Chapter 2: The Real Boy

Giovanni sat back in his wooden chair, which he had built himself, and regarded his latest work. His finest yet, he thought. 

It was a wooden marionette, with a long nose and green suspenders and wide, gaping eyes. The lines were straight, the edges smooth, the polish sparkling. Giovanni had built everything in the house; the shelves, the bed, the clocks, even the floors and most of the interior walls. But this puppet was his proudest creation.

The puppet moved, blinked, shifted his eyes to look around. 

“What am I?” the puppet asked.

“You are a puppet,” Giovanni said, “But I hope that you can be like a son to me.”

“A son?”

“Yes,” Giovanni said, dipping his white-haired head in sadness, “You see, I had a son once. A real boy. But he got sick when he was a baby. Then I didn’t have a son anymore.”

“Oh,” the puppet said, processing emotions for the first time in his life.

“Would you like to be my son?” Giovanni asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.

“Maybe I would,” the puppet said, “I don’t know how to be a son.”

Giovanni smiled sadly. “You just have to be you. Most sons are real boys, of course…”

“I’m not a real boy?”

“No, you are a puppet. Made of wood.”

“How can I be a real son if I’m not a real boy?”

Giovanni stared at the puppet for a moment, his eyes swimming. Then he forced a smile back onto his face.

“We’ll just have to work with what we have, won’t we?”

“What will my name be?” the puppet asked.

“Piermarco is a good name, I should think,” Giovanni said in a hushed voice.

“Is that the name of your real boy?”

“Yes. Yes, it was.”

“Can you call me Marco?”

Giovanni laughed, a tear escaping his eyes. “Yes, my wooden boy, I can call you Marco.”

“Do you have to say ‘wooden boy?’” Marco asked, “You can’t just say ‘my boy?’”

Giovanni narrowed his eyes, just a bit. “No, Marco. I can’t do that because you are not a real boy.”

“Is there a way I can become a real boy?”

Giovanni leaned forward in his chair, a dark glimmer in his eye. “Yes, Marco. There is.”

“What do I have to do?”

“First, you have to see a shooting star.”

Giovanni took Marco up to the attic, where a hole had already been cut into the roof. They had an unobstructed view of the night sky, and Marco gazed in wonder at the millions of stars looking back down on him.

Giovanni dragged a rough wooden chair over to the middle of the attic, directly below the hole in the ceiling. 

“Sit,” he said.

Marco continued staring upwards, entranced by the beauty of the sky above.

“Sit!” Giovanni yelled, startling Marco’s gaze over to him.

Giovanni let out a sharp breath and calmed himself down. “Sit, please, Marco.”

Marco sat down hesitantly, glancing around and finding the attic entirely bare other than the chair upon which he currently sat. 

“A-am I allowed to look up at the sky, Papa?” he asked.

Giovanni chuckled without a trace of humor. “Yes, Marco, little wooden idiot. You’re going to sit in that chair and look up at the sky until you see a shooting star.

“And don’t ever call me Papa again until you are a real boy.”

Marco sat in that chair all night. The sky remained entrancing, but unmoving. Marco did not see a shooting star on that first night.

Giovanni came back up to the attic in the morning.

“Did you see a shooting star, wood boy?”

“No, I did not,” Marco said, standing up from the chair.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” Giovanni asked in a stern voice.

Marco hesitated. “I just thought I might come downstairs with you.”

“Absolutely not,” Giovanni said with a quick shake of his head, “What if you miss a shooting star?”

“But it’s daytime,” Marco said, “I can’t even see the stars anymore.”

“They come in the day sometimes, little idiot,” Giovanni said.

“What do I do when I see one, Gio?” Marco asked.

Giovanni frowned. “Don’t call me Gio. And you don’t even know what to do? What if you had seen one last night?”

Marco shrugged his wooden shoulders helplessly.

“Ay, such a dumb puppet,” Giovanni said, hand on his forehead, “Well, I suppose it’s not your fault, you’ve got wood for brains, after all.”

“So…” Marco said, a little frown on his wooden face, “What do I do?”

“You make a wish, of course!”

“I wish to be a real boy?”

Giovanni sighed. “Yes, idiot, that’s what I just said. Hopefully you’ll be less dull when you’re a real boy. My Piermarco was a brilliant lad, I’ll have you know.”

