photo ea8ce356-0b08-49b7-86a8-097fec8d74bb_zpssrpsdstx.jpg

Search Mirror Dance


Eleanor_Cowper

Visit Us on Facebook

Facebook Page
 
Showing posts with label Cordelia Harrison. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cordelia Harrison. Show all posts

The Dancing Bear


The Dancing Bear
by Cordelia Harrison

Martin Stern stared at the empty steel cage, rattling at the back of the wagon. The bear that had occupied it died last year. A dog bite gone septic. His uncle Hostle had made a drunken bet with a poacher, swearing that the beast could take on the man’s wolfhound. The grizzly was old, arthritic and tired. It hadn't stood a chance once the hound was set loose.

Royston Stern’s rage had been terrible to behold and Martin, though used to his father’s anger, had been terrified for his uncle. Royston was furious, not just at the stupidity of the bet, but the death of the bear, whose long captivity had made it docile as a lamb. Nothing brought in coin quicker than a dancing grizzly and a group of minstrels; without the bear they were no different to any other itinerant musicians.

In truth, Martin was glad the creature was dead for its constant despair had been horrible. Its lurching, pathetic dance always made him feel like weeping. His father frequently sneered that he was far too soft for the travelling life. His dark long-lashed eyes, golden curls and distaste for fighting, were an object of ridicule to many.

The leader of their minstrel clan, Royston was hard, cruel and brutal, with an insatiable lust for violence. He wore tanned leather breeches and puffed on a long ebony pipe. Crafty, with an innate knowledge of how to swindle, he was feared and venerated by the rest of the troupe, and his reputation was well known on the roads they travelled and in the towns where they rested. Martin, though, despised him. He’d felt the back of his father's hand far too many times. Royston once caught him feeding tender scraps of meat to the old grizzly, and had dealt him a blow so hard it sent him sprawling in the dust.

“The beast eats what I say it does, and nothing more. You want to pamper it like one of your sister's lap dogs? You want to make it so fat and greedy that it refuses to perform?”

He had hit Martin again for good measure, and made his ears ring.

“You'll sleep outside camp this evening for your stupidity. And if I ever catch you indulging that thing again, that's where you'll permanently spend your nights.”

Adiva, Martin's mother, a quiet woman with the same soft brown eyes as her son, tried to intervene, and got a slap across the face for her trouble. Martin had nursed his grievances for days.

Now, to his distaste, they were getting a new bear. The animal market, held in the south, was where Martin's father hoped to procure a cub. It would be expensive, but the company agreed: it was the right thing to do. The old grizzly had been the best purchase they'd ever made.

“Training up a cub is the way to do it.” Old Longleaf, Martin’s great uncle, had nodded. He was crafty like his feared nephew, but surprisingly mellow in temperament. The old man always reminded Martin of a stork, with his tall frame and large beak of a nose. “Folk love a dancing bear, we all knows, and that animal was the reason we didn't spend past winters freezing without a camp fire and starving without food.”

Hostle, Royston’s younger brother, had retrieved the old grizzly's training whip in readiness. He resembled his brother somewhat, but was shorter and fatter, red-faced from drinking too many spirits. He swung the whip cockily as he paraded around the camp. Martin felt sick just watching.

* * *

When they arrived at the market it got even worse: Royston insisted Martin follow him, determined his son should learn something. Though some of the horse traders were offering steeds that were obviously well cared for, the wild animal sellers possessed only frightened creatures cowering in filthy cages, or others gone mad with their confinement. Martin watched his father laughing as Hostle tormented a spitting mountain cat. His uncle plucked fur from its tufted ears and pulled the cat's tail through the bars, seeming to think himself clever not to be scratched. Even the keeper was amused and joined in: he poked a stick into the cat's bony flanks, drawing a distressed cry from the animal.

“He's a vicious bastard, but I’ll give you him for half a gold.” The keeper smiled, showing black voids where teeth were missing.

Hostle moved away from the cat and Martin's father shook his head. “Nah, it’s a bear we want. A young cub, black or grizzly.”

“Aye.” The keeper nodded, kept grinning; the teeth that remained were tobacco stained. “Got just the thing. Here in the back.” He led them towards cages at the far end of his stall. Martin followed reluctantly, but he knew if he ran off he’d incur Royston’s wrath again. Next to a pair of small growling timber wolves was a black bear cub, crouched in a tiny cage and slavering furiously. Its dark eyes glinted with what Martin could only describe as resentment, and its fur was matted and filthy, hopping with fleas.

