Darkest Wish Read online

  Darkest Wish

  Ignor and Dr Finklesteam

  Ignor set the jar of pickled bog sprouts back on the apothecary shelf. His hand was trembling and the glass chinked against a bottle of newt eyes, causing the small orbs inside to bounce in the cloudy brine.

  “Ignor,” the master boomed from across the laboratory. “What have I told you about eating the specimens?”

  “Not to eat them, Master,” Ignor replied, the words spilling forth from his deformed mouth. Each syllable as mangled as the swollen tongue which formed them. “Sorry Master, but they taste divine. That particular jar has matured for almost thirty years and…”

  “No more!” Dr Finklesteam shouted.

  Ignor’s shadow matched his stooped frame as he cringed away from his Master. The bloated hump on his back striking a gas lamp and making it swing. The rocking light made strange shapes from the already strange objects that lay about the chamber.

  “I blame myself,” the Doctor continued, absently tightening the device which held the strange crystal. “When I created you, I should have found a smaller mouth - or at the very least, a cadaver with a slighter gullet. And stop picking at your stitches.”

  The thread which held Ignor’s hand to his wrist had begun to slip through the neat stitching, leaving a long piece of the catgut dangling. If he didn’t tie a knot in the end, his hand would simply fall off. Like his thumb had days earlier.

  He left the thread alone and shuffled around the ancient workbench to join his master. His left foot dragging over the stone floor and leaving a trail in the dust.

  A rare smile curved Dr Finklesteam’s crooked mouth straight. Watery eyes sparkling beneath brass goggles which he constantly wore.

  “I believe tonight will be the night when all our worries will come to an end,” he said, teasing a finger down the amber diamond at the centre of the bench. “The storm has arrived. The very electrical charge we need to infuse the crystal. And then, my little Ignor, the world will be mine.”

  “Yes, Master,” Ignor agreed automatically. Then remembered the enthusiasm that Dr Finklesteam required and extended his remaining thumb. “The world will be yours.”

  Excitement animating the Doctor, he skipped over to the dials on the pressure bottles and began to twist them which equalised the mercury on another device, that in turn opened the laboratory roof.

  “Quickly Ignor, the rod – extend the rod.”

  Limping to a worn wheel, Ignor began to turn the contraption and extended the silver pole up through the ceiling and out into the night. Instantly, the wind gripped onto it and the entire pole wobbled at the mercy of the elements.

  “Just think, Ignor,” Dr Finklesteam chuckled. “The powers of the genie in that diamond, will be mine. I can have anything, do anything and be whatever I desire.”

  Sticking his thumb up once again and grinning so tight that it pulled at the stitches which held his nose, Ignor replied. “Yes, Master, very good.”

  “Imagine, absolute power. The thought is so grand that I don’t know where to start first. What would you wish for, Ignor?”

  “A pickled bog sprout.”

  Dr Finklesteam paused turning a dial to fix him with a mystified glare. “Bog sprout? But the power is limitless. You could have anything, anything at all.”

  “Maybe two pickled bog sprouts.”

  Shaking his head, the master returned to fiddling with the dials, turning the pressure until a series of cylindrical tubes whistled steam through their fluted tops.

  “I sometimes forget Ignor, that you have yet to experience life outside the castle. I on the other hand will not waste the potency. I have a heavy heart and its desires shall be sated.”

  Ignor cast a furtive glance to the shelves of specimens. He had what his heart desired, at least once a day. Sometimes, two. Not that the Master would have been happy with that knowledge.

  Lightning cracked a flickering wedge through the darkness above. Illuminating the laboratory better than the gas lamps that hung from brackets around the cold walls. It was closely followed by a chest reverberating rumble of thunder.

  Dr Finklesteam raised his head and stuck his tongue out to catch the first drops of rain.

  “Tastes like it’s going to be a belter,” he said. Then drawing his waistcoat tight, strode in the direction of the spiral staircase that would bear him to the roof. He paused before disappearing around the bend.

  “Ignor, give the crystal another polish. I want it gleaming so I can see my face grinning upon its surface.”

