Alistair Grim's Odd Aquaticum
Read Alistair Grim's Odd Aquaticum Online
Authors: Greg Funaro
Copyright © 2016 by Gregory Funaro
Illustrations copyright © 2016 by Vivienne To
All rights reserved. Published by Disney•Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney•Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.
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— One —
The Sorcerer’s Apprentice
— Five —
Dreams, Asleep and Waking
— Eleven —
The Guardian at the Gates
— Twelve —
A Watch of a Different Color
— Fourteen —
An Unexpected Reunion
— Fifteen —
The Writing on the Wall
— Sixteen —
The Return of the Black Knight
— Seventeen —
A Resurrection of Sorts
— Eighteen —
On the River Thames
— Twenty —
Odditoria That’s Given Back
Again, for my daughter
—G.F.
For Ben, who explored the old streets of London with me
—V.T.
From an article in
The Times
, London. October 25, 18—
ALISTAIR GRIM WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE!
In light of the now notorious events in Bloomsbury, The Times has learned that, in response to numerous lawsuits, all liquid assets and material holdings belonging to Mr. Alistair Grim have been ordered seized by the Magistrate’s Court and are to be sold at private auction. Although this information seems to corroborate earlier reports that Mr. Grim fled London to evade his creditors, it is the opinion of The Times that, unless the unhappy man and his Odditorium are found, all interested parties will have little to show for their efforts.
Readers of The Times will recall how Alistair Grim—inventor, fortune hunter, and, some say, mad sorcerer—and his long-time associate Lord Dreary partnered with various investors to transform Grim’s Antiquities Shop into the aptly named Odditorium: a flying house of mechanical wonders billed as the most spectacular attraction on the planet. After more than five years of construction and countless delays, the Odditorium gave its first public presentation three weeks ago, upon which Grim and his mechanical marvel vanished amidst what can only be described as the most bizarre spectacle our beloved city has ever seen.
Readers of The Times are by now familiar with the numerous eyewitness accounts of how, after an unprecedented demonstration of technical prowess, the much-anticipated preview of Alistair Grim’s Odditorium quickly devolved into bedlam. Spectators not only reported seeing a trio of purple-eyed street urchins with superhuman strength, but also a giant, black-winged demon and a flying cavalry of skeleton soldiers—all of which were said to have attacked the Odditorium before its mysterious mid-flight disappearance over the English countryside.
Although these events lend credence to Mr. Grim’s reputation as a sorcerer, renowned Cambridge University scholar and Regius Professor of Modern History Oscar Bricklewick believes he has a more scientific explanation. “The only sorcery here is a bit of high-tech flimflam,” Bricklewick said upon inquiry from The Times. “Judging from the eyewitness reports of a sparkling green mist emanating from the Odditorium as it took flight, it is clear that Mr. Grim unleashed upon the public a powerful hallucinogenic gas, thus creating both mass hysteria and the perfect cover for his escape.”
Indeed, it is the opinion of The Times that, if Professor Bricklewick’s hypothesis is correct, it is nothing short of a miracle that no deaths were reported in the wake of Mr. Grim’s escape. However, in light of this blatant disregard for the welfare of his fellow man, Scotland Yard has assembled a special task force charged with capturing Alistair Grim, dead or alive.
It is also the opinion of The Times that, with debtors’ prisons bursting at the seams, it is inevitable that a few misguided souls will take extreme measures to avoid their financial obligations. However, should one of them possess the criminal genius of an Alistair Grim, Londoners can only hope that he shall refrain from the sort of havoc that the aforementioned has wreaked upon our fair city.
G
o ahead,” Father said, and he passed me the Black Mirror.
The handle was warm to the touch, and I could barely make out my reflection in the mirror’s polished black glass. My eyes narrowed and my lips pressed together tightly. This was not the first time I’d gazed upon this strange black mirror. But unlike on previous occasions, I now knew what to say.
“There’s nothing to fear,” Father said. “All you have to do is ask.”
I swallowed hard. “Show me my mother,” I said, and the glass burst to life in a swirl of sparkling colors. I gaped in disbelief, my heart hammering as the colors began to churn faster and faster. The mirror flashed, and in its glass appeared the face of a woman weeping. I recognized her from the portrait in the parlor.
