Oddkins: A Fable for All Ages

by Dean Koontz

  He sighed and said, “I really wanted to build nasty little toys. It would have been so much fun.”

  5

  THE NEW TOY­MAKER

  1.

  WORKED INTO A STAINED-GLASS window above the heavy oak doors was the word WONDERSMITH, the name of Colleen Shannon’s toy shop. The same word was painted across the large, arched display window in the stone wall to the right of the entrance.

  With Patch, Skippy, and Gibbons still riding on his shoulders and head, with Butterscotch under one arm and Burl under the other, with Amos’s ruined body held tenderly in one hand, Victor rang the bell.

  The store and the apartment above it were dark. The hour was very late: three o’clock in the morning. Mrs. Shannon, who had lived alone since the loss of her husband years ago, would be asleep.

  Victor was afraid that she had not heard the bell. He rang it again, then again.

  “Is Amos showing any life?” Skippy asked.

  “None,” Victor said.

  Burl said sadly, “Gibbons, you know the history of the Oddkins and the magic toymakers who produced them over the years. So tell us what we’ve all wondered for so long. What happens to an Oddkin when the life goes out of his body? What happens to his soul? What has happened to Amos’s soul?”

  “I don’t know,” Gibbons said, no longer gripping Victor’s hair but holding on to his ears instead. “That was the one thing that Uncle Isaac did not tell me about our kind. I know everything else—but not what happens to us in the end.”

  Victor rang the bell again, and lights appeared on the second floor, above the shop.

  “I have a theory,” Skippy said. “When the life force goes out of one of us, when he becomes just another stuffed-toy animal, then I think his spirit goes to Heaven just like a human spirit. I mean, after all, God must like toys as much as everyone else does. Right? So what I figure is, we go to Heaven where we play with God and give Him pleasure for all eternity.”

  “That’s a lovely thought,” said Butterscotch.

  The other Oddkins agreed.

  “I hope you’re right,” Burl said. “Oh, I hope that’s where poor Amos is now.”

  “He was a good bear,” said Patch.

  “A very good bear,” said Gibbons. “There will never be another like him.”

  A woman’s face had appeared at a second-floor window.

  Victor stepped back from the door and waved at Colleen Shannon, hoping she would recognize him though they had met only a couple of times over the years. On his shoulders, Skippy and Gibbons and Patch waved too. From under Victor’s arms, Burl waved and Butterscotch wagged her tail.

  Mrs. Shannon stared down at them for a long moment, then turned away from the window.

  “She’s coming,” Victor said. “She’ll be here in a minute, and we can get in out of this terrible weather.”

  2.

  MRS. COLLEEN SHANNON STOOD at her workbench in the back room of Wondersmith, where every day she spent time repairing many of the toys that children brought to her “hospital.” Victor Bodkins stood at her side. The limp bear lay in the middle of the bench, and the five living Oddkins stood sorrowfully around their lost friend.

  They had told her everything that had happened to them, and old Gibbons had explained that she had been chosen to be the next magic toymaker.

  “If you accept the job,” Gibbons said, “you will receive the power that Uncle Isaac had, and you will be able to make magic toys of your own to help children in need.”

  Tears tracked down Colleen Shannon’s cheeks. Though she had not known Amos the bear, she was saddened by his death; however, that was not why she was crying. She wept because all of her life she had loved children and had wanted to make their lives happier. Her own husband had grown sick and died soon after they were married, and she had never had children of her own. She was thirty-five years old now, and sometimes her life seemed lonely because she lacked a family. But this was the end of loneliness. From this day forward she would have the company of the living toys she made, and she would be comforted by the knowledge that her magical creations would help hundreds and perhaps thousands of special children in their time of greatest need.

  “Oh, yes, Gibbons,” she said, “I accept the job. I will be the new toymaker, and I promise to do the best job I can.”

  “I know you will,” said Gibbons, putting one finger alongside his snout. “I know you will.”

