by Hana Tooke
Silence fell, dust motes danced, and the frost-covered marionette sparkled.
“What if Bram Poppenmaker was here?” Egg said suddenly. He had climbed onto the stage and was circling the puppet.
“But he isn’t,” Lotta said.
Egg grinned. “But what if he was?”
“Egbert!” Lotta looked up at the hole-riddled ceiling in frustration. “You’re making less sense than a square cheese.”
“What are you thinking, Egg?” Milou asked, recognizing the glint in his eye. It was the same look he got whenever he thought up a new project or painting.
Egg reached up and tugged on the puppet’s string, making her wave. “We could make a father.”
They all frowned up at him.
“A puppet father.” Egg’s smile turned wistful. “Do you remember that time I painted a gaping wound on Milou’s forehead, and Lotta nearly fainted when she saw it?”
Lotta huffed. “It looked real.”
“That’s my point,” Egg said. “We could create a convincing illusion.”
“Like when the matron—” Sem started, then stopped.
Silence fell as they all thought back to the awful events of the previous day. Gassbeek had been so convinced by a mere shadow she’d been frightened to death.
“We trick people into thinking Bram has returned?” Milou said. “And that way, the neighbors will leave us be?”
“What about Rotman?” Sem asked. “Suppose he comes looking for us? He’s lost his workforce, and we hurt his foot—he didn’t seem pleased about that.”
“Rotman needs doctored paperwork to get us past the dock officials,” Lotta said. “With Gassbeek gone, he doesn’t have that option. And he wouldn’t risk exposing their deal. No, I think our biggest concern is the Kinderbureau. If they ever found out what we’ve done—”
“There’s no reason for them to doubt the paperwork,” Milou said. “As long as our neighbors don’t suspect anything, the Kinderbureau will have no reason to come here—they’ll be far too busy dealing with replacing Gassbeek, anyway. All we need to do is convince people on the polder that Bram’s come home, and that he’s taken us all in.”
Lotta’s mouth opened as if to protest, then snapped closed again.
“That might actually work,” she said finally. “We could make sure he is just visible through the windows, as long as we don’t let anyone get too close a look. If anyone does comes around, we’ll have to make sure they don’t step foot inside the mill.”
“If nothing else,” Milou said, “it will buy me more time to find my parents. Once they’re back here for real, we’ll be safe.”
“And it gives us time to work out another plan if we do need to leave,” Egg added.
“We need money for food,” Sem said gravely. “There’s no food here and Fenna only managed to grab a stale loaf of bread, a few potatoes, and a carrot before we fled. It’s all very well having shelter, but that won’t stop us from starving to death.”
“We could sell some stuff?” Egg suggested. “The silverware, maybe?”
“No!” said Milou. “We can’t sell anything that doesn’t belong to us.”
“We could make something to sell at the market,” Sem offered. “Some puppets, perhaps?”
“There’s two problems with that,” Lotta mused. “First, selling Poppenmaker puppets will draw too much attention to us. Second, the markets are in the city. If we go into Amsterdam, we risk being recognized by any adopted orphan that still lives there, or anyone else who knows us from the Little Tulip—the deliverymen, for example.”
“If we dress smartly and make sure our faces are partially covered by scarves, no one will recognize us.” Sem smiled. “You can leave the disguises to me. I could make dolls to sell, instead of puppets. We have all the materials for that, and we can always restock Meneer Poppenmaker’s supplies as soon as we can afford to.”
“So, we won’t leave?” Milou asked. “I’ll find my parents, and we’ll sell dolls to make money in the meantime. Everyone agreed? Fen?”
Fenna nodded a yes.
“That’s set then,” Milou said, a thrill blooming inside her still-aching heart. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go build ourselves a father.”
* * *
They sneaked back into the windmill, ducking briefly beneath the large oak tree to avoid being seen by a passing cyclist, and then filled their empty bellies with the last of the stale bread Fenna had taken from the Little Tulip’s kitchen.
