The Remarkable Inventions of Walter Mortinson Read online

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  My mother’s name was Shelley Spear. She was born with a lump hanging over one eye, an ear folded in half, and hair the color of an old man’s, and she happened to be the loveliest woman I ever knew. She liked reading books, writing stories, and me. (She also liked my brother, but this isn’t about him right now.) There’s nothing that would have made her happier than knowing I had written a book of my own.

  Unfortunately, my mother was very sick. She died when I was about your age, maybe. But that’s all right, because she was wonderful while she was here, and I’m so thankful to be able to give her this story at last.

  Now—would you mind doing me a favor? I need you to read something aloud for me. It needn’t be more than once, and you can whisper it if you’d like:

  Did you hear that, Shell? This one’s for you.

  CHAPTER 1

  •  •  •

  WALTER MORTINSON

  Walter” is no kind of name for a boy. “Wally” perhaps, but it’s well known that Wallys don’t normally become Walters until they sprout their first ear hairs. No, “Walter” is a name for a man—one with a woolly walrus mustache that tickles his buck teeth, stained from cigars, whiskey, spinach, and whatever other hogwash adults waste their time on. “Walter” is the name of a man who harrumphs instead of saying hello, a man who is big, gray, and terribly ordinary. So it’s rather an odd happenstance that our Walter was the exact opposite of all of these things.

  Walter Mortinson was undoubtedly a boy. His wiry pipe-cleaner frame was unique to a twelve-year-old, and his wide brown eyes were still too big for his round face, pillowed with baby fat. But Walter, as many boys and girls are, was much cleverer than a man.

  His brain wasn’t hardened with age, bloated with useless worries about expenses, timeliness, and the desire to eat leafy green things. No, Walter’s brain was still wonderfully soft and squishable. This was convenient, as it allowed Walter to squeeze the entire universe—all of her stars and possibilities—between his ears. Most Walters cannot manage such feats, but this Walter, Walter Mortinson, could, which is important because he had vast things to think about: Walter was an inventor.

  Odd ideas occurred to him. He imagined beasts that didn’t exist and contraptions that could do things that hadn’t yet been done. Why, just a week before, he had wondered if fingernail clippings could be turned into tiny scissors to trim toe hairs, and the answer is yes, with a strong enough magnifying glass and springy enough toe hairs. While many people have such thoughts, Walter had the tenacity and the nimble fingers to bring his ideas to life.

  On this morning he was doing just that. He had awoken far earlier than the birds (or the worms, for that matter) and had gotten to work on his newest idea. It had required him to sneak into the neighbor’s yard early that morning and dig something up, but no matter. They hadn’t been using it anyway.

  For hours he sat hunched over his prize, its once-white form marred by dirt and soot, his walnut knuckles twisting their way skillfully around it. Walter could see the final product in his mind and had nearly achieved it. It was show-and-tell day. He just had to finish his project; he would stay nose-to-his-desk until then.

  And while Walter was correct—he would complete his task—this wouldn’t happen until five minutes after the school bell had rung, which meant Walter would be late. Again.

  Walter was always late.

  CHAPTER 2

  •  •  •

  THE HAWK ON THE HILL

  The Mortinson home was just between the town, to the west, and the junkyard, to the east. While once the house had been exactly between the two, as time had gone on, the town had kept its distance, and the junkyard had grown larger and closer.

  And if anyone in the town of Moormouth had been curious, they might have noticed Tippy Tedesco, a tall woman, standing atop one of the spindly junkyard heaps. A particularly curious person might even have seen the whirring gold mechanism in her ear. But no one paid Tippy any mind. I suppose that’s no surprise; no one in Moormouth paid attention to much at all.

  If you didn’t notice the mechanism in her ear, however, it’s possible you might see the glint of her strange gold goggles instead. They fitted over her glasses, and the lenses of the goggles spun as they automatically focused on whatever she spied. All at once they were able to cut through the town’s overbearing smog and magnify anything for a good mile.

  Tippy herself made quite the hawkish impression: squinting past her twice-broken nose, hunched at the shoulder, perched high above the town. Fortunately, no one cared to look. They were too busy with their daily routines.

  Moormouthians streamed from their dull houses and, like clockwork, trudged to their even duller schools and businesses, where they were supposed to be. Not one man, woman, or child looked out of place or, as it happened, happy.

  Tap-tap-tap . . .

  Tippy drummed a code into her earpiece: “Like goldfish in a bowl, they have adapted to their surroundings with empty-headed indifference.”

  No wonder, the lady thought as she pinched her beaky snout, trying to stem the smell of burned rubber. Her eyes glazed as she watched what could only be described as human cogs in a foggy factory town machine—for that’s what the town was, a great factory.

  Boys and girls were raised to believe that they should care about nothing more than doing what they were told. What they were told, of course, was to “be quick about it and just grow up already.” So that’s what the children did. Boys and girls became men and women. Men and women then went on to do what they were told: work in big square buildings that puffed out smoke like snoring grandpas. The men and women, who probably would have been better off just staying boys and girls, would stand in front of conveyor belts all day long, making dreadful things like itchy woolen socks and rigid white toothbrush handles. For their whole lives they’d slouch in assembly lines, twisting sock hairs or trimming brush bristles—never wondering what lay beyond the concrete walls of their cold, colorless town, because, after all, they’d never been told to wonder.