  Colleen felt a sudden change in herself, a great warmth, and she knew that the toymaker’s powers had just been transferred to her. Victor said, “Mrs. Shannon—”

  “Call me Colleen,” she said, using a tissue to blot the tears on her face.

  “Okay. And call me Victor. What I was wondering … well, you are clearly surprised by all of this, by meeting living toys, but you don’t seem as surprised as I thought you would be.”

  “No,” she said. “Because of … Binky.”

  “Binky?” Victor said.

  “Who’s Binky?” Skippy asked. “Sounds like a Las Vegas comedian to me.”

  “Wait here,” Colleen said. She turned and ran from the workshop, as light on her feet as any young girl. She hurried upstairs to her bedroom, grabbed Binky from his place on the bureau, and rejoined the others. “This is Binky,” she said, putting the old stuffed-toy lion on the workbench.

  The Oddkins examined Binky with interest and looked knowingly at one another.

  Colleen said, “My mother died when I was only seven years old. The week before she passed away, she gave Binky to me. When Mother was gone, I was very sad and confused for a long time, but I got through those bad months with the help of Binky. I talked to Binky a lot, and he helped me to see that life must go on no matter what. He convinced me that there would be happiness ahead of me if only I did not let my mother’s death depress me too much for too long. Binky was my special friend when I desperately needed one.”

  Watching her solemnly, the Oddkins all nodded.

  Colleen said, “Of course, you see, when I grew up, I believed that my talks with Binky and our play together were just figments of a child’s active imagination. But in the back of my mind, I guess I never quite gave up the idea that my Binky had really been alive. And that’s why I’m perhaps not as surprised as you would have expected, Victor.”

  Gibbons put a hand on the lion’s head. “Yes, he was one of us, all right. Made by Uncle Isaac in the early days. And judging by what a fine lady you’ve become, I’d say Binky did his job very well indeed.”

  3.

  LIKE HIS FRIENDS, BURL wanted Mrs. Shannon to try to repair Amos and bring the bear back to life before fixing the others. “It’s too terrible to see him lying there, just another toy, and a broken toy at that.”

  “Burl,” Colleen Shannon said, “I’m afraid I can’t do anything for Amos. His mission was completed, so maybe his allotted time on earth is over.”

  “But he never had his chance to help a special child,” said Butterscotch. “And that’s what he was made for, just like us.”

  “He helped countless children,” Colleen said gently, “by leading you here to me and by preventing that Mr. Jagg from becoming the new toymaker.”

  “But he didn’t get a chance to help his one special child,” said Skippy.

  “Nevertheless,” Mrs. Shannon said, “I will start by repairing those of you who are still alive. You, too, must have a chance to help your special children, and you can’t do that until you’re made whole again.”

  Burl sat on the workbench beside Amos, one hand on the silent bear’s shoulder. He watched with interest as Colleen took thread, materials, needles, and other tools from various compartments in the shelves and cabinets above the bench.

  She put on a green workshop apron and repaired Butterscotch first, replacing the few scraps of cotton stuffing that had come out of the dog’s leg. Victor threaded a needle for her, and she carefully stitched up the tear that had been the work of an alley cat. She cut a new ear for the dog from a piece of brown cordu
roy.

  “I don’t have material to match your other ear, but this will look darling. Besides, your corduroy ear will be like a badge of honor to remind us of the sacrifice you made by helping your friends bring me the news of my selection as toymaker.”

  “I’ll wear it proudly,” Butterscotch said, lowering her eyes shyly as Colleen sewed on the new ear.

  Burl was surprised and delighted to see that their new toymaker had a sense of humor, too. Instead of giving Skippy a new powder-puff tail to replace the one that Rex had cut off, she sewed up a padded five-point star and stitched it to the rabbit’s bottom.

  “You won’t ever have your star on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame,” she told Skippy, “because that’s not your mission in life. But you will have a star because you deserve one.”

  With the help of a long-handled vanity mirror that Victor held for him, Skippy examined his star-shaped tail and was delighted.

