Here and there, impromptu bands had sprung up. He heard raucous accordions, strident violins and the almost military tattoo of the drums. They almost threatened to drown out the pipes of the calliope on the other side of the square.

A slide had been set up from the roof of the highest building of the town—a full three stories! Below this turned and spun a festive merry-go-round. They had carved magnificent and fabulous beasts—there was an alkonost, her woman’s face and naked breast grown out of her hawk’s body (how did that get by the priests?) A rusalka, drenched in her sea weeds, an indrik-beast, with its twisted horn—and above all, the Zhar-Pititsa—the Firebird!

Three maidens danced in a circle, cheered on by the onlookers—they dressed as the Zorya, the Morning, Evening and Midnight Stars.

The peasant turned from these vanities. Time enough to dally with girls later. There is always something alluring to them about a holy man.

Two drummers, dressed in mock Cossack military garb, paraded up and down the square. The people flocked after them, rushing in like a tide, wanting to get for themselves the best possible view. The crowd was rapt in attention. Everyone was on high alert, almost as if a real battle was about to begin—but no! It was the Puppet Play.

The drumming ceased so suddenly as to catch everybody by surprise.

At that precise moment, the Sorcerer ripped aside the dark blue curtains. His head thrust itself between them. A silvery, peaked turban crowned his head. His eyes—as commanding and hypnotic as the Serpent in the Garden—stared at the gathered crowd, dead faced, as if it he who was the puppet and not the performers yet to be revealed. There was none at that moment that could free themselves from that ophidian stare.

He stepped out stealthily between the curtains. His sapphire cloak was spangled with frosty white stars. From somewhere beneath a robe of gold brocade he produced a flute and began a haunting, bewitching melody. Like the wind, it came from everywhere—and from nowhere. Did any in the crowd realize they were swaying in time to the Sorcerer’s seductive song?

And then the Sorceror drew aside the curtains. In three separate compartments the puppets stood, supported by thick rods beneath their arms, as unmoving as displays in a museum. There was a sigh of wonder. So beautiful were the three, their costumes marvels of needlework and embroidery.

The Sorcerer waved his flute like a baton, over each compartment.

First the light shone over a gaudily-dressed Blackamoor. Flowing gold pantaloons and a glistening green mail shirt. On his head was a turban crowned with a gorgeous peacock feather. His face was black as coal and his eyes were gawking and googly. He snapped into life and looked around him with a grotesque stare.

Then the light shone on the Ballerina. She wore a scarlet coat, skirt and petticoat. She had on a vest of sardine and carnelian over a white blouse and bodice. A crimson bonnet rested on her head. Her eyes snapped open. She smiled prettily. No one noticed that her eyes were empty.

At last the light switched on over Petrushka, a rather awkward looking, humpbacked doll. He had on orange and white harlequin-checkered trousers, and a peaked red cap. He snapped up to jaunty wakefullness.

How could the puppets wake up like that? Who was pulling their strings?

A sprightly melody came playing from somewhere. The legs of the puppets began to dance. They kicked up their heels and even lifted themselves off the floor. If the crowd had sighed in wonder before, they now gasped in astonishment and delight. The puppets moved so realistically! They might almost be alive. What a wondrous puppet maker the Sorcerer must be!

But then, the greatest wonder of all! For of a sudden the three figures came down from their supports. They ran, the danced, they moved into the crowd!

The Sorcerer made magickal gestures with his flute and free hand. The puppets moved as he willed them to. He grinned with delight! The people had never seen anything so wonderful. Marionettes without strings! How were they able to move?

The Moor danced, full of himself. The Ballerina circled around him. Poor, humpbacked Petrushka! Jealous, he takes out his slapstick and strikes at the Moor with it, chasing him away, chasing him around the ring cleared by the crowd!

The peasant began to notice what the crowd did not. The smile was yet on the Sorcerer’s face, but there was an increasing strain, as well. Petrushka, the Moor and the Ballerina’s every move had expertly mirrored the deft hand gestures of their master. But little by little, it seemed as if they began to veer away and by stages were ceasing to be a perfect reflection.

But the Sorcerer was a seasoned showman. He did not let his difficulty be known, but the peasant knew, and he slowly smiled.

The performance came to an end. The three puppets dance hand in hand and all seems to go well. The Moor collapses, cross-legged, his hands raised as if he is the star of the show. The Ballerina and Petrushka lie collapsed and fallen. Lifeless. The crowd laughs. They are delighted by the performance.

