The Magic Factory

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The Magic Factory Page 7

by Morgan Rice


  He tried now, to speak, to ask one of his burning questions. But when he opened his mouth, instead of words, the only thing that came out was a yawn.

  “You’re tired,” Armando said. “Of course. There’s a spare room you can nap in, and I’ll get some extra blankets since the weather is quite cold at the moment.”

  Oliver blinked then. “A nap?”

  Armando nodded, then qualified his offer. “You’re not planning on going back out into the storm, are you? Last message from the mayor said we should expect to stay inside for hours.”

  For the first time, Oliver’s thoughts turned to his parents. If they’d heeded the mayor’s instruction to return home, what would have happened when they discovered only one of their sons had made it back from school? He had no idea for how long he’d been knocked out in the trash can, nor how many hours had passed while he was being batted around inside it. Would they be worried about him?

  Then Oliver shook his worry away. His parents probably hadn’t even noticed. Why should he give up the opportunity to rest in an actual bed, especially when the only thing waiting for him at home was a dingy alcove?

  He looked up at Armando.

  “That sounds really nice,” he said, finally managing a full sentence. “Thank you.” He paused then, deliberating over his words. “I have so many questions to ask you.”

  “I’ll still be here when you wake,” the old inventor said, smiling kindly. “Once you’re warm, fed, and rested, then we can talk about everything.”

  There was a knowing look in his eye. For some reason, Oliver wondered if Armando knew something about him, about his freakish powers, his visions and what they meant. But Oliver quickly pushed those thoughts away. Of course he didn’t. There was nothing magical about Armando. He was just an old inventor in a strange factory, not a magician or wizard or anything like that.

  Suddenly overcome with fatigue, Oliver had nothing left in him to even ponder. The storm, the days of stress from the move and starting a new school, the lack of sufficient food, it was all suddenly too much for him to handle.

  “Okay,” he conceded. “But it’ll just be a quick nap.”

  “Of course,” Armando replied.

  Oliver stood, rubbing his weary eyes. Armando used his walking stick to help lift his frail body to standing.

  “Along here,” Armando said, gesturing down the narrow, dimly lit corridor.

  Oliver let Armando lead the way, trudging wearily along behind him. His body felt very heavy now, as though he’d been holding in so much stress and unhappiness and was only now aware.

  At the end of the corridor stood an odd wooden door that was lower than a normal door and curved at the top like it belonged in a chapel. There was even a little window in it, framed with burnished iron.

  Armando opened the door and ushered Oliver inside. Oliver felt a sense of nervous anticipation as he stepped over the threshold.

  The room was bigger than he’d been expecting, and much neater considering the state of the kitchen. There was a large bed covered in a soft, white duvet and matching pillows, with an extra woolen blanket folded at the end of it. There was a wooden desk covered in small war figurines, beneath a window with long blue curtains. In one corner of the room was a fabric-covered chair, next to a bookshelf crammed with exciting-looking adventure stories.

  It looked, in every way, like the kind of bedroom an eleven-year-old boy like Oliver ought to have, rather than an alcove in the cold, shadowy corner of an unfurnished living room. He felt a sudden surge of grief for his life. But stronger than that was the gratitude he felt for this sudden opportunity to escape it all, even if it was only for a few hours.

  Oliver looked over his shoulder at Armando. “This is a very nice room,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t mind me staying in here?”

  He became very aware then of his sodden clothes and the muck he must have trailed into Armando’s factory. But rather than chastise or berate him—like his parents had yesterday with his soggy sweater—Armando just smiled a knowing smile.

  “I hope you sleep well and feel rested when you wake,” he said. Then he turned and left the room.

  Oliver stood for only one more awestruck moment before realizing he was far too exhausted to even stand up. He wanted to think about the strange events of the day, to try and make sense of them, to replay them and order them and catalogue them in his mind. But there was only one thing his body demanded right now and that was sleep.