  “It’s terrific!” Skippy said. “Better than a star on the Walk of Fame. I’d have to go to Hollywood every time I wanted to see my star there, but I can carry this one with me and look at it any time!”

  To Patch, Colleen Shannon said, “You get your name because of the coloration of your fur, but why not give you a real eye patch like some wounded, one-eyed cavaliers had? It would be a mark of what a courageous fighter you are.”

  “Okay,” Patch said, “but could I get washed up, too, and have my torn trousers repaired? And could my hat be cleaned and given a better shape?”

  “Oh, yes, all of that,” she promised. “But not tonight. We’ll just do major repairs tonight, and tomorrow we’ll clean you up.”

  She cut a circle of plaid fabric and stitched it to Patch’s face where his missing eye had been. In the very center of the patch she sewed on a green button the same shade as his good eye.

  “You’ll be able to see as well from the button as from your glass eye,” she said, “but it’ll be more dashing.”

  Taking a look at himself in the mirror that Victor held, Patch said, “Oh, but it is dashing, isn’t it? Look, Burl. Look, Skippy. Doesn’t it give me such style? Anyone seeing a cat with such an eye as this would surely think, ‘Ah, there goes a cat who has had great adventures, who has done much, who is a champion and survivor.’ The ladies will swoon, and the kittens will stand in awe of a cat with such a patch as this!”

  Burl watched—and giggled—as Colleen replaced Gibbons’s burnt-off white hair with a mane of frizzy orange fuzzy stuff.

  “You need colorful hair to make you look cheerier,” she told the scholar.

  “I’m young again!” Gibbons said, studying himself in the mirror. “Not as dignified looking, perhaps, but definitely younger.”

  Next to Amos, Burl had the most terrible wounds, and by the time Mrs. Shannon came to him, he was curious to see what peculiar new look she would give him.

  Colleen selected a blue-and-white-striped material for his new trunk. She sewed it into a tube, stuffed it with cotton, and stitched it to his face.

  “And how about a red and white polka-dot ear?” she said. “With such a trunk and ear, everyone will know you are no ordinary little elephant but something special, something very special indeed.”

  Skippy took the long-handled vanity mirror from Victor Bodkins and held it so Burl could look at his striped trunk while Colleen fashioned his colorful new ear.

  “Hmmmmm,” Burl said, “not bad. Though with this look, there’s no way I’ll ever fit in with a herd of real elephants on the veldt.”

  “But your special child will love you all the more because of the way you look,” Mrs. Shannon said.

  “Then that’s good enough for me,” Burl said.

  Colleen gave him his new ear. He found that both that polka-dot-covered flap and the new trunk worked as well as the old ones.

  “Heroes, every one of you,” Mrs. Shannon said, “and your fancy repairs are your badges of honor.”

  She hugged them, one at a time, and Burl had never felt better than when he was held tightly in Colleen Shannon’s arms.

  “And now Amos,” Butterscotch said. “The most heroic of us all. Help Amos, Mrs. Shannon.”

  “I’ll try,” she said, frowning. “But it’s going to take time.”

  4.

  WHILE COLLEEN SHANNON WORKED lovingly on the ravaged bear, Patch and Burl wandered around the cozy toy shop, exploring the place with interest, trying to take their minds off the major surgery being conducted in the back room. They came to an ornately carved cabinet in which were displayed a lot of antique toys that Mrs. Shannon had restored to their original condition and luster.

  “Butterscotch is right,” Burl said.

  “About what?” Patch asked.

  “About everything,” Burl said. “But especially about how unfair it is that other toys never have a chance to know what life is like. Remember what she said in the department store when she saw those ordinary stuffed-toy animals? Unfair. And it is. Because all toys, even those not living, bring joy to children, and it seems as if they ought to have a bit of fun themselves.”

  “Maybe they do live in their own way,” Patch said. “If the child believes his toy lives, if he believes it strongly enough, then who’s to say it might not be true? A child’s imagination is a wonderful thing, a pure and innocent thing, and maybe it can work a certain magic of its own.”

