The Puppeteer's Apprentice

by Love, D. Anne

  The duke smiled and sipped his wassail. The serving girl nodded solemnly. Nurse Catchpole folded her arms across her ample bosom and sniffed. Then Mouse lifted Bridget and walked her to the middle of the lake.

  “You cannot get this sword,” she said to Sir Alfred, using Bridget’s voice.

  Then she inserted the pivetta into her mouth and gave Sir Alfred’s reply. “I know that. 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.”

  Lost in her story and in the happy memory of the first performance with her beloved puppeteer, Mouse felt a little better. When the play ended, everyone clapped, even the sour-faced nurse.

  “Oh, the puppets are wondrous!” Lunette said, handing Noah carefully to Mouse. “Make us another play!”

  “Enough, Lunette,” her father said. “To bed with you.”

  When his daughter had gone, the duke said to Mouse, “It was kind of you to give us a play when your heart is so heavy. Mayhap it will ease your sorrow to know my men have nearly completed repairing your wagon. It will be good as new anon.”

  “When it is ready to travel, so shall I be.” She folded the blue cloth and tucked the pivetta back into its small wooden box.

  “I can see you are eager for the road,” the duke said. “But there cannot be much work for you in the dead of winter. And it is not safe to take a wagon over icy roads. Lunette is right. You must stay till the winter celebrations are past.”

  And so it was that Mouse remained in Gimingham with the duke and his daughter through Christmas. For days the house rang with the laughter of long-invited guests, who ate too much and drank too much and slept in disheveled heaps on the floor. Greenery hung from the windows and doorways and candles brightened every room. In the courtyard a Yule log blazed merrily through the long winter nights.

  Christmas dinner was roasted goose and mince pie. There was wassail and stories and carols that stretched into the afternoon but none of the noisy Christmas games Mouse had so often overheard at Dunston. Instead, the priest returned from the abbey and recited prayers that lasted till sundown.

  It was the finest celebration Mouse had ever seen, but neither the feast nor the musicians’ lilting songs nor the priest’s prayers could ease her grief. The next day the duke’s guests scattered. The men went out riding, and the ladies gossiped and napped. But Mouse could not sleep. Huddled on a stool before the fire in the drafty solar, she stared numbly into the dancing flames, only half listening to Lunette’s prattling and Nurse Catchpole’s endless chatter.

  “Of course, ’tis too bad the puppeteer is dead,” the nurse opined, “but what should such a woman expect when she insists on going about the countryside as freely as a man?”

  Lunette sipped her wassail. “I should dearly love to travel in a wagon and visit every village in the realm with the puppets for company.”

  “Ha! As the priest says, fools die for want of wisdom. The only wonder is that the puppeteer was not killed sooner, mingling with other unsavory folk one finds upon the road.”

  “Your lord the good duke did not find her unsavory,” Mouse said, “since it was she who saved his life and thereby preserved the roof that this very night shelters you from the cold.”

  The nurse opened her mouth to speak, then clamped it firmly shut again. Mouse rose and left the room. On the way to her own bedchamber, she peeked in an open door. The coverlet on the narrow bed was turned down, the curtains were drawn against the winter chill, and a fire burned in the grate. On a small table near the fire lay an open book.

  Mouse glanced over her shoulder. The corridor was deserted, so she went in and picked up the book. It felt solid and warm in her hands; she ran her fingers lightly over the pages and inhaled the faint odor of ink.

  “I believe this is my room,” said the priest from the doorway.

  Mouse whirled around. “Oh!”

  “Mayhap you wish to borrow my book?”

  “I cannot read. It must be very hard to learn, for I have never known anyone who can do it.”

  “It is not so difficult,” he said. “Letters combine to form words, words join to become sentences, sentences grow into paragraphs. It is quite a useful skill for scholars and priests but not of much use for a puppeteer.”

  Mouse could think of many ways reading could prove useful. Imagine all the new stories her puppets could tell if only she knew how to read! And in every village there were fliers and banners, playbills and posters, all meant to be read. But she would not argue with a holy man. “I must go,” she muttered, and made good her escape.

