The Remarkable Inventions of Walter Mortinson

by Quinn Sosna-Spear

  She then pulled herself up and looked around, the glint of her anger visible in her sharp gaze. This was Walter’s fault. It had to be, and he would pay for it.

  As she made a list in her head of all the punishments she could possibly give him, she scoured the landscape.

  Realizing there was no one else for miles, she was worried that, perhaps, she had been stranded there. Suddenly fear cracked through her angry shell. Had Walter abandoned her? Had she really been that unpleasant to be around?

  Cordelia shook her head, tossing away the thoughts. No, he wouldn’t have done that. Maybe someone else, but never Walter.

  She spun, taking the sad, empty landscape in with renewed energy. The fear was pushed back by anger once more, something she felt comfortable with. She wouldn’t allow herself to be scared. She would just have to find Walter.

  But where could he be?

  After a brief investigation Cordelia decided that there was only one place to go: into the mine.

  This normally would have frightened Cordelia quite a bit, but nothing frightened Cordelia when she had murder on her mind.

  • • •

  By the time Dreg had plodded down the final few stairs, his captive flopping at his side, Walter had noted that the walls here were made up more of the mysterious stone than regular rock. The pair no longer needed the headlamp; the whole cave was bathed in a soothing glow.

  With a final hop, Dreg tossed Walter to the ground. The boy fell in a heap, the marble rolling from his hand. . . . At least, it should have rolled. But the marble was no longer a marble. Somehow, having been squeezed in his fist, it had taken on that shape—a sort of squashed star thing, with peaks where his fingers had pushed in and a rounded bottom where his palm had been. If he were to look closely, he would have even seen the spiderweb lines of his hand imprinted into the stone.

  Walter was flummoxed. He had been quite sure this thing was solid and not squeezable. But there it was, and for a second, he thought, he could even see it beating to the rhythm of his unusually fast pulse.

  Then someone grabbed him by the arm. Walter had to snatch the thing up again quickly as he was snatched up by someone else.

  He heard her raspy voice before he saw her.

  “Now, whatten we have here?”

  Dreg piped up, “A thief, Ms. Galena, ma’am!”

  Her body was thick and round, like a globe. Around the globe had been wrapped a swath of dirtied denim. She wore coveralls that were rolled up at the arms and legs—and, boy, what arms and legs they were, as thick as tree trunks and covered in hairs the size of toothpicks. By the time Walter saw the woman’s face, it had already become violently red in anger.

  “A thief?!”

  Walter quickly and correctly noted that Galena did not like thieves, like a number of other people he knew.

  She brought him inches from her huffing mouth, surrounded by black, twisted beard hairs, tinged with gray.

  “We don’t take kindly to thieves in the Borough, young ’un.”

  Her breath smelled vaguely of dirt, and for a moment Walter saw her lips curl up enough to reveal a single . . . green tooth?

  “Factwise, we don’t take kindly to intruders of any nature, even little ’uns.”

  Walter found his breath caught in his throat, the same feeling he had when he sat across from his mother as she read one of his disciplinary notes from school. Suddenly, and for the first time in his entire life, Walter thought he’d rather like to be there instead of here. Galena squinted at him before spitting on the ground. “Prove you ain’t one.”

  A whisper rushed through the cavern, causing Walter to look around. He was at the bottom, it seemed, of the cave—but from this place dozens of other paths had been drilled. In front of many were welcome mats. Walter saw big bearded miner faces peering out of the holes, watching from the mouths of their cave homes as the impending action unfolded.

  Walter then noticed that many more miners were standing in the wide, open gut of the mine, spanning surprisingly far around. The miners were armed with colorful spinning top drills and equally colorful hard hats.

  That, however, was not the most notable thing in the mine. The most notable thing in the mine was that there was a vast river of the glowing green rock bleeding through it. They had even constructed a bucket system that carefully scooped up the warm liquefied rock and hauled it into the many offshoot tunnels. This was what they mined for, the mysterious stone, just like the nugget Walter held gripped in his palm, beating in time with his own heart, which had begun to speed faster and faster. The giant woman held him between two sausage fingers, right in front of her furious face.

