The Puppeteer's Apprentice

by Love, D. Anne

  At that moment a dark face appeared at the window, so briefly that Mouse could not at first say whether it truly happened or was only imagined. But then the puppeteer gasped and spoke a single word. “Ordin!”

  Beneath her hood the puppeteer’s face went pale as wax, and it seemed to Mouse that there was suddenly an edge in the air, such as often foretells bad weather.

  “Who was that man?” Mouse asked. “Do you know him?”

  The puppeteer shook her head. “For a moment I thought it was someone I know, but surely I am mistaken.”

  The theater owner returned with a paper, and the puppeteer gave him the coins.

  “Watch how you go,” he said. “Midsummer’s Eve, the town is full as a tick.”

  “Where may we leave our wagon?” the puppeteer asked.

  He jerked a chubby thumb. “Beyond the mill is a meadow. It will be safe enough, but keep an eye out for thieves and troublemakers.”

  On the street again, Mouse and the puppeteer passed dancers and musicians, jugglers and jesters mixing with the crowd of villagers in town for the fair. Mouse would have liked nothing more than to watch the performers, but the puppeteer glanced furtively up and down the road, then grabbed Mouse’s hand and said, sharply “Hurry along, girl. Stop your gawking and dawdling!”

  Why was the puppeteer suddenly so jumpy?

  “I am ready for the play,” Mouse said. “Have I not practiced and practiced? I swear I will not disappoint you.”

  “I would not let you perform if I thought you were not ready,” the puppeteer replied. “Now stop your prattling. There is work to be done.”

  When they were settled in the meadow, she handed Mouse the coin box and their banner. Then they carried their puppets’ trunk the short distance down the alley to the back entrance of the theater. While the puppeteer was busy arranging Sir Alfred and the others behind the stage, Mouse tied their banner to the posts outside the door. Then she spread a blue cloth on the floor of the stage to represent a lake, arranging the folds till they resembled waves.

  Presently a crowd gathered, and the puppeteer collected their coins. The playgoers streamed inside and took seats on the wooden benches. Soon the theater was full.

  “A goodly crowd awaits your first play,” the puppeteer whispered. “Ready, Mouse?”

  Mouse fingered Bridget’s strings and gave the puppeteer a shaky smile.

  Dressed in a scarlet cloak and turban, the puppeteer spoke to the crowd. “Greetings. Our play this day is a story of Merlin and his mysterious arts, if you can conceive it, told by a mouse”—here she paused, turned, and winked at her apprentice—“if you can believe it.”

  Full of ale and good humor, the playgoers laughed. The curtain parted. Mouse took a quick breath to steady her hands and pulled the strings. Bridget strolled smoothly onto the stage. The crowd applauded.

  The puppeteer moved Sir Alfred, dressed today as Merlin, onto the stage, then the puppet Noah, dressed as young King Arthur.

  Holding Bridget still with one hand, Mouse slowly pulled with her other hand a string to which a tiny silver sword was attached, so that the sword appeared to be rising from the blue lake. “Ohh!” the audience breathed.

  Mouse quickly fastened the sword’s string to a hook hidden behind the curtain. Placing both her hands on Bridget’s strings, she pulled gently, and Bridget, as the Lady of the Lake, spoke to Merlin. “You cannot get this sword.”

  “I know that,” Merlin replied. The puppeteer nodded encouragingly to Mouse, then continued speaking in Merlin’s voice. “As a favor to me, would you give the sword to my lord the king, for there is not in all the world a better use for it.”

  Mouse made Bridget bow, then said, “Surely your words be true. I will get the sword.”

  Working carefully, Mouse brought Bridget to the middle of the lake, where she grasped the sword, then turned to King Arthur. “Your sword, milord.”

  The puppeteer inserted the pivetta into her mouth and spoke as King Arthur. “My thanks, dear lady. May God grant us victory in the coming war.”

  Mouse scarcely felt the hot sun pouring through the high window or the ache in her arms as she held Bridget aloft. Almost before she knew it, the story ended, and the happy crowd spilled onto the street again.

