Pull the seams together. Tie up loose threads. Cut loose ends.
There are yet loose ends in the rubble of the Palace. He is not the only one to go back in among the stones and the exsanginuated brambles, but he is the one to find the remains of a certain creation. Someone else’s sculpture, someone else’s image, and the letters and the ravaged canvas holding his old likeness. Twisted and marred, but it’s good enough. It has to be good enough.
And so he is taken to Coreinodel, to a land of strings, and he is – as all damaged puppets are – restrung.
Start by making the armature. Brambles, dry and brittle, must be handled carefully to preserve them while bending them into new shapes. Sewn together by fragile bits of thread.
Promises are spoken. Promises of repair and thankfulness, of a home to stay in and memories to be imparted. A bramble pricks the sewist’s thumb, and blood seeps into the thread.
Stitch it back together. Cloth at the joints, between the porcelain pieces, so that he may move freely. Replace the eyes. Tie up loose threads. Cut loose ends. Attach the head to the armature.
Pull the needle through. In, out, in, out, a hypnotising – no, a calming – rhythm. And a red thread finally pulls taut, a lifeline, a string of fate.
And that is how Sir Pompilius Albite comes to be sitting in a patchworked armchair, petting the two-headed plush rabbit in his lap with a scowl. The Puppet Maker made it so.
Tick Tock.
The sound of clocks ticking and tocking their way to the hour is not an uncommon one here, in fact one could claim that is instead inuncommon, perhaps even common in nature. Joaquin Coserador is a man of many possessions, clocks included. Pocket watches, wrist watches, coloured clocks pinned to the walls, the occasional cuckoo clock, the odd grandmother and often more usual grandfather clock all take up space. They are not well synced, so in fact the tick tock is not entirely accurate.
Tick (Tick) Tock (Tock).
A more realistic representation of the pendulum of quiet noises that echo throughout the cottage.
Tick (Tick) Tock (Tock).
This time, this minute, second, hour of the day, the clocks indicate that it is the morning. At least some of the clocks do. As reliably as the sun casts rainbow coloured curtains of light, and fragmented pyramids strewn through a window entirely full of suncatchers can indicate, it is morning. Morning, and as such it is time to get up for the day. To boil the kettle for the first cup of tea. To wish Alicia a good day, as good of a day as a modern woman could hope to have in this society. To make breakfast, take off his nightcap and replace it with his daycap. Not to be confused with his hat, that is a post-morning pre-afternoon mid-lunch activity.
Tick (Tick) Tock (Tock).
Blinking, shaking, rattling. No tea seems to be coming out of the teapot. The water boiled but caught in the spout, it must be. Winking, squeaking, scraping, an eye peering down into the dark. Eyelashes flickering away the steam. Perhaps there is a mouse inside after all- a small dormouse. Must be. Must be to have crawled down such a small hole, to have fallen so far.
Tick (Tick) Tock (Tock).
Falling. Falling and turning and twisting, a large tired, spiralling eye watching, the mouth of the hole having disappeared. Light from the outside cut off and distorted into a yellow spotlight and- he is bleeding? When did that happen? Red blood falling onto brambles, smearing, some untold and unspoken bargain fulfilled, written in ink on a wetted letter clutched in one clammy hand. On his knees in some ditch, a hand reaching out, shards of pottery around him.
Tick (Tick) Tock (Tock).
But when he looks up, there is no white figure. No rabbit. No watch, no gloves, no dirty claws covered in ichor. No fingerprints embedded in stone reaching out to help him up from scraped knees either. Just brambles- a labyrinth of brambles and a dry, chalky, decomposed bone-
Tick (Tick) Tock (Tock).
A whistle, high pitched. A screaming scream of a high pitched whistle- a house burnt down and the inhabitants all gone. What will Mister Ladybug find when he comes back home and-
Tick (Tick) Tock (Tock).
The kettle must have finished boiling. The water is ready to pour. To fill the cups- all the teacups. Laid out on saucers for visitors. Leaves ready for a-steeping. Tartlets baked and stacked and piled high on a plate in the centre, red jam covered brambles curling around the plates, waiting. Hungry. Sticky.
Tick (Tick) Tock (Tock).
He can’t see the cups for the shadows- the light cold. Fading. Waning. White rather than yellow- no longer pyramidal. He must turn the light on- light a candle. Turn on the myriad of gas lamps that border the room, cast their room in their dust-covered coloured glow. The sun must be hiding, doing nothing but peeking out from behind the clouds, eyes narrowed.
Tick (Tick) Tock (Tock).
It is cold. The water- it is cold. The tea cannot steep- the leaves cannot diffuse- the balance is off. The guests- the guests will be kept waiting. The tea will be late.
Tick (Tick) Tock (Tock).
Never-you-mind. He shall simply have to boil the kettle again.
Written by Faith C.