Lord of the Nutcracker Men (7 page)

“This is a story about a war,” he said. “A very old war. It was written nearly three thousand years ago, but you might think that Homer finished it just this morning. He comes so close to describing the events of today that it's uncanny, really.”

He paced across the hearth, just as he paced in school. His hands went up to his collar, as though reaching for the gown that he always wore in class.

“Homer begins by talking about the gods in their palaces among the clouds. They're all related, by marriage and birth, and always bickering with each other. For amusement they toy with the people. To the gods, the people are merely pieces in a great game.”

In class, Mr. Tuttle was strict and stern. But in his home he was different, not nearly so dull. “Now think of Kaiser Wilhelm, the leader of Germany. Queen Victoria was his grandmother, our King his cousin. As boys, the
Kaiser and the King fought imaginary battles in a toy fort not terribly far from here.”

He paced past my chair. “Well, the Kaiser grew up, but he never stopped his games. He sported himself in fanciful uniforms that hid his crippled arm. He outdid his cousin with a better navy and a bigger army, an enormous army dressed in toy-soldier clothes. He and all the rulers of Europe are just like Homer's gods, all related, always fighting. Do you see that, Johnny?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“I knew you would.” He opened the book and turned through the pages. “So in the sky we have the gods, and down on the earth there's Agamemnon, the King of ancient Greece. He has been at war with the Trojans for nine years, all because of a silly argument between two princes, his own brother Menelaus and a Trojan named Paris. As the
Iliad
begins, the gods are toying with Agamemnon. They let him dream that he can capture the city of Troy and at last bring an end to this war. Agamemnon wakes up believing the gods will make him win. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” I nodded. “Like the Kaiser.”

“Quite right. The Kaiser has always taught his men that God is on their side,” said Mr. Tuttle, pacing. “Agamemnon marches against Troy. Guarding the city are the Trojans, led by Hector, the bravest of them all. He sees the Greeks swarming toward him, an army so huge that its men are like blades of grass in a field. Hector's army is tiny; he knows he cannot win. But does he surrender? No. Does he close the city gates?” Mr. Tuttle's eyes bulged as he stabbed a finger in the air. “No! He fights back nonetheless. Now who does that remind you of?”

“Belgium,” I said.

“Good, Johnny. Yes, Belgium fought to a brave finish. But who else might fear the Kaiser coming?”

“France?” I said.

“Yes. But what about Britain? We're a tiny nation, our army dwarfed by Germany's.”

“But we can't be Hector,” I said.

“Why is that?”

“Because we have to win.”

“Ah.” Mr. Tuttle put his book on the table. “Isn't that what every Trojan would have thought?”

I had never once imagined that Britain might
lose
the war. “What happens next?” I asked.

Mr. Tuttle beamed. “The armies clash; they battle back and forth. Agamemnon fears the gods have deserted him, so he pulls his men away and shelters them in trenches.”

“Like the Kaiser did,” I said.

“Exactly like the Kaiser did.”

I leaned forward. “And then what happens?”

“You tell me.” Mr. Tuttle tapped on the cover of his
Iliad
. “You read this book and tell me then: what did all the men of both the armies pray for at the same time?”

“Victory?” I asked.

“Don't guess,” he said. “Read the
Iliad,
Johnny. It's all in there.”

He sat with me then, and we drank our milk and ate our cookies. He talked about other books in a way that wasn't too terribly boring. I was starting to think that I might escape the thing I'd been dreading when he asked for my help in his garden.

“It won't take long,” he said. “A few minutes is all.”

He led me through the house and out to the battered roses. He asked me to hold the bushes open while he wrapped the broken stems in bandages of tape and burlap. He was like a doctor tending to the wounded.

“The poor roses,” he said. “I imagine that most of them ended up on that bonfire. Wouldn't you say that's likely?”

“It might be, sir,” I said.

“I should have gone and watched the guys being burned.” Mr. Tuttle lay nearly flat on the ground as he reached in among the roses. “I might have seen the branches tumble from one of them like a telltale heart.”

He twisted his neck to look back at me. “But I couldn't bear to watch it, Johnny. I would have flown into a rage, I think.”

I tried to smile. There was nothing to say.

“I've fought against blight, against drought and frost. I've battled dogs and birds and insects,” he said. “I never thought that I'd be beaten by a boy.”

“What will you do if you find him?” I asked.

“I don't have to find him at all.” His face was turning red. “I already know the boy who did this.”

My heart leapt to my throat. I let go of the branches, and they sprang shut like a spring-loaded trap, stabbing his skin with their thorns.

Mr. Tuttle let out a little gasp. “Open them, please,” he whispered.

They popped and snapped at his sweater, unraveling strands of wool. Mr. Tuttle breathed a few wheezy breaths, then went back to his work.