“Caught him near Blackwood Forest.” The keeper cackled. “Taken a few swipes at me, he has, but he ain't got me yet. One gold.”

To Martin's surprise, his father and uncle were exchanging glances.

“Blackwood Forest?” Hostle said, with a raised eyebrow.

“Aye, near it. Set a trap one night and there he was the next morning. And these as well.” He pointed to the wolf cubs. Martin's father scowled, taking a long drag from his pipe.

“Near, you say. Not in. Man's a fool who ventures there. We never take the caravans down that way, not worth the risk.”

Martin realised with some surprise that this was actually true, not some scheme to lower the price. The minstrels had always gone the long road, anxious to avoid going through the Blackwood. They never even camped within sight of the wilderness, always kept some kind of natural barrier in between, a copse of trees, a hill, a rock fall.

“We know the tales,” Royston continued pointedly. The keeper frowned as if seeing his sale swiftly disappear before his eyes.

“You ain't tellin' me you believe those old stories? A great black demon that lives in the woods? I’d not have taken you for a lackwit child, Royston Stern.” The man injected a note of disdain into his tone, but not too much: many knew the minstrel’s temper and few would risk it.

“Not stories,” Hostle said, spitting a gob of phlegm. “It's travellers’ way, to know the difference between wives’ tales and truth. Lost family down there, years ago.”

Royston silenced him with a look just as Martin’s curiosity was piqued, then said, “We've wasted our time. Not interested.”

The men began to walk away. The keeper swore and wrung his hands. He was desperate to get the animal sold.

“I'll lower the price for the bear. Half gold!” he fair shouted. “And I swear to you it’s not from the Blackwood.”

“Not interested.”

“One silver! And my word!”

“No.” Royston kept moving, pushing past Martin, who blinked in amazement: the named price was such a bargain that even he knew it. By rights, his father should have been cackling and rubbing his hands together.

“Six coppers! Five coppers! One copper!” Martin’s father and uncle stopped. A copper for a young black bear wasn't just a bargain: it was a miracle. Travellers were frugal folk and loath to turn down any kind of deal. Royston turned, chewing the edge of his pipe. His eyes were slit in suspicion.

“One copper?”

Hostle touched his arm. “No, brother.”

“Shut up, fool,” Royston snarled and glared at the keeper. “One copper and your word that this bear doesn’t come from the Blackwood?”

“That's right.” The keeper gasped.

“Done.”
But Martin could tell the man was, if not entirely lying, then not entirely honest. He wondered why his father chose not to see it. Perhaps Royston was convinced by his own legend, that no one in his right mind would try to cheat the master minstrel. Martin looked at his uncle’s face: Hostle clearly thought there’d be a price to pay for this bargain.

* * *

The market was far behind them when night fell. The cub in the wagon snarled and swiped at anyone who came in reach. Martin, sitting by the fire, practised tunes on his flute, ones he knew as intuitively as he knew how to breathe, but his main goal was distraction. He tried to forget about the cub, but whenever it moved he heard the clanking and scraping of its chains. When the youth finally fell into an uneasy sleep, he found no peace there either.

* * *

He walked through a forest, long, dark and deep. Wizened trees cast heavy shadows, and the night was all around. No moon gleamed and he could only make out the tiniest hint of stars. He moved slowly down the winding path, through the undergrowth. There was nothing but silence until a huge black bear lumbered out of the wilderness and stood on the trail before him. It was bigger than anything he had ever seen. Its eyes burned crimson, and its lips curled in a menacing snarl. Martin quailed in fright. He stared at the creature, his breath ragged.

“Are you a demon?” he asked in a small voice.

“Mortals have named me so for generations,” the bear rasped, low as rumbling thunder. It rose onto its hind legs and swiped at the air with a paw the size of a boulder. “I am the guardian of Blackwood Forest. Look upon me, and know your master.”

Martin swallowed, unable to speak. The bear's red eyes smoldered.

“Your people have stolen one of my own and bound him with chains. They have broken old laws, desecrated old treaties.” The guardian pawed at the ground, which began to shake. Shame overwhelmed him, and Martin bowed his head.

“I am sorry.”

“You must put this wrong to right, boy. I charge you with this task.”

“Why me? I’m no one! Powerless!”

“Your sympathy for the creature has drawn me to you. It creates a lien, a bond. Honour it or my vengeance will be most terrible.”

“What must I do?” Martin wailed. The great bear stared balefully at him.

