Strings

Chapter 3: The Puppet Maker

There were two bookshelves on either side of the fireplace, piled up with odd items and dusty leather bound volumes. Above the fireplace stood an old oil painting, depicting a scene from a circus. On all sides of the painting were perches made of iron rods in two neat rows. There were no tables or chairs in the room, instead large and worn cushions lay on a thread bare carpet before the fireplace.

Another door stood on the other side of the room. My gaze wandered to it curiously before turning back to the rest of the room. It was shabby yet cozy yet strange. I glanced at the young man who called himself Mr. Strings. He seemed to have felt my gaze, for he turned to me and smiled mysteriously.
"Why don't you have a seat by the fire? You must be terribly cold after wandering out there for so long?"

I obediently went and sat down on one of the cushions; crossing my legs and watching Mr. Strings take off his cloak and hat, hanging them on a coat hanger. I noted that he did not lock the door behind him.That would be my escape route, if need be.

"Who are you?" I asked again, wanting to know more about this strange boy.
"I told you, I am Mr. Strings." he said patiently, holding two cups of tea. Where had they come from?

He held out one tea cup to me and although alarm bells went off in my head, I took it, not wanting to appear rude. The hot porcelain warmed my fingers as I watched him sit down in front of my, sipping his tea and looking into the fire.

"You know, I haven't poisoned your tea." He said suddenly, looking at me with a mischievous grin. "If I wanted to harm you, would I have gone to all the trouble of making you feel comfortable?"

I felt embarrassed, but nevertheless I shook my head. "I'm sorry." I said apologetically yet firmly. "But I do not even know you. You can't expect me to be too relaxed around you."

Much to her surprise, Mr. Strings chuckled, sounding amused. "Curious, yet cautions. That's good." He said with a smile. "You have every right to distrust me."

I was more than a little bewildered by this reaction. I had expected him to insist upon drinking the tea, maybe even tried to force it down. Instead I got his praise for what little caution I had managed to show that day. He certainly was an odd character.
As I set my untouched tea cup down, he let out a low whistle. Overhead there was a rustle of feathers. I looked up to see a black bird the size of a crow swoop down and land on Mr. Strings' outstretched arm.

"This is the source of the music you heard." He said, stroking the bird's black feathers which flashed a dark blue in the fire's glow. It turned and looked at me with its large black eyes, opening it's dark red beak and letting out a low, musical note.

"What is it?" I asked.
"This is a Jackeray." Mr. Strings told me. "A highly intelligent creature that can imitate the sounds of any musical instrument, or even a person if correctly trained. Once trained, they can stand in for an entire orchestra."
With that, he suddenly got to his feet, causing the Jackeray to take off back into the shadows of the rafters. "Would you like to come see my workshop?" He asked. "I have so much I want to show you."
"Oh, alright." I said tentatively.

He clapped his hands together. "Wonderful! If you would follow me up this flight of stairs please..."

He led me up the flight of stairs, the old wood creaking underneath our feet. We ascended past the rafters and I thought I saw something move among the wooden beams, only to find a Jackeray sweep by me. I realized there was a whole flock of them nesting here.

We kept moving upwards until we came upon an attic with a sloping ceiling. All around there were bits of wood and shavings littering the floor. Planks were propped up against the wall next to a work table. Various tools lay on the table, small saws, nails and other things I couldn't name. Another table stood by the small, dusty window, decked with bottles of paint, varnish and scattered brushes. On the other half of the table were reels of thread and rolls of cloth stacked haphazardly on one side. I stared at the strange assortment of objects and wondered what purpose this workshop served. Then when Mr. Strings tapped my shoulder lightly and directed my gaze upwards, I got my answer.

Hanging from the ceiling, suspended by thin threads I could barely see, were  puppets. Their blank eyes stared unblinkingly at me, hair falling over their faces. My gaze travelled around the hanging puppets curiously.

"So you're a puppet maker?" I asked. "You made all of these on your own?"
"Yes to both questions." Mr. Strings said and I detected a hint of pride in his voice. "It's something I love to do. I've been doing it for many years now. Come let me introduce you to some of them."

He reached up and pulled down puppet after puppet, telling me their names, their nationalities. In a span of a few minutes, I was introduced to many of Mr. String's puppets; each dressed in beautifully made dresses and painted faces made with the greatest care. One puppet however particularly grabbed my attention.

"This one is my favorite." Mr. Strings' said with a smile, showing me a Victorian era puppet girl with fiery red hair dressed in a tea pink dress and bonnet. "This is Elizabeth. I put a lot of effort in making her look perfect."

I studied the puppet closely as I took her into my hands. As I gazed at her glassy green eyes, I couldn't help but think she looked rather sad. But there was something else about the puppet, something that sent shivers down my spine. She seemed almost alive, staring at me with those green eyes of hers.

I shrugged it off. It was probably just my imagination. Before I could dwell any longer on the strange feeling, Mr. Strings spoke,

"And now Janet." He said with the same mischievous look in his eye. "It is time for the show to begin."