  If each place had a personality, something to be most known for, Moormouth was the place where people worked sunup till sundown until the very day they died.

  The beaky woman shook her head as her gaze shifted to the only house she cared about, the one unique fixture Moormouth had to offer. The slouching building squatted a good distance from the rest of the town. The space between gave the impression that either the house was running away from Moormouth or Moormouth was running from it. There was a long mismatched chimney chugging away, an old chestnut tree (with one fat turkey sleeping in its branches), and a shining black hearse parked out front.

  Tippy watched from her place overlooking the entirety of the town. The junkyard marked the city limit, which gave her the perfect view.

  Her eyes, however, were fixed on the young man bounding down the porch steps. He was lanky in a way that only twelve-year-olds can be, with a lollipop head and oversize feet (to keep him upright, of course). He wore a black-and-gray suit, his school uniform, with a hound’s-tooth tie and bricklike shoes. He was easy to see even from a distance. His thicket of pumpkin-colored hair contrasted wi
th his dark skin and made him stick out, perhaps even more than his stumbling feet or wide eyes.

  Then again, the boy didn’t need any help sticking out.

  As if feeling her stare, he glanced over the hill at the junkyard; because of the fog, all he saw was the hazy outline of someone, but before he could determine who it was, Walter was pulled once more into the unforgiving rhythm of Moormouth. He turned and hurried toward the one-room schoolhouse a mile the other way. When he chanced a look back, the shadowy figure was gone.

  Meanwhile, the woman continued to watch, now from the cover of a dilapidated refrigerator. She was crammed onto the bottom shelf, peeking through a crack in the door until the loping boy was a safe distance away.

  No, it wasn’t worth thinking twice about Moormouth, but Moormouth wasn’t why she’d come. She had started this mission with little hope, but it had steadily grown over the past few years as she’d made her regular check-ins.

  On this occasion she had been watching him for the past five days, sleeping in a claw-foot bathtub. She had seen Walter create the most marvelous contraptions. He had truly become something rather special.

  Now it was time, at long last, to set into motion something most exciting.

  Tap-tap-tap: “Yes, he’s ready.”

  CHAPTER 3

  •  •  •

  THE BUMBLING BULLY

  Walter had made the same walk to school every day since he was five years old. It was fortunate that he didn’t have to look where he was going anymore, for Moormouth’s ever-present, swirling fog made it almost impossible to see where he was anyway.

  Instead he played a game called Kick the Rock that he’d devised seven years before. Walter would find a rock and kick it. Though this wasn’t his most creative invention, it was surprisingly fun.

  He had found a perfect pebble that morning as he’d raced out of the house. He kicked the stone between both feet, punting it up above the mist and watching it dive back down. On today’s walk Walter was doing his best to ignore the boy walking only a half step behind him.

  Alexander Grooblan was the kind of child who was probably half-ogre. As a result of this, he had never learned how to speak without spitting. Walter did his best to avoid him.

  It was difficult, however, on days like today, when Alexander adamantly refused to mind his own business.

  “Mortinthon.”

  Walter ignored him, kicking his little, round rock. He silently repeated in his head: Right, left, right, left, ri—

  “Mor-tin-thon.”

  Alexander pushed him with all his might. Walter stumbled, gangly limbs windmilling. He fell face-first but was able to stop himself with his hands—nose just above the pebble.

  Walter stood up, brushing himself off and pretending as though nothing had happened. When Walter had been younger, his mother had told him not to feed the pigs that Mrs. Eggerley dragged by every spring, in case they came back for more. He had taken the advice to heart. Walter continued to ignore the big pink boy behind him, even when he could feel and hear the brute’s snuffling on the back of his neck.

  “I didn’t want to haff to do that, but you were being rude. Didn’t Mommy ever tell you not to be rude?”

  Walter was vigilant about not stepping on a daisy, the only splotch of color for a half mile. Alexander trampled it.

  “Or was she too bithy killing Daddy?”

  Walter walked faster. He didn’t know how long he could put up with this. Fortunately, they were much closer to the school than he thought. Unfortunately, he didn’t know that.

  “Don’t run away, Wally! Everyone knowths ith’s true. Itty baby Mortinthon and evil Mommy Mortinthon alone in their houth—oopth, I mean their corpth mutheum.”

  Alexander snorted up a wet chortle while Walter distracted himself by fiddling with the elegant gold pocketknife that had belonged to his father. He slowly pulled out each tool, admiring them one by one: a tiny screwdriver, a magnifying glass, a slide with a pressed mechanical flower (shining a brilliant cobalt), a wrench, and a blowgun.

  “What? Noffing to thay to me? Noffing? Too thtupid, I gueth.”

  Alexander stomped on Walter’s heel, forcing him to trip over his pebble. By the time Walter spun around to retrieve the rock, however, Alexander was gone. Walter’s squinty gaze swung up to find him, only to see that he’d cornered new prey, a waifish girl walking a few paces behind. She had sunken cheeks and a patch over one eye. Her name was Cordelia, and Walter liked looking at her.