“I know
all
the boys,” he said. “So I'm bound to know
the vandal. I shall let it be known what was done to my roses, and I'm sure the boy will come to me. I believe his guilt will get the better of him.”

“What will you do to him, sir?” I asked.

“The boy will spend a year with me. A full twelve months,” said Mr. Tuttle. “Rain or shine, summer and winter, every day for a year he will come to my garden and tend to my roses.”

“But what if he doesn't own up?”

“Then I'll lose all hope for the boys of Cliffe,” he said. “I'm too old to struggle anymore. If no one has come forward by Christmas, I shall resign from the school.”

He tucked his bandages round the broken stems, and his voice turned slow and sad. “I should miss the classroom,” he said. “Apart from the garden, it's all I have. But nonetheless, my mind is made up. It's a matter of principles, Johnny.”

I felt rotten inside. But I couldn't possibly admit to what I'd done if it meant staying for a year in Cliffe. I was going home when the war ended; I was going home at Christmas.

“Principles are taking men to the front,” said Mr. Tuttle. “Principles sent Agamemnon marching against Troy. Without his principles a man has nothing; he
is
nothing. Even a dog, after all, has principles.”

At last he turned me free. He squirmed out from under his bushes, and stood with the last tattered bandages dangling from his fist. He told me to go along home, and not to worry about his roses. “If they last the winter, they'll last forever,” he said.

In my hurry to leave, I nearly gave myself away by slipping through the tunnel in his hedge. But I stopped in
time, and circled around his wall to reach the footpaths that would take me home.

The sun was setting, the autumn days already short. Darkness settled in the hollows of the path, in the bushes along its sides. An owl hooted at me, then fluttered away like a shadow.

I passed the ruined cottage and came to the cemetery. The barren old trees bowed over the graves like mourners, their tops nodding in a breeze that came from the river, over the marshes. Behind them, on the farmhouse balcony, stood a figure all in black, veils and shawls fluttering in the wind that smelled of mud.

It was Mrs. Sims, in her mourning clothes, and she was looking down at the little graveyard between us. The mounds of leaves banked against the tombstones looked like freshly dug graves. In the shadows and the growing darkness, I thought I saw them moving.

I stood behind a scrag of bushes. Mrs. Sims turned on the balcony, leaning forward with her hands on the railing. It was me she was looking at, trying to pick me out among the branches and bushes.

Then I heard a slithering sound, and the leaves moved again. I gasped with a sudden fright, then laughed when a cat appeared among them, a white-and-orange tabby that stretched and shook itself.

I started walking again, and Mrs. Sims lifted her head. The black clothes swirled around her, and she looked like cold Mr. Death standing up there.

Of all the letters that Dad had sent, this one was my favorite. I listened to it smiling, my eyes open but seeing my own little battlefield, my trench full of nutcracker men. I felt as though I was fighting the battle side by side with my dad, that we were going together across noman's-land. His raid was so close to the one that I had imagined that the letter might have been sent by my wooden soldier.

“Well, open your parcel,” said Auntie Ivy.

I had almost forgotten that I held a new man in his wrappings. “It was just like that in the garden,” I said.

“Like what?” she asked.

“The raid.” I tore the paper. “I was playing with Sarah, and we had a raid just like that, just like Dad's.”

“I'm sure it's
all
the same,” she said. “Your trenches, your bombs.”

The package fell open and the soldier slid out.

“Oh, my,” said Auntie. “I don't care for that.”

The figure crawled on all fours, one hand reaching
forward, one leg dragging behind. Carved from pale wood, unpainted, he seemed utterly weary, as though he could hardly move another inch. But there was a feeling of strength in him too, so I could look at him and
know
he'd keep going.

“Oh, my,” said Auntie again.

Then I saw what shocked her. It was the soldier's face. Below his carved hat, there
was
no face. Instead, the soldier had the broad and flattened muzzle of a bulldog.

“Poor James,” said Auntie. “Oh, your poor father. What did he see out there in the trenches?”

The little dog-faced soldier wasn't ugly. He looked rather brave to me. “I think he's going forward against the Huns,” I said. “I think he's going to carry on no matter what goes wrong.”

“Well, I don't want to look at him,” she said.

I picked up the figure. “I'll put him in the line.” “Just take it away.” She shook her hands, as though it was a spider that I held. “Just take it away.”

“Yes, Auntie.”

I went out the back and found Sarah waiting by the wall. I ran toward her. “A raid!” I cried. “My dad went over the top; he went out on a raid.”

“Well, didn't I tell you?” she said. “
My
dad's been on a dozen raids, on twenty raids, maybe. They always have raids.”

“It was just the same,” I said. But she didn't care.