The Toymaker's Apprentice

by Sherri L. Smith

  It wasn’t until hours later, when nature called, that he woke to find Samir with his telescope out. But this time, instead of having it pointed up at the stars, he was looking out across the landscape.

  Stefan’s heart somersaulted into his throat. “What’s wrong?”

  “Come and see for yourself.” The astrologer waved him over.

  Stefan put his eye to the glass.

  In the meadow below, two armies were locked in battle.

  “Is that . . . ?”

  “The Prussian army,” Samir confirmed.

  Stefan pulled away from the spyglass, tilted by the same sense of vertigo he’d felt beneath the gears of the City Clock. How had he forgotten the world of men was still at war?

  From this distance, they looked like toy soldiers on a felt-top table, laid out in the same geometric formations Stefan and his father used in their mock battles. But this was different.

  A soft snapping sound filled the night. “What was that?” Stefan asked, breathless.

  “Gunfire. They’re using muskets. Rifles. Cannon, too, no doubt. Only those mountains keep the sound from being deafening,” the astrologer said.

  Stefan could just make out the shapes of the Prussian soldiers’ shakos—tall, black felt hats with short visors. He steadied himself and once again pressed the cold brass to his eye. Through the spyglass he could see the gold braid, the brass buttons on their uniforms, twinkling in the moonlight. Stefan had painted countless such rows down the tin jackets of soldiers in his father’s shop.

  “And to the south . . .” He turned the spyglass as he spoke. Strange silhouettes resolved into wide pantaloons and a variety of oddly peaked soft caps.

  “The Turks,” Samir confirmed.

  “The Ottoman Empire?” Stefan could hardly believe it. Such skirmishes had been going on for longer than he’d been alive—the Serbians fought the Turks for independence; the Austro-Hungarian Empire fought for land. The deposed Emperor Napoleon had fought to rule all of Europe and failed.

  The coffeehouses and biergartens of Nuremberg were full of talk. About the war, about the Treaty of Vienna. Local newspapers doggedly followed the latest strife. But it had always been so distant to Stefan, just stories and tin men on the table in the toyshop. Now it was in front of him—screaming horses, shouting men, and the stench of gunpowder in the air. Tiny men fell in puffs of smoke and did not rise again. This was war.

  “Will they come close to us?” Stefan’s voice was small.

  “No. We were wise to keep to the trees.” Samir took back the spyglass. “This is merely a skirmish. With luck, they will be gone by tomorrow, since our path lies on the far side, beyond those hills.”

  It was one thing to read about battlefields, quite another to walk through one like a carrion crow sifting through the dead.

  Samir grimaced. “Perhaps you should not have seen this. One is never old enough to see war.” He placed the glass back in its case. “The stars will tell me nothing more tonight. We should both get some rest.”

  Reluctantly, Stefan agreed. He did not think he would be able to sleep, but his lids grew heavy swiftly and he did.

  • • •

  IN THE MORNING, the armies were gone, but their dead remained.

  “Will they come back for them?” Stefan asked.

  “Yes, with wagons,” Samir replied. They picked their way along the edge of the battleground. “We must make it into the foothills before then.”

  The mechanical horses moved steadily along the edge of the battleground, weaving a path through the fallen soldiers and abandoned guns. High in his saddle, Stefan stared at the carnage on the field. To his left, a boy not much older than him lay faceup beside his bayonet, the red uniform like a second terrible wound on his pale, cold skin.

  “Father never gives them wounds,” Stefan said, wiping his eyes. Tin soldiers might break, but they never died.

  “We’d best be gone before either side returns,” Samir suggested. They kicked in their heels and did not look back.

  “HERR DROSSELMEYER?” said a tremulous voice.

  Zacharias sat up with a start. He reached for his carving knife to defend himself, and strained his ears.

  The ridiculous toy he’d been creating sat abandoned in the middle of his cell. Work was no longer a solace. His captors had made no attempt to engage him, and they had told him nothing of Stefan. He’d laid down his tools in protest, but defiance had turned to despair. Now his voice was hoarse and rusty with disuse.

