Alistair Grim's Odditorium Read online

  Copyright © 2015 by Gregory Funaro

  Illustrations copyright © 2015 by Vivienne To

  Cover art © 2015 by Su Blackwell

  Cover art photograph © 2015 by Colin Crisford

  Hand lettering by David Coulson

  Designed by Whitney Manger

  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.

  ISBN 978-1-4847-1116-3

  Visit www.DisneyBooks.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One: Grubb with a Double B

  Chapter Two: The Lamb

  Chapter Three: The Boy in the Trunk

  Chapter Four: Good Evening, Mr. Grim

  Chapter Five: A New Friend

  Chapter Six: Pocket Watches Can Be Trouble

  Chapter Seven: The Man in the Goggles

  Chapter Eight: Shadows Fall

  Chapter Nine: Unexpected Guests

  Chapter Ten: The Battle in the Clouds

  Chapter Eleven: A Lesson in Power

  Chapter Twelve: Nigel’s Secret

  Chapter Thirteen: Sirens’ Eggs and Banshees, Please

  Chapter Fourteen: The Wasp Rider

  Chapter Fifteen: Prisoners

  Chapter Sixteen: There Be Dragons

  Chapter Seventeen: In the Court of Nightshade

  Chapter Eighteen: The Tournament

  Chapter Nineteen: The Mirror

  Chapter Twenty: One Last Bit

  Character List

  Glossary of Odditoria

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For Jack Schneider, Grubb’s first fan.

  And for my daughter, who gave me the most

  powerful Odditoria of them all.

  —G.F.

  For my mother,

  who never once made me sweep chimneys

  —V.T.

  From an article in The Times, London. May 23, 18—

  WILLIAM STOUT SENTENCED TO HANG!

  In light of a guilty plea and overwhelming evidence against the accused, the trial of the ruffian William Stout for the murder of Mr. Abel Wortley and his housekeeper, Mrs. Mildred Morse, of Bloomsbury, ended yesterday in the only possible way. The unhappy man was rightly convicted and sentenced to death for as cruel and cold-blooded a deed as was ever committed.

  Readers of the Times will recall that Wortley, an elderly philanthropist and purveyor of antiquities, and Mrs. Morse were brutally struck down last month in a trend of burglaries that have become all too common amongst London high society. Thanks, however, to the steadfast police work of Scotland Yard, William Stout, an acquaintance and sometimes coachman of Wortley’s, was quickly apprehended and charged with the crime. His plea of guilt, conviction, and subsequent execution shall prove, in the opinion of the Times, a shining example of Her Majesty’s judicial system.

  It is also the opinion of the Times that, with more and more villains roaming the streets of London, a little pain and cares on the part of the elderly might in some cases preserve them from such dangers.

  The odd was the ordinary at Alistair Grim’s. The people who lived there were odd. The things they did there were odd. Even the there itself there was odd.

  There, of course, was the Odditorium, which was located back then in London.

  You needn’t bother trying to find the Odditorium on any map. It was only there a short time and has been gone many years now. But back then, even a stranger like you would have had no trouble finding it. Just ask a bloke in the street, and no doubt he’d point you in the right direction. For back then, there wasn’t a soul in London who hadn’t heard of Alistair Grim’s Odditorium.

  On the other hand, if you were too timid to ask for directions, you could just walk around until you came upon a black, roundish building that resembled a fat spider with its legs tucked up against its sides. Or if that didn’t work, you could try looking for the Odditorium’s four tall chimneys poking up above the rooftops—just keep an eye on them, mind your step, and you’d get there sooner or later.

  Upon your arrival at the Odditorium, the first thing you’d notice was its balcony, on top of which stood an enormous organ—its pipes twisting and stretching all the way up the front of the building like dozens of hollow-steel tree roots. That’s an odd place for a pipe organ, you might remark. But then again, such oddities were ordinary at Alistair Grim’s. And what the Odditorium looked like on the outside was nothing compared to what it looked like on the inside.

  You’ll have to take my word on that for now.

