Текст книги "Abarat: Absolute Midnight"

Автор книги: Клайв Баркер

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“Then, Lordy Lou, ask it.”

Zuprek’s shards fixed upon Candy. “I want to know when it was you were last in the company of Christopher Carrion,” he said.

Say nothing, Boa told her.

Why shouldn’t they know? Candy thought, and without waiting for any further argument from Boa she told Zuprek, “I found him in my parents’ bedroom.”

“This was back in the Hereafter?”

“Yes, of course. My mother and father haven’t been to the Abarat. None of my family has.”

“Well, that’s some sort of comfort, I suppose,” Zuprek said. “At least we won’t have an invasion of Quackenbushes to deal with.”

His sour humor got a few titters from sympathetic souls around the table: Nyritta Maku, Skippelwit, one or two others. But Neabas still had further questions. And he was deadly serious:

“What was Carrion’s condition?” he wanted to know.

“He was very badly wounded. I thought he was going to die.”

“But he didn’t die?”

“Not on the bed, no.”

“Somewhere close by, you’re implying?”

“I only know what I saw.”

“And what was that?”

“Well . . . the window burst open, and all this water rushed in. It carried him away. That was the last time I saw him. Disappearing into the dark water, and then gone.”

“Are you satisfied, Neabas?” Jimothi said.

“Almost,” came the reply. “Just tell us all, without any lies or half-truths, what you believe the real reason for Carrion’s interest in you was?”

“I already said: I don’t know.”

“She’s right,” Jimothi reminded his fellow Councilors. “Now we’re going around in circles. I say enough.”

“I have to agree,” Skippelwit remarked. “Though I, like Neabas, yearn for the good old days, when we could have left her with Yeddik Magash for a while. I don’t have any problem with using someone like Magash if the situation really calls for it.”

“Which this doesn’t,” Jimothi said.

“On the contrary, Jimothi,” Neabas said. “There is going to be One Last Great War—”

“How do you know that?” Jimothi said.

“Just accept it. I know what the future looks like. And it’s grim. The Izabella will be bloodred from Tazmagor to Babilonium. I do not exaggerate.”

“And this will be all her fault?” Helio Fatha said. “Is that what you’re implying?”

“All?” Neabas said. “No. Not all. There are ten thousand reasons why a war is bound to come eventually. Whether it will be the last war is . . . shall we say . . . open to speculation. But whether it is or isn’t, it’s going to be a disastrous conflict, because it comes with so many questions unanswered, many of them—maybe most, maybe all—are associated with this girl. Her presence has raised the heat under a simmering pan. And now it will quickly boil. Boil and burn.”

What do I say to that? Candy silently asked Boa.

As little as possible, Boa told her. Let him be the aggressor if that’s the game he wants to play. Just pretend you’re cool and sophisticated instead of some girl who was dragged up out of nowhere.

You mean act more like a Princess? Candy replied, unable to keep the raw displeasure from her thoughts.

Well, as you put it that way . . . the Princess said.

As I put it that way what?

Yes. I suppose I do mean more like me.

Well, you keep thinking that, Candy said.

Let’s not get into an argument about it. We both want the same thing.

And what’s that?

To keep Yeddik Magash from taking us into a sealed room.

“So, if anyone has insight into Carrion’s nature, it’s our guest. Isn’t that right, Candy? May I call you Candy? We’re not your enemies, you do know that?”

“Funny, that’s not the impression I get,” Candy replied. “Come on. No more stupid games. You all think I was conspiring with him, don’t you?”

“Conspiring to do what?” Helio Fatha said.

“How would I know?” Candy said. “I didn’t do it.”

“We’re not fools, girl,” said Zuprek, reentering the exchange with his tone now nakedly combative. “Nor are we without informants. You can’t keep the company of someone like Christopher Carrion without drawing attention to yourself.”

“Are you telling me that you were spying on us?”

Zuprek allowed a phantom smile to haunt his stone face. “How interesting,” he said softly. “I sniff guilt.”

