Wooden Bones (14 page)

If he was going to turn into wood, he wished he would get it over with already. Maybe he was meant to be a puppet.
Someone else would pull his strings and make him dance, and he'd never be able to screw up anything on his own again.

*  *  *

For the next few weeks they did not speak about Olivia. They did not speak about much of anything. They continued west.

Fortunately, they had a little bit of money, coins Geppetto had earned from wood carving, so they did not have to sleep in the cold. They stopped occasionally in villages high in the mountains, remote places unlikely to have heard of them. Pino wore two pairs of gloves, always with long-sleeved shirts, and was careful never to give someone even a glimpse of the wood underneath. They operated under assumed names, trying each time to begin life anew, but then they'd catch an odd glance or someone would ask an unusual question, and by the crack of dawn they'd be on the road again.

It continued to snow. It snowed most of all up in the mountains, great drifts of snow that made passage nearly impossible. But they marched on regardless. They marched as if somewhere ahead, somewhere around the next bend or the next tree, they would find something to believe in again.

Finally they crested the mountains, and as they descended toward the great gray expanse of the ocean on the other side, the snow shriveled and disappeared. The air changed from freezing to chilly and damp, still cold, but at least Pino's toes weren't numb all the time.

They came to a large village on the western seashore, with big ships sailing regularly in and out of port and enough people milling the muddy streets that two more newcomers could go largely unnoticed. There was no snow at all. The moist ocean winds, Geppetto explained, made for mild winters.

They were even more in luck, because the town's wood-carver
had recently passed away, and there was plenty of work to be had. Within days they had taken over the wood-carver's shop—the landlord was desperate for a new tenant and allowed them to take up residence of the slanting brick building with a small payment—and even had a few standing orders.

The town was a gritty place, populated by people who seemed cruel and joyless, but Geppetto insisted it was perfect for their needs.

“If we play it smart,” said Geppetto, who now went by the name Florin, “I think we can stay here for a while. At least until we earn enough money.”

Pino was about to take another bite of the chicken stew they'd made for dinner that night, when he paused, studying his papa over the top of the flickering candle. Next to them, the ocean wind whistled against the window. “Until we earn enough money for what, Papa?”

“To leave, son. To leave for another country.”

“We're not staying here?”

“No. Someday someone will find out. They always do.”

“Where will we go?”

Geppetto gazed out the paned window. The sky was velvet black, and the ocean was visible only as a slightly less dark expanse that stretched beneath it. “I don't know,” he said. “But we'll get on one of these ships and cross the ocean to a place where no one would believe our story even if they heard it.”

*  *  *

It was a good plan, and for several months it seemed like it would work just as Geppetto had said it would. They quietly settled into their new life, saving every spare coin for their eventual trip across the ocean, keeping to themselves except
for their brief encounters with the customers. Pino always made sure to wear long-sleeved shirts and gloves. No one asked about their past. No one, as far as they could tell, suspected anything was unusual about them.

Until the dreadful day when Pino was at the market down by the docks picking up salmon for dinner.

People crowded the boardwalk, and it was so noisy that he didn't know anything was happening until he heard a woman scream.

The smell of fish was heavy on the afternoon breeze, and the sun had already sunk beneath the ocean. Pino stopped haggling with the shopkeeper and turned toward the sound. He saw the object of her terror right away, for the people were parting and spreading away from it like water rippling away from a hulking ship.

It was a black and charred thing, stumbling on footless peg legs, flapping a single arm as dark and thin as a poker. What remained of its head was a dusty gray mass, crumbling in on itself, like one of the rotten apples Pino used to see in the apple orchard not far from their old home. It was the few strands of black horsehair still attached to its scalp that made Pino finally realize what it was, and then every muscle in his body seized tight.

“Antoinette,” he whispered.

For a few long, agonizing seconds he could do nothing but watch the monster he'd created—what he'd created out of love and affection for his papa—lumber along the boardwalk. It did not see him at first, and may not have if Pino had been quicker to move, but then it did, its one remaining eye fixing on him.