  And who am I that you should do so? Why, I’m Grubb, of course. That’s right, no first or last name, just Grubb. Spelled like the worm but with a double b, in case you plan on writing it down someday. I was Mr. Grim’s apprentice—the boy who caused all the trouble.

  You see, I was only twelve or thereabouts when I arrived at the Odditorium. I say “thereabouts” because I didn’t know exactly how old I was back then. Mrs. Pinch said I looked “twelve or thereabouts,” and, her being Mrs. Pinch, I wasn’t about to quarrel with her.

  Mrs. Pinch was Mr. Grim’s housekeeper, and I’m afraid she didn’t like me very much at first. Oftentimes I’d meet her in the halls and say, “Good day, Mrs. Pinch,” but the old woman would only stare down at me over her spectacles and say, “Humph,” as she passed.

  That said, I suppose I can’t blame her for not liking me back then. After all, it was Mrs. Pinch who found me in the trunk.

  Good heavens! There I go getting ahead of myself. I suppose if I’m going to tell you about all that trunk business, I should back up even further and begin my story with Mr. Smears. Come to think of it, had it not been for Mr. Smears taking me in all those years ago, I wouldn’t have a story to tell you.

  All right then: Mr. Smears.

  I don’t remember my parents, or how I came to live with Mr. Smears, only that at some point the hulking, grumbling man with the scar on his cheek entered my memories as if he’d always been there.

  Mr. Smears was a chimney sweep by trade, and oftentimes when he’d return to our small, North Country cottage, his face was so black with soot that only his eyeballs showed below his hat. The scar on his cheek ran from the corner of his mouth to the lobe of his left ear, but the soot never stuck to it. And when I was little, I used to think his face looked like a big black egg with a crack in it.

  His wife, on the other hand, was quite pleasant, and my memories of her consist mainly of smiles and kisses and stories told especially for me. All of Mrs. Smears’s stories were about Gwendolyn, the Yellow Fairy, whom she said lived in the Black Forest on the outskirts of town. The Yellow Fairy loved and protected children, but hated grown-ups, and her stories always involved some bloke or another who was trying to steal her magic flying dust. But the Yellow Fairy always tricked those blokes, and in the end would gobble them up—“Chomp, chomp!” as Mrs. Smears would say.

  Mrs. Smears was a frail woman with skin the color of goat’s milk, but her cheeks would flush and her eyes would twinkle when she spoke of the Yellow Fairy. Then she would kiss me good night and whisper, “Thank you, Miss Gwendolyn.”

  You see, it was Mrs. Smears who found me on the doorstep, and after she made such a fuss about the Yellow Fairy, her husband reluctantly agreed to take me in.

  “He looks like a grub,” said Mr. Smears—or so his wife told me. “All
swaddled up tight in his blanket like that. A little grubworm is what he is.”

  “Well then, that’s what we’ll call him,” Mrs. Smears replied. “Grub, but with a double b.”

  “A double b?” asked Mr. Smears. “Why a double b?”

  “The extra b stands for blessing, for surely this boy is a blessing bestowed upon us by the Yellow Fairy.”

  “Watch your tongue, woman,” Mr. Smears whispered, frightened. “It’s bad luck to speak of her, especially when the moon is full.”

  “It’s even worse luck to refuse a gift from her,” replied Mrs. Smears. “So shut your trap and make room for him by the fire.”

  “Bah,” said Mr. Smears, but he did as his wife told him.

  Mr. and Mrs. Smears had no children of their own—an unfortunate circumstance that Mr. Smears often complained about at supper when I was old enough to understand such things.

  “That grub ain’t free, Grubb,” Mr. Smears would say, scratching his scar. “You best remember the only reason I agreed to take you in is because the wife said you’d make a good apprentice someday. And since we got no other grubs squirming about, I suggest you be quick about getting older, or you’ll find yourself picking oakum in the workhouse.”

  “Shut your trap,” Mrs. Smears would say. “He’ll find himself doing no such thing.”

  Upon which her husband would just shake his head and say:

  “Bah!”

