The Magic Factory

Oliver noticed a very thin, straight yellow line running across the floor. Not paint, but light. A shard of light. Well, Oliver knew that a shard of light needed a source, and so he hurried to it, following it like it was a trail of breadcrumbs. It ran all the way up to a solid brick wall.

How bizarre, Oliver thought as he stopped and pressed his fingers against the wall. Light isn’t supposed to travel through objects.

He fumbled around in the dim light, trying to work out how light could pass through a solid object. Then suddenly his hand touched something different. A handle?

Oliver felt a sudden surge of hope strike him. He heaved the handle and jumped back as a huge creaking noise sounded out.

The ground shook. Oliver wobbled, attempting to stay upright as the very ground moved beneath his feet.

He was turning. Not just him, but the wall too. It must have been built on a turntable! And as it turned, a huge shard of golden light burst out.

Oliver blinked in the sudden, blinding brightness. His legs felt unsteady beneath him from the motion of the turning floor.

Then, no sooner had it started than the movement stopped. There was a click as the wall found its new position. Oliver staggered, this time from the sudden deceleration.

He looked about him and was stunned by what he saw. He was now standing in a whole new wing of the factory. It was filled with incredible, fantastical inventions! Not the cobwebbed, creaking, rusted relics from the warehouse before, but instead, floor to ceiling, as far as the eye could see, stood bright, gleaming, new, ginormous machines.

Oliver couldn’t help himself. Filled with excitement, he ran up to the first machine. It had a moveable arm that spun right over his head. He ducked just in time, and saw the hand on the end of the arm deposit a boiled egg into an egg cup. Just beside it, two disembodied automaton hands bounced along the keys of a piano, while beside them a very large brass clockwork metronome ticked out the beat.

He was so preoccupied and delighted by the inventions around him, Oliver didn’t even notice the strange bowl-shaped item from yesterday, nor the man tinkering away with it. It was only when a clockwork cuckoo took flight, making him stagger backward and bump straight into the man, that Oliver even became aware that he was not alone.

Oliver gasped and spun on the spot. Suddenly he realized who he was looking at. Though many years older than the picture in his book, Oliver knew he was staring into the eyes of Armando Illstrom.

Oliver gasped. He couldn’t believe it. His hero was really here, standing before him, alive and well!

“Ah!” Armando said, smiling. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Oliver blinked, stunned by what he was seeing. Unlike the dusty, cobwebbed part of the factory that existed on the other side of the mechanized wall, the factory this side was bright and warm, glistening with cleanliness and brimming with the signs of life.

“Are you cold?” Armando asked. “You look like you’ve been in the rain.”

Oliver’s gaze flicked back to the inventor. He was shocked to actually be standing face to face with his hero. Even as the seconds ticked by, he was completely tongue-tied.

Oliver tried to say, “I have,” but the only sound that came from his throat was a garbled kind of grunt.

“Come, come,” Armando said. “I’ll fix you up a hot drink.”

Though unmistakably the Armando from his inventors book, his face had been ravished by time. Oliver made some quick calculations in his head; he knew from his inventors book that Armando’s factory was up and running during World War Two, and that Armando himself had been a young man of barely twenty years old during the factory’s heyday, which meant he had to now be well into his nineties! He noticed for the first time that Armando had a walking stick to support his frail body.

Oliver began to follow Armando across the factory floor, the lighting too dim for him to work out what exactly the large shadowy shapes around him were, though he suspected they were more of Armando’s glorious inventions, working ones, unlike those on the other side of the mechanized wall.

They went down a corridor and Oliver was still unable to really believe that any of this was real. He kept expecting to wake up any moment and discover this was a dream caused by him knocking his head in the trash can.

Making matters feel even more fantastical and unreal to Oliver was the factory itself. It was designed like a rabbit’s warren, a labyrinth filled with doors and arches and corridors and stairs, all leading away from the main factory floor. Even when he’d walked the entire external perimeter of the factory the previous day he hadn’t noticed anything odd in its architecture, no signs of external staircases and the like. But the factory itself was so huge, he reasoned, that from the outside it just looked like an enormous brick rectangular prism. No one would guess from the outside how the interior was designed. Nor would anyone expect it. He knew Armando was supposed to be zany, but the way his factory was structured was downright bizarre!

