Pinocchio's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Pinocchio was wood once. Now he was a boy, and he hated how hard the truth had become to catch. As a puppet, his nose grew when he lied, and the wood felt warm. Now lies slipped past him unseen. He wanted to know who had carved him, and why. But first he had to understand the gift in his hands. The man who smiled too much had left it that morning. Pinocchio had not asked for it. He never trusted gifts without reason. He sat at the broad worktable in the old workshop and turned the thing over. It was a small box, wrapped in cloth. He waited for warmth that no longer came to his fingers. "You're staring at it like it might bite," said a thin voice. A cricket climbed the table's edge. He wore a neat little suit and a crooked bow tie. He dusted his sleeves and sat on a wood shaving. "It wants something," Pinocchio said. "Gifts always do. I just can't see what." "Then open it," the cricket said. "Guessing never carved anyone a straight answer." Pinocchio peeled back the cloth. Inside lay a carving chisel. The handle was worn smooth by years of use. Along its wooden grip, someone had cut small letters. He held it to the lamp and read. The letters spelled a name. Geppetto. "That's the wood maker," the cricket said quietly. "The one who shapes puppets." Pinocchio's chest tightened. Flesh felt shame and fear in ways wood never had. The man who smiled too much had not given him a trinket. He had given him a thread. A thread back to the hands that made him. The workshop door opened. An old man stepped in. He wore a leather apron and round glasses, and his beard was white as fresh shavings. He stopped when he saw the chisel in Pinocchio's hand. "Where did you find that?" the old man asked. His voice shook. He did not look at Pinocchio's eyes, but at the tool. "A man brought it," Pinocchio said. "A man who smiles too much. He said nothing." He watched the old man's face. A pause. A flicker. Shame, the kind flesh carried. "I lost that chisel years ago," Geppetto said. "I carved many boys with it." The word *boys* struck Pinocchio cold. Not one puppet. Many. "Who are you?" Pinocchio asked. The old man set down his satchel. His hands trembled. "I am the one who made you," he said. "And I am not the only one who wanted you found." The gift had a meaning now. It was no empty gift. It was bait, laid by the smiling man to draw Pinocchio and the wood maker into the same room. Someone had wanted this meeting. Pinocchio still did not know who, or why. But now he had a maker standing before him, and a new question sharper than the last.