“Is this the only picture you could find?” Egg asked dubiously, holding Liesel’s portrait of Bram.
Milou nodded. “Yes, that’s all we have. Sem, you can use some of my father’s long johns for the body. Egg, use whichever paints you need. I’ll find him an outfit to wear.”
“Fen and I will clean,” Lotta said. “We can’t live in all this dust. And I’m going to start a fire; I’m fed up with not being able to feel my toes.”
By the time dusk settled, flames were popping and crackling in the fireplace, casting an amber glow around the kitchen, and the children’s puppet-father ruse was almost complete.
Lotta hummed happily as she placed another log on the fire and held her hands up toward the heat. “Holy Gouda, that feels good,” she said with a sigh, wriggling all twelve fingers. “Perhaps we could heat enough water for some baths tomorrow.”
Milou’s skin tingled with both warmth and delight as she stood back to examine Sem and Egg’s handiwork.
“I think you got the potato-shaped face just right, Sem,” Milou said. “And Egg, the eyes you painted are perfectly mismatched.”
The puppet father was as tall as Sem, with limbs made of long johns filled with stuffing. Using Bram’s sewing machine, Sem had stitched the head from a plain piece of cotton, and Egg had painted his features. The puppet was wearing brown wool trousers, a green button-down shirt, a woolen hat, and a black jacket made of Amsterdam velvet.
“It’ll do nicely,” said Milou. “If you squint, he looks real.”
Lotta came to stand next to her, and Milou noticed her friend’s eyes had gone slightly watery.
“He looks splendid,” Lotta said, taking the puppet’s hand in her own and placing a kiss on it. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Papa.”
Sem lifted Puppet Papa from a hook on the wall and sat him in a chair by the kitchen table. Milou climbed onto the table and grabbed the two wooden crosses from which twelve strings were connected to Puppet Papa’s limbs. She flicked one of the crosses upward, and Puppet Papa’s arm lifted. With a couple of gentle maneuvers, the puppet was picking his nose.
Sem rolled his eyes as Lotta laughed.
“Can you make him walk?” Egg asked.
Milou held her arms wider, in a proper puppet-master pose, and began to jiggle the crosses. After a few moments of Puppet Papa looking like he was frantically trying to shake a spider from his person, Milou had him moving in a stationary walking position.
“Bravo!” Egg giggled.
Milou smiled. “Watch this.”
She jiggled the crosses some more, until Puppet Papa was doing something that resembled a dance, arms waving above his head and legs hopping from one foot to the other.
“Where’s Fenna?” Egg asked. “She’s been upstairs for ages now—she needs to see this!”
As if in answer, something clomp-clomp-clomped down the stairs and into the kitchen. Fenna, feet decked in wooden clogs and arms cradling a bundle of cloak, was staring, open mouthed, in the doorway. Milou turned Puppet Papa to face her and lifted his head.
“Hallo, Fenna,” Milou said, in her deepest voice. She moved the strings so that Puppet Papa made a small bow. “I am your papa.”
Fenna smiled, bright and rapturous. The bundle in her arms wriggled and emitted a loud screeeeeeeeech!
“What was that?” Lotta asked.
Scr
eeeeeeeeeech!
HooOOooOOoo!
Fenna opened a thin gap in the cloak bundle. A heart-shaped face appeared, the color of parchment, and two huge dark eyes blinked up at them.
“Where on earth did you find an owl, Fen?” Milou asked, climbing down from the table to get a better look. Fenna pointed up, and Milou remembered the scratching noise they’d heard in the windmill’s dome. “Not a pigeon then. Did you pull it out of the roof?”
Fenna shook her head, then made a few gestures.
“He fell?”
Fenna nodded sadly, rocking the owl gently in her arms.
Screeeeeeeeeech!
HooOOooOOoo!
Lotta stepped forward and peered beneath the cloak. “He’s no bigger than a fledgling,” she said. “He must have been born very late in the year. And his left wing looks malformed. I bet he was abandoned. Poor thing looks half-starved and completely spooked.”
