Authors: Pauline C. Harris
Just then I see a small dot up ahead and my breathing catches in my throat and then quickens. The dot jumps along the rooftops of the cars like James and I and as it slowly approaches, I notice the black attire of an administrator. I turn around, surveying the mass of administrators behind us and then the ones ahead. I turn to James who’s trying hard to mask his fear; but his eyes can’t hide it. Just then he points to the other side of the train; away from the road and the administrators, leading into the forest. I had hesitated about going there earlier, afraid it would be swarming with more people out to get us, but I welcome it as our only chance and scramble after James as he climbs precariously down the side of the train.
I feel my feet hit the mossy ground only seconds later and we’re running again. I can hear the administrators yelling at each other but their cries become softer as we create as much distance between us as possible.
The forest is silent yet loud as we race through it, as if creating a frozen world until we pass by. The pounding of my feet against the soggy ground echoes throughout my body, in time with my heartbeat as it thrums in my ears. I can hear James beside me, breathing hard as we sprint through the trees, but he almost feels like a part of me as the wind rushes against my skin at a dizzying pace, distorting my senses into hectic clarity.
Just then, James comes to a stop and I slow beside him. He turns to look behind us, but as I strain my ears, I hear nothing.
“Do you think they came after us?” he pants.
I shrug my shoulders as I try to catch my breath. “I don’t know. But they’ll try.”
James nods and we begin to hurry on again, jogging this time as we try to slow our racing hearts and bring our breathing back to normal.
“Do you know where we are?” I ask James after a few minutes.
He shrugs. “We rode the train all night; we’re miles from home. But I don’t know what direction.”
The swampy forest around us reminds me of the woods behind Jed’s house and I can’t help but feel we haven’t traveled too many miles. A few towns over, maybe?
James and I run and walk for the next hour or so, talking on and off, but mostly trying to save all our energy for getting as far away from the train as possible. We pull out more food from James’s backpack and eat as we trudge through the underbrush.
James and I are talking about Jed and his new ‘cat’ experiment; poor Clemetice and all the cat is about to undergo when suddenly, music hits my ears. James and I turn to look at each other as the music vibrates and carries on at a quick pace; a weirdly joyful tune. I turn in the direction it’s coming from and as I squint against the multitude of trees, I see a small light in the distance, and then more; flashing wildly.
James and I continue ahead, more cautious as the music gets louder and more severe and the lights flash brighter and quicker. But as we go on through the trees, the lights and music slowly begin to make sense as a small carnival begins to appear.
We carefully walk up to the edge of the forest and step out into the busy whirlwind of people and vendors shouting back and forth, the music playing loudly all the time. It seems so odd to come across a scene like this and James and I just stand there in surprise for a few moments before a vendor asks us if we’d like to buy his candied apples. James politely refuses and the vendor gives us an irritated look as we walk away.
A ferris wheel shines in front of us, its lights spinning with the carts as the wheel turns methodically. We walk past it over the trodden grass beneath us and suddenly something catches my eye. A small, sealed up tent stands about twenty feet away, an image painted on the flaps and a large sign out in front. I hurry toward it, James at my heels and we stop in front of the large billboard painted with the faces of robot puppets, the word
marionettes
scrawled elegantly across the top. I stare down at it for a moment, James watching me, before I turn and hesitate only slightly before opening the curtain flaps and stepping inside.
The interior of the tent is dark and slightly surprises me as I walk in. A small stage is set up at the back of the area and chairs are positioned throughout the rest. James steps up behind me and we both sit down in the back row. Only a few people are sprinkled throughout the seats.
I look up to see the puppeteer off to the side, his small remote control box in hand as a large male puppet twirls onstage, zipping back and forth and juggling lemons between its fingertips. Its painted face stares out at the audience; its features so lifelike and human, yet cold and soulless. I had always avoided the robot marionettes; their fake humanity had always frightened me, but now I sit up in my seat as I strain to get a better view of it. What I am now was derived from things like that puppet onstage. In many ways, we’re alike; the same. Controlled by others in a world where all you want is to be free.