“I’m not him,” Marco said quietly.

Giovanni looked at him sharply. “I know that. Of course I know that, why would say that to me? You think I’m an idiot like you?”

“No, sir,” Marco said, eyes downcast.

“Don’t turn your eyes down like that, you’ll miss the shooting star.”

Giovanni left, and Marco sat back down in the chair and craned his neck to look up at the bright morning sky. His wooden lip quivered just a bit.

Marco sat in the chair for five days and nights without seeing a shooting star. Giovanni visited him once in the morning, otherwise Marco was alone.

During one visit, Marco began sniffling and crying.

“Stop that,” Giovanni growled, “You haven’t even got sinuses or tear ducts.”

“Please, sir, I’m so cold and hungry,” Marco whimpered.

“No you’re not,” Giovanni said, “You’re made of wood. Only real boys get cold and hungry.”

“But, sir…”

Giovanni interrupted the puppet by slamming his fist into the side of his wooden head. Marco tumbled out of the chair and lay there, sobbing softly.

“Get up,” Giovanni whispered, his breathing heavy with rage. 

Marco turned onto his back, his expression as miserable as his carved features would allow. Then he parted his mouth in a small gasp and widened his eyes.

“A shooting star,” he whispered reverently.

“What?” Giovanni shouted, craning his neck to look at the sky. He picked the puppet up by his shoulders and shook him angrily.

“Did you see one? Did you really see a shooting star?”

“Y-yes sir,” Marco stuttered.

“Make a wish, you daft wood idiot! Wish to be a real boy!”

Marco hesitated, seeing the wild spark in Giovanni’s eyes.

“Do it now!” Giovanni screamed, spit flying from his mouth.

“I wish I was a real boy,” Marco said quietly.

There was a chuckle from the corner of the attic. A low, grinding sound. As if a laugh had been filtered through sandpaper. Giovanni and Marco looked over into the shadows.

Out stepped a fat little cricket, with a dirty waistcoat and a lit cigar in its mouth.

“So, you want to be a real boy, do you, bucko?” the cricket said in a raspy voice.

Marco stared at the cricket with downturned eyes. Giovanni grabbed the puppet by the shoulder and gave him a firm shake.

“Do you want to be my boy?” Giovanni asked, “Do you want me to be your papa?”

Marco turned to look at the man, pain glowing in his painted eyes. “More than anything,” he whispered.

“Then you had better answer the bug, idiot.”

Marco turned back to the cricket. “Yes, sir, I want to be a real boy.”

The cricket blew a puff of cigar smoke into the puppet’s face and chuckled. “Call me Jacopo, kid.”

Marco blinked, his mouth a firm line of mistrust. “Ok, Jacopo, how do I become a real boy?”

“Well, kid, it’s real simple,” Jacopo said, “You gotta get eaten by a whale.”

Marco stared at the cricket blankly.

Jacopo’s grin was wide and sinister. “What, you don’t believe me, kid?”

“How does getting eaten by a whale turn me into a real boy?”

“Well, the key’s in the stomach, ain’t it?” Jacopo said, “You want to be a real boy, you gotta find it.”

“In the belly of a whale,” Marco repeated tonelessly.

“That’s the ticket, kid,” Jacopo said, “But I gotta warn you, others will be there. You’re not the only sad little shit lookin’ to become real.”

“Can’t we all become real?” Marco asked.

Jacopo hopped up on his cricket legs and pulled Marco down by the suspenders so they were eye to eye.

“No, shit boy, you can’t all be real,” he growled, ashes falling from his cigar onto the attic floor, “There’s only one key, and if some other bastard finds if before you, you’re shit outta luck, got it?”

Jacopo released his grip on the suspenders and Marco fell backwards onto his wooden rear. The cricket took one last drag from his cigar and then stomped it out, leaving black stains on the floorboards.

“Well, that’s all you get from me, you little wooden fuck,” the cricket said, hopping up to the window, “A word of advice, kid: the others, they want to be real just as bad as you do. Maybe more. So if you get into that whale’s belly, it’s no mercy from then on, get it?”

Marco nodded wordlessly, and the cricket hopped out the attic window into the night. 