  Walter croaked, “I’m sorry.” He then reached up a hand to hers, trying to dislodge himself; but along the way he dropped his marble. A gasp echoed around them. Walter gulped, and Galena became far, far redder than before.

  An angry roar then filled the chamber as the miners all halted their work. Galena spat as she shouted, “Bring me my Round About.”

  Galena swung Walter easily to the side as she was handed a particularly large and pointy-looking red spinning top drill. “Let’s see if the innards of a thief are as sweaty as the outside!”

  The group roared again. Walter’s mouth was now hanging open. This had gone from unfortunate to disastrous in a matter of moments. Mother had always said that such things were like that, but Walter had rarely listened to her.

  Two long-armed miners grabbed him and held him up by an arm and a leg each.

  “Put him up there, I ’magine. That’s the target.” She squinted one eye, pointing a thumb toward the back wall of the Pit. The miners carried Walter over and suspended him against the wall.

  Walter’s throat was becoming tighter and tighter as the miners gathered around. Still, he managed to squeeze out a few words, “There’s been a misunderstanding. . . .” But that was all he was able to say before one of the long-armed miners stretched a finger across Walter’s mouth, clamping it shut.

  Meanwhile, Dreg, for his part, was standing to the side looking quite pale. For the first time he genuinely wondered if a plaid pickax was really worth someone else’s life.

  • • •

  If Walter had thought his descent into the miner’s cave was unpleasant, he would be glad to not go with Cordelia.

  For one thing, she would have made him suffer. For another, he had at least had a guide (who, okay, perhaps had been making him suffer—but the world isn’t always a perfect place).

  Cordelia was forced to make the decline by herself without any light. It meant quite a bit of stumbling, toe-stubbing, and knee-scraping.

  She was particularly relieved when the walls began lighting themselves. Though, unlike Walter, she didn’t question it. She was just happy to see again.

  The scramble down was still long, but far more tolerable, allowing her anger to mount again. She discovered that she wasn’t the only one ready to scream, however, as angry shouts began to drift their way up the tunnel. Once she heard Walter’s voice, she felt compelled to walk a bit faster.

  It wasn’t, of course, because she wanted to help him, she insisted. No, it must have been that she was intent on being the one to finally kill him.

  Actually, I suppose Walter would have rather descended into the mine with Cordelia, for the simple reason that then he probably wouldn’t have been there now, suspended against the mine wall, green stone hot on his back, as two miners stretched him to the breaking point, the tip of a massive top drill held a mere foot from his belly. Galena, from the other side, spit another threat, “For the last time, thief. Who sent you to steal our Blood?”

  Walter’s voice came out hoarse as the miner removed his finger, allowing the boy to speak, “N-n-nobody. I s-s-swear. . . .”

  Galena nodded to the miner, who covered Walter’s mouth again. Then she said, “All right. If that’s how you’re wantin’ it.” She began ripping the rope out of the top, one notch at a time, causing the top to slowly spin to life, but was interrupted
by a tiny voice behind her.

  “Walter Mortinson!”

  A gasp rippled through the room.

  Galena let go of the cord, looking down at the tiny interrupter. Cordelia—out of breath, hair knotted, and knees bandaged—continued, shocking even herself.

  “You . . . you let go of him!”

  Her heart was beating faster than she felt comfortable with (though she didn’t notice the tiny misshapen marble, discarded by her feet, speeding up to meet her own pulse).

  Galena just stared at the child whose head was as wide as the miner’s knees, then let the drill drop. Walter puffed out a breath of relief, but sucked it back in only moments later, when Galena’s growl returned.

  “Walter . . . Mortinson?”

  Perhaps out of reflex of his own politeness, Walter nodded. “Yes?”

  Tears welled in Galena’s eyes, her own voice bobbing. “Like . . . Maxwell Mortinson?”

  Now Walter couldn’t respond, afraid of what would come next. Cordelia saw the fear on his face and stepped forward, placing a hand on Galena’s arm.

  “That’s his dad.”

