I've not been blogging for quite a while now. This is a new story I wrote, again inspired by Angela Carter. It's a little too long I know, but I can't help it. It's inspired by Pinocchio. Pardon me if there are typos, I only ran through it once. Enjoy it.
The Prince and The Puppet
Once there was a prince and once there was a block of wood.
Once there was a prince who was loved by all. He was kind, generous, loving, gracious and charismatic. And oh, he was beautiful. Skin as fair as alabaster, smooth as marble. Hair as black as darkness could possibly yield. Eyes, grey and peaceful; warm. Body, lean and sculpted. Arms, tender yet firm and muscled. Barely eighteen years of age, barely a man. His childlike youth was still resonating from his face; the face of a boy, on the body of a man. A cherubic Adonis incarnate in royal garments.
He was betrothed to a princess of a land so far away he barely knew the young girl. He was the heir to the throne. And no one doubted that he will be a good king, a wise king.
Once there was a prince who was loved by all his subjects. But none loved him more than the young soldier he loved.
He could not remember how or when they first met, but since then, they have spent countless and secret nights in the prince's bed. They would caress each other's white flesh, kissing each other's supple lips, holding each other's strong arms. They would spend whole nights making love. They would share whispered words of love and affection under the watchful eyes of the moon, until the harsh prejudiced sun glared at them the next day.
Their love was so pure and perfect that no one could appreciate it, that they had to blanket their love and trysts in darkness like Eros and Psyche. Yes, it was too pure that God himself had to sever and end it.
The young soldier was unexpectedly sent away to war, leaving his prince all alone. A few weeks later, the prince received a letter announcing their victory. It also brought the news of the young soldier's death; he died in battle, immortalized as a symbol of courage in the prince's mind and heart. The day he received the letter was the day the prince lost his prince. And since then, he smiled no more, and no one knew why.
News traveled about the prince's mysterious depression and about the king's generous reward to anyone who could bring back the smile to his son's face; many tried. Women came from lands unknown; courtesans, prostitutes, country girls and even witches and enchantresses. Performers lined up with exotic acts; jesters to fire eaters, dancers to singers. Many tried but all failed, except one.
Once there was a block of wood, uncarved; pine in fact, the most beautiful pine there was. Its exquisite grains mimicked delicate human veins; its color, rich. It was a beauty, yet to an untrained eye, it was merely a block of wood, nothing more.
The block of wood laid still on the workbench of a master artisan; a puppet maker. He had fingers that would put God to shame; or so it was said. Some, in hushed whispers, said that he was an ancient wizard or warlock, for not only could he create realistic pseudo humanity from wood, he could even animate them to move far more graceful than the most talented of dancers. It was as if the puppets were possessed by some divine souls yearning for physical shells to live in. The puppet maker was truly a marvel but this tale is not about him. It is about the still and silent block of wood on his workbench.
First, he cut the holy pine into numerous pieces, and then from these pieces he carved individual parts. Those who witnessed him working admitted that it was like watching God creating Eve and Adam; even though none of them obviously saw the genesis in action, the comparison was not an exaggeration. Soon distinct anatomically correct body parts could be recognized; digits, fingers, hands, arms, toes, feet, legs, thighs, torso, neck. Its body seemed to be held in place by magic for the iron nails that held it together were masterfully concealed. He carved and joined the wood with effortless ease but the head and face, he took his own time.
The features of the most beautiful seraphim was carved onto the divine wood; a face so beautiful, it rivaled Lucifer. Some said it was Lucifer himself who inspired the artisan; a tribute to his fallen master maybe, they whispered. The lips were painted red, like cherries, pressed together for an aphrodisiac concoction. The eyes were framed in haunting black. The pupils too were black; shadows to a realm unknown. The hair was real, human; collected from whom, no one knows. It was as black and silken as the night sky. The puppet was gorgeous; a boy dragged out of childhood and into manhood, an exotic Apollo immortalized in wood, trapped in an eternal limbo of youth.
Once there was a prince who could not smile and once there was a block of wood carved into a puppet. Well, fate has a funny way of tying two different lives together, so she did.
The old puppet master, with his newest creation, traveled to the castle of the forlorn prince. A little publicity is always good for business and the reward would not hurt either, he thought to himself, his eyes glistened with greed. As miraculous as he is, he was after all human.
The vast doors to the court opened to let him enter. The gothic royal court glistened from floor to ceiling. The walls, arches and pillars were made of white marble veined in black. A great crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. Colossal stained glass windows painted the sunlight, illuminating the room with rainbows. Numerous gold-gilded statues of various ancient and forgotten pagan gods decorated the court. And a crimson carpet stretched from the ceiling high doors to three royal thrones at the other end of the enormous room. The courtiers sat quietly on both sides of the carpet, waiting in anticipation. On the thrones sat the king, and on his sides, the queen and prince. Royal guards stood on both sides of the thrones like lifeless statues.
