The Puppeteer's Apprentice

by Love, D. Anne

  While Mouse made soup and gathered berries, the puppeteer finished repairing the dragon’s tail. After supper they sat by the fire, talking about the plays they would give once they arrived in Reedham.

  “Mayhap we shall give them Noah’s Ark,” the puppeteer mused. “Come, I will show you how to make the floodwaters.”

  They climbed onto the stage. The puppeteer showed Mouse two wooden buckets resting on a hidden ledge, attached by means of ropes and pulleys. The larger one had holes in the bottom.

  “Before the play begins, fill the smaller pail with water,” the puppeteer said. “When the time comes for the flood, pull this rope. The smaller pail will tilt into the larger one, and the water draining through the holes will look like rain.”

  “It does not seem hard to do,” Mouse said. “When next we give Noah’s play, I shall take charge of the flood.”

  “You must take care not to drown our customers,” the puppeteer said, grinning. “Once, in Canterbury, many years ago, my rope broke, and the water poured right onto the head of the archbishop!” Handing Mouse the small pail, she said, “Fetch some water and we shall practice, for the water must fall just so, else it will soak our puppets and our audience.”

  The next morning the puppeteer woke Mouse earlier than usual. “Up you get. I have decided to go to Wick-ham.”

  Mouse rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “What about Reedham?”

  “The Midsummer’s Eve fair is still days away. If those two men spoke the truth about a celebration in Wick-ham, mayhap we can earn a coin or two in the meantime.”

  Mouse folded her blanket and smoothed her threadbare tunic. “Is it far?”

  “I have been there only a few times, but if memory serves, we will be there before sunset.”

  “Suppose there is no celebration?” Mouse asked.

  “That is the chance we take.”

  They each ate an apple, then set off for Wickham. When, at midafternoon, they stopped to rest, Mouse was hungry as a beggar and wished she might set a snare for some meat, but the puppeteer was eager to end their journey before nightfall. They filled their bellies with water and went on.

  Presently they came to a crossroad. “Our journey is almost done,” the puppeteer said, “for there lies the road to Depford.”

  Depford! Mouse peered down the narrow road. Mayhap the puppeteer would give her leave to visit Alice. Would the kindly goose woman remember her?

  It seemed forever before they arrived at last in Wickham.

  Halting the wagon near the Black Swan Inn, the puppeteer said, “Look after our things while I make some inquiries.”

  In a moment she returned. “We are in luck, Mouse. On the morrow the mayor celebrates his birthday, and all the town is invited. Surely some folk will be in need of a pleasant tale. We shall camp at the end of the road and make ready our play.”

  As soon as they unhitched the wagon, Mouse set her snares. But there was neither hare nor fowl for their evening meal. They boiled some barley and sweetened it with honey and went to bed hungry.

  Morning came, bringing a cool rain and a visit from the constable. He rapped on the side of the wagon, and when the puppeteer opened it, he said gruffly, “Gypsies are not allowed here. Move along.”

  “We are not gypsies!” Mouse said hotly. “We are the finest puppeteers in the realm.”

  “Puppeteers, magicians, jugglers, all the same to me,” the constable said. “Your kind always causes trouble. We want none of that here.”

  “We are here for the mayor’s birthday,” the puppeteer replied. “If we go, you must send the others away too. I do not think the mayor will like it if all his entertainers are banished.”

  The constable’s eyes traveled around the inside of the wagon. “Keep to yourselves, then, and be on your way before this day is done.”

  When he had gone, the puppeteer handed Mouse one of their precious coins. “Take this and buy some bread. Then come back straightaway.”

  On the street near the inn, Mouse found a baxter’s stall and gave the woman her coin. She tucked the loaf under her arm and started back to the wagon.

  A skinny boy in brown breeches and a matching cap ran into her path and gave Mouse a sudden shove that sent her reeling. “Out of my way, you gypsy knave.”

  “I am neither gypsy nor knave,” Mouse said, tightening her hold on her bread. “Leave me be.”

  Another boy, short and stubby-limbed, joined the first. “‘Leave me be!’” he mocked. “Are you frightened of us, you knotty-pated little ragpicker?”

