Dannal J. Newman
Text Copyright © 2014 by Dannal J. Newman
Arctic Fire Press
The Trying Tales of
Chumbles & Grim
Theophilus Grim and the Fowl of Ruin
IV
First Kindle Edition
Dannal.com
@theDannal
Editor: Sue Kenney
Cover Artist: Mad Scientist
Proofreader: Jenny Newman
Theophilus Grim and the Fowl of Ruin-
The morning of November the twelfth was as crisp and refreshing as a fall apple. I sat upon the porch of my home enjoying a glass of Tipperfeldy Scotch and watching deciduous trees in the front garden cling to the last vestiges of their brightly colored leaves. They did so in vain, for every gust of wind brought another bunch of the wonderful dry orange and red beauties cascading to the ground where they pooled around my feet. The wind brought something else as well, in the form of young Horatio, who called at my home to bring me the latest news from my good friend, Professor Theophilus Grim.
“Best of mornings to you, Horatio,” I said, greeting the boy with a tousling of his moppish black hair. “What brings you to my stoop this great day?”
“It's finished, Mr. Chumbles,” Horatio said eagerly. “Professor Grim's finished it at last, 'e has.”
“Of which invention do you mean, boy?” I asked, sipping my whiskey with great relish. “The bomb-resistant trousers? The self-lighting cigar?”
“No, sir, nuffing like that,” Horatio said earnestly. “I am afraid I don't know that much about it, as the professor wanted to keep much of his work secret. But the professor says it could change the ’ole world.”
“How can I say no to that?” I asked, smiling at the boy. I grabbed my tall derby hat and brown frock coat and picked up my surgeon's bag. Horatio quickly led me to Professor Grim's warehouse in the Wapping district of London. The boy kept a brisk pace—I could scarcely match his speed. I lost him completely when I ducked into the Leech & Lancet for a quick pick-me-up. Unfortunately, the pub was fresh out of Tipperfeldy, and I was reduced to drinking eight-year-old Loch Laramore; but it was whiskey, none the less, and I did not complain about its inferior quality.
At length, I found myself out-of-breath and standing in Professor Grim's laboratory. Two long tables consumed much of the space inside Grim's laboratory. One of the tables was so covered with beakers, test tubes, burners, and vials, that one could scarcely set down a cup of tea. The other table appeared quite empty, save for a snowy white cloth with a long white shape underneath. I found a stool underneath the table and sat down opposite the professor, who wore his long white laboratory coat and his tall silk top hat.
“Mr. Chumbles, so glad you could make it this morning,” Professor Grim said, grinning from ear to ear. This smile might appear an unusual sight for anyone uninitiated with the appearance of the great inventor and scientist. Since a horrible laboratory accident, the right half of his face had been so badly burned that one of his eyebrows no longer existed, and half of his great black handlebar mustache was gone forever. But his smile appeared unfailingly—for even in the midst of great pain and suffering, Professor Grim always showed unflappable dignity and courage—indeed, Grim was the greatest optimist I have ever known.
“What great problem of the world shall be solved by the mysterious shape beneath the linen?” I asked, smiling at my friend and placing my hat upon the table.
“Glad you asked, Mr. Chumbles,” Grim said, adjusting his black top hat and placing a hand on either side of the white cloth. “As you know, there are so many unfortunate, impoverished souls living among us—even on this very street—who struggle day to day to find enough nourishment to sustain life. I find myself heartbroken to see so many of these little ones on the street with nary a breadcrumb to fill the aching pang inside his stomach.” Professor Grim looked at Horatio with such a deep level of empathy, I believed for a moment that he might weep. For the compassionate professor had taken the boy in from such a terrible state as living on the filthy London dockyard streets and begging for food.
“Today, I wish to unveil a serum; a potent serum,” Professor Grim said, a familiar twinkle in his eyes. “A serum I hope and pray will change the daily existence of millions.”
I remembered some of Grim's recent experiments and how they had gone horribly awry. I hoped that my facial expression would not deceive me and give my friend a suggestion of my doubt.
