Otto P. Nudd - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Emily Butler is the eldest of seven children and grew up hiding behind the sofa so that she could read her books in peace and quiet. (It was never quiet.) She finished high school in Brazil, worked on a kibbutz in Israel, practiced law in New York City, catered weddings in London--and was never without a book in her backpack or briefcase. Emily recently moved to Utah with her husband. They live in an old house that is stuffed to the gills with three lovely but disobedient children, and every sort of book. Find her online at emilybutlerbooks.com or @emilyhbutler.

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1

A Man, a Raven, and a Thingamajig 

“Otto, you’re splendid,” mumbled Bartleby Doyle. “You’re a genius. A bird for the ages.” 

His mouth was full of pins and it was hard to make out every word, but Otto had a good idea of what he was saying. If a raven could blush, Otto would have blushed. But not because he disagreed with Bartleby. Oh, no. The Old Man was right. 

“The likelihood of this thingamajig going up in flames is small,” continued Bartleby. “But why take a chance if you don’t have to?” 

Otto winced. He disliked the word “thingamajig,” preferring “machine,” or even “contraption.” But he was fussier than the Old Man, who was (for the greatest inventor Ida Valley had ever known) a casual, absentminded sort of human. 

Bartleby bent over the length of moss-colored corduroy and pinned a strip of white fabric to it. The fabric was fireproof. It was, in fact, cut from the underwear of Ida Valley’s fire chief. Bartleby never asked how Otto had obtained this item, but you should know that (1) it was scrupulously clean, and (2) the fire chief never left a basket of laundry unattended on the roof of his car again. At any rate, when Otto had pressed a flaming match to the garment and it had refused to ignite, Bartleby bought an entire case of underwear. Then they’d cut it all into the strips that now lay on the workbench.

Bartleby held out his hand. Otto gave him a strip, and then another, and another. Eventually, the corduroy was covered with overlapping white strips. Bartleby carried everything to a sewing machine under a long, high window through which the gray light of dawn shone, and sat down.

While the Old Man fiddled with the stitch length regulator, Otto looked about their workshop with immense satisfaction. They had all the good stuff. There were table saws of many kinds, and a drill press, and chests full of wrenches and screwdrivers. There were buckets of bolts, jars of nails, and a vast array of pulleys and gears. There were also many finer instruments, like strain gauges, flowmeters, and gadgets to measure acceleration and isolate vibrations. A water fountain dominated an entire corner of the shop, used by man and raven alike whenever they got thirsty. Otto loved that thing!

What couldn’t a person (or bird) invent here?

Two details seemed out of place in the workshop. An empty birdcage protruded from behind some filing cabinets, and large burlap sacks bulging with peanuts were lined up against a wall, slumping over a little, as if they were taking a nap. Neither were items of curiosity to Otto. He had lived in the cage, and knew the nuts were part of a monthly delivery that had been going on since before he’d hatched. 

The fact was that Bartleby was a peanut fanatic. He fed them to corvids, as we shall see, and he popped them into his own mouth like candy. 

“Ready, my boy?” asked Bartleby. 

Otto positioned himself on the other side of the sewing machine and gave Bartleby the smallest of nods. Without another word, the Old Man rammed his foot down on the floor pedal. 

The machine jolted to life. Its needle gobbled through the fabric like a noisy demon, suturing the layers of cloth together faster and faster. Bartleby barely kept up with it, guiding the material over the feed dogs and back to Otto. The raven deftly plucked the pins out of the fabric as they passed him, thrusting each one into a round pincushion. He didn’t miss any. 

They made an excellent team. 

When they were done, Bartleby shook the corduroy out and examined it for gaps between the seams. There were none. Otto checked it a second time, going over every stitch with eyes as keen as blades. Their work was good. It was more than good--it was super. Otto flew to Bartleby’s shoulder and balanced there, imperious and bright. “Hello!” he cawed. “Hello!” 

Deep, happy wrinkles puckered Bartleby’s face. He stroked the exuberant ruff of feathers under Otto’s throat as he walked to the door of their workshop. They would meet again after breakfast.

“We’re ready, old bean,” he said (even though Otto was a young bean). “Very, very ready. I can feel it in my bones. Today’s the day.”

2

The Inside Scoop

Pippa Sinclair stomped into the kitchen. She looked absolutely ferocious.

“Where’s my yellow scoop? I can’t find it anywhere. And I’ve turned the house inside out!”

“Turned the house inside out?” Mrs. Sinclair looked up from her list, the first of many she would scribble that day. “You just rolled out of bed.” 

“Where’s my yellow scoop?” Pippa would not be sidetracked. 

“I borrowed it a tiny bit,” admitted Mrs. Sinclair. She knew she was guilty. “Just to plant the pansies. It’s in the bag of garden soil.” 

Pippa stared at her mother in disbelief. “You mean the dirt?” she asked. “Mom, that scoop is strictly off-limits.” 

Mrs. Sinclair stared back at Pippa, their eyes locked in a contest of wills. Then Mrs. Sinclair surrendered. Pippa was formidable even when she was wrong. When she was right, she towered with moral authority. 

“Off-limits!” repeated Pippa. “It’s for the birds, and the birds only.” 

“It’s for the birds,” Mrs. Sinclair conceded, waving her list in defeat. 

Pippa threw open the doors to the porch overlooking the backyard. There, by a clump of purple pansies, was the bag of garden soil. And sure enough, a yellow plastic handle emerged from its loamy surface. 

“Not cool, Mom,” said Pippa. 

She sped outside, yanked the scoop out of the soil, and rapped it against the porch a little harder than was necessary. Then she unscrewed the lid on the five-gallon bucket of premium birdseed that she kept in the shade of a lilac bush. It was the delicious kind, with extra sunflower kernels. Pippa plunged the scoop into its depths several times, filling a mason jar with the blend of nuts, seeds, and dried berries. Then she carried the jar across the yard and set it at the base of the bird feeder. 

Now came the hard part. The bird feeder hung six feet in the air, and Pippa was shrimpy, even for a ten-year-old. She used a long branch that forked at the tip to lift the feeder off its pole. After lowering it to the ground, she filled its hopper with birdseed from her jar. Then she hoisted it all the way back up. Her arms shook with effort. 

“Come and get it!” she yelled. 

She didn’t wait to see who was going to show up first. She was running behind schedule, and there was still the question of Otto’s gift. 

Was anyone watching? She didn’t think so. 

Pippa sidled over to the Japanese maple whose long branches brushed the dirt like gentle brooms. It offered good cover. She ducked under the leaves and put out a hand, touching the place where two roots met to form a little bowl. Yes, something was there--a hard, smooth, narrow thing, which Pippa slipped into the pocket of her jeans. 

From her other pocket, she pulled out half a hamburger she’d saved from yesterday’s dinner. It was squashed from spending the night in her sock drawer. Otto won’t care, she thought. He’s not picky. She put it in the spot between the roots and backed away, emerging from the tree and wiping her palms on her shirt. 

“Hello, Otto! Hello!” she shouted into the woods behind her...