The Pirate's Eye Read online

  Stitch Head didn’t make a habit of looking at his reflection. Seeing himself only reminded him how small and unimpressive he was compared to the other impressive creations in the castle. He had no idea that one of his eyes looked different from the other.

  “Stitch Head,” said Arabella. “I think it’s about time you had a good look at yourself.”

  Arabella took a small pocket mirror out of her dress.

  “Is that so you can make sure you look NICE and PRETTY all the time?” boomed the Creature.

  “No, it’s so I can see creatures sneaking up on me,” replied Arabella. “Boys like to pull my hair, and I like to smash their teeth in for trying.”

  “Now REMEMBER, Stitch Head,” began the Creature. “There’s no SHAME in SCREAMING at your HIDEOUSNESS. I do it ALL the time.”

  “Stop worrying. I’ve seen stray dogs uglier than you, Stitch Head,” said Arabella, holding out the mirror. “Here, have a look at yourself.”

  Stitch Head peered into the mirror. He saw his round, worried face staring back at him. The first thing he noticed were his stitches, which ran like tiny train tracks across his face, separating the pale patches of skin.

  “See? Not so bad, is it?” added Arabella.

  Stitch Head shrugged. He didn’t look as strange as most of the professor’s creations, and he certainly didn’t feel like screaming. He peered closer. His right eye glinted hypnotically. It was a bright ice blue — and looked exactly like Captain Flashpowder’s.

  “SEE?” hollered the gleeful Creature. “You’ve got a PIRATE’S EYE! You’re part SWASHBUCKLER!”

  “But that’s not possible . . . is it?” asked Stitch Head. He knew he was made up from spare parts, but he’d never really thought about where they had come from.

  Stitch Head sat down on a pile of books. “What does it mean?” he whispered.

  “What do you think it means?” said Arabella. “It means the professor somehow got his hands on Flashpowder’s diary and his lost eye — and he gave that eye to you. The Creature’s right — you might look like a rag doll that’s been run over by a horse . . . but you’re definitely part pirate.”

  That night, with Arabella back home in Grubbers Nubbin and the Creature posing for an almost-life drawing class with some of the other creations, Stitch Head made his way deep into the maze-like bowels of the castle, far from the Forgotten Room, down winding, unlit staircases until he reached the dankest, darkest corner of Castle Grotteskew — the dungeon that he called home.

  There, he lay on his bed and opened The Daring Diary of Captain Flashpowder. It suddenly felt as if no time had passed since the professor had read it to him back in the playroom.

  Stitch Head’s mind was racing with possibilities. Could Flashpowder’s lost eye really have found its way to Castle Grotteskew, along with his diary? He felt his almost-living heart beat ever faster as he turned the page.

  “To adventure,” repeated Stitch Head.

  He closed the book and looked again at the cover, staring into Flashpowder’s eye. The resemblance to his own eye was uncanny. Could he really be part pirate? Stitch Head suddenly wondered if he was destined for more than just hiding away in a castle for the rest of his days. After all, shouldn’t even a part pirate be out sailing the oceans, looking for lost islands and hidden treasure?

  Stitch Head sighed, remembering his promise to his master. He could never leave Castle Grotteskew, not as long as Professor Erasmus called it home.

  Still, that was all the more reason to dream. He tried to picture himself aboard the Gadabout, the sun warming his skin as he strode up and down the deck. He tried to picture the waves buffeting the ship as he cast his ice-blue eye out to the horizon, to a distant, treasure-filled island. He tried imagining his crew singing bold sea shanties as they swabbed the poop deck. He felt for the sword by his side and held out his arm for the return of his trusty companion.

  But the more Stitch Head tried to picture himself as Captain Flashpowder, the more he was reminded of who he really was — a mad professor’s small, forgotten creation.

  No, if he was going to imagine himself as a pirate . . . he had to become a pirate.

  Stitch Head spent the rest of the night making a list of all the really piratey things about the amazing Captain Flashpowder.