“No, you don’t,” Candy told him. “It’s just irritation you can smell. You had no right to be watching me. Watching us. You’re the Grand Council of the Abarat and you’re spying on your own citizens?”

“You’re not a citizen. You’re a nobody.”

“That was just vicious, Zuprek.”

“She’s mocking us. Do any of you see that? She intends to be the death of us, so she mocks.”

There was a long silence. Finally somebody said, “We’re done with this interview. Let’s move on.”

“I agree,” Jimothi said.

“She told us nothing, you dumb cat!” Helio yelled.

Jimothi sprang up off his chair and onto his haunches in one smooth motion.

“You know my people are closer to beasts than some of you others,” he said. “Maybe you should remember that. I can smell a lot of fear in this room right now . . . a lot.”

“Jimothi . . . Jimothi!” Candy stepped in the Cat King’s line of sight. “Nobody’s been hurt. It’s all right. There’s just some people here with no respect for those who are a little different.”

Jimothi stared through Candy not hearing her, it seemed, or listening to anything she was saying. His claws curled into the table and raked the polished wood.

“Jimothi . . .”

“I have such high regard for the visitor. I admit that predisposes me to think well of her, but if I genuinely believed she would be—as Zuprek put it—‘the death of us’ there is no sentiment in the Abarat that would make me merciful.”

“Well then, Zuprek,” Nyritta said. “I think it falls to you to prove or not to prove.”

“Forget proof,” Neabas said. “This isn’t about proof. It’s about faith. We who have faith in the future of the Abarat must act to protect it. Sometimes we will be criticized for our decisions—”

“You’re talking about the camps,” Nyritta said.

“I don’t approve of the girl hearing us discussing the camps,” Zuprek said. “It’s none of her business.”

“What does it matter?” Helio said. “People already know.”

“It’s time we discussed this,” Jimothi said. “Commexo is building one on Ninnyhammer, but nobody asks questions. Nobody cares as long as the Kid keeps telling them everything’s perfect.”

“Don’t you support the camps, Jimothi?” Nyritta said.

“No, I do not.”

“Why not?” said Yobias. “Your family line is perfectly pure. Look at you. Purebred Abaratian.”

“So what?”

“You’d be perfectly safe. We all would.”

Candy sniffed something of significance here, but she kept her tone as casual as possible, despite the sickening feeling she had in the pit of her stomach. “Camps?”

“It’s nothing to do with you,” Nyritta snapped. “You shouldn’t even be hearing these things.”

“You make it sound like they’re something you’re ashamed of,” Candy said.

“You’re reading something into my words that’s not there.”

“Okay. So you’re not ashamed.”

“Absolutely not. I’m simply doing my duty.”

“I’m glad you’re proud,” Jimothi jumped in, “because one day we may need to answer for every decision we’ve done. This interrogation, the camps. Everything.” He was staring down at his paws. “If this goes bad they’ll need necks for nooses. And they’ll be ours. It should be ours. We all knew what we were doing when we started this.”

“Scared for your neck, are you, Jimothi?” said Zuprek.

“No,” Jimothi said. “I’m scared for my soul, Zuprek. I’m afraid I will lose it because I was too busy making camps for Pure-bloods.”

Zuprek uttered a grinding growl, and started to get up from the table, his hands closed into fists.

“No, Zuprek,” Nyritta Maku said, “this meeting is at a close.” She threw an aside at Candy. “Go, child. You’re dismissed!”

“I haven’t finished with her!” Zuprek yelled.

“This committee has!” Maku said. This time she pushed Candy toward the door. “Go!”

It was already open. Candy glanced back at Jimothi, grateful for all he had done. Then she headed away through the door while Zuprek’s cries echoed off the Chamber walls:

“She’ll be the death of us!”

Chapter 3

The Wisdom of the Mob

CANDY FOUND MALINGO WAITING for her among the crowd outside the Council Chambers. The look of relief that flooded his face when she emerged was almost worth the discomfort of the highly unpleasant interview. She did her best to hurriedly explain all that she’d just endured.

