by Clive Barker
“None that I want.”
Melissa shook her head. “Well, you know what? You can plan all you like, but I am not going anywhere without Candy.”
Bill said nothing for maybe a whole minute. Then he got up and went to the fridge and brought out another can of beer. “Why don’t you just admit it to yourself?” he said, not coming back to the table. “She’s gone. We both know it. She never belonged to us in the first place.”
Melissa’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. She pressed the heels of her hands against her sockets, to try and stem the flow. “How can you say that? She was our baby. She will always be our baby.”
Bill leaned against the fridge, staring out into the darkened backyard. “No,” he said. “I don’t think she was ever really ours.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, come on, Melissa. She was a weird kid, right from the start. Her eyes, for one thing—”
“Lots of kids have eyes that are different colors,” Melissa said, her tears suddenly dried up by anger. “And she isn’t weird. The only problem is that you never really loved her.”
“I did my best.” He shrugged.
“That was your best?” Melissa shook her head. “Whole months would go by and you’d barely speak to her.”
“Okay, we never got along.”
“You’re her father, Bill.”
“Am I?”
Melissa stared hard at him. “What are you suggesting?”
“Well, you were the one who said it. Something happened the night Candy was born. Three women . . .”
“Oh, so now you want to talk about it.”
“Are you going to tell me or not?”
“I’ll tell you. But only on one condition.”
“And what’s that?”
“You listen. You believe me.”
“That’s two—”
“Bill.”
“All right. I’m listening. Tell me what happened.”
For ten, twenty, thirty seconds Melissa said nothing.
“Go on,” Bill said. “I’m not kidding, I want to know.”
Melissa drew a deep breath. “All right . . .” she said. “You know some of it already. The women who came to the truck when you’d left. I told you about them. They just appeared from out of the storm. I asked them where they’d come from and they said they came from another world. A place they called Abarat.”
“And you believed them?” Bill said.
“Yes. I did. I don’t know why but I knew, I absolutely knew, they were telling me the truth.” Bill shook his head. “You told me you wanted to know what happened that night,” Melissa snapped. “And I’m telling you. So listen.”
She paused, allowing her spurt of anger to subside. Her eyes glanced over the kitchen as if she was listing the duties that still needed to be done. Trash to be taken out; dirty dishes to be washed; the dead geranium on the windowsill to be dumped. The labor of listing calmed her. When she picked up her account of that rainy night again, the rage had drained out of her. She spoke quietly, so quietly that Bill had to listen hard to catch all she was saying.
“I don’t know to this day if it was just an accident that they found me there,” she told him, “or whether they’d somehow tracked us. I do know they were afraid that they were being followed by somebody from their world. What they were doing was probably against the law in the Abarat. But they were desperate. They had something to give me, they said. No, not to me. To the baby that was to be born. They had something to give the baby. And it would change her life forever. That’s what they said. Nothing would be the same because of what they were here to give to her. . . .”
Chapter 35
Two in Nineteen
HENRY MURKITT DIDN’T SLEEP anymore. Since his failed attempt to raise the folks of Chickentown from their televisions and their gossip, he was haunted night and day by the terrible prospect of what lay ahead for the town that had once carried his family’s name.
The dreams that had begun this haunting didn’t cease just because Henry no longer slept. Instead they took the form of daylight visions, which were in some ways more terrifying than ordinary nightmares. He would be standing at the window of Room Nineteen, peering through the dirty glass at the unremarkable people going about their unremarkable lives, when suddenly a shadow seemed to loom over the street, like some lethal judgment that would soon wipe them all away. He wasn’t frightened for himself (what did a ghost have to fear from death?), but he was afraid, horribly afraid for the innocents he saw going about their business, realizing nothing.
“You look melancholy.”
Henry turned around from the window, and his eyes grew wide with astonishment. Standing across the room from him was a face he hadn’t laid eyes upon in a very long time.
“Diamanda?” he said. “It isn’t you.”
“Yes, it is, Henry.”
Oh, but the years had been kind to her! Though her hair—which she’d always worn long—was now gray, and her face was decorated with a tracery of fine lines, the bones on which her flesh sat were still as elegant as ever. She had been beautiful in those distant years when she’d been his loving wife, and against all expectation she was beautiful still. It was easy to remember, in the first few seconds that his eyes were laid on her again, where his love had sprung.
“Is it really you?” he said, scarcely breathing the words for fear this lovely mirage would dissolve and leave him alone again.
“Yes, Henry,” she said. “It’s really me.”
“But why . . . after all this time?”
“To be honest, Henry, death caught up with me, just a little while ago. And you know, as I was floating above the scene of my demise (which wasn’t pleasant), I found my thoughts turning instantly to you. Of all people! It’s Henry I want to see, I thought. The rest can wait. I came to make my peace, I suppose.”
“You came, that’s all that matters. You came. How did you know where to find me?”
“Well, that’s both a very long story and very short one. The short version is: I’ve got eyes in my head and I looked.”
“What happened to your fancy man in Chicago?”
“My what?” Diamanda laughed.
