The Puppet Master

by Charlie Small

  The old woman finished at the stove and dished up the best meal I’d had since leaving home: thick slices of bacon, a rich yellow egg, baked beans and a mountain of crispy chips. I tucked in, but ate in silence as she continued with her story.

  ‘The town mourned the loss of the boy in what was seen as a tragic accident, but gradually, over time, life started to return to normal. It wasn’t until one year later, when the Puppet Master reappeared in his brightly-coloured caravan, that everyone realized what had really happened.

  ‘At the show that night, the puppets swirled and twisted and danced to the music from an old steam-driven organ on the back of the puppeteer’s van. We were completely caught up in the magic of the show, and laughed and cheered for the first time since the boy’s disappearance; but when the Puppet Master reached behind him and brought another puppet into the routine, the whole crowd gasped in astonishment. For it was obvious to all of us, despite his fixed expression and stiff little limbs, that the puppet was the very boy who had gone missing. Somehow, by magic or science, or just plain wickedness, the Puppet Master had turned that child into a dumb, staring and helpless puppet.’

  Here the old woman took a grubby handkerchief from her pocket, lifted her glasses and dabbed at her watery eyes. Then, taking a deep breath, she continued.

  ‘The crowd roared in anger, bringing the show to a stop, and we demanded the return of the lost child. The Puppet Master simply folded his arms and stared at us from under his bushy brow until, gradually, the noise died to a terrible silence. Yes indeed, such a terrible silence! Finally he spoke, with a voice so warm and syrupy that we became hypnotized.

  ‘ “Oh dear me,” he said. “How terribly ungrateful you are! After I have entertained you with skills that you could never have imagined, you accuse me of stealing one worthless boy. Well, I didn’t steal him. He ran after me, begging to join my unique travelling extravaganza. How could I say no? All little boys want to run away and join the circus and all I have done is to make his wish come true. Now you’re asking me to break his little wooden heart and turn him away?

  ‘ “No, the boy stays with me, and the price for tonight’s show is another child and the next time I return, you will give me another. How else shall I get my magical marionettes without the generous donations from such friendly villages as yours? How else can I continue to delight my audiences across the land?”

  ‘With that, the Puppet Master leaped onto the front of his caravan and flicked the reins, sending his horse clattering out of the square. “See you next time,” he called with an evil cackle.

  ‘We were all still sitting around in a trance, but gradually we regained our senses. We vowed that the Puppet Master would never take another of our children, and that night we locked all our doors and windows and the menfolk patrolled the square. Nobody saw a thing, but when the sun rose the next morning, another child had gone, taken as if by magic. Many more children have disappeared since, and if we were to try and stand up to him, we’d never see them again. A year ago he took my precious granddaughter. She’s all I have in the world, but now the only chance I get to see her is when the Puppet Master comes here.’

  The poor old woman burst into tears and I put my arm around her skinny shoulders. ‘It’s a dreadful story,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what to say. Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Just keep your promise and leave the village before sunrise tomorrow,’ she wept. ‘Get out before the Puppet Master comes!’

  The old woman, who insisted I call her Granny Green, showed me to a guest room, leaving a mug of cocoa and a plate of biscuits on the bedside table. As I crawled into the first proper bed I had seen since leaving home, Granny Green wished me goodnight.

  She pulled a slab of toffee, with a little toffee hammer, from her apron pocket. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had much in the way of sweets recently,’ she smiled. ‘This used to be my granddaughter’s favourite,’ and she tucked it under my pillow. I thanked her, and then, although I was feeling exhausted, I dragged the journal out of my rucksack. I wanted to write down my adventures while they were still fresh in my memory.

  It’s been an action-packed few days, that’s for sure. And what about the dreadful story that the old woman has just told me. Is it true? The Puppet Master sounds like something out of a horror story; but I know, real or not, I am not going to risk bumping into him. I’ll grab a few hours’ sleep, then leave this sad and troubled place far behind me. I have got some travelling to do and can’t wait to get started on my journey again.