The puppet maker made his way slowly to the throne pulling what looked like a black coffin on wheels. Though his hands never let time sap life from them, age seemed to have taken speed away from his legs. He took his time to walk to the throne. It seemed like an eternity before he finally reached the waiting royalties.
He bowed as far as his ancient back could allow. The king merely gave an uninterested and arrogant nod. The puppet master slowly moved to his huge coffin, run his fingers along the edge of it, and then slowly lifted the lid of the enormous box. His hands sunk into the darkness of the casket. Everyone in the room tried to peer into it, some even stood on their toes. He pulled out what looked like a man. It was the puppet. The puppet was wearing garments that looked like it was from some mysterious land of the orient. The brocade suit fit it nicely, hugging its body well.
A puppet, inquired the king.
Yes my lord, replied the old artisan, it is after all my profession, puppet making.
The king raised one eyebrow in curiosity, yet his wooden features made sure that no emotions could be made too obviously. And this marionette would be able to make my son smile again, he asked. His eyes tried to look at his son but something stopped him; pain maybe, or disappointment.
Yes, it would, the puppet maker replied.
Very well then. Whenever you are ready.
He lifted the strings of the puppet. It twitched involuntarily. This is no ordinary puppet, said the puppet maker, this is a prince from farthest kingdom of the orient. He was handsome and kind. Charity and compassion were his code. Yet his own mother hated him for their people loved him more than her. So she cursed him, her own flesh and blood, into wood and sap. Yet, this tragedy was what kept him alive and youthful even after his witch of a mother's death, a beautiful puppet forever. He has lived through centuries and seen many lands; sold from one collector to another until I bought him from an Arabian magician. The soul of the poor prince still resides within this wooden being, yearning to be flesh once more. Look into his eyes. It stares back, does it not?
With those words, he animated the puppet. He breathed life into it with ease. It bowed. Then it danced and twirled. Each movement and gesture, so fluid that it surpasses humanity. The audience stared transfixed at the moving wood, only the wood, not noticing the bony fingers that led it. Every action made the audience pant. Every pause stopped them breathing. The puppetry display was truly hypnotic. The more the puppet danced the more carnal and demonic it became, dragging its audience further from reality; seducing them. After what seemed like an eternity, the puppet maker stopped.
Don't stop. Not yet.
Every pair of eyes darted to the thrones. The voice had come from the prince. He was now on his feet.
Don't stop, he repeated, with a smile on his face.
I can't, your majesty, said the puppet maker, an old man's limitations. Age and time tend to do that to us humans. But if you would like to see him live again like before, he's yours as long as you promise to take good care of him.
You're giving him to me? Thank you, said the prince with a childlike twinkle in his eyes, as if he had received a new toy, no, a companion.
That was how the puppet maker became rich and famous. But most importantly, that was how two beings, different yet alike, were brought together by the hands of fate. It would wonderful to end the tale here but unfortunately, this is not the end, not just yet.
Since then, the prince spent all his twilights with the marionette, perfecting his puppetry. The vigor of his soul had returned to his once lifeless shell. He the puppet became his one companion for the cloistered life of royalty prevented him from finding true friends; all of the courtiers wear sycophantic masks. And to this lifeless doll, he spoke. He spoke of his future. He spoke of the wonders he would do once he was king. And he spoke of his past. And he spoke of his late lover, the young soldier. And the motionless marionette merely listened, for what more could a puppet do? It sat and listened.
It seems childish does it not? The heir to the throne, conversing with a doll; some might even call it lunacy. But bear in mind, this was a boy, dragged from childhood into the world of adulthood, at mere infancy. Even as a child he had to bear the responsibility of his title; which he did with utmost dignity and wisdom. So, forgive the lost trapped child within him that yearns to be free. And only at night, could he uncage that little boy who longs to be just a boy; no more, no less. His soldier gave him that freedom. Now, the puppet gave him just the same.
Each night, when the might of the holy sun fell, when darkness blinds, when the moon watches with her unbigoted blue eye, the prince would retreat to his glorious bedchamber, alone. He ordered to be all alone, for the lack of isolation in the courts could get a little exhausting. And alone, he would be free. A prince during day, a child at night; a warped yet divine metamorphosis.