I sit, captivated, as marionette after marionette comes onstage and performs trick after trick. I imagine this is how Jed would act if he were here; perched on the edge of his seat, his eyes lighting up. I wonder how many times he sat and watched performances like these, enamored with every move, until he decided to create one of his own.
Just then, a female marionette spins onstage, her bright orange hair and vibrant blue and gold outfit shining and clashing in a charmingly odd way. Her makeup is painted to look like an old wooden marionette, sharp angles drawn on her face and round red circles for cheeks. She dances around and methodically her moves become faster until she’s sprinting across the stage, twirling and leaping, often times too quickly for our eyes to catch.
Suddenly, the puppet stops and turns toward the audience. “A volunteer?” the puppeteer calls as the puppet slowly begins to walk down the center aisle. I see no raised hands among the small crowd and as the marionette turns as if looking out at all of us, I can’t help but feel slightly unsettled. Just then I notice the marionette at the end of the aisle and suddenly it’s turning toward me. I scoot inwards toward James, but the puppet is already standing next to my seat. I stare up at its lifeless eyes and feel a shiver run through me as it gently takes my hand and brings me to my feet.
“Thank you!” the puppeteer shouts across the crowd and I look nervously over at James. He looks lost for words but gives me an encouraging expression.
The puppet leads me up the aisle and everything about it disturbs me; its face, its lifelike gait, the way its chest moves up and down when I know there are no real lungs underneath the plastic and metal. The marionette’s orange hair shines underneath the harsh lights, making the plastic hairs of the wig sparkle. It leads me up the stairs to the stage and then lets go of my hand; I pull mine away, suppressing a shudder.
“Shall we test this marionette’s strength?” the man cries out and few audience members look intrigued, although no one responds. “If you please?” the puppeteer says to me, gesturing to the small table on the stage, two chairs on opposite sides. “Both lovely ladies, same size, same height. Shall we see who wins an arm wrestle?”
I stare at him in disbelief, looking from him to the lifeless doll and back.
“She won’t hurt you,” he states, reading my fear.
I stare down at the audience for a moment, seeing James in the back row watching me. I swallow and sit down. The puppet sits down across from me, our heads at the same level, her dead eyes staring straight into mine.
“Ready?” the puppeteer asks, and the marionette puts its elbow on the table. I hesitate for a moment before bringing my arm up as well and placing my hand in the puppet’s. The cold plastic sticks to my sweaty palms and I want to pull away but the marionette wraps its fingers tightly around mine.
“Set,” the man says. I feel as if my hand is clasped in some metal machine, not a person with a beating heart, working lungs and a living mind.
“Go.”
I feel the pressure against my palm and sit in anxiety and surprise as the force becomes harder and my hand stays the same. I frown across at the marionette and then push slightly, watching as its hand wavers backward. I had never thought to test my strength against a robot marionette’s; I had always thought of them as powerful and strong, never something you could outrun or out-force. But now, as I sit there, I feel the puppet’s arm like a child’s, flimsy and breakable.
But just then, out of the corner of my eye I see the puppeteer, his eyes widened in confused shock, his eyebrows narrowed as he watches his superhuman marionette fail to arm wrestle a skinny, teenage girl. And then my senses come back and I immediately loosen my grip, feeling the puppet shove my arm to the table. I hear the puppeteer sigh in relief and then announce something to the audience, his voice animated and slightly relieved. I yank my arm from the marionette’s grasp and stand up, the chair almost toppling over as I do so. The man ends the show and thanks everyone for coming as I hurry down the steps and back to James.
James says nothing, only watches me as I grab my bag, people filing out behind us. We turn to go and I rush toward the exit when I hear the puppeteer’s voice across the empty tent.
“Wait,” he calls, striding towards us.
“Pen, we should go,” James’s low voice sounds quietly in my ear. I turn again, but the man’s voice stops me.
“I know who you are.”
I swivel around to glare suspiciously at him, while I notice James tense beside me. “And who am I?” I snap.
“That girl, that marionette girl,” he says. “The living marionette.”