Giovanni wordlessly grabbed Marco by the suspenders and dragged him down the stairs. The puppet’s little stick legs bouncing with a thud off of each step. 

“Where are we going, Papa?” Marco asked.

Giovanni opened the front door of the house and threw Marco out onto the street. “You’re going to go get eaten by a whale. And don’t ever call me papa again.”

“But I’m going to become a real boy,” Marco said, picking himself up off the cobblestones. 

“But you’re not yet!” Giovanni screamed, spit flying past his white mustache, “Find a boat. Go out into the ocean. Find the key in the belly of this whale. Don’t come back until you’re a real boy. You must do anything it takes. Anything! Understand?”

With that, the old man slammed the door. Marco hung his head, and wandered down the dark streets toward the bay. 

A group of sailors saw him approach and nudged each other, puffing on their cigarettes and pausing their work to laugh.

“Hey, look at the little wooden man,” one said.

“We’ve got a hull that needs repaired, could you spare some of your wood, little man?” another asked to a round of renewed laughter. 

“Sure, we could turn you into a canoe, alright,” a third added.

“Please,” Marco said, his voice small and wet, “I need the use of a boat.”

“You can be your own boat, little man,” a sailor said, “You’ll float, sure enough.”

“Please, sirs,” Marco said, growing desperate, “I am at your mercy, and have great need of your assistance.”

The sailors turned to each other and laughed again, doubling over in their mirth.

“How about the old rowboat down the way?” one said in between bouts of laughter.

“Sure, you could take that one, nobody’ll mind.”

“It’s a little rotted, but uh, it’ll hold for one journey I should think,” a sailor said, doing a poor job of hiding his mean-spirited smirk.

Marco turned silently and walked toward the end of the pier, where rested an old rowboat with two oars. The wood did look rotten, nearly rotted all the way through in some spots. Marco had no knowledge of seamanship, and was certain this boat would not hold up to even the slightest wind, but he could see no other choice.

The puppet climbed into the rowboat and struggled with the ropes until he unlatched himself from the dock and strained with a grunt against the oars that were three times as big as he was. As he pushed out to sea the raucous laughter of the sailors drifted into the night, to be replaced by the gentle lapping of the waves against the boat’s crumbling hull.

Soon, Marco couldn’t see where the ocean ended and the sky began. There was no land in sight. All was darkness, clouds had rolled in to cover even the faint light of the stars. He huddled in the center of the rowboat, knees close to his chest, shivering in the cold and the loneliness. 

The waves became larger, rolling hills of water that sent the boat rocking. Marco could not see when these waves were coming, did not know when he should brace himself. He wept, but the wood of his face allowed no tears to fall. Just wailing and shaking, drowned out by the sound of the ocean. 

When the sun came up in the morning, Marco saw that the currents had carried him far away from the only home he had ever known. There was nothing but endless water in all directions. He did not even know which way the land was, even if he did want to go back. Even if he could summon the strength to lift the oars.

Marco realized with a jolt that he had no idea how to find the whale. The ocean was big. The whale could be anywhere. What was he supposed to do, wait endlessly until he chanced upon the whale? How long would that take?”

Three days later, the boat sprung a leak. Marco watched the water seeping in with dead, lifeless eyes. He did not move. Could not repair the boat anyways. Could not do anything. 

Could he even drown, Marco wondered? Would he float with his wooden body, unable to return to shore? Cursed to bob in the ocean for all eternity until the rot and the salt broke him apart? Giovanni was an excellent woodworker. It would take years for his body to be broken down by the ocean. 

The waves grew angrier, breaking now with a splash against the boat. The sky was darker too. Still, Marco didn’t move. No point.

Once the rain fell, and the winds began to howl, and the boards of the rowboat rattled like drums, Marco knew he was doomed. 

The boat cracked, the water rushed in from the bottom and over from the sides. Still, to Marco, it felt like an eternity before the hull finally broke apart and he was plunged into the fury of the ocean. The water swallowed him like a hungry snake, straight down the gullet. But Marco’s wood lifted him back to the surface.

He spit water and spun wildly as the waves took their turns battering him in all directions. This is how I will live the rest of my life, Marco thought. 

But then something moved beneath him. Something large. A massive row of teeth split the ocean and the rowboat tumbled into the open mouth like a spare crumb of bread. 