Alone, he would practice the art of life-giving; that was what he akinned puppetry to, God's gift of life. Alone, he pulled and tugged at the strings until the oriental doll came to life, dancing a cathartic dance, almost shamanic. The doll twirled, bowed, leaped and waved. Languid as water, the limbs moved; stroking the air, caressing nothingness as if it were a lover. His skills had improved over mere weeks. It was what kept him alive, he felt.
Once he was satisfied, he ended the doll's seductive dance, pleased with himself. He sat the puppet by his side. Then, he would talk to it, expecting no replies; for how could the puppet do anything more than just sit there? The prince would laugh, and he would cry. The puppet would stare, and the puppet would listen. He was contented knowing that it was listening, just listening. Yes, he never doubted that the doll marionette that sat faithfully beside him could hear him. It was a silly thought, but he was right.
When the power of that which is, and forever, holy and divine, fornicates with the fertility and fecundity of Mother Nature, anything is possible; life be their fruit. We shall never know God's dealings and pacts, but something imbued within the puppet, life, even before the chisel fell on the face of the pine.
The prince would retire to bed once tired, leaving the puppet seated on a chair, facing his bed. It watched and guarded over him like a silent sentinel.
The puppet would watch him sleep. His smooth firm chest, rising and falling with every breath. His hair glistening under the touch of the moonlight. His face, smooth and pure. The puppet envied the glories of flesh. Jealousy; that green eyed monster fed like a termite within the doll.
I want to be human, he wished to himself, each night. Now, when you pray for something hard enough, God usually answers; maybe because he loves you, which many choose to believe, or he simply wanted to shut your irritating deafening whining once and for all. Which ever reason it may be, he answers, like he did the puppet.
Like every night, the puppet was sitting still on the chair. I want to be human, he wished yet again.
You can, a voice answered, but why would want to?
The puppet remained still and voiceless.
Something moved in front of him, swifter than shadow. It was a man, larger than most. His waist long curly hair was black as midnight; a harsh frame compared to his white, not pale, but milk white skin. He was handsome, not beautiful, but handsome; the kind of masculine attractiveness that demands both adoration and fear. He was robed in twilight black. Where robe ended and where the shadows started, it was hard to tell. Yet, despite his glowing white skin and inhuman size, not to mention his preoccupation with darkness, he might be able to pass off as a man. What dragged him away from any possibility of humanity were his eyes. They were luminous golden yellow, like that of some ancient feline.
Who am I you should ask, he said with his velvety intoxicating voice, I am the seraph Gabriel, the Lord's hand. And you my child are a puppet.
The angel laughed as if it was a funny thought. That laughter was what death was made of, felt the puppet. He circled the puppet like a demonic shark as he spoke.
So child, why do you wish to be flesh when the beauty of lacquered wood is much more permanent? You long for the warmth of humanity don't you, my boy? The heat of mortal flesh; like the precious youth that lie asleep in front of you. To be able to move and speak as you will, unguided by strings. You yearn to be free? Wonderful is it not? The pleasures of mortality. Well, what if I told you, you little wooden boy, that it could be done? Ah. How? The only way to be human is to be human. To feel it. Now you are merely dead wood, and so is your dead wooden heart; cold. And only cold emotions could a cold heart yield; jealousy and resentment. But I can give it the warmth it needs to burn with passion. Once you've learned to love, cliché as it may sound, you will be wood and sap no more. And you could be loved in return, for you will be flesh and blood. Do you still yearn to give up the permanence of this wooden shell for temporal mortal flesh?
Yes, the puppet thought loudly in his mind.
Very well.
The seraph bent down towards the sitting doll, engulfing it in his glorious darkness. They were face to face now; eye to eye. Oh, those eyes, burned the puppet's hallow ones. Was there fire behind them, the puppet asked himself. The angel moved yet nearer. Incapable of retreating, the puppet stared and waited. Then it happened. The voluptuous lips of the lord's angel pressed against the marionette's wooden ones. He breathed his warm dark breath into the puppet, clasping the wooden boys head tight between his hands. Warmth turned to intense heat; the breath that warmed the puppets hollow body now burned it. Just when he thought he was going to erupt in flames, the seraph stopped.
He gave one last smile that could make any soul yearn for death, before he vanished, consumed by his own darkness. Only the glare of his lantern eyes remained, etched and burned momentarily on the puppets eyes. Then it was dark again.
He was still a puppet, wood through and through. But he felt change. Something changed. Something in him changed.
Could flesh be a reality for him? He did not know. He pondered the whole night. And when the Sun stole the throne of the heavens yet again, he pondered still. And he felt something he had never felt before; hope. Could wood really be flesh?
That night, he received his answer.
