The Magic Factory (Oliver Blue and the School for Seers—Book One)

CHAPTER ONE Oliver Blue glanced around the dark, dingy room. He sighed. This new house was about as bad as the last one. He clutched his only suitcase in his hands. “Mom?” he said. “Dad?” They both turned to look at him, scowling their ever permanent scowls. “What, Oliver?” his mom said, sounding exasperated. “If you’re about to say you hate this place, don’t. It’s all we could afford.” She seemed more stressed than usual. Oliver pressed his lips shut. “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled. He turned, heading for the stairs. Upstairs he could already hear his older brother, Chris, thundering around the place. His mean, heavy-footed brother always tore through every new house in order to stake his claim to the best bedroom before Oliver got the chance. He trudged up, suitcase in hand. On the landing, he found three doors. Behind one was a bathroom; the next opened to a master bedroom with a double bed; and the third contained Chris, who was sprawled on a bed like a starfish. “Where’s my room?” Oliver said aloud. As if anticipating the question, his mother yelled up the staircase. “There’s only one room. You boys are going to have to share.” Oliver felt a swirl of panic in the pit of his stomach. Share? That was not a word that Chris took to well. Sure enough, Chris was up like a rocket. He barreled toward Oliver, pinning him to the wall. Oliver let out a loud oomph. “We are not sharing,” Chris hissed through his teeth. “I’m thirteen years old, I’m not sharing a room with a BABY!” “I’m not a baby,” Oliver muttered. “I’m eleven.” Chris sneered. “Exactly. A pipsqueak. So you go down and tell Mom and Dad that you don’t want to share.” “Tell them yourself,” Oliver grumbled. “Since you’re the one with the problem.” Chris’s scowl grew deeper. “And tarnish my reputation as the favorite son? No way. You do it.” Oliver knew better than to provoke Chris any further. His brother could fly into rages over the smallest of things. Over the years of having the bad luck to be Chris Blue’s younger brother, Oliver had learned how to tread carefully, how to tiptoe around his brother’s moods. He tried reasoning with him. “There’s nowhere else to sleep,” he countered. “Where am I supposed to go?” “Not my problem,” Chris replied, giving Oliver an extra shove. “Sleep in the kitchen cupboard under the sink with the mice for all I care. But you’re not sharing with me.” He waved his fist in the air, a threat that needed no explanation. There was nothing else to say. With a resigned sigh, Oliver collected himself from the wall, smoothed down his rumpled clothes, and trudged down the staircase. His huge brother thundered down the steps after him, shoving him with an elbow as he went. “Oliver said he won’t share,” Chris bellowed on his way past. From the living room, Oliver heard Mom, Dad, and Chris begin to argue over the sleeping arrangements. He slowed his pace, less than eager to become embroiled in the fight. Recently, Oliver had gained a new coping strategy for when the arguments erupted, and it involved sending his mind to a different place, a sort of dreamworld where everything was calm and safe, where the only boundary was his imagination. He went there now, closing his eyes and picturing himself in a huge brick factory surrounded by incredible inventions. Flying dragons made of brass and copper, huge steaming machines with turning cogs. Oliver loved inventions, so a big factory filled with magical ones was exactly the kind of place he wished he could be, rather than here, in this awful house with his awful family. Suddenly, his mother’s shrill voice brought him back to the real world. “Oliver! What’s all this fuss you’re causing?” Oliver swallowed hard and took the final step. By the time he reached the living room, the three of them were gathered, arms crossed, matching scowls on their faces. “You know there are only two rooms,” Dad began. “And you’re causing a stink, saying you won’t share,” Mom added. “What are we supposed to do?” Dad continued. “We don’t have the money for you both to have a bedroom.” Oliver wanted to scream at them that this was all Chris’s fault, but the threat of harm from his brother was too great. Chris stood there glowering at him. There was nothing Oliver could do except take his parents’ harsh, unjust words. “So?” Mom finished. “Where exactly is your