“Don't you already know? You must free him.”


* * *

Martin woke in a tangle of blankets, gasping. His heart pounded like a hammer inside his chest. He rubbed his eyes. There was no dark forest, nor huge black bear demanding service of him.

It had been nothing but a dream. He buried his face in his hands, vaguely nauseous. Already he could hear the new cub outside, growling and pacing, dragging its chains like unwanted limbs. Martin’s stomach turned as he staggered upright.

A night terror, nothing more. It was born of guilt alone. And not something he could imagine sharing with his father.

Later that day, Hostle and Royston dragged the bear from its cage and tried to make it perform. When it refused to dance they beat it with the training whip, and, when that did not work, turned its own chains against it. The rest of the clan sat around, on the steps of caravans, on stumps of trees, on logs, even on the rough ground, and watched, whooping gleefully as the bear desperately snarled and pawed at its collar. Lana, Martin's spiteful younger sister, shrieked with amusement and joined in, throwing rocks at the bear’s head. Hostle had apparently overcome his reluctance and was happily taking part in the impromptu circus.

Martin turned away, fighting the urge to weep. As he stumbled back to his caravan, choking back tears, he found Adiva seated near the campfire, setting herself apart from the spectacle. Mother and son alike abhorred cruelty.

“Your father is a fool,” Adiva spoke quietly, idly dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief. “Taking a creature from the Blackwood? Oh, I know what that keeper swore, but I don’t trust him any further than I might throw him. That's enough to tempt the devil himself.”

Martin swallowed painfully. “Why?”

“Your grandfather, the one you never met − my father. He camped there alone once, a long time before you were born. He was proud and loved to go hunting for our clan. He went in at night and...” She paused and shook her head. “They found him at dawn the next day, torn to shreds, his traps destroyed, his spears in splinters.”

Martin gaped in horror. “What?!”

His mother nodded sadly. “Yes. Why do you think I married Royston? With the clan leader gone, we were lost, destitute. I had no choice.”

Reeling from his mother's words, Martin walked away in a daze. When night came again, his dreams were even worse.

* * *

The forest was darker than he remembered, more insidious, more threatening. And the great guardian of the Blackwood appeared before him once more. The creature slavered furiously, huge drops of saliva dripped from its powerful jaws. Martin was surprised to learn he could be even more frightened than the previous encounter.

“My subject still suffers, held prisoner by your people, and tormented! Why have you failed me?” The black bear roared so the trees around them shuddered and swayed. Martin clapped his hands to his ears.

“My father would kill me!”

The guardian's red eyes blazed.

“No excuses! Free him even if it means your own life. His pain is felt not just by one but by all in the Blackwood. I will not allow this to continue. Would your own sire do any less if you were so treated?”


Martin did not have the courage to say that his father would gladly see the back of him, but the bear did not wait for an answer.


“Promise me you will release him. Otherwise I will devour all you love!” 


Though Martin felt no sadness at the thought of Royston’s bones crunched between the beast’s teeth, he had no wish to see his mother done to death, so he nodded, and spoke in a quavering voice, “I promise.”


The bear bellowed to seal their pact and the sound rang against the trees and flew up into the night sky.


* * *

The youth awoke, almost tumbling out of his bed. Sweat poured down his face, and when he stepped from the caravan he shivered in the morning cold. A little of the darkness remained and he thought it might give him some cover.

When he reached the cage, the black cub glowered at him. Its eyes glittered and reminded him of the guardian’s gleaming orbs. Martin could see bloody marks in the animal's matted fur, and the naked patches where the steel collar rubbed away his hide and dug into the flesh beneath.

“I want to free you,” Martin whispered, kneeling on the grass in front of the cage. “Truly I do.”

The cub growled, but only a little and its gaze softened as if it had understood.

Grinding his teeth, the youth made up his mind. Even if his dreams were of his own guilty creation, he knew right from wrong. He had witnessed the pain of the old grizzly for too long. It was enough. He would not let it happen again. Quickly, he began unlocking the cage, his fingers scrabbling at the latch. He wrenched open the heavy steel door, groaning at the weight. The bear seemed to know what he was about and didn't lash out, but stood patiently. Martin started to tug at catch on the metal collar, careful not to make the wounds worse.

“Boy!” A voice bellowed behind him. “What in the name of the nine hells, do you think you are doing?!” Flinching, Martin rose and whirled around. He was terrified, but determined to stand his ground: he knew right from wrong. Royston stormed towards him, the training whip swinging in one hand.