The Sorcerer bows low from the waist. He hustles the puppets back behind the curtain. He will ready them for the next show.

But the peasant can tell. Something is wrong. And he grimly smiles. While other fair-goers go this way and that, he strides calmly behind the stage. There, two Altai horses stood, unmoving as statues, and unnerving in their silence. The one was as white as the fallen snow. The other as coal black as the Blackamoor.

The Sorcerer was sunk into a velvet upholstered chair. He had removed his peaked turban and his head rested between his fingers. He looked up as the peasant entered.

“What is wrong, my friend?”

“Did you see? When Petrushka chased the Moor, you saw how he struck at him?”

“What of it? It is an old story. He is jealous of the handsome Moor, and wants to chase him away from the pretty Ballerina. That is exactly what he did. Just as you directed him.”

“No. This was different. It was like an actor—”

“Well, of course he is like an actor-he is an actor.”

“But Petrushka is always a figure of fun. He is made to be laughed at. A comedy. But—have you ever seen Pagliacci? A clown in a traveling troupe—”

“Much like your traveling troupe…”

“—becomes jealous of his wife, suspecting she has a lover. Right in the middle of a performance, he murders both of them. What should have been comedy he turns to dark tragedy. My Petrushka was too vehement when he was striking at the Moor. It was too forceful. It was as if…my little puppet was taking his role a little too seriously.”

The peasant shook his head. “I saw nothing out of the ordinary—and I’ve witnessed a few of your productions. But even if Petrushka is throwing himself more fully into his work, that can only improve things. Do not the people laugh all the more heartily at those too full of self-importance? Take my word for it, this will make your show an even greater success with the people!

“Why not take my advice? You have an hour till the next show. Drink kvass. Go to sleep. The morning is wiser than the evening. Here—take it. I brought it, knowing you would need it.”

The Sorcerer nodded, drank of the proffered bottle, lay his head back and closed his eyes. When he was sure the man had drifted off, the peasant went into the chambers where the puppets were kept.

He watched them from a hidden angle. Petrushka. The little puppet was indeed not playing a role. The peasant watched, fascinated. This was better than he could have expected. This was no act! The puppet was in love. He loved the little Ballerina—and the Sorcerer had locked him away from her!

He turned to the next room. The Moor was a grotesque and disturbing figure. Yet, he was the perfect pawn for the peasant’s plan. He had ridden with the Sorcerer and while the puppeteer slept, he had spoken with the puppets. And little, by little, what he said began to play in their minds.

When he had first seen the puppets, they had simply lain there, un-moving. They did nothing but what the Sorcerer bid them. Bereft of his command they said and did nothing. But that was before the peasant began speaking to them while the Sorcerer lay sleeping.

A year and a half ago the sky had split apart. Even hundreds of leagues away one could still see the light in the sky days later. He remembered reading a copy of Sankt Peterburgskie Vedoosti at Twelve Midnight and did not get Shah, confused with Schyah.

Not knowing why, he had set out on pilgrimage. It was not until he passed the Stony Tunguska River, and saw the trees of the forest all knocked down and burnt on both sides that he began to grasp the enormity of what he had embarked on.

The Tungus peasants had said it was Ogdi, the Fire God who had done this. This was no region where the Orthodox Church held sway. Unprotected as it was, it was no wonder the god had released his power here. “Ogdi sent fire from the sky because of our sins,” they had said. Even a year and a half after Ogdi blasted their land they would not venture there. Ogdi had cursed the ground!

But the peasant was not the only man who dared that prohibition.

The stranger drove a vardo gypsy cart. Even from a hundred feet away the peasant knew there was something strange about the Altai horses that drew it. If someone was to skillfully make a machine out of clockwork and made it in the shape of horses, they would have walked and cantered like that.

The stranger was going to Kraznyarsk and invited the peasant along. In three days they would be at the Shrovetide Fair. The stranger was German. His name was Augustus Grissom.

“And I am Grigorii Efamovich,” the peasant said. Foreigners are not greatly trusted in the Russian motherland, but Grigorii had traveled to cities like Sankt-Peterburg, and Moskva, where in general they were more educated and far more likelier to be more accepting.

