The Puppeteer's Apprentice

by Love, D. Anne

CHAPTER FIVE

  Mouse Is Discovered

  Toward sunset they came to the edge of a small village, where a jumble of barns and gray, thatched-roof cottages sat close to the road. From her perch on the wagon’s roof, Mouse watched a ribbon of gray smoke drift across the road and into the churchyard. There, a noisy band of children and dogs, goats and geese tumbled about in the fading light.

  By the time the puppeteer halted the wagon in a nearby wood, Mouse longed for something to eat, a privy, and a drink of cool water. After the horse was unhitched, Mouse dropped noiselessly to the ground and hid in the trees. She squatted to relieve herself, and set off in search of water. She drank from a sluggish stream that meandered through the trees, then returned cautiously to the wagon.

  The puppeteer was bent low over a cook fire, tending a pot of soup. Mouse’s belly rumbled and her backside was sore from the bumpy wagon ride, but she dared not show herself and reveal her plan. Food was what she needed first. Then she would be ready.

  The puppeteer ate quickly, then disappeared inside the wagon, leaving the pot bubbling on the fire. Mouse stole into the clearing, took out the last of her bread, and dipped it into the pot.

  “Who goes there?” The cloaked figure rushed from the wagon, wielding a silver-handled sword.

  Mouse backed away, wiping the soup from her chin. “I meant no harm.”

  Slowly, the puppeteer lowered the sword and peered intently into the gathering gloom. “By my troth! It cannot be and yet it is! The pest from York come to bedevil me again.”

  “I rode atop your wagon,” Mouse confessed. “I want to be a puppeteer.”

  “Of course you do. Everyone does. But it is not an easy thing to learn.”

  “I learned to be a scullery maid,” Mouse said with more boldness than she felt. “I can learn to make the puppets dance.”

  “Making soup and baking bread? Where is the skill in that?”

  “It is not as easy as you think,” Mouse declared. “Too much salt ruins the loaf. Too many turnips make a bitter soup.”

  “I suppose that is so,” the puppeteer allowed.

  “If it please you, I must learn all there is to know.”

  “Why?” The one blue eye bore into hers.

  “Because the world is too full of tears.”

  “True enough,” the puppeteer said thoughtfully, setting aside the sword. “Still, my work is an art, a calling some might say, learned through years of practice. Besides, it is hardly a suitable occupation for a girl. Your mother will not approve.”

  “I have neither mother nor father. No one at all.”

  “Ah. Mayhap it is not my knowledge you seek after all, but merely a roof over your head and food for your groaning belly.”

  “I could work in a scullery if that is all I wanted.”

  “An excellent plan! Mayhap some mistress in this very village is in need of a servant girl. Life on the road is not as easy or as exciting as you imagine. You would tire of it soon enough.”

  “I will do anything for a chance to be a puppeteer,” Mouse said desperately. “It is my dearest wish in all the world.” Then she took a deep breath and put her plan into action. “And you are in dire need of an assistant.”

  “Begging your pardon?”

  “Yestermorn, when the jester’s song ended, you took so long behind the curtain that I thought the crowd would leave before the show went on.”

  “Crowds never walk away from my shows.”

  Mouse continued. “And when Noah’s rainbow came down, it came down crooked as a shepherd’s staff.”

  “Crooked? It most certainly was not!”

  “It was. You need a helper, and you will never find a better one than me.”

  Darkness had fallen. The puppeteer rose and tossed more twigs onto the dying fire. “You are not the first to beg the secrets of my art. In every village there is always one who thinks he can learn it. It grows quite tiresome.”

  “I am not like the others.”

  “No? Last year a boy from Reedham badgered me for a fortnight, till I agreed to take him on. After three days he discovered the life of a vagabond was not so glorious as he had imagined. So he ran away with a milkmaid from Dover without so much as a by-your-leave. You are no different. The first time some half-witted goat boy smiles in your direction, you will be gone. I am done with wasting time on starry-eyed dreamers.”

  “I will work for my lessons,” Mouse said. “And I will not run away with a goat boy. I can tend your horse, make the fire, cook your supper, anything at all, if only you will show me how to make the puppets dance.”