“I... I...” Martin choked, all his determination, all his reasoning, fleeing along with his words. His father closed the distance between them, and swiftly slammed shut the cage door, hitting the cub in the process. The bear roared in protest, but its fear of Royston matched Martin’s and it retreated to the back of its prison.

“I knew it. You've been staring like a lovesick girl at that beast for days! Are you sick in the head, boy? Are you stunted? Would you deprive us of our means of support, let the beast run off and leave the clan to starve? You little bastard! I'll fix you!”

The training whip rose and fell and rose and fell again, so many times that Martin lost count before he lost consciousness. Pain shot through him like lightening, sharp as a knife slash that left a prolonged ache behind. He couldn't think or breathe. As he curled, trying to make himself into a smaller target, he spotted the bear gazing at him. Then everything went black.

* * *

Martin was still tightly curved in on himself, but all around him was darkness, and the ground on which he lay was not the cold dirt damp with morning dew where he’d fallen. He twitched and felt a carpet of leaves beneath him, almost luxurious. But he ached, the legacy of his father’s rage had not been left behind. He heard a snuffling and hot breath puffed by his ear, the strong musk of bear surrounded him. Martin did not move.

“I saw how you tried.” The guardian’s voice was sorrowful. “I did not know a father would treat his son thus.”

Still Martin did not speak. He had failed, the cub remained a prisoner. He himself was as useless as Royston claimed. Whatever the guardian did to him now would be a release.

“You are only a cub yourself,” the great bear rumbled. “You alone have earned my protection. You have my word.”

Martin felt a hot, wet tongue rasp across his cheek. Instead of relief he felt only exhausted despair: he had to go back. He was still alive for Royston to torment. This reprieve was just another punishment.

He closed his eyes to keep the tears in.


* * *

“I know what I told you. But I had no idea you'd take matters into your own hands like that. You shouldn’t have done it. ”

His mother sat beside the bed in the dimness of the caravan. She’d cleaned his cuts of blood and dirt, and smeared salve on the places where bruises were already starting to show. A bowl of soup sat cooling in her lap for he refused to eat.

“Martin, you know how he is.”

Still he said nothing and soon Adiva gave up. Later he heard her through the walls, weeping quietly outside. He did not call to her.

* * *

Days passed, flew into weeks, then months. Martin’s body recovered slowly, though his ribs constantly ached and his skin was forever marked; he’d become terribly quiet, giving only the briefest of answers and never initiating conversations. The black bear, no longer a cub, was still imprisoned, and it had learned, painfully, how to dance. It could roll on command and jump through hoops now; Royston and Hostle had seen to that. Martin, too, knew his place: as part of his punishment, his father had decided that Martin should be the one to take care of the animal, to feed it, ensure its chains were tight, its cage door locked. It was Royston’s final triumph, to make the boy a jailor.

No further dreams plagued him, and although he sometimes thought a dark voice called to him in the night, he ignored it. He supposed the guardian of the Blackwood was nothing more than a figment of his sorry imagination.

When at last spring broke winter’s hold, Royston and Hostle were confident that the bear was ready to perform in public. At the fêtes it would bring them much coin, and Blossom Fall was the first and largest of the festivals, an event at which all travelers and poachers, farmers and wandering workers set aside arguments and rivalries. Martin’s clan were the hired musicians for the official opening, instructed to fill the cathedral-like glade with music as soon as the men with long grey beards and the women in flowing green dresses had finished their benedictions and speeches to bless the earth and harvest.

Martin and his family struck up a tune and around them the crowds danced and reeled, swooped and whooped. The minstrels were breaking into the lively opening lines to 'Bonny maiden' when Royston and Hostle led the black bear into the space left for the musicians at the center of the glade. Shouts and gasps rang out as the creature ambled along at the end of the chain. Martin watched as people applauded in excitement.

As the bear began its staggering dance, Martin’s heart grew heavier. The creature had learnt obedience through suffering and its routine through punishment. It rolled when its chain was yanked, and leaped through a red hoop when tapped with the whip. It was barely recognizable as the young cub it had been: it had grown large, though not as large at the guardian, its limbs strong and weighty, its head quite huge, and its claws so long that they poked out each time its paws splayed on the ground as it walked. Its fur was tangled and crawling with lice, there were red, raw patches on its thick neck where the collar rubbed fiercely, yet no one else seemed to notice, or indeed care. The crowd was roaring with glee, and coins were raining down as the bear lurched in time to the music.