Oliver glanced left and right as he walked, seeing through one door a huge machine that resembled Charles Babbage’s early prototype computer. Through another door was a room with a steepled roof, like a church, and a mezzanine level, upon which, directed toward a huge glass window, was a row of enormous brass telescopes.

Oliver continued following the doddery inventor, his breath continually catching in his throat. He peered into another room they passed. It was filled with eerily human-looking automatons. Then the next contained an entire military tank, which was mounted with the strangest-looking weapons Oliver had ever seen.

“Don’t mind Horatio,” Armando said suddenly. Oliver jumped, breaking once again from his reverie.

He looked about him for the so-called Horatio, his mind conjuring up all kinds of machines that may have earned the name, until he noticed a sad-looking bloodhound lying in a basket by his feet.

Armando continued speaking. “His arthritis is worse than mine, poor thing. It makes him very grouchy.”

Oliver gave the dog a quick glance. Horatio sniffed the air as he passed, then settled back down to sleep with a weary sigh.

Armando hobbled stiffly into a small kitchen area, leading Oliver in after him. It was a modest space and very messy; the sort of kitchen you’d expect of a man who’d put the last seventy years of his focus into inventing zany machines that didn’t work.

Oliver blinked under the flickering fluorescent lights.

“Do you like tomato soup?” Armando asked suddenly.

“Uh…” Oliver said, still too tongue-tied to actually speak, to even really comprehend the fact that his hero was offering to make him soup of all things.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Armando said, smiling kindly.

Oliver watched him fetch two cans of soup from a cupboard whose door was barely still on its hinges. Then he took a contraption from a drawer that resembled a can opener in design but was so big it required two hands to operate.

“There’s a reason why they say there’s no need to reinvent the wheel,” Armando said with a chuckle when he noticed Oliver’s curious expression.

Finally the cans were open and Armando set to work simmering the soup in a pot on the little gas hob. Oliver found himself completely frozen, unable to speak or even move. All he could do was stare at this man, at the real, living, breathing version of his hero. He even pinched himself a couple of times just to make sure. But it was real. He was really here. Really with Armando Illstrom.

“Please sit,” Armando said as he came over and placed two bowls of soup on the rickety table. “Eat.”

Oliver at the very least could remember how to sit down. He took his seat, feeling very odd indeed. Armando lowered himself slowly into the seat opposite. Oliver noticed the misty quality in his eyes and the patches of discolored skin on his face. All the telltale marks of old age. When Armando laid his hands on the tabletop, all his finger joints looked red and swollen from arthritis.

Oliver’s stomach growled as steam from the soup wafted into his face. Even though he was so shocked and befuddled by everything, his hunger drive took over, and before he’d even had time to think, he’d grabbed his spoon and taken a huge mouthful of hot, flavorful soup. It was very tasty and nourishing. Far better than anything his parents ever cooked. He took another spoonful, not even caring that the soup was burning the roof of his mouth.

“Nice?” Armando asked encouragingly, eating his own soup at a much slower pace.

Oliver managed to employ a modicum of restraint and paused between mouthfuls to nod.

“Hopefully you’ll warm up soon,” Armando added, kindly.

Oliver couldn’t be sure if he meant warm up from the chilly rain or warm up socially. He hadn’t really said much since he’d gotten here, but he was so muddled from the storm, then so surprised to see Armando in the flesh, that his faculty for speech had completely failed him!

He tried now, to speak, to ask one of his burning questions. But when he opened his mouth, instead of words, the only thing that came out was a yawn.

“You’re tired,” Armando said. “Of course. There’s a spare room you can nap in, and I’ll get some extra blankets since the weather is quite cold at the moment.”

Oliver blinked then. “A nap?”

Armando nodded, then qualified his offer. “You’re not planning on going back out into the storm, are you? Last message from the mayor said we should expect to stay inside for hours.”

