-poo kids, and the box was heavy.

Next, he came to Karen and bowed low before her, stood, and raised his puppet, a court jester in emerald-green with golden bells on his tri-spiked hat; Sigfreid the Jester placed his delicate wooden hands together in supplication and lifted his face up to the angry scarecrow, “Please m’lady.” Karen’s cheeks bloomed rosy spots rivaling those painted on the jester.

The kiddies laughed. One said, “Go on lady, kiss the funny fella.”

Another brat chimed in, “Yeah lady. I’ll pay another shillin ta see that!”

Pallo raised his eyebrows. ‘Well?’

Karen looked disgusted enough to spit. The fact that these brats had more pocket change than she had in her save-up jar stashed in her trailer riled her to no end. She sighed and kissed the damn jester.

“Ooooooaaaahhhh!” the children exclaimed. They laughed and clapped and more than one tossed coinage to the small wooden stage.

Pallo ignored the rat.

The show went on. Karen masterfully maneuvered the most complicated of all their puppets- Glengary the Dragon; she was very good, and the dragon marionette appeared as alive as the water dragons Spinelli’s Travelling Circus had in their company doing tricks. Glengary could even breathe fire. Karen had taught Pallo every trick in the book about puppeteering…except that one.

Glengary exhaled a dense cloud of smoke. When it cleared, Sigfreid had magically transformed into a brave and shining knight. He gallantly strode about the stage like a king cock searching for his sword.

“Over there!” a small girl trilled like a wren. Sigfreid stooped and tugged at the sword with both hands. The dragon blew fire and the bushes burst into flames. The knight staggered back. The dragon advanced.

Gasps rippled through the crowd, which had doubled. At least a dozen adults were just as enthralled as the kidlets.

Princess Pinkytoes leapt upon the dragon’s back and it flew off with her hanging on for dear life. Sigfreid the knight leapt to the sword again and with a mighty bellow, pulled it free of its lodging. From the curtain sky above the stage, the princess fell. Sigfreid caught her in one arm. With his other hand, he pierced the dragon’s belly as it swooped down over him.

The crowd clapped and cheered. All except one.

The knight knelt before the princess as the dragon lay still behind her. The princess produced a bag of gold and proclaimed the knight the bravest in the land. “Pray tell, Sir Sigfreid, what other prize may I bestow upon you?”

“A kiss my lady.”

Princess Pinkytoes nodded, Sigfreid stood with arms outstretched.

The dragon raised its head a final time, the last great cloud of smoke roiled over the couple in center stage. When it cleared, Sigfreid the Great was again Sigfreid the Silly. The princess stepped away aghast. “Never!” She spun on her tiny pink satin feet and wafted from the stage with hand raised to her forehead dramatically. Sigfreid sighed then shrugged then began juggling what appeared to be dragon’s eyeballs. The curtain descended, and the crowd cheered and clapped and tossed coppers onto the stage.

Pallo collected the few remaining coins as Karen began packing the puppets.

“Did you see her?”

Pallo looked down behind him and groaned. “Oh. It’s you.”

“This isn’t about me. Look,” said the rat.

The girl had stood out because she was the only one not clapping. She was dressed like an older child of perhaps twelve would be…but she seemed the size of a six-year-old. Her large dark eyes were sad in her milk-pale face. As she turned away Pallo noticed a large bruise on the side of her face. “She certainly looks as if her dog just passed.”

A man came through the departing crowd. His waistcoat and breeches were fine, though rumpled and soiled. His grizzled face was greasy looking, angry. He stumbled as he came through and grabbed the little girl’s arm as though he might snap it right off. “Thought I’d find ya ere! Wastin yer time lollygagging…Arg! Spendin me ard earned tokens on filly-folly!”

He shook the girl. She waggled bonelessly like a rag doll. “No. No, I didn’t give them---” Her eyes locked with Pallo’s, her white cheeks reddened.

The man grabbed her dress and pulled out both her pockets. Four shillings spilled to the hard dirt road. He swayed as he bent to pick them up.

“Papa. That’s for a loaf and---”

He shook the girl again with both hands.

“Eeek!” she said as he pushed her down. He didn’t have to push hard, she looked like she’d blow away in a strong gust. “Papa!”

The man strode away towards the tavern down the block.

“Here.” Pallo held out his hand to her.

She took it. Once on her feet she dropped his hand quickly, practically tossing it from her. She was still blushing. “I… I’m sorry I didn’t pay.”

“It’s okay. Food before folly, eh?”

She smiled then, just a tiny bit. Pallo realized that up close she was very pretty and not much younger than he was, maybe thirteen. Dark auburn curls had escaped her bonnet, she blew one from her eye and self-consciously covered the bruise with a fine porcelain-like hand.