  With the sound of applause still ringing in her ears, Mouse was nearly drunk with joy. Seizing Sir Alfred, she danced around the stage, turning faster and faster till she was dizzy. Then she set him down, grabbed the puppeteer’s hands, and swung her to and fro till they were both breathless and weak with laughter.

  “Mayhap we should save our merrymaking till our work is done, little one,” the puppeteer said. “We must give seven more plays before this day is done.”

  “I am so happy, I could give seven times seven!” Mouse declared. “Did you see how perfectly I made Bridget bow? Mayhap I am ready for a bigger part.”

  “Mayhap you are not!” the puppeteer retorted. “Now make haste. The next show begins soon.”

  The entire day passed as in a dream. The crowds ebbed and flowed in a ceaseless tide of color and laughter. By the time the last play ended and the puppets were safe inside their trunk, the sun had set and the air was full of good smells. A smoky haze from dozens of bonfires hung low over the meadow.

  “We shall eat well this night,” the puppeteer said, counting up their coins. “And you shall have an extra shilling to mark your first play.”

  “There is naught I need,” Mouse said, full of pride and the satisfaction of hard labor well accomplished. “I made my puppet dance.”

  “Indeed,” the puppeteer said, smiling. “But never refuse a coin, Mouse. For no one knows what the morrow may bring.”

  She handed Mouse a shilling. “This town is full of revelers with too much ale in their bellies and too little sense in their heads. We must guard our belongings carefully, lest they be stolen in the night.”

  “I will guard us while you rest,” Mouse said. “I am too full of happiness to sleep.”

  “I remember that feeling,” the puppeteer said softly. “Noah’s Ark was my first play. Father brought the story from Italy when he was but a boy.”

  “Which part was yours?”

  “Oh, only one of the animals. The tiger, perhaps. A terrible disappointment, for I had begged to perform in the new play we were practicing. It was a story he spun himself out of our imagined past.”

  Such confidences from the puppeteer were pearls beyond price. Mouse dared not interrupt.

  “We came from an ancient people called the Sabines,” the puppeteer continued. “They were a very brave people who lived in the hills north of Rome. Father was working on the story of their battle with Horatius. He said it happened so long ago, I could not even imagine it. More than anything, I wanted to play the part of a Sabine warrior, with Sir Alfred as my puppet. But fate dealt us a cruel blow, and my chance was lost.”

  “What happened?”

  “That is quite a sad tale, Mouse. And this is a night for making merry.” She pressed more coins into Mouse’s hands. “Buy us something to eat. Anything you fancy will be all right with me. But do not dawdle, for I am hungrier than words can tell.”

  Mouse was hungry too, for more of the puppeteer’s story, but she hurried toward the food sellers’ stalls, past dancers in costumes of saffron, scarlet, and blue, past music makers with dulcimers and flutes and lyres. At the food sellers’ she bought a pork pie, an apple tart, and a hunk of cheese.

  She had taken but a few steps toward the wagon when she heard a rustling sound behind her. Turning quickly, she caught a glimpse of someone in the shadows. Was it one of the robbers the theater owner had warned against? Holding tightly to her sack, she darted into the noisy crowd.

  “I am brave and strong,” she whispered, turning this way and that. But at every turn the dark figure was still there. She thought of screaming, but who would hear her in such a boisterous crowd? She wheeled suddenly and ran in the opposite direction, nearly upsetting an old woman and her cart, shoving
aside a dreamy-faced goat boy munching an apple.

  A viselike hand grasped her shoulder. Caught!

  Mouse flailed her arms and kicked for all she was worth till a familiar voice said, “Stop, Mouse, it is only me!”

  Incredulous, she stilled and stared into the moss-green eyes of Simon Swann. “You!”

  She balled a fist and landed a solid blow on his arm. “Why did you follow me? I took you for a thief or worse!”

  “Mayhap someone followed you, but it was not I. I was entertaining these folk with the song I made for you. Do you remember?”

  “I remember.” Mouse was too happy at the unexpected reunion to be truly angry with Simon, but she said, “And I remember how you left me alone in York and ran away like a thief in the night!”

  “Guilty as charged!” he said cheerfully. “But surely you know naught save the direst of circumstances could have torn me from your side. Tell me how you came to Reedham and where you will go on the morrow.”