  In the hall she met the duke, returning chilled and red-cheeked from his ride. “Forgive me,” he said, removing his scarf and riding gloves. “I could not help overhearing. You must not mind the priest. He has a good heart, but he wears his learning like a crown. Most unbecoming, if I may say so. Have you had any supper?”

  “I am not hungry. I drank some wassail with Lunette and Nurse Catchpole.”

  “Nurse Catchpole? No wonder you have lost your appetite. Not that I am ungrateful for her attention to Lunette since my dear wife died, but by my saints! Her tongue is sharp as a butter woman’s.”

  Mouse grinned despite herself.

  “Pay her no mind,” the duke continued. “Come now. I am famished, and you must eat as well. You are pale as a winter morn.”

  When they were seated in the dining hall, he rang for a serving girl, who presently returned with slices of roast goose, a plate of cheese, and wedges of cake. Mouse found that she was quite hungry after all.

  “Have you given any more thought to your future?” the duke asked, spearing a morsel of meat. “I would do all in my power to make a goodly home for you here.”

  “You are kind,” Mouse said. “And it is peaceful here.”

  “But you made a promise to your puppeteer.”

  Mouse nodded.

  “She would not hold you to it, should you decide to stay. Did you not tell me how she herself urged you to find a better life?” He peered across the table at her. “Oh, dear. I have upset you again. We shall speak of other things.”

  After their meal Mouse hurried to her bedchamber and lifted her puppets from the trunk.

  “What shall I do?” she asked Sir Alfred.

  But it was Bridget who answered. What else is there to do but carry on?

  Yes, you must, the sorcerer agreed.

  “I do love you all,” Mouse said. “But I am afraid.”

  Afraid? Sir Alfred said. Where is your courage?

  “Mayhap I never was brave but too addlebrained to recognize danger.”

  Now you talk nonsense, Bridget said. Or mayhap it is false modesty that makes you speak so. What of the morn in Marbury Wood? You saved us all then.

  Courage is nothing more than going ahead, even when you feel afraid, Sir Alfred said. You may take my word on that, for I have made a life of being brave, have I not?

  There came a knock at the door, and in came Lunette in her nightdress. “You are still awake.”

  Mouse said, “I am awake, but you should be in bed. Your father will not like it if he finds you here so late.”

  “He is already asleep,” the child confided, picking up the sorcerer. “Can your sorcerer truly do magic? I hope so, for I am in desperate need of a pony, but Father says I am still too young. Will the sorcerer conjure one for me? If he will, I want a bay mare with a white star on her forehead and a shaggy mane for putting ribbons in.”

  Mouse laughed. “I do not think he makes that kind of magic, but we shall ask him all the same.”

  Taking the sorcerer from the girl’s arms, Mouse said, “If it please you, O sorcerer, give this child a pony. It is a bay mare she wants, with a mane for putting ribbons in.”

  “Do not forget the white star on her forehead,” Lunette prompted.

  Mouse held her ear close to the sorcerer’s mouth, listened for a moment, then nodded sagely. “Yes. I see.”

  “What did he say?” Lunette
asked, fairly dancing about the room. “I could not hear a single word!”

  “He says to ask again when you are ten summers old.”

  “Ten summers? I will not need his magic then,” Lunette said. “This sorcerer is of no use at all!” She perched on the puppets’ trunk. “Will you give a play for me, then? I cannot sleep.”

  “Not now. I am busy making a new play.”

  “I hope it is a scary one,” Lunette said. “I still want a tale of witches and goblins.”

  “It is not a witches’ tale,” Mouse said, “but the story of a puppet master and his daughter and their fight against an evil enemy. Bridget will play the daughter. I shall make her a cloak of crimson wool. Sir Alfred will play the brave father, and the sorcerer will be the evil enemy. He already owns a black costume, but he is putting up quite a fuss at having to play so unsavory a character.”

  Lunette’s eyes drifted shut. Mouse roused her and sent her to bed, then climbed beneath her own covers, going over the details in her mind. She must carve a sword for Bridget; mayhap there was still a bit of silver paint in the salvaged pot. And she must practice making the voices with the pivetta. Her hands moved in the dark, rehearsing each turn of the puppets’ heads, each pull of the strings. She could not think of sleep until everything was clear in her mind, for she was determined that the tale of her puppeteer, every bit as thrilling as the story of St. George and the dragon, would not be forgotten.