Martin closed his eyes for a few moments, the sight of the collar a bright afterimage behind his eyelids. The ugly thing shone in the darkness. In his memory, his own fingers looked like large white maggots against the black as they closed the catch, slid the pin through the latch but did not quite tighten it enough.

As Old Longleaf sounded the opening lines to the bawdy 'My love, the crofter's daughter,' Martin opened his eyes once again, just in time to see the steel collar, shaken loose with the bear’s movements, suddenly unlatch and fall from the creature’s neck. The lead Royston was holding went slack.

The bear was free.

There was a horrid silence and for long moments no one moved, not the crowd, not the musicians whose playing had petered out in sad broken notes. Certainly not Martin's father who gaped in horror at the bear as it slowly, majestically, rose on its hind legs and grew, taking on the proportions of the guardian of the Blackwood.

Then the screams began.

The black bear shook itself as if waking from a long slumber, then his great bellow of fury almost, but not quite, drowned out the cries of the dead and dying as he set about taking his revenge. Sharp teeth and sharper claws rent the soft flesh of those around him, all while Martin watched with a wide gaze and an open mouth. The huge forepaws pounded a rhythm in the dirt as if the creature were a drummer, and his black eyes had an astonishing crimson light to them.

With deliberate delight he tore into Royston and Hostle, mauling them both with his powerful jaws. Martin’s father and uncle disappeared in a bloody haze. Those in the crowd with any sense fled; Martin’s family tried futilely to distract the bear, but their instruments were useless as weapons and the beast associated the things with its torment so it only made it more vicious. Soon they, too, were victims.

Martin waited in an unmoving stupor as his mother and sister were shaken from side to side like rag-dolls. Old Longleaf didn’t even try to get away from the bear when it took off his head with a crunching of bones and teeth. Poachers armed with bows tried to cut the creature down, but their weapons had no effect. The arrows could not pierce the heavy coat. Soon the poachers followed the last of the stragglers. It was not long before there was only Martin.

The youth stared at the bear: red dripped from its jaws and claws, clots of flesh clung to its fur as it finally stood motionless. Its eyes had become black again and there was no trace of the crimson glow left; the beast seemed bemused, almost befuddled.

Martin sighed so deeply it turned into a groan. He shuddered. Bears were just animals. They were never pointlessly vicious. They didn't go on mindless mauling rampages and they certainly weren't immune to arrows. They didn’t grow in the blink of an eye. Forest guardians did not speak to people in their dreams and make demands of them.

Why was he the only one left alive?

Then the youth remembered the final words of the Blackwood guardian: You alone have earned my protection.

Martin’s legs buckled underneath him. He crumpled to the ground and buried his face in his hands. He heard the bear approach, could smell its rank scent, and hear its hoarse, snuffling breath. But in place of pain, of rending claws and tearing teeth, the beast merely licked his ear.

When the boy cracked his eyes open, he saw the bear running wildly away, no longer a vengeful demon, but merely a terrified animal. It crashed through the undergrowth and tore through branches. It called out blindly as it fled, as if innocently amazed by its freedom. There was no doubt in Martin's mind where it was going.

Back to the Blackwood.

Back home.

* * *

Cordelia Harrison has a BA honours in Classical Civilisation from Warwick University and an MA in Museum Studies from the University of Leicester. She has a love of ancient mythology and a fascination for all things gothic and macabre. She primarily writes dark fantasy.

What advice do you have for other fantasy writers?

Quite simple. Keep writing no matter what and never give up.

The Puppeteer

The Puppeteer
by Cordelia Harrison


As the snow and biting frost consumed the vast countryside, covering the fields and forest in a sheen of whiteness, the ancient village was completely silent. No one stirred from the dwellings, for the sun had disappeared into the storm clouds long ago and the remaining light was hazy and wraithlike. This made it almost impossible to see. The lone cottage that stood on the edge of the village seemed to suffer the most from the abominable weather. It was attacked from all sides by the violent winds. Inside, a master worked.
 