  “Yes Master.”

  “And careful you don’t look into it yourself. I don’t want you scaring the genie.”

  Ignor shook his head the best he could, his loose ear flapping like the outer leaf of a well-aged cabbage. “No Master.”

  With the Doctor gone, Ignor shuffled closer to the device on the workbench. Biting his tongue in concentration as he delicately unscrewed the brass fitting which clamped it in place. Once loose, he wiggled it free and held it in his palm.

  It was the size of a hen’s egg, although a lot heavier. Expertly cut, the many-sided diamond sparkled under the flickering sky, refracting his own face from a hundred different angles. Ugliness staring in, Ignor wondered if the genie inside was staring out.

  He experimentally tapped it on one edge and held it to his ear.

  “Hello in there,” he said. But there was no reply, other than the thunder rippling overhead.

  Shrugging with his one good shoulder, he hobbled to a dust cloth that sat on the god cycle. The same contraption that the master had peddled to create enough volts to set his dead heart beating. He patted the saddle, trepidation tickling his giblets. He had mixed thoughts about the god cycle. On the one hand, it had given life to his mismatch of various limbs and organs, but on the other it had brought pain.

  Swinging a leg over the iron crosspiece, he balanced himself on the seat and began to peddle. The large wheel on the back spinning a dynamo that spat tiny sparks as the contacts passed magnets.

  He hummed a nursery rhyme as he worked, polishing the amber diamond. He didn’t know where the song came from or how he knew it – after all he had never ventured further than the castle walls and the master never sang. But it was lodged in his brain, along with brief snatches of memories that didn’t belong to him. The souls that owned the original parts to his body may have departed to the next life, yet their flesh remembers. All those experiences his muscles gained, the skills and capabilities – wrapped up and infused in the network of nerves and cells which he used to do his master’s bidding. Yet he couldn’t do any one thing well.

  Ignor was sure that when his master dug up the bodies to harvest parts, he stole a left hand from a right-handed person and a right from a left-handed person. Why else would he be so clumsy? And the legs, he was sure, came from an orangutan.

  Maybe, he thought, if the master had only used the one body to create him, he would function better. The parts would fit snuggly and there would be little need for all the stitching which puckered the skin and was constantly coming loose. But then, thoughts were dangerous. The master said so, and Dr Finklesteam was the cleverest person he knew. Albeit the only person he knew.

  Bringing the crystal to his mouth, he breathed on it, fogging up the faces before wiping them clean.

  “The master is supremely clever,” he whispered, his gaze falling on the box-shaped invention that slept quietly under a blanket in the corner of the chamber. It was a machine that turned lead into gold. A mastery of engineering covered in steaming pipes, whizzing wheels and mirrors. Dr Finklesteam had bought as much lead as he could afford and even stripped it from the roofs. They had leaky rafters for a while, but they had piles of gold. Tons and tons of the stuff. Enough to alter the economics of the world –
whatever that was.

  But when the weather became a problem and the Master set about finding material to fix the roof, he couldn’t find any lead. Not a single ounce of the dull grey matter could be located.

  Ignor chuckled at the memory. “But the master is supremely clever,” he explained to the diamond. “We had piles of gold, so he invented a machine that would turn gold into lead.”

  That device sat beside the other, gathering dust with a single slate board hanging between the pair. Written in chalk, scrolled in the master’s hand were the words: The yin and yang of wealth. Only use in an emergency.

  Ignor didn’t know what that meant and the master told him that was a good thing. Ignorance is bliss, he would say.

  The trouble with Dr Finklesteam is that he’s too cleverly successful. His inventions worked so well they pushed him beyond the boundaries of triumph and back into failure. Like the weapon of mass destruction – The Acornic bomb. It sat in pieces, cluttering up the shelves in the other corner of the lab.