  At the end of the week, the Christmas guests departed. Through the long winter nights that followed, Mouse busied herself sewing costumes and carving new arms and legs for her mangled puppets. With Lunette as her audience, she practiced her new play.

  One night just after Candlemas, when Mouse finished practicing the story of Noah and the ark, Lunette clapped her hands and said, “Will you stay here when spring comes?”

  Mouse shook her head. “I must take my puppets to the fairs.”

  “Father thinks you should stay. I heard him say as much to the priest at Christmas. But Nurse Catchpole says you are a bad influence. Are you?”

  Mouse laughed. “Mayhap I am, for I do not know what that means. But Nurse Catchpole need not worry. When winter goes, so will I.”

  “I will go with you,” Lunette said. “Mayhap I will become your apprentice.”

  “I think not.” Mouse took up the scrap of red wool she was making into a new cape for Bridget. “The life of a vagabond is not for a maid like you.”

  “It is good enough for you,” Lunette said.

  “I had aught but empty pockets and an empty heart when I ran away from Dunston,” Mouse said. “But you are a girl of means. You will marry well and have a dozen children and live a life of endless pleasure.”

  “A life of boredom, I trow.”

  “You should learn to read. Surely you would never be bored then. I hope to learn it myself someday. Imagine being able to read poems and stories of great adventures anytime you wished.”

  Lunette clapped one palm to her forehead. “I would rather swallow a bucket of goose fat! Sometimes Father reads for days on end, then mopes about frowning and muttering to himself. If that is what comes of knowing how to read, I want no part of it.” She lifted Bridget and twirled her around. “Will you show me how to make this puppet dance? I would pay you for my lessons.”

  Mouse smiled. How long ago it seemed since she had begged the puppeteer for the same chance. “I know how you feel, but I could not take payment while a guest in your father’s house. Mayhap we can make a bargain instead.”

  And so it was arranged. Lunette learned to make Bridget walk and turn and perch upon her chair, while Mouse, under the good duke’s patient eye, unraveled the mysteries of words and sentences and paragraphs.

  “I wish you would reconsider,” the duke said on an April morning when Mouse was at last making ready her departure. They were standing in the sunny courtyard where the wagon had been brought. The repairs were finished, the horse outfitted with a new harness. The puppets in their new costumes rested safely inside their trunk. “Lunette has grown quite fond of you, and Nurse Catchpole soon will be too old to keep an eye on her.”

  “Lunette would tire of me soon enough,” Mouse said. “I have not yet learned enough to be a proper companion for her.”

  “Mayhap that is so. But you know as much as any heart can know of the things that matter most. Courage, friendship, devotion to duty. It is those qualities I wish her to learn.”

  “If you will pardon my saying so, sir, Lunette needs only to look to her own father for that. Your friendship was aught that saved me these past months. I cannot imagine a better teacher for her.”

  He laughed. “Undeserved praise, though it warms my heart to hear it. But the truth is, children conspire to learn as little as possible from their own fathers, on principle. Lunette, I fear, is no exception. Is there naught I can say to change your mind?”

  “I cannot break a solemn vow,” Mouse said quietly. Though a part of her longed to remain at Gimingham, she had no doubt as to where her future lay. “For all its hardships, I would miss the open road.”

  “You will not be lonely without another soul for company?” the duke asked.

  “I have my puppets and the folk who come to see the plays. They are enough company for me.”

  “Even so, if you change your mind, you may be sure a welcome awaits you here.”

  “Mayhap I will come back someday, if only for a while.”

  “Godspeed, then,” the duke said. “Have you the sword?”

  Mouse nodded.

  “Remember, you have but to show it if you ever need help hereabouts and I will send aid straightaway.”

  “I will remember.” Mouse climbed onto the wagon and settled onto the seat.

  Then he gave her the book they had used for her reading lessons during the long winter nights. “Mayhap you will find this a pleasant companion and a reminder of your friends at Gimingham.”

