by Clive Barker
“He’s very badly wounded. We’re heading to the Nonce, Tom. Let’s hope we can get some help for him there.”
“It’s amazing he’s even alive,” Tom said admiringly. “He was in the dragon’s mouth.”
“That he was,” said the Captain. “If the brothers live, they’re going to have quite a tale to tell.”
The current was on their side; it carried them swiftly toward the island of the Nonce. The condition of the wounded Mischief and his brothers did not deteriorate significantly as they went, and as the bright shore beckoned, and the smell of blossoms sweetened the air, Geneva’s spirits began to rise just a little.
They were within perhaps six hundred yards of the beach when something nudged the little boat from below. Geneva went to the side of the vessel. She could see the reef below; the water was no more than fifteen feet deep. It was a beautiful spectacle: colored fish of every shape and size moving in shoals or happy solitude among the coral canyons.
And then, as she watched, panic seemed to seize them all. As a single animal they twitched and swam into hiding; gone in two heartbeats.
Geneva murmured the beginning of a prayer: “Goddesses, hear me in my hour of desperation—”
That was as far as she got. At that moment, a midnight-black stain spread through the water beneath the boat.
Geneva took a cautious step back from the edge of the lifeboat.
“Get the child, Captain,” she said, very quietly.
“Problem?” he murmured.
“Deja vu,” she said.
“I thought for certain it was—”
“Dead?” said the worm, as it rose out of the darkened waters. It was a truly grotesque sight. Geneva’s sword was still lodged in its throat, and the creature’s blood ran copiously from the wound, over the once pristine scales of its neck and upper body. Violent shudders passed through its body as though it was about to have a fit of titanic proportions.
“Do you have a gun, Captain?” Geneva murmured.
“Back in the Belbelo…”
“Something,” she said. “Anything. Kiss Curl?”
Carlotti moved down the little boat to look for something that they could use to defend themselves. His motion attracted the gaze of the worm, and without hesitation the creature swooped down. Kiss Curl didn’t have a chance. The dragon came up behind him, unhooked his jaw, and took Carlotti into its mouth whole.
“No!” Geneva yelled, flinging herself toward Kiss Curl to catch hold of him before he was swallowed. But the dragon threw back its head, like a bird taking a fish, and Carlotti slid out of sight into one of its bellies, as silent in death as he had been in life.
“Bastard thing!” Geneva said, tears of fury running down her cheeks.
The dragon made a terrible sound in its throat: a low joyless laughter. “Who will be next?” it said, scanning the survivors.
“McBean?” Geneva whispered.
“Yes?”
“Does the lifeboat have a flare gun?”
“I believe it does.”
“Can you get it?”
“Surely.”
“Very slowly, Captain. Take. Your. Time.”
The Captain did as Geneva had instructed. With great caution he lifted the center seat of the lifeboat, where there was a compartment containing emergency rations, and—yes!—a flare gun.
The worm meanwhile twitched and reeled. It was obviously getting closer to collapse with every passing moment. But that didn’t make it any less dangerous, Geneva knew. She had once seen a dragon take the lives of six people when it had all their swords driven into its head.
“Here,” the Captain said, oh-so-softly, and put the flare gun into Geneva’s hand.
It was a cumbersome thing, but Geneva knew she didn’t need to have perfect aim: her target was large.
Had the worm seen what they were doing? It opened its mouth and loosed a ragged noise, but the sound was more of anguish than of rage; the death tremors in its serpentine body were increasing with every beat of its heart.
Geneva brought the gun into view. The worm’s good eye flickered. There was a moment’s stillness, then the worm said:
“Damn you, woman.”
And Geneva fired the flare.
It left a smoky red trail, bright even in the light of the approaching day.
Though her aim didn’t need to be good, it was. The flare flew straight down the dragon’s throat, and for a moment the creature became the very image of its mythological self: the fire-breathing beast of the Testaments of Pottishak that Geneva had learned by heart at school.
“And yea, the Great Dragon Cascatheka Rendithius came upon the land like a plague, and fire came from its throat and blackened the living earth—”
She had scared herself many times as a child conjuring that image in her mind’s eye. But seeing it now—made flesh, made smoke—it was not so terrible. It was just a worm after all: petty and sly and cruel.
