The Nutcracker's Charge
The Nutcracker is picking at sourgrass. He finds a large stem, tears the yellow flowers off it, and chews it with his awkward wooden jaws. He is out in a sandy field; not snowy, no. The Mouse King’s hordes mill about here and there. They seem to have forgotten about the Nutcracker. They don’t nibble him, poke him with pikes or brandish their poleaxes as if to chop him into firewood. But his body already bears the marks of their teeth, his head is splintered, and he’s in need of a fresh coat of paint on his sandblasted boots. It’s likely that they’ve simply grown bored of him.
The Nutcracker knows how the story goes; he’s seen it countless times before. And though the scenery is different and he’s not exactly sure where in the story he is, he’s still the Nutcracker, and he’s certain that when the time comes, he’ll know what must be done. Only where is—ah, there! There’s Masha, the girl who’ll release him from the Mouse King’s curse and turn him back into a prince.
But it’s strange. She seems to be playing with the mice, even though the Mouse King is nowhere to be seen. The Nutcracker drops the stem and tries to understand her actions. Perhaps she’s just playing along? If they knew what she’s planning to do—to break him free—they’d surely harm her. Yes, so it’s an act meant to protect them both. She looks happy. And, well, that must be Masha, right? Certainly looks the part, the prettiest, making his woodheart knock and thud about inside his frame when his gaze lingers a tad too long. It’s certain, then—he’s identified the correct girl for Masha’s role.
He looks about him, suddenly remembering his sabre and his toy steed. Are they gone? It must be why he can’t defend himself, why he’s vulnerable, for without his steed, without his golden sabre, how is he to lead the charge against the Mouse King’s forces? He can’t do it alone, so disarmed. He turns to the lone gingerbread boy sitting nearby. They sometimes speak; a kind of companionship. But even with the timid gingerbread boy’s aid, it’s unlikely that they’ll put up any kind of challenge for the armed multitudes.
— Hey, Ginger, what should we do?
— You’re asking me? You’re the one who’s seen the story before.
— I know, but this is different. I don’t know how we’re supposed to do all of that. Some things are wrong.
— Well, you’re still the Nutcracker, aren’t you? And that girl’s Masha?
— I think so. But it’s strange; I can barely hear the music. The music usually makes it all happen.
They sit down in the sand and look at the merry mice camp before them. Both can see Masha giggling, darting from one mouse to the next. All around, she’s attended by adoring mice. Unapproachable and gorgeous.
The glossy lacquer on the Nutcracker’s eyes is sole sanctuary of any shine left in him. As he tunes out the mice around Masha, his eyes gleam brighter. She is good and means well. And as strange as this permutation is—he’s already foggy on what must to happen to break the curse—Masha is right there, all smiles, kind, and surely awaiting him.
Suddenly something tells him that the Mouse King will be back soon. Too much time has passed without him in view. When the tyrant returns, they will all be herded back into the castle where the Nutcracker will be forced to remain silent and still. So the Nutcracker gets up from the sand with his woodheart beating out desperate marching orders. Ginger is startled by the sudden movement and looks to him for an explanation.
— Ginger, now. We have to do it now.
— Now? What do you mean now?
— I don’t know when we’ll have another chance. We must get to her now. Somehow.
— But the mice!
— The Mouse King will be here any minute. Please, will you help?
The gingerbread boy rises, worried though trusting, and in the hollow of the Nutcracker’s head urgent violins begin to scythe and cascade. The drama aligns.
As the violins do declare, a sabre’s handle appears lodged in the Nutcracker’s rigid right hand. As the brass section blares, Ginger multiplies and is an army at the back. As the orchestra swells, the Nutcracker is carried forth upon a wave and trusted white steed to lead the charge.
He charges between pikes, past poleaxes, cleaving through formations of mice. Closer, closer—through squeaks and scratches. He cuts down the grey around Masha. The scene terrifies but it’s how the story goes—she knows, she knows. The Nutcracker dismounts and runs through the last of Masha’s captors. Now that the two of them are in the eye of the battlefield, he remembers—it’s time for their dance. But she appears frozen and unresponsive. He is down on one knee and raises the hand that holds no implement of war, though she makes no move to take it. The music stalls, falters—is something wrong?
She turns away, but before all is lost, the Nutcracker gets up and walks up tentatively, carefully, for his form is graceless, the wooden bulk offensive. He creaks toward her ear, and her soft hair tickles him. He knows not why he’s close until a whisper leaves his jaws—these words must be the cue for the commencement of the pas de deux:
Masha, I love you.
Yuval makes as if she hasn’t heard, smiles, then runs off with the other children. The boy remains in the kindergarten’s yard. Playtime is nearly over.