Drowned Wednesday

by Garth Nix

  ‘There is one possibility that I may have overlooked due to extreme pain in my hand,’ said Scamandros. ‘I cannot cast the haruspices because of magical interference. But the young have natural ability, so this boy may be able to. Can you read portents of the future in the strewn intestines of animals, young sir?’

  ‘No,’ said Arthur with a grimace of revulsion. ‘That sounds disgusting!’

  ‘They don’t use actual intestines anymore,’ whispered Ichabod. ‘Just magical jigsaw puzzles of intestines.’

  ‘Indeed, the art has grown more orderly and less troublesome for the laundry,’ said Scamandros, who clearly had very superior hearing. ‘Though personally I believe it is best to be trained the old way, before coming to the puzzles. So you are not a haruspex or seer?’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘Then you shall cast the pieces and I will read them.’ Scamandros took a large box out from under his coat — bigger than the one he’d put away before — and handed it to Arthur. There was a picture of an ox on the box, the back half cross-sectioned to show its innards. ‘Quickly now. Take the box and empty the pieces into your hands.’

  As Arthur opened the box, something shrieked overhead. It sounded like a cross between a train whistle and a terrified parrot. Sunscorch looked up, then muttered, ‘They’ve got powder! That’s a ranging shot!’ and started to shout more commands to the helmsman and crew. The Moth lumbered and rolled to port as the wheel spun and the crew hauled on lines to trim the yards (the horizontal spars on the mast that the sails were attached to).

  Arthur knelt down on the deck and put his hands in the box. Though all he could see were pieces of coloured cardboard, he recoiled as he touched them.

  ‘Ugh! They feel like raw mince or . . . or worse!’

  ‘Ignore that!’ instructed Scamandros. ‘Pick them up and cast them on the deck! Quickly now!’

  Arthur shuddered and hesitated. Then he heard the whistling again, and a huge plume of water exploded just behind the Moth, showering them all with freezing water.

  ‘Over and under,’ said Sunscorch grimly. ‘They’ll have the range inside a minute.’

  Arthur took a deep breath and plunged his hands into the box. Picking up the pieces was like picking up handfuls of dead worms. But he got them all, raised them up, and threw them at Scamandros’s feet.

  As before, the jigsaw came together as it fell. But this time all the pieces joined to make a perfect rectangle. The colours ran and shimmered like spilled paint, then formed into lines and patterns. In a few seconds, a picture appeared. A picture of a rocky island, a mound of tumbled yellow stones, surrounded by a sea of curious colour, more violet than blue.

  Scamandros looked at the picture, muttering to himself, then he rolled up the chart at his feet and immediately unrolled it again, revealing a completely different map.

  ‘Forlorn Island, Sea of Yazer, on the planet we call Gerain,’ said Scamandros. ‘That’ll do!’

  ‘Err, Mister Concort . . .’ said Catapillow.

  ‘Ah, Mister Sunscorch . . .’ said Concort.

  ‘Prepare to Cross the Line!’ roared Sunscorch. ‘Idlers take a hold!’

  Catapillow and Concort rushed to the rail and gripped it. Sunscorch joined the two Denizens on the wheel. Scamandros picked up the jigsaw, which didn’t fall apart, and stood by them.

  ‘Grab hold of a rope or the rail,’ Ichabod instructed Arthur. ‘When the Doctor shouts, look down and close your eyes. And whatever you do, don’t let go!’

  Arthur did as he was told, taking a firm grip on the portside rail. He looked back at Doctor Scamandros, who was holding the jigsaw and muttering to himself, with occasional instructions to Sunscorch.

  ‘Port five, steady,’ he said. ‘Starboard ten and back again amidships, hold her as she goes, port five, port five, starboard ten . . .’

  The Moth rolled and tilted first to one side and then the other, but didn’t seem to change its actual direction very much for all the turning of the wheel this way and that. But Doctor Scamandros kept ordering small changes of direction.

  Arthur heard a muffled bang come from behind them and looked astern, just in time to see the flash of the Shiver’s bowchasers, followed by that same whistling screech. This time, it didn’t end in a waterspout or a pass overhead. Just as Doctor Scamandros shouted something unintelligible and threw the jigsaw in the air, Arthur heard a terrible splintering, crashing noise that momentarily blotted out all other sounds.