Lordship planning on sleeping then?” Chris smirked as Oliver glanced about him. As far as he could see, the downstairs area was the shape of a letter L, with a living room leading to a dining room of sorts—which was really just a corner containing nothing more than a rickety table—and then a kitchen around the corner. There was no extra room downstairs, just an open-plan setup. Oliver couldn’t believe this was happening. All their houses had been horrible but at least he’d had a bedroom. Behind him, Oliver saw there was a slight indentation, perhaps from a fireplace that had been removed years before. It was little more than an alcove but what other option was there? He was going to have to sleep in a corner! With no privacy at all! And what about all his secret inventions, the ones he worked on at night when no one was looking? He knew if Chris found out what he was doing he’d ruin it. He’d probably stamp his inventions to dust. Without his own room and somewhere to keep all his secret bits and bobs, Oliver wouldn’t be able to work on them at all! Oliver genuinely considered the kitchen cupboard, wondering whether that might actually be better. But he decided mice nibbling on his inventions would be just as bad as Chris stomping on them. So he decided that, with a little imagination—a curtain, a shelf, some lights, that sort of thing—the alcove could almost be a bit like a bedroom. “There,” Oliver said quietly, pointing at the alcove. “There?” his mom exclaimed. Chris let out one of his bark-laughs. Oliver glared at him. Dad just tutted and shook his head. “He’s a strange boy,” he said flippantly, to no one in particular. Then he let out an exaggerated sigh, as if this whole disagreement had been very trying for him. “But if he wants to sleep in the corner, let him sleep in the corner. I’m beyond knowing what to do with him.” “Fine,” Mom said, exasperated. “You’re right, though. He’s getting more peculiar every day.” The three of them turned away, heading toward the kitchen. Over his shoulder, Chris grinned at Oliver and whispered, “Freak.” Oliver took a deep breath. He wandered over to the alcove and placed his case on the floor by his feet. There was nowhere to put his clothes; no shelves or drawers, and next to no space to fit his bed—assuming his parents even got him a bed. But he would make do. He could hang a curtain for privacy, make some shelves out of wood, and construct a pull-out drawer for under his bed—the bed he hoped to get—so there was at least somewhere safe to store his inventions. Besides, if he were to look on the positive—something Oliver always tried his hardest to do—he was right beside a big window, which meant he’d have plenty of light and views to gaze out at. He rested his elbows on the ledge now and gazed out at the gray October day. It was very windy outside, with rubbish blowing across the street. Opposite his house was a damaged car and a rusty washing machine that had been dumped there. It was definitely a poor neighborhood, Oliver decided. One of the worst they’d ever lived in. The wind blew, making the glass of the windows rattle, and a breeze came through a gap in the woodwork. Oliver shivered. For October, the weather was much colder than it usually was in New Jersey. He’d even heard a report on the radio of a huge storm coming. But Oliver loved storms, especially when there was thunder and lightning. He sniffed as the smell of cooking swirled in his nostrils. Turning back from the window, he ventured around the corner to the kitchen area. His mom was standing at the stove, stirring a big pot of something. “What’s for dinner?” he asked. “Meat,” she said. “And potatoes. And peas.” Oliver’s stomach grumbled in anticipation. His family always ate simple meals, but Oliver didn’t mind that much. He had simple tastes. “Go and wash your hands, boys,” Dad said from where he sat at the table. From the corner of his eye, Oliver caught sight of Chris’s mean grin and already knew his brother had another cruel torment up his sleeve. The last thing he wanted to do was get trapped in the bathroom with Chris, but Dad looked up again from the table, his eyebrows raised. “Do I have to say everything twice?” he complained. There was no way out of it. Oliver left the room, Chris right on his tail. He hurried up the stairs, making a beeline for the bathroom in an attempt to get the hand-washing over and done with as quickly as