It stopped, stared, and then doubled its speed, heading straight for the boy.

Then Pino was running. He did not
decide
to run; one moment he was looking at the monster, and the next moment he was looking at the astonished faces of the people he passed. He ran as fast as his feet would carry him, not daring to look over his shoulder even once, running over the broken cobblestone streets all the way to the workshop and collapsing at his papa's feet.

The room stank of the lacquer his papa used to stain the furniture, and Papa, pausing mid-brushstroke on a rocking chair, reacted with surprise. A streak of brown marred his cheek.

“Pino?” he said. “What is it?”

“Papa—Papa . . . ,” Pino began, but his trembling jaw wouldn't form the words.

It was no matter. Within seconds there was commotion outside, some shouts, some children crying. Papa, brush still in hand, went to the window.

“Oh no,” he said.

He stepped away, his face pale. Neither of them moved. There was a dull pounding on the door and they both jumped. The doorknob rattled and jiggled but did not turn. Pino wondered why, why the thing did not open the door, until he realized that no, of course it couldn't.

It had no hands.

Geppetto gritted his teeth and grabbed his ax from the corner. He stopped at the door, hand on the rattling knob, eyes closed for quite some time. Then he tossed open the door and lunged outside. The door blocked Pino's view, but he heard it all: the sounds of struggle, a few grunts from Papa, and then the awful crunch of the ax splintering wood. The crunching came again and again, and Pino sank to the floor, pressing his
face to his knees. It was the worst sound in the world, the crunching of that ax, and it went on forever.

Finally there was only Geppetto's labored breathing.

“Go home!” he shouted at the onlookers. “Go home, there's nothing of any interest here anymore!”

There were some murmurs of discontent, some shuffling feet, and then Geppetto was back in the room, slamming the door behind him. Pino looked up and saw not his papa, but a madman, wild eyed and flush faced. He looked at Pino without seeing him, then dropped the ax and lumbered to the woodstove. The morning's fire had been reduced to a scattering of orange glowing embers.

“Papa?” Pino said.

With his back to him, Pino could not make out his papa's face. Geppetto took a piece of folded yellow parchment from his front pocket, unfolded it, and studied it for a few seconds, then opened the stove door and tossed the paper inside.

“Papa,” he said, “what is it?”

The paper caught fire immediately, a burst of light that set Geppetto's shadow dancing on the brick wall. The flaming paper crumpled and twisted, and when it did, Pino caught sight of a woman's eye.

G
eppetto and Pino packed in a hurry, stuffing as many of their belongings as they could into the two large bags Pino had hoped they'd never have to use again. After all, people who went on ships could take suitcases, crates even; it was only people on the run who had to pack light. He protested. He asked if they had enough money, and Geppetto said it would have to be enough. He asked why they couldn't wait until morning, but Geppetto said it would be too dangerous to wait.

News might travel slowly across great distances, he said, but in a crowded town a rumor would touch every household faster than a sudden rain.

With the evening light fading to black, Geppetto smothered the remaining embers in the stove with ash. They hadn't bothered to light a lantern, and with the fire out, most of the light came from the open door—a purple, dusky light that fell across the floor like a rug. The first sign that they had a visitor was when the light dimmed and a shadow appeared on the wood shavings coating the floor.

“Going somewhere, wood-carver?” a voice said.

It was a man standing in the doorway, visible only as a short and stout silhouette. Geppetto, cloaked in shadow,
slipped the bags off his shoulders and eased them behind him.

“Oh, no,” he said, “just doing a bit of tidying up before supper.”

“Ah,” the man said. “How fortunate for me. I'd hate to think you were leaving town just when I needed your services most.”

Two more silhouettes appeared on either side of the short man, silhouettes belonging to much bigger and broader men. Geppetto fumbled to an oil lantern and lit it.