Pallo said, “Do you need money?” His eyes darted to the stage where Karen stood with her hands on her hips, her pointy elbows sharp as drawn bows. Her eyes glowered at him from under her pushed down cap, her lips pressed into a thin angry line.

The girl said, “No. I’m fine. He took only half.” Her smile widened slyly. “I wasn’t born on a turnip cart yesterday.” She patted her skirt just over her knee. “My momma made me a pocket.” She looked sad then.

“So, what happens when he comes home to a fine meal?”

“Oh, ee’ll be so shnockered, he’ll likely be comatose in a jiff. I really do feel awful about jippin ya. You an’ yer lady are very good.”

Pallo laughed. “Oh Mary Mercy. She aint no lady and certainly not mine.” He glanced towards the stage, relieved to see no one there.

“Oh.” She put a hand to her mouth and giggled. “I’m Cherise by the way. Cherise Miller”

“Pallo. Pleased to meet you.” He extended a hand, palm up to her, and she placed hers in it. He lightly kissed it like he’d seen gentlemen do in romantical performances. She giggled again then pointed at his shoulder.

She said, “And who is that?”

The rat who’d been hiding behind Pallo’s collar came out and bowed.

Pallo looked down at him and said, “Well? Go on.”

Cherise looked puzzled and amused and expectant, like this was part of the show.

Pallo realized how dumb he looked and said, “Nevermind. This is Glen.”

“Like after Glengary the Dragon?”

“He is a fierce little beastie.”

“Yes, I can see that. Um. I’ve really got to be goin. Still must gather the supper fodder. Me auntie will be worryin soon.”

“So, you liked the show. But…uh…I couldn’t help but notice you not clapping…?”

“Oh. Oh yes. Well. I’ve never liked princesses or buffoons. I always root for the dragon.”

In the pub after dark, he and Karen savored their hard-earned pints. They grabbed their glasses as Cherise’s father stumbled into their table as he made his way to the door. “Outta me way ya turds.” He muttered under his breath as if talking to invisible pigmies.

Pallo shrugged and said, “Nice take today, eh?”

She stood and placed her empty glass on the table. “I’m keepin the bonuses. You fuckin Sawney. Don fuckup agin! What was that anyways? Look like you talkin to a rat. Ya loosin yer garsh darn mine?”

A soft giggle tee-heed from under the heavy wood table, he raised his brows to Karen looming over him, more scarecrowy than ever. She hadn’t heard it.

He looked down into his remaining half pint and mumbled, “fine.”

A second after she left the rat scurried up onto the table and stood before Pallo. “Glen. Glen, eh?”

“Well, you could have introduced yerself an not left me swinging from the tree.”

“Hmf. Don’t really trust humans much. You, I like. For the life-a-me I know not why.” Glen grinned up at Pallo. “Glen is good. Like the dragon. Er, may I?” He pointed a tiny pink paw at the pint. Pallo tipped it nearly sideways, and Glen lapped the ale a bit, licked his furry lips and said, “She’s kind like you. You both have the kind aura.”

“Yer daft, mate,” Pallo said, but without conviction. He did see something in the girl and certainly felt something when he kissed her hand. His cheeks grew prickly warm at the memory.

“We’ve got to help her.”

“Wh-wha---?”

“That father-a-hers. He’s going to kill her. He’s a mean drunk---”

“I’ve seen.”

“Fortunately for the girl---”

“Cherise.”

“Yes. Cherise. If he weren’t so blind snockered every night, he may be inclined to not just beat her. She hides herself from him but eventually he’ll y’know, turn lustful.”

“Ah God. But I don’t see how I---”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“What can you do? You’re just a wee---”

“Trust me. This is what I do. I can talk after all and yer not crazy.”

“I’m still not so sure about that.” Pallo swigged the dregs of his ale and was about to order another, his hand raised…until he realized the bar maid was staring at him as if he had lobsters crawling out his ears. “Heh heh.” He lowered his hand. Under his breath, he said, “See there. Caught talkin to a rat again. I’ll not be served in this fine establishment agin.”

“Okay, sorry bout that. But, well, here’s the plan…” said Glen. They left the tavern and Glen chattered on.

***

Pallo followed Glen out of town, past the two-stories, then the smaller but well-kept cottages, there were some fields and farms and near the outskirts were cabin-like homes. Some tidy, with immaculate gardens, some decrepit, with old wheels and broken carts and slinking, black skittering things ducking in and out from the shadows. Pallo looked at Glen. “Mates of yours?”

Glen, perched on his shoulder comfortably, said under his ear, “They’re not like me. Just as those humans stealing, raping and robbing are not like you. It is a choice. You chose to learn a profession. An odd one granted, but respectable.”

