Mr. Punch allowed his ethereal body to go limp in the darkened phantom room. He held his breath, and became aware that the body he shared with Julian (and Scaramouche and apparently Jack Ketch and another) had also ceased to breathe. Punch knew that outside—in that small flat above a dress shop—his “chums” were watching, and he hoped that they were not alarmed by this strange behavior.
“Musn’t think too much,” Punch thought silently. “I’ll wager he can hear me, that hangman.”
Punch lay as still as he could, but it was difficult because of his hunched back. That’s when he realized that—internally, when not out in the world using Julian’s handsome body--he was, in fact, Mr. Punch entirely: hunchback, potbelly, hooked nose and jutting chin. He wanted to grin at the very thought of his own figure, the point of his back, the sharpness of his jaw, the comic eyes which never blinked.
Mr. Punch tried to control himself. His hunchback did pose something of a problem. As he’d collapsed in an attempt to trick Jack Ketch—still unseen in the pitch-black imaginary room—Punch had landed on his back which rather served liked the rockers on a toy horse or an old man’s chair. Punch slowly tightened his muscles as best he could so that his body would not rock, and, thusly, he waited for some sign from the hangman—some indication that Jack Ketch had retreated or, at least, loosened the noose. “If he thinks he killed me, he’ll set me free.” Punch thought.
“Here,” Punch thought to himself, “how long can a body go without breathin’?” It was easy enough for a spirit—a thought—a persona of light and memory to function without air, but a human body—one of water and flesh and warmth needed breath in order to maintain itself. Aware that he was also controlling the exterior body—the creature as a whole—Punch began to panic, thinking perhaps their shared shell might expire during this sweaty pantomime.
“Where’s me master?” Punch thought. “Why don’t he take over the body?”
“Gone.” Jack Ketch responded deeply, loosening the noose.
“Here, what do you mean?” Punch gasped.
“Gone.” Jack repeated.
“So, you can hear me?” Punch replied, rubbing his throat.
“Yes.” Jack answered mockingly.
“Why’d you stop chokin’ me if you knew I was fakin’?”
“Because.” Jack grunted.
“See, you realized what I done just. That you can’t choke the breath out of a thought. Right now, I ain’t nothin’ but an idea.
“Yes.” Jack growled.
“What’d you do with me master?”
Jack didn’t answer.
“Come on, what’d you do with him?”
“Punished.” Jack barked his response.
“Here, what for?”
“Foolishness.” Was Jack’s singular response.
“Where is he?” Punch shouted, realizing that he was free to stand. Still unable to see in the dark “room,” he stumbled into the chairs that surrounded the massive dining table.
“Fool.” Jack laughed.
“Where is me master? Where’s Scaramouche? Why don’t you light a lamp?” Punch squawked, attempting to retreat from the hangman.
Jack’s response came right into Punch’s ear—his flat, painted, wooden ear. “No.”
Punch put his hands on his face. “Hold on, then.” While his hands moved and his fingers bent like those of a human, they were rough and rigid as if made of wood. His face, too, seemed made of wood—smooth and cool and…
Punch squinted in the darkness.
“In here, I ain’t a man.” Mr. Punch said aloud.
“No.” Jack responded with disinterest.
“But, I ain’t really a puppet. I am whatever I think I am because I’m nothin’ but a trick of me own master’s mind. It don’t have to be dark if I don’t want it to be.”
With that, the room grew bright and there before Mr. Punch stood the hangman—draped in a black robe with a hood which covered his face. Only a long pink nose peeked out from beneath the hood.
“Stop!” Jack bellowed, turning away quickly.
“I won’t.” Mr. Punch smiled. He tilted his head to one side. Did he smile? Was his face capable of smiling? Regardless, the emotion he felt was the same as if he had actually smiled. “I see now I don’t have to do anything I don’t want.”
Did you miss Chapters 1-282? If so, you can read them here.
