The Wooden Son - by Hajjar. S

The fog over the Thames River was thick and wet. It covered the dark streets of London. The year was 1888. In a small, cold attic room, a man named Bartholomew sat at his worktable.On the table was an old book. It was the story of Pinocchio, a wooden puppet that came to life. Bartholomew’s young son, Thomas, had died from a sickness three months ago. Bartholomew was so sad that his mind was breaking. He did not think the book was just a fairy tale. He believed he could use it to make a new son.Bartholomew was a very good toy-maker. He knew how to cut and shape wood perfectly. He thought that if a poor Italian carver could make a living boy from wood, he could do it too.He tried for the first time using oak wood. He made the puppet look exactly like his son Thomas. He painted the eyes bright blue. He prayed for days, but the puppet stayed dead. It was just a block of wood.He got angry and broke it. He tried a second time with willow wood. He thought the sad wood would bring a soul. Nothing happened. He tried a third time with ash wood. He only got splinters on his fingers. The wood remained dead.By the fifth week, Bartholomew was going crazy. The candles flickered in his dark room. He realized his mistake. The wooden body was just a shell. It needed something inside to make it move. It needed a real heart and real blood.Late at night, Bartholomew put on a black apron and walked to Smithfield meat market. The market was quiet. He paid a night-watchman some silver coins. He found a freshly killed pig. He used a sharp saw to cut open the pig. He reached inside the warm body and pulled out the pig's heavy, bloody heart.He carried the wet heart back to his attic in a canvas bag.Working by the light of a single candle, Bartholomew built his final puppet. He used old, hard wood from an old ship. He hollowed out the chest of the puppet. With shaking hands, he pushed the raw pig's heart into the wooden chest. He used iron tacks to hold it in place. Then, he screwed a brass plate over the opening and covered the edges with black paint."Live," Bartholomew whispered. "Live, Thomas."He was exhausted, so he fell asleep in his chair.The next morning, the daylight was grey and ugly. Bartholomew woke up to a strange noise.Thump.It was a wet, heavy sound. Then came the dry sound of wood scraping against the floor.He stood up fast. Sitting on the table was the wooden boy.But it did not look like Thomas. The damp air had ruined the wood. The blue paint on the eyes had cracked and leaked down the cheeks like blue tears. Thick, coarse black pig hairs were growing out from the cracks in the wooden skin.Inside the brass chest, something was beating very fast. It sounded like a scared animal trapped in a box."Thomas?" Bartholomew asked. He walked forward with his arms open.The wooden thing turned its head. The wood made a loud crack sound. The mouth was just a block of wood with a hinge, so it could not speak. Instead, it opened its mouth and made a horrible, wet squeal. It sounded like a dying pig.The monster jumped off the table. It moved like a wild beast. Its heavy wooden legs smashed into the floorboards.Bartholomew tripped on a tool and fell backward onto the floor. The monster stood over him. The smell of blood and old wood filled the room. The blue eyes were empty and mad."No! I am your father!" Bartholomew screamed.The creature did not understand. It had the heart of a slaughtered pig, so it only felt terror and panic. It raised a heavy wooden arm. It brought its solid fist down hard.The first hit broke Bartholomew’s jaw so he could not scream. The second hit crushed his chest. The wooden boy, driven by the fast-beating pig's heart, kept hitting the man like a butcher’s hammer. Soon, the floor was covered in blood.When the sun finally came up, the room was quiet. Only the wet thump-thump of the pig's heart inside the brass chest could be heard. The wooden monster stood alone in the dark room, its hands covered in red stain, looking out the window at London.

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