The Remarkable Inventions of Walter Mortinson

by Quinn Sosna-Spear

  Flasterborn spun Walter around hastily, allowing him a view of the grandest-looking exhibit. Walter peered in, unsure.

  “What is it?”

  On a crystal pillar was a square plastic box, encased in glass, floodlights illuminating it from every angle.

  “The toast box.”

  Walter looked back at the display blankly. Flasterborn rolled his eyes, pointing at the inscription on one side of the box: “The best thing since sliced bread!” Flasterborn then read the other side out loud: “Every family has one.”

  Walter shrugged, craning his neck to see other interesting contraptions. “Mine didn’t.”

  Flasterborn grabbed his shoulder again, tapping on the glass.

  “That invention alone made enough money to add four floors to the building you are currently standing at the top of.”

  The boy finally nodded, impressed. “That’s good. Otherwise we’d be suspended in air.”

  There was a pause as Flasterborn considered the oddling in front of him. Perhaps a bit too much like Max, he thought. Flasterborn then shook the idea from his head and directed the boy into one of the empty rooms behind the glass, inside which were long worktables composed of thick marble slabs. On either side of the room were ceiling-high displays of the finest tools Walter had ever seen.

  Flasterborn waved Walter to one side of a table as he took a seat on the other side. The lights lowered, as did Flasterborn’s voice. Walter supposed it might not be a coincidence.

  “Enough about me. I’ve been . . . looking after you since the tragic passing of your father.”

  Walter was surprised when Flasterborn reached a hand out and gave him a sympathetic squeeze. The expression on the old man’s face made him look even older. Flasterborn seemed to catch himself and smiled again.

  “I know about some of your inventions. A revived rabbit?”

  Walter pulled his hand away in surprise. How could Flasterborn know about that?

  “Ralph. I just made him for fun.”

  “But don’t you see? It’s more than fun! It’s marketable!”

  Walter wiggled in his seat, not quite able to get comfortable. “I don’t know . . .”

  “I do. You were given a gift.”

  Walter took in the cheery face across from him for a second and was warmed by the hope that the man might be telling the truth. Flasterborn persisted, “Why else would you invent, if not to make money from it?”

  Walter shrugged and looked down; the warm feeling had extinguished. Flasterborn ducked, catching his eye.

  “Why did you come here, Walter?”

  “You invited me.”

  Flasterborn shook his head, wiping his gloved hands off on a handkerchief, then stuffing it back into his pocket.

  “But there must have been a reason why you traveled all this way. You want something. Money? Power? Fame . . . like your father?”

  Walter’s ears perked. He had heard more about his father in the last twenty minutes than in the previous nine years.

  “Is that why he came here?”

  Flasterborn shifted his belly, leaning back and closing one eye as he continued, “Your father was much like you. He had grand ideas and was looking for someone to guide him.” Flasterborn’s voice became quiet. “He could have done great things, if only . . .”

  Walter looked around the lavish hall, at the many tools on the walls around him—all he would ever need. “Why did he leave?”

  Flasterborn shook his head, petting his mustache with his pinky. “That’s difficult to explain to someone your age. First I’d like to tell you why he came here.”

  Walter nodded vigorously, but Flasterborn looked more severe than ever.

  “I don’t tell you this lightly, Walter. You and I will be the only ones to know now, and we must keep it that way. It will be our bond. Can you do that?”

  Walter simply couldn’t believe this was happening. No one had ever trusted him with so much as a secret that everyone else already knew.

  “Of course.”

  Flasterborn then breathed in deeply as he looked way up at the ceiling in the way people do when they try to retrieve something from the spine of their memories. “It was a very hot year, I remember. The kind of hot that melts your bones. Summer came, and I’d nearly sweated out every good idea I had. I had just built this place, and I do believe it stole something important from my gears, something I didn’t get back until your father was given to me.”

  He stared at Walter in a sharp way that made the boy want to say something.

  “I see.”

  Although, he didn’t really.