  But he didn’t look. He closed his eyes and bent down as instructed, hoping that whatever the cannonball had hit wasn’t going to fall down on his head.

  There was a moment of silence after the terrible sound of some major part of the ship breaking, immediately followed by a flash so bright Arthur’s eyes were filled with white light, even through shut eyelids. That flash was accompanied by a crash of thunder that shook the whole ship and stirred a vibration so strong it made Arthur’s limbs and stomach ache.

  Arthur knew what was happening at once. His hand went to the invitation card in his pocket and he hunkered down as low as he could, still clutching his pocket.

  They were about to pass through the Line of Storms again!

  The thunder was so deafening that its echoes lingered in Arthur’s ears and head, so even when it ceased it took him awhile before he stopped trembling and his hearing started to return. The afterimage of the lightning remained in patches, and dark spots danced around his eyes.

  Arthur opened his eyes to a scene of destruction and wonder. One of the huge horizontal spars from the Moth’s mainmast had been struck by the cannonball and broken off. Half of it was sprawled over the deck, and half was in the water, a tangled mass of timber, ropes and canvas.

  Arthur only glanced at that. His attention was drawn ahead of the ship. There, extending upward from the sea into the sky, was a huge gilt picture frame, easily four hundred feet long and three hundred feet high. It bordered an enormous, brightly glowing version of the jigsaw picture Arthur had made, with the yellow stone island and the violet sea. But this didn’t look like a picture. The sea was in motion, there were purple-tinged clouds drifting above the island, and birds or birdlike things were flying around. Arthur could still see the jigsaw piece outlines — much narrower and more wriggly pieces than in a normal jigsaw — but the lines were very faint.

  ‘Starboard Watch! Cut away that yard! Quickly now!’

  The Moth rolled as Sunscorch spoke, sending its sails flapping, to make a sound like sarcastic applause.

  ‘Helm! Hold her steady!’ shouted Sunscorch.

  The Moth was trying to sail straight for the framed image, Arthur saw. He understood it was not an image. It was a doorway to another world, out in the Secondary Realms.

  ‘Did we lose ’em?’ asked Sunscorch to the Doctor.

  Scamandros looked astern, lowering his smoked glasses over his eyes to stare at the now surprisingly distant Line of Storms.

  ‘I’m not . . . no!’

  Arthur looked back, too, blinking at the still-bright flashes of lightning, though they were now several miles away. At first he couldn’t spot anything, then he saw the silhouette of the Shiver’s dark sails. She had dropped back but would soon catch up again, particularly with the Moth slowed by the broken spar over the side, which acted like a large and clumsy sea anchor.

  ‘They’ll try and follow us through the portal,’ said Sunscorch.

  ‘Um, is there anything. . . some manoeuvre or other?’ asked Catapillow anxiously.

  ‘Get that spar cut away!’ roared Sunscorch. Arthur winced. Clearly Sunscorch got louder the more anxious he was.

  Doctor Scamandros looked ahead at the vast gilt-framed doorway to the violet-hued sea. It was several hundred yards away. He looked back at the pursuing ship, took out a pencil, and made some calculations on the cuff of his big yellow coat.

  ‘At our current speed Feverfew will board us short of the portal,’ he said. ‘Even if they don’t take down a mast or hole us below the waterline.�
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  ‘He won’t fire again,’ said Sunscorch. ‘Don’t need to, does he? We’re slow enough now. Anything more might damage the loot.’

  This confident assessment was immediately undermined by the report of a cannon astern, resulting in another plume of water, this time well short.

  ‘Then again, he might sink us for sport,’ added Sunscorch. He looked down at the main deck where the Denizens were hacking ineffectually with axes at the fallen yard. ‘Cut away! Don’t slap at it! Cut! Doctor, if there’s anything you can do, do it. No seamanship can save us now! I’m for an axe!’

  ‘Carry on!’ Catapillow called out as Sunscorch leapt down the companionway to the waist of the ship.

  Arthur looked at the rapidly gaining pirate vessel, then at the living picture in its vast gilt frame. Even without calculating anything, it was clear the Shiver would catch them before they could get to the transfer portal. It was too far away. . .