  The sun warmed her shoulders. A gentle breeze stirred the just-washed linen drying in the orchard. Above them the spring sky was a bowl of blue. Despite all Mouse had lost, the world seemed a welcoming place, new and full of promise. She marveled to think that a girl born with nothing at all, not even a name, could by sharp wits and hard work make a place in the world.

  “Wait!” Lunette hurried across the courtyard. “I have brought food for your journey, Mouse.”

  “My thanks, Lunette. But from this day, I am no longer called Mouse. From this day, I am Sabine.”

  The duke nodded. “Her name suits you.”

  Lunette said, “Sabine. Mayhap we shall see you at the Midsummer’s fair.”

  “I will look for you there.” She handed Lunette a small likeness of the sorcerer she had carved from a scrap of oak. “Keep making wishes,” she said. “Sometimes wishes come true.”

  To the duke she said, “I thank you for all your kindness to me and my puppeteer. God’s blessings on your house, my lord.”

  “And on yours,” the duke returned, “though it be a wagon.”

  Then she snapped the reins, and the wagon rolled through the arched gate and rumbled across the bridge spanning the shining river. When she reached the grassy rise where the puppeteer lay, she halted the horse and jumped down.

  Bees buzzed in a patch of thyme, and the nearby sedges rustled in the breeze. Here and there, a few violets peered through the last of the winter stubble. She pulled them carefully from the soil and laid them on the grave.

  “Whisper your sorrows to the wind and go forth singing,” she said to herself.

  A meadowlark sailed by, chirping vigorously. Turning her face to the sun, she closed her eyes and listened. When his song ended, she climbed onto the wagon and flicked the reins.

  “Though it be but April,” she said to the horse, “I feel like singing a Maysong.” She sang as the wagon began to move:

  “When first the leaves are green upon the trees,

  And bees in the newborn blossoms buzz,

  When the sun shine
s bright and sweet birdsong fills the wood,

  Then does my heart sing for joy.”

  The wagon rattled down the rise and across the bright meadow, till the manor house was lost among the trees and all Sabine could see was the road ahead, rising up to meet her.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Since earliest times people have used puppets in religious ceremonies, for celebrations, education, and entertainment.

  During their village festivals, ancient Egyptian women carried images of fertility gods with movable parts to ensure a plentiful harvest. Other Egyptian statues had arms and heads that moved by means of strings, but scholars have no evidence that the Egyptian puppets were used for plays or entertainment. In ancient Greece and Rome, however, actors wearing masks portrayed a number of stock characters—such as Bucco, the comic slave; Maccus, the country bumpkin; and Dossennus, the sharp-tongued hunchback—that later were represented by puppets. Little is known about how the puppets were made, or what materials were used but very old written records provide a few clues.

  Written references to puppets in Greece date to the year 421 B.C. And writing in Rome in the year 30 B.C., the poet Horace described men “who are moved like a wooden puppet with wires that pull.” From these writings, we know that marionettes, like those Mouse and her puppeteer used, have been around for a long time. Glove puppets were also known in ancient Greece, though we don’t know what kinds of plays were performed with them.

  For almost eight hundred years, from A.D. 400 to 1200, there are no written records of puppets and puppeteers in Europe, perhaps because the Catholic Church condemned all entertainers. But by the thirteenth century puppeteers were giving plays to entertain the king and queen of France. Plays during this time were often about brave knights and fierce dragons, but there were also religious plays and church services in which puppets were used to dramatize stories from the Bible.

  Puppetry soon spread to Italy, where a hunchbacked puppet named Pulcinella entertained audiences and became the model for the English puppet called Punch. Puppeteers and puppetry in England, where our story takes place, fell in and out of fashion over many years. During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries puppeteers were mostly vagabonds who carried their puppets with them and performed at private houses or at fairs and festivals in small towns. Sometimes they gave their plays out-of-doors. Sometimes they rented theaters, giving as many as nine performances a day, announcing a coming performance by putting up a banner and beating a drum. The upper classes considered these puppet plays to be vulgar and common, but the “ordinary folk”—peasants, laborers, and other artists—flocked to them.