  A Prince from a neighbouring country had commissioned the Doctor to build a weapon that would annihilate the King, whose army had been ransacking his lands. Dr Finklesteam spent an entire month inventing the Acornic bomb. A masterful contraption that had the power to split an acorn so precisely that it caused a chain reaction - an explosion with such devastating energy that it would knock buildings and trees flat while creating a huge mushroom-shaped cloud.

  “Boom,” Ignor said, spreading his arms wide for enthuses.

  The master had drawn up the blueprints and presented them to the Prince who was more than happy with the idea. But some days later, before the doctor had built the Acornic bomb, the Prince returned. Apparently, news of the devastating bomb had reached the King and he had instantly surrendered. The thought of unleashing such devastation on his lands had him calling for immediate peace. And the first thing that was drawn up in the treaty was the prohibition of any weapons of mass destruction.

  “The Acornic bomb was dismantled before it had even been built. You see,” Ignor explained to the crystal. “Dr Finklesteam is so successful, he fails.”

  It reminded him of the time when the master built a giant flying bird made from paper and wax. Ignor had watched him through the only window in the lab. It was marvellous. The way the craft rose and fell with the wind. Flying high into the big bright blue to glide into the cotton-white clouds. It was a sight to behold. And then when Dr Finklesteam came plummeting down, because the paper became soggy and the wax gloopy, he had the foresight to learn how to swim, for the lake which he landed in was rather large.

  “I say landed,” he told the crystal. “The master explained that it was a controlled dive and not a crash, like I suggested when he came squelching back into the lab.

  Ignorance is bliss. Sometimes the doctor would tell me that he wishes the roles could be reversed. So that he could do mindless tasks without the worry of the next invention to plague him. The simple life of a carefree underling, instead of having the mind of a genius.”

  “Who are you talking to?” The master boomed as he stuck his head around the spiral staircase.

  “Nobody Master,” Ignor replied, as he stopped peddling.

  The sudden pause in work caused the orangutan muscles to bunch up like a coiled spring, his knee joints creaking with the pressure.

  “Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness,” Dr Finklesteam explained, a row of magnifying glasses sitting over one of his eyes making him seem like one of the tiny creatures that you can glimpse through a microscope. It swivelled as he spoke. “If only we could swap for a time. My head gets so painfully full and yours is so vastly empty.”

  “Yes Master,” Ignor agreed, as the doctor retreated up the stairs once again. “If only we were to swap for a little time,” he continued, speaking to himself.

  The rear wheel of the god cycle was still spinning and a minute spark arced across the gap to the static on his hairy legs.

  Ignor yelped as his body involuntary jolted and his hand shot skyward.

  He tried his hardest to keep a firm grasp of the crystal, but with it being held in the hand that was missing a thumb, the precious stone shot into the air. Turning end over end it spun to its zenith before tumbling back down.

  Sucking on his only tooth, Ignor held his breath as he watched the diamond fall. Its polished surface reflecting the soft glow of the gas lamps and projected the light along the hard floor it was destined for.

  “No!” Ignor cried as he dived from the god cycle.

  His bloated ape-like body stretched as he descended, crooked fingers extending to their limits; joints cracking, knuckles popping, stitches tearing.

  Ignor’s jaw bounced from the floor at the same time as the diamond. One making a delicate clink, the other a painful crunch.

  He watched the precious stone bounce and floundered after it, slipping his hand beneath to catch it. The point hit his palm, puncturing the skin and sending a fresh shock of pain to join the rest that racked his body.

  When he slid to a stop, his hump coming to rest by the no-way mirror, he let out the breath he had been holding. If the master found that he had been treating his experiment carelessly, he would have his gizzards pickled. Ignor didn’t know what a gizzard was, like the master said, his mind was empty and full of bliss, but a gizzard sounded like one of those things he most probably needed and almost certainly would be painful if pickled. And Ignor was allergic to pain – it always seemed to hurt.

