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 Six Little Marionettes: Pantheon, Archived: 31 December 2022
Syrillina Clarissa Savernake
Posted: Jan 23 2012, 12:07 PM

The Puppeteer
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Group: Adults
Posts: 66
Member No.: 173
Joined: 1-August 11

It’s not going to matter what you chose.
TAG: N/A OUTFIT: See Above. WORDS: 1219
NOTES: Do you hear the thunder brewing?

31st December 2022

What in the world could be better?

Syrillina was all ablaze as she hammered the last little nail into the sleek, wooden paneling; seven of them in all, dotting along the perfect spots in the grain. It had taken days for her to decide on the right spot. How delicately these things had to be done! Now, she smiled elegantly as she stood back, her hands on her hips as a set of twins, one eager brown-eyed girl and her more worldly brunette brother, wondered past to see what it was she was doing. She turned her smile towards them, her bright eyes alive with the kind of cherishing love that ought to be offered to children. She had a knack for it, she had discovered.

“What in Merlin’s name is it?” declared the boy with such knowledge of the uselessness of seven empty nails as could set at ease any who might be wondering it.

“Malcolm! Don’t be unkind,” the little girl snapped at her brother, “can’t you see she’s taken a lot of time on this? It must be awfully fun to play with…” A gap-toothed grin meant to put a heart at ease swept through Syrri with its tenderness. The older witch came down to rest on her haunches, her multi-colored coat pooling around her as she came to the right height for this conversation. She fixed the young girl with her own excited gaze as though The Puppeteer was finally understood.

“Oh, yes, a great deal of fun! Though not half of it is yet to be had…” There was a pause as she turned her shoulder slightly to favour her new friend. “Sometimes, brothers can be so full of knowing they have no idea about anything else,” she offered conspiratorially. The little girl giggled.

“I am sure someone must have told you that things are not always as they seem,” she turned to the young boy, weaving around him a story and little of the more subtle kind of magic at the toymaker’s disposal. He seemed suddenly uncertain as he felt a bubbling within him and thought he caught a promise in the half-rise of her smile. Though she had sided with his sister, there was something of a secret between them; as though she had winked at him and was merely coddling the girl at his side so that they two might make a joke of it later.

“Don’t you know that nails are good for hanging?” it was delivered with such nonchalance that the boy felt naturally compelled to behave as if he had known this all along.

“Well, of course they are! But what exactly are you hanging?” his emphasis rested so heavily on the word ‘exactly’, that Syrri thought he might fall over for saying it. What a joke he would make for Rupert later. She only hoped that her dear friend did not spot the similarities between he and the boy and be offended… She leaned closer to him still and spoke in a hush. There were matters of importance about to be discussed.

“Perhaps you are wise enough to hear it,” the witch began, her eyes alight with the onset of a moment so tantalizing as to rob her of sense for a second. She began again in a hallowed whisper, “Perhaps, if you promise that it shall remain our secret, I shall tell you.” His eyes grew wide with her insistence and the talk of ‘secrets’ made him certain of this being his alliance rather than his sister’s. He leaned slightly forward as his only answer.

The Puppeteer leaned in and whispered for a moment so that not even the young girl, with all her curiosity, could hear. She went on a long while's wait for the girl who could not hear and, as she did, something drained a little from the boy’s face. It was not just the blood that comes from a shock, but also a little something extra; a store that is never replenished and drains from us each in its time, taken part by part by life’s progression as we understand slowly what it is that surrounds us. Syrri shivered as she could almost feel his innocence cross over to her as she spoke. Finally, she pulled back, a broad smile on her face to juxtapose against the strange deadness over his.

“Remember,” she warned, a twinkle of what she had said in her eyes, “It’s only a secret if you promise not to tell. You can keep a secret, can’t you?”

Slowly as death might move, the boy nodded, taking his sister’s hand without a word and shuffling out of the store, even she too awed by the something that had passed to ask him about it. As she watched them, Syrri breathed in her conquest and delighted in the feel of a little exhilaration. Who knew that truth-telling could be so stimulating? Satisfied, she leaned to where her box rested exactly against the wall and replaced the hammer in its spot before pulling out a heavy gilt frame, the parchment in it seemingly one hundred years old, though the words it bore were only birthed the evening before. Humming a bubbly and entrancing tune, the witch placed the frame neatly on the centre nail, leaving six behind and three on either side. Soon, she admired, all would be complete and so too her commission. She stood back to once more congratulate herself on the work well-done. She was always so pleased to see new friends find home.

Thus, as she made her way to begin the lock-up of the store, the icy glare of the sun off the winter evening glinted against the newfound glass that entered its stage as reflective plaything. Beneath the game dwelt a myriad of hopes, the very least of them lived free and wildly in the author’s heart. There, grew a thought that was compounded more and more each day with the knowledge possessed by the owner. Yes, it would be a pleasant New Year. The words were spoken now and each, in their turn, would be taken up by life itself as an intricate part of the never-ending show:

Six Little Marionettes

Six little marionettes
standing in a row.
Three of them be leaders
the others all in tow.

Six little marionettes,
which is which, I cannot tell.
But put your mind to these, I charge,
And you may guess them well.

The first of solid oak be born,
quite the right wood and a sickening snap.
The second be more humble,
A hungry, eager smile and a foul little gap.

The third has memory wild;
greying hair and a sad reflection.
The fourth be more a child;
A pompous coat and a peevish expression.

The fifth a mystery clear,
A peaceful façade and an innocent eye.
The sixth ever more dear,
A furrowed brow and the end be nigh.

Six little marionettes
here and there go romping by.
Have you reckoned out each face?
Or have my riddles gone awry?

Six little marionettes
standing in a row.
Three of them be leaders,
the others all in tow.

It’s too late when everything goes dark.
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