The Shadow's Puppet

I hadn't heard them that night, the howling of the wolves. No, but I did hear something else, the crush of rough snow underfoot, the clank of a wagon. The moon was already high, stark against the bruise of early dusk. I rushed to the window, not caring that the book I held now lay open upon the stone floor, hidden by the alcove thick curtains.

 I pressed my nose to the glass, felt a whimper of the wind against the tip of my nose. The snow of ballerinas and Tchaikovsky, of deep mugs of hot chocolate, and the edges of fresh bread, began to waltz down from the skies.

I leaned my weight against the window pane, not caring that my cheeks grew from crimson to a yellowing violet. Mama wouldn’t think nothing of it, neither would Ada.

 Mama found solace within Ada, and Ada within the small rebellions she built and nurtured for weeks. With dramas that could rival the Greeks, they revolved around one another, pulled by their own congruity. While I was merely a chess piece, to be moved from side to side with little care. 

I closed my eyes against the cool glass, snowflakes fluttering in perfect arabesques across my eyelashes as they fanned across the freezing glass. I dreamt of nothing. There was only the deep oblivion of a restless mind. 

The clocked itched away when I finally heard the front door open. My thoughts attached themselves to the dissonant words of the guests, and the subtle chinks as their boots hit door frames, knocking snow from their heels. 

They dusted reality from their shoulders like lingering snow, smiled wide, fiery grins and headed for the wine. They wished for a singular night to which they could find solace in a large glass of brandy, and a hundred pleasant faces. They arrived quickly, and left at the pace of drunken soldier. Our countryside home was the perfect place for such. 

I stayed behind the curtain, my little form curled up and listening. I was but a shadow to their brightness. A mote of dust that would burn if I got too close. 

The dining hall filled quickly, every seat occupied by fine silk and leather. The dignitaries grinned as if they had truly won some bet of theirs, and the ladies giggled behind large fans modeled after grotesque peacocks. 

However...there was something else. Something more interesting, something daunting and terrifying that could throw this whole dinner to waste. For in-between each and every guest, stood the ghosts. They were like myself in a way. Shadows. Phantoms. I saw them solely for my acceptance of their presence. 

The shadows hovered over shoulders, and shivered against their lips. They were the unloved and the unsaid, some in the form of a mistress’s child, others a mere waiver of another time. Others a passion that continued to burn. Others a cool dread of remembrance and blood. 

I closed my eyes against them, overwhelmed, and preferring the blossoming circles of vivid apricots and plump cherries to the harsh silhouettes of the guests moving about the room. As when learning a language previously unknown, underling conversation spun and weaved its way into my half conscious state. 

What was once:”What a lovely dress Ada, so… exotic. I believe I saw some ladies on Fifth wearing similar ones last summer,” Now meant that Aunt Carina didn’t approve of my sister’s ankle length dress. “That indomitable man,” was Katarina’s husband, Lily’s Uncle, Mathew’s servant, and to me meant nothing more than an misunderstood fool. Sharp pitches were reserved for the affronted, and the deep for those who felt threatened by the colonels to their left and the great aunts to their right. Every word, every sigh, or grunt meant something more. 

I grew curious and opened a single eye, then with as much care as possible, picturing I had a glass vase poised upon my hip, I turned over. The sight was so unfamiliar and unknown, that I wanted nothing more than to join in the fun. 

Sadly, I should bring the ghost of Innocence and Youth, spoiling any chance of good conversation. There is nothing that can silence a room quite as quickly as a curious child. With weighted eyes I watched my family.

Mama stood at the head of the table, one gloved hand on my father’s chair, the other on the seat of a newly arriven young man of the name Alex. Father looked spoiled and soaked in fat, he glistened in the candle light. I may be of his blood, but in the honest way of a child I saw him as the greedy man he was. Perhaps I found no disobedience in thinking of my father as such because I don’t believe him and I had every truly spoken to one another. He looked at everyone as if they were his, as if every move they made, every decision, could be and would be altered by himself. His mustache was stained in the edges by charcoal. The stable boy had told him that it was better and cheaper for the hair than ink. His vanity and love of millions often drove him to find simple, ineffective solutions, and it was because of this, a looming shadow followed him, keeping his arms and pockets shackled. 

