Inkling Page 9

  He was about to lift the pile of books back to his room when he saw Dad’s sketchbook on the far side of the table. He’d checked it yesterday morning, and he knew he wouldn’t find any new sketches now, but he couldn’t help himself. He opened it up and turned through the pages. The sketches stopped at the same place as last time.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea bleeding ink. He frowned. A thin black ribbon oozed down the stack of books onto the drafting table.

  “Inkling?” he whispered. “What’re you doing?”

  Inkling was snaking very slowly across the table. He twitched and started to write while in motion, but the letters just got smeared before he could finish a word.

  From outside the studio, Ethan heard his father coming down the hallway.

  “Inkling,” he whispered, “come on, we’ve got to go!”

  He laid his hand on the table, but Inkling just flowed right over it—heading in the direction of Dad’s open sketchbook.

  “No!” Ethan gasped, suddenly understanding.

  The sketchbook was dragging Inkling toward it. It had dragged Inkling right out of the novel, and Inkling was fighting against the pull but losing. Ethan tried to grab hold of him, digging in with his fingers. Inkling seeped right through, flowing faster now. When Inkling touched the binding of the sketchbook, he jerked back as if burned.

  “Ethan, you in there?” Dad called out, steps away from the door.

  Ethan slammed the sketchbook shut. At that exact moment, Inkling gave a great shudder and pulled himself clear.

  Ethan turned to face his father as he walked in.

  “Just looking for something to read,” he said, picking up Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. He caught a flash of Inkling disappearing amongst the pages. “Mind if I borrow this?”

  “Be my guest. It’s a good one. Hey, sorry I slept so late. That party kind of took it out of me.”

  His dad really did look apologetic.

  “It wasn’t so bad,” Ethan lied.

  He felt like Dad wanted to say something more, but Ethan was worried about Inkling and wanted to check on him. So he grabbed the pile of books and hurried back to his room. Inside the novel, Inkling slowly rocked himself back and forth on a half-eaten page.

  “Are you okay? What happened?”

  THE SKETCHBOOK WANTS ME BACK.

  “I don’t get it! No other books do that to you!”

  IT’S THE PAPER I CAME FROM.

  Ethan nodded. He felt so stupid. In their first meeting, Inkling had even shown him how hard it was to pull free of the book. There was a good reason he’d been so scared when they entered the studio.

  “What would happen?” he asked. “If it sucked you in.”

  I WOULD BE FIXED. NOTHING MORE THAN INK.

  “I’m really sorry, Inkling. I should’ve known. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

  During dinner, while Ethan ate, Inkling was eating, too. And late into the evening, he ate some more, soaring through all the books and graphic novels Ethan had picked out for him.

  By bedtime Inkling was positively trembling with all these new stories. It was like he’d had too much coffee and couldn’t sit still. Even as he read, little bits of him kept flashing out to sketch the people and things he was reading about.

  “I think you’ve probably had enough now,” Ethan said as Inkling finished the last title in the Kren series. He was worried Inkling would explode if he read any more.

  Inkling sloshed about on the blank endpapers, twitching, scribbling little words to himself, then erasing them.

  “You okay?” Ethan asked.

  THE WORLD IS TRULY FILLED WITH WONDROUS STORIES.

  “Do you think you can come up with one?”

  I WILL DO MY UTMOST.

  It was hard to know what voice Inkling was speaking in at the moment. Ethan supposed it was a big, bubbling mix of all the books he’d just absorbed.

  “I’m sure whatever you come up with will be great.”

  Ethan got a fresh piece of illustration board and slid it under the bed.

  CAN I MAKE USE OF COLOR?

  “Yeah. Of course. The more the better!”

  TREMENDOUS! I ADORE COLOR!

  “Do you need light under there?”

  I’M FINE.

  Ethan turned off the lights but couldn’t sleep. Underneath his bed a magical creature was drawing something incredible. He listened but heard nothing. He couldn’t remember if Inkling made noise when he drew. There was certainly no swish or squeak of a brush or marker. After a few more minutes, he turned on his lamp and leaned down to look under his bed.

