Lord Sunday
Page 21
But there was one difference he would make. He had dismissed the notion when thinking of a new Universe, but on reflection, he had come to decide it would be a good idea. At least it would give him some personal satisfaction, a little counterweight to the sadness that lingered inside him, a legacy of his mortal past.
The New Architect rested his chin on his hand, his elbow on his knee, and began to think.
Thirty
ARTHUR BLINKED, and choked back a surge of nausea. The sun was too bright, and his legs felt weak . . . so weak that they began to crumple underneath him. He quickly sat down on the grass and noticed that not only were his legs not holding him up, they were back to being normal boy-size, and he was wearing jeans. He had a T-shirt on too, a vintage Ratz band T-shirt, and his chest and arms were certainly back to normal as well and when he ran his hands through his hair, it felt . . . human.
But a moment ago he had been the New Architect, and was recreating the cosmos. Now he was – Arthur looked around – now he was back in the Elysium. An Elysium surrounded by Nothing.
‘Arthur,’ said a somewhat familiar voice behind him.
Arthur turned around, and had to shield his face with his hand. There was a twelve-foot-tall shining winged figure there, a figure almost too bright to look at. But Arthur could make out the shining one’s features – which were a stylised and improved version of his own.
‘Are . . . are you me?’ asked Arthur.
‘After a fashion,’ said the New Architect.
‘But . . . what am I, then?’ asked Arthur. Apart from the actual creation of the new Universe, he could still remember everything he’d done, and what he’d become, from that first moment when he’d met Mister Monday and Sneezer.
‘You are yourself,’ said the New Architect. ‘As the Old One was a part of the Architect, so you are part of the greater being that we became.’
‘But I’m back to being a boy again,’ said Arthur, wonderingly. ‘The real me.’
‘Yes,’ said the New Architect quietly. ‘I knew that was what I wanted.’
‘Am I mortal?’ asked Arthur.
‘Yes,’ lied the New Architect, for his own good. ‘But you will not get sick, ever again.’
‘I can go back to Earth,’ whispered Arthur. He blinked again, and casually wiped a tear from his eye, as if it were the New Architect’s brilliance that was making his eyes water. ‘Uh, I mean . . . you did remake Earth?’
‘Exactly as it was, unfortunately,’ said the New Architect. ‘Arthur . . . I was not able to remake everything as I . . . or you . . . would wish. The Atlas recorded the House only minutes before the end . . .’
‘Yes . . .’ said Arthur. ‘But Leaf and Suzy, and Fred and Doctor Scamandros, they were here, they’ll be—’
‘Leaf is here,’ said the New Architect. He gestured, and Leaf was there, asleep on the grass nearby. ‘I have not yet decided about the Denizens and the Piper’s children. But all those lost in the greater part of the Gardens, I cannot—’
‘Oh,’ said Arthur.
Bed 27. Pot 5. A house from Earth, with a woman in it . . .
Tears streamed down his face now, and he made no pretense that it was from the fierceness of the light. ‘Mother.’
‘Yes,’ said the New Architect. He hesitated, then said, ‘I could make her again, solely from our memory, but she would not be exactly right—’
‘No!’ shuddered Arthur. He took in a deep breath, and choked back the tears. ‘No.’
‘I will return you and Leaf to a friendly house, a safe distance from the bombed hospital,’ said the New Architect. ‘It belongs to an old woman called Sylvie. Leaf knows her. She will look after you, until Bob comes home.’
Arthur nodded. The notion that someone would be looking after him felt so utterly strange and at the same time so comforting that he almost burst into tears again.
‘Bob will need your help too,’ said the New Architect. ‘And our brothers and sisters. It will be difficult.’
‘Yes,’ whispered Arthur.
‘If you want to talk to me,’ said the New Architect, ‘there will be a red lacquer box in your room. A small one. I don’t care for that old phone stuff.’
‘Thanks,’ said Arthur. He wiped his eyes and nose, and took a deep breath. ‘I guess I’d better get going, then. Um, how . . .’
The New Architect pointed. Arthur was sure there had been nothing there, or more precisely that there had been Nothing there, but now Seven Dials stood waiting, the grandfather clocks arranged in a circle on the grass.
As he walked over to the clocks, Leaf woke. She sat up and touched her shoulder, seeming surprised by something she felt – or didn’t feel – there. Then she saw Arthur.
‘Arthur! Is that really you?’
She ran over and hugged him, before stepping back awkwardly.
‘It is me,’ said Arthur.
‘But how?’ asked Leaf. ‘What happened? One minute the Nothing was coming in, and then I just woke up here, and . . . Where is everyone else?’
Arthur looked at the New Architect, who was standing in clear view. He inclined his head slightly, and pointed at the clocks, which began to strike.
‘I’ll explain when we get back,’ said Arthur. He took Leaf’s hand and hurried to the centre of the circle of clocks. ‘Seven Dials will take us to a friend of yours. Someone called Sylvie.’