“He’s an orphan?” Egg asked quietly. “Like us?”
“Well, little owl,” Milou said, stroking the soft feathers on its head, “I suppose we can make room for one more orphan in this windmill.”
Fenna’s smile lit up the room, and Milou’s heart gave a little stutter at the sight of it.
“He’ll need a name, in that case,” Lotta said. “How about Bartje?”
Fenna’s nose crinkled, and the owl snapped its beak.
“Wouter?” Egg said.
Fenna shook her head, and the owl screeched.
“Screechy?” Milou suggested.
Fenna rolled her eyes.
“No,” Sem said, looking thoughtful. “He needs a name that suits him—”
SCREECH!
All of them, except Fenna, plugged their ears with their fingers.
“How about we call him Noisy then?” Egg said.
SCREEEECH!
Sem broke out in a big, lopsided smile. “Do you remember when Gassbeek thought she might be able to get rid of us more easily if we learned to play a musical instrument?”
SCREEEEEECH!
Sem’s grin widened, as the others nodded. “He sounds just like that noise Milou made on the violin.”
“That wasn’t noise,” Milou huffed. “It was Mozart.”
SCREEEEEEEEEECH!
“Well, how about we call him Mozart?” Sem asked Fenna, eyes twinkling as he gazed down at the bird.
The owl turned its head 180 degrees to look at him, then gave a little musical chirp. A giggle burst from Fenna’s lips, a raspy trill that seemed to fill the room.
They all stared at Fenna, who clapped a hand over her mouth, her cheeks turning a shade of red to match her hair. A lump caught instantly in Milou’s throat.
“Mozart needs a nest,” Lotta said finally. “Why don’t we build one above the wardrobe?”
Fenna tucked the bird gently to her chest and nuzzled it. Then she lifted her head and nodded, smiling brightly.
The lump in Milou’s throat hardened as a new, unwelcome realization settled over her. If her plan to find her parents failed, if they were dragged back to the Little Tulip, then she might never see Fenna smile—or hear her giggle—that way again.
MILOU’S BOOK OF THEORIES
The Puppet Theater
Observations:
The windmill barn has been partially converted into a puppet theater.
Holes in the roof, tears in the seats, disintegrated curtains.
Marionette dangling from puppeteering platform.
Building materials and stage props piled to stage right.
Pile of blankets to stage left.
Claw marks next to the blankets. A match to the ones on my coffin.
Are these werewolf marks?
Did something terrible happen?
Is my family still alive?
FIFTEEN
AFTER A PALTRY MEAL of potato stew, the children settled down beside the fire in the living room. Puppet Papa was sitting in the bigger rocking chair, one leg propped up on his knee and a pair of thin wire spectacles balanced on his cotton nose.
“Another log for the fire, please, Sem,” Lotta said in a deep voice, pulling Puppet Papa’s head string to nod at the fireplace. “And Milou, darling, clear those plates away, would you?”
“Of course, Papa.” Milou giggled.
Fenna smiled as she took off her apron and hung it on a peg on the wall. She had made a nest for Mozart out of puppet stuffing atop the wardrobe, and now she clambered up to drop him a handful of worms she’d gathered from under the barn theater’s stage. Wedging herself into the chair with Puppet Papa, Milou couldn’t have wiped the smile from her face if she’d tried. This was, she thought, the most perfect evening of her life so far.
No matron.
No shivering.
No fear.
Sem finished hanging a thin cotton curtain across the windows and drew it closed, sealing the rocking chairs, Puppet Papa, the fireplace, and the five of them behind it.
“It works!” Egg announced with excitement, shouting from the other side of the glass. A few moments later, he was inside again, beaming. “I could see your silhouettes, but that was all. Puppet Papa looks like a real person.”