  So he peeled off his clothes, put on a pair of too big pajamas he found hanging in the closet, and crawled into bed. The mattress was comfortable. The duvet was warm and smelled of fresh lavender.

  As Oliver snuggled into the big, warm bed, he felt safer than he ever had before in his life. Finally, he felt like he was somewhere he belonged.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The world was very quiet. Bright sunlight warmed Oliver’s eyelids. He let them flicker open. There was a shard of light coming through a gap in the curtains.

  Oliver suddenly remembered where he was. He sat up, blinking, taking in the sight of the bedroom in Armando’s factory. It was all real. He really was here.

  It suddenly occurred to him that it was morning. His nap had turned into a deep sleep that had lasted all through the night and into the next day. He shouldn’t be surprised; the bed was the warmest, most comfortable bed he’d ever slept in. In fact, Armando’s factory felt more like home to Oliver than any of his previous houses ever had. He snuggled under the duvet, feeling content and completely in love with the place. He never wanted to leave.

  But what of his family? Oliver wondered with a growing sense of anguish. By now they must have noticed that he was missing. He hadn’t come home for an entire night. Maybe they thought he’d been swept away by the storm. They must be worried.

  Though the thought concerned Oliver, there was another side to the coin. If they did think he’d been swept away by the storm, that meant he may never have to go home at all...

  Oliver grappled with his thoughts, caught somewhere between anguish at causing them any distress and excitement at the opportunity fate had apparently presented him. He decided, finally, that he’d address the issue with Armando.

  Feeling rejuvenated from his sleep, Oliver leapt up and hurried out of the room to find Armando. He rushed through the rabbit warren of corridors, trying to find his way back to the main factory floor where he suspected Armando would be. But the place was a maze. Doors he’d been certain were there yesterday now seemed not to be. It was only when he found the kitchen and Horatio the dozing bloodhound in his basket that he was able to work out where he was and which direction he needed to go.

  Finally, he emerged out onto the factory floor. In bright daylight it was even more magnificent than it had been in the dim, stormy light. Now he could see all the way up to the ceiling—which was as high as a cathedral’s—and see that upon the wooden joists perched several mechanical birds. Others fluttered about in the rafters, moving in every manner like real birds, except for the fact their wings were made of brass and their eyes of little lights that glowed red. He noticed bats as well, sleeping upside down with their huge metal wings folded across their chests.

  “How on earth…?” Oliver muttered aloud, gazing up at the myriad of flying machines above his head.

  “Ah, Oliver, good morning,” came Armando’s voice.

  Oliver’s gaze snapped back down to the factory floor. There was Armando, straightening up from where he’d been bent over a machine, tinkering away. Immediately, Oliver lost all courage to ask him whether he could stay on at the factory.

  “Did you sleep well?” the old inventor asked.

  “I did,” Oliver said. “In fact, better than ever. But it was only supposed to be a nap. Why didn’t you wake me after the storm finished?”

  Armando chuckled. “I tried, dear boy, but you were in a deep, deep slumber. My guess is you really needed that sleep.” He smiled. “Now, I promised to tell you all about my factory and my lif
e as an inventor, didn’t I? Would you like some breakfast first? A shower? A clean change of clothes?”

  It was only then that Oliver realized he was still wearing pajamas. He hesitated, mulling Armando’s offer over in his mind. Breakfast and a warm shower and clean clothes were not things his parents would offer him if he returned home. It wouldn’t hurt to stay a little longer, he persuaded himself. At least to go on Armando’s tour.

  “If it’s your family you’re concerned about, perhaps you ought to call them?” the old inventor added, picking up on his hesitation.

  That was the last thing Oliver wanted to do. He just shook his head. “That’s okay. I can go on the tour first.”

  The old inventor reached forward and placed a firm but reassuring hand on Oliver’s shoulder. He peered down at him with his misty eyes. Oliver could see the deep kindness and warmth within them. They were trustworthy, imploring him to relax. Not for the first time since arriving at the factory, Oliver got the sense that Armando knew more than he was letting on.