‘All right!’ said Leaf. ‘Isn’t it amazing, Arthur? You won!’
‘Yes,’ said Arthur quietly. ‘I guess we did.’
Epilogue
‘I AIN’T CALLING you sir all the time or nothing like that,’ said Suzy.
‘No,’ said the New Architect. His radiance had considerably dimmed. He had also adopted a shorter, more human size, and looked quite like how Arthur would look when he was about twenty-one. He was dressed comfortably in twenty-first-century clothes, and had cool sunglasses on.
‘And I reckon it’s time I grew up,’ continued Suzy. ‘I mean, I’m at least a couple of thousand years old!’
The New Architect handed over a mirror. Suzy took it suspiciously, then looked into it.
‘Blimey!’ she crowed. ‘That ain’t half bad.’
‘Indeed,’ said the New Architect.
‘Orright,’ said Suzy. ‘I’ll take the job. What’ll we do first?’
‘I think we will rebuild the House,’ said the New Architect. ‘Then populate it with Denizens. They can keep watch upon the Secondary Realms, particularly Earth, of course. Though we must ensure there is an absolute minimum of interference, given our pernicious influence upon the environment there. I shall look into that, though.’
‘Watching, but no interference,’ agreed Suzy. ‘I bags being Lady Sunday. ’Ere, when are you bringing back the Doc, Fred, and Giac?’
‘Soon,’ said the New Architect. ‘They can help design the new Denizens.’
‘Time for a cup of tea, I reckon, Art,’ said Suzy.
The New Architect, known to his friends as Art, smiled and nodded.
‘And a biscuit, I think,’ he said. ‘Or three.’
Acknowledgements
According to my notebook, I started writing down some ideas for Mister Monday early in the year 2000. It is now May 2009, and over the last nine years I have had incredible support, encouragement, and assistance from many people, all of which has helped me write the seven books of The Keys to the Kingdom.
As a regular life is inextricably mixed up with a writing life, I couldn’t have written these books without the unstinting support and encouragement of my wife, Anna McFarlane; our sons, Thomas and Edward (who weren’t even born when I started); my parents, Henry and Katharine; my brothers, Simon and Jonathan, and their families; my parents-in-law, Beverlie McFarlane, Peter McFarlane, and Jill McLaughlin; many other members of my extended family; and, of course, my friends, who couldn’t stop themselves from asking, ‘Are you finished yet?’
At the actual coalface of writing and publishing, my heartfelt thanks go to Editorial Sup
remo David Levithan and everyone at Scholastic Inc. in the USA; to Erica Wagner and Rosalind Price and their crew at Allen & Unwin in Australia; to Stella Paskins, Gillie Russell, and the team at HarperCollins in the UK; and to all the publishers around the world who have put The Keys to the Kingdom into many different languages and many different hands.
My agents have also been instrumental in these books seeing the light of day, and for much else besides. I am extremely grateful to Jill Grinberg of Grinberg Literary Management LLC in New York; Fiona Inglis of Curtis Brown Australia in Sydney; Ant Harwood of Antony Harwood Literary Management in the UK; and the translation specialists of Gillon Aitken.
Finally, I am perhaps most grateful of all to the readers who allow me to keep doing what I love most: making up stories.
Thank you, everyone.
Garth Nix
15th May 2009, Sydney
About the Author
GARTH NIX was born on a Saturday in Melbourne, Australia, and got married on a Saturday, to his publisher wife, Anna. So Saturday is a good day. Garth used to write every Sunday afternoon because he had a number of day jobs over the years that nearly always started on a Monday, usually far too early. These jobs have included being a bookseller, an editor, a PR consultant and a literary agent. Tuesday has always been a lucky day for Garth, when he receives good news, like the telegram (a long time ago, in the days of telegrams) that told him he had sold his first short story, or just recently when he heard his novel Abhorsen had hit The New York Times bestseller list.
Wednesday can be a letdown after Tuesday, but it was important when Garth served as a part-time soldier in the Australian Army Reserve, because that was a training night. Thursday is now particularly memorable because Garth and Anna’s son, Thomas, was born on a Thursday afternoon. Friday is a very popular day for most people, but since Garth has become a full-time writer it has no longer marked the end of the working week. On any day, Garth may generally be found near Coogee Beach in Sydney, where he and his family live.
THE OLD KINGDOMBOOK ONE
‘Sabriel is a winner. A fantasy that reads like realism.
Here is a world with the same solidity and four-dimensional authority as our own, created with invention, clarity and intelligence.
I congratulate Garth Nix.’ PHILIP PULLMAN
THE OLD KINGDOMBOOK TWO
‘Lots of magic, lots of battles, lots of very close calls and a hefty dollop of humour.’
THE OBSERVER
THE OLD KINGDOMBOOK THREE
‘Nix brings his trilogy to a literally earth shattering conclusion.
Action explodes from the very first pages . . . breathtaking,
bittersweet and utterly unforgettable.’
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