  The boys laughed. Mouse tried to push past them, but one hefted a sharp stone and hit her squarely above her eye. Blood trickled down her face.

  She dropped her bread and swung at the shorter boy, landing a solid blow on his ear. He howled. Then the boy in brown tripped Mouse, and she fell facedown in the dirt.

  Before she could rise, the boys began kicking her with their heavy boots.

  “Mouse!” Suddenly the puppeteer was upon them, pushing the boys aside, helping Mouse to her feet.

  “Gor!” cried the boy in brown. “Another rotten gypsy. The town is plagued with them as a dog with fleas!”

  “And we must be rid of vermin!” the other boy said, scooping another handful of stones.

  “Run, Mouse!” The puppeteer grabbed Mouse’s hand. As they raced through a hail of stones toward the wagon, the hood of the puppeteer’s cloak slid to her shoulders, revealing her thick silver braid.

  No one noticed, save Mouse and a solitary figure watching from the upper window of the Black Swan Inn.

  The puppeteer hurriedly cleaned Mouse’s wound, then hitched the wagon. At the mayor’s house a few musicians and jesters gathered despite the rain. Sounds of laughter and music drifted on the air.

  “You are disappointed, Mouse,” the puppeteer said. “But did I not tell you this life is a hard one?”

  Mouse burrowed inside her oiled cloak and pressed her palm to her throbbing head. “We should not run away. We should stay and give our play despite those hateful boys.”

  “’Tis not worth the trouble, though our pockets be nearly empty,” the puppeteer declared. “This rain will keep the paying crowd away.”

  “Where shall we go now?”

  “We cannot go far today. We will go back to the crossroad and wait there for the rain to stop. Mayhap in that wood we will have more luck with our snares.”

  Mouse waited till they were near the crossroad before she spoke. “If it please you, I would go to Depford to visit the goose woman Alice.”

  “In this weather?”

  “I do not mind a little rain,” Mouse said. “Mayhap the sun will come out before this day is done.”

  “Mayhap. But you must take care. It will not do to have you sick with fever when we get to Reedham.”

  By the time they reached the crossroad, the rain had indeed stopped. Ignoring the throbbing pain in her head, Mouse helped the puppeteer unhitch the horse, then hurried about, setting her snares. When that was done, she said, “If it please you, Teacher, I would be away.”

  The puppeteer laughed. “Go along, then. Follow that road. But watch how you go, Mouse. Do not talk to strangers and see that you are back before sundown. I should not like to think of you on the road alone after dark.”

  “I will be careful.”

  “Mouse? Your goose woman may be away, selling her geese at the market. You must not be too disappointed if you find she is not at home.”

  Mouse had not thought of that. But the chance to see Alice was one she might never have again. With a wave of her hand, she left the clearing and set off toward Depford.

  The sun was high overhead by the time she entered the village. It was an ordinary town, like many of the others Mouse had seen in her travels. Close by the side of the road sat an inn and, farther on, a gray stone church with a pretty colored window, then a handful of thatched-roof cottages scattered like mushrooms across a rolling meadow. Along the main street a few merchants had opened their stalls; Mouse ch
ose a friendly face and said to the man, “If it please you, sir, I am looking for the house of a goose woman called Alice. She is tall, and her hair is black, and—”

  “Far end of the meadow,” he said. “The cottage with the yellow door. But be careful of the geese. They are a bad-tempered lot.”

  Mouse raced toward the meadow. So much to tell Alice! So many questions bumping around in her head! She found the cottage and knocked.

  “Who calls here?” came a voice from inside.

  “It is Mouse, from the road to York. Do you remember me?”

  Then the door opened, and there was Alice. “It cannot be! Is it truly my little Mouse? Dear me, what happened to your head? Do not tell me you fell off another oxcart.”

  “It is naught but a scratch,” Mouse said, grinning.

  “Come in, child! My, you have grown so tall these past months.”

  Alice led Mouse to a table piled high with pots and tins, which she quickly pushed aside. “First we will eat, and then you will tell me everything. Oh, I am so happy to see you! I have often wondered what became of you. Tell me, how is life in York?”