  “An ice-blue eye” didn’t seem vital to becoming a pirate, but it was the one thing he and Flashpowder did have in common. All the other stuff seemed pretty hard to come by. Where on earth was he going to get a ship? Or a parrot?

  Stitch Head decided to start small. He found a slim piece of wood and carved one end to a point with a not-particularly-sharp rock. Then he found a smaller piece of wood and tied it on near the base with a piece of rope.

  “My trusty sword,” he said. He began swinging the piece of wood, trying to imagine he was Captain Flashpowder facing a fearsome sea serpent or a horde of hungry ghost-pirates. In the end, it just made him feel like a mad professor’s first creation swinging a piece of wood.

  With determination, he clambered onto a nearby table and reached up for one of the many chains that hung from the ceiling. He grabbed the chain and leaped into the air, imagining he was swinging from the rigging of the Gadabout!

  “A fast ye!” he cried in his loudest whisper, as he flew across the dungeon. “Spice the mail brace! Hoist the middle mast! To advent — OOOOF!”

  KRUMP!

  Stitch Head flew face first into a wall and slid to the ground with a THUD!

  “Oww . . .”

  He lay motionless for a minute, the sound of the chains still clanging in his ears. Then he checked to see if any of his stitches had come loose and inspected his sword, which had snapped halfway down. He took another piece of rope and tied it around his waist like a belt. Then he hooked in the sword . . . and sighed. He still didn’t feel like a pirate — at all.

  He needed a trusty companion.

  After sunrise, Stitch Head set to work finding himself a trusty companion.

  Of course, there was the Creature. It had been Stitch Head’s “bestest friend” since the day of its creation, when Stitch Head had cured it of a nasty case of werewolfism. He trusted the Creature more than anyone, but he couldn’t exactly keep it perched on his shoulder. No, Stitch Head needed a parrot.

  His master, Professor Erasmus, had a baffling collection of so-called ingredients for use in his experiments. His laboratory was filled with an extensive store of less-than-alive creatures (or parts of them) from all over the world. Surely he would have a parrot or two lying around.

  Over the years, Stitch Head had found a dozen different ways of getting inside the laboratory — and all without being spotted by his master. Until now, he had been looking for ingredients for his cures — the endless potions, tonics, and ointments he’d created to stop his professor’s more unpredictable creations from running wild. But today, only a parrot would do.

  Stitch Head crawled through a crack in the east wall of the laboratory. It was a huge room with a high ceiling, with plenty of dark shadows in which to hide — even as the light of the morning tried to creep in.

  At the far end of the laboratory, the professor was pacing back and forth near his desk. He was clutching a handful of notes and calculations and mumbling things like, “AHA! It needs bigger toes!” and, “How many brains are too many?”

  Stitch Head headed for the other end of the room, where the professor kept his vast store of ingredients. Along the far wall was a high, wide tower of wooden shelves, filled with crates, boxes, and jars, each containing things of unimaginable strangeness — and labeled accordingly.

  Stitch Head passed by a jar of eyes marked “SLIGHTLY ALIVE EYES — HANDLE WITH STARE.” He instinctively looked away as the eyes bobbed about in the yellowish liquid.

  “Cat’s whiskers . . . dog’s breath . . . dragon’s teeth . . .” he mumbled, as he moved along the first s
helf — jar after jar, bottle after bottle. There was nothing that even resembled a parrot. He clambered up to a higher shelf and began carefully making his way along it.

  “Crow’s feet . . . owl’s brains . . . elephant memory lobes . . .” he muttered, as he shuffled along the shelf. There was still no sign of even a single piece of a parrot. He climbed higher.

  By the time he had reached the highest shelf, Stitch Head had almost given up hope. The shelf itself was rotting and covered in cobwebs, and crammed with dozens of neglected, sad-looking sacks marked “SPARE PARTS.” These were the bits and pieces that simply weren’t good enough for his master’s impressive creations . . . just like the parts the young professor had used to make Stitch Head all those years ago.