  Goodnight. I will write more as soon as I can.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  There was a break in Charlie’s journal at this point. He left a number of blank pages, all of which were very stained, torn and dusty. From the comments scrawled across these pages it was clear that Charlie was scared. VERY SCARED! When you read the next part of his journal, you will understand why …

  It has been some time since I last had the chance to write up my journal and I would really rather not relive my latest adventure. It is probably the darkest and scariest part of my travels so far; but this is supposed to be a record of all my escapades, so I will grit my teeth and continue …

  After I’d finished writing up my latest adventures, I lay back on the comfortable pillow in Granny Green’s guest room. I pulled the duvet up under my chin and yawned. I was so tired and my head began to swim with thoughts of home. I imagined Mum and Dad busy downstairs, as I pretended to lie in my very own bed in my very own bedroom.

  Suddenly I felt a long, long way from home, and even though I knew how the conversation would go, I wanted to hear my mum’s voice again. Fighting sleep, I fished around in my rucksack for my mobile phone and charger. I span the charger’s handle, dialled my home number, put the phone to my ear and promptly fell fast asleep …

  Dreams of home swirled through my head, mixed up with images of gorillas and pirates and my old enemy, Joseph Craik. Then I could hear my mum calling, ‘Char-lie! Wake up, Charlie.’

  ‘Just a few more minutes, Mum,’ I mumbled. Surely it wasn’t school time already! I was so tired I felt I could sleep for a week, but Mum’s voice continued.

  ‘Come on, Charlie, it’s time to get up. Char-lie!’ My eyes popped open, expecting to see Mum standing with her arms folded at the foot of my bed, but instead I saw a strange room flooded with moonlight.

  Where am I? I wondered. I sat up, my mobile falling onto the pillow, and looked around the unfamiliar room. Then I remembered: I was in the guest room of the old lady’s shop. I felt under the pillow and found the slab of toffee she had given me.

  I must have dreamed I could hear my mum calling me. But all of a sudden, I heard the familiar voice again!

  ‘Char-lie! Come on, Charlie, get up.’

  I looked around in a panic, but there was nobody there. Where was it coming from?

  My mobile – the voice was coming from my mobile! I scrabbled around in my bed, picked it up and put it to my ear.

  ‘Mum?’ I said frantically. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Come on, Charlie, it’s time to get up,’ said her voice. I found myself getting dressed in my old clothes, stuffing the toffee and little hammer into my pocket and creeping quietly over to the bedroom door.

  Mum’s voice no longer seemed to come from my phone, but from somewhere outside.

  I lifted the latch and crept downstairs. Making sure the little shop bell didn’t ring, I opened the front door and stepped out into the now deserted market place.

  In a dreamlike state, I followed the sound across the square and down a dark, dank alley.

  I walked between rows of sleeping houses and right out of the town. Over hills and across valleys, I followed Mum’s voice as it called me on. Then, as I crossed the brow of another hill, her voice was joined by the sound of the most delicate music.

  It sounded like the tootling of panpipes, and as I walked on, the music became louder, an orchestra of flutes filling the air. I turned a bend in the road a
nd found myself looking down at a forest of strange and decayed beauty. I learned later that it was the Petrified Forest Trapper Blane had marked on his map, a forest of dead and fossilized trees.

  As I walked through the forest, I heard the music coming from the trees themselves. Their trunks had become hollow and, as the wind passed through the holes, they acted like huge organ pipes, each tree producing a different note.

  Now, as the air around me gently shifted, a chorus of notes filled the air, like the cries of singing whales. Woven into the wonderful, airborne melody was the voice … Mum’s voice. Although it didn’t sound quite so much like my mum’s voice any more.

  I walked between two great gnarled tree trunks and stepped out into a clearing, where I saw a dark shape, silhouetted against the light of a campfire. A cloaked figure sat with its back to me, hunched over the embers of a fire. Was it really my mother? I crept forward.

