Porcelain Princess (4 page)

Of course,
Carey’s puppet theatre wasn’t the only one to bring the girl to
life at the end of the play. Although this wasn’t part of the
Illuminator’s original tale, which ended only on the father’s
promise that he would find a way of giving her life, everyone
agreed that his promise would be fulfilled; how would she become
the Porcelain Princess otherwise?

From the stack
alongside her, Carey picked out her old and slightly battered copy
of
The Porcelain Child
. She should treat such an expensive
rarity with more care, she knew, but the whole purpose of the
library her ancestors had so patiently collected was to help them
give their productions realism and accuracy, whether it came to
costume design, the painting of backdrops, or the lines given to
their puppet actors.

Every other
theatre owner or storyteller she had met on her travels had agreed
with her that accuracy was the most important part of any retelling
of a tale. Hidden somewhere amongst them, the stories contained
universal truths, even historical events and hints of our futures.
But who could say for sure where fairy-tale ended and reality and
truth began?

Opening the book
was like being invited into a whole new world of vivid colour, of
striking landscapes, of intricate shapes and patterns drawn from
life. It was a frozen reality, giving you the opportunity to study
the minutest details of places you might otherwise pass through
without a second glance, of actions and events that would take
place so quickly you would miss them. It was, too, as if you were
seeing it all through the eyes of an inquisitive squirrel perched
amongst the trees, a curious robin swooping overhead, or a nosey
mouse, peering up through the cluttered pots stored beneath an old
set of shelves.

And, when your
own curiosity and amazement got the better of you, and you actually
reached out and touched a pot, a house, a person; your fingers
instantly tingled, as if you were touching roughened clay, cool
brick, or, yes, even living flesh.

The first time
anyone experienced this, they would jump back in shock, even
horror. But then, inquisitive and intrigued, they would tentatively
touch the illustration once more, their eyes widening in surprise
as they felt their fingers probing into the softness of a pillow,
warming from the heat of a flame, or prickling as they touched the
short, fine hairs of a hog. With a little practise, they could
smell the tang of a farmyard, taste a freshly made tart, or even
sneeze when they seemed to stir up the dust covering a
floor.

It was easy to
understand why the mother and father of the porcelain child had
believed the illuminator would be able to grant her life, Carey
thought as she turned to the page portraying their beautiful
daughter. Did they ever realise, she wondered, that their own story
would end up being told and illustrated by the
Illuminator?

This particular
picture was one of Carey’s favourites. You could feel the coolness
and smoothness of the porcelain yet, at the very same time, if you
stilled your breathing, slowed you heart from excitedly beating,
you could also sense the warmth of the life beneath waiting to be
awakened.

Carey had been
so entranced by the girl’s ethereal beauty that she had made little
tweaks to way she looked herself, trying to capture the way the
girl’s hair hung in a silken curtain, or how her eyes appeared to
sparkle with a sharp intelligence. Of course, it would have been
ridiculous if she had been trying to copy the look of a lifeless
puppet. But that strange beauty, that remarkable air of
intelligence, was even more on display in her far more numerous
portrayals as the Porcelain Princess in
The Porcelain
Kingdom
; a book in which the Illuminator admitted he had
overseen an unhappy kingdom until her arrival had helped him rule
it wisely, justly and compassionately.

Leaving
The
Porcelain Child
open, Carey reached for the stack of books once
more, drawing across and opening up
The Porcelain Kingdom
.
Unlike most of the other books in her library, this one was a book
that Carey herself had finally managed to track down, paying out
almost a year’s carefully saved takings for it.

If anything,
this was even more sumptuously beautiful than the first book.
Whereas
The Porcelain Child
was, for the most part, a book
of beautifully imagined and rendered interiors – the multi-coloured
linens of bedrooms, the sagging oak beams of a kitchen, the liquid
sparkle of chemicals in the workshop, the bloody glow of the
furnace –
The Porcelain Kingdom
worked on a much vaster
scale. Mysterious carriages hurtled through a town’s darkened
streets. People shuffled around in fear. Even in the day, a
towering palace cast foreboding shadows over the houses below. Then
comes the dawn, a princess whose skin sparkled like pearls, whose
glittering dresses appeared to bring an angelic light to everywhere
she walked. The palace is aglow, a beacon of hope and wisdom. Its
gates open, not to release darkened carriages, but pageantry and
celebration. Suddenly, the town is alive with vibrant markets, with
children playing, with feasts and fairs.

Everything that
made it so different from
The Porcelain Child
, of course,
also made it almost impossible to put on as a successful show.
Worse still, it failed to explain how the Porcelain Princess had
arrived in the kingdom, let alone how the porcelain child had been
granted life to become the Princess.

There must be
another book, a book two in what could only be a trilogy telling
the story of the Porcelain Princess.

She had met many
people who had claimed to have seen the book, but none who could
relate the tale to her.

‘
It’s
called
The Porcelain Palace
,’ the owner of another theatre
would assure her.

‘
The Porcelain Room
; a remarkable tale, though I, er,
can’t seem to quite recall it at the moment I’m afraid,’ a
storyteller would say.

‘
No,
no, it’s definitely
The Porcelain Balcony
,’ someone else
would confidently declare, only to be rewarded with a room full of
jeers and derisive laughter.

This confusion
was unusual as, although it was quite common for a book by the
Illuminator to be so rare no one had ever seen a copy, at least the
story had normally become familiar, spreading through word of mouth
alone. The only thing everyone could seem to agree on (apart from
the fact that it must have the word
Porcelain
in the title)
was that such a tale must indeed exist, for neither of the other
tales recounted how the child’s father had discovered the
Illuminator’s kingdom and given his daughter life.