“The whale!” Marco screamed, barely able to hear himself over the roar of the storm, “Eat me, you bastard!”

The whale dove back under the sea, disappearing from sight, and Marco screamed at the sky. He punched the waves and shouted curses at the rain until his voice was hoarse and dry as un-sanded cedar. 

Then the water around him exploded and he was inside the whale’s mouth before he even knew what had happened. Sliding past a pink tongue the size of a carriage. Squeezing through the throat and forced down by the contractions of the esophagus. The mucus and saliva coating his clothes and the wood of his face and hands. Unable to speak, unable to move. Until the esophagus opened up and dropped him unceremoniously into the stomach. 

Marco picked himself up, panting and shivering. Then he froze with a confused expression when he realized he had come to land on a wooden floor. He stood up and looked around. Someone had built a wooden deck above the acidic lake of the stomach.

It was massive. The stomach was like a cave, vast and dark. Lit only by occasional torches along the railing of the deck. He could not see to the far side of the structure. This whale must be bigger than he thought.

There were others there too. A porcelain doll with a cracked face. A tin soldier, half the size of Marco. A stuffed bear with buttons for eyes. A wooden rocking horse with chipped paint. Two mermaids that appeared to have been mastheads broken off from their ships. 

The other objects looked over at him, some with sad frowns, others with hostile glares. None of them spoke.

There was a sudden tapping on wood, and the objects looked over to see Jacopo Cricket standing on a lectern and banging a little cane until he had their attention. He grinned and blew cigar smoke out his nose.

“Welcome to the whale’s belly, you luckless bastards,” Jacopo said, “We all know why you’re here. The key lies at the far end of this deck.”

The objects looked at the cricket with suspicion and desperation, then shifted their eyes to size up their competition. No one moved.

“Well,” Jacopo said with an impatient gesture, “Fuckin’ get after it.”

The toy soldier stabbed his bayonet into Marco’s leg and took off running. Marco cried out and dropped to one knee. The stuffed bear threw a shoulder into him as he rumbled past, and the puppet fell onto his face. The porcelain doll stepped on his head as she ran, breaking Marco’s wooden nose clean off. 

Marco allowed the pain to fuel his rage as he pushed himself back up and started running. The mermaids were the slowest, crawling along on their bellies, their fish tails slapping the wood uselessly behind them. 

Marco tried to step around them, but one of the mermaids grabbed at his ankles with a throaty scream. Marco turned, and without thinking, stomped on the mermaid’s head. She whimpered and released her grip. The wood of her face was split down the middle. 

Marco regarded her for a moment, then growled and slammed his boot into her head again. And then again. And again. Until her head was splinters and she stopped moving. Then he turned and stalked after the other mermaid, who was weeping and trying desperately to crawl away. 

“Mercy, please!” she screamed, turning over onto her back and holding her hands in front of her face. 

Marco ignored her pleas and kicked her in the stomach, forcing her to double over and lower her hands. Then he killed her in the same way as he had killed the other.

Marco lifted his head, wooden teeth gritted, wooden eyes filled with bloodlust. The others were far ahead, they were faster than the mermaids. He could not let them win. He must become a real boy. Anything it takes, Giovanni had said.

Marco caught up to the stuffed bear next. The bear was soft and light. Could only roar impotently as Marco picked him up and threw him over the railings. The roars turned to screams as the whale’s stomach acid began to digest him. 

There were wooden walls ahead, some sort of maze. Marco could not see where the others were. Would have to be careful. Didn’t want to fall into a trap. 

He ran into the maze, turning left, then right, then left again. He came to a dead end.

The tin soldier jumped out from behind a corner and stabbed his bayonet into Marco’s stomach. Marco yelled in pain and flailed out with his arms, connecting with the soldier’s face and knocking him backwards. 

Marco pulled the bayonet out of his stomach with a grunt and swung it viciously. The soldier was knocked into a wall by the force of the swing, but the tin of his body held firm. Marco swung again, as hard as he could, but still could not cut through the metal.

The soldier whimpered and tried to roll away, but Marco used the bayonet to cut a hole in the floor and kicked the tin soldier down it and into the stomach acid. 

