Review
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Praise for INKLING!
"Astonishing."–The New York Times Book Review
"This masterful novel is funny, sad, and profound all at once.
Kenneth Oppel has created many unusual protagonists during his
stellar career, but his inventiveness reaches a whole new level
with Inkling, an inkblot that is fully and vividly alive." —Quill
and Quire, Starred
"Inkling is at turns hilarious, when he mimics the language of
the books he reads, and poignant, when he wonders about his
identity and purpose. The undercurrent of loss and grief, not to
mention questions of agency and personhood, give the story
weight, but do not weigh it down. Smith's energetic and
expressive ink drawings are the perfect complement and contribute
to the storytelling in playful ways. Oppel’s latest is
serious fun." —Booklist
"A unique story about the creative process and the journey
through grief." —SLJ
"Sweet and funny." —Kirkus Reviews
"Inkling is so clever and intriguing that it deserves a bookshelf
all to itself. Once you're done reading, you'll want to keep a
very close eye on it." —Carl Hiaasen, Newbery Honor Winner for
Hoot
"Inkling’s evolving abilities model a realistic creative arc—the
creature mimics its most recent literary meal (“I’M UTTERLY
ENRAPTURED” follows a stint with L.M. Montgomery) until it
eventually discovers its own voice—even as the other characters
work through grief and find their own stories."—Publishers Weekly
"An enjoyable read for budding young artists." —The Bulletin
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About the Author
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KENNETH OPPEL is one of the most highly regarded
authors of middle-grade fiction writing today. Among his books is
the 2015 middle-grade novel The Nest, which received six starred
reviews, was the Canadian Library Association's 2016 Book of the
Year, a New York Times Editors' Choice, and was included on
several notable "Best of 2015" lists, as well as Airborn, a 2005
Printz Honor Book. Find him online at www.kennethoppel.ca and
@KennethOppel.
SYDNEY SMITH is the illustrator of many award-winning picture
books, including Smoot, A Rebellious Shadow by Michelle Cuevas,
Sidewalk Flowers by JonArno Lawson, and Town is by the Sea by
Joanne Schwartz, for which he was awarded the Kate Greenaway
Medal. Sydney lives with his family in Toronto, Canada. You can
find him on Twitter @Sydneydraws.
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Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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No one was awake to see it happen, except Rickman.
He was taking one of his midnight prowls, padding past the
bedrooms of ing people, hoping to find something interesting
to eat. He was nearly always hungry. Against the wall he found a
dead fly, a chocolate chip, and a small piece of red crayon,
which he also ate. He was not a picky cat. At the end of the
hallway, he slipped into Mr. Rylance’s studio. In front of the
drafting table was a chair he liked, and Rickman heaved himself
up. It took two tries because he was heftier than he should have
been.
On the drafting table, Mr. Rylance’s big sketchbook lay open.
Animals and buildings and people jostled on the pages. Some
pictures had scribbles through them, some were very sketchy, and
others looked like they were ready to make an appearance in one
of Mr. Rylance’s finished graphic novels. But these were all just
ideas. They had no stories to go with them yet.
When it happened, it made no noise, but Rickman saw the whole
thing.
The black ink looked suddenly wet, like the pictures had been
drawn that very second. The lines glistened, then trembled. From
every corner of the sketchbook, the ink beaded and started
slithering across the pages toward the crease in the middle. As
the ink moved, it left no smear behind it, just blank page. The
lines of ink joined other lines, melding into weird shapes,
sometimes smooth, sometimes pointy, getting larger. When they all
met in the center of the book, they formed a big black splotch,
about the size of a fist. For a moment it was motionless, as if
resting.
Normally, Rickman took no interest in the arts, but this was
different. He put his paws on the edge of the drafting table and
leaned forward for a better view.
The ink rippled, like dark water with something swimming beneath
the surface. Then it was on the move again, flowing down the
crease until it reached the bottom of the page. It thickened
along the edge, as though it was trying to pour itself over—but
it couldn’t. It seemed to be stuck.
Rickman’s ears flattened against his skull. A thin tendril of
ink lifted from the page, maybe half an inch or so, like a tiny
arm desperate to escape quicksand. Then it got slurped back in.
Next a thicker spike of ink rose up, straining, reaching over
the edge of the sketchbook, one second, two, before it collapsed
back. Almost a minute passed and nothing happened.
Rickman yawned, showing his still-sharp teeth. This was getting
boring.
