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The Puppet That Bites
On top of the cabinet in the back of my father’s workshop – which was my grandfather’s workshop and will one day be mine, if I want it – there is a puppet. This is unsurprising, since it’s a puppet workshop. But this puppet, alone of them all, is imprisoned in a glass case, and the thing that’s driven me crazy my whole life is this: The case doesn’t open. It was my job to dust it when I was little, and I can tell you for a certainty: It has no door, no keyhole, no hinges. It’s a solid cube, and was constructed around the puppet .
To get the puppet out – or ‘let it out,’ in my grandfather’s words – you’d have to break the glass.
This has been discouraged.
It’s a nasty-looking little bastard, some kind of undead fox thing in Cossack garb – fur hat, leather boots. Its head is a real fox skull, plain yellowed bone, unadorned except for the eyes in its sockets, which are black glass set in leather eyelids, too realistic for comfort. Its teeth are sharpened to little knifepoints, because whoever made it apparently didn’t think fox teeth were…sharp enough.
‘Sharp enough for what?’ my best friend, Karou, wanted to know, the first time I brought her home to Č eský Krumlov with me.
‘What do you think?’ I replied with a creepy smile. It was Christmas Eve. We were fifteen, the power was out due to a storm, and my brother, Tomas, and I had led her out to the workshop with only a candle for light. I admit it freely: We were trying to freak her out.
The joke was so going to be on us.
‘Your grandfather didn’t make it?’ she asked, fascinated, putting her face right up to the glass to see the puppet better. It looked even more maniacal than usual by candlelight, with the flickering reflections in its black eyes making it seem to contemplate us.
‘He swears not,’ said Tomas. ‘He says he caught it.’
‘Caught it,’ Karou repeated. ‘And where do grandfathers catch…undead fox Cossacks?’
‘In Russia, of course.’
‘Of course.’
It’s Deda’s best, most terrifying, and all-time most-requested bedtime story, and that’s saying something, because Deda has a lot of stories, each one absolutely true . ‘If I’m lying, may a lightning bolt slice me in two!’ he always declares, and no lightning bolt has yet obliged him, on top of which, for every story, he furnishes ‘proof.’ Newspaper clippings, artifacts, trinkets. When we were little, Tomas and I believed devoutly that Deda himself ran from the rampaging golem in 1586 (he has a lump of petrified clay in the rough shape of a toe), hunted the witch Baba Yaga across the taiga at the behest of Catherine the Great (who presented him an Order of St. George medal for his troubles), and, yes, cornered a marauding undead fox Cossack in a Sevastopol cellar in the final days of the Crimean War. Proof of that escapade? Well, aside from the puppet itself, there’s the scar tissue furling the knuckles of his left hand.
Because, yeah, that’s the story. The puppet… bites .
‘What do you mean, it bites ?’ asked Karou.
‘When you put your hand in its mouth,’ I said, cool, ‘it bites.’
‘And why would you put your hand in its mouth?’
‘Because it doesn’t just bite.’ I dropped my voice to a whisper. ‘It also talks , but only if you let it taste your blood. You can ask it a question, and it will answer.’
‘Any question,’ said Tomas, also whispering. He’s two years older than me, and hadn’t shown this much interest in hanging around with me in more than a decade. It’s possible it had something to do with my stunning new best friend, who he’d been following around like an assigned manservant. He said, ‘But only one question per person per lifetime, so it better be good.’
‘What did your grandfather ask it?’ Karou wanted to know, which is exactly what we wanted her to ask.
‘Let me just put it this way: It’s in the case for a reason.’
The story is
The Puppet That Bites
On top of the cabinet in the back of my father’s workshop – which was my grandfather’s workshop and will one day be mine, if I want it – there is a puppet. This is unsurprising, since it’s a puppet workshop. But this puppet, alone of them all, is imprisoned in a glass case, and the thing that’s driven me crazy my whole life is this: The case doesn’t open. It was my job to dust it when I was little, and I can tell you for a certainty: It has no door, no keyhole, no hinges. It’s a solid cube, and was constructed around the puppet .
To get the puppet out – or ‘let it out,’ in my grandfather’s words – you’d have to break the glass.
This has been discouraged.
It’s a nasty-looking little bastard, some kind of undead fox thing in Cossack garb – fur hat, leather boots. Its head is a real fox skull, plain yellowed bone, unadorned except for the eyes in its sockets, which are black glass set in leather eyelids, too realistic for comfort. Its teeth are sharpened to little knifepoints, because whoever made it apparently didn’t think fox teeth were…sharp enough.
‘Sharp enough for what?’ my best friend, Karou, wanted to know, the first time I brought her home to Č eský Krumlov with me.
‘What do you think?’ I replied with a creepy smile. It was Christmas Eve. We were fifteen, the power was out due to a storm, and my brother, Tomas, and I had led her out to the workshop with only a candle for light. I admit it freely: We were trying to freak her out.
The joke was so going to be on us.
‘Your grandfather didn’t make it?’ she asked, fascinated, putting her face right up to the glass to see the puppet better. It looked even more maniacal than usual by candlelight, with the flickering reflections in its black eyes making it seem to contemplate us.
‘He swears not,’ said Tomas. ‘He says he caught it.’
‘Caught it,’ Karou repeated. ‘And where do grandfathers catch…undead fox Cossacks?’
‘In Russia, of course.’
‘Of course.’
It’s Deda’s best, most terrifying, and all-time most-requested bedtime story, and that’s saying something, because Deda has a lot of stories, each one absolutely true . ‘If I’m lying, may a lightning bolt slice me in two!’ he always declares, and no lightning bolt has yet obliged him, on top of which, for every story, he furnishes ‘proof.’ Newspaper clippings, artifacts, trinkets. When we were little, Tomas and I believed devoutly that Deda himself ran from the rampaging golem in 1586 (he has a lump of petrified clay in the rough shape of a toe), hunted the witch Baba Yaga across the taiga at the behest of Catherine the Great (who presented him an Order of St. George medal for his troubles), and, yes, cornered a marauding undead fox Cossack in a Sevastopol cellar in the final days of the Crimean War. Proof of that escapade? Well, aside from the puppet itself, there’s the scar tissue furling the knuckles of his left hand.
Because, yeah, that’s the story. The puppet… bites .
‘What do you mean, it bites ?’ asked Karou.
‘When you put your hand in its mouth,’ I said, cool, ‘it bites.’
‘And why would you put your hand in its mouth?’
‘Because it doesn’t just bite.’ I dropped my voice to a whisper. ‘It also talks , but only if you let it taste your blood. You can ask it a question, and it will answer.’
‘Any question,’ said Tomas, also whispering. He’s two years older than me, and hadn’t shown this much interest in hanging around with me in more than a decade. It’s possible it had something to do with my stunning new best friend, who he’d been following around like an assigned manservant. He said, ‘But only one question per person per lifetime, so it better be good.’
‘What did your grandfather ask it?’ Karou wanted to know, which is exactly what we wanted her to ask.
‘Let me just put it this way: It’s in the case for a reason.’
The story is
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