“Something on your mind, my friend?” the professor asked.
Damn, I thought. The clever inventor possessed an innate penchant for reading me like a book. “Sorry, it's just that, after the trials that ensued after the theft of the Veritas Vials...and the public panic which resulted from the Salient Serum...and if I were to play the devil's advocate and mention the Vaporous Vaccine, I would be remiss if I did not suggest that these attempts to create a better world proved to do much more harm than good.
Professor Grim grinned broadly, his polite optimism unshakeable. “That kind sense of practicality is one of your noblest traits, my dear Mr. Chumbles,” Grim said. “I certainly hope that as years pass, you never lose this wonderful feature of your personality, for it has shaped me into a more humble and certainly a wiser man. However, in this instance, I must remind you of the power of the lessons we have learned from past failures. As you well know, I like to say 'failure is the flagstone upon which we build our achievement'.”
I nodded in appreciation. It was this sense of hope and refusal to give up in the face of immense adversity that convinced me that the history books would not overlook the great Professor Theophilus Grim. “I do not wish to impede your progress, sir, only to caution you. A caution which, I am satisfied, is wholly unnecessary as you have surely counted the cost. Now, sir, pray proceed.”
“Thank you, dear friend,” Grim said, wringing his hands together excitedly. “Without any additional pomp or circumstance, I present you with this--” In a grandiose gesture, the professor whisked the white linen from the table, revealing a large glass hypodermic syringe with a shiny steel needle. The syringe appeared to be filled with a dark amber-colored fluid. “I present to you, The Fowl-Fortifying Fluid.”
I cringed at the sight of the sharp needle and the ominous-looking serum inside the glass syringe. Again, I hoped my friend could not read my expression. “To what end have you created such a serum as this, my friend?” I asked, taking a dip of snuff from Professor Grim's gold-topped snuff box.
“Horatio,” Grim said to his young assistant, who stood nearby looking like a fop in his pinstripe waistcoat and trousers. “If you would be so kind as to bring me the subject.”
Horatio nodded and trotted out of the laboratory. I assume the boy must have scampered up the spiral stairs to the roof, for a moment later I heard footsteps trotting above the ceiling. Another moment later and Horatio had returned, struggling to carry a large wooden cage which featured strong metal bars in the front. Inside, I caught a glimpse of a fluttering pair of wings.
“Ah, yes, thank you, my boy,” Professor Grim said pleasantly. “Please place the cage upon the table. Very good.” The professor worked a latch on the cage and then reached inside with both arms, pulling out a fine-looking pheasant with long beautiful tail feathers.
“A gorgeous bird indeed,” said I. “I dare say, I would not mind so much as to see that bird laying atop a bed of pilaf and peas on a China dinner plate. With a robust Cabernet, I would say.”
Professor Grim chuckled. “I'm afraid this particular subject is earmarked for a higher purpose than your supper. This humble pheasant, Lord willing, shall be remembered—like the sweet
dove which brought an olive leaf back to a very patient Noah—as a simple bird which brought great hope to the world.”
“Ambitious,” said I, taking a sip of Tipperfeldy whiskey from my flask. “Please do go on.”
“This serum, you see, is intended to be injected subcutaneously into the meat of the bird,” Grim said, still holding the wriggling game bird between his hands. “The Fowl-Fortifying Fluid shall fortify the meat of the pheasant, giving the bird all of the nutritional value of, not only the pheasant, but also that of beef, boar and venison. One simple bird could feed a family of six and provide nourishment for a week. Starvation as we know it could cease to exist.”
“But are you certain that it is safe?” I asked, again playing the proverbial devil's advocate.
Professor Grim handed the pheasant to Horatio and picked up the syringe from the table. “I am so deeply convinced of the serum's safety, my friend, that I would not hesitate to inoculate myself with this fluid.” And with that, Grim plunged the needle through the skin of his forearm and into his own vein, plunging a portion of the dark amber fluid into his own body.
“Oh dear,” I said, feeling a lightening in my knees. I suddenly felt grateful for the stool upon which I sat, for