He found the rocking horse next. Rocking back and forth to propel herself through the maze. Whinnying in fear as she saw the marionette approach. Marco cut her legs and she fell off of her rocker, neighing and bawling. 

“Please!” the horse said, “We could team up, I could help you!”

“Only one key,” Marco said, stabbing the bayonet into the horse’s neck and twisting until she died. 

Only the porcelain doll left. Marco sprinted through the maze, nearly feral with rage by now. He could not lose. He would be a real boy, no matter the cost. The doll would not take that from him. 

Marco tripped as he ran past a corner of the maze, then turned over to see the doll standing over him. Her arm had been shattered, and the stump was now a jagged end of razor-sharp porcelain shards. She stabbed her arm downward and splintered Marco’s kneecap.

Marco screamed and swung the bayonet wildly, cutting the doll’s dress. She stabbed her stump-arm into Marco’s belly, but the wood there was too thick and her arm shattered up to the shoulder. She gasped and fell on top of Marco.

He gripped the doll under her arms and lifted her up, then smashed his forehead into her face. The doll’s head exploded into a shower of porcelain shards. Marco tossed her body aside and picked the bits of porcelain out of his forehead. 

He tried to stand up, but the leg that had been damaged by both bayonet and porcelain gave out and he fell back onto the deck. He stabbed the bayonet into the floor and used it to pull himself up. He walked slowly, in no hurry now, using the bayonet as a crutch. 

When he finally found the maze’s exit, he was unsurprised to see Jacopo Cricket waiting for him with a sinister grin. There was a wooden pedestal near the railing, and something moving underneath a white sheet on top of it. 

A smaller platform stood in front, with a small dagger resting on it. 

“Go on, kid,” Jacopo said, “Take the key. You earned it.”

“That’s not a key, that’s a knife,” Marco said, limping forward.

“Well, look who’s so smart,” Jacopo sneered, “The knife is the key, moron.”

Marco picked up the knife and stared at it with dull eyes. “How is this supposed to make me a real boy?”

Jacopo’s grin widened. “Well, allow me to show you.”

The cricket removed the sheet from the pedestal with a flourish. Marco stared blankly at what lay underneath. 

It was a baby. A real, human baby. A boy, gurgling in his sleep. Marco looked over at Jacopo with haunted eyes. The cricket’s grin was gone. His expression was as severe as a bug’s could be.

“You didn’t think you could become real without a cost, did you?” Jacopo asked.

Marco looked down at his shattered leg, his ruined torso, and his broken nose. “Have I not paid enough of a cost?”

Jacopo shook his head slowly. “No. Not yet.”

Marco shuffled forward and stood over the baby. Looked at his round face, his chubby arms, his wriggling legs. The baby woke up and stared back at Marco with a curious gaze. 

“Where did he come from?” Marco asked, his voice hoarse, “What is his name?”

“Do you really want to know that?” Jacopo said.

“No, I don’t suppose I do.”

Marco lifted the dagger and held it above the baby. Held it there for a long time, how long Marco couldn’t say. Time had become meaningless to him. Perhaps he had been in this whale’s belly all his life. 

The point of the dagger wavered as Marco’s hand began to shake, but still did not descend. Jacopo frowned and jumped up onto Marco’s shoulder and whisper in his ear.

“You have to do this,” the cricket said, “It’s the only way. You want to be a real boy? You want to have a real papa? This is the only way it can be done.”

Still Marco hesitated. The baby was reaching for the dagger with his tiny hands. Didn’t even understand the danger he was in. Had no fear for his own safety. Marco’s wooden jaw quivered and his grip on the knife tightened in an effort to stop the trembling. 

“Anything it takes,” Marco whispered to himself.

“Do it!” Jacopo shouted.

The knife plunged.

The baby wailed.

Knife up and down a second time and then the wailing stopped. 

Marco dropped the dagger onto the wooden deck and stumbled backwards. He brought his hand in front of his face and his eyes widened as he saw that his fingers were made of skin and muscle and bone. He touched his face, soft now, instead of the hard, unforgiving wood it had been. 

Jacopo hopped over to Marco with a grim look. “Congratulations, kid. You’re a real boy now.”

Marco stood up and looked back at the baby. He gasped as he saw that the little boy was now made of wood. Motionless on the pedestal.

Marco felt a hot tear run down his cheek, for the first time.