  But this seemed to satisfy Flasterborn, who went on, straightening his beard as he concentrated on something invisible in the walls.

  “I had been feeling horribly lost. I couldn’t devise a single contraption that was worth even a penny. The darkness loomed, and I worried I would never have inspiration again. Then I heard about something rather fantastic that could change it all.” Walter found himself leaning over the worktable as Flasterborn continued. “News traveled to me from very, very far away, from an island long forgotten, about a boy who was making impossible things.”

  “Who was he?”

  Flasterborn chuckled. “Your father.”

  Walter sucked in, his eyes wide.

  Flasterborn laughed loudly now, remembering. “Why, he hadn’t even a proper tool set. He was a poor, dirty thing with no money and no family. He scrounged up whatever he could find and, somehow, transformed it. He could make anything fly or blink or sing. Ask him to turn a plastic bag into dancing shoes? No problem. Nothing could stop him.”

  Walter blanched. Maxwell had been that amazing? He was really nothing like his father after all. Flasterborn only laughed more loudly, however.

  “Any other year, any other season, and I would have thought him a threat and squashed the poor boy. But, no. Max was given to me so that my magic would return.”

  Flasterborn held his hands out wide. “I invited him here and took him on as my apprentice.”

  Walter’s mind spun, filled with fuzz. “My father . . .”

  He couldn’t finish the thought, too overcome by what he’d learned.

  “Was special,” Flasterborn supplied, reaching out two fingers and tilting Walter’s chin up to the right, into the shining bulb above.

  Walter could hardly breathe as Flasterborn pulled away, a glint in his eye. “Your father had amazing promise, but he gave it all up. He left me with only his old inventions, a bucket full of memories, and this.” From out of his coat Flasterborn brought a little silver cube, encased in a clear plastic box. Flasterborn reverently unlocked the plastic box and retrieved the cube. He held it out to the boy. It looked so innocent and ordinary.

  Walter’s hand shook as he reached for it. As soon as his bare fingers rested on the gleaming surface, however, Flasterborn tutted, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to him. Walter flushed, grabbing the box with the fabric.

  “What is it?”

  “That,” Flasterborn began, “is very much what I wanted to ask you. Your father eventually made the decision to leave. I begged him to see some sense. Instead he gave me this blasted box and told me it was the only thing I would ever need. He never explained it, however, and I’ve been puzzling over it ever since. You must solve the riddle for me, Walter.”

  Walter delicately twisted the box one way and then the other. But there were no buttons, no levers, and nothing seemingly extraordinary.

  After a very close look, he finally set it down. Flasterborn’s eyes were wide. “Have you figured it out?” he asked.

  Walter thought very hard. This was a test, he knew, but unfortunately, he worried that he wouldn’t be able to solve the mystery. If Flasterborn hadn’t in fourteen years, then how would Walter?

  “I think . . . ,” Walter began, “that some things aren’t meant to be known. Perhaps . . . the point of it is that we do not know, and that’s the loveliness of it.”

  Flaste
rborn’s face grew dark again. “Yes, well, you can continue working on it. There’s time.”

  Walter sighed. That wasn’t the answer? Why, he was horrible at tests. Then Flasterborn smiled again.

  “Your father was wonderful, Walter. The only mistake I made was allowing him to slip away.” He fell back into his chair, face twisted. “But now we’ve been given another chance, see?”

  He smiled at the boy, a big bright smile that very few had ever seen.

  “In life you make decisions—some that determine the rest of your days. Your father made one of those choices when he left for Moormouth—a wretched place where no one has any worth beyond making it all the more wretched. He was on the brink of everything and gave it away.”

  Walter could feel the skin on the back of his hands prickle as Flasterborn stared into him, his words now clipped and his gaze unblinking.

  “Say yes, and you will stay here with me. You will have everything you could ever dream of. Say no, and I will have you dropped wherever you would like to go. It’s up to you, really, but remember what your father did. You and I . . . we could finally figure out that blasted box, Walter—together. We could have everything.”