It was a book
that Carey had spent all of her own short life searching
for.

For, if she
found it, it would also show
her
the way to the
Illuminator’s kingdom.

*

Their arrival in
the village was a cause for celebration and gasps of wonder in its
own right. No one in the village had ever seen a steam
wagon.

Even though just
about everyone there had heard tales about these weird
contraptions, and some were even lucky enough to have seen
illustrations of them, in most people’s minds they were fairy
tales, works of imagination rather than working machines. Of those
who believed in their existence, they were surprised by the
reality, having never imagined the vast, clouding plumes of steam,
the roaring, the popping, the clattering, and the angry
hissing.

Everywhere,
people were crouching low to peer beneath the wagon, looking for
the legs of the horses or oxen they believed must be hidden away
somewhere within the wagon to make it move. They would jump,
startled, as the wagon suddenly enveloped them in an abrupt snort
of steam, like an affronted lady chiding them for daring to peep
beneath her dress.

Of course, not
everyone was happy with their arrival. There were complaints that
washing hung out to dry had been smudged with soot, that horses,
sheep, cows and pigs had all been startled (though no one
complained of the crows that suddenly fled the nearby fields). But
these people would be placated with tickets promising reserved
front seats for their children at the next show.

As soon as they
reached the village square, Carey and Grudo began to set up the
theatre box, pulling out awnings and panels from the side of the
wagon, fixing them to other sheets of thick, brightly painted
boarding that had been stored in the trailer beneath the engine’s
wood supply. All quickly and easily slotting together, and held in
place by wooden or iron pegs, it was a contraption that was almost
as ingenious as the wagon itself, yet another piece of mechanical
ingenuity that Carey had inherited form her inventive
ancestors.

In the back of
the wagon, the others were already preparing for the show,
selecting their costumes, even dressing the regular puppets who
would also be taking part in the play.

‘
This
is
not
my favourite play,’ Dougy gruffly complained as he
slipped into a costume and a heavy head piece specially designed to
make him look like a small horse.

‘
Ah,
but it is
my
favourite,’ Durndrin replied happily as he
neatly adjusted his farmer’s jerkin. ‘And all
you’ve
got to
do, Dougy my friend, is to remember
not
to wag that damn
tail of yours when you’re playing being happy!’

*

The
Meaning of Life

As Jacob toiled
in his field, driving his horse and plough before him to turn the
soil, he wondered why his life was full of such arduous, repetitive
tasks.

He stared
miserably ahead, taking in all the solidly packed soil he still had
to break up.

He looked behind
him towards the many furrows he had already created. He still had
to sow the seeds, of course, then water them, hopefully with help
from the rain. They would need protecting from the birds, then, as
they put out their first delicate shoots, from the wind too. They
would also need just the right amount of sun. But eventually, God
willing, life would result from his hard work, wheat that would
feed his family and thereby grant them life too.

And suddenly,
like a strike of lightning could set a tree ablaze, the answer that
had eluded so many important and learned men struck him; he knew
The Meaning of Life!

‘
Pen
and paper! I need pen and paper, to write it down before I forget
it!’ he yelped with glee.

He dropped his
plough. He left his horse in the middle of the field. He ran back
across his carefully turned furrows.

‘
Wait, wait; what’s the rush for Jacob?’ cried out one of the
other ploughmen working the fields.

‘
Can’t stop, can’t stop,’ Jacob yelled back anxiously, worried
that he might forget The Meaning of Life before he had time to
write it down. ‘The Meaning of Life! I know The Meaning of
Life!’

‘
Jacob, Jacob, why this mad run?’ laughed children playing in
the street.

‘
Can’t stop, can’t stop,’ Jacob shouted back breathlessly.
‘The Meaning of Life! I know The Meaning of Life!’

‘
How
do you do, Jaco – well I never, how rude!’ complained his neighbour
as he hurtled past her, the mud from his boots splattering all over
her clean dress.

‘
Can’t stop, can’t stop,’ Jacob apologised, thinking he would
just have to explain the reason for his rudeness later. ‘The
Meaning of Life! I
know
The Meaning of Life!’

At last, he was
at the door to his house. He flung the door open, barging into his
own kitchen as if the hounds of hell were after him.

‘
Margie, Margie,’ he cried out through the door leading to the
rest of his house. ‘I need a pen, I need paper! Quick, quick; this
is important.’

Of course,
without waiting for his wife’s reply or response, he began to
frantically rifle through the drawers in the kitchen, trying to
recall where he had last seen a scrap of paper he could
use.

‘
What
is
the meaning of all this commotion, Jacob?’ his wife
sternly demanded as she appeared at the kitchen door.

‘
Pen,
paper!’ Jacob cried, still fruitlessly rummaging through the
clutter of items that had been pushed away into the drawers. ‘I
need pen and paper!’

‘
Whatever for Jacob? Have you forgotten your manners? Haven’t
you remembered that you’re supposed to ask nicely for things you
need?’

‘
Yes,
yes, I’m sorry Margie dear; but I need it to write down an
inspiration
, an inspiration that could make us famous! Make
us
rich
, dear!’

He beamed
excitedly as, at last, he found the crumpled scrap of paper he’d
been looking for.

‘
But
just
look
at the mess you’re making, Jacob!’ his wife
stormed, looking on in horror at all the things he was strewing
across the floor in his eagerness to find pen and paper. ‘Have you
forgotten that it’s best to remain calm and thoughtful when you
can’t remember where you’ve put something?’