  “I am the puppeteer’s apprentice,” she said, sweeping into a low bow. “Stories of bravery and romance, our specialty. As you wish.”

  “So! It was you who gave that show in the theater today.”

  “It was naught but a small part. And you were there! Why did you not show yourself before now?”

  “I arrived late and left early, for I was busy earning a few coins for my own pocket. ’Twas a happy surprise to spot you in this crowd just now. Tell me your new name.”

  “I am still called Mouse.”

  “Oh, well. A name must not be chosen lightly. The right one will come in good time. Meanwhile, I am hungry as a beggar and in need of some good company to pass this night.”

  Then Mouse felt a tug on her sleeve.

  “There you are!” the puppeteer said sharply. “Did I not tell you to hurry, Mouse? And who is this stranger?”

  Before Mouse could explain, Simon bowed. “Good evening, sir. Simon Swann. Minstrel, juggler, and jester, just as you wish.”

  “I wish to be left alone,” the puppeteer snapped. “Come along, Mouse. This one should not be trusted.”

  “Harsh words, but mayhap I deserve them,” Simon said. “Still, it was I who rescued this maid from certain death upon the road. I cannot say I quite approve of her traveling with the likes of you.”

  “You know far less of me than you imagine,” the puppeteer said, taking Mouse’s arm. “Leave us, if you would start the morrow with both your ears.”

  Simon laughed. “And who would relieve me of them, pray tell?”

  In less time than it takes to tell it, the puppeteer drew her sword and held the tip of it just beneath his ear. His eyes widened. “By my faith! I have seen that sword before!”

  “You are mistaken, sir.” As quickly as the puppeteer had drawn her sword, she concealed it beneath her cloak. “Will you come now, Mouse?”

  Mouse wanted to tell Simon about all her adventures, but she could not disobey the puppeteer, who had turned on her heel and was marching purposefully toward the meadow. Simon fell into step beside them.

  “It happened on the road in Staffordshire, just after Midsummer’s Eve, why it must be ten summers ago at least. I came upon a troupe of vagabond performers returning from the London fair. I would have passed the night in their company, as travelers often do, but they seemed in haste and went on despite the dark, while I slept in a barn beside the road.”

  They reached the wagon. The puppeteer set out the food Mouse had bought and added a log to their fire. “We do not care one farthing for this tale and would eat our meal in peace.”

  “An entertaining story makes a goodly repast even more so,” Simon said. “Though I will admit this one has no happy ending.”

  “Then spare us the telling, for the world is much too full of sorrow.”

  Mouse touched the puppeteer’s hand. “If it please you, let him stay. Without him, I would have perished on the road from Dunston.”

  The puppeteer held up her hands in a gesture of surrender.

  Simon said, “My thanks, Mouse!” He reached for their loaf of bread. “You will not mind my having a small bite, will you, as long as I am here?”

  He chewed for a moment. “Anyway. The next morn I resumed my journey and had gone but a little distance when I heard in the road ahead a commotion such as I had never before heard. It was as if the gates of hell had opened there on the dusty road. I hid in the trees, where I could observe in secret. What do you suppose I saw, little Mouse?”

  “I cannot guess.” She took a bite of pork pie.

  “It was those hapless vagabonds, set upon by a pair of highwaymen. In broad daylight!”

  Suddenly Mouse’s food stuck in her throat. Was not this the same story Alice had told, about the death of the puppet master? Could her puppeteer have been among that unfortunate troupe? Mouse stole at glance at the puppeteer, who sat quite still and spoke not a word.

  Simon went on. “I would have been killed myself had I not taken refuge in the wood. When it was over, I went to the poor travelers in hopes of giving aid, but they were all dead and stripped of all their valuables, save a sword that had no doubt fallen unnoticed into the underbrush during the fray. I remember it well. A silver-handled sword it was, carved with a three-headed beast. Part wolf, part lion, part dog. I have never seen another like it. At first I thought to keep it, but in the end, my nobler nature prevailed. I buried the dead there in the wood and left the sword to mark their graves.” He paused. “Mouse, would you spare a bite of cheese? And mayhap a smidgen of that apple tart?”

