The Remarkable Inventions of Walter Mortinson

by Quinn Sosna-Spear

  Still quivering, he bent over to grab the innocuous-looking parchment. He couldn’t imagine what it said.

  Mr. Walter A. Mortinson,

  As a colleague and friend of your father’s, it is my great pleasure to invite you to join me as an apprentice. You are welcome to stay with me on Flaster Isle upon your reaching thirteen. Should you show even a fraction of your father’s ability, it will be well worth both our time. Let us create the impossible.

  Yours,

  Flasterborn

  And Happy Birthday.

  Flasterborn. The Flasterborn? Walter could hardly believe it. A million and two thoughts were running through his head, and yet only one bubbled above the rest:

  This had to be a horrible mistake.

  Flasterborn didn’t know him. Of that, Walter was certain. How could he? Walter wasn’t entirely sure that everyone in his class knew him. The inventing legend, Walter’s only living idol, must have assumed that the boy was like his father.

  How wrong he was.

  Walter may not have remembered his dad, but he had seen the pictures and read the news stories innumerable times. Maxwell Mortinson had been a legend, universally loved, an absolute genius.

  Walter was none of those things.

  He’d heard the stories about himself, and all he could conclude from them was that he was as different from his famous father as he could be. He, Walter A. Mortinson, was a goober. And no one likes goobers, least of all a world-famous inventor like Horace Flasterborn.

  But just as Walter prepared to shove the letter back to the bottom of the trash can, a thought occurred to him: he had nothing to lose.

  • • •

  With a startlingly renewed vigor Walter rifled through his dresser, emptying it of his clothes. Then, back behind it all, he knocked a few times until he found the hollow place. With a fierce yank he pulled the false back panel off, then dug inside. From the cavern he pulled out Max’s pocketknife, the double-stuffed photo album, and the old map from the workroom.

  He stretched open his knapsack, dropped the keepsakes inside, and buried them with an odd assortment of clothing. (If only he’d paid attention, he wouldn’t have packed two pairs of long johns and a pair of swim trunks.) After struggling with the old zipper, he finally ripped it closed.

  Then he sighed, staring at the gutted carcass of his childhood—a room that didn’t feel like his own. It now felt like a horrible place, and as he stepped out, he didn’t even want to look back.

  • • •

  Once outside his room, Walter stopped and took a few steps toward the forgotten, shadowy corner of the upper floor. He didn’t bother going over very often, since the punishment for doing so had been fiercer than any other.

  He looked around, cautious, before peering up into the very darkest corner. There had been an opening up there once, clearly, but it had been boarded up long ago. The hatch had led to the attic, Walter knew, but Hadorah had banned anyone from so much as thinking about it since Max’s death. Walter couldn’t remember what the attic held, but his curiosity had always been outweighed by fear. Tonight Walter no longer feared the punishment. He just no longer cared to know what was inside. This house had nothing for him anymore.

  The floorboards moaned in the way that they only do past dark. The stairs squeaked, as if in cahoots with the floorboards. His old boots slapped the floor, laughing along with all the rest . . . and then Walter saw the light at the end of the staircase.

  He stood in the living room, which was lit only by the flickering candles that were slowly dying on the dining room table. Hadorah’s room, to his left, was dark, but a sliver of light escaped from the basement door ahead, which had been left ajar.

  He cautiously closed the gap between himself and the basement, then poked his head in, just enough so that he could hear the sharp whir of a drill echoing up the stone staircase within. Hadorah must have been working on something, but he had no interest in learning what it was.

  Instead he backed away and slunk right out the front door. He eased the knob, twisting carefully until the door clicked softly behind him.

  Once outside, Walter ran. He skidded over the gravel to his mother’s car, all the while fiddling with a stolen key ring.

  He fumbled at the car door, eyes plastered to the house while his nervous fingers shook the key against the lock. He finally fit the key in and clambered into the driver’s seat.