Looking serene and content, Alex watched my father with surfeit attention. His strong jaw jutted out into a little point where what seemed to be a dark thorn, and his eyes glinted a soft henna in the candelabras. He smiled warmly up at mama, his eyes rarely straying from hers. 

He thanked her for such warm hospitality, and a wonderful meal. His uniform was that of a soldier’s.And that was all they saw. To the guest he was nothing more than a model for the important uniform to rest upon. Suddenly one of the shadows gave a little giggle, flushing ever so slightly, she hovered behind mama, her eyes glinting.

Seemingly in conversation with her own cup of coffee, the lady beside Alex was listening to such an exchange between hostess and guest with obvious interest. Her silvery hair and lined eyes made her look wise, however the simple jitteriness of her hands gave her away for nothing more than a bored bourgeois. Her face lit up as one does with gossip, and she turned to the lady to her right. This lady shifted uncomfortably. She was a middle aged woman with faux red hair that seemed to be diminishing by the minute. Her hooked nose and thin face was burdened with large orb-like earrings and a pear necklace. It shook with every word the old woman said. 

So quickly I grew bored of these people. They were no longer my family in that moment, but the subjects of my young curiosity. I had a very potent desire to prod and experiment. However, then the game, and the observation, would be over. 

My exhaustion with the elders, then drew me towards a young couple sitting on the far edge of the table. When one shifted, as did the other. A clink as one picked up a plump piece of grilled potato, then a prink as their companion did the same. It was a wonder they did not speak together, no doubt they thought together. Lucas and Matthew. They had been friends since childhood. Aunt Carina often tells of the joy they used to bring her. She talked of watching them play together in the yard. Lucas would toss the ball into the air, charge Mathew and down they would go. After hours of playing in the harsh weather, they would flee inside to warmth and tea, entertaining Aunt Carina with tales of the games they created. 

I felt a sudden jolt, I began to fall into the darkness. My dress curved around me, and began to fall loudly. As I fell I saw a small light and reaching out I found myself hanging off a thin ledge. I pulled myself up, and as in the case of odd dreams, was met with my last coherent thought. Matthew and Lucas. The dream was an old memory, two years past. I had grown bored of watching my sister fawn over her new dresses, and in search of better entertainment I found myself in a small back drawing room. Peaking in I found Lucas sobbing, his frame was frail and thin, his hair a tousled mess. He was such a thin man, with large hands and thick feet. As he sobbed he shuddered harshly. 

I stayed silent, watching the poor man. Then there was a voice, deep and warm, Please, don’t do this. Then more halting, as if the words were being choked and dragged through grit, We could leave. There are places, I’ve heard of them. No one needs to know.

“I find that the latest out of Moscow is nothing less than-” I was rudely awoken by Helen swirling past in the arms of Gilbert Hanning, a very important diplomat as she liked to remind me. And by the uncomfortable way in which she laughed, she had been forced to take his hand. When the invitation had first arrived she had felt flattered in a terrified sort of way. Terrified in the way that she didn’t want to go, but knew she would be forced. This little invitation had been perfectly orchestrated. She was merely a marionette, who’s pretty face and broad shoulders were paraded from city to city, giving speeches and talking with politicians and the wealthy. Even her meals were decided for her. So why did she think that now she would be able to decide? It wouldn’t be until several days after her departure from our house that I would learn of her freedom less life, I found her diary in the guest room. Next to a box of Cuban Cigars and a picture of a little girl with a greasy braid. 

The tables had been removed and now the guests were dancing. They swirled past in a mirage of blushing pinks, rough cinnabars, and violet hues. They danced and tapped in-between ribbons of smoke, and the unapproving glances of the older generation. With a loud grumble so as to alert them of my arrival, I sat up with a stretch. Mother seemed ready to burst. She stormed over, her dress swishing in the comical motion of exaggerated ripples. Her hips struggling to move with her long legs perched precariously in heels.

Her eyes grew wider as she approached, disappointment an envious color. 

“Where have you been?” Have I been missed? Instead of such a response I looked down to where I had been laying. I had been covered by the curtains, the velveteen fabric had only a slit for my eyes. I blinked several times, my throat hoarse from lack of speech.

“Right here, I thought you were going to come get me?” I smiled innocently, quickly shifting my legs so the wrinkles in my dress wouldn’t show. 

