Marionette People: The Clockwork Witch

Chapter 8: A Love Story and the Floods

     I was nearing my 31st birthday -though I remained 23 in appearance- and with it, the completion of the 4th-generation of Marionette People. It was also when everything went wrong. The 4th-generation had skin; mind you, it was lamb skin. They also had the ability to change their expressions and the same pendulum heart which meant my children's inner workings never stopped moving and had, since we originally placed it, made it clear that they needed stronger strings. So, we switched to a straightened balance spring, which I modified slightly to increase its flexibility. It looked similar to wire, though it most definitely was not. Pocket took most of the modifications except skin, and we simply couldn't afford to cover Giant, so they kept their pure wooden look. Some followed Pocket and Giant's lead, but more chose to take the upgrades.
     That's when I noticed that the townspeople were once again reverting back to their previous state. The one I was fairly familiar with: hateful, superstitious. Unfortunately, their hatred was more directed at those who did not understand it - my children - and that's when I began to feel what I'm sure my father felt so long ago. I felt upset and extremely protective. I began to regularly start looking at my father's picture in my pocket watch again. It somehow made me feel safer.
     My birthday was a very celebrated occasion among the Marionette People, but to me, it was a quiet affair, having somewhat lost it's meaning in my agelessness. I worked most of the day rather than joining in the festivities. It wasn't until nightfall that Pocket came in. The others were sleeping in their hammocks which spread throughout the whole clock tower, now nearing at least 50. I looked to Pocket's entrance and smiled a little.
     "Happy Birthday, Muse," Pocket said.
     "Thank you," I said, following his movement to my side with my eyes before turning back to the dark streets. It seemed peaceful enough, but I knew the truth. I saw straight through the houses, the people, and even the peaceful masks they all wore.
     "Muse," Pocket said.
     I looked back at him and smiled when I saw the gift box in his hands. I bent down to him and took both his hands with the box in them into my own and said, "Pocket, you didn't have to get me anything."
     "I wanted to. I've wanted to since I noticed you checking your broken one regularly again," he said, tapping my pocket watch with a finger. He was right, of course; it didn't work and was kept for mostly sentimental purposes now.
     I opened the gift, knowing from his words that it was some kind of timepiece. It was a necklace which had a watch pendant hanging from it. It was fully functional, and I could see the inner workings through the backside just like my pocket watch before it, which I adored, but then I opened it. Instantly, I found myself humbled. Inside was a picture of a woman, part of me knew who it was, but I asked just to be sure, "Who is she?"
     Pocket smiled and said, "Your mother."
     She was beautiful with the lightest tan skin, blue eyes, and dark hair. I couldn't stop myself and began to cry. Never before had I felt so loved; my father excluded, of course. Never before had someone cared enough to get me a picture of her. My father had no access to it, but while I was curious how Pocket had acquired one, I was too touched to say anything more than, "How?"
     Pocket climbed to my shoulder and, hugging my neck, replied, "I did some research on her in the closest town with a library and asked around, learning a great deal. Including where I could find a picture of her."
     I took him from my shoulder, kissed his cheek, and said, "I want to know everything. Thank you so much, Pocket, I love it."
     As per my request, Pocket told me about my mother. If it had not been for his efforts, I never would have understood half of my parentage. The place he began was when she came into my father's life.

     "Your mother's name was Abigail Isolde Montgomery, and the year was 1775. She and your father met when he was injured in the war. Abigail was quite wealthy and lived with her parents in Massachusetts. Your father had been shot and wandered into her backyard. When she found him, she kept him hidden from her parents and nursed him back to health, during which they developed a very close bond. By the time her parents found out, he could almost perfectly mimic an American accent, so they were none the wiser.
     "Needless to say, they sent him away to work so that he could earn his brief stay. He was apprenticed to a clockmaker which, at the time, was still a very new and uncertain occupation. So, he was basically a no one with nobody, and she was practically a noble. It was when they were apart that they realized their love for one another, but their courtship was very hush hush. After a time, Abigail became engaged to another man, but your father refused to let her go without a fight.
