Alistair Grim's Odditorium

by Gregory Funaro

  “And did William agree to Mr. Grim’s terms?”

  Nigel grew silent. And looking back, I suppose I should’ve put it all together much sooner. But only when he lifted his goggles and stared at me with his animus-filled eyes did the nub of Nigel’s story finally hit home.

  “You!” I cried. “You’re William Stout!”

  “That’s right, Grubb. And as I’m sure you’ve guessed, there never was a brother Nigel. Nigel was the name I took after Mr. Grim brought me back from the dead. Played the role of William’s twin, I did, so as to keep the terms of my bargain.”

  Nigel replaced his goggles, and a long silence passed in which his secret gradually sank in. A million questions raced through my mind at once, and as I searched among them for the proper one to ask, for some reason I settled on perhaps the silliest question of them all.

  “So if you were brought back from the dead,” I said, “does that mean you’re a Shadesman, too, Nigel?”

  The big man laughed heartily. “Don’t worry, Grubb,” he said. “Unlike those bone bags, people what’s been brought back with the animus wind up much as they were in life—except for their bright blue peepers, of course. In fact, Mr. Grim says the animus is the closest one can get to the scientific recreation of the human soul.”

  “Cor blimey,” I said. “But, Nigel, if you’re really William Stout, that means that Maggie—”

  “Is really my daughter.”

  Nigel’s words stopped me cold, for despite everything I’d learned about him that day, I never imagined my new friend might have a child.

  “So you see, Grubb?” he said after moment. “When I’m looking sad, it’s because I’m missing Maggie.”

  “Have you seen her since…well…since you came back from the dead?”

  “Only from a distance. Mr. Grim sometimes sends Mrs. Pinch to the country with gifts for her, and I hang back in the coach hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t, but I send out the bats nearly every night to check up on her. The judge was true to his word, Grubb, and Maggie’s been growing up quite happy. There’s comfort for me in that.”

  “But, Nigel, if everyone thinks you’re William’s brother, wouldn’t Maggie think so too? I mean, couldn’t you visit her in the country as her Uncle Nigel?”

  “Being that everyone fancies me the brother of a murderer, her new family thinks it best she not associate with my sort. Besides,” Nigel added, pointing to his goggles, “what sort am I, anyway? Not alive, not dead, but a freak in between what can’t even look at his daughter with his own eyes.”

  I swallowed hard, unsure of what to say.

  “No,” he said firmly. “It’s best for everyone if things stay as they are now. At least until Abel Wortley’s murderer is brought to justice. Who knows? Now that Prince Nightshade has finally reared his ugly head, we might end up killing two birds with one stone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s entirely possible that the first time the prince got to his Odditoria before Mr. Grim was ten years ago at Abel Wortley’s. Meaning, Abel Wortley’s killer and Prince Nightshade might be the same person.”

  Cor! I was about to exclaim, when something occurred to me. “I saw Judge Hurst with the Black Fairy!”

  “What?”

  “When the Black Fairy attacked, he snatched up the judge and carried him off. Not long afterward Prince Nightshade appeared from the clouds.”

  “Hm,” Nigel said, thinking. “An intriguing turn of events. Especially since Mr. Grim could never prove that Judge Hurst framed me. Then again, after seeing this Prince Nightshade for the first time today, I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  Presently, McClintock began rustling in his pocket, and as Nigel made to take him out I cried, “Don’t, Nigel! The doom dogs will come after us again!”

  “No need to worry about them,” Nigel said. “The Odditorium’s magic paint is powerful enough to protect us even up here.”

  “What time is it?” Mack asked as Nigel opened him. But as soon as he caught sight of those big goggles staring down at him, Mack let out a terrified, “Ach!”

  He crackled and flashed, gave a quick tick-tick, and then his eyes went dim.

  “Don’t try that on me,” Nigel said. “I know your fizzling-out routine all too well, you coward!”

  “Coward?” Mack cried, lighting up immediately. “You calling the chief of the Chronometrical Clan McClintock a coward?”

  “Just as I thought. Playing possum again! Why, I’ve got a good mind to toss you off the roof and be done with you!”