  ‘Mum?’ I whispered.

  ‘Charlie,’ said the figure, turning around. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

  I stepped back. Oh, I wished I had stayed in bed at the shop! I wished I’d stayed at home. I wished I were a million miles from that clearing in the rotted forest, for, as the sky turned opal white and a new day dawned, I could see a man’s face; his grey skin and large hooked nose, his fat dry lips and empty black eyes. Behind him I saw the legend painted on the side of his caravan:

  No! I turned to run, but somehow my feet seemed rooted to the ground.

  ‘Don’t go, Charlie,’ smiled the Puppet Master. ‘I have something for you.’ He dipped a mug into the pot that was bubbling over the glowing embers of the fire, filling it with a liquid that steamed in the cold morning air.

  The smell was intoxicating. It floated in the air, a visible blue mist that wrapped itself around my head, filling my nostrils. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help myself. I grabbed the mug from his hand and drank the warm, syrupy liquid.

  The sweet taste flooded through my body, making my fingers tingle and the breath judder in my chest. The tingling in my fingers increased to a dull throb, making them feel swollen and numb. I looked at my hands and gasped in fear. Tiny crystals were forming on my fingers, multiplying and joining together to form a new outer skin.

  The tingling sensations travelled up my arms and across my chest, the new skin forming like a crust as the feeling spread across my body. As the warmth of the liquid cooled in my tummy and the tingling subsided, I could feel the new skin start to harden. Now my face started to grow a second, solid skin. I tried to call out, but my jaw was set as hard as stone. I couldn’t believe it! After all the old woman’s warnings I was becoming another of the Puppet Master’s marionettes. I don’t know exactly what had happened, or how it worked. To this day I have no idea what the shell that formed around me was made of. Perhaps it was some sort of plastic, or maybe a very strong ceramic. Whatever it was, it felt as if I had been coated in concrete, or squeezed into a tight-fitting shell, exactly the same shape as my body … and I was no longer able to move!

  The Puppet Master watched, stony-faced, as I solidified into one of his puppets. Then, as he stood up and stretched, I saw how very tall he was; at least three metres high, and as thin as a whip. He looked like a circus performer on stilts, or an overgrown insect tottering awkwardly on long, spidery legs, waving his thin, willowy arms in the air to keep his balance. He towered over me, and every time he moved, his joints crackled like dry leaves.

  He picked me up by the scruff of the neck and took me inside his caravan. My eyes opened wide in surprise as I was carried into the crowded interior, for hundreds of other puppets were hanging in long rows from hooks on the ceiling. Like me, they couldn’t utter a word and the room was deathly silent. They revolved slowly on the ends of their strings, swinging slightly as the Puppet Master’s weight shifted across the caravan. Hundreds of eyes followed us as the Puppet Master carried me over to a small bench in the corner. Here he sorted through lengths of fine string and wooden blocks and, for the first time, I could study his face properly. It is a face I will never forget as long as I live.

  The whites of his eyes were a dirty yellow, the irises a dull jet-black, and they stared out from under a heavy, beetling brow. The Puppet Master’s hooked nose, as craggy as a shard of granite, curved down towards a pointed beard that thrust forward from his chin. But the most disturbing thing about him was that I couldn’t hear him breathe, even when he held me close to his face and looked into my eyes. He ran a dry purple tongue along his grey lips in concentration as he tied one end of the twine to my hands and feet, and the other to a cross of wood that he had fashioned from the scraps on the table.

  ‘Welcome to our happy little family, Charlie,’ he said in his smooth, silky voice. ‘Now I can make you dance and sing to any tune I play … and the tune I choose to play the most is fast and loose; fast and loose with other people’s money. Hee hee!’

  I had no idea what this tall, spidery man was on about, and I stared out angrily at him from behind my shell skin.