 The old man sat hunched over a large wooden desk, his slight form crippled and bent with age. A burning candle dripped hot wax nearby and his eyes were strained as if he desired more light. His white hair was long and unkempt, matted horribly, as if it hadn’t been brushed in years. Strangely his chin was clean shaven, as if he took great pride in keeping this single feature of his appearance tidy. Though his body trembled unceasingly, his hands were steady. In his withered grasp lay a limp wooden form, which he continued to meld and chip at with his knife. This was his craft, because he was of all things, a puppeteer. If one were to enter the cottage where he worked, they would see this immediately, for the small room was filled entirely with puppets. They crowded the tiny space, vast numbers of them placed lovingly upon a variety of high shelves. Each was painted and sculpted exquisitely, and many of them were propped up, made to pose in different positions. Some were very large, almost life-size, whilst others were tiny, absolutely miniature in scale. They were all given different characters; on one shelf, a beautifully-rendered ballerina sat next to a fierce - looking admiral puppet that wielded a large sword. In the corner of the room, a big wooden sign was propped up against the wall. Painted extravagantly in faded red and gold lettering, it clearly read ‘The Aristocrats’ Masquerade.’              
                                                                                       
The old man’s puppet shows had been famous, renowned throughout Russia. People would travel for miles to see his wooden troupe perform. Because of him, the ancient village now had an illustrious reputation. No one seemed to care that the old man had a sour temper and notoriously hated children, for his craftsmanship was magnificent. In the past, others had tried to urge him to bring his puppet troupe outside the village, he refused harshly. The exquisitely detailed theatre he had crafted for the puppets was operated only by him and his assistant, an old deaf woman to whom he had painstakingly taught the craft. Some had wondered at the strangeness of choosing her as his subordinate, whilst others merely saw it as a facet of his eccentric personality.

Still concentrating hard on the puppet body he was whittling, the old man spoke aloud to the puppets surrounding him. He addressed them by name and talked to them fondly, in a cloyingly sentimental voice. As he continued to chatter to each of them, one of the puppets on the other side of the room abruptly slipped off the shelf .The old man did not seem startled, but his features changed erratically, and he thrust aside the puppet he was working on. Staggering upright from his seat, he reached for his cane and hastened towards the fallen puppet. It was a large, princely - looking thing, dressed in noble clothes with a bronze crown fastened to its head.
 
“How many times have I told you, Lord Afanasy?” the old man shouted, his raspy voice furious. ‘Your place is here!” Snatching the puppet up from the ground, he berated it harshly as if it were alive. Muttering angrily and shooting it a look of belligerent disdain, he placed it back on the shelf, and stamped back towards his desk in annoyance. He began working once more on the unfinished puppet body, though now his features twisted with thinly veiled irritation.

Hours later, he held the puppet aloft with a look of pride upon his old features. Though it had only been carved and did not yet possess any hint of colour, anyone would be able to see that he had crafted a noble soldier. Its handsome chiselled face was wonderful to view. Nodding in satisfaction, the elderly man was just about to reach for the bright tubes of paint which rested on a small palette nearby - when a frantic hammering sounded at his door. Scowling in irritation, he pulled himself upright with a wince. Stepping over to the heavy wooden frame and slowly undoing the many latches, he opened the door very slightly. Outside, the abominable storm still raged. The snow was coming down even heavier than before, and darkness was beginning to sweep over the icy landscape. Two very windswept young men stood shivering and cringing on the doorstep, feebly clutching their furs. They weren’t villagers, he knew that immediately.

“Go away!” The old man hissed, flapping at them with his wrinkled hands. ‘The puppet theatre is not open today, and I am not exhibiting it to tourists!”

The elder and bearded member of the two spoke to him beseechingly, in halting strongly accented Russian.

“Please help us, old master! We are travelling across the land to a delegation held by the emperor in St Petersburg, and we got lost in the snow. Your village is the first we have seen in miles. Please give us shelter until the snow storm passes, else we shall surely perish!” His companion nodded desperately, hands and body trembling.

The old man looked rather interested and his unfriendliness seemed to vanish, for his scowl disappeared entirely. However, his eyes remained cold.

“A delegation held by the emperor, you say? My oh my, isn’t that intriguing. Of course you may come in. Follow me.” He smiled falsely, displaying decaying yellow teeth. He opened the heavy door fully and the two travellers eagerly moved inside.

As the door closed behind them, the two men started in amazement. The old man’s house was very different from what they had imagined. The astonishing array of                                                                                                beautifully painted puppets bewildered and enthralled them. They gazed at the many shelves, speechless, as the old man ushered them towards the small hearth, where a fire smouldered.

“You’ll have to forgive my manners. Not many come to see old Zakhar without wanting to gawp at my many friends.” He gestured to the puppet shelves with a large sense of pride. ‘I have no chairs, I’m afraid.’
 
