The Puppet Master

The Angel of the Ancient of Days, Barbelo, being the oldest and wisest of all, was allowed to retire from the Eternal War over the plight of souls.

The Divine made it clear to her that she could relax, her purpose fulfilled.

“I think you’re confused,” she said playfully. “To render service to the innocent has always been my greatest reward and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The Divine, of course, knew she would say this! She was therefore gifted with the task of educating all the little cherubs.

Presently, she was indulging the cherubs in their most cherished activity:

Story time!

“In the coldest, farthest reaches of Hell,” she began, but one particularly inquisitive cherub interrupted her.

“It gets cold in Hell?”

“Of course,” she said, smiling. “This is why I always find the human saying when Hell freezes over so funny! Parts of Hell are already frozen! Our good friend Dante made that abundantly clear!” She gently tut-tutted the little cherub. “Now, no more interruptions!”

The cherub blushed, smiling. They all loved Barbelo, and knew she never meant anyone or anything harm, but she wasn’t to be trifled with!

“As I was saying…”

***** * *****

In the coldest, farthest reaches of Hell, there was a demon so foul that even the other demons steered clear of him.

The Master of Evil assigned to this demon the task of driving the most innocent souls to despair.

The Puppet Master, they called him, for he could enter the human psyche, pushing and pulling it by unseen strings into acting against its own best interests.

When Satan was allowed to torment Job, he was only granted the power to beset him with trials from outside; but The Puppet Master got inside them, wore them like a suit, and corrupted them from the inside.

So it was only fitting that he was given the mission of tormenting a puppeteer named Louis Marshon.

From Louis’ birth to his dying day, The Puppet Master inspired thoughts and feelings of loneliness, drove him away from others by causing him to feel feelings they could never feel, rendering their empathy impotent to redress or bridge the gap.

He took from the man the ability to enjoy or even long for romantic love.

He took from him the ability to desire even intimate consummation, to feel relief at the touch of other human beings. He made the boy empty, a blank inside.

But from the moment the boy could walk and talk, he was unperturbed by these things.

Instead, he came to love, of all things, puppets.

The more The Puppet Master reviled him, the more he wounded and emptied Louis inside, the more inventive, creative, and charming Louis became with his puppets, until, suddenly, it was Louis manipulating The Puppet Master.

For The Puppet Master was now trapped in this benign soul.

Trapped, watching him please spectators, young and old, until the end of his days.

Then—horror of horrors!—Louis befriended two lovely young ladies and their children, and the family took him in as one of their own, and, even after Louis died, they and their kin kept Louis’ legacy alive so that his work continued to delight all who encountered it.

His puppet shows became so well-refined that anyone who saw them agreed they were the best they’d ever seen, and despite the devil himself infesting the world with technology that could render anyone’s wishes digitally at a mere prompt, people would still prefer Louis’ man-made creations, logging more views on the very platform the devil created than all the devils in Hell could ever hope to attract.

Because of this, though Louis was allowed to pass on to a graceful afterlife, The Puppet Master remained trapped in his works, never again being able to torment another poor soul.

The damnedest thing of all, from The Puppet Master’s point of view, was that Louis never knew. He was a pure creator who created without lust of result, with no need for recognition, and with pure love for each and every creation he made as well as all those who delighted in their antics.

So it was that a hellion ended up in a Hell of its own device, unwittingly falling prey to the machinations of chance.

***** * *****

“Let that be a lesson to all you little cherubs,” Barbelo said. “Remember, all demons are but fallen angels! The True Divine is Pure Love, and all existence is a neverending cycle of creation. Any who attempt to restrict or control the flow of this—which is the great sin of the demiurge!—will find themselves restricted and controlled.”

***** * *****

Rommentary:

The Barbelo was, in the ancient Gnostic tradition, the embodiment of Wisdom. In this story, however, the angel called by this name is inspired by my dearly departed mother, who loved nothing more than to care for and motivate children.

I related the life and love of Louis Marshon in my story The Hearth. I have what I hope will be a funny admission about this story. I began it back in 2014, with the intention of writing a comic take on an asexual man trying to work up the nerve to become aroused so he could donate sperm, but I just couldn’t finish writing it. It sat in a file for a decade, and after I picked it up again, it finished itself in a flurry of inspiration, turning out to be a much better story than what I originally envisioned.

Quite a few of my stories take this turn, and the feeling, to me, as a writer, is that of being a continuum for the stories to tell themselves, rather than the creator of the tale. I consider it a sacred duty, which makes it all the more painful when bad things happen to those characters I come to love.

As for The Puppet Master, I won’t shed any tears over him. He got what he deserved. But I will say that, though eternity is forever, things within it can always change for the better, and even the damned can redeem themselves if only they will follow Barbelo’s advice and relinquish control.