“Your . . . fancy man. Everybody told me—”
“Let’s get a few things straight from the get-go, Henry Murkitt. Whatever you heard from the gossipmongers, I did not have a fancy man in Chicago. Or any other place, come to that.”
“Truly?”
“Henry. I wouldn’t come back from the dead to tell you a petty little lie, would I?”
“No, I guess not.” He expelled a contented sigh. “As a matter of interest,” he went on, “why did you come back?”
“First, Henry Murkitt, to do this.”
Diamanda walked over to Henry and laid a light kiss on his lips. Then another six, for good measure. It was the first human contact he’d been able to feel in many years.
“Oh my Lord, I’ve missed that . . .” he said. “So we’re just two ghosts now, huh?”
“As you say: just two ghosts.”
“How did it happen to you? That you died, I mean.”
“I was trying to protect a girl from your world, Henry, a runaway called—”
“Candy Quackenbush.”
“So you’ve heard of her?”
“She was here in this very room, just a few weeks ago, working on some school project. A charming enough girl, she seemed.”
“Miss Quackenbush turns out to be a very powerful young woman.”
Henry looked puzzled. “Really? You surprise me. She seemed pleasant but quite ordinary. Where did you two meet?”
“In a world we have never spoken about till now,” Diamanda said. “The Abarat.”
“Ah! The fabled Abarat. I may have been locked up here for the past half century or so, but even I heard a little about that place. If there’s more, tell me.”
“There’s always more where the Abarat’s concerned. It’s a world without limits.”
He lo
oked mystified, so Diamanda attempted to explain, keeping the description simple. But the more she told him, the more he wanted to know, and she was soon explaining the whole tale to him. How she’d gone off to voyage the Abarat; how she’d first met a woman of the Fantomaya, and been taken, after much preparation, to Odom’s Spire, the Twenty-Fifth Hour, to be initiated into the mysteries of Time out of Time. Though it was an extraordinary story that she told, he didn’t once doubt her truthfulness. He knew her too well. If she was telling him that there was an archipelago where every island existed at a different hour of the day, then he was obliged to believe her. It was only toward the end of her account, when she spoke about her involvement with magic, that he grew more cautious.
“You know what the Good Book has to say about witchcraft,” he said. “Thou shall not suffer a witch to live.”
“Those old hypocrites. They talk about killing witches but the Good Book’s full of magic. Turning the Nile to blood and parting the Red Sea. What’s that if it’s not good old-fashioned magic? Want a little water into wine? No trouble! How about raising that dead man Lazarus? Just say the word!”
“You’re walking on thin ice, Diamanda!”
“No, I’m not. I’m just telling the truth. And anyone who loves the Good Word loves the Truth, right?”
Poor Henry looked thoroughly confounded. In a matter of seconds Diamanda had run theological circles around him. She saw the puzzlement on his face and finally took pity on him.
“Think of it this way,” she said. “Magic is about connecting things. Seeing how the power runs through the world. From you to that crack in the wall, to the spider in the crack, to the song in the spider’s head, singing praise to God—”
“Spiders don’t sing.”
“Everything sings its praises in its own way, Henry. That’s what magic is. The singing of praises. And the verses all connecting up, till the power flows . . . I’m going to have you listen one of these times, Henry Murkitt, and I swear you will hear such a magical hallelujah. . . .”
Henry shook his head. “I don’t know who’s the craziest. You for saying this stuff, or me for half believing it.” The tentative smile that had come onto his face now fell away, and he said: “I’ve been having dreams. Terrible dreams.”
“About what?
“I guess they’re about the end of the world. At least, the end of Chickentown.”
“You believe them?”
“Yes, of course I believe them! I even tried to warn folks about what was happening.” He pointed to the wall where his message remained scratched in the plaster.
“Higher Ground?” Diamanda read.
“I know it’s sort of vague,” Henry said. “But it was the only thing I could think of at the time. Unfortunately, these people don’t want to listen.”
“Maybe we can make them listen, between the two of us.”
“I hope so.”
“I must say, Henry, you’ve changed your tune. I thought you hated Chickentown.”
“I guess when I lost you I didn’t have anything else to love. It was Chickentown or nothing.”
“Listen to yourself. You sound so sad.”
“Well, I am. I should have spent my life with you.”
“Well, now you can make up for lost time. We’ve found each other again. You’re a good man, Henry Murkitt. You deserve some happiness. Some freedom. How often do you get out of this darn room, anyway?”
“Actually . . . I’ve never left it.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“No. I felt I sinned when I took my own life. I guess I thought I deserved to be in here until the Last Judgment.”
“Well, that’s utter bull poop, Henry. And I think you know it. So we are gonna go out together. Out into the sun.”
“We are? When?”
“Now, Henry! We are going right now!”
So out they went together: the Phantom of Room Nine-teen and Diamanda Murkitt, the love of his life, walking hand in hand. They weren’t visible to most of the eyes that casually turned in their direction, except perhaps as vague shadows or a subtle disturbance of the air that might have nudged people as they passed.