     "He approached her parents; however, they told him that he had to prove his worth to marry their daughter. That was what caused him to become a clock tower engineer, at which he made a small fortune of his own and became fairly well-known.
      "Once he'd managed to make a name for himself, he went to ask for your mother's hand in marriage. The downside was that she was already at the church. Your father stopped the ceremony and, in the end, won Abigail's hand.
     "About a year later she was diagnosed with a lung disease, and everyone learned of your father's British heritage. That's also when she was pregnant with you. The doctors said that both of you would not survive childbirth. Furthermore, they said that your father should make a choice.
     "For a while, they went about their lives avoiding the inevitable decision that had to be made, until the last month of her pregnancy. She fell to her bed and remained there. That was when Abigail told your father to save you, to choose you. No one expected her to make it past that, but she did, though not long."
     So, Death had always been my very close companion, and not only was my recovery at age four miraculous, but as was my mother's last two years of life. No wonder people thought of our family as witches and demon bargainers. For about a week, I even wondered if perhaps the townspeople had been right. Perhaps, my family was accountable to dark forces of their own. This evaluation caused a halt in my work on the Marionette People. How could I continue a work meant to bring light to the world -a work meant to improve the human conditions of fear and hate- when it may well be evil. I was not above God... so who was I to play God?
     The Marionette People noticed my hesitations, even as I tried to keep up with the incoming work from the townspeople, most now quite rusted from various rain showers, but my existential crisis quickly came to an end with the first flood. The Mississippi had gushed over its banks. I woke up to the sound of screams from the streets below. Naturally, I went to see what had happened although I was not totally sure I wanted to know. My first thought was that a girl was meeting a similar fate to what I had endured so many years ago, but as I saw the water filled streets, my heart sank. It was perhaps a worse sight than I had expected. People were swimming to higher ground in all directions. Children were treading water and failing miserably in wretched wails and heart-breaking sobs, but what was worse was that I saw a few of my own in the water, perhaps 20, a third of our general populous.
     Quickly, I ran to the rail to overlook the whole tower. The main doors were hanging askew, the food was ruined, and Pocket, along with several others, were pulling Marionette People to the stairs and out of the water where a nasty whirlpool had formed, thanks to the tower's fairly close walls. It seemed that they were making good progress until Pocket slipped into the water and began being pulled by the current out the door.
     "Pocket!" I screamed, running down the stairs, but before I could dive in after him, the closest two Marionette People stopped me.
     "It's too dangerous, get back," said one to the right named Edwin, a 4th-generation Marionette person who was covered by the skin we'd chosen and who I knew to be one of the most popular among his siblings. Something about his personality drew human and Marionette alike to him.
     "No, let me go," I said, trying to shove past him and his sister Annie (sister meaning made from the same wood since all Marionette People were, in my eyes, related), who was much quieter but who people still seemed to adore. She, too, was 4th-generation. The pair held me easily at bay. They were quite strong and sturdy, so it came as no surprise. After a while, I gave up and returned upstairs where I spent the night watching the streets below from behind the clock face. My room filled more and more throughout the night until all my children who hadn't been washed away resided with me -which made the room quite cramped; some cried, others comforted, and still others guarded.
     Giant was one who cried, and the longer he did, the more inconsolable he became, except by me. Judy, a 3rd- generation Marionette person, tried her best, but even with her natural motherly abilities, it was impossible. Judy was often around Giant and tending to whatever needs he required that no one else had seen to. I hugged Giant's large seven-foot frame while he said between wretched sobs, "Mommy, Pocket's gone."