When they rested in their journey, Grissom showed him the puppets. Grigorii was delighted. He had often enjoyed puppet plays , though the priests never quite approved of them. But what of it? He had done far worse things than go see a play full of little idols!

“This is my Blackamoor, from the Alhambra, in Moorish Spain. He is my villain. A brutish fellow. The enemy of all good Christian folk.

“And this—she is my Ballerina. Is she not a beauty, though a rather empty-headed beauty when you get right down to it.

“But this is Petrushka—he’s the only one who has a name because he is my hero, and he always wins against the stupid Moor, who can not match his cleverness.”

“They are wonderful—but how can you make your puppets move? One man cannot move three puppets.”

“But these are more than just ordinary puppets. You will see—they are alive!”

A year and a half ago, when the sky exploded, Augustus Grissom had come here days later. He had found something.

“A comet was in the sky, Grigorii. It exploded but some of what was in that comet came here. It was like metal—but it was alive! Alive like you and I. Over the next year I took that metal and I molded it into whatever shape I would. These are only the first three, but I can make many more.”

“They are fantastic! But they are no more than clowns. Could you not do so much more with them?”

“Of course! They have no thoughts or desires of their own. What I say to them they absorb—and they will do whatever I tell them to do.

“They are as strong as ten men—no, a hundred. I could turn them into soldiers. They don’t need to eat, or sleep. They will just do what I tell them to. No army could fight them. Who has an army of such soldiers rules the world.”

They were three days on the road to Kraznyarsk. That first night, when Grissom was sleeping, Grigorii went secretly to the puppets.

He spoke to Petrushka. The eyes came open but the puppet said nothing. For hours Grigorii talked with the doll, who said nothing but simply listened.

On succeeding nights he spoke with the Moor. He was boorish. He was totally full of himself. He was exactly like the character Grissom has set him to play. But Grigorii spoke with him most. The immense, white eyes looked back at him and gleamed with a strange intelligence.

He spoke with the Ballerina but there was little to say. She was as empty headed as she was coquettishly pretty.

The Ballerina marched into the Moor’s room, playing a strident military tune on a trumpet. Grigorii marvelled that Grissom remained asleep through all that racket.

At first he wanted nothing to do with her. He was more interested in protecting a coconut that had fallen from a tree. He had conquered it, posturing and threatening with his scimitar.

But the Ballerina danced and marched around him.

And in the other room, Petrushka could see what was going on. Anguish filled his heart.

With all his strength he broke through the door and found the Ballerina in the arms of the Moor. He ran at his ancient enemy and attacked him…the Ballerina was his, and no one would take her away from him!

But the Moor knocked away the slapstick. Fury was on his face and he began to chase after Petrushka. His scimitar was in his hand and he swung it murderously.

The Ballerina followed them around on tip toes. It never entered her head to even try to stop them. She pursued with open eyes and head as empty.

Many of the fair goers drew back to the blue curtained stage. Something was making quite the ruckus behind the curtain flaps.

Suddenly Petrushka ran out, it was almost as if his feet were hobbled together. The Moor burst from behind the curtains. He made a great show of valor. The crowd drew back. The two figures seemed a little bit too serious in their pantomime.

Suddenly the Moor struck and Petrushka fell. It was not blood that poured our from his back, but what looked like a pool of quicksilver. The Moor triumphantly strode back inside the curtained stage. The Ballerina, which had followed him out followed him back in

They roused the Sorcerer from his slumber. One of your actors has murdered the other.

No, the Sorcerer said. It is only a doll, and he picked up the corpse of the murdered Petruskha and it was as light as a feather. Un-living. It had always been un-living.

The crowd dispersed. Even if only a pantomime play, they found it too disturbing, and in quite questionable taste. The square was soon practically deserted. It had begun to snow, anyway.

“This was your doing, was it not, Grigorii Efamovich?” when the peasant rejoined him.

“Of course. All they were they got from you. The Moor took the belligerence that would have destroyed the world with invincible, invulnerable soldiers. I think you loved a girl like the Ballerina once and she didn’t love you. And Petrushka? He’s that part of you you can never forget—who knows only unrequited love.

“But you never saw them as anything more than machines. You never thought what might happen if those machines gained a will of own, and learned to think for themselves. Never thought what might result if they decided to turn those dreams of yours (dreams which they adopted) into reality.

“All they needed was someone to give them that will. As if I’d let Mother Russia fall into the hands of someone like you.”