For the first time, Oliver’s thoughts turned to his parents. If they’d heeded the mayor’s instruction to return home, what would have happened when they discovered only one of their sons had made it back from school? He had no idea for how long he’d been knocked out in the trash can, nor how many hours had passed while he was being batted around inside it. Would they be worried about him?

Then Oliver shook his worry away. His parents probably hadn’t even noticed. Why should he give up the opportunity to rest in an actual bed, especially when the only thing waiting for him at home was a dingy alcove?

He looked up at Armando.

“That sounds really nice,” he said, finally managing a full sentence. “Thank you.” He paused then, deliberating over his words. “I have so many questions to ask you.”

“I’ll still be here when you wake,” the old inventor said, smiling kindly. “Once you’re warm, fed, and rested, then we can talk about everything.”

There was a knowing look in his eye. For some reason, Oliver wondered if Armando knew something about him, about his freakish powers, his visions and what they meant. But Oliver quickly pushed those thoughts away. Of course he didn’t. There was nothing magical about Armando. He was just an old inventor in a strange factory, not a magician or wizard or anything like that.

Suddenly overcome with fatigue, Oliver had nothing left in him to even ponder. The storm, the days of stress from the move and starting a new school, the lack of sufficient food, it was all suddenly too much for him to handle.

“Okay,” he conceded. “But it’ll just be a quick nap.”

“Of course,” Armando replied.

Oliver stood, rubbing his weary eyes. Armando used his walking stick to help lift his frail body to standing.

“Along here,” Armando said, gesturing down the narrow, dimly lit corridor.

Oliver let Armando lead the way, trudging wearily along behind him. His body felt very heavy now, as though he’d been holding in so much stress and unhappiness and was only now aware.

At the end of the corridor stood an odd wooden door that was lower than a normal door and curved at the top like it belonged in a chapel. There was even a little window in it, framed with burnished iron.

Armando opened the door and ushered Oliver inside. Oliver felt a sense of nervous anticipation as he stepped over the threshold.

The room was bigger than he’d been expecting, and much neater considering the state of the kitchen. There was a large bed covered in a soft, white duvet and matching pillows, with an extra woolen blanket folded at the end of it. There was a wooden desk covered in small war figurines, beneath a window with long blue curtains. In one corner of the room was a fabric-covered chair, next to a bookshelf crammed with exciting-looking adventure stories.

It looked, in every way, like the kind of bedroom an eleven-year-old boy like Oliver ought to have, rather than an alcove in the cold, shadowy corner of an unfurnished living room. He felt a sudden surge of grief for his life. But stronger than that was the gratitude he felt for this sudden opportunity to escape it all, even if it was only for a few hours.

Oliver looked over his shoulder at Armando. “This is a very nice room,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t mind me staying in here?”

He became very aware then of his sodden clothes and the muck he must have trailed into Armando’s factory. But rather than chastise or berate him—like his parents had yesterday with his soggy sweater—Armando just smiled a knowing smile.

“I hope you sleep well and feel rested when you wake,” he said. Then he turned and left the room.

Oliver stood for only one more awestruck moment before realizing he was far too exhausted to even stand up. He wanted to think about the strange events of the day, to try and make sense of them, to replay them and order them and catalogue them in his mind. But there was only one thing his body demanded right now and that was sleep.

So he peeled off his clothes, put on a pair of too big pajamas he found hanging in the closet, and crawled into bed. The mattress was comfortable. The duvet was warm and smelled of fresh lavender.

As Oliver snuggled into the big, warm bed, he felt safer than he ever had before in his life. Finally, he felt like he was somewhere he belonged.

CHAPTER SIX

The world was very quiet. Bright sunlight warmed Oliver’s eyelids. He let them flicker open. There was a shard of light coming through a gap in the curtains.

Oliver suddenly remembered where he was. He sat up, blinking, taking in the sight of the bedroom in Armando’s factory. It was all real. He really was here.