  ‘Oh, we have a little rebel, do we?’ he smiled, shaking me roughly so my limbs clattered against each other. ‘Don’t worry, Charlie; you will see what I mean soon enough – and you’d better prove to be a profitable puppet. Otherwise, you will end up as just another abandoned toy by the roadside!’ Chuckling, he hung me from a spare hook on the ceiling.

  Here I swayed, trapped, as the Puppet Master emptied my rucksack onto the workbench and sorted through my explorer stuff.

  ‘What a load of old rubbish!’ he exclaimed, finding nothing that interested him. Shoving everything back into the rucksack, he threw it onto a high shelf.

  Then the Puppet Master climbed through to the driver’s seat, flicked the reins of his horse and we bumped across the clearing along a track leading back through the Petrified Forest and off towards the village.

  I flexed my muscles, pushing with all my might against the hard shell that had formed around me, but it was no good. I couldn’t move a finger. I looked over at the other puppets swinging from the beams, and their scared wide eyes stared back at me.

  How on earth was I going to get out of this one?

  When the caravan pulled into the same market square I had left only hours before, I could hear the hubbub of nervous voices from the crowd that had already gathered. The Puppet Master threw open the tailgates of his caravan and, like a gigantic pop-up book, a stage unfolded with curtains and placards already in place. He flicked a switch and a wonderful, miniature steam-organ hissed into life, sending music swirling into the air.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announced the Puppet Master. ‘For your delight and amazement, the performance you are about to witness takes the entertainment of puppetry to an art of the highest level, using techniques learned on my travels to the mysterious lands of the east, and with puppets acquired from all corners of the known world.’

  ‘Children, you mean. Not puppets!’ a brave person shouted from the rear of the crowd, but the Puppet Master ignored the interruption.

  ‘You will see my puppets dance,’ he cried dramatically. ‘You will hear them sing. You will see my puppets perform the most amazing feats of magic imaginable!’

  With that, there was an explosion of purple smoke, a drum roll sounded and the Puppet Master gathered an armful of puppets, swinging them out onto the stage, already dancing and leaping. They turned and twisted, pirouetted and pranced, child-sized puppets moving as lightly as feathers. In firecracker puffs of smoke, puppets disappeared to be instantly replaced by others, and the show was so good and the spectacle so great that even the crowd of childless villagers forgot themselves and clapped.

  Now it was my turn, and I was whisked from my hook and onto the stage. In a blur of lights and faces, my arms and legs were sent into kicks, postures and steps as the Master twitched and pulled and flicked the strings fixed to them. I’d never moved so fast, even when I was escaping from the mandrills near Gorilla City! Pretty soon my head was spinning and I began to feel naus
eous.

  Then, just as quickly, I was hanging from my hook again. I heaved a sigh of relief; it’s a horrible feeling, whizzing around so fast that the whole world is a blur but at the same time not being able to move a muscle by yourself.

  Thank goodness that’s over, I sighed; but no sooner had the thought entered my head than I was off again, sweeping through the air in a majestic leap and back onto the stage!

  As the routine went on, the Puppet Master swapped and changed the dancing dolls with the slightest of movements, building to a fantastic finale where he was working a score of puppets at the same time. We careered around the stage, all performing individual kicks and whirls, weaving in and around each other.

  It must have been a breathtaking sight, and it’s weird, I know, but as we were sent out to take our bows, I felt quite pleased with myself. Not bad for a first show, I stupidly thought, forgetting in the excitement that I’d had nothing to do with it and was just a performing prisoner of the Puppet Master.

  As I took my bows, I scanned the audience, expecting to see delight and awe on their faces, but of course I didn’t. The whole of the village was clapping as ordered, but staring earnestly as they tried to catch a glimpse of their long-lost children. Now and again a member of the audience would gasp, or call out a name if they recognized anyone.

  Then I spotted Granny Green sitting in the audience with a look of horror on her face, and I remembered my desperate situation. When the old lady saw me, tears sprang to her eyes and she pulled herself up from her chair.