  He felt a pang of nervousness as he considered the fact that he’d never driven a car, exactly. He’d built quite a few drivable things, certainly, but never anything with wheels.

  He’d be fine, he reassured himself. How hard could it be?

  He jerked forward after throwing the car into reverse, and then clunkily led the long black automobile out of the driveway.

  When he reached the fork at the end of the road, he took off in the opposite direction of the old house, not daring to look back.

  • • •

  Meanwhile, back in the workroom, Hadorah toiled away through the evening and into the night. The bags under her eyes proved she’d much rather have been elsewhere, but the wrinkles in her brow spoke to her stubbornness.

  She scrubbed hard at something, trying to make it look fresh. She was doing a darn good job too.

  There. She approved of her work, sitting back, satisfied.

  In front of her was a gleaming white rabbit, as good as new, or as new as a skeleton rabbit can be. Ralph would have been happy to be back, but really he was just happy not to be in the ground anymore.

  Hadorah had painstakingly puzzled the many little bones back together with tweezers and paste. Finally she tied a shiny black ribbon around its neck and wearily stood to deliver the present. She was so tired, she didn’t even notice when something clonked her mailbox outside.

  Hadorah trudged up the stairs, being as light-footed as she could so as not to wake Walter, then placed the rabbit gently against the door so that he’d find it when he woke. To her shock, however, the door gave way.

  She peered inside . . . only to find the room empty. Walter was gone.

  Hadorah rushed out and in her haste dropped Ralph outside Walter’s door.

  Hadorah had nearly tripped while running down the stairs and was now staring into the inky blackness of her driveway, where the hearse should have been parked.

  Her jaw went slack, and her thoughts sped several light-years a minute. . . . Her mouth caught up only in time to utter a single word.

  “Walter.”

  • • •

  When Walter had been four years old, he’d made his first friend.

  Maxwell had been horribly excited and had soon informed Walter of all the wondrous things to do with your friends: you could hop on rocks or skip in puddles or even share a nice chocolate!

  Hadorah hadn’t been as excited as Maxwell, because Walter hadn’t made just any friend. He’d made friends with a Primpet—Cordelia Primpet. From what Hadorah knew of Primpets, this couldn’t end well. Yet as she watched her husband swing her son in circles, hollering at him about stones, mud, and candy, she couldn’t bring herself to call the upcoming playdate off.

  She insisted, however, on being the one to drive Walter to the Primpets’ house.

  They arrived in the long black hearse, earning an upturned nose from Mrs. Primpet and downturned lips from Mr. Primpet, both standing outside with a protective hand on their daughter’s shoulder. Cordelia stood in front of them, her blue eyes shining out from under long black bangs, and she practically jumped out of her frilly white socks when Walter leapt from the car and frog-jumped to her.

  “Hello, Mrs. Primpet. Hello, Mr. Primpet!” he sang, approaching them.

  Hadorah heaved an uneasy sigh as she followed (though with less jumping). She nodded to the Primpets as she drew near. “George. Anne.”

  Mrs. Primpet’s face curled into a wide smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Hadorah, so nice to see you. Where’s Maxwell?”

  Hadorah gritted out her own fake grin. “He was
busy.”

  “Shame. Come along, Cordelia.”

  Just as Walter leapt forward to engulf the small girl in a hug, Mrs. Primpet pulled Cordelia into the house.

  Hadorah thought that perhaps she shouldn’t leave him there, but when she saw the two children look to each other and clasp hands, she knew there was no other choice.

  The playdate proceeded in an equally unusual manner. First Walter tried to show Cordelia how to balance on rocks, but Mrs. Primpet, forever hovering over the children, was quick to yank her daughter away, informing both tots that rocks are horribly unsafe and not to be touched.

  Walter then tried to skip in mud puddles, but the second his toes dipped in, Mrs. Primpet sprayed him down with a hose. “Germs are dangerous,” she snarled.

  Finally, Walter brought out a little chocolate bar he’d pulled from the cupboard at home. He offered a square to Cordelia, but Mrs. Primpet snatched it away and dropped it into a trash can.