  Galena nodded, sucking the tears back into her eyes as she gestured for the long-limbed miners to drop Walter. To his surprise, they did so not only promptly but with an oddly gentle touch. As soon as Walter’s feet met the ground, Cordelia rushed to him and hugged him tightly.

  Walter’s face became scarlet—his worst moment blossoming into his best. Before he could hug her back, however, Cordelia had pushed herself away. She held a finger to his face, her own face as flushed as a plum. “Don’t you . . .” But the threat died on her tongue when she remembered who surrounded them.

  Cordelia scooted closer to Walter, his clammy hand clasping hers. She was too scared to notice how sweaty he was. She was busy watching Galena, who was taking the scene in with visible chagrin.

  “Our, uh—our most humblest apologies, Mr. Mortinson.”

  Both Walter’s and Cordelia’s heads quirked up in surprise.

  Galena then looked around at her fellow miners, who stopped whispering. She nodded, awkwardly dipping into a half bow as she continued, “We owe your father quite a debt.”

  As the rest of the miners fell into their own bows, Walter stepped back, stopped from stumbling only by Cordelia’s tight hand around his.

  “M-m-mine?”

  “He was the bestest man I knew, gave us our livelihood, our freedom.”

  Galena bent down, dipping a finger into the glowing green goop flowing through the cave, as she gripped the now-quieted drill to her side. Almost instantly the rock solidified into a cap on her fingertip.

  “We ain’t never woulda gotten deep enough to discover the heart of the stone without him.” She flicked the rock back into the stream below. It melted almost instantly. Galena sighed, pushing herself back to her feet.

  “I guess it’s been time enough for the Mortinsons to collect their debt.”

  The miners behind her began to whisper worriedly to one another. Galena then glared at Dreg, who was shrinking into the corner.

  “Our young ’uns will do better next time to ensure it’s a real thief scratchin’ at the door.” Her attention shifted back to Walter. “So what’ll you be after? We don’t have no money, if that’s what you want. When we found the treasure, why, we realized we couldn’t bear sellin’ too much of it to the rest of the world. They wouldn’t understand it like we do.”

  She flashed her green tooth at Walter again. He then looked into the crowd and saw a miner with long earlobes wave. The miner was missing two fingers, which had been replaced with green stone, and, even more miraculous, they bent and twisted like real fingers. As Walter looked around further, he saw all sorts of cracks—in both the people and the walls—filled with the green stuff.

  “N-n-no . . .”

  “Well, you’ll be wanting the stone, then! Don’t know much ’bout it still; as mysterious as the caves. Been calling it the Blood; seems like the blood of stone, it does. It’s alive, though, sure of that. And it’ll only go with you if it wants to. . . . Can’t force it to do nothing it don’t want, but we can try. How much you after?”

  Her eyes squinted at him; he shook his head.

  “Nothing like that. . . .”

  “Then what is it?! You want the tops back? We won’t be able to go no deeper! You want our cave, our homes?”

  Walter managed to cut in. “Just a ride, please.”

  Galena’s eyes widened as she stepped back. She took the two shivering kids in fully.

  “A . . . a what?”

  “We have places to be, ma’am, and we’ve lost our car. Perhaps you could help.”

  Dreg gulped as Galena sat with the kids, waiting for them to explain. This was not good for Dreg, very not good. Maybe it would have been better if he’d just squelched that pipsqueak after all.

  • • •

  Hadorah was thinking similar thoughts only a few towns away, her face a mix of frustration, fear, and day-old makeup.

  Hauling hindquarters in the old carriage, she watched the metal horses gallop, the gears of which could be seen through their silvery musculature, spinning so fast, she was surprised smoke wasn’t rising. The horses ran faster than real ones, powered by pumps composing their thighs.

  Hadorah was fueled by the adrenaline that the climbing speed gave her.

  Just wait until she found him.

  • • •

  “Walter?” Cordelia asked, the two holding each other oddly close, both of their faces indicating that they were regretting this position.

  “Yes, Cordelia?”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  “I can’t say that I am.”