“But they’ve let you go?” he said when she was finished.

“Yeah,” Candy said. “You thought they were going to throw me in jail?”

“It crossed my mind. There’s no love for the Hereafter, that’s for sure. Just listening to people passing by . . .”

“And the worst is still to come,” Candy said.

“Another war?”

“That’s what the Council thinks.”

“Abarat against the Hereafter? Or Night against Day?”

Candy caught a few suspicious glances coming her way. “I think we should continue this conversation somewhere else,” she said. “I don’t want any more interrogations.”

“Where do you want to go?” Malingo said.

“Anywhere, as long as it’s away from here,” Candy said. “I don’t want to have any more questions thrown at me until I’ve got all the answers straight.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?”

Candy threw Malingo an uneasy glance.

“Say it,” he said. “Whatever it is you’ve got on your mind.”

“I’ve got a Princess on my mind, Malingo. And now I know she’s been there since the day I was born. It changes things. I thought I was Candy Quackenbush from Chickentown, Minnesota. And in a way I was. I lived an ordinary life on the outside. But on the inside, in here,” she said, putting her finger to her temple, “I was learning what she knew. That’s the only explanation that makes sense. Boa learned magic from Carrion. And then I took it from her and hid it.”

“But you’re saying that aloud right now.”

“That’s because she knows now. There’s no use to play hide-and-seek, not for either of us. She’s in me, and I know it. And I’ve got everything she knows about the Abarataraba. And she knows that.”

I would have done the same thing, I don’t doubt, Boa said. But I think it’s time we parted.

“I agree.”

“With what?” Malingo said.

“I was talking to Boa. She wants her freedom.”

“Can’t blame her,” Malingo said.

“I don’t,” Candy said. “I just don’t know where to start.”

Ask the geshrat to tell you about Laguna Munn.

“Do you know somebody called Laguna Munn?”

“Not personally, no,” Malingo said. “But there was a rhyme in one of Wolfswinkel’s books about the woman.”

“Do you remember it?”

Malingo thought for a moment or two. Then he recited it:

“Laguna Munn,

Had a son,

Perfect in every way.

A joy to see at work time,

And bliss to watch at play!

But oh, how did she come by him?

I cannot bear to say!”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah. Supposedly one of her sons was made from all the good in her, but he was a dull child. So dull she wanted nothing to do with him. So she went and made another son—”

“Let me guess. Out of all the evil in her?”

“Well, whoever wrote the rhyme cannot bear to say, but yes, I think that’s what we’re supposed to think.”

She’s a very powerful woman, Boa said. And she’s been known to use her powers to help people, if she’s in the mood. Candy reported this to Malingo. Then Boa added, Of course, she is crazy.

“Why is there always a catch?” Candy said out loud.

“What?” Malingo said.

“Boa says Laguna Munn’s crazy.”

“And what—you’re Candy, the sane lady? I don’t think so.”

“Good point.”

“Let the mad find wisdom in their madness for the sane, and let the sane be grateful.”

“Is that a famous saying?”

“Maybe if I say it often enough.”

The geshrat talks a lot of sense . . . for a geshrat.

“What did she say?” Malingo asked Candy.

“How did you know she said anything?”

“I’m starting to see it on your face.”

“She said you were very clever.”

Malingo didn’t look convinced. “Yeah, I bet she did,” he said.

Their route took them back to the harbor via a selection of much smaller streets than those by which they had ascended to the Council Chamber. There was an air of unease in these narrow alleys and tiny yards. People were going about anxious, furtive business. It was, Candy thought, as though everyone was making plans for what to do if things didn’t turn out right. Through partly opened doors that gave access into shadowy interiors she even caught a glimpse of people packing up in preparation for a hurried departure. Malingo clearly interpreted what they saw the same way because he said to Candy:

“Did the Council talk about evacuating The Great Head?”

“No.”

“Then why are people getting ready to leave?”

“It makes no sense. If anywhere’s safe, it’s the Yebba Dim Day. Lordy Lou! This is one of the oldest structures in existence.”