  Arthur suddenly had an idea.

  ‘I don’t know any sorcery or anything,’ Arthur said. ‘But that big painting is like a transfer plate you step on, isn’t it?’

  Scamandros nodded distractedly.

  ‘So if we can’t get to it in time, can it somehow be moved to us?’

  Scamandros frowned, then cocked his head as if struck by Arthur’s suggestion. Arthur noticed that all the small tattoos on the doctor’s face were showing scenes of trouble. Storms at sea. Sunken ships. Exploding suns. Imploding planets.

  Just as the Doctor opened his mouth to speak, the Shiver fired again.

  ‘Interesting. Yes, it is theoretically possible to —’

  Whatever Scamandros was going to say was lost as a cannonball struck the Moth’s side just behind and below the wheel, smashing the heavy timber into a spray of deadly foot-long splinters that went whistling across the quarterdeck.

  Seven

  THE NEXT THING Arthur knew, he was lying on the deck, right up against the rail, with his good leg hanging overboard. He could hear screaming all around him, and shouting. For a moment he thought he’d suffered a sudden asthma attack and had passed out from lack of air. But his breathing was fine, or so his mind reported before it suddenly switched back to the current situation. The splinters flying through the air —

  Arthur pulled his leg in, sat up, and stared around him. He was vaguely aware that his broken leg hurt, but that was nothing new. There was blood on his dressing gown, but it was bright blue. A pain in his left hand made him lift it up. There was blood there too — red blood, but not much of it. Arthur focused on his middle finger, and pulled out a needle-shaped splinter that had sliced across a knuckle and was still hanging there.

  ‘Will you look at that?! Ruined!’ said a voice next to Arthur. The boy slowly turned to look. There was a large hole on the far side of the deck. The planking was gouged all around and there was blue blood splattered all over the place, amid shattered wood and splinters.

  Ichabod was pointing at his waistcoat. A splinter as long as Arthur’s forearm was sticking out of the Denizen’s stomach. Blue blood was trickling out of the wound and into his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘Doesn’t it hurt?’ asked Arthur. He was in shock and part of his mind was telling him to check himself over again. He knew the Denizens could recover even from a beheading, but that didn’t help. It also didn’t apply to him. A wound like Ichabod’s would kill him for sure.

  ‘It certainly does hurt,’ replied Ichabod with a grimace. ‘But just look at my favourite waistcoat!’

  Arthur looked along his own arms and legs. They were fine. He gingerly felt his stomach and head. They seemed fine too. Only his finger had been touched.

  The Denizens around the wheel had not been so lucky. Arthur could hardly bear to look at them, they were so pierced by splinters. At least the blue blood didn’t look so serious as real human blood would. And they were still standing, and complaining about their bad luck.

  ‘Seriously wounded to the Captain’s quarters!’ instructed Doctor Scamandros. He didn’t appear to be injured, but blue fluid dripped from the sleeve of his yellow greatcoat. ‘You too, mortal! You could be killed up here! Get below at once. Ichabod, take charge of our valuable passenger!’

  Arthur struggled to his feet and hesitantly walked to the gangway, Ichabod at his side.

  ‘Are you going to do something, Doctor?’ asked Captain Catapillow plaintively, as he stared down at the spot where his foot and one of his third-best boots used to be. ‘I think that cannonball was coated in Nothing.’

  ‘You’d feel a lot worse if it was, Captain,’ said Doctor Scamandros. ‘As I was saying, it is theoretically possible to accelerate the transfer by bringing the portal to the traveller, rather than the other way around. It is of course exceedingly difficult and dangerous.’

  Everyone looked at the pirate vessel astern. It fired again, a great gout of water exploding out of the sea a little ahead and to the port side of the Moth.

  ‘What could happen that would be worse than eternal slavery or a slow and torturous death by Nothing-based sorceries at the hands of Feverfew?’ asked Concort. He didn’t sound like he really wanted to know.

  ‘If I fail, we shall transfer not into that Secondary Realm, but into the Void of Nothing, and be immediately expunged from existence.’

  ‘My collection too?’ asked Captain Catapillow.

  ‘The ship and everything on it or connected with it,’ said Scamandros. ‘Including all your stamps, sir. So what are your orders?’