  “Who’s there?” he croaked.

  “Don’t be afraid,” the small voice said in perfect German. It was a child’s, perhaps, for it was soft and high, and came from somewhere mid-height along the far wall.

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” Zacharias asked. “I am kept here against my will with no knowledge of my son. I am very much afraid.”

  “Then, don’t be afraid of me,” the voice said.

  “Who are you? Show yourself.”

  “I cannot. But you may call me Arthur.”

  Zacharias closed his eyes. It was so good to hear a human voice. He’d half feared he’d gone deaf, so profound had been the silence of his cell.

  “Hello, Arthur. How do you know my name?”

  “That doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “It does to me,” Zacharias said. He had to keep the boy talking. Maybe he could persuade him to open the door. Suddenly, a horrible thought struck him. “Are you a prisoner here, too?”

  The voice hesitated. “Of a sort.”

  “You live here, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see,” Zacharias said softly. “Not a very nice place for a child to grow up.”

  “What do you know?” the voice spat. Zacharias recoiled. It sounded like the same voice, but not the same tone. Had the boy brought a friend?

  “I’m sorry, I meant no offense,” Zacharias said quickly. “Only, I’ve seen nothing more than this cell.”

  There was scuffling and then a long silence.

  “Arthur? Are you still there?” Another long silence.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s nice to talk to someone. It’s one of the things I miss down here. Work—even work you love—is not enough to keep a person alive,” he said sadly. But there was also something sad about an unfinished toy, even in these circumstances. Like the boy on the other side of this prison wall, a life not given the chance to truly live.

  “What are you working on?” Arthur asked.

  “I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. A toy soldier, but he’s much too large for any child’s play.” He pulled himself to his feet, his joints popping as he stretched his limbs; it was the most he’d moved in days.

  “I suspect it’s by royal request.” In the silence of his cell, Zacharias had thought a great deal about his captivity. The long trip and the dungeon had at last convinced him. He must be in Boldavia. The king had kidnapped and imprisoned him, perhaps to punish Christian.

  “Why?” Arthur asked.

  Zacharias shrugged. “I only half understand the circumstances. But normal houses do not have dungeons, Arthur. Who else would live in a castle, but a king?”

  “A queen,” Arthur said, but his voice was bigger somehow, as if more than one person had spoken. Zacharias put a finger in his ear and jiggled it. The cold must be getting to him, or the sound was affected by the thickness of the stones.

  “Why didn’t you finish?” Arthur demanded. Or, perhaps this was no longer Arthur. Zacharias felt his forehead. Did he have a fever? His hands were too cold to tell.

  “Because toys should be made out of joy, or there will be no joy in playing with them. I am too sad.”

  “Why are you sad?”

  Zacharias sat at the desk again. The blueprints looked back at him accusingly, unfulfilled. “Because I have a son, Arthur, a little older t
han you, by the sound of it. I don’t know where he is, and he doesn’t know where I am. My wife . . . his mother, she passed away recently. A boy shouldn’t have to face that alone.” He fell silent, sinking again into despair. He’d left his son all alone. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I don’t feel like talking much anymore. Perhaps you will come again?”

  There was some whispering. The boy was definitely not alone.

  “Arthur, who’s with you? Don’t get yourself in trouble by talking to me.”

  “I won’t,” the boy said. “But . . . Herr Drosselmeyer?”

  Zacharias’s head was beginning to hurt, and the straw bed was calling to him, telling him to lie down and never get up again. “Yes?” he managed to say.

  “I like toys,” Arthur whispered. “I’d very much like to see what you’ve made.”

  The construct was little more than a framework now, the bones of a person, weighted pulleys at the joints, cables running down the spine. It would take a clever puppeteer to manipulate it, but one day the soldier would walk and even hold a sword.

  “I confess I’m curious to see it myself,” Zacharias admitted at last. His sorrow receded just a little. Just enough.

  “Will you finish it?” Arthur asked. “Please?”

  Maybe because the boy reminded him of Stefan, or maybe it was simply that a child was asking, but Zacharias nodded. “Will you come back to visit me? If it is safe?”