“Apparently old age isn’t what it used to be.”

They walked on in silence then, down to the harbor. There were a dozen fishing boats or more trying to find docking places so that the cargo of detritus could be unloaded.

“Bits of Chickentown . . .” Candy said grimly.

“Don’t let it bother you. The people here have heard so many things about your people over the years. Now they’ve got something to actually hold in their hands.”

“It looks like trash, most of it.”

“Yeah.”

“What are they going to think of Chickentown?” Candy said sadly.

Malingo said nothing. He hung back to let Candy go on ahead to examine the stuff the fishermen had scooped from the waters of the Izabella. Did the people of the Abarat think any of this was of value? Two pink plastic flamingos, washed away from somebody’s garden, a lot of old magazines and bottles of pills, some bits of bashed-up furniture, a big sign with a stupid bug-eyed chicken painted on it, and another that announced the subject of the Sunday sermon at the Lutheran Church on Whittmer Street: The Many Doors of God’s Mansion.

Somebody among the crowd, a golden-eyed, green-bearded individual lubricated by several bottles of the Kid’s Best Ale, had decided to take this opportunity to pontificate on the subject of how dangerous humankind and its wicked technologies could be. He had plenty of supporters and friends among the crowd, who quickly provided him with a couple of fish crates to stand on, from which perch he let loose a venomous tirade. “If the tide carried their treasures here,” he said, “then it’s going to bring some of their owners too. We need to be ready. We all know what the people of the Hereafter will do if they come back. They’ll be after the Abarataraba again.”

He had only got that far when Candy heard somebody nearby murmur her name.

She looked around, and quickly found a friendly face, that of Izarith, who’d taken the trouble to look after Candy when she’d first ventured into the chaotic interior of The Great Head. She’d fed Candy, and given her a warm fire by which to dry herself, even given Candy her first Abaratian garments to wear. Izarith was a Skizmut; her people were born from the deep waters of what Izarith had called Mama Izabella. Now she came through the crowd toward Candy, wearing what looked like a homemade hat, sewn from different kinds of seaweed. She was cradling her baby Nazrй with one arm and holding the little hand of her daughter Maiza with the other.

She was very emotional about seeing Candy again. Her eyes filled with silver-green tears.

“I’ve heard so much about you since you first came to my house. About all the things that you’ve done.” She glanced at Malingo. “And I’ve heard about you too,” she said. “You’re the one who worked for the wizard, right? On Ninnyhammer?”

Malingo made a little smile.

“This is Izarith, Malingo,” Candy said. “She was very kind to me when I first got here.”

“I did what anybody would have done,” Izarith said. “Do you have time to come back to the house and tell me whether all the things I’ve heard are true? You both look hungry.”

“Actually, I am a little,” Malingo said.

But in the short time since Izarith had called to Candy the mood of the crowd had changed, influenced by the anger toward humankind pouring from the man with the green beard.

“We should hunt them down, every last one of them humans, and hang them,” he said. “If we don’t it’s only a moment of time before they come looking to steal our magic again.”

“You know, I don’t think we have time to eat, Izarith, much as we’d liked to stay.”

“You’re worried about Kytomini aren’t you?”

“Is he the one saying he’d like me hanged?”

“He hates everybody. Right now it’s your people, Candy. It could be geshrats in five minutes.”

“There’s a lot of people agreeing with him,” Candy said.

“People like to have somebody to hate. Me, I’m too busy raising the little ones.”

“What about your husband?”

“Oh, Ruthus is working on his boat right now. Patching it up for selling. We’re getting out of the Yebba Dim Day as soon as we have the money. It’s getting too dangerous.”

“Is his boat seaworthy?” Malingo said.

“Ruthus says it is.”

“Then perhaps he’d take us to the Nonce, for a price.”

“The Nonce?” Izarith said. “Why are you going there?”

“We’re meeting friends,” Candy said. She reached in her pockets as she talked, and brought out all the paterzem she had. Malingo did the same. “Here’s all the money we’ve got,” she said to Izarith. “Would that pay for the journey?”