It had been Milou’s idea to hang the curtain on the kitchen window, and another across the cupboard bed they would put their fake father in should anyone come inside the mill. Any passing neighbors wondering if Bram Poppenmaker had really returned would see the evidence of it clearly: smoke curling up from the chimney and light pouring through the downstairs windows. If they came closer, they would see a family of six around the fire listening to a story. That was what families did in the evenings. Milou was sure of it.
“Excellent,” Milou said. “Then it’s time for Papa to tell us a story.”
“Ooh!” Lotta said, standing beside the bookshelf. “Speaking of stories, I found two books we could read tonight.”
She dropped a huge tome on Milou’s lap.
“A Medical Guide to Consumption?” Milou read the title. “I’m not sure this would make for an exciting bedtime read.”
“Ugh, fine, I’ll read it to myself later then,” Lotta said, taking the book from Milou and placing a small leather journal on Milou’s lap instead. Her eyes twinkled. “You’ll like this one.”
“What is it?” Milou asked.
Lotta smiled. “Just open it and see.”
Milou turned to the first page, and chills erupted all over her skin. There was a pencil drawing of what looked much like the oak tree outside, except its trunk was more gnarled and its leaves much darker. The topmost branches twisted upward into two jagged lines of writing:
A Carnival of Nightmares
by Liesel Poppenmaker
Milou ran her fingers over the page, feeling the rough words her sister had scratched onto it. Liesel was a storyteller, just like her.
“There are more of her stories on the bookshelf,” Lotta said. “They’re all romantic ones, though, except for this one. It seems you and your sister are both very alike and very unalike.”
The next page had a single line, where Liesel had written a dedication:
For Thibault
Milou swallowed. Who was Thibault?
Whoever he was, he had known her sister. He knew what she looked like, what her laugh was like, maybe even what had become of her. Milou couldn’t help but feel a sting of jealousy at the thought of Liesel writing a story for him, instead of her.
Sem and Fenna slid through the curtain and sat on pillows on the floor. Egg followed a moment later, climbing onto the other rocking chair beside Lotta.
“Milou’s going to read us a story,” Lotta said brightly. “Aren’t you, Milou?”
All Milou could manage was a quick nod, as her fingers fumbled
to turn the page.
In a shaky voice, she began to read.
When darkness falls, the nightmares come. There is no hiding from them. Once they sink their claws into you, once they have drunk from your soul and tasted your fear, they know exactly where to find you.
My own nightmare has plagued me for weeks.
I lie awake in my bed, knowing that they are waiting. My battle to stay awake is futile, of course. I am drifting down into the murky fog of sleep before I even realize that my eyes have closed. The walls of my bedroom disappear, replaced with endless dark. The warmth leaches away, and I am left shivering. Thunder roars and lightning whip-cracks above me, birthing a pale moon in the dark, starless sky.
I am standing on a tundra. The grass at my feet has shriveled and died. This bleak land stretches to the horizon in every direction, lit only by that faraway moon. I realize I am clutching something to my chest, and when I look down, I find a rusted iron cage; inside it is my own beating heart.
Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud.
Shadows slither around my feet, pulsating in time. Tendrils reach up toward my heart cage, and I bat them away. A boom sounds, shaking the ground beneath me.
In the distance, a tall, gnarled tree rises from the barren ground. Its branches reach upward and outward like tentacles, and I have to crane my neck to see the top of it. I wrap my arms more tightly around the heart cage as the tree’s ascent comes to a shuddering halt.
The Night Tree is grotesque: branches made of bones, and leaves made of talons. My feet immediately start walking toward it, as they do every time I come here. I do not control my feet anymore, the shadows do. As always, I stop after 175 steps, just a few paces from the tree’s trunk.
There are faces carved into the gnarled bark. Some I know only vaguely, others are of the people I love most. All except one, of course.
“Let me be!” I yell at the shadows, the tree, the faces.
“You can’t escape this any longer, Theodora.” The faces speak as one monstrous voice. “The carnival awaits, and you must enter.”