  But then, at the far end of the shelf, he spotted something glinting in the lamplight — large, dust-covered jar marked “PICKLED PARROT PARTS.”

  “Perfect!” whispered Stitch Head. “And perfectly pickled.”

  Stitch Head cautiously made his way along the shelf as the ancient, dry wood splintered beneath him. He dared to look down and realized how perilously high he had climbed.

  He held his breath and fixed his gaze on the bright colors of the parrot parts. He reached out with his tiny arm, but it was too far away. He shuffled along a bit farther . . . and heard a loud CRRREEEAAK.

  “Uh-oh,” Stitch Head muttered, as he felt the shelf start to buckle. He stared down in horror to see the wood splinter and crack . . . and the parrot jar begin to slide off the shelf!

  Stitch Head grabbed it with both hands, but it was too heavy. For a moment, it was like time stood still.

  Stitch Head held on for his almost-life — and he, the jar and a dozen or so sacks of spare parts plummeted to the ground!

  “AaaaaaAAAH —” Stitch Head cried out.

  The jar shattered into a thousand shards, sending pieces of pickled parrot flying across the laboratory.

  Stitch Head panicked. The professor! What if he caught his first creation stealing from him?

  Stitch Head scrambled to his feet, slipping and sliding in the slick of spilled pickled parrot goo. Then, as he raced for the crack in the wall, he instinctively grabbed one of the sacks of spare parts. He had almost made his escape when he stopped . . . and looked back.

  “I know! I’ll add another head!” screamed the professor, oblivious to Stitch Head’s mishap. “Mad professoring is all about extra heads these days! This will be my greatest creation ever! AHAHA-AHAHAA!”

  Stitch Head kicked himself for worrying. His master would not notice him — or the broken jar. All the professor could see was his next creation.

  Stitch Head sighed, slung the sack over his shoulder, and disappeared into the shadows.

  Stitch Head carefully made his way to the Forgotten Room. It was still early and the castle was quiet. The Creature (who was quite the social butterfly) was no doubt regaling the other creations with tales of their octo-monster escapade, so it was the perfect time to work without interruptions.

  He emptied the spare parts sack on to the creating table. There was one mostly moldy monkey and a few bits of battered bat . . . hardly the ideal ingredients for a trusty companion.

  Stitch Head stared at the parts and began assembling them in his head. He had watched so many of his master’s experiments brought to life, it almost seemed like second nature to him. He quickly set to work, toiling all day and all night on his creation.

  By the following morning, his trusty companion was ready to be brought to almost-life.

  “Here goes nothing,” he said to himself, looking down at the tiny, cobbled-together creature. Stitch Head pumped in the last of the cultivation goo, attached a handful of electrodes and turned on the makeshift generator. It hadn’t been used for more than forty years — did it still work? Did it have enough power to bring the creation to almost-life, as it had him? There was only one way to find out.

  “Live . . . please,” he added, and pulled the life-lever. After a moment, bright blue bolts of electricity darted out of the machine. The creature began to shake uncontrollably and gray smoke poured from its ears.

  “Uh, less power? More? What do I do?” cried Stitch Head, his hand gripping the life-lever. Suddenly, the generator began to spark and fizz as if it were coming apart at the seams. The machine started glowing with uncontrolled energy . . .

  The generator exploded! Stitch Head crashed headfirst into a pile of books as shards of sparking metal flew past him! He scrambled to his feet and peered into the thick smoke. Had his creation been blown to bits?

  After a moment, something moved.

  “Hello?” Stitch Head said.

  He waved the smoke away with his hands. There, on the floor, sat a small blue and gray creature. He was a strange, unpleasant combination of parts. While he was more or less monkey-shaped, his front legs were the folded wings of a bat, and he also had a bat’s wide, flat nose.

  The monkey-bat unfolded his wings as if he were trying to remember what they were.

  “I — I did it. My first creation! My very own . . . monkey-bat!” whispered Stitch Head. “My trusty companion!”

  He knelt down and held out his hand. “It’s okay, don’t be afraid. I am Stitch Head. I’m your master.”