  Flasterborn squinted at the boy, whose forehead was scrunched in concentration.

  “So, if I stay now, will I ever go back?”

  “There would be no reason to.”

  Walter thought so hard, his head hurt.

  “When must I decide by?”

  Flasterborn snorted in a way that reminded Walter of when Ms. Wartlebug had explained to the children that she wasn’t going to be teaching math because they wouldn’t understand it.

  “I can’t say that I care to miss another moment of what could be. So . . .” He leaned in, his gloved fingers sliding on the glossy table below. “Everything? Or nothing?”

  Though his whisper was soft, it rustled out the open door and into the long hallway that Tippy was waiting at the end of, still peeking up from inside the vase.

  She couldn’t see their faces, which made her heart pound faster as she waited for a response.

  CHAPTER 24

  •  •  •

  TIPPY TEDESCO

  Oh, conflab it all—Tippy had done it again! It was her fault. She was certain of it. She had almost quite definitely snooped. What was worse, she had rushed away, hoping not to get caught. Why should one rush, unless they are horribly nosy?

  Tippy brushed the snout in question, aggravated with herself as she paced, puffing out quick, soft breaths. When the door behind her finally cracked open, she shot straight up, speaking as she spun around.

  “Mr. Mortin—”

  But it was Flasterborn’s glowing cheeks, not Walter’s, that greeted her.

  “Just me, Tippy. Molasses, please.”

  He winked, which would have normally caused her to melt, but she was feeling particularly solid today.

  “Of course. . . . Should I make a cup for Mr. Mortinson as well—before he goes?”

  Flasterborn’s chuckles trailed him as he clipped toward his office.

  “No need, my dear. I’m glad to say that my boy will be staying.”

  Tippy’s head quirked. “For how long?”

  Flasterborn looked back at her, hand on the knob. “Indefinitely.”

  “But he said . . .”

  He bristled, stopping in the doorway. “He said?”

  And Tippy instantly knew she had made a mistake.

  “What did you hear him say, Ms. Tedesco?”

  Tippy stumbled back, stuttering, “I-I don’t—I just—I—”

  He got nose to nose with her—a mere five inches from her face (three and half inches for her nose and one and a half for his)—and flicked her gold listening device, causing it to whine unpleasantly.

  “What did you hear?”

  She stared into his eyes. It was like many dreams she had had, and yet it was so different. For one thing, the vein in Horace’s neck had never bulged this way in her fantasies. But she still hoped beyond hopes that this encounter could end the same way her dreams usually did. This was Flasterborn, for Flaster’s sake! She had to trust him.

  “Everything. I heard everything.” The words spilled out, and though she felt relieved to no longer hold the secret, she found herself quivering.

  He raised an eyebrow and then, to her delight, smiled, pushing himself away. “So then you know.”

  “That he wants to go home.”

  He met her eyes again. “You know that we cannot let him make that mistake.”

  “What choice do we have? He doesn’t want to stay.”

  Flasterborn shook his head. “Oh, don’t be silly. We have everything here for him.”

  “But what about his family?”

  “That woman doesn’t deserve him.”

  “But she’s his mother.”

  “She’s a murderer!” Flasterborn’s head snapped to her, face distorted and maroon. His nostrils flared momentarily before he closed his eyes, calming himself. “Hadorah Mortinson does not deserve Max. She deserves Moormouth.”

  Tippy’s head was pounding, trying to keep up. “And you deserve . . . Walter?”

  She cringed, waiting for the explosion that was certain to come, but instead she heard a laugh. “Of course I do. Have you seen them, Tippy? My elevators and situlas, my ever-burning bulbs? Have you seen what I did? I was the most amazing inventor in the world.”

  Tippy nodded rapidly, remembering who this man—no, legend—really was.

  “But the world hadn’t seen Maxwell yet.”

  Tippy stopped nodding.