Then the gunpowder exploded, and two columns of blinding white fire blew out the monster’s eyes. The dragon screamed; a shriek that rose out of the inferno of its bellies and out of its throat and its pierced heart.
It lasted a little time, then it died away.
The dragon’s body swayed, its eyes reduced to blackened holes, and without further sound the beast collapsed upon itself as though its spine had turned to jelly. It didn’t fall to the left or right. It sank upon itself down into the bloodstained waters, descending so gracefully that it was gone from sight with scarcely a bubble.
“Thank you and good night,” the Captain remarked bitterly.
“Worms,” Geneva said, matching his bitterness. “I hate them with all my heart. And now they’ve taken Kiss Curl from us. I swear… I swear 1 will not be content until every dragon is wiped off these islands. And out of the waters too. Every last one.” She looked sideways at Tom and the Captain. “Agreed?”
“Agreed,” they both said.
They all stood in silence then, meditating for a time on their lost comrade.
And while they did so, the tide carried them gently to the beach, so that by the time their silent prayers were over, and they raised their heads, the hull of the lifeboat was gently nudging the soft white sand of the Nonce.
“We’re here,” said Tria.
“Finnegan is somewhere on this island?” Geneva said.
“Yes,” the child replied.
Tom shook his head in disbelief.
“Back where it all started,” he said. “Who would have thought?”
They said no more, but worked in thoughtful silence for the next little while, carrying the body of John Mischief and his brothers from the boat and up the sand to the cool shadows of the blossom-filled trees that lined the shore.
26. The House of Lies
Candy walked across rolling hills, the route before her illuminated only by stars. As she went, she kept her eye on the strange domed house that was built on top of the hill. She was more tired and hungry with every step she took, and was desperately hoping she’d find a simple welcome there at the house; a place where she could finally lay her head down and sleep. Her limbs felt like lead, and her eyelids kept fluttering closed, so that it felt that she was actually sleepwalking.
She contemplated lying down right where she stood, making a nest for herself in the grass and napping until the worst of her exhaustion passed. But she rapidly argued herself out of that plan.
She had no idea of what kind of animals lived on Ninnyhammer. For all she knew it could be an island of venomous toads, vampiric weasels and rabid snakes. Given the variety of strange fauna she’d encountered during her travels, anything was possible. So on she went, though her pace was slowing, step by exhausted step.
When she was about a mile from the house, she came upon a pillar topped with a little platform on which a well-fed fire was blazing. There were perhaps a dozen other such pillars, all topped with fires, which apparently marked the perimeter of the homeowner’s property.
They c
ertainly marked something, because once she had walked past the pillar, there was a subtle change in atmosphere. Though the pillar fires weren’t particularly large, they cast a light with a strength out of all proportion to their size, multiplying Candy’s shadow and making the solid ground appear to cavort beneath her feet.
She also sensed the presence of living creatures in her imminent vicinity, though for some reason she couldn’t catch sight of them. Perhaps they were too quick for her weary eyes; or hidden in the long grass, or simply, given that this was the Abarat, invisible. But sometimes she felt them brushing her shins, or nudging the back of her legs.
After a while their teasing presence began to annoy her.
“Who are you?” she demanded finally. “Show yourselves, will you? There’s nothing I hate more than games of hide-and-seek.”
Her demand had an immediate effect. Two animals, twice as large as domestic cats but definitely of the feline family, emerged from behind a scattering of rocks close by. They had fur the color of brick and flame, with black stripes and vast, luminous eyes.
“You look hungry,” she said to them. “But it’s no good looking at me. I don’t have anything to give you.”
By way of reply the scrawniest of the two cats let out a spine-tingling yowl, and within thirty seconds, half a dozen of its brethren had emerged from hiding. They all studied Candy with the same wide-eyed intensity as had the first couple.
Candy was just a little unnerved. Were they now sizing her up for devouring? If not, then why had they been following so closely on her heels, as though they were sniffing her raw flesh?
She halted a second time, turned back to them and said: “Will you just stop staring at me? Don’t you know it’s rude?” If they understood, they didn’t respond to the instruction. They just kept following her, staring, staring, as she strode along the narrow track that zigzagged up the slope toward the domed house.