  “Chocolate gives you cavities, you know.”

  Walter had never heard of cavities, but they couldn’t be that bad if they lived in chocolate.

  Mrs. Primpet had then relegated the two to Cordelia’s room. It was so horribly dull, Walter thought. There were no toys, no costumes. Why, she didn’t even have a single wrench! The room had nothing but a bed and books.

  Walter sat, bored and confused, until Cordelia pulled down her favorite book to show him. It had pretty pictures of a circus. Cordelia told Walter that she liked books, which made Walter think he might like books too.

  After they looked at five picture books, Mrs. Primpet decided it was safe to stop watching them from the window, atop her ladder outside.

  Once the scowling lady was gone, Walter gave Cordelia the present he’d asked his father to make for her: a little metal rabbit, painted a lovely bright orange. That was her favorite color, she had told him. And he had remembered. How wonderful. Walter’s favorite color, he had told her, was periwinkle. She’d never heard of periwinkle and asked him what it looked like. Walter didn’t know, but he liked the sound of it. That was good enough for Cordelia. She decided she also liked periwinkle.

  Cordelia’s mother would never have let her have the orange rabbit. It had gears that could pinch, and sharp ears that could scratch, and little nibbling teeth that could bite. But Cordelia loved it, so after a long day of winding it up with Walter, she stuck the rabbit on top of the curtain rod by her bed.

  Her mother would never look there, because her mother didn’t know Cordelia could climb the curtains to reach it. Cordelia’s mother didn’t know lots of things.

  This would be the first and final playdate for Walter Mortinson and Cordelia Primpet, for not long after, everything changed.

  • • •

  Walter, now nearly thirteen, tried to remember that day as he sat in the front seat of the hearse. He was attempting to convince himself to get out of the car and finally approach the Primpets’ house (after, of course, rehearsing nearly fourteen times what he was going to say).

  Once he built up the courage, he stumbled out and stood below the highest window, the only one outfitted with metal bars. He could do little but stare at the drawn curtains.

  He breathed in a bit of courage and tossed a pebble up at the window. It hit expertly, making a slight ping before clattering to the ground. He waited for a reaction, skin atwitter—but no response came.

  After a moment he decided he ought to try again. This time he picked up a slightly bigger rock, figuring that would do the trick. Walter lobbed it up, and it struck the window with a resounding thwack! That must have woken her, he concluded, smoothing his hair as she undoubtedly came to check who was below. . . . Alas, the curtains didn’t budge.

  Slightly confused, mildly frustrated, and quite impressed, Walter selected his next attempt. This one, which could only be described as a palm-size boulder, would really do the trick. It was the kind of stone that Walter thought would definitely wake him up if it were thrown at him. He chucked it at the window, hoping his aim wasn’t off.

  It wasn’t. The rock made a congratulatory crash as it sailed right through the glass.

  Walter could hardly move as his terror rose. His eyes, however, did shoot to the front door, where he was certain the elder (and far more sinister) Primpets were about to barge from. This was a door-barging moment. He nearly jumped when, instead, the high voice of an annoyed girl pierced through the air above him.

  “What are you doing?”

  Walter’s head whipped back to Cordelia’s window, only to see her inspecting the demolished pane.

  Walter thought fast to answer. He was an excellent answerer. “I broke it.”

  She sighed. “I see that. Why?”

  This was a much harder question to answer.

  “I, uh . . . I wanted . . .”

  Cordelia uneasily backed away from the sill as her mind concocted ever more unlikely scenarios explaining the late-night visitor.

  “Look, I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m going to go get my parents—”

  “No! I just came to . . .” He bolstered himself before continuing. “I’m leaving.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “And I want you to come with me.”

  She stopped in her tracks. “What do you mean?”

  Walter’s practiced speech had ended there, and he struggled to find the words.

  “I, well, I can’t explain it all now. We have to go. But . . . I’m going to Flaster Isle!”