  The old man gestured with his arm to the factory floor.

  “Please, this way,” he said.

  Thoughts of his family shifted to the back of Oliver’s mind as curiosity took over. He walked slowly alongside Armando, matching his pace.

  “I was a similar age to you, Oliver,” Armando began, “when I started to make my own inventions. Nothing that worked, mind you.” He chuckled. “I think I managed a mechanical slingshot but that was about it.”

  Oliver remember the slingshot he’d created and used on Chris. The coincidence struck him, and the sense of it lingered, mixing with all the other emotions coursing through him.

  “I excelled at school,” Armando continued. “Although I didn’t get along very well with any of the children.”

  “You and me both,” Oliver added.

  They reached a room and Armando strolled inside. It was a library, Oliver saw, with high ceilings and wooden floorboards. A spiral staircase led to a second level where there was a comfy-looking floral armchair and a large reading lamp.

  Armando took a book from the shelf beside him. It was a leather-bound tome with the title embossed in gold: Odontodactylus scyllarus.

  “I read voraciously,” Armando said. “I wanted to learn about all the laws of physics, about the history of aviation. Everything. I was what you would call a nerd.”

  Oliver just nodded. Armando’s story was so similar to his own, it was comforting. He watched Armando wistfully place the book back on the shelf. Then he wandered slowly out of the room. Oliver followed, curiosity driving him on.

  “I left school with good grades and went to college,” Armando continued as he walked. “That’s when things really started to pick up for me. I had access for the first time to materials and tools, to workshops, and of course some brilliant mentors. Some of the best minds.”

  Suddenly, a swooping mechanical pheasant flew overhead, making Oliver gasp and duck. Its underbelly skimmed Oliver’s head, and Oliver saw it was the same rainbow color as an oil spill. Armando himself didn’t seem too surprised by the intrusion. He kept talking. Oliver straightened up and brushed himself down.

  “There was an enthusiasm then for innovation,” Armando was saying. “And the war afforded me a real opportunity. They were willing to take risks on bright minds like mine. I started off inventing things for the war effort, you see.”

  He gestured into a room. Oliver saw it was the one with the military tank inside. It had a myriad of bizarre weapons protruding from the front. In the brighter light, Oliver could also see now that there were all kinds of different types of tracks and tires lining the room, some made of rubber, others of metal, others still with sharp spikes upon them.

  “They gave me this factory,” Armando said, moving on. “And people to work alongside me.”

  “Really?” Oliver asked, a little taken aback. His book had made no real mention of Armando actually having a running factory. He’d been painted as a loon, someone who got caught up in flights of fantasy rather than someone who was trusted to run a factory, and indeed someone who’d been somewhat successful at it.

  Armando nodded. “I know. It seems strange to think it now. Now that everything here has become so… quiet.”

  He seemed lost for a second in his reverie. But then he snapped back to the moment again and led Oliver slowly onward.

  They entered a room filled with glass beakers and bubbling liquids, with little Bunsen burners in a row and large machines making chugging noises. The room was hot and smelled of strange chemicals. Oliver wrinkled his nose at the stench.

  “You may have heard the rumors,” Armando said, “that nothing I invented ever worked.”

  Oliver felt bad for the old man and blushed on his behalf. “Yes, I did hear that.”

  Armando nodded sadly. “They took my team away. Sent them elsewhere, to places they’d be more useful. They closed the factory. Officially anyway. I continued to work here secretly.”

  The secret wall! Of course. No wonder this wing of the factory was so odd and hidden away behind the mechanical wall. Armando had had to conceal himself, to keep his work undetected in order to keep going.

  “So you’ve been alone here ever since?” Oliver asked.

  “Unfunded would be a better word,” Armando said. He sighed, as if there was some kind of heavy weight pressing on him, and tapped his skull with a bony finger. “I have so much knowledge in here and no one to pass it on to. No son or daughter. No apprentice.”