  Before Mouse could answer, a fat goose wandered in, flapping and hissing.

  “Henrietta!” Alice scolded. “Away with you! Can you not see we have company?”

  Alice shooed the goose out the door and put a pot on the fire. She bustled about, setting the table, rattling plates and cups and spoons. Soon Mouse was looking at more food than she had seen in a very long time. There was bread with butter and honey, a platter of roasted mutton, a bowl of stewed apples with raisins and spice. When Mouse had eaten two helpings of everything, Alice stoked the fire and buttered another piece of bread. “Now,” she said, smiling at her young guest, “tell me everything.”

  “I do not live in York, but in a wagon upon the road. I am a puppeteer’s apprentice.”

  Then she explained that Claire had gone with Lady Ashby, and Simon had left her in York, and described her plan to steal away atop the puppeteer’s wagon.

  “Such a daring scheme!” Alice exclaimed. “I would never be so brave as that!”

  “You are as brave as you decide to be,” Mouse said.

  Alice laughed. “It seems I have heard that before. It pains me to think Simon left you without so much as a good-bye. But I suppose I should not be surprised. He is a pleasant enough traveling companion but no more trustworthy than a rat in a grain bin. Tell me, have you seen him since?”

  “No,” Mouse said. “But soon it will be Midsummer’s Eve, and we will go to the fair in Reedham. My puppeteer says the town will be full of music makers then.”

  “This puppeteer,” Alice said, frowning. “I hope he is a kindly sort and not one to take advantage of a trusting girl. I cannot say I like the notion of your traveling about in such a fashion.”

  “My puppeteer is a kindly companion and a goodly teacher. In Reedham I shall have a part in our show.”

  “I can see you are eager for that,” Alice said. “But truly, Mouse, you are growing into womanhood. Surely you would wish to have a home and a family of your own.”

  “The wagon is my home, and the puppets are my family,” Mouse said. She described Sir Alfred and Princess Bridget and the others in her little band. “I do not wish to seem a braggart, but my puppeteer and I are the finest in all of England.”

  “Many years ago there was a puppet master in these parts who was said to be the finest in all of England,” Alice said. “But he came to a very sad end.”

  “What happened?”

  “He and his companions were set upon by thieves and killed. In broad daylight! It was a very famous case. It was said one fellow survived, but, if that be true, no one has ever seen him. It remains a mystery after all these years.”

  Alice refilled Mouse’s cup and went on. “Of course, who knows how much of the story is true? You know how people love gossip. Stories get bigger with each new telling till it becomes impossible to know where the truth lies.”

  Curious, Mouse asked, “What did the murderers look like?”

  “Ah. Another mystery,” Alice said. “They say one was a weaseley sort of a man with a scar on his face, but that description fits half the men in the realm. Perhaps none of it is true. Who can say?”

  Mouse nodded. She had seen several such men in her travels, the last only two days ago.

  “You look troubled, Mouse,” Alice said. “I hope I have not upset you with my tale. It all happened so long ago, I am certain you and your puppeteer are quite safe.” She spooned more stewed apples into Mouse’s bowl. “Now, we shall speak of other things.”

  Mouse told Alice about the day she had broken Sir Alfred’s wire and about the play she had ruined in Marlingford. “Because of me, our purse is empty,” she said ruefully, “except for the coins from the carving I sold.”

  Alice laughed. “You must not be too hard on yourself. I should think it would be very difficult indeed to make a puppet dance.”

  “Oh, it is!” Mouse said. “I have practiced and practiced, and still I am ready for naught but the smallest of parts.”

  “Be patient,” Alice advised. “These things take time.”

  Time! Mouse started and looked out the window. Already the sun lay low in the trees. “I must go!” she said. “I promised to be home before dark.”

  Alice rose and packed a bottle of honey, a hunk of cheese, and the rest of the bread. From a basket in the corner, she brought out fresh apples. Then she scooped some flour into a cloth bag and tied it with a bit of string. “Mayhap this will keep the wolf from the door till your play in Reedham.”

  Mouse felt a sting behind her eyes as Alice embraced her.