The two travellers protested that seats were not needed and settled down before the burning grate, warming their hands by the fire and grasping their furs. The old man shuffled back to his desk and seated himself with a wince. He idly picked up the soldier puppet he had been working on and studied it with a critical eye.

“I cannot place your accents. What country do you come from?”

The two men immediately introduced themselves. The bearded one was again the first to speak.

“We are delegates from England. I am Lord Sebastian Eckhard.”

“And I am Sir John Jury,” the other said politely.

The old man nodded to each of them in greeting, his cold eyes filled with unhidden interest..

“You speak Russian well, I am impressed. I myself am called Zakhar. As you can see, I am something of a puppeteer.” He nodded at his many creations. “They call me the puppet master around about these parts.” He clasped his wizened hands together and pressed them to his chest.

“If you were from this country, you would no doubt have heard my name. My puppet shows are wonderful things.” The two men nodded in genuine interest. Both were still taken aback by what they could see, and were still inwardly admiring the masterful craftsmanship. Lord Sebastian particularly favoured a very beautiful queen puppet, sitting on a low shelf near to him. Her porcelain features were rendered with an ethereal delicacy, and her                                                                                                         deep red gown was sewn with astonishing detail.

“You are admiring the Lady Valentina,” the old man noted.

Lord Sebastian jumped, but smiled a little. “Yes. She is very beautiful.”

The other laughed with a strange hint of bitterness in his voice.

“Ah, beautiful she was. So many used to lust after her! But she had a cold, vicious heart that not many people were aware of.”

The bearded man tilted his head in surprise, not able to understand such a strange remark.  The old man smiled grimly, then continued.

“She was the king’s mistress, you know.”

The two ambassadors exchanged dubious glances with one another, unsure how to reply. Burrowing into their furs, they nudged closer to the fire and grew silent.

Zakhar leaned forward on his chair, and crossed his arms upon his chest. His aged unfriendly eyes wandered about the room, proudly taking in the sights of his magnificent craftsmanship. He cleared his throat noisily.

“Who is your favorite, friend?” he asked, addressing Sir John with interest.

The traveler rested one hand upon his chin, contemplating the marionettes carefully.  Making his choice, he pointed to a massive puppet dressed up in the finely woven garb of an imperial soldier.

The old man chuckled.

“That is Vladimir. Not one of my most beloved puppets, to be sure. He is a sly one, well versed in trickery and deceit. You would be wise not to trust him.”

Sir John frowned in slight bewilderment but then nodded reassuringly at the other, feeling rather ashamed of himself.  Their elderly host was undoubtedly old and senile; it was nothing to fret about. He had been kind enough to grant them shelter and it would be cruel to make light of his delusions.

A particularly loud gust of wind howled outside and the two travelers jumped at the noise. The snow storm that had driven them to this strange village did not seem to be settling, and, shivering, they moved closer to the fire. The aged puppeteer seemed to have realized the storm had worsened, but he did not seem overtly perturbed by it.

“As it seems that you are to remain here for some time, I hope it won’t be impertinent if I ask you some questions?’ The old man’s eyes were slyly alert, as if he had wanted to do this from the beginning. Both the ambassadors were surprised by the sudden change in topic but shook their heads, giving their assent. Zakhar grinned and grasped the soldier puppet he had
been crafting earlier tightly in his hands.

“Tell me, have either of you met the Russian emperor before?”

“No, we haven’t,” Lord Sebastian said. The old man seemed disappointed at this.

“Ah. So then you aren’t aware of the current political state at his court? You don’t know the leading noble houses?” Both shook their heads again. Zakhar sighed in dissatisfaction and his ancient form seemed to tremble more than before.

“This saddens me. I was hoping the two of you had news you could impart to me. But alas! If it is not to be, it is not to be. You see, a very long time ago when the previous emperor was still alive, I resided at the royal court. It would bring me some happiness to know how his beloved son was faring.”

The two Englishmen were very surprised to hear this information and Lord Sebastian again spoke in bewilderment.

“Sir, were you his puppeteer?”

Zakhar dropped the soldier puppet he was holding back onto the table and laughed harshly.

“I was nothing of the sort. In fact, I was one of his most esteemed advisors. But my name was different then.” His old face seemed rather bleak, as he notably ground his teeth, recalling old injustices.

“The advice I gave the emperor was very valuable and he trusted me implicitly. I lived a charmed life. But then it all changed.  They ruined it all.”