  Dazed by the story and what it might mean, Mouse absently filled his plate. When Simon had taken a few more bites, he said, “A rumor went around that one of the unfortunates had escaped with his life and taken the sword with him. And it is true that on my return the following month it was gone. Still, the chance of anyone surviving the events of that morn seem as likely as a St. Swithin’s Day blizzard.”

  “I quite agree,” the puppeteer said quickly. “A preposterous tale. Again, Swann, I beg your leave. We are weary and have much to do on the morrow.”

  “As you wish.” Simon rose. “Though I was looking forward to hearing about your adventures, Mouse. Mayhap we shall meet again, when your companion is more agreeable.”

  Mouse caught his sleeve. “I have been to visit Alice in Depford. But I have no news of Claire.”

  “Ah. Dear Alice. As full of gossip as ever, I wager. I have no news of Claire, but I am certain she fares well. If I chance upon her, I will give her your greeting straightaway.” To the puppeteer he said, “I would sing you a song in payment for my supper, if it please you.”

  “It would please me if you would leave us in peace,” the puppeteer returned.

  But Simon took out his lute anyway. “It will take but a moment to erase the debt I owe.” He began to sing:

  “On the road to London town, I met a maiden fair.

  She wore a snow-white linen gown, and ribbons in her hair.

  Her brown eyes shone like summer rain, oh, ne’er shall I forget.

  Because she did not have a name, I called her Vi-o-let.”

  Though the puppeteer clapped politely, Mouse could tell from her mentor’s pinched smile that she was eager to be rid of their unbidden guest.

  “Good-bye, Mouse,” Simon said. “When next we meet, mayhap you will have a proper name.”

  “Mayhap we will never meet again,” Mouse said. “You come and go like a sparrow on a fence, just as you will.”

  “True enough,” Simon admitted. “But how about this: Let us make a pact to meet here, on this very spot, a twelvemonth from today. You and your puppeteer shall make a new play for my entertainment, and for my part, I shall sing three new songs. Mayhap four, if you ask politely enough.”

  “We shall see what fortune decrees,” the puppeteer said. “For now, we would bid you farewell.”

  When Simon was gone, Mouse gathered their plates, her head fairly swimming with questions about his remarkable story. But the puppetee
r seemed jumpy and in no mood for talk.

  “That was a goodly feast,” she said to Mouse, “and now I would sleep. Keep your eyes open and wake me at once should anyone approach.”

  Mouse rekindled the fire. “I wonder if Simon’s story be true.”

  “Did you not tell me his preposterous story of being bitten by a crocodile in India? And did you notice this night how he made himself the hero of his own tale? One day he will speak falsely to the wrong person, and we shall find his handsome head set upon London Bridge.” Cupping Mouse’s chin in her hand, she said, “It seems to me he is full of unbelievable tales. Think no more of it. On the morrow we shall give our play again, and Simon Swann will be well forgotten.”

  One by one, the bonfires in the meadow flickered out, till the only light came from the pale moon and twinkling stars. Lying on her blanket beneath the inky sky, Mouse went over the events of the day in her mind. The happy crowds clapping for her—the puppeteer’s apprentice. Then her fright when she thought she was being followed. And Simon’s strange tale that, despite the puppeteer’s protests, somehow had the ring of truth.

  She rose and peered into the wagon. All was stillness and shadows. She opened the door. The puppeteer’s face was serene in sleep, bathed in the splash of moonlight coming through the window.

  Mouse dropped noiselessly to her hands and knees and crept along the floor till her fingers closed over the cold blade of the sword. It was much heavier than she had imagined, requiring all her strength to lift it. She carried it outside.

  “Oh!” she cried.

  For there, barely visible in the moonlight, was the three-headed beast. Part wolf. Part lion. Part dog. Just as Simon had described it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Marbury Wood

  One gray morning at the end of October, the puppeteer woke Mouse just before sunup. “Make haste,” she said. “While you slept, a stranger passed with news of a celebration at Gimingham. If the good duke still holds those lands, mayhap he will bid us pass All Hallows’ Eve there in exchange for a play.”