  Arthur hesitated on the steps, waiting to hear Catapillow’s commands. Surely there was some other way? Perhaps he could escape via the Infinite Stair . . . no . . . not in his current state. He probably didn’t have the power anymore . . .

  ‘I can’t have the collection fall into Feverfew’s hands,’ said Captain Catapillow in a small voice. ‘All or . . . or Nothing!’

  Arthur saw Scamandros open his yellow greatcoat. The inside was lined with dozens of pockets and loops for magical implements and apparatus. Scamandros selected two lengths of bronze rod with curved-back hooks set near their pointed ends. Though they were in miniature under his coat, only a few inches long, they expanded as he dragged them out, till they were at least a yard in length.

  ‘Fire irons,’ said Ichabod. ‘Matching set. Very nice. Come along!’

  Arthur started to follow Ichabod down the port-side ladder to the waist, where Sunscorch and the crew had finally succeeded in cutting away the last of the broken yard and its accompanying debris. But Arthur stopped on the companionway to look back. He saw Scamandros reaching out with a fire iron in each hand, the bronze rods continuing to extend till they became shafts of curdled sunlight that reached up into the sky, and to each side of the ship.

  Only a few seconds later, the transformed fire irons reached all the way to the vast gilt-framed portal to the Secondary Realm. The hooks on the end were now easily thirty feet long. The irons wavered outside the edges of the frame, then Scamandros brought them in and seated them. As sun bronze met magical gilt, there was a horrendous metallic noise, like an angle grinder suddenly cutting into steel, magnified a hundred times.

  Everyone on the ship stared up at the portal and the Doctor’s two levers. Ichabod didn’t protest or try to make Arthur go below. Like everyone else, he wanted to see what would happen next.

  Scamandros shouted something, a word that passed through Arthur like a hot wire, causing him to cry out and clap his hands to his ears. The doctor shouted again, and Arthur, suddenly stripped of strength, fell down the ladder onto the deck, taking a surprised Ichabod with him.

  Then Scamandros yanked the fire irons back towards himself. This action was magnified all along their sun-curdled length. With the squeal of ten thousand fingers on a giant blackboard, the entire vast doorway to Forlorn Island shuddered towards the Moth.

  At first, it looked like all was going well. The portal rapidly grew closer, and the Moth continued to sail straight at it.

  Then, when it was only yards away, the
portal began to totter and shake, and the top edge started to lean forward. Behind it, in place of the normal sky, was a dark mass that glittered like some volcanic stone.

  The Void of Nothing.

  ‘Faster!’ shouted Scamandros, fear in his voice. ‘Make the ship go faster!’

  Denizens who had been frozen in awe sprang into action, goaded again by the now unbelievably loud voice of Sunscorch. Yards were trimmed, ropes hauled, sails hoisted where sails were hardly ever seen.

  ‘Faster!’ screamed Scamandros. The portal was falling towards them now, and instead of dragging it with the fire irons, the Doctor was trying to hold it up. Darkness rippled behind it. ‘We must get through before it drops!’

  The portal fell farther, and the bowsprit of the Moth pierced its shining jigsaw-crazed surface. Then the bow passed through, and the rest of the ship followed. The light changed to a softer, golden tone, and the breeze around Arthur became instantly warm.

  As the sternpost of the Moth passed the portal, Scamandros fell to the deck, his fire irons clattering at his side, no longer anything more than lengths of bronze. The portal, its work done, collapsed in on itself. The threat of Nothing was gone.

  But there were other troubles for the Moth.

  ‘Splashdown! Brace!’ roared Sunscorch. ‘Take hold!’

  Arthur instantly shuffled back and wound his arms through the port-side ladder. He knew from the volume of Sunscorch’s order that this was serious.

  The Moth had come through the portal all right, but because of the angle of entry, they had not come through at the same level. The ship had entered this new world thirty feet above the water.

  Now it was crashing down into the sea.

  Before the echo of Sunscorch’s shout had gone, the ship tilted precipitously forward. Arthur saw Ichabod slide past, till the Denizen managed to grab hold of a grating. Other Denizens tumbled along farther down the deck and some fell or jumped from the rigging, though as far as Arthur could tell they went into the violet sea.