After the prince practiced his puppetry yet again, he sat the puppet beside him as usual. He started talking to his wooden friend. His old wounds were cut open once more. Images of his soldier drowned his head. Pain clawed at his young heart. And tears scarred his youthful visage. And for once, the puppet felt something; sympathy.
He wanted to say it would be fine. He wanted to sooth his human friend. He wanted to see the prince's smile again. Then he breathed, in a sense, the puppet breathed.
Cool night air rushed into him through his mouth. It swirled within his chest then out again. This simple movement of air produced the most exquisite sound; like some woodwind instrument. Amazed with himself, he tried again and again; one sound, then the next and another. Soon he was singing to his prince like a magic flute.
The prince did not know the source of the wooden tune yet he allowed it to lull him to sleep, with a smile on his face.
The next night was just the same, and the night after that and the one after that. Each night the prince would bring life to the puppet, tugging on the delicate strings. Each night he would pour out his heart to the motionless doll. And each night, like every other night, the puppet's wooden lullaby would put the weeping prince to sleep. His sympathy for his royal friend grew to care and concern. Until one night, it finally dawned to him; he had fallen in love. After so long, he finally fell in love, with a prince no less.
The heat of the knowledge burned every fiber of his pine body; it was beyond comprehension. The desire to hold the sleeping prince in his arms was too strong to deny. His yearning to kiss him was too cruel to let his heart resist. Love me, sweet prince, he begged voicelessly.
He was lost in his passionate thoughts, that before he realized it, he was at the prince's bed. He had walked all the way there from his chair. Yes, he could walk, finally, he could walk. Wood, he was still, but he could move. Excitement filled him like a drug; consuming him.
Soon I'll be flesh, and soon I'll be loved; I'll be worthy of love.
He crept onto the huge bed, onto the silken linens. He crept closer towards the sleeping beauty before him. He ran his wooden fingers down the prince's pale firm chest, then down his stomach and abdomen, and lower; stopping short of the fine curly hair that hinted the prince's manhood. He then gazed at the prince's face, so blissful. His lips looked delicious. He bent down until his face was right above the prince's. The fear of a terrible outcome was thrilling, temping. Feeling compelled, he slowly pressed his lips to the prince's, breathing in the prince's sweet breath.
The sleeping eyes opened showing not affection but fear. He threw the wooden boy off himself.
The puppet was alive, he thought, how can this be.
One and only one explanation forced itself into his head like a venom; witchcraft and sorcery. That was all he thought as he watched the wooden demon moving towards him.
Guards, he yelled, guards!
It was almost immediate, about ten guards swarmed in; muskets in one hand, lanterns in the other.
The puppet! The Demon! Burn it, he yelled with fear threatening to crack it. Burn it now!
Lanterns rained upon the wooden child. He tried to flee but there was no escaping the fire clinging to his wooden body.
Why, he thought, why? I love him and I was there for him. Why? Did I not love enough? Why does he not love me back in return? Why am I not human? Why? Why am I nothing more than wood? Why?
Then the familiar velvety voice of the dark angel answered, I lied!
The seraph's cruel laughter rang within his burning head. Funny how the strength of one's hope can be destroyed so easily. Funny how one could feel invincible one moment, and vulnerable the next. Funny how you could feel beyond human one moment and something would make you realize that you are merely wood; and that is all you ever will be, wood, nothing more. Funny is it not?
He gazed at the face of his Adonis; his eyes, fear swam in them. And at that very moment, the puppet let go. He let go. He let go to the fire's insatiable appetite. He let go to death's demanding call. He let go for he knew no more reason to live.
He felt the metal nails that held him together melt; his body threatening to fall apart. He felt his body burn. His exotic garments did not protect him; they merely fed the undying flames. The pain was cruel and relentless towards him. What a way die. Yet his gaze was still on his beloved.
The prince watched the puppet blanketed in flames. His eyes were transfixed upon the marionettes face. There was sorrow upon that wooden visage. The darkness of the eyes sank even deeper, like an abyss of agony. And the puppet's lips uttered three distinct words, obvious to anyone who saw them move. Then, the inferno ate him whole.
The flames burned for ages until someone had the decency to put it out. It left a huge burn mark upon the floor of the prince's bedchamber. All that was left of the once beautiful doll were ashes.
The prince knelt before the remains of the marionette that was once his. Among the dull grey ashes, something glistened beneath the dark light of the moon. He picked it up. Metal; iron in fact. All the melted nails are now fused as one.
The might fire had destroyed, burned and melted all that was the puppet, leaving only a bit of melted metal, which lay lifeless in the prince's palm; an iron heart.