“Just come now, go dance with your cousins,” I looked with repulsion on the circle of glittering girls, their chubby arms interlocked and braided with ribbons and flowers. Surely my mother didn’t think me so young and immature. Behind them was the largest shadow of all, long fingered hands tapping out a waltz upon their shoulders. Yes, spinsterhood it was. 

Mother began to fume, her cheeks blistering and her eyes growing wide. Until Alex materialized from the throng of dancers, and my mother returned to the saccharine hostess. She accepted his offer to dance. And I was left to my alcove once more. I slipped back into the curtains. No one else had seen me. I curled up, fighting the exhaustion that threatened to pull me down.

***

Several moments passed, the violins screeched to a trailing stop, and the singer slipped off the stage and sauntered over to where I lay hidden in the curtains. 

Looking left and right, she brushed backward past the curtains into the small alcove. She leaned against the wall, inches from me. Her black dress looked stiff, her heels sharp. I was studying the young woman, whose bright lipstick and heavy mascara covered her youth, when she gave a startled gasp, her eyes going wide. 

“What are you doing?” She breathed the words in a gush, never taking her eyes from mine. I noticed then, what I had failed to while her eyes were closed. She was crying.

“I am experimenting. What are you doing?” She lightly dabbed at her eyes with a powdered hand.

“Liar,” Her voice was coarser than I expected, her mouth trembling slightly. 

“I am. There is a slit here between the curtains, I’m watching the guests. It's awfully fun.” The girl giggled and gestured towards an open spot upon the seat beside me. I nodded and she sat down, the thrill of a new friend intoxicatingly sweet. While she took another moment to collect herself, her shoulder shaking slightly with every breath, I began to study. 

The girl wasn’t elegant, rather she seemed coarse and tough. Even with the rouge brushed against her cheeks. She looked uncomfortable in her dress and heels, and her hair seemed to be dragging her eyebrows up. Her ears looked slightly red about her earrings, and the tip of her nose was that of a winter hunter.

“And how is it an experiment?” I shrugged, jolted from my thoughts by her question. Perhaps if I was older she too would believe me when I speak of the estate’s shadows. 

“You can join me, I can fill you in real quick if you like,” The girl leaned in with obvious interest, her hands no longer shaking.

“Please, I have actually made several of my own observations. Let's compare,” Her voice was dipped in a barely concealed humor, but she spoke to me like an adult and didn’t laugh at my oddities. Using my hands I began to list everything I had seen and assumed. 

“Matthew and Lucas, yes the two with the dark hair, one lanky, the other solid. Those two I believe… are in love. The hostess and the soldier are becoming quick friends, and that old lady with the coffee is bored but doesn’t want to believe it herself,” The singer nodded and pursed her lips for a moment, there was a slight smudge slightly darker than the rest near the edge of her cheek. A most wonderful imperfection.

“I agree, but the problem with Lucas is that he is to be married to that young French girl. The old woman is bored, but look at her hands. She has had an adventurous life no doubt.” The girl then pulled a pack of cigars from her pocket, offering me one. I refused but not without a little pride at the offer.

“That girl, Helen right?” I nodded and watched as the girl flipped the cigar over her fingers, “She isn’t from here, right? Russian I believe. Her eyes are so sad, but there is such a fire in them!” I gave a little shake of my head and waved my hands about enthusiastically as I had seen Ada do plenty of times before.

“Yes, yes. I want to talk with her!” The girl nodded and with a wink, pulled back the curtain and stepped out. Her heels clicked as she walked over to Helen. She looped their arms together and began dragging her to the alcove.

“Someone wants to meet you,” There was a deep scoff and the curtain pulled back. Helen looked at me with shock and repulsion. I look an awful lot like my mother.

“Hm, yes child?” I was finally going to get some real results. 

***

I woke with a start just as Helen was about to tell me her stories. Groggy, I pulled the curtains back and watched as they left, one by one, taking with them their ghosts. Each had gained something, a low bargaining chip, a story, a tall tale, a love letter. Their shadows skittered between their legs like children in a forest, dodging one another, hiding beneath skirts and petticoats. They left content or unsettled, however they were better off then when they came. Surely, there were new shadows there, and old shadows resting. The guests too seemed buoyed to return to the Russian winter, passions burning aflame once again. 

And me? Well, I got a wonderful nap and a most lovely project.