  “Hey, thyclopth. Thee anything interethting thith morning? I mean, bethideth your own fathe?”

  “Leave me alone, clodpoll,” her thin voice rasped back.

  Walter quickly scooped up the rock. Although Cordelia looked like she could hold her own in spirit, she was easily dwarfed by Alexander’s massive form.

  “You’re the uglietht girl at thchool. Probably even in all of Moormouth. Mutht feel thpecial.”

  The smog in front of them parted as the pebble zinged through the air and nailed Alexander in the temple. Cordelia gasped. The huge boy reeled backward, furious.

  “WHAT THE—”

  Another rock shot into his open mouth, forcing him to sputter it back up with machine-gun hacks. He looked up just in time to see a third, smaller rock come hurtling toward his eye. Out of his other he could see Walter, blowgun to his lips.

  Alexander stomped toward his relatively minuscule nemesis and, as an afterthought, pushed Cordelia as he went. She fell, papers flying out of her bag in a messy storm. Still, she couldn’t tear her eye away from the scene unfolding in front of her.

  Walter was frozen, gun poised at his lips, a fourth pebble already in place. Alexander snatched him up by the neck. Walter, face already purpling, desperately spat into the blowgun. The rock plopped against Alexander’s bulging forehead vein.

  Alexander swung the red-haired boy up by his neck scruff, to just short of Alexander’s own face. Walter looked back in fear, his whole body quivering.

  Hopefully Alexander isn’t too mad—

  But Walter was soon disappointed when the bigger boy wound his meaty boulder fist up and sank it into the softest part of Walter’s belly. Walter’s eyes bulged as the remaining puff of air escaped his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. Smirking, Alexander plonked Walter onto his knees and lumbered off toward the school.

  “Thee you in clath!”

  As Walter tried to regain his breath, Cordelia eyed him, crouching by her spilled bag. Finally the wind rushed back into his throat, and then Walter crawled over, inhaling deeply, just happy to have control of his lungs again. Regrettably, that also meant he was free to ramble all he wanted or, rather, didn’t want.

  “Are you all right? He’s wrong. Your face isn’t ugly; it’s nice. I mean—it’s okay, but also nice, and I think all your papers are still here. It’s not like there’s much of a breeze to blow them away. Actually, the weather has been very mild, hasn’t it? And . . .”

  He trailed off, looking down at the papers he was scooping up. One was a drawing of a circus, another of a sunflower, and the last was covered in words, written in every direction. Walter scanned the words quickly, unable to stop himself. His eyes lit up when he saw a name. Not just any name, however. A famous name.

  Automaton, the Mad Scientist. Little was known about him other than the fact that he was, unlike most people, a robot. What’s more, he wasn’t just any robot; he was a doctor (which, if you ask a great many people, is far harder to become than a robot). Dr. Automaton had the unique distinction of being in charge of the Flasterbornian Immortality Center and Laboratory—or FICL, if you happen to be too lazy to say “the Flasterbornian Immortality Center and Laboratory.” FICL is, as you probably have already heard, the most glorious hospital in all the world. Why shouldn’t it be? It, along with the doctor, was created by Flasterborn himself. And, as the whole world knew, if anyone could accomplish the impossible, it was Flasterborn.

  Seeing Dr. Automaton’s name made Walter especially excited because he knew
more about Flasterborn than most, which is quite the feat, because everyone knew about Flasterborn. About half of everything in people’s houses had his name on it, for Flaster’s sake.

  “You like Flasterborn?”

  Before he could read any more, however, Cordelia snatched the stack of papers away. She glared at him, adrenaline still rushing through her wispy frame.

  “There’s drool on your chin,” she said. With that, Cordelia pushed herself up and rushed off without a second glance.

  Walter flushed, rubbing at his chin as he trailed behind her. Drool was an unfortunate side effect of the blowgun.

  He watched Cordelia disappear into the smog, and sighed. He was going to be the latest person to class. Being the latest wasn’t a problem anymore. It was more off-putting to those around him, he found, if he wasn’t.

  CHAPTER 4

  •  •  •

  WICKED MS. WARTLEBUG

  Magda Wartlebug had wanted to be a teacher from the age of four, when she would capture the prettiest ladybugs, stick her prettiest hatpins into them, and then fasten them to the ground so that they had to listen to her lessons about the importance of kindness.

  She graduated early and rushed to Moormouth in order to replace the town’s only teacher, Ms. Croat, whom she vowed to never be like. (Ms. Croat had died the previous May due to an overdose of despotism.) Ms. Wartlebug was ecstatic as she looked forward to accomplishing what she had always known she could.

  Then she met the children.

  Ms. Wartlebug had thought children would be more like ladybugs—quiet, puny, and easy to nail down. Alas, she learned, they were far louder, slipperier, and spittier than she could have imagined. This made her realize that her role as a teacher was far more important than she’d ever known. It was her duty to make sure the children never learned anything. That way they would never reach their dreams. If they never reached their dreams, then they wouldn’t do anything important.