  Only a slight hesitation, then, “Yes.”

  Zacharias smiled, lifted on a strange wave of relief.

  “Then I will build it,” he agreed.

  “Thank you,” Arthur whispered.

  In the silence that followed, Zacharias knew he was gone. He rose and pressed his ear against the wall, searching it with both candlelight and fingers for the crevice that allowed the boy to speak to him. He found nothing. Both heartened and disturbed, he returned to his desk. Picking up his carving knife, he went back to work.

  STEFAN FOLLOWED SAMIR across a wide, flat grassland, like a tundra in summertime, but the rain was coming down, hard, wet, and cold. As far as he could tell, they were lost. They had passed no towns or villages for almost a fortnight.

  By evening, the rain had lightened into a mist. There was no wood to make a fire, but Stefan doubted it would have stayed lit anyway. Samir helped him drape waxed canvas over the horses—standing still in the rain caused more damage to the clockworks than when they were in motion.

  Stefan patted his pockets. He could feel the casket containing the nut, his notebook, parts of a new wooden dove, and Clara’s handkerchief deep inside. They were all he had left in the world. He crawled under the belly of his mechanical horse. The canvas formed a tent that made things almost comfortable. At least he was out of the weather. He quickly fell asleep.

  • • •

  HE WAS HOME AGAIN, in his own soft bed in the loft above the shop on Kleinestrasse. Shadows played in the eaves above his head. He could hear them. Breathing.

  Stefan threw back the covers. The shadows lunged. He screamed. Darkness reached out and grabbed him, tugging at his sleeve.

  Stefan tugged back. There it was again—tug, tug. Annoyed, he yanked his arm across his chest and rolled over.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” someone said.

  Stefan sat up so fast, he hit his head on the bottom of his horse. Something was standing next to him. Mice!

  Stefan shrieked and scooted out of his makeshift tent, backpedaling with the heels of his boots and hands.

  The sun had not yet risen, but there was light enough to see by.

  “What’s happened?” Samir crawled out from under his own horse-tent, turban half wrapped, eyes wide.

  “Mouse! Mouse!” Stefan pointed wildly at his horse. It had been tugging at his sleeve! He patted his arm, but he was unbitten. What if it had gone through his pockets?

  The canvas brushed aside and a small reddish squirrel with giant tufted ears emerged from beneath the horse. Stefan froze, his heart thudding madly.

  The squirrel looked at him, then Samir. It raised its delicate black nose to sniff the air, then turned toward Stefan. And charged.

  Stefan screamed, an embarrassingly high-pitched squeal as he fell backward, struggling to get away from the attacking ball of fur.

  “He’s looking for the nut!” Samir cried.

  Stefan batted at the squirrel on his chest, terrified of those long, sharp teeth. Equally afraid the little beast would burrow into his pockets and find the krakatook.

  “Stop!” Samir thundered. He stood up and barked three sharp, high yelps.

  He’s been bitten, Stefan thought. Samir had gone rabid.

  But the squirrel stopped. It chittered at Samir. Samir chittered back, no longer yelling.

  The squirrel looked at Stefan, who hesitated unsteadily on his palms and heels like an awkward crab. Abashedly, the squirrel straightened Stefan’s collar before climbing off him.

  Samir let out an explosive sigh.

  “Stefan. This is—” he made a snicking sound around the side of his tongue. “He apologizes for the attack. It appears the scent of the krakatook drew him here.”

  “That’s impossible,” Stefan said. “It’s sealed in its box.” He patted his pockets and pulled out the silver casket. The latch had slipped, probably from sleeping on top of it. The krakatook had rolled out of the case and into his rain-damp pocket.

  “Oh, no.”

  The squirrel’s eyes bulged at the sight of the nut.

  “Stefan, put it away!” Samir thundered.

  Stefan shoved the nut back into its case. The squirrel quivered, but relaxed.

  Stefan eyed him dubiously. “You speak his language?”