     Each and every time he said it, it hurt my heart a little more and made it ever harder not to cry. I swore I would never again hear the sounds of their broken sobs. I would never let them get hurt again. It was a promise I had every intention of keeping, but it was unfortunately not one that I could. The floods were just the beginning of their pain. I would die some day, and humans would never truly accept them or me. Regardless, I would try to protect them, shield them from pain.
     I did not sleep that evening, few of us did. I watched the sun rise through the clock face's glass on the desolation as the water level lowered, leaving the smell of mold and mildew in its wake. I watched Alexander enter the streets and begin covering bodies. Each time I prayed it wasn't one of my children. He did so for hours, and people began to approach their loved ones in tears, but everybody someone else mourned made me more hopeful. As Alexander covered the last body, he looked up at me. We locked eyes and his gaze cast blame. His look was one of disgust at my indifferent demeanor. He despised me for my lack of compassion to the people of Valmeyer. I didn't care; I only cared about whether my "family" was safe. Can any person not say the same?
     The tower was very quiet that day in anticipation. I watched the crooked doors all day waiting for Pocket to come through it, for all the lost ones, but none did. The tower sunk deeper into the depressing silence until dinner, when I ate the only food I had left, soggy bread, at which point the lost ones began walking through the entryway. There were some injuries from the rough current -no doubt tossing their wooden "bones" against stones or thicker trees. I quickly went to work repairing each section of split wood and torn "skin" which wood had occasionally punctured. Luckily, both were well within my skill set. Light began to return to our home.
     That's when Pocket came in. I nearly cried at the sight of him. I hugged him quickly as I had all his siblings before him. He needed several repairs done but, besides that, seemed quite well. That day was spent oiling, cleaning, repairing, and above all, celebrating.
     When the excitement died down and my children were sleeping, I prayed, for the first time in a long time, offering God my thanks. Afterwards, I found I still could not sleep, so I once more looked out of the clock face. My eyes fell to a blanket covering a small form. I knew well enough that it was a child, and that was when I felt for the people of Valmeyer. That was when I was reminded that, no matter how cruel they were, they too had families. Except that child beneath the blanket. Otherwise, the child would have been taken in by a family to prepare it for the funeral. It? I thought to myself as a tear slid down my cheek, but it did not last long because someone, beside me, wiped my cheek dry. I knew the hand and hesitantly turned to face him. Death met my eyes.
     "I should have known I would be seeing you," I said, looking back to the little blanket and placing a hand on the glass over it.
     "Such pain," Death said, still looking at me.
     "Loss is a painful thing," I said then whispered, "That poor child."
     Death placed a hand on top of mine and, pulling it off the glass, said, "Come with me." For a moment, I didn't move. Did he plan to kill me? He seemed to know my thoughts and asked, "Did you drown?"
     I shook my head then allowed him to guide me out into the muddy, sticky streets where we approached the little bundle. Death then released my hand and lifted the blanket to reveal a young girl of about six with blonde pigtails, bronze eyes, and freckles. I gasped at the sight of her.
     "It's like looking in an eerie mirror, don't you think?" Death asked.
     I nodded. The little girl looked like me as a child; not identical, mind you, but close enough that I immediately felt the need to give her a proper burial. I knelt down, my knees sinking into the mud, and placed a hand on the cold, lifeless, little girl's face. I felt tears burning in my eyes again as I brushed a hand along her cheek. "What's her name?" I asked Death.
     "She didn't have one. Everyone just called her little traveler. She had no family," he replied.
     I looked at her for a minute before I asked, "Why did you let me live and why will you let this child die? What's the difference?"
     "I can kill you, if you'd like," Death said, his tone somewhat somber, yet mocking. I looked to him, and his eyes were distant.
     "You know well enough that is not what I meant," I said, gently pulling my hand back and standing face to face with Death.
     "It's a matter of choice, Muse," Death said, "my choice." He finished folding his arms across his chest and gave me a look that told me he had little intention of going on.
     I wasn't going to drop it. It seemed an injustice. "Why did you choose to give me another chance at life then?" I asked, then waited patiently.