I shake my head, about to open my mouth and refute his claim, but the itching and burning return to my throat with a sudden intensity.
“You’ve got the wrong girl,” James steps in for me, holding my elbow and turning me toward the exit.
“You
are
her.” The man’s voice is harder this time; more certain. “A full grown man can’t hold off my marionette for more than half a second, and you,” he goes on. “
You
were about to beat her.”
I stand transfixed as the man stares at me in awe, even while a part of me demands that I leave. “Pen...” I hear James’s low voice behind me.
“Would you like a chance to really beat her?” the man asks, his eyes sparkling. “To see how much you can really do against a marionette?”
I watch him in silence, contemplating the offer in my head.
“I can tell you’ve never...tried your abilities against one, so to speak,” he says with a smile that barely reaches his eyes. “You’ve got nothing to lose. All I want to do is observe this genius of an experiment before my own eyes,” he adds upon my silence.
I hesitate for a moment, biting my lip before finally narrowing my eyes, saying, “Okay,” and walking toward the stage. A wide grin stretches across the man’s face while he runs up to grab his remote control. I hear James sigh behind me as he follows me up the stairs, watching the puppeteer suspiciously the whole time.
I sit down across from the marionette that hasn’t moved since our last arm wrestle. Suddenly it comes to life, sitting up straight and placing its elbow on the table like last time. I press my hand against the marionette’s synthetic one and on the count of three, we both begin. I feel the machine shudder underneath my hand as I squeeze and press against it. The puppet’s arm bends backward as I push it towards the table and I hear a small popping sound from within the metal arm. I push harder and in a matter of seconds, the arm is placed firmly on the table, the marionette leaning towards it in an incredibly awkward and broken manner. It was never designed to lose.
I hear the man’s surprised yet delighted exclamation from across the stage. I stand up, pushing my chair back. “Amazing,” he mutters. “Try it again,” he declares and I give him an odd look, his marionette slumped over like a busted doll.
“Pen,” I hear James’s warning voice from behind me, more urgent this time, but I ignore him as I watch the puppet try to get up, twitching and shuddering. “Pen!” he exclaims and I spin around to see him lifting the chair and smashing it against the male marionette from earlier; his arms outstretched, reaching for my shoulders. The chair bounces off its head and it staggers backward, but only a few steps before it comes at me again. I see another out of the corner of my eye, sprinting my way from behind the curtains.
I see the puppeteer’s eyes flashing with hunger; greed, and I realize that he never wanted to see his marionettes tested against me, to see how well I’d perform. He wanted
me
. The living marionette. And before I can even blink, the puppet lunges at me again, his arms shoving against mine and pinning me to the floor with a thud.
16
––––––––
I
heave the marionette upwards, off of my body, and clamber to my feet as it rolls away. The puppet lunges at me again, clumsily reaching for my wrists, but I act before it does, grabbing the neck and lifting it off the ground. It continues to stretch toward me, jerking and kicking, but it’s a marionette, not a living being with real motor skills. Its arms and legs sputter and shake as I squeeze the neck between my fingers like cardboard, gritting my teeth as I stare up into its happily painted face. I toss the mangled machine towards the wall and spin around to glare at the puppeteer, his face painted with shock, just as obvious as his marionettes.
“Would you like me to break all your dolls?” I ask him with a snarl. “Or should I go?” He drops his remote control and the second marionette behind me sags to a stop. “I’m not a puppet,” I mutter under my breath as I grab my bag from the floor and storm toward the exit. I can feel the man’s eyes on me as I leave the tent, anger boiling throughout my body.
James and I hurry down the grass pathway past booths and rides until we reach the end of the carnival and begin walking down the sidewalk of the street. I sigh angrily as I reach for a sweater in my bag.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, more angry at myself than at the puppeteer. “I should have listened to you.” I grit my teeth as the words come out, feeling foul and dry. I open my mouth to say that I thought he could be trusted, but bite back a groan when my burning throat informs me that I really didn’t. Apparently excuses are just lies in disguise.