  “I’ve been a guest of the squirrels more than once over the years. I’m hardly fluent, though. It’s a branch of High Rodentia,” he explained. “The way French and Italian share Latin roots. Come.” He helped Stefan to his feet. “He will escort us the rest of the way.”

  Stefan began to dust himself off, only to realize that the dust had turned to mud in the rain. “Maybe I was wrong about the squirrels, Samir. How can we trust him? Did you see those teeth!”

  “I did,” Samir said. “And I tried to warn you this might not be a good idea. But I’ve invoked the name of the Pater. We have safe passage for the time being. Let’s not try our luck.”

  Stefan went through the saddlebags until he found the stick of sealing wax Christian used to seal his letters. Striking a flint to a fairly dry piece of tinder, he was finally able to melt the end of the wax stick and use it to seal the nut’s casket shut. He hoped it would be enough to keep other rodents away.

  They broke their meager camp and mounted the horses. The squirrel opted to stay on foot. He disappeared over the grassland, rising up every once in a while to look back and wait for them to catch up.

  “We’re not far now,” Samir said confidently. “Just remember what Christian told you. ‘Keep your eyes opened and your mouth closed.’ As you’ve seen, our hosts will be rather skittish. We must be respectful.”

  They rode the rest of the way in silence. Stefan struggled to remember the argument he had constructed, the clever way he would induce the squirrels to help them. But all he could see were those sharp yellow teeth and bright black eyes. As if the dreams he’d been having weren’t bad enough.

  The gray day turned into a dim evening. At last, their guide mounted the top of a rise, chittered in an authoritative way, and scampered off over the hill.

  A small forest rose above the plain. The squirrel led them into the woods, which grew deeper and taller with each passing moment.

  When they finally stopped, they were confronted with a ring of trees. Stefan glimpsed a clearing up ahead. The squirrel scampered up to Samir’s horse, chittering rapidly.

  “We’ll leave the horses here,” the astrologer announced. He unrolled the wax
ed canvas again, and covered the steed from the worst of the rain.

  Bewildered, Stefan dismounted and draped his horse, too.

  Following the squirrel into the clearing, it felt like they were entering a town, or a small city. But it was neither.

  “The Pagoda Tree,” Samir said with satisfaction.

  It was a giant tree, shaped by the wind into a towering Asiatic palace, as if an entire city had grown upward instead of out. Little lights shone in the hollows of the tree, and every gnarled branch was planed smooth by a wide avenue of activity, sheltered by broad leaves, and teeming with life. With squirrels.

  “The Pater is waiting,” Samir said.

  Ignoring the astrologer’s advice, Stefan entered the squirrel city with both his eyes and his mouth wide open. He resisted the urge to feel for the silver box inside his coat. The wax seal seemed to have helped. At least no other squirrels had attacked him. Yet.

  Stefan was surprised to find that he didn’t need to bend down to pass through the main door, which was nearly twice his height, and cleverly concealed within the rough bark of the tree. The passageway inside was almost as high.

  “They have a variety of guests here,” Samir explained. “This tree was once merely an outpost for trade with the squirrels of Asia. But, as you can see, it has grown into a renowned center of knowledge for scholars worldwide.”

  Stefan doubted anyone at the University of Nuremberg knew about this place. He turned the corner, and was met with a wall of tapestries—four woven portraits of the Pagoda Tree hung from branches grafted high along the inner walls.

  “The four seasons,” Samir explained. “A gift from the King of Dates.”

  Stefan balked. “He’s a talking fruit?”

  “Not at all,” Samir laughed. “He is as human as you or me. His kingdom is in Persia, between the Tigris and Euphrates.”

  “Ah, I see,” Stefan said, hiding his embarrassment. There was so much he didn’t know about the world. When this was all over, he would buy himself a map.

  They followed the curved wall, Stefan craning his neck to admire each panel. The summer weaving was a fury of greens against a bright blue sky, the tree in full leaf, like a colorful cloud. The autumn hanging shone beside it, the tree deep green against a forest of copper and gold. The winter tapestry was done in silver, brown, and white, as snow gilded every leaf and branch.