  Mrs. Smears was the only person I ever saw get away with talking to Mr. Smears like that, but she died when I was six or thereabouts. I never had the courage to ask Mr. Smears what from, but I remember how old I was because Mr. Smears was very upset.

  After the funeral, he knocked me down on the cottage floor and growled:

  “Six years of feeding and clothing you, and what have I got to show for it? A dead wife in the ground and a useless worm what ain’t fit for nothing but the workhouse!”

  The workhouse was a black, brooding building located near the coal mines on the south edge of town. It had tall iron gates that were always locked and too many windows for me to count. Worst of all were the stories Mr. Smears used to tell about the children who worked there—how they were often beaten, how they had no playtime and very little to eat. Needless to say, I didn’t have to be told much else to know that the workhouse was a place from which I wanted to stay as far away as possible.

  “Oh please don’t send me to the workhouse!” I cried. “I’ll make you a good apprentice. I swear it, Mr. Smears!”

  “Bah!” was all he said, and knocked me down again. Then he threw himself on his bed and began sobbing into his shirtsleeves.

  I picked myself up and, remembering how gentle he was around his wife, poured him a beer from the cupboard as I’d seen Mrs. Smears do a thousand times.

  “Don’t cry, Mr. Smears,” I said, offering him the mug.

  Mr. Smears looked up at me sideways, his eyes red and narrow. And after a moment he sniffled, took the mug, and gulped it down. He motioned for me to pour him another and then gulped that one down too. And after he’d gulped down yet a third, he dragged his shirtsleeve across his mouth and said:

  “All right, then, Grubb. I suppose you’re old enough now. But mind you carry your weight, or so help me it’s off to the workhouse with you!”

  And so I carried my weight for Mr. Smears—up and down the chimneys, that is. Mr. Smears called me his “chummy” and told everyone I was his apprentice, but all he was good for was sitting down below and barking orders up to me. Sometimes he’d sweep the soot into bags, but most often he left that part of the job for me to do too.

  I have to admit that all that climbing in the dark was scary work at first. The flues were so narrow and everything was pitch-black—save for the little squares of light at the top and bottom. And sometimes the chimneys were so high and crooked that I lost sight of those lights altogether. It was difficult to breathe, and the climbing was very painful until my knees and elbows toughened up.

  Eventually, however, I became quite the expert chummy. But sometimes when we arrived back at the cottage, Mr. Smears would knock me down and say:

  “Job well done, Grubb.”

  “Well done, you say? Then why’d you knock me down, Mr. Smears?”

  “So you’ll remember what’s what when a job ain’t well done!”

  There were lots of chimneys in our town for me to sweep back then, and I always did my best, but life with Mr. Smears was hard, and many times I went to bed hungry because, according to Mr. Smears, it wasn’t sensible to feed me.

  “After all,” he’d say, “what good’s a grub what’s too fat to fit in his hole?”

  Oftentimes I’d lie awake at night, praying for the Yellow Fairy to take me away. “Please, Miss Gwendolyn,” I’d whisper in the dark. “If only you’d leave me a little dust, just enough to sprinkle on my head so I can fly away, I’d be forever grateful.”

  Mr. Smears made me sleep in the back of the cart in the stable. I was too dirty to be let inside the cottage, he said, and what use was there washing me when I would only get dirty again tomorrow? There was a small stove in the stable for Old Joe, Mr. Smears’s donkey, but on some of the chillier nights, when Mr. Smears neglected to give us enough coal, Old Joe and I would sleep huddled together in his stall.

  Of course, many times over the years I thought about running off, but if I did run, where would I run to? I’d only ever been as far as the country manors on jobs with Mr. Smears, and since I knew no trade other than chimney sweeping, what was left for me besides the workhouse?

  I suppose things weren’t all bad. Every third Saturday Mr. Smears would allow me to wash at the public pump and sleep on the floor in the cottage. The following Sunday we’d dress in our proper clothes and attend service like proper folk. After that, we’d stop in the churchyard to pay our respects to Mrs. Smears. Sometimes Mr. Smears would sniffle a bit, but I would pretend not to notice so as not to catch a beating. Then we’d arrive back at the cottage, whereupon I’d pour him some beer and keep his mug full until he was pleasant enough to allow me outside to play.