  “Godspeed, little Mouse. Come again if you can.”

  Henrietta honked as if to say good-bye as Mouse started down the road. At the end of the lane, Mouse turned and waved to Alice, then started home.

  By the time she arrived at the crossroad, the light was fading, the sun settling behind the gray-green trees. The puppeteer was not in the yard, nor at the stream. Mouse opened the door, and the puppeteer cried, “Surprise!”

  Mouse dropped her bundle and stared. The puppeteer was holding a new tunic and a kirtle of soft blue wool.

  “Your mouth hangs open like an unhinged basket,” the puppeteer said, smiling. “I have been working on these at odd moments for some time. I decided this would be a good day to finish, while you were away.”

  “But—” Mouse was overcome. Never had she owned anything so fine.

  “You cannot deny you need new clothes,” the puppeteer said. “Mayhap you have been too busy with our puppets to notice, but you have quite outgrown that threadbare old tunic. See how your wrists hang below the sleeve? Come. Let us see if these fit.”

  Mouse donned her new clothes and twirled around. The kirtle whispered and settled softly about her ankles.

  The puppeteer nodded, satisfied with her handiwork. “You look lovely, Mouse. Precisely as a young girl should when she celebrates her feast day.”

  Mouse was incredulous. “But I know not when I was born, nor how many a twelvemonth has passed since then.”

  “The cook once guessed you were eleven, did he not?”

  Mouse nodded.

  “Then I have decided: This is your feast day, and you are twelve. From now on, you will count your age from this day. I only regret we have no food for a proper celebration.”

  “But we do!” Mouse cried. “Alice has sent bread and cheese and, oh, I cannot remember what else, for I am too happy.”

  She hugged the puppeteer so tightly that for a moment neither of them could breathe. Then the puppeteer pulled away and said gruffly, “Enough. Let us see what food your friend has sent.”

  They spread their meal on a blanket before the fire and ate and talked until dawn.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A Dream Fulfilled

  The days passed so quickly that before Mouse knew it, Midsummer’s Eve arrived and they were in Reedham. They left the wagon in the street
outside the theater. Mouse carefully lifted the hem of her new kirtle and followed the puppeteer across the dirt yard, past a circular wooden gallery where the playgoers sat, then through a door at the front of the stage.

  The theater roof was painted with a moon and stars. Wooden steps led to a wide platform with doors at either end. A ladder led to a second, smaller platform above the stage, equipped with winches and pulleys. Mouse and the puppeteer skirted a room filled with tables, chairs, hedges, false trees, and other props till they reached a windowed nook where the theater owner, a burly man with a thick gray beard, sat behind a desk.

  “A puppeteer, you say!” he exclaimed when the puppeteer explained the purpose of their visit. “Are you any good?”

  “Rent us your stage and judge for yourself,” the puppeteer replied.

  “What sort of plays do you propose?”

  “Only the classics,” the puppeteer said. “The story of Noah and of St. George and the dragon. Mayhap a tale from King Arthur’s day. Nothing that will offend.”

  “I hope not!” the man said. “Last November we had a fellow who abused our ears with dirty jokes and stories not fit for decent folk.”

  “You will have no complaints about our plays,” the puppeteer assured him. Opening her coin bag, she said, “How much for the rent?”

  “A shilling a day and a penny for each ticket sold.”

  “A ha’penny per ticket,” the puppeteer countered.

  “Two days’ rent will yield a tidy profit for us both.”

  “Done. Will you get our permit?”

  “Wait here,” he said. “I will return shortly.”

  Mouse listened to the music of flutes and tambourines coming through the open window. The smell of meat pies from the food sellers’ stalls teased her nose, bringing with it memories of cold winter morns at Dunston when she had stirred the pots under Cook’s watchful eye.

  “Mayhap we will get a pork pie for supper, with apples and raisins,” Mouse said. “I am sorely tired of roasted hares.”

  “You may have whatever you wish,” the puppeteer said, “for without your clever bargaining, we would have no coins for rent.” She paused. “I am sorry I ever called you an addlebrained clod, for plainly you are not. And we must do something about your name. I am weary of calling you Mouse.”