  “What is your name, girl?”

  “I am called Mouse.”

  “Ha! A girl named for a rodent. Quite unfortunate. And you have no mother or father, you say?”

  “No. No one at all.” Mouse held her breath. The fire crackled. An owl hooted.

  Finally the puppeteer said, “I know what it is like to be alone in the world. And I suppose I cannot leave you here, though that is what you deserve.”

  Deep inside, Mouse felt a fluttering like the beat of a moth’s wings, but mayhap it was hope. A look of delight spread across her thin face.

  The puppeteer held up one hand. “We will try it for a fortnight, till we reach the fair in Marlingford. If you last that long! By then we shall know whether you are meant to be a puppeteer.”

  “I am!” Mouse cried. “I can feel it in my fingers when I look at them. I love the puppets, and they will love me, too. We are of one heart.”

  “You are an odd creature,” the puppeteer said. “Mind you, I will not pay a single farthing for all your fetching and cooking and fire making. You will do exactly as I tell you. You must not touch anything without my leave. You will sleep in the back of the wagon beside the puppets’ trunk, which you will find most uncomfortable. Though something tells me that is where you most desire to be.”

  Mouse could not stop smiling.

  “Be warned,” the puppeteer said. “If you are once late, I will leave you behind without a moment’s regret.”

  “I will not be late,” Mouse promised. “When may we begin my lessons? Mayhap we will start now.”

  “We shall begin on the morrow, and we shall begin at the beginning.”

  “I shall be ready at the cock’s first crow,” Mouse announced, fairly bursting with joy.

  “And I shall be ready at noon.”

  So saying, the puppeteer retrieved the sword, opened the door to the wagon, and disappeared inside.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mouse Discovers a Secret

  For a long time after the puppeteer retired for the night, Mouse waited in the clearing beside the dying fire, afraid to seem too eager to claim her place inside. But at last, when the fire collapsed onto itself with a soft sigh, she rose and went in.

  When her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw that the wagon was not as large as she had thought. On either side of the door were pegs that held the puppeteer’s cloaks, and shelves lined with pots, tins, and brushes, all held in place by leather straps. On the opposite wall was a curtain. Mouse crept across the floor and lifted it, but it was too dark to see anything save a hinged door she thought must be the opening to the stage.

  A sliver of pale moonlight illuminated the narrow mattress where the puppeteer slept beneath the shuttered window and cast a soft glow on the polished wood of the trunk at the back of the wagon. Mouse slid her fingers across its smooth surface before curling herself into a ball on the floor. On the morrow she would make the puppets dance. Which would she choose? The jester? The knight? The gray-bearded Noah or one of his animals? She wished she could tell Simon about the elephant puppet and the play she had seen in York.

  Mouse was still thinking about it the next day when at last noon approached and the puppeteer summoned her from the stream, where Mouse had been washing linen. She spread the last of it on a bush to dry and hurried to the wagon.

  “Make haste, girl,” the puppeteer said. “I have too much to do to waste ti
me with lessons that will surely come to naught.”

  Mouse dried her hands on her tunic. “If it please you, I have decided to begin with the knight. He is the finest puppet I have ever seen.”

  “Faint praise, coming from someone with so little experience in such matters,” the puppeteer said wryly.

  “What dance will I learn first?” Mouse asked.

  “Did I not tell you we would begin at the beginning?” The puppeteer opened the trunk and laid the puppets on the grass. “First you will learn how they are made and how to care for them. There will be no dancing today.”

  Mouse opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. She folded her hands and waited.

  “They are carved from the wood of the ash tree, which makes them very heavy, but ash lasts much longer than birch or pine,” the puppeteer began. “Their limbs are connected by means of strings, as you can see, the heads by these wires that are anchored in the bodies themselves. Their faces are painted and must be kept well away from sun and rain, lest they crack and peel.”

  “I will keep them safe,” Mouse promised. “They are the most wondrous things in all the world.”

  The puppeteer’s demeanor seemed to soften. “Quite so. The knight is called Sir Alfred. Next to him is Princess Bridget. She is very beautiful, but I am afraid she is not as kindhearted as one might wish. More than once she has broken poor Alfred’s heart, though he is much too brave to show it.”