  They drew up slowly to a machine. It was just like the large bowl-shaped invention Oliver had first seen in the main factory. But while that one was covered in dust and falling into disrepair, this one looked brand new.

  Oliver touched the brass mechanism with his fingertips.

  “I call that a Bird’s Eye View,” Armando said.

  “What does it do?” Oliver asked.

  “It allows you to look down from above at certain locations. It was supposed to help with reconnaissance during the war effort.”

  Oliver frowned. “But how does it work? You’d need cameras in the sky. And what’s the bowl for? And this spinny bit? I don’t understand.”

  He mulled it over. Perhaps it was something to do with electromagnetic currents passing through the raindrops in clouds, causing some kind of image in much the same way as an ultrasound, or how blind bats use sonar to see. But even that was too out there for Oliver to accept. Really, the only way something like that could ever work was through some kind of undiscovered physical force. Some kind of magic.

  Armando let out a morose smile. “It never did work. There was always a missing ingredient. With every single one of my big inventions, there was always just one thing missing.”

  Oliver wondered what Armando meant by that. What could the missing ingredient he was alluding to be?

  He realized then that Armando had carried on ahead. Oliver rushed to catch up.

  “So you’ve been making inventions for seventy years?” he asked.

  “And counting,” Armando replied.

  “They didn’t send you to fight after they shut down the factory?”

  Armando made a little face of distaste. “I was supposed to be drafted like everyone else. But the government wanted me to try to finish my grand invention. One that would be incredibly useful to the war effort. They gave me one last chance to make it work.”

  “What was it?” Oliver asked. He remembered the pages of his inventors book. They’d mentioned that Armando was working on a time machine before the war had stalled his efforts. Was that what he meant?

  Armando shook his head. “It never worked, so it doesn’t matter.”

  He seemed even more morose. Oliver felt bad for bringing up a past failure that he was clearly still touchy about.

  “Never say never,” he said in an attempt to bring the inventor back to his normal happy level. “Perhaps tomorrow will be the day you find the missing piece.”

  But rather than cheering him, Oliver’s wor
ds seemed to make Armando even more sad. He sat slowly, his joints creaking.

  “I’m running out of time, Oliver,” he said. “My days are numbered.”

  Oliver got the distinct impression that he wasn’t just referring to his old age, but to something more specific, something on the horizon, perhaps something he’d even had a premonition of.

  Armando sighed wearily. He seemed to have completely run out of enthusiasm. With a sad voice, he said, “I suppose that concludes the tour.”

  Oliver snapped to attention. He felt himself deflate. It couldn’t be over. He didn’t want this moment with his hero to draw to a close. He wanted to stay here forever, to never leave. But even as Armando stood and headed to the door, beckoning him to follow, Oliver just couldn’t summon the courage to ask. He was tongue-tied all over again.

  Silently, his throat thick from cowardice, Oliver followed Armando back into the long corridor. At one end was the door to the bedroom he’d slept in last night. It had felt like his room, like he was always supposed to have been there. But they turned the opposite direction, away from that cozy room of comfort, heading for the main factory floor.

  When they reached the main part of the factory, Oliver glanced about him with a sense of yearning. The sight of all the machines and the rafters filled with mechanical bats and birds still stunned him. To think of all these amazing machines Armando had created awed him. Bitterly, Oliver realized that he’d never get a chance to work on them together with his hero.

  “It’s been quite delightful meeting you, Oliver,” Armando said then, offering his hand for Oliver to shake.

  He was as polite as ever, but Oliver still sensed the melancholy in his voice. He shook the old inventor’s hand, willing himself to broach the topic of him staying but failing to even find the words.

  “Yes,” was all he managed. “It’s been truly wonderful.”

  Then he turned away from Armando and headed for the rotating wall. He dragged his feet as he walked, and thought sadly about the life he was returning to, with the horrible alcove and his bully of a brother.

 

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