“I’m sure it’ll be more than enough,” Izarith replied. “Come on, I’ll take you to Ruthus. The boat’s nothing fancy, just so you know.”

“We don’t need anything fancy,” Candy said. “We just need to get away from here.”

Izarith lent Candy her wide-brimmed hat, to keep anyone in the increasingly agitated crowd from realizing that they had a member of humankind in their midst, then led Candy and Malingo down the quay, past vessels large and small to one of the smallest of the lot.

There was a man on board doing some final work on his vessel with brush and paint. Izarith called her husband away from his work, and quickly explained the situation. Meanwhile Candy watched Kytomini’s audience from the corner of her eye. She had a nasty feeling that she and Malingo had not passed through the crowd entirely unnoticed, a feeling that was lent weight when several of the crowd’s members turned to look in Candy’s direction, and after a moment, started to walk down the quay toward them.

“We’re in trouble, Izarith,” Candy said. “Or least I am. I think it would be better if you weren’t seen with me.”

“What, them?” Izarith said, staring back contemptuously at the approaching thugs. “I’m not afraid of them.”

“Candy’s right, love,” Ruthus said. “Take the children quickly and go around the back of the fish market. Hurry.”

“Thank you,” Candy said. “Next time it won’t be so rushed.”

“You tell my husband to come back to us as quickly as possible.”

“He will, don’t worry,” Candy replied.

The man with the green beard, who had first incited the anger with his speechifying, was now breaking through the approaching little mob of bullies to lead it.

“Are we going?” Ruthus yelled.

“Oh, Lordy Lou, are we ever,” Candy said.

“Then come on!”

Candy jumped into the boat. Its boards creaked.

“If ye’ve cracked her boards and you drown, don’t blame me.” Ruthus grinned.

“We won’t drown,” Malingo said following Candy. “This girl has work to do. Great work!”

Candy smiled. (It was true. What, or how, or when—she had no idea. But it was true.)

Ruthus was racing to the wheelhouse yelling to Malingo as he did so: “Cut the rope, geshrat. Be quick!”

The dock was reverberating as the mob, its numbers increasing, followed Green Beard’s lead.

“I see you, girl!” he yelled, “and I know what you are!”

“Rope’s severed, Ruthus!”

“Hold on, then! And pray!”

“Go!” Candy yelled to Ruthus.

“Your crimes against the Abarat must be punished—”

The last word was repeated by every hate-filled throat in the crowd. “Punished!” “Punished!” “Pun—”

The third time, the threat was drowned out by the raucous roar of Ruthus’s little boat, as its engine came to life.

A cloud of yellow exhaust fumes erupted from the stern of the boat, its density blotting all sight of the mob, just as its din had blotted all sound.

Ruthus’s work was not over. They had got away from the dock, but they were not yet out of the harbor. And there were more opportunistic fishermen bringing in cargos of garbage all the time. If Ruthus’s boat had been any larger, it would have been caught in the confusion. But it was a tiny thing, and nimble-like, especially with Ruthus at the wheel. By the time the smoke trail had cleared, the boat was out of the harbor and into the Straits of Dusk.

Chapter 4

The Kid

CANDY’S ESCAPE FROM THE mob in the Yebba Dim Day had not gone unnoticed. The greatest concentration of eyes spying her jeopardy were at Three O’Clock in the Morning. At the heart of that extraordinary city was a vast round mansion, and at the heart of the mansion, a circular viewing chamber, where the innumerable mechanical spies that were scattered around the Abarat—perfect imitations of flora and fauna so cunningly crafted as to be indistinguishable from the real thing, but for the fact that each carried a miniscule camera—reported what they saw. There were literally thousands of screens in the Circular Room covering the inner and outer walls, and Rojo Pixler would have been there, watching the world he had brought into being—its little tragedies, it little farces, its little spectacles of love and death on full display—but today he was not riding around the room on his levitation disc, surveying the archipelago. The team of island-watchers was currently led by his trusted colleague, Dr. Voorzangler, wearing his beloved spectacles which offered the illusion that his two eyes were one. It was he who was noting any significant comings and goings, one of which was that of Candy Quackenbush. Voorzangler ordered his second, third, and fourth in command to be sure that each reminded the other to remind Voorzangler to report the movements of the girl from the Hereafter to the great architect when he finally returned.

