Salamander

Chapter Twenty One: Don't Trust Him

Chapter Twenty One

“I sure hope this plan works,” Mr. Carable said as he led us through the shop. For the most part, it was dark, the two bay windows at the front curtained off and the only source of light came from the window in the front door and a round window on one of the sides of the exposed ceiling. The shop smelled like dust, and by the looks of the cobwebs in the rafters, it looked like Mr. Carable needed to give the place a good scrubbing.

            “Hopefully King Plarsky will be different,” Marcellus said.

            “Who’s to say that he won’t?” Mr. Carable led us to the concession stand. Upon it was an elaborate Talisman holder, which, in theory, was nothing more than a box that held the store’s income whenever someone bought a product. The holder even looked dusty as well, hinting at the store’s popularity. “These horrid things you have been doing will go to waste.”

            “I sure wish I could understand what you guys are saying,” I said melodramatically.

            “I don’t trust you yet,” Marcellus said behind me.

            I rolled my eyes and followed Mr. Carable into a small room behind the concession stand. Inside were floor-to-ceiling shelves that had hundreds or maybe even thousands of spare parts for toys. Gears, wind-up keys, springs . . . there was so much metal. Metal, everywhere.

            “Take what you need,” Mr. Carable said, allowing us to pass him while he held open the door. He slammed it shut once we were inside, the sound of his boots stomping against the floor following.

            “Mr. Carable doesn’t seem too caring, doesn’t he?” Marcellus said amusingly.

            I glared at him. “Obviously this is not a good situation you’re in, Marcellus. You’re making jokes and you can’t even tell me how your precious ‘robots’ are made.”

            Marcellus began to look through the piles and piles of metal on the shelves. “You have to find the light in a dark situation.”

            “From what I hear, this is too dark of a situation.” I looked around the room. “Speaking of dark . . . doesn’t Mr. Carable have any candles? I can barely see anything.”

            “Best not to prod him,” Marcellus said, taking particular interest in a small gear.

            I looked up and saw a small, rectangular window at the top of the farthest wall, giving us a small amount of sunlight. “Asking him for a candle or two isn’t prodding.”

            Marcellus chuckled. “To him it is.”

            He put three or so gears in one of his many coat pockets and turned to another shelf, inspecting a pile of pistons mixed in with some springs.

            “What do you need to get?” I asked.

            “Anything I feel I need at the moment,” he said. “As of now, I’m just trying to find parts that contribute to the robot’s movement.”

            I nodded, not even bothering to ask him to elaborate, for I had a feeling that I wouldn’t understand what he was saying or he wouldn’t even tell me. I went up to a pile of wind-up keys and, doing nothing of importance, took a spring and a piston from the shelf Marcellus was using and began to assemble them.

            Marcellus looked at me. “What are you doing?”

            “Nothing,” I replied, sliding the spring over the skinny end of the wind-up key and then attaching the piston by using its tube-like end.