  Inkling was just resting on the board. He hadn’t made a single jot yet.

  “What’s wrong?”

  NOT A THING. I’M PONDERING.

  “Oh, okay.”

  IT’S NO EASY THING, CREATING A STORY.

  “Sure. Take your time. Well, not too much time. Dad’s got to snap out of this or we’ll all go down the drain.”

  PLEASE BE QUIET.

  “Okay. Good night.”

  He tried to sleep but started worrying that Inkling wouldn’t be able to do it. He’d asked too much. He’d asked Inkling to do something overnight that his father hadn’t been able to do in two years!

  But eventually, Ethan fell asleep.

  And at some point in the night, Inkling trembled and moved to the top left corner of the illustration board. A few tendrils reached out, flexed like they were limbering up—

  And then began to draw.

  That same night, across the neighborhood, Vika was woken by the sound of her mom and dad talking in their bedroom. They weren’t arguing, exactly, but her mom sounded upset. Vika sat up, listening.

  “. . . really that serious?” her mom was saying.

  Vika missed the first bit of what her dad said, but heard, “. . . last two years, sales have been really bad. We’re in debt.”

  “But the house?” her mom said. “Is it that bad?”

  Fear jolted through Vika. What about the house? She moved closer to the door so she could hear better.

  “No, no,” her dad said. “We’re fine for now. I’m talking in a year or two.”

  “What about Peter’s new project?”

  “Yeah, if he ever finishes it!” her dad said. “And it would have to be a huge bestseller. Sometimes I worry he might be . . .”

  Vika didn’t catch the next bit and pressed her ear hard against the door.

  “He wouldn’t do something like that,” her mom said.

  “Who knows? He hasn’t shown me anything for so long.”

  “It’s been a very tough time for him.”

  “It has, for sure. But for all I know, he’s working on something for another publisher. Marvel’s been after him for a while. . . .”

  Vika couldn’t stand still; she paced her room. Hearing her dad sound all stressed made her scared—and then it made her angry. Why was Peter Rylance just sitting around doing nothing when her dad needed a bestseller to save his company? Or was Mr. Rylance working on something for another publisher? Stabbing her dad in the back?

  She tornado-kicked the air a few times. Peter Rylance wouldn’t even be famous if it weren’t for her father. He was the one who published his first Kren book after everyone else had rejected it.

  When she got older, she’d make her own graphic novels, and her dad wouldn’t have to rely on Peter Rylance or any of those other wimpy artists who couldn’t write bestsellers. Or who missed their deadlines. Or who got blocked. Vika never missed her deadlines.

  And there was definitely something weird going on in the Rylance house.

  She hadn’t told her dad, or anyone, about what she’d seen in Ethan’s room that night. She was almost a hundred percent sure it wasn’t her imagination, no matter what Ethan said.

  She didn’t know what Ethan and his dad were doing.

  But she was going to find out.

  Chapter 11

  When Ethan wo
ke up, he was almost afraid to look underneath his bed. He lay still for a few moments, hoping, and then reached down. His fingers touched the board, and he pulled it out.

  He sucked in his breath. It was an entire world he held in his hands. The colors blazed. His gaze was swept along through one beautiful image after another. It was wordless, but he felt like an amazing story was about to begin. It looked so much like his father’s work it was uncanny.

  “Inkling,” he said. “Inkling?”

  He jumped out of bed and crouched down. When he saw Inkling huddled on a pile of newsprint, he gave a small cry of surprise. Inkling was a dingy gray color, as if he’d been diluted by dirty water. It looked like he was shivering.

  “Inkling, what’s wrong?”

  JUST A BIT FATIGUED.

  “Was it too much work? I’m sorry, Inkling. Let me get you some real food!”

  He hurried around his room, dragging out the last few uneaten comics from his drawer. Inkling needed color and energy. From his bookshelf, Ethan also grabbed some books. He opened them all in front of Inkling, inviting him to eat. Sluggishly, Inkling moved onto the nearest comic. Like an ancient cat, he lapped out a pale tongue and lifted the ink off the page. Then took another lick. A few more licks, and then he was still. He didn’t look quite so pale now.