Though the phrase “when he returns” usually carried little significance, today it did. Today the great architect was surveying the site of his next great creation: an undersea city in the deepest trenches of the Sea of Izabella. Why? Voorzangler had asked Pixler more than once to which the answer had always been the same: to put a name to the hitherto nameless, and embrace the wonders that surely existed in the lightless deeps. And when innocent endeavors had been achieved and those creatures had been catalogued, then he would be able to undertake the true objective of this endeavor (one which he had only shared with Voorzangler): to lay in the hidden habitat of these unknown life-forms the foundation of a deep-water city so ambitious in scale and design that the blazing immensity of Commexo City would be as a rough sketch might be to the finished masterwork.

Even now, as Voorzangler watched Candy Quackenbush leave the Yebba Dim Day, Pixler was visible on an adjacent screen climbing into his bathyscaphe, giving the camera a confident wave as he did so. Inside he had only artificial intelligences beside him, but their cold company was all he needed.

His face appeared now in the fish-eye lens that relayed his presence at the master controls of the bathyscaphe. His voice, when he spoke, had a metallic tone.

“Don’t look so worried, Voorzangler,” Pixler said. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Of course, sir,” the doctor replied. “But I wouldn’t be human if I wasn’t a little concerned.”

“Boasting now?” Pixler said.

“About what, sir?”

“About your humanity. There aren’t very many employees of the company who could say such a thing.” Pixler ran his hands over the bathyscaphe’s controls, turning on all the vessel’s functions. “Smile, Voorzangler,” he said. “We’re making history, you and I.”

“I just wish we were making it on another day,” Voorzangler replied.

“Why?”

“Just . . . bad dreams, sir. Every rational man is allowed a few irrational dreams, wouldn’t you say?”

“What did you dream?” Pixler wanted to know. The bathyscaphe’s door slammed closed and sealed with a hiss. An artificial voice announced that the winches were all fully functional.

“It was nothing of consequence.”

“Then tell me what you dreamed, Voorzangler.”

Voorzangler’s single eye dodged left and right, looking for a way to avoid meeting the great architect’s inquiring gaze. But Pixler had always been able to stare him down.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you. I dreamed that everything went perfectly well with the descent except—”

“Except?”

“Once you got into the very deepest place . . .”

“Yes?”

“There was a city there already.”

“Ah. And its occupants?”

“They’d gone, thousands of years before. Great scaly fins they’d had. And beauty in their faces. There were mosaics on the walls. Such bright, ambitious eyes.”

“And what happened to them?”

Voorzangler shook his head. “They left no clue. Unless their perfect city was the clue.”

“What kind of clue is perfection?”

“Well, you would know, sir.”

Pixler was not so easily persuaded. “Why did you have to have that stupid dream? You may have cursed my entire enterprise.”

“We’re scientists, sir. We don’t believe in curses.”

“Don’t tell me what I believe in. Find me the Kid.”

“He’s being searched for.”

“And not found?”

“Not so far.”

“Don’t bother. I just thought he’d want to see me off.”

The automatic doors of the bathyscaphe were closing. A flicker of anxiety crossed the great architect’s face. But he would not be commanded by it. The three massive winches—one of them supplying power to the bathyscaphe, the second delivering clean air, the third, and largest, bearing the weight of the immense vessel—were paying out steadily now. Voorzangler looked at the readings on the screens that surrounded the cabin. Hundreds of tiny cameras, like shoals of one-eyed fish, circled the descent column down which the bathyscaphe would be coming, their motion and their iridescence designed to draw out of the darkness every kind of mysterious creature that hunted in their oppressive depths.

“What happens if he never comes back?” said a forlorn voice.

Voorzangler looked away from the screens.