  “Well, if yer gonna scrap me, then yer gonna have to fight for it!”

  Mack leaped for Nigel’s nose—“McClintock!” he cried—but Nigel caught him just in time. “Let me go!” Mack shouted, and Nigel made to tap him on his XII.

  “Don’t!” I cried.

  Nigel and Mack stopped their scuffling and turned to me.

  “There’s no sense in fighting about it now,” I said. “After all, it was I who accidentally brought Mack outside. So I suppose if you’re going to toss him off the roof, you’ll have to do the same with me, Nigel.”

  “Hang on,” Mack said, spinning round. “What are we doin’ on the roof?”

  “A lot has happened since you got pinched, Mack,” I said. “Nevertheless, I should think it more sensible for Odditoria to stick together rather than fighting all the time. Especially now that Prince Nightshade is after us.”

  “Prince Nightshade?” Mack asked. “What’s a Prince Nightshade?”

  “I’ll explain it to you later. But what do you say, Nigel? Do you think you and Mack can be friends?”

  “Grubb’s right,” Nigel said, sighing. “We Odditoria have to stick together. Sorry I said I was going to scrap you, Mack. You know I’d never go through with it.”

  “And I’m sorry I tried to bite yer nose,” Mack said. “Especially since you know I would go through with it.”

  Nigel laughed. “Gentlemen’s shake on it, then,” he said, wobbling Mack’s case.

  “Odditoria and friends to the end,” Mack said.

  “Right-o,” Nigel said, and then he extended his hand to me. “You too, Grubb.”

  “Me?”

  “Of course,” Mack interjected. “Yer Odditoria and a friend, ain’t ya?”

  “A friend, yes, but—”

  “Then stop yer jabberin’ and put it there, laddie!”

  Mack wobbled his case, and rather than arguing with him about being Odditoria, I shook Nigel’s hand and Mack’s case at the same time.

  “Friends to the end, lads!” Mack cheered.

  “Friends to the end!” Nigel and I repeated.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something flash on the far side of the roof. “Look!” I said, pointing.

  “One of my bats come back already?” Nigel asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, searching. All I could see now was the toothy outline of the Odditorium’s battlements against the twilight skies. And for a moment I thought my eyes had been playing tricks on me, but then—

  “There!” I said as the light flashed again. “Did you see it?”

  “Yes, I did!” Nigel said, scrambling to his feet. “Looks like it’s coming from the other side of the battlements. Come on!”

  The three of us dashed across the roof, and the light flashed again.

  “I see it now too!” Mack exclaimed. And upon reaching the opposite battlement, Nigel leaned out over the side of the Odditorium.

  “Oh dear,” he said.

  “What is it?” Mack and I asked.

  Nigel didn’t answer right away, but the look of terror on his face told me we were in big trouble just the same.

  “We’ve got to find Mr. Grim,” he said finally.

  And then we ran for the gunnery.

  What is it?” asked Lord Dreary, out of breath. “An explosive of some sort?”

  Fortunately there was enough animus left in the Odditorium’s reserv
es to power the talkbacks, so all Nigel had to do to summon Mr. Grim was hop down into the gunnery. Nigel reached him in the engine room with Lord Dreary, and when the gentlemen arrived on the roof moments later, I could tell by the old man’s disposition that his introduction to Gwendolyn had done little to ease his bewilderment.

  “Not an explosive, old friend,” said Mr. Grim, peering over the battlements. “No, judging from its shape and size, I would suspect that the object down there is some sort of tracking mechanism.”

  “A tracking mechanism?” asked Lord Dreary.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Grim, turning around. He leaned with his back against the battlements and folded his arms. “Have a look for yourself.”

  Lord Dreary did so, his face flickering red as the mysterious object flashed again beneath him. “Great poppycock!”

  “One of the prince’s Shadesmen, no doubt,” said Mr. Grim. “Must have attached it before I activated the Odditorium’s levitation shields.”

  “It looks like a giant serpent’s egg.”

  “A Siren’s egg, to be precise.”

  “A Siren, did you say?”

  “Yes. Those beautiful but dangerous sea witches whose songs lured ancient sailors to their deaths. The prince must have convinced one or more of them to join his evil menagerie of living Odditoria.”