  Using the edge of the no-way mirror, Ignor struggled to his feet. The mirror was another of Dr Finklesteam’s successful inventions. A mirror that reflected the image three times. It somehow altered the viewer’s perception, so when you looked into the glass, the image you were presented with was the reflection of the reflection which bounced back. To that end, what you actually glimpsed was the inside of the mirror looking backwards. Or, as Ignor suggested, it did the same as a normal glass window. It was transparent, but in a clever way. The master had not been happy with Ignor’s suggestion and had called him a fool. An unintelligent nitwit with a head full of bliss. How the Doctor envied him, a mind with such empty innocence.

  Leaving the mirror, Ignor shuffled back to the bench and placed the diamond into the holding device. He screwed the clamps tight and gave the stone a final polish before standing back to admire his work.

  His already loose jaw dropped open as if on a slack hinge. The crystal was damaged.

  “No…no…no,” he mumbled. “Not good.”

  The bottom most tip of the stone had broken off, leaving a jagged edge. What would the master say when he saw it?

  Feeling his aching heart ratchet up a gear, Ignor searched the floor for the missing piece. The crystal must be whole for it to work.

  Scurrying through the dust on hands and knees, he probed the cracks and fissures in the cold slabs, searching the area where the diamond had bounced. Yet all he found was a dirty smudge of blood. His own, he realised as he bent low to taste it. Then bringing his hand closer to his eyes, he found the precious black tip. Imbedded in his palm.

  Sludgy blood welled around the fragment, making his skin slippery as he attempted to pick it out. But it was lodged beneath the skin.

  “What’s that racket?” Dr Finklesteam demanded as he returned, his clothes drenched in the deluge that had begun.

  “Nothing, Master,” Ignor replied, hiding his hand behind his back. “I thought I saw a rat, is all.”

  “Rat? The cake should have killed them all.”

  “I haven’t seen the cake,” Ignor admitted. The half-cat, half-snake animal that the doctor had created last year for pest control. It was when he was experimenting with something called the animal gnome...or D.N.A (Diminutive Nip of an Animal).

  “Maybe he found something larger than a rat, Master. There was the bearog (bear-dog) that escaped. Perhaps the bearog found the cake and ate it.”

  Dr Finklesteam wrinkled his nose and adjusted his goggles more firmly on his head. �
��Perhaps. But let us deal with that later. The storm is almost upon us. Have you polished the diamond?”

  “Yes, Master. However…”

  “Good. Now fetch the fairy dust, the goblin finger and the fiend's fang. The runes will need to be drawn fresh, so don’t dally.”

  “But Master, the diamond…”

  “Now!”

  Swallowing his words, Ignor set about collecting the various occult objects that his Master had spent the previous year collecting. Resolved to the fact that he would explain the damaged crystal later. He was sure it was important.

  The ancient cupboard creaked open on rusty hinges, releasing a coppery smell with the hint of smouldering weasel moth. But as he leaned closer, his nostrils picked out the more pungent smell of magic. The arcane aroma of an all-consuming, formidable, ancient power. It reminded Ignor of the peppery tang of mouldy mouse droppings. It tickled his nostrils and curled the wiry hairs within. Ignoring the unpleasant feeling creeping down his spine, he gathered the required ingredients.

  “And be careful with the troll salt,” the Doctor added.

  Carefully balancing the fang on the finger and the pouch of dust on the rune book, he hugged the bowl of salt under his forearm and returned to the workbench. The nursery rhyme finding his lips once again as he hummed the merry tune. He ceased when he felt the master’s glare upon him.

  “Spread the salt evenly around the crystal,” Dr Finklesteam directed, reading from the book of runes. “Make a complete circle and leave no gaps.”

  Ignor did as instructed, biting his tongue in concentration as he climbed around the wooden slab.

  “Very good. Now place the finger to the north of the circle and the fang to the south,” the Doctor commanded. Then shaking his head as Ignor set the pieces down wrong, picked them up and placed them correctly. “My fault, I forget that you are full of bliss.”

  “Forgive me, Master.”

  “No need Ignor. I created you, so the fault lies with me. After the crystal has bestowed its power upon myself, I might grant you with higher intelligence…although, this maybe more of a curse than a gift. How I often wish I could experience your mindlessness. Anyway, I digress. Pass me the fairy dust.”