It was the Kid who had spoken. For once his smile had deserted him. He watched the bathyscaphe’s descent with the expression of a genuinely deserted child.

“We must pray he does,” Voorzangler said.

“But I always prayed to him,” the Kid said.

“Then, my child, I suggest you think of another God, as quickly as you can.”

“Why?” said the Kid, his voice tinged with a little hysteria. “Do you think Pops will die down there?”

“Now would I think that?” Voorzangler said, his response unconvincing.

“I heard you two talking about something that lives deep down in the dark. It’s called the Recogacks, isn’t it?”

“They, boy,” Voorzangler said. “They are called the Requiax.”

“Ha!” the Kid said, like he’d caught Voorzangler in a lie. “So they do exist.”

“That’s one of the things your father’s gone down to find out. Whether they exist or not.”

“It’s not fair. He’s mine. If he goes down into the dark and never comes up again what will I do? I’ll kill myself. That’s what I’ll do!”

“No, you won’t.”

“I will! You see if I don’t!”

“Your father’s a very special man. A genius. He’s always going to be looking for new places to explore and things to build.”

“Well, I hate him!” the Kid said. He took out his catapult, loaded it with a stone, and aimed it at the biggest screen. He could scarcely have failed to miss. The screen shattered when the stone struck it, exploding in a shower of white sparks and Commexo Patent Glass fragments.

“Stop that immediately!” Voorzangler said.

But the Kid had already loaded his catapult again and was firing. A second screen went to pieces.

“I shall have to summon the guards if you don’t—”

He didn’t need to finish. The Kid had already seen something on the screens that made him forget his catapult. There was a girl being watched by the spy cameras: a girl who the Kid knew, at least by sight, because his father had summoned up her image for him the night he’d come back from Ninnyhammer, where he met her.

“Her name’s Candy Quackenbush, my boy,” the Kid said, perfectly imitating his Creator’s voice.

The sight of Candy put all of the Kid’s rage toward Pixler out of his mind. Now he was consumed by curiosity.

“Where are you off to, Candy Quackenbush?” he said too quietly for Voorzangler to hear. “Why don’t you come to the City and be my friend? I need a friend.”

He went to the lowest of the screens that carried her image and, reaching out, he gently put his hand upon her face.

“Please come,” he murmured. “I don’t mind waiting. I’ll be here. Just come. Please.”

Chapter 5

Remnants of Wickedness

ABOUT THREE WEEKS AFTER the waters of the Sea of Izabella had crossed the threshold between the Abarat and the Hereafter, flooding many of the streets of Chickentown and demolishing in its force and fury the town’s finest old houses along with the courthouse, the church and the Henry Murkitt Public Library, Candy’s father, Bill Quackenbush began to take nightly walks through the town.

Bill had never had any enthusiasm for exercise before now. He’d always been happiest at his most sedentary, slumped in his leatherette throne in front of the television with beer, cold pizza and a warm remote control close at hand. But he no longer watched television. During the early evenings he sat in his chair drinking his way through a dozen cans of beer, smoking until every ashtray was filled, and on occasion eating slices of white bread. As the hours crept on, the members of his family would slope off to bed, not even his wife, Melissa, bothering to say good night.

Only once the house was finally still and silent, usually a little after midnight, would Bill go into the kitchen, brew some strong coffee to wake himself up, and prepare for the trek ahead by putting on his old work boots, still crusted with dried chicken blood, and his dark blue windbreaker. The weather was becoming unpredictable, as autumn’s grip deepened. Some nights there’d be rain in the gusts from the north, even sleet on a couple of occasions. But he didn’t let the drop in the temperature change his rituals.

There was something he needed to do out in the streets of the town where he’d lived all his life: important work that his dulled mind tried to comprehend day after day as he sat in front of the blank television screen, the drapes drawn against the October sky; work that demanded he leave the comfort of his chair and venture out to wander through the town even though he had no idea what, or why, he was seeking. All he had by way of a compass was the deep-rooted conviction that one night he would turn a corner somewhere in the town and find before him the solution to this mystery.