  “Good heavens! You really think one of those singing sea witches could have allied herself with the prince?”

  “I shall have to enter a sketch of the creature in my notebook,” said Mr. Grim, thinking. “Nevertheless, if a Siren has the power to lure, Prince Nightshade has no doubt discovered a magical means by which to fashion a tracking mechanism out of her eggs—a tracking mechanism that will lure him straight to us!”

  “But, Alistair!” cried Lord Dreary. “If the Siren’s egg is luring Prince Nightshade to the Odditorium, then surely it is only a matter of time before—”

  “Time!” Mr. Grim exclaimed. “What time do you have, Lord Dreary?”

  “Why—I—” he sputtered, removing his pocket watch from his waistcoat. “Hang on. Having a hard go seeing in this light…”

  Without thinking, I held up Mack to assist him, and as soon as his blue light illuminated Lord Dreary’s pocket watch, Mack twirled his hands to ten and twelve.

  “It’s ten o’clock!” he cried, spinning round in my hand and jumping for joy. “Look at me, laddies! I know what time it is! Just ask me! Why, it’s ten o’clock! It’s ten o’—tick—tick—”

  Mack crackled and flashed blue, and then his eyes went dark and his hands spun back to VIII and IV.

  “Good heavens!” gasped Lord Dreary. “Is that the pocket watch that caused all the trouble?”

  “Never mind that,” said Mr. Grim, gazing out over the battlements. “Does it look like ten o’clock in the evening out there to you, Lord Dreary?”

  “Well, I—judging from the position of the sun, the time of year, I would say it’s closer to six o’clock.”

  “Precisely. Therefore, if your watch reads ten o’clock London time, we cannot be in the London time zone.”

  “Remarkable!” said Lord Dreary. “The space jump instantly transported us to a place four hours behind London time!”

  “And yet seven hours have gone by on your watch.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you’ll recall, we left London shortly after the preview began at three o’clock. That means seven hours have gone by on your watch—three o’clock plus seven hours makes ten o’clock. However, by my calculations, only two hours have passed since we popped out of the sky wherever we are now.”

  “You’re right,” said Lord Dreary, thinking. “And if only two hours have passed, regardless of wherever we are now, my watch should read five o’clock. Three o’clock plus two hours makes five o’clock.”

  “That is correct,” said Mr. Grim. “But since your watch reads ten o’clock—”

  “We’ve lost five hours!” I cried, and both Mr. Grim and Lord Dreary started as if they had forgotten I was there.

  “Very good, Master Grubb,” said Mr. Grim. “That would explain the power drain. Not only did the force of the space jump knock out nearly all of the Odditorium’s animus, it also knocked out all of us for five hours!”

  “Good heavens!” cried Lord Dreary.

  “I should have realized this immediately,” said Mr. Grim, thinking. “Everybody’s heads had gone all loopy. But blast it! I didn’t think to check the time!”

  “But, Alistair, regardless of whether or not we were unconscious for five hours, how could a hole in the sky instantly transport us so far from London?”

  “How should I know?” cried Mr. Grim. “I’m a sorcerer, not a physicist!”

  “Yes, well—”

  “Nevertheless,” said Mr. Grim. “I now realize that the strain of a space jump is much greater than I anticipated. This is something I will have to account for if we are to ever try it again.”

  “But, Alistair,” gasped Lord Dreary, panicking. “If you add on two hours to the five we were asleep, that means that—”

  “Prince Nightshade has been tracking us for seven hours!”

  “Oh dear,” Nigel said.

  Mr. Grim rushed across the roof and jumped down into the gunnery. He flicked on the talkback and shouted, “Cleona, are you awake?”

  “I am now,” Cleona yawned. “What is it, Uncle?”

  “Sorry to disturb you, but you need to come up to the roof immediately!”

  “Is this a trick? Payback for scribbling on your paintings?”

  “I’ve already hidden your comb in retaliation for that,” said Mr. Grim. “Thus, as far as I’m concerned, we are even until the paintings are clean again.”

  “Pshaw.”

  “Now, please, Cleona. I need you up here on the roof immediately. It truly is a matter of life and death.”