Elizabeth O’Grady, the Lady in Black.
“I’m sorry, my love,”
she said, her voice hollow and distorted. She turned as if something caught her attention, and then her image dissolved and the glass went dark again. A heavy silence hung about the room.
“There, you see?” Father said finally. “Among other things, the Black Mirror is capable of holding the last reflection of anyone who gazes into it, words and all.”
“So that’s how you knew,” I said in amazement. “Because I’d looked into the mirror before, you saw my reflection when you asked to see your son.”
“An excellent deduction, my young apprentice.” Father took the mirror and slipped it into a wooden case upon the desk. It was nighttime, and yet, in the soft blue glow of the library’s lamplight, I could see his eyes had grown misty.
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Grim—”
“Father,”
he said gently. It had been nearly a month since I learned that the man sitting across the desk from me was my father. But still, I hadn’t gotten used to saying it out loud.
“Begging your pardon—Father—but how did you come by this mirror?”
“It was a gift from Elizabeth O’Grady upon our engagement. Legend has it one of her ancestors stole the Black Mirror from a sorceress, after which it was handed down in her family for generations. What you saw was your mother’s last message to me before she died.”
A long silence passed between us. “I wish I’d known her,” I said finally.
“I wish you had too,” Father said.
I stared down at my shoes. There were still so many questions I wanted to ask, but Father was not the sort to talk about such things. Besides, we were on an adventure. And when one is on an adventure, there is little time to get gobby-eyed about the past.
“Now, on to more pressing matters,” Father said, “the first of which is preparing you to inherit the Odditorium.” He pointed to the notebook of spells on the desk before me. “Let’s hear it, then.”
“Sumer…te…sulumor,” I read aloud, slowly, and Father snapped his fingers.
“The correct pronunciation is
suh-meer teh suh-loo-mahr
. It’s ‘Romulus et Remus’ in Latin, spelled backward.”
“Of course!” I exclaimed, the light dawning, and I uttered the spell again, this time properly.
Father nodded, then crossed to the hearth and pressed a secret button on the mantel. Above it, a large lion’s head with glowing red eyes swung open to reveal a hidden compartment in the wall. At the center of the compartment was a small crystal conductor sphere with a tangle of pipes branching out from it in every direction. And inside the sphere floated the light source for the lion’s eyes: a fiery glass ball called the Eye of Mars.
Standing on his tippy toes, Father opened the conductor sphere’s porthole and removed the Eye.
“There are essentially two types of magical objects in this world,” he said. “Ones that are activated by simple physical actions or verbal commands, such as the Black Mirror; and ones that can be activated only by the precise utterance of a magic spell, such as the Eye of Mars.”
Father waved his hand over the glowing red ball. “Sumer te sulumor,” he said, and the light went out. I’d seen him do this dozens of times, and yet the simple act of turning the Eye of Mars on and off never ceased to amaze me.
“Go ahead, lad,” Father said, passing it to me. I swallowed hard and waved my hand over the Eye.
“Sumer…te…sulumor,” I said—but nothing happened.
“Try it again. A magical spell is only as strong as the belief of the person who utters it.”
I took a deep breath. “Sumer te sulumor,” I said with conviction, and the Eye of Mars ignited, its red glow warm in my hands.
“I done it, sir!” I cried, and Father mussed my hair.
“That you
did
. Now do it a hundred times more and we’ll move on.”
“Cor blimey, sir! A hundred times?”
“Consistency is everything in sorcery. Whining is not. Thus, if you wish to inherit the Odditorium someday, I suggest you carry on with your lesson.”
Father winked and, raking his fingers back through his long black hair, stepped out through the library’s wide-open archway and onto the balcony.
“Sumer te sulumor,” I said with a wave of my hand. And as the Eye of Mars went dim again, Father sat down at his pipe organ and began to play. I could barely see him out there in the dark—his long, slender back just a smudge of shadow against the starless sky. And yet the tune he played—“Ode to Joy,” I believe it was called—was so festive and cheerful, I could tell how proud of me he was just the same.