  Mouse looked into the puppet’s brown eyes. Though he was made of wood and paint, bits of wire and cloth, it seemed she sensed the quiet, steady beating of his noble heart.

  “Here are the two jesters you saw in York,” the puppeteer continued. “They are impossibly mischievous but the best at warming up an unfriendly crowd. They are quite old and must be handled with the greatest of care.”

  “I will be careful.”

  “Next to the jesters is Noah. His beard comes off so he can play the part of a knight. The one in black with the cracked arm is the sorcerer, of course. And there is the dragon, who is not as fierce as he looks, but you need not tell him I said so, for he is quick to take offense. The rest are the animals for Noah’s ark.”

  From a box filled with blocks of wood and horsehair brushes, with paint pots, metal blades, and a handful of sharp knives, the puppeteer chose a small-bladed knife and a block of wood and handed them to Mouse. “The sorcerer needs a new arm. You may as well learn to carve one.”

  They sat on the damp ground, and the puppeteer showed Mouse how to measure the length of the sorcerer’s arm and how to trace its shape on the wood with the tip of the knife blade. The wood felt heavy in Mouse’s hands, but she learned to cut it away in small strips, till the outline of the arm at last emerged and a pile of pale shavings curled about her feet.

  “A bit crude, but not bad for your first try,” the puppeteer said when Mouse had finished. “Mayhap carving a puppet’s arm is not so different from peeling turnips after all.”

  “Will you show me how to wire it on?” Mouse asked eagerly.

  “Oh, it must be much smoother than that, else our sorcerer will complain. Leave it for now and help me with Bridget’s new gown. Her old one is faded, and she is quite insistent upon a new one before our next show.”

  Mouse stole a glance at the haughty, blue-eyed princess puppet lying in the shade of the wagon. Make haste, she seemed to say. Do you not know better than to keep a princess waiting?

  The puppeteer handed Mouse a tiny gown of bright green silk and a pouch filled with white beads. “Sew these beads on to the skirt. They will look like pearls.”

  Mouse tried, but the silk was slippery and the beads were so small, she could not grasp them. The needle pricked her fingers, drawing droplets of blood, till at last the puppeteer said, “Enough for now. Help me put the puppets away, then make us something to eat.”

  They gathered the puppets and laid them carefully in the trunk. “Take care not to tangle the wires, Mouse,” the puppeteer warned. “They are easily broken and the devil to repair.”

  Then, taking a series of tin boxes from the shelf inside the wagon, the puppeteer went on. “Here you will find barley and herbs for making soup. There is bread I bought in York and a bit of cheese. I do not suppose you know how to set a snare.”

  “I can learn,” Mouse said.

  The puppeteer led Mouse to a place along the stream where the day before the snare had been set, and showed Mouse how to set the stick and conceal the trap with leaves and brambles. They removed the hare caught inside and gathered wild onions growing beside the stream.

  When they returned to the wagon, Mouse skinned the hare and set the soup pot to bubbling. The puppeteer took up Princess Bridget’s green gown once more. “Mayhap there is time to finish this before nightfall. Go see if the wash has dried and bring it back, lest we forget it on the morrow.”

  Mouse hurriedly stirred the pot, then gathered the freshly washed linens and took them inside the wagon. She noticed a bit of Sir Alfred’s cloak sticking out of the trunk and opened the lid to tuck it back inside.

  It seemed Sir Alfred smiled at her. She looked into his kind brown eyes, and before she knew quite what was happening, she lifted him and held him tightly to her chest. “Did you see what I learned today?” she whispered. “Now I know how to carve an arm and set a snare and sew a costume.”

  All that in a single day? Mouse could not have been more certain of him had he actually spoken aloud.

  “All right. Mayhap I have not yet mastered the needle and thread, but I will.”

  “Mouse?” the puppeteer called, banging on the door.

  Mouse jumped. Sir Alfred slipped from her grasp and tumbled onto the floor with a sound like the click of crickets in the grass. The wire connecting his head to his body sprang loose and dangled crazily over his shoulder.