  “No tricks?”

  “On my honor, Cleona.”

  “All right, Uncle.”

  Mr. Grim scrambled up from the gunnery and back to the battlements.

  “Uncle?” said Lord Dreary. “Did I just hear that girl call you Uncle?”

  “I’m afraid you did.”

  “But who on earth could possibly call you Uncle? You’re an only child!”

  Mr. Grim was about to answer, but was stopped short by the glowing blue figure of a girl rising up through the roof.

  “Here I am,” she said.

  Lord Dreary spun around and gasped.

  The girl appeared to be a bit older than me, with delicate features wrapped in skin the color of ivory. Her hair was white and fell from her head in a pair of long braids that reached her knees. She wore a simple white gown cinched at the waist, and on the hem and neckline was a square maze pattern that glowed bright blue like the halo of light surrounding her.

  “Over here,” said Mr. Grim, indicating the battlements. And as the girl glided past me, I noticed that I could see straight through her to Lord Dreary on the other side.

  Lord Dreary must have seen me through her too. And as the girl floated up and peered out over the battlements, the old man staggered back and cried: “A ghost!”

  “I beg your pardon,” said the girl, turning round in midair. “I should think a gentleman of your breeding would know better than to go around calling people names, Lord Dreary.”

  “You—you know me, miss?” the old man sputtered.

  “Only by sight, of course. But I must admit, I’ve found your constant bickering with Uncle over the years quite amusing.”

  “My apologies,” said Mr. Grim. “I forgot the two of you have yet to be introduced. Cleona, meet Lord Dreary. Lord Dreary, this is Cleona.”

  “A pleasure to officially make your acquaintance,” Cleona said. “I hope I didn’t startle you, Lord Dreary. After all, now that you know the true nature of the Odditorium, I no longer thought it necessary to hide myself.”

  “Hide yourself?” asked Lord Dreary, stunned.

  “What Cleona is referring to,�
�� said Mr. Grim, “is her annoying habit of making herself invisible in order to eavesdrop on our conversations in the library.”

  “You mean like this?” Cleona said, and she vanished into thin air.

  “Good heavens!” cried Lord Dreary, and Mr. Grim rolled his eyes.

  “Darling, please, we don’t have time for this,” he said, but Cleona only giggled, seemingly from nowhere. “You see?” said Mr. Grim, exasperated. “This is what I get for indulging her eccentricities over the years. Case in point: her fixation on calling me Uncle when she knows very well that I am no such relation. This has been going on for—well, what’s it been, now, Nigel, ten years?”

  “Twelve,” he said. “I’ve been here ten myself, sir.”

  “Anyhow, if there’s one thing I’ve learned since Cleona’s arrival, the only way to neutralize a spirit’s mischievous nature is to beat them at their own game.”

  “Did you say spirit, Alistair Grim?”

  “That I did. And like most spirits, Cleona is very fond of playing tricks on people. For instance, drawing mustaches and writing nasty comments on my family portraits.”

  Again, Cleona giggled from nowhere.

  “So you see,” said Mr. Grim, “in order to beat Cleona at her own game, I’ve hidden her comb and will only reveal its whereabouts when the portraits are clean. And speaking of games, Cleona, as we now have an evil necromancer on our tail, I humbly request that you end this game of hide-and-seek at once.”

  “Pshaw,” she said, and appeared again where I last saw her, hovering just above the battlements between Mr. Grim and Lord Dreary.

  “Then she is a ghost!” cried Lord Dreary.

  “Not a ghost, but a banshee.”

  “A banshee?”

  “Yes, Lord Dreary,” Mr. Grim said impatiently. “You’re familiar with the old Irish legends regarding such entities?”

  “Yes, well, if I remember correctly, a banshee is said to be a harbinger of death, is she not? Known for her excessive wailing just before someone is about to die?”

  “Just before or just afterward. In addition, banshees often attach themselves to a specific family, and are thus seen as messengers from the beyond—a bridge, if you will, between our world and the Land of the Dead. However, when not in mourning, banshees are actually quite playful. Now, if there are no more questions, I’d like to move on to the matter at hand.”