  For six years or so things went on that way, until one day I blundered into a stranger who changed my life forever. Indeed, we chimney sweeps have a saying that goes, “A blunder in the gloom leads a lad to daylight or to doom.”

  I just never expected to find either inside a lamb.

  On a cool autumn Sunday when I was twelve or thereabouts, Mr. Smears and I returned from the churchyard to find a note pinned to the cottage door.

  “What’s this?” Mr. Smears grumbled. He tore off the note and opened it. “Well, well, well,” he said, scratching his scar. “A bit of pretty luck this is, Grubb.”

  Mr. Smears couldn’t read, so I was surprised he understood the note until he handed it to me. “You know what this means?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, my heart sinking.

  On the piece of paper was a drawing of a lamb inside a square. This, I knew, stood for the sign at the Lamb’s Inn. Next to the lamb was a crude drawing of a sun and an arrow pointing upward. This meant that Mr. Smears and I were to report to the Lamb’s Inn at sunrise the following morning.

  “Ha!” said Mr. Smears, smacking me on the back. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us, Grubb. But also a handsome profit if we play it right.”

  What Mr. Smears really meant was that I had my work cut out for me. I’d worked the Lamb’s Inn before, and not only did I know there were lots of chimneys to be swept, I also knew that Mr. Smears would spend most of the day drinking up his wages in the tavern with the inn’s proprietor, Mr. Crumbsby.

  Mr. Crumbsby was a round man with a bald head and thick, red whiskers below his ears. He had a jolly, friendly air about him, but I knew him to be a liar and cheat, and at the end of the day he would waffle on about how much of Mr. Smears’s drink was to be deducted from his wages. Then he would trick Mr. Smears into thinking that he was actually getting the better of him.

  That’s not what bothere
d me, however, for no matter how many chimneys I swept, my wages were always the same—a half plate of food and a swig of beer, if I was lucky. No, what sent my heart sinking was the thought of Mr. Crumbsby’s twins, Tom and Terrance.

  The Crumbsby twins were the same age as me, but they were fat, redheaded devils like their father, and together their weight added up to one sizable brawler. I’d had my share of run-ins with them over the years, and the bruises to show for it, but most of the time Tom and Terrance were much too slow to ever catch me.

  And so the next morning, Mr. Smears and I set out for the Lamb’s Inn just before daybreak—me in the back of the cart with the empty soot bags and brushes, Mr. Smears up front in the driver’s seat handling Old Joe. It was only a short distance through the center of town, over the bridge, and up the High Road. And when next I poked my head out from the cart, I spied the outline of the Lamb up ahead of us in the gloom.

  Whitewashed, with a stone wall that ran around the entire property, the Lamb’s Inn cut an imposing presence against the thick North Country forests that spread out behind it. The inn stood three stories high and rambled out in every direction just as wide. A hanging sign out front bore a lamb, while coach-and-horse signs at each end advertised its stables.

  The inn itself was said to be over two hundred years old, but it had burned down and been rebuilt a few times with more and more rooms. I only mention this because that meant the flues had been rebuilt too, resulting in a confusing maze of narrow passages that twisted and turned into one another so randomly that even an expert chummy like myself could get lost up there in the dark.

  Indeed, I had just begun to imagine the grueling day ahead of me, when all of a sudden, farther up the road, a shadowy figure stepped out from the trees. It appeared to be a man in a long black cloak, but before I could get a good look at him, he dashed across the road and disappeared behind the Lamb’s stone wall.

  Nevertheless, with my heart pounding, I waited for Mr. Smears to say something. Surely, I thought, he must have seen the man too. But Mr. Smears mentioned nothing about it, and as he steered Old Joe for the Lamb’s stables, I dismissed the black-cloaked figure as a trick of the early morning shadows.