  A couple of minutes later, they were still staring at the toys in the case when Skippy ran in from the work room to tell them that Colleen Shannon had almost finished with Amos. “She’s just got to sew up his restuffed belly.”

  They returned to the other room and allowed Victor to lift them onto the bench. The five living Oddkins watched anxiously as Mrs. Shannon completed the repairs on their friend and leader.

  Amos’s blue sweater—with its Alpha and Omega symbol—and the body under it had been slashed in several places. Colleen Shannon had used scraps of brightly colored cloth—green, red, yellow—to cover those gashes and to give the bear his own badges of honor.

  But after she pulled the last stitch, tied the last knot, and broke the thread, Amos did not move. His eyes remained blank. He was not revived.

  “Amos, please,” Butterscotch said, “speak to us.”

  “Sit up and smile that furry, bearish smile of yours,” said Skippy.

  “Please,” Burl said, “sit up and say ‘Okeydoke.’ ”

  But Amos did not return to life.

  Beside the bruin’s body was a pencil stub and a piece of paper on which were lines of poetry.

  Sick with grief, Burl scanned the lines and said, “But … this reads like the work of Rupert Toon.”

  “I found the pencil and paper in the pocket of his sweater,” Colleen Shannon said. “Who’s Rupert Toon?”

  Burl looked solemnly at his friends, and it was Butterscotch who finally had the courage to put into words what all of them now realized. “There was no Rupert Toon,” she said. “Never was. The poems were all Amos’s own, and we never knew. We made such fun of poor Amos’s poems.”

  “Now,” Skippy said, choking on his grief, “I’d give anything to hear him reciting Toon’s lines again.”

  “Anything,” Gibbons agreed.

  “I feel so ashamed,” Burl said, “of how we mocked that poetry.”

  “Sometimes,” Patch said, “you can hurt another person’s feelings without knowing it, just because you don’t take time to think.”

  For a moment they were silent with surprise, but then they sobbed quietly for their lost friend.

  Burl saw that Mrs. Shannon was weeping again and that Victor was crying too. The man put his arm around the woman, and she leaned her head against his shoulder.

  She said, “I guess my new magic power can’t bring him back if he’s not meant to live again.”

  They stood staring down at Amos’s body for a long while before Burl saw that Butterscotch was chewing at her recently repaired leg, tearing open the stitches.

  Colleen Shannon noticed too. “Butterscotc
h, what are you doing?”

  “I think … maybe … if I give some of myself to Amos. …”

  “What do you mean?” Mrs. Shannon asked.

  “Uncle Isaac filled Amos with magical stuffing. But he was refilled with ordinary stuffing,” Butterscotch said. “Maybe that’s why he can’t come back to life.”

  “But I put his new stuffing into him,” Mrs. Shannon said, “and I’ve got the magic now, so the cotton I use should be magical too—shouldn’t it?”

  “It’ll be magical with the new toys you make,” Gibbons said. “It’ll give them life, of course. But maybe it isn’t magical for old toys like us who were made by a previous toymaker. Maybe the only way we can bring Amos back is to give him some of our own stuffing—sort of like a transfusion of his blood type.”

  Butterscotch said, “There’s nothing more magical than the love that exists between friends. Nothing finer or more powerful. When we give Amos a small portion of our stuffing, a little piece of ourselves, we’ll be giving him love, and maybe love can make this miracle work.”

  Without another word from anyone, Colleen Shannon and Victor Bodkins helped the five living Oddkins by cutting their fabric to reveal their cotton innards. Then Butterscotch, Gibbons, Skippy, Patch, and Burl plucked out small pieces of their own stuffing and, one by one, inserted those bits of cotton into a slit that Mrs. Shannon made in Amos’s belly.

  Amos did not move.

  Burl wished with all his might that Amos would come back to them. He wished so hard that his ears curled and his new striped trunk began to roll up.

  Amos did not move.

  Butterscotch gave a bit more of herself.