The Nutcracker's Charge

Alexei Raymond

The Nutcracker is picking at some 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 mice mill about here and there. They seem to have forgotten about the Nutcracker for now. 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 feet. It’s likely that they’ve simply grown bored of him for the time being.

The Nutcracker knows how the story goes; he’s seen it countless times before. And though the scenery is different here 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 will know what to do. Only where is—ah, there! There’s Masha. That’s 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 he’s been chewing on and tries to discern her actions. Perhaps she’s just playing along? If they knew what she’s planning to do—to break him free—then 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? She certainly looks the part. She’s the prettiest and he can hear his woodheart knock inside his frame when he looks a bit too long. It’s certain, then—he’s identified the correct girl in 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. And without his steed, without his golden sabre, how will he lead the charge against the Mouse King’s forces? He can’t do it alone. He sees the lone gingerbread boy sitting nearby. They sometimes talk for they feel a kind of kinship. The mice bother them both. But even with the timid gingerbread boy’s help, it’s unlikely that they’ll put up any kind of challenge for the armed, numerous mice.

— 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 blue eyes is the sole sanctuary of any shine left in him. As he tunes out the mice around Masha, his eyes gleam brighter. She is good and she means him well. As strange as this permutation is—and he’s already foggy on what needs to happen to break the curse—Masha is right there, all smiles, kind, and surely meant for him.

Suddenly, something tells him that the Mouse King will come back soon. Too much time has passed without him in view. When he returns, they will all be herded back into the castle where the Nutcracker will be forced to remain silent and still. He gets up from the sand with his woodheart beating out marching orders. Ginger is startled by the sudden movement and looks to him for an explanation.

— Ginger, now. We have to do it now.

— What? What do you mean now?

— I don’t know when we’ll have another chance. We have to get to her now. Somehow.

— But all the mice!

— The Mouse King will be here any minute. Please, will you help?

The gingerbread boy rises—worried but trusting. In the hollow of the Nutcracker’s head urgent violins scythe and cascade, and the drama begins to align.

As the violins do declare, a sabre’s handle appears, lodged in the Nutcracker’s rigid right hand, and as the brass section blares, Ginger multiplies and is an army at the back, and when the orchestra swells, the Nutcracker is carried forth by his white steed to lead the charge.

He charges between the pikes, past the poleaxes, cleaving through formations of mice. Closer, closer—through the squeaks and scratches. He cuts down all the grey around Masha. The scene terrifies her 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—is she confused? He gets 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 from him. But all is not lost; he gets up and walks up slowly, carefully, for his form is graceless, his wooden bulk offensive. He leans toward her ear, and her soft hair tickles his face. He knows not why he’s so close until he begins to whisper—these clear words must be the cue for the commencement of the pas de deux:

— Masha, I love you.

But Yuval makes as if she hasn’t heard, then smiles and runs off with the other kids, and Ilya is just a boy in the kindergarten’s yard. Playtime is over.

Published in Issue No. 10, Manus Aeternum, July 1st, 2025.

Alexei Raymond writes about post-Soviet diasporic lives, moments of threshold, and fractured identities. Originally from the Middle East, he is currently based in Belgrade. His stories appear in The Bloomin’ Onion, Lowlife Lit Press, and The Crawfish. Connect with him at x.com/enemyofcruelty.