  THANKS, ETHAN.

  “Inkling, this work is amazing! You’ve done a fantastic job.”

  Wearily Inkling formed himself into a smiley face.

  “Thank you so much.”

  At school that day, Ethan worried. Mostly, about Inkling. He’d seemed so exhausted. Before this, all he’d been doing was black-and-white drawings for Ethan’s graphic novel, but what he created last night was on a whole other scale. The colors, the sweep of it—and the beginnings of a story that somehow Inkling had created all by himself. That was something he’d never done before! No wonder he was wiped out.

  Ethan was also worried about his father. Would he be pleased when he saw Inkling’s work after school?

  He just hoped it would smash through Dad’s castle-sized block.

  After school, Dad stared at the double-page spread on Ethan’s desk, a deep furrow across his forehead. Nervously, Ethan watched and waited.

  “Is this yours?” Dad finally asked him.

  “No.”

  He puffed out air. “Well, it’s someone doing a heck of a good imitation of me. Who did it?”

  “Well, you, really.”

  “No, I’d remember doing this. It’s not mine. Where’d you get this, Ethan?”

  “You have to promise to listen, and let me finish.”

  His father sat down in the chair, and Ethan told him everything. With every sentence he knew it sounded more and more like something from a comic book, but what was he supposed to do? It was the truth. When he finished, his father said nothing, gently swiveling to and fro in the chair, staring at the artwork. When he finally looked at his son, there was real concern in his eyes.

  “Ethan, I know things haven’t been easy—”

  “Dad, I’m not crazy!”

  “I never said you were! But I’m wondering if there might be another explanation for—”

  “Why don’t you just meet him?”

  “Inkling?” Dad looked more concerned than ever and was a bit lost for words. “Okay, sure.” He was talking more slowly and softly than usual, like a therapist from a movie. “Do you want to describe him to me?”

  “He’s not imaginary, Dad! You’re actually going to see him!”

  “Okay.”

  “He’s like a big splotch of ink.”

  “Got it.”

  Ethan sighed and turned to his bed. “Inkling, come meet my dad.”

  Underneath the bed, Inkling had been listening. He wanted to make a good impression on Mr. Rylance. He wanted to be likable. Puppies were likable, and the only thing better than a puppy was a really, really huge puppy.

  He came bounding out, tongue lolling, the size of a rabid timber wolf.

  “Holy crap!” Ethan’s dad shouted, pushing back in the chair so hard that it fell over with him in it. “Ethan, get out of here! It’s a freakin’ monster!”

  He grabbed his son’s hockey stick and started whacking Inkling.

  “Dad! Stop!”

  The giant puppy pranced around playfully, easily avoiding the hockey stick.

  “Inkling!” Ethan shouted. “Just be small, okay?”

  Instantly, Inkling shrank and slid onto Ethan’s outstretched hand.

  Dad sat panting on the floor. “What the heck is that?”

  “It’s Inkling, just like I’ve been telling you!”

  Slowly Mr. Rylance stood and watched Ethan carry Inkling to the desk. He glided off onto a piece of blank paper and wrote:

  HELLO, MR. RYLANCE. I’M SORRY I FRIGHTENED YOU.

  Ethan watched his father’s Adam’s apple bob up and down. Then Dad paced the room, his hands clasped over the top his head, taking big, noisy breaths in and out, and muttering to himself. He kept taking quick little glances over at Inkling, then looking away and shaking his head some more.

  “Dad?” Ethan said. “Dad!”

  “Yeah,” his father said.

  “It’s real.”

  “Yeah, okay.” He stopped pacing, came closer. “So. He came from my sketchbook?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he’s been helping you draw?”

  Ethan had already told him all this, but it was like Dad needed to ask a few questions that he already knew the answers to. Ethan nodded. Dad warily approached the desk and looked down at Inkling, who was gently expanding and contracting like a jellyfish.

  “What do I do?” Dad asked Ethan.