Their voices, however, were another matter. They weren’t as clear as ordinary voices, but they were still perfectly audible. They sounded like whisperers, exchanging gossip at a nearby corner. It was the subject under debate—the imminent destruction of the town—that made people listen more closely. Several times as they walked and talked, they caught sight of people looking back at the spot where they stood, with puzzled expressions on their faces.
“Do you think our message is getting through?” Henry asked Diamanda as they stood beneath the pigeon-bespattered statue of his great-grandfather, the town’s founder.
“Well, they can certainly hear us,” Diamanda said. “But whether that means they’re actually paying attention is anybody’s guess. I mean: what are we to them? We’re just some voices muttering at the back of their heads.” Henry didn’t reply. He just stared at Diamanda as she talked. “It’s interesting. Have you noticed how the babies and the dogs seem to be quite happy to accept our presence? I think Chickentown’s future would be perfectly safe if it were left with the babies and the dogs.” She paused, returning Henry’s stare. “What are you looking at?” she said.
“You. I’m looking at you. You’re still very lovely.”
“This is no time for flirtation, Henry.”
“If not now, then when? After the time we’ve waited . . . don’t we deserve to tell each other the deepest secrets of our hearts?”
“You old sentimentalist,” Diamanda replied fondly.
“And very proud to be one!” Henry said. “Lord, Diamanda, the world might end at any moment. We should speak our minds. You are lovely. There. It’s said.” He smiled, and shielding his eyes from the sun, he looked off down the length of Main Street. “What do you think will be the first sign?” he said. “I mean, of what’s on its way?”
“Rain in the wind,” Diamanda said. “Salt rain.”
“It sounds like you’ve been through something like this before.”
“Something similar. And let me tell you, it will not be pretty. The more we can do to get people up and out of this town, the less weeping and wailing there’s going to be when it’s all over.”
“Any suggestions?” Henry wondered.
“Well, to speed things along we ought to split up. Keep to the major thoroughfares. And while we go, talk to people. Drop our warnings into their ears. Tell them to get out of town. Only do it so subtly they don’t even know it’s us. Let them think these are their own thoughts.”
“Clever,” Henry said.
“Tell them not to pack anything. They just need to leave.”
“How long do we have?” Henry said.
Diamanda looked up at the sky, studying it for clues. She apparently failed to find any, because finally she said: “I don’t know. Hours, not days.” She returned her gaze to Henry. “We must do whatever we can to save these people, Henry, or we’re going to have a lot of angry spirits pointing fingers.”
“Well, we don’t want that,” Henry said. “Not when we just found each other again.”
Diamanda smiled. “I must say, it is good to see you, Henry. Very good. Now let’s get back to work.”
“Spreading the word,” he said.
“Spreading the word,” she replied.
Chapter 36
The Bridegroom Unearthed
THE VOICE THE COMPANY had located beneath the fertile dirt of the Nonce grew louder sometimes, sometimes fainter. But there was no doubting the strength in it, and the rage.
“Spread out!” Geneva said. “Look for some way down into the ground.”
“But be careful,” Mischief said. “Whoever it is down there, he sounds a little crazy.”
Walking cautiously so as not to further anger or disturb the man beneath them, they fanned out, looking for a route down into the tunnels.
“I’ve found something
!” Tria said.
She had indeed: the tunnel was oppressively narrow, lined with roots and alive with a lot of many-legged dirt dwellers, quillimedes and yard lice and scorpits. The sight of it brought a variety of responses.
“It’s suicide to go down there,” John Moot stated bluntly. “If we don’t get bitten to death, the tunnel will almost certainly collapse on us.”
“And anyway, we’ll frighten the Lordy Lou out of whoever’s down there,” said John Drowze.
“But this is what we came to do,” Geneva pointed out.
“Not to get buried alive, we didn’t,” Serpent replied.
“All right,” Tom said to the brothers. “You lot stand out here and guard the entrance and the rest of us will go in.” He made a move toward the entrance.
“Wait!” said Tria. “I’m the smallest. I should go first.”
“Before anyone gets too enthusiastic about going down there,” John Mischief said, “shouldn’t we consider the situation a little more closely? Let’s assume it is Finnegan Hob, the great dragon hunter, down there in the ground. Let’s ask ourselves why he’s down there.”
There was silence by way of response. Everyone exchanged grim looks.
“Yes, that’s right, ladies and gentlemen, he’s probably down there with a dragon.”
“Well, if it’s as vulnerable as the beast we killed at sea,” said Tom, “then I don’t think we’ve got a great deal to fear from the thing.”
“Don’t get too confident,” Geneva said. “Seagoing dragons have delicate constitutions. A lot of things can kill them. But your earthworm, on the other hand, is a good deal stronger. They live to be a thousand years old, some of them, and their skins just get tougher each time they shed.”
“I heard the same thing,” said John Moot.
“Hush,” said Mischief.
“Don’t shush me!” Moot protested.
“No, Moot,” said John Fillet, who was looking the other way. “It’s for your own good.”
“What?”
“Everybody . . .” Geneva said to the Johns. “Duck down.”
“Why?” Mischief muttered.
Geneva took the dagger she’d been polishing in her grip and spoke two syllables: “DRA. GON.”