“They?” Sir John queried.      
                                                                                                                 
“The aristocrats at his court! The scheming treacherous fools turned the emperor against me! Lord Afanasy was the ring leader. He and his vile comrades made a series of ridiculous accusations, befouling my reputation.’ The old man shook with barely controlled rage. ‘They claimed I was dabbling in black magic and doing away with my political competitors by using the dark arts!’ He slammed his fist on the wooden table so hard that it shook, and forcibly gritted his teeth.

“Thanks to their slanderous lies, I lost everything. My wealth, my position, and at one point my sanity were gone because of their jealousy. I was sent here in exile many years ago, and forbidden to ever return.” Zakhar spat out the words and scowled horribly, his visage severe. Standing up with some difficulty, he began to pace about the tiny room, twisting his hands about in agitation.

The two Englishmen were overwhelmed to hear the story, and despite themselves felt sympathy for the old puppeteer. To have one’s character and reputation destroyed because of some corrupt politician’s jealousy was a terrible thing. And over something so ludicrous, too! The former emperor of Russia must have been a superstitious man indeed to believe such nonsense. Exchanging knowing glances with his friend, Lord Sebastian looked up from the fireplace.

“We are sorry to hear you were treated so ill,” he murmured, honestly meaning the words.
 
The old man turned around sharply and his eyes expressed a cold triumph. “Don’t be. Everything worked to my benefit in the end.” He spread his hands out in the air, indicating the puppets. “They were fools to cross me. I used the arts my grandmother had taught me in childhood and harnessed their souls in wood. Their physical bodies were destroyed in the effort.” Leaning towards the very faint candlelight, the aged man’s grinning face looked skull-like and grotesque.                    
                                                       
“They were especially stupid to think that I wouldn’t be able to get my hands on them after
I was exiled here. And now they have paid the price. They dance forever for me now, and suffer undying torments!” Zakhar began to cackle so hard he had to grip a nearby shelf top for support. The two travellers stared at him in shock, utterly bewildered by the sudden change. It seemed in hindsight that they had been unutterably foolish to believe his story. Their host was not just some harmless old eccentric, as they had first thought. He was obviously mad! Both stood abruptly. It didn’t matter if it was still snowing, they could find shelter elsewhere.  Sir John moved suddenly towards the door, and his companion followed.

“We are sorry to have trespassed upon your hospitality for so long. Please forgive us!” As the two men were quickly trying to usher themselves out of the puppeteer’s house, the old man turned towards them and grinned maliciously.

“No, no. Don’t go. My prisoners haven’t greeted you yet.” He looked at the heavy shelves filled with countless marionettes. “Come now, where are your manners?”

Lord Sebastian was shaking his head at the crazed old lunatic as his friend was hastening to open the door. But then suddenly, the bearded man froze.

Zakhar was standing still in the centre of the room, his old body framed by the fading candlelight. He was smiling and his smile was grim and horrible. But the puppets! They were moving! All of them were slowly turning around to face the Englishmen, their wooden heads revolving with a stiff sobriety. Their beaded eyes were blinking in a firm unhurried manner, and their wooden fingers were flexing in a solemn way. As they shifted about, their thin strings became tangled and some were unable to fully look at the travellers. This was horrific enough; but what was most terrible were the expressions upon their crafted faces. They seemed heinously pathetic. Each wore an expression of dreadful anguish. Tortured and trapped within their wooden bodies all obviously felt pain beyond their very being. In hoarse, agonized voices, all of them whispered strangled greetings. The two men let out screams of absolute terror and fled from the accursed cottage into the snow storm, sprinting away as fast as their legs could carry them.

The puppet master was still smiling. His captives were awake, which meant that he could enjoy their torment some more. All was well.

* * *

Cordelia Harrison has a BA honours in Classical Civilisation from Warwick University and is currently studying for an MA in Museum Studies at the University of Leicester. She has a love of ancient mythology, and a fascination for all things gothic and macabre. She primarily writes dark fantasy. This is her first published work of fiction.

Where do you get the ideas for your stories?

My ideas and inspirations come first and foremost from fiction. However, sometimes fragmented images will come into my head, when I see an unusual painting or a film.

When writing "The Puppeteer," I was massively inspired by Russian literature. Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita was a vast influence on me, as was Fyodor Dostoyevsky. I also took inspiration from Angela Carter. I have always been morbidly fascinated by marionettes and dolls. I thought about how they could be vessels for mortal souls and the story simply went from there.