  With a burst of inspiration, he held up the gold-and-black letter, slightly crumpled now. Cordelia just stared, not nearly as impressed as he’d hoped she would be. He flushed, tucking the letter away again.

  “That’s a letter from—never mind. I’m going to Flaster Isle, and I know that you’re interested in Dr. Automaton, and I was just wondering if you would, you know . . .”

  She stared at him from high above, and it made it hard for him to think.

  “I mean, I can get you there. Fast. You could maybe even see him. Flasterborn was friends with my . . .”

  “When are you going?”

  “That’s the thing. We don’t have much time. So I was thinking, if you wanted to go, that we could—”

  She interrupted him, voice forceful. “When are you going?”

  “Now.”

  Cordelia disappeared into the darkness of her room, and Walter’s heart sped up again as his chest filled with dread.

  “Cordelia? Cordelia?  ”

  Nothing. Just the swaying curtains in the breeze. Walter, no time to spare, hurried back to the car. He hustled in and jabbed at the ignition. Just as he fit the key in, the passenger door swung open.

  Cordelia stood before him, out of breath and still in a white nightgown that hung to her shins, her knapsack now clutched to her chest.

  “Let’s go.”

  Walter couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he jerkily pulled the car out of the driveway and careened into the night.

  He remembered just in time to flick off his headlights as a police car stalked around the bend, lights illuminating the now-empty driveway.

  CHAPTER 11 1/2

  •  •  •

  THIRTEEN YEARS AGO

  Once upon a time two lovely newlyweds stood before their brand-new home. The paint was brilliantly blue, the grass was violently green, and the birds in the gently swaying trees were probably chirping about love—or something equally nauseating.

  The husband was handsome in a way that wasn’t like chisel-jawed movie stars; he instead had the kind of smile that infected you. He was special—doubly so, in fact, because he truly didn’t know how special he was.

  The woman on his arm knew all too well. She was his wife and looked the part, with her rosy tendrils and umbrella-skirt summer dress. Her eyes, however, were a bit too crow-footed even for a native Moormouthian. She was a fretter, and that was unfortunate.

  Some people only worry when there’s a monster afoot or when they are trapped in a very sm
all space where they can’t reach their own nose. Some people, like this pretty, crow-footed lady, just worry about worrying.

  Worries are dastardly little things that can’t do anything but twiggle your mind and make your heart hurt. They feel like evil beetles eating you from the inside, but really they’re no more dangerous than a bit of extra sticky toffee. That’s what they are, you see—extra sticky. They trick you into believing they’re something much scarier, and that’s why they are so scary. It’s a horrible, tragic affliction because unlike monsters or small spaces, the only way to defeat a worry is by not worrying about it—but just try to tell that to a fretter.

  Still, this poor lady was special too. It was just harder to see because she unequivocally believed she wasn’t. Today, however, was their first day in the bright blue house. Today was sparkling. Today smelled slightly of honeydew. Today was too wonderful for her to worry about anything, so she, too, smiled an infectious smile and glowed just short of being jaundiced.

  “Haddy?”

  She turned, hugging her ballooning nine-month-pregnant belly. “Max?”

  “Welcome home.”

  The two smiled at each other in such an adoring way that it happened to cause an onlooking chipmunk to suffer from indigestion.

  The newlyweds then looked in unison at the sign on the front lawn.

  THE MORTINSON MORGUE

  AND INVENTORIUM

  Maxwell kissed Hadorah. Today was wonderful.

  CHAPTER 12

  •  •  •

  ONCE AFTER A TIME

  That day thirteen years later was not nearly so nice. Hadorah stood outside, a crumbling shell of the bubbling-over bride she’d once been. She hunched, withering into the fog. The veins on her hands were prominent and crawled up her arms as if escaping for higher ground. Her once-fiery curls had frizzled and fried, and were silvering. The pretty white sundress she’d once worn had given way to something that rather resembled a deflated potato sack.