  Mouse’s fingers trembled as she tried to poke the wire back into place. It was too short. She stuffed Sir Alfred into the trunk and jammed the lid shut just as the puppeteer threw open the door.

  “What keeps you, girl?”

  “I was folding the linens, just as you asked.” Mouse’s mouth felt dry as dirt.

  “Be quick about it, then. The soup is boiling over.”

  Mouse hastened outside to slice the bread and ladle the soup into their bowls. It smelled wonderfully of the fresh meat and wild onions, but with every bite, her stomach clenched as if she were swallowing dirty pond water. What would the puppeteer do when he discovered what she had done?

  She swallowed a spoonful of soup and took a deep breath. Mayhap Sir Alfred’s wire was not broken after all, but merely tangled. Mayhap it would easily be put to rights. It might have come loose when the wagon hit a rut and they had simply not noticed.

  “Mouse?” the puppeteer said.

  “What?”

  “Have you not heard a single word I said?”

  “Forgive me. I was not listening.”

  “So I noticed. What ails you, girl? An aching head? An unquiet stomach? Mayhap you have decided the life of a puppeteer is not for you after all.”

  “Oh, no!” Mouse cried. “It is all I want in the world.”

  “Then stop your dreaming. In Marlingford we must buy food and notions, for it is a long way from there to Reedham.”

  “I cannot help it. I am full of dreams.”

  “Well, put this list inside your head, if there be room in there amongst all your dreams. Candles. Soap. Flour. Cheese. A pack of needles and a green ribbon to finish Bridget’s gown. A pot of glue.”

  Mouse struggled to remember it all, but it was hard to concentrate. She had heard the priest once tell Cook confession was good for the soul, but she dared not confess her mistake to the puppeteer.

  “Some woolen cloth,” the puppeteer continued, rising to poke the fire once more. “Apples. Goose fat. Salt. Good night, Mouse.”

  As she had done on the previous night, Mouse waited by the fire till all was quiet inside the wagon. Then she crept inside and lay down on her blanket bes
ide the trunk.

  “What shall I do, Sir Alfred?” she whispered. “I am in an awful mess.”

  Speak not aloud your fears and sorrows, but whisper them to the wind and go forth singing.

  Despite her worry, sleep finally came. When Mouse awoke the next day, gray light was leaking through the cracks around the windows and the puppeteer was outside making the fire.

  “Whisper to the wind and go forth singing,” Mouse said to herself. She washed her face and went outside, humming one of Simon’s tunes under her breath. The puppeteer, lost in the folds of a red cloak, was bent low over the fire.

  “There you are, Mouse. And in a pleasant mood, I see. I thought you meant to sleep all day.”

  “I will set the snare,” Mouse offered quickly. “Or mayhap we shall have fish. I saw one in the stream yestermorn.”

  “There is no time for snares or fish,” the puppeteer said, glancing skyward. “A storm draws nigh, and we must be away. Some toasted bread and a bit of cheese will do us for now.”

  They ate hurriedly, without talking. Then Mouse said, “Shall I catch the horse?”

  “Yes. Then gather some dry twigs for our kindling basket. Soon you will learn how welcome a goodly fire can feel at the end of a wet day.”

  The horse had wandered nearer the stream and stood placidly cropping the new grass. Mouse led him up the rise to the wagon and tethered him there while she went to look for kindling. When she had gathered an armload of twigs, she returned to the wagon.

  Next to the fire stood the puppeteer holding Sir Alfred. A wave of foreboding passed over Mouse as she clutched the firewood tightly to her chest. The air around her seemed to crackle, as if the approaching storm had already begun.

  “I meant no harm,” Mouse began, fighting her tears. “You startled me, and he fell. I tried to put the wire back, but it is too short.”

  “Of course it is too short, you addle brain! You have broken it in two. Did I not tell you to take care?”

  “I should not have disobeyed you,” Mouse said, cowering like a dog awaiting a blow. “Forgive me.”

  “I suppose it is my own fault for taking pity on the likes of you,” the puppeteer fumed. “I should have known one cannot make a silk purse from a sow’s ear, nor a puppeteer from an ignorant, willful girl.”