Pallo didn’t really understand what the rat had been instructing him to do and didn’t really understand why he was following the instructions…but he was very concerned about Cherise because instinctively, he knew the rat was right. He would obey the rat. (And then most likely laugh hysterically until he choked on his own tongue in that big old Bedlam building on the hill just out of town.)

Glen said, “Okay, bring the bag here.” They were at the side edge of the property by the wrap around porch. Pallo was drawn to the windows. His heartbeat quickened not unpleasantly. Cherise was in there. And perhaps in danger. He dropped the sack that Glen had made him carry. He did not know why, he felt he was in a dream since the frickin talking rat had “hello hello’d!” his attention.

Glen took the sack and dragged it away under the porch.

Pallo approached the front door and peered into the cabin’s front window.

Cherise was sleeping on the floor by the fireplace.

As they watched, the stoutish drunken man kicked her. Her body lay still. She was not sleeping! She was …was…dead? The man grunted and fell backwards onto the sofa.

Pallo wanted right then and there to jump out and leap upon that unholy father and tear him apart like a rabid monkey! Glen nipped his ankle to get his attention. “Wait. Wait.” They waited five full minutes. “Okay. Go on and get her. He’s asleep now. But be quiet. Trust me.”

Pallo pushed the door open, the hinges squealed in protest. He glared at the prone form on the sofa, daring him to awaken. He was out cold.

As Pallo laid the girl down, cradling her upper body in his arms, her eyes fluttered open. She moaned and Pallo said, “Oh thank God.”

***

Jonathan Miller smiled in his sleep. He was entering a dreamworld. He never dreamed anymore. Not since his Anne-Louise has passed…slowly, oh so slowly and terribly. The only sleep he’d had since was thick and fat and fetid with her face stretched long and thin into a rictus of pain as she’d silently screamed her anguish and torment. It had been a relief when she’d taken her last long-mouthed breath. And he felt guilty for that.

He felt guilty for many things. He wished he was dead in all his waking hours. But he had a daughter he had to feed and clothe. So, he walked through his life feeling guilty. Guilty to be alive. Guilty for being unkind to Cherise. She was smart and pretty. If he was dead she’d be better off. All these thoughts whirled through his head during his waking hours and he longed for the bottle and its deep rest and procrastination and excuses.

So, this night, he was surprised to find himself in a dream.

He was sober and young and handsome. His face shaven, his clothes clean and pressed. Annie may have been alive or may have been gone, he didn’t know, but he did feel jaunty and at ease. What was this? Oh, the center of town. And look, there a stage. A singer came out and she was dressed in satins and silks. Her voice was lovely, and he knew he knew the song but its title eluded him. He stopped and watched. He threw shillings onto the stage as well as roses he’d been carrying. The song ended and the curtain fell. He turned to leave. Perhaps see his mates down at the tavern…when someone called his name. “Jonathan…come and stay for the show.”

He turned back and saw a puppet show had been set upon the stage.

“No,” he said in a soft whisper. “No not that.”

He tried to turn to leave but the woman on his arm, it was the lovely singer, was as an anchor and a force of nature. She turned him back towards the stage and he was frozen as if in solid iron chains. He felt them on his flesh, cold and unyielding.

The jester was there on the stage but though the show was going on, the nasty puppet had it’s human, evil eyes on Jonathan alone. The words and story were lost. The puppet held him prisoner. Beside him, his wife in soiled and reeking bedclothes laughed and her mouth grew long until the jaw was laying upon her chest.

The puppet show had been the last thing her and him had seen together. She’d been quite sick and had insisted on going to see it. What remained now was nothing but terrible memories.

Jonathan awoke in a cold sweat, a scream in his throat.

He looked around the room, his head was clear, not swimming and that was odd. “Cherise?” he called out. He missed her suddenly and terribly. He searched everywhere- the bedroom, the two closets where she often hid, the kitchen cabinets, for she was a small child. At last, he looked under the sofa though she’d have to be even smaller to fit.

The jester said, ”Hey there Johnny.” It slunk out from under the couch like an upside-down spider. In the livingroom, its head turned rightside up, then its body followed.

It raised its small wooden hands. “Hey. No harm done.”

The hands turned downwards, “That is. No. More. Harm. Done.”

The jester grinned then, the smile splitting the face from ear to ear like a razor. “Am I right?”

Jonathon nodded.

***

At the windows the three looked in. They saw the man asleep and at the rat’s request, they said nothing. After ten minutes, Cherise’s father sat up. The three pressed their faces to the window but could not see into the dark home.

Sigfried suddenly popped up on the other side. Cherise and Pallo screamed. Glen grinned and nodded. Sigfried waved goodbye and popped out of sight.

Cherise’s father stumbled out the door, saw his daughter, and knelt and cried.

He never took another drink again.