The short man was bald except for a ring of silver hair and a long black handlebar mustache that stretched straight out like the wings of a crow in flight. A gold chain dangled from one of the pockets of his suit, a suit that strained to hold in his rotund body. The two larger men, dressed in the plain gray uniform of the local police, carried rifles with bayonets.

“Do you know who I am?” the small man asked.

“Yes,” Geppetto said, and Pino could hear the heaviness in his voice, “you are the town's mayor, I believe.”

“That is correct.” The short man smiled, and it was a tight-lipped smile that was entirely in the lips and not in the eyes at all. “I am Mayor Serro. One of my chief responsibilities is to keep the peace in our quaint little town.”

“How can I help you, Signore Serro?” Geppetto asked.

“Ah, well, you see, I heard about the disturbance this afternoon,” Serro said. He entered the room, the two larger men remaining in the doorway. “A very strange tale it was.”

“Yes, I'm sorry for the trouble,” Geppetto said. “It won't happen again.”

“Oh, well, I hope it does.”

Geppetto hesitated. “I'm sorry?”

Serro wiped his finger across one of the worktables, sniffed the dust that stuck to his finger, then blew it away. “It seems
you have been misleading us . . . Signore Geppetto.”

No one spoke for a long time. It did not shock Pino that Serro knew his papa's real name, because Serro seemed like the sort of man who would know things.

“What do you want?” Geppetto asked. “Do you want us to leave town? Because we are more than happy—”

“Oh, no, no,” Serro said, “I would never ask such a fine craftsman as yourself to leave. You are probably the best thing that ever happened to our town. No, you see, I come because of a personal matter. I would like to hire you.”

Pino watched as what remained of the pleasant mask Geppetto was wearing drained away. “To do what?”

Instead of answering the question, Serro looked at Pino. He stepped closer to him, running a hand through Pino's hair. The hand felt as heavy and cold as a lump of deer meat brought in from the ice box. Pino hated being touched by him, and when Serro finally dropped his hand, Pino took two steps backward. Even though both of Pino's hands were gloved, and his sleeves were tucked into them, he kept them behind his back.

“Such amazing handiwork,” Serro said. “You know, my own daughter would be about his age now. Unfortunately, when she was only two, she fell from our buggy and broke her neck.”

“I'm quite sorry to hear that. I'm still not sure what you think I can—”

“Oh, I think you know.”

Geppetto shook his head. “It is not something I can do.”

“No?” Serro gestured at Pino. “And yet, here before me is proof otherwise.”

“It was merely a fluke. Made from enchanted wood I've never been able to find again.”

The mayor smiled. “Once, I'd believe. But twice? We heard
what walked into the village today. That's no fluke. No, you will do this thing for me. I will pay you handsomely, of course.” He signaled to one of the men at the door, who ducked briefly out of sight and reappeared with a small painting.

The man stepped into the room and held the painting for all to see. It pictured a small girl with bright red hair dressed in a green cotton dress and a matching bonnet.

“And if I refuse?” Geppetto asked.

Serro's gaze drifted to Pino. “You have a beautiful boy, signore. You know, I speak from experience when I say that it really is the worst kind of tragedy when something awful happens to your child.”

Geppetto gaped. “You threaten my
son
? You, who would ask me to bring your daughter back from the dead?”

“I have said nothing of the sort,” the man said. “I am only telling you what my own experience has taught me. But let me be clear, Signore Geppetto: I made my wife a promise. I promised I would keep our daughter safe. I failed. She has now succumbed to madness, passing her days in the dismal darkness of our wine cellar. Here is my chance to make it right. If you only do as I say, no harm will come to anyone.”

Pino saw that a muscle in Geppetto's neck was pulsing. His jaw looked as if it had been frozen in ice. “All right,” he sighed. “I seem to have no choice. It will take some time, though. If you return in a week—”

“Oh, no,” Serro said, “I suspect you'd find a way to escape, even if I left my men to watch over you. No, you'll be coming with me. The jail is currently unoccupied, and there's plenty of room to work in there.”