possible. But Chris was right there in pursuit, and as soon as they were out of their parents’ earshot, he grabbed Oliver and shoved him into the wall. “Guess what, squirt,” he said. “What?” Oliver said, bracing himself. “I’m really, really hungry tonight,” Chris said. “So?” Oliver replied. “So, you’re going to let me have your dinner, aren’t you? You’re going to tell Mom and Dad you’re not hungry.” Oliver shook his head. “I already gave you the bedroom!” he refuted. “Let me have my potatoes, at the very least.” Chris laughed. “No way. We’re starting a new school tomorrow. I’ve got to be strong in case there are other pipsqueaks like you I need to pick on.” The mention of school sent a new wave of trepidation washing through Oliver. He’d started so many new schools in his life and each time it seemed to get a little worse. There was always a Chris Blue equivalent who was able to sniff him out, who wanted to pick on him no matter what he did. And there were never any allies. Oliver had long ago given up on making friends. What was the point when he’d just be moving again in a matter of months? Chris’s face softened. “Tell you what, Oliver, I’ll be kind. Just this once.” Then he grinned and burst into maniacal laughter. “I’ll give you a knuckle sandwich for dinner!” He raised his fist. Oliver ducked away, missing the flailing fist by mere millimeters. He bolted downstairs for the living room. “Come back, toe rag!” Chris yelled. He was right on Oliver’s heels, but Oliver was fast, and he hurried to the dining table. Dad looked up at him as he stood there panting, recovering from the sprint. “Are you two fighting again?” He sighed. “What about this time?” Chris skidded to a halt beside Oliver. “Nothing,” he said quickly. Suddenly, Oliver felt a sharp pinching sensation at his waist. Chris was digging his nails in. Oliver looked over at him, at the look of triumphant glee on his face. Dad looked suspicious. “I don’t believe you. What’s going on?” The pinch got stronger, the pain radiating through Oliver’s side. He knew what he had to do. There was no choice. “I was just saying,” he said, wincing, “that I’m not feeling very hungry tonight.” Dad looked at him wearily. “Mom’s been slaving over that stove for you and now you’re saying you don’t want it?” Mom looked over her shoulder from the stove with a wounded expression. “What’s the problem? Don’t you like meat anymore? Or is it the potatoes that are the issue?” Oliver felt Chris’s pinch deepen even more, sending an even sharper pain through him. “Sorry, Mom,” he said, his eyes watering. “I am grateful. I’m just not hungry.” “What am I supposed to do with him?” Mom exclaimed. “First the bedroom, now this! My nerves can’t take it.” “I’ll have his extras,” Chris said quickly. Then in a sugary voice, he added, “I don’t want all your efforts to go to waste, Mom.” Mom and Dad both looked at Chris. He was bulky and getting ever bulkier but they didn’t seem concerned. Either that, or they didn’t want to stand up to the bully son they’d raised. “Fine,” Mom said, sighing. “But you have got to sort out that brain of yours, Oliver. I can’t be having this sort of fuss every evening.” Oliver felt Chris’s pinch release. He rubbed his sore side. “Okay, Mom,” he said, sadly. “Sorry, Mom.” As the sound of cutlery and crockery clinked behind him, Oliver turned from the dining table, his stomach growling, and walked back to his alcove. To block out the smells that made his hunger even more pronounced, he distracted himself by opening his suitcase and taking out his one and only possession, a book about inventors. A kind librarian had given it to him several years ago after noticing that he kept coming in to read it. Now it was dog-eared, well-worn from the million times he’d leafed through it. But no matter how often he read it, he never got bored. Inventors and inventions fascinated him. In fact, one of the reasons Oliver wasn’t that sad about moving to this neighborhood in New Jersey was because he’d read about a factory nearby where an inventor named Armando Illstrom built some of his finest creations. It didn’t matter to Oliver that Armando Illstrom was included in the Zany Inventors section of the book, or that most of his contraptions failed. Oliver still found him very inspirational, especially his booby trap device which was designed to scare away raccoons. Oliver was trying to create his own version to ward off Chris.