The Motion of Puppets by Keith Donohue Read Free Book Online Page A

scream, but she could not make a sound. Thrashing around to escape only made him tighten his grip. “I assure you, mademoiselle, this won’t take a minute.”
    The cut itself did not hurt, but merely vibrated against her wooden head, and almost instantly she felt a strong urge to breathe, as if she had been suffocating and gasping for the first swallows of air. After a few strokes, he stopped sawing and gently removed his hand and then stood to admire his handiwork. She clacked her rough lips together, opening and shutting her new mouth.
    â€œ Voilà! Later a little sandpaper to smooth down the edges, but for now, bienvenue !”
    â€œWhere am I?” The sound of her own voice surprised her, having been locked in her throat for so long.
    â€œYou’re in the Back Room,” the clown said and waved his arm with a flourish, showing her the scope of the surroundings. She sat up to take a better look and immediately regretted her decision. Colors and shapes mixing and spinning before slowly settling into view. It was a surprisingly small space. In the middle was a rectangular worktable, littered with tools—hammers and saws—and a miniature lathe with what appeared to be a wooden leg pinned in place at the top of the thigh and bottom of the foot. A sack of overflowing cotton batting stood next to a glass jar half full with fine sawdust. Beaded curtains ran from the floor to ceiling to her left, covering what she remembered as the entrance to the toy shop proper. Opposite the curtain was a bare cinderblock wall broken in the corner by a wooden door to the outside, its single window covered by a sheet of brown butcher’s paper and locked on the inside by both a deadbolt and a strong chain. Along the other two walls rose industrial metal shelves upon which sat an assortment of other puppets who were lined up along the edges. Still as a statue, the clown had been holding his arm up in the air as Kay gathered her wits.
    â€œWhat is the Back Room?”
    â€œIt’s where they make the puppets.”
    â€œYou are a puppet?”
    â€œMy name is Nix. At your service.” He dropped his arm and bowed deeply.
    â€œAm I a puppet?”
    A mischievous leer was pasted on his face as he rose. “That you are.”
    On the shelves, all the other puppets twitched and moved, burst into applause. They clapped and hooted, waving their arms and legs, jumping for joy. Their voices were strange, out of key for adults but not childlike either, some register in between. She was frightened by their enthusiasm but not by Nix’s revelation. Long ago, she had grasped her situation. She understood that somehow she had been transformed into a puppet and was relieved to hear his confirmation.
    A fat marionette, twice the size of Nix, with a barrel stomach and a giant walrus mustache launched himself from the shelf, leaving behind his wires and bars, and waddled over to her, leaping up and landing beside her. He was astonishingly spry in the way that fat men sometimes are. Offering his hand, he helped her to her feet. Nix grabbed her other hand, and they both steadied her as she wobbled on spindly legs, knees buckling once or twice. Her gaze darted back and forth between the two walls as those weird creatures came to life. Some sat in groups of two or three, feet dangling over the edges of the shelves, watching intently. Others stood leaning against the metal sides, affecting a more casual air. She counted twelve altogether, plus the two men at her sides. She wiggled her fingers, and they let go.
    â€œCareful,” Nix said. “The first step is a doozy.”
    She teetered like a toddler and nearly fell to her face. For the next steps, she shuffled forward before daring to lift her foot again.
    â€œBravo, good show,” the walrus man said. “They call me Mr. Firkin.”
    â€œPleased to meet you, Mr. Firkin. How is this all happening?”
    â€œWe come into life of our own