  “I created this city from nothing, and the effort of it drained me. I had lost my spark, years of building for nothing. And then a boy appeared who could turn his very dreams into reality. Even if my ideas had become dusty, there were so many more. He gave those sparks to me. All they needed was my name on the side. Now everyone knows them. Everyone was able to have me again, thanks to Maxwell.” Flasterborn shook his head. “Then as quickly as he’d arrived, he disappeared.” His face, as creased as it was, lit up—a child’s again. “But he’s been returned, and now everything will be splendid. And before molasses hour, no less!”

  Something had changed inside Tippy forever. Now when she looked upon Flasterborn, her tummy didn’t flip; it wrenched. “But we can’t make him—”

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. “We must do what’s right.”

  Tippy Tedesco had been working for Horace Flasterborn for precisely thirteen years, zero months, five days, and twelve hours—and right at that moment, she didn’t care to spend a second more with him.

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Oh, I’m so pleased, Tippy. I knew you’d stand behind me. You always do.”

  He shuffled into his office, a skip in his step. Not a second later her earpiece blared, “MOLASSES, PLEASE!”

  Tippy jumped, shaking her ringing ear. Then, with a smile, she realized that she could finally do something wonderful. She plucked the earpiece off and tossed it onto the ground. She didn’t need it anymore. Tippy had something far more important to attend to.

  She then spun on her heel and hurried to the vaselator.

  What she didn’t see was Flasterborn sitting in his desk chair, thinking about an old silver box that he was doomed to never understand.

  • • •

  Walter Mortinson stared at the box. He was careful not to touch it with his bare fingers, for Flasterborn seemed terribly certain he mustn’t.

  It was difficult to maneuver, however, with the fabric in the way. He poked and prodded it, then shook it gently. Nothing. It was just an ordinary silver cube.

  Walter finally set it down. It seemed he was condemned never to understand his father. Maxwell was too brilliant, too mysterious, too remarkable, and Walter was just . . . Walter. It never seemed good enough.

  With a deep sigh from the bottom of his belly, he gazed hopelessly into the metallic surface, only to see his own distorted reflection staring back. His
face looked tired and unusually frowny. Instinctively he swiped his thumb across his reflection in the cube, and for a second he saw something—something rather colorful.

  Had it been only a trick of the light?

  Emboldened, Walter pressed his thumb into the cube’s surface. When he pulled away, the colors lingered for slightly longer.

  Now his heart beat quite fast. This . . . this might be the answer. He might just solve it after all. Walter bit his lip, thinking. Maybe it was a technology activated by fingerprints? He rubbed the back of his hand against one side of the cube, testing it. The colors emerged again and lingered long enough for him to see the faded silhouettes of what appeared to be people.

  So it wasn’t fingerprints, but perhaps warmth? Walter brought the cube up to his face, excited now, and breathed on it in a mighty puff, but nothing happened. Not heat, then.

  With another sigh he thought hard, before making a decision. Maybe it needed your skin and warmth at the same time?

  Looking around the room cautiously, he untucked his shirt and lifted it up as best he could, and placed the cube underneath, close to his chest. In this final effort he wrapped his arms all the way around it, forcing it further into his body in a tight embrace. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing this to work.

  Walter focused on his heartbeat, warming the cube, until its coldness no longer bit at his skin. Finally satisfied, he opened his eyes and saw something most peculiar. From between the gaps in the buttons of his shirt came a bright, shining light.

  Wide-eyed, Walter pulled the box back out. It had been activated. Lit from within, there were flickering pictures of people—happy people.

  He recognized them and gasped. Facing him was a shot of Hadorah and Maxwell kissing. They were young and so very cheerful that he couldn’t quite believe it. He’d never seen Hadorah so happy.

  His eyes tickling, he turned the cube around, taking in the different pictures on each side. They shifted after a few moments to new pictures. All were of Max and Hadorah, working together, going on adventures, testing inventions. Walter flipped to the bottom of the cube, where the photo featured not just Max and Hadorah but Flasterborn as well.