It suddenly occurred to him that it was morning. His nap had turned into a deep sleep that had lasted all through the night and into the next day. He shouldn’t be surprised; the bed was the warmest, most comfortable bed he’d ever slept in. In fact, Armando’s factory felt more like home to Oliver than any of his previous houses ever had. He snuggled under the duvet, feeling content and completely in love with the place. He never wanted to leave.

But what of his family? Oliver wondered with a growing sense of anguish. By now they must have noticed that he was missing. He hadn’t come home for an entire night. Maybe they thought he’d been swept away by the storm. They must be worried.

Though the thought concerned Oliver, there was another side to the coin. If they did think he’d been swept away by the storm, that meant he may never have to go home at all…

Oliver grappled with his thoughts, caught somewhere between anguish at causing them any distress and excitement at the opportunity fate had apparently presented him. He decided, finally, that he’d address the issue with Armando.

Feeling rejuvenated from his sleep, Oliver leapt up and hurried out of the room to find Armando. He rushed through the rabbit warren of corridors, trying to find his way back to the main factory floor where he suspected Armando would be. But the place was a maze. Doors he’d been certain were there yesterday now seemed not to be. It was only when he found the kitchen and Horatio the dozing bloodhound in his basket that he was able to work out where he was and which direction he needed to go.

Finally, he emerged out onto the factory floor. In bright daylight it was even more magnificent than it had been in the dim, stormy light. Now he could see all the way up to the ceiling—which was as high as a cathedral’s—and see that upon the wooden joists perched several mechanical birds. Others fluttered about in the rafters, moving in every manner like real birds, except for the fact their wings were made of brass and their eyes of little lights that glowed red. He noticed bats as well, sleeping upside down with their huge metal wings folded across their chests.

“How on earth…?” Oliver muttered aloud, gazing up at the myriad of flying machines above his head.

“Ah, Oliver, good morning,” came Armando’s voice.

Oliver’s gaze snapped back down to the factory floor. There was Armando, straightening up from where he’d been bent over a machine, tinkering away. Immediately, Oliver lost all courage to ask him whether he could stay on at the factory.

“Did you sleep well?” the old inventor asked.

“I did,” Oliver said. “In fact, better than ever. But it was only supposed to be a nap. Why didn’t you wake me after the storm finished?”

Armando chuckled. “I tried, dear boy, but you were in a deep, deep slumber. My guess is you really needed that sleep.” He smiled. “Now, I promised to tell you all about my factory and my life as an inventor, didn’t I? Would you like some breakfast first? A shower? A clean change of clothes?”

It was only then that Oliver realized he was still wearing pajamas. He hesitated, mulling Armando’s offer over in his mind. Breakfast and a warm shower and clean clothes were not things his parents would offer him if he returned home. It wouldn’t hurt to stay a little longer, he persuaded himself. At least to go on Armando’s tour.

“If it’s your family you’re concerned about, perhaps you ought to call them?” the old inventor added, picking up on his hesitation.

That was the last thing Oliver wanted to do. He just shook his head. “That’s okay. I can go on the tour first.”

The old inventor reached forward and placed a firm but reassuring hand on Oliver’s shoulder. He peered down at him with his misty eyes. Oliver could see the deep kindness and warmth within them. They were trustworthy, imploring him to relax. Not for the first time since arriving at the factory, Oliver got the sense that Armando knew more than he was letting on.

The old man gestured with his arm to the factory floor.

“Please, this way,” he said.

Thoughts of his family shifted to the back of Oliver’s mind as curiosity took over. He walked slowly alongside Armando, matching his pace.

“I was a similar age to you, Oliver,” Armando began, “when I started to make my own inventions. Nothing that worked, mind you.” He chuckled. “I think I managed a mechanical slingshot but that was about it.”

Oliver remember the slingshot he’d created and used on Chris. The coincidence struck him, and the sense of it lingered, mixing with all the other emotions coursing through him.

“I excelled at school,” Armando continued. “Although I didn’t get along very well with any of the children.”

“You and me both,” Oliver added.

They reached a room and Armando strolled inside. It was a library, Oliver saw, with high ceilings and wooden floorboards. A spiral staircase led to a second level where there was a comfy-looking floral armchair and a large reading lamp.

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