  “Maybe say hello.”

  “Hello, Inkling,” he said weakly, then added, “Sorry about the hockey stick. The dog was just very . . . realistic.”

  HE WAS PERHAPS A BIT LARGE.

  Dad nodded. He scratched his head. “Can I see you draw?”

  CERTAINLY. WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO DRAW?

  “Anything’s good.”

  Inkling hesitated a moment and then began a picture of a suited man sitting in a diner at night. Light poured through the windows out onto a city street. Ethan watched his father’s intent face.

  “Stop, please,” Dad said before the drawing was complete.

  “What’s wrong?” Ethan asked.

  His father righted the chair and sat down in it. “Nothing. It’s amazing. It’s just so . . . strange. It’s like watching myself draw, only I’m not doing it.”

  “He’s a part of you, jumped free from the sketchbook.”

  “Yeah,” Dad murmured. His eyes went back to the glorious double-page spread Inkling had created during the night. “And this . . .”

  “Do you like it?” Ethan asked anxiously.

  Dad looked at him solemnly. “You asked him to do this for me?”

  “Well, I just thought it might help . . .”

  “Get me unblocked?”

  “Maybe just get your imagination going, yeah.”

  His dad came over and gave him a hug. “Thank you. You don’t have to worry about me, you know. Everything’s okay.”

  Ethan nodded, but he wasn’t so sure. He didn’t think it was okay to not work for so long or to stay in bed all day. But it felt good to be hugged. It felt good to see Dad grin and to be told things were all right.

  “What do you think of it, though?” Ethan asked again, nodding at the spread.

  “I think,” Dad said, “that it’s fantastic.”

  Dad took them out to their favorite Italian restaurant.

  “Pasketti!” shouted Sarah before they were even seated. “With Parmesan!”

  They got one of the cozy booths. The restaurant was always bustling, and there were old Italian street signs and posters on the walls, and shelves with colorful jars of tomatoes and peppers and olives. Light danced off the zinc bar, behind which was a huge, ancient coffee machine that sounded like a steam engine.

 
While they waited for their meals, Sarah was full of stories about Lucy, her puppy—and not even Dad seemed to mind tonight. Ethan ordered a Limonata, and Sarah had milk with a straw, and Dad had a pale red wine, and they talked about Inkling, in between listening to Sarah.

  “He stays under your bed the whole time?” Dad asked.

  “Mostly. I keep newspapers for him to eat. He likes comics a lot, but they make him hyper. I’ve been trying to give him more books.”

  It was such a relief for Ethan to finally tell his father. A secret was a heavy thing to carry around for so long, and day by day it only got heavier. He realized that this was the most he and his dad had talked about anything in a long time.

  “He reads a lot at night. I think he wanders around, too,” Ethan added, but he couldn’t bring himself to mention how Inkling had drawn Dad’s dreams. It was too personal. “Oh, and he’s terrified of Rickman for some reason.”

  “Rickman?” Dad said, laughing.

  “Icklan is a naughty cat!” Sarah interjected.

  “A terribly naughty cat!” Dad agreed, which pleased Sarah no end.

  He took another sip of his wine and shook his head thoughtfully. “That spread Inkling did. It was like something I might’ve dreamed. The colors. And the energy across the page. There’s a setting and a character and something about to happen.”

  “So you think you’ll be able to use it?” Ethan asked hopefully.

  His father rocked his head side to side. “Well, it’s certainly not the same direction I’d been leaning toward. . . .”

  Ethan tried to hide his disappointment, but his father must’ve seen, because he said, “It’s amazing, don’t get me wrong. I feel like the door to a new world has just been kicked open.”

  “Yeah,” said Ethan. “I mean, just looking at it, don’t you have a million ideas of what might happen next?”

  “It’s very intriguing. I’ll need to look at it some more. Shouldn’t we keep him somewhere safer?”

  “Inkling?” Ethan blinked. “Like where?”

  “Someplace Rickman can’t get him.”

  “Well, Rickman can’t really hurt him—”

  “And where he can’t escape.”