The Puppet Master
Puppet Master
The narrow, high-walled passage swallowed the sound of my boot scraping a broken cobblestone, the echo sharp in the dry air. Above, a sliver of unforgiving sunlight cut down, carving deep shadows where the damp, mossy scent of the gully was now replaced by the smell of dust and ancient stone.
I paused, looking not just at my gloved hand—the leather scuffed from my descent, but at what was attached to it. Thin, nearly invisible lines, like high-tensile wires, stretched from the articulated cuff on my wrist and disappeared into the air above the path. I tracked them with my eyes until they converged on a small, stone figure standing motionless in the centre of the walkway.
It was a crude marionette, barely a foot tall, carved from the same pale, cracked stone as the surrounding walls. Dressed in a simple tunic, its blank, oval face held a radiating sense of expectant waiting. Its arms were held out, palms up.
I held the strings. Yet, the feeling was not one of control. It was as if the strings did not originate from my wrist, but merely passed through it, continuing upwards into the blinding light high above the gully walls.
"Who's the puppet, and who's the master?" I whispered, my voice a dry croak.
My hand twitched, an unbidden reflex. The stone figure jerked forward a fraction of an inch, its miniature boot grating on the path—a jerky, unnatural movement. A cold understanding gripped me: I wasn't controlling the doll; something else was controlling me to control the doll. The "Paraknowing" hadn't stopped its manipulation; it had simply changed its method. I was no longer merely a performer; I was the instrument itself.
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Copyright
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