  The duo stood on the very uppermost part of the top drill, the drill bit sinking into the earth below them. Galena, meanwhile, was directing a group of miners in from the slope leading down from the world outside. They were carrying the hearse, or what was left of it. Walter had insisted they retrieve it. After all, he had to find some way to get it back to his mother. Dreg trailed in behind the other miners, as white as a sheet of paper and outfitted in a harness. He hoped never again to be made to bungee down to pick up a busted car. He had found a few loose Worm Crunchies along the way, however.

  “We got the automobile back for you right here, Mr. Mortinson. As soon as Flint has pinpointed your directions, you’ll be on your way,” Galena said, and nodded to the kids. Below them a miner was scratching his head as he used a compass (glowing peculiarly green), shifting this way and that. Suddenly he found the spot and stopped, pointing ahead . . . straight into the mountain.

  “That’s it!”

  A group of miners picked up the kids and the drill, sending Walter and Cordelia sideways as the miners shoved the tip into the side of the cave wall. The two closed their eyes and held their breaths.

  “Hold on, kiddins. It’s going to be quite a ride.”

  Cordelia’s sense suddenly returned, and she held up a hand and said, “Wait—” But it was too late.

  “Pull!”

  One of the miners yanked the cord out. Walter and Cordelia held on desperately, not trusting the straps that bound them to the machine. They screamed as the top spun madly, rapidly firing into the earth.

  Their cries were lost as they disappeared into the dark.

  No one noticed the marble that rolled down the hole after them.

  CHAPTER 17 1/2

  •  •  •

  WAX POETIC

  Honeyoaks buzzes—literally. The entire town reverberates with the dull trill of the many round bees who bob dumbly through the air. People from Honeyoaks are so used to the buzz that when someone eventually leaves (though most never do), they are shocked by how quiet the rest of the world is.

  The residents, along with the town itself, are generally accepted as being the closest thing to perfect that anyone else has ever seen.

  When Hadorah first rolled into town, just barely engaged and even barelier pregnant, she quickly f
ound herself as mesmerized as the rest of the tourists. It was as though a spell had been cast over the city, something hypnotic. Even the colors were brilliant in an otherworldly way. The blue of the sky shone more brightly than a cornflower, the grass seemed to gleam like a string of emerald lights, and the houses were perfect identical boxes with painted shutters and well-tended-to flowerboxes.

  Hadorah had never seen such flowerboxes. She had always just assumed they were meant to be dirty, seeing as they were filled with dirt and all. Not here, however. Not in Honeyoaks. There was something different in the dirt here, and, boy, was it sparkly.

  It wasn’t all luck or magic, though. The town had done well for itself, thanks to its plump, brainless bees. Honeyoaks was a sweet suburb covered in candles and beeswax statues, and even the five-tiered fountain in the middle of the park bubbled over with a cascade of gleaming honey.

  The fuzzy flying workforce floated with the breeze, and to Hadorah’s surprise, no one seemed to mind them. Happy families sat in the grassy park, all smiles. When a bee would fly by, no one thought to cringe or bat the plum-size thing away. Instead it would float over their heads, unless, of course, the person’s head was just an inch too high—in which case the bee would bounce harmlessly off, then buzz away.

  It wasn’t just the town that was striking. Everyone who lived there suffered from the same perfect condition. Their clothing and hair were flawlessly polished; even their skin shone. It was as if they too were made of wax.

  Max and Hadorah sat on the grass on a little blanket she had knitted. (It was only a first attempt, Max reminded her when she would lament about the size of the holes in the weave.) Night had fallen, but in Honeyoaks it was never cold.

  Still, Max wrapped his arms around his fiancée to fend the darkness off. Usually Hadorah would mind that others could see them like this—but today, for some reason, she didn’t. They were watching the beginning of the Solstice Parade, and it was spellbinding.

  “Could you do that, Max?”

  “Do what?”

  “Could you make one of those?” She pointed to one of the towering floats, a bright sun, lit inside by fireflies. Max appraised it, nodding, then held her close, perhaps still afraid the cold would roll in.