All at once the ink rippled, as if a stiff wind blew across it,
and then the entire splotch contracted and rose into a little
ain peak. It trembled, tensed, and then sprang. All the ink
lifted right off the sketchbook—leaving the pages totally
blank—and landed with a small splash on the drafting table.
Rickman purred low and deep in his throat. This was getting
interesting again. This might be something worth eating.
Already little strands of the ink splotch were being pulled back
toward the sketchbook, as if it were a magnet or a black hole.
The splotch struggled, fighting its way inch by inch across the
drafting table. The book had a powerful pull, dragging some
stringy tendrils of ink toward it. But just when they were about
to touch paper, they recoiled as if burned, rejoining the main
inky splotch.
When it finally reached the far edge of the drafting
table—leaving no trace of ink in its wake—it came to a rest,
quivering slightly like something exhausted, but also amazed, and
maybe even excited, because it started doing some kind of dance.
It swirled round and round, spinning itself into all kinds of
strange and beautiful shapes. Like it was celebrating its
freedom.
Rickman’s paw came slamming down on it, claws extended. The
splotch went spiky in surprise, then streaked between the cat’s
claws and right over the edge of the table. It scurried along the
underside, tested a table leg with a black, inky tongue, and then
slid itself down to the floor.
While Rickman sniffed at the drafting table, the ink started
flowing across the floor. It had no plan except to get as far
away as possible. When it was halfway to the door, Rickman turned
and his sharp eyes caught it. But by the time he’d eased himself
off the chair, the ink had seeped out into the hallway.
There was light in the hallway, so the ink made itself skinny
and slunk cautiously along the baseboard. Anyone looking would
have missed it, or thought it was just shadow.
But Rickman knew better. He was old, arthritic, and overweight,
but he hadn’t forgotten how to hunt. He prowled down the hall,
head dipped low, then pounced. The ink must have sensed him
coming, because it straight up the wall, faster than any
shadow. Rickman banged his nose against the baseboard and landed
clumsily on the floor. His nose wasn’t the only thing that hurt.
Nothing is more important to a cat than its dignity, and he
glared up at the ink splotch. The fur on his back lifted. With a
hiss, he leapt, claws extended.
The splotch darted higher, just out of reach, and then swelled
itself into a terrifying imitation of Rickman: an enormous black
cat, back humped and jagged. Its vast, inky claws down the
wall to swat Rickman. Yowling, Rickman somersaulted backward,
then bolted.
The ink shrank back into a small blob and jiggled a bit as if
laughing. It left no marks on the wall as it moved higher, onto
the framed of Mr. Rylance’s best-known character, a mutant
superhero called Kren.
But the moment the splotch tried to climb the glass, it slid
right back down to the frame. It shuffled along a bit and tried
again, with the same result, pouring off the glass like water.
There was no getting a grip on this stuff! The ink gave up, moved
back onto the wall, and kept going.
It wanted to find somewhere safe. When it reached a doorway, it
slid inside the darkened room and down to the floor, where it
paused. It sensed all the things in the room without knowing what
they were. It had no words yet, no names for things like a desk,
a bed, and a boy ing on the bed in a knotted tangle of
sheets that made it look like he’d been battling something. The
boy’s feet were on the pillow, and his head was where his feet
should have been.
Beside the bed was a pile of books, and the ink splotch stopped
warily. It waited. It sent out a tiny tendril, but these books
didn’t try to suck it in. Only Mr. Rylance’s sketchbook seemed to
want to do that. The ink slid closer.
It moved over an open math textbook and erased every word,
number, and diagram it touched. It actually slurped the ink into
itself. The ink paused, and formed itself into an isosceles
triangle, and then a rhombus, before flowing on, erasing as it
went. It left a blank trail behind it like a slug trail, except
it wasn’t slimy. It was just shiny blank paper.
Off the math book and onto a novel. It wiped out most of the
title and the cover illustration—it was in color, and the splotch
seemed to like color because it gave a happy shimmer—and then
found itself on a piece of illustration board.
The board had been divided up into squares and rectangles of
different sizes. Most of them had stick figures penciled inside
them, but in the very first squares were ink drawings. They
weren’t very good. There were lots of smears. The ink splotch
slid across, erasing as it went, and then stopped in the middle
of the board.
This seemed like a good hiding place. The splotch stretched,
then made itself as small as possible. It liked it here. The feel
of the creamy paper was pleasing. The ink turned itself round in
circles a few times, like a dog trying to get comfortable, and
then was still.
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