     "Why does it matter so much?" asked Death, turning to the little girl and kneeling by her side. His voice seemed distant.
     "It matters because she is so young," I said, trying to keep my voice from cracking.
     "You had so much left to offer. You had a strength in you that could change the world. Not to mention you were still so full of life; you just weren't ready, plain and simple. Little Traveler here, was. Life gave up on her long ago, but more so, she gave up on life," Death said, brushing a hand along the little girl's cheek before adding very quietly, "She's one of the lucky ones."
     "Lucky?" I asked, a little upset, "Do you know how long she must have tried to swim against the current? How long she struggled for air?"
     Death turned back to me in slight amusement before standing and returning to me. He then placed a hand on my chin and asked, "Do you know how stressful it is to realize you're not going to eat at night? How exhausting it is to always be on the run? How aggravating it is for people to look down on you and kick you just for fun? Do you know what it feels like to be alone and homeless? Do you know how desperation feels, Muse? What shame feels like?"
     I did know. Everything he said I knew well, or at least had been close to at some point or another. I had been there; I had fought for survival. My circumstances were different though; I had someone to return to. I looked down at her again and said, "I understand."
     "Do you?" asked Death, his tone doubtful.
     "Don't mock me..." I said, closing my eyes.
     "I'm glad we got to have this talk," Death said, brushing a hand along my cheek then, as he disappeared, he said, "I'll leave her for you to tend to. Good day, Miss Adelard."
     I spent the rest of the night preparing Little Traveler's body for a funeral. I only hoped that if her body was prepared that the people of Valmeyer would treat her with the respect she deserved. I then took her hand in mine and said, "Good bye, little one."
     The next day, early in the morning, I watched the townspeople go to the cemetery. Thankfully, they did take her. I decided to attend her funeral, and Pocket insisted on coming with me, as did Giant. It was a very quiet affair, but to my surprise, others attended as well, which meant our presence was distant. We were not directly involved in the activities, merely bystanders.
     "Who was she?" asked Pocket, looking at me sympathetically. His hand was in mine, as was Giant's. They were in the modes that made them most human sized.
     "A friend," I said, smiling slightly.
After the funeral, we went home and began working on repairing the clock tower. Pocket, Giant, and I went to get food, and the others repaired the doors and cleaned the tower. People were hesitant to serve us, though we definitely needed help; then again, many were distracted by grief over a death in the family. Death remained in town during that time, and he wasn't leaving anytime soon, but we did not speak again.
     Eventually, we did find someone to serve, the Catholic church. I was quite grateful for their assistance and found myself thinking about how long it been since I had attended. It was with my father who, since my birth, had been mindful of getting me to attend church. Following my father's death, I had not attended, but their willingness to help made me reconsider attending. Of course, I would not be allowed to bring my children, so almost immediately I decided against it. However, from that point, I would encourage some different Sunday traditions.
     After a few days of their assistance, we returned home to a freshly cleaned and fully repaired tower. From the second I laid eyes on it, I smiled. I was simply so proud of the Marionette People, whether they were first generation or 4th, and their ability to work together and make ends meet. It gave me hope that if I perished, heaven forbid, they could go on and take care of one another. That was all I, as their mother, could hope for.
     I quickly stepped inside and headed upstairs. I took the food with me and instructed everyone to stick to the upper hammocks when night fell. They did, and I was quite grateful that I had made the suggestion when flood number 2 struck. All in all, we survived 3 floods. Each time just as violent as the last, each time lives were lost, and each time I was grateful that it was not mine or my family members'. The frightening thing was that every time someone else lost a family member they wanted to take one of mine, even the playing field, so to speak. The next time I looked down on to the quiet streets of Valmeyer, I felt my heart sink. The angry silence was brewing again, and for the first time since I was reborn, I once more knew fear.
     I closed my eyes, bowed my head, and whispered, "Please, God, don't make me lose them..."