  The monkey-bat chirped and cocked his head.

  Then he bared his teeth . . . and his eyes flooded with rage!

  “GRrrrRRRR . . .” the strange creation muttered.

  “Uh-oh,” said Stitch Head.

  As it turned out, Stitch Head’s first creation was also the most vicious, monstrous creature he had ever met — and that was really saying something. After all but destroying the Forgotten Room, the tiny monkey-bat flew into the castle. Stitch Head barely escaped with his stitches intact. He hurried down to his dungeon home and gathered all the calming curatives, soothing salves, and treating tonics he could cram into his bag.

  As Stitch Head raced out of the dungeon, the monkey-bat was already rampaging through the castle. Stitch Head simply followed the terrified screams of the castle’s other creations to discover the whereabouts of his so-called trusty companion.

  Before long, Stitch Head found himself in the most populated part of the castle. He rarely ventured this far. He had yet to introduce himself to the hundreds of Grotteskew’s generally friendly creations: motorized lizard-ladies, skull-faced brains, beetle-bodied bug-boys, steam-powered caterpillars — because wherever he turned, he was reminded of his master’s mad genius, and his own insignificance.

  But today, Stitch Head didn’t have time to hide in the shadows. He raced between the various creations’ legs (and wheels and tentacles and robotic parts) as the mad monkey-bat flew from victim to victim, assaulting them.

  “AHHH! Oliver, save me!” screamed a two-tailed snake-man with robot arms, as the monkey-bat attacked him from behind. “It’s eating my favorite end!”

  “Help!” shrieked a tin-plated skeleton. “He wants to kill me! I can feel it in my bones!”

  “Help! It’s going for my phantom limb!” cried a bodiless head.

  Even when Stitch Head managed to get close enough to administer a potion, the monkey-bat would simply sneeze and continue his rampage. If he made it to the professor’s laboratory, who knew what might happen? Stitch Head had to do something.

  He needed help.

  “But I was JUST about to take my BATH . . . ” groaned the Creature, as Stitch Head dragged it along the stone corridor towards the commotion-causing monkey-bat.

  “He’s destroying the castle!” cried Stitch Head. “We have to stop this . . . thing before he does something terrible.”

  “So you REALLY made your very own CREATION?” asked the Creature. “Does that mean you’re a MAD PROFESSOR now?”

  “No . . . no, of course not!” Stitch Head replied. “I was just . . . trying something. But this thing is, well, he’s mad.” />
  “But NO ONE is better than YOU at making MAD things UN-MAD,” said the Creature. “I mean, you CURED me of werewolfism TWICE! You’re the BEST . . .”

  “Not this time,” Stitch Head replied. “I’ve created an incurable monster! I’m afraid I’ve made a —”

  Stitch Head froze as he noticed sunlight streaming in from the open courtyard door. The monkey-bat was outside. If he flew over the castle walls . . . !

  Stitch Head and the Creature crept out into the courtyard. At the far end was the Great Door to the outside world. In the center, perched atop a statue of the professor, was the monkey-bat.

  growled the monkey-bat, his eyes darting around for something to attack.

  “Wait . . . THAT’S what you’re so WORRIED about?” the Creature said, laughing. “THAT tiny little THINGY?”

  “He’s trying to escape the castle,” said Stitch Head. “We can’t let that happen.”

  “Leave it to ME,” said the Creature, stomping toward the statue. “The IMPORTANT thing is to show this thingy who’s BOSS!”

  “Creature, wait!” cried Stitch Head . . . but it was too late. The Creature was already halfway across the courtyard.

  “Now LOOK here, little thingy,” began the Creature. “I know how HARD it is being brought to ALMOST-LIFE . . . everything seems so STRANGE and almost-new. But that’s a PERFECTLY almost-natural feeling. There’s nothing to FEAR. You’re among BESTEST friends here!”

  The monkey-bat stared at the Creature for a moment, his blood-red eyes all but glowing with feral rage.