In fact, the closer she got to the house the more agitated the cats’ behavior became. Rather than being content to follow on her heels they ran ahead, weaving back and forth in front of her, as though they intended to trip her up. As they wove, they all let out the same caterwauling sound. It sounded like a chorus of damned souls, and it made Candy’s stomach churn to hear it.
At last she could bear it no longer. She nimbly leaped over the backs of the animals in her path and made a desperate dash for the house. The cat-beasts came after her, their cacophony mounting in volume and disharmony the closer she got to the threshold.
She could feel their hot breath on the backs of her legs as she ran, and she feared that at any moment the fastest of them would leap and dig its claws into her legs, immobilizing her. She managed to stay ahead of them, but the chase took its toll. By the time she reached the house, she was gasping for breath, her lungs and throat burning.
She banged on the door, and shouted as best her fiery throat would allow, “Is there anybody at home?”
There was no reply.
She banged again, yelling with fresh gusto. By now, the cats had caught up with her, but for some reason instead of attacking her they simply walked to and fro, two or three yards from the threshold, yowling.
“Will somebody please help me?” Candy said, hammering on the door yet again.
This time she heard the sound of somebody moving behind the door.
“Hurry,” she implored.
After a few seconds the door was opened by an acidic-looking man in a bright yellow suit. He was short, but his height was increased by the fact that he wore not one unshapely hat on his head but several, all perched on top of one another. He also carried a hat in either hand, which he promptly added to the unruly pile. He then picked up a long staff that was propped just inside the front door and with a curt: “Stand aside, girl!” he charged past Candy and went after the cats with his staff.
“Get out of my sight, you repugnant specks of rabidity!” he hollered. “You, girl:get inside!”
The animals scattered until they were out of the range of his staff. But once that was accomplished they began their to-ing and fro-ing afresh, accompanied by that same anxious yowling.
“Thank you,” Candy said to her rescuer. “I was certain they were planning to attack me.”
“Oh, they were,” the man replied unsmiling. “I’ve no doubt of that. They were sent by the Devil himself to torment me, those damn tarrie-cats.”
“Tarrie-cats, you call them?”
“Yes. Tarrie-cats. They have their own city on the other side of the island. It’s called High Sladder. Why the hell they just can’t stay there is beyond me. Did any of them get their claws in you?”
“No, they didn’t touch me. I was just frightened because they were chasing me. And then there was that noise they were making…”
“Vile, isn’t it?” the man said grimly, waving Candy aside so that he could bolt the door, top, middle and bottom. “Believe me when I tell you there’s reason to be afraid of those creatures. Every single one of them has taken an innocent life.”
“No?”
“It’s God’s honest truth! Children have been smothered by fur balls. Babies have been bled dry by tarrie-cat fleas the size of my thumb. You’re lucky you had the energy to outrun them. If you’d slipped and fallen, they would have been on you in a heartbeat. I saw you from my big window”—he pointed up the stairs to what was presumably the dome of the house—”and I sent down a little incantation for you, to speed your heels. I hope it helped.”
“Well, it must have worked, because here I am.”
“Here you are indeed. And I’m happy to see you.” He set the stick down and turned to clasp Candy’s hand. “I’m Kaspar Wolfswinkel: philosopher, thaumaturgist and connoisseur of fine rums. And you are—?”
“Candy Quackenbush.”
“Quackenbush. Quack. En. Bush. That’s not an Abaratian name.”
“No… no, it’s not. I’m a visitor, I suppose you’d say.”
Kaspar’s deeply lined and gnomic face was a perfect portrait of fascination.
“Indeed?” he remarked casually. “A visitor? From…” His finger noodled about in the air. “The other place, perhaps.”
“The Hereafter? Yes.”
“Well, well,” Wolfswinkel said. “That’s quite a journey you’ve taken. All the way from there to…”
“Here?” Candy prompted.
“Yes. Quite so. There to here. That’s aways.” He smiled, though the expression sat uncomfortably on a face made for scowls and gloom. “You know, you really don’t know how wonderful it is to have you in the house with me.”
“Are you all alone?”
“Well, more or less,” Kaspar said, leading Candy into his living room. It made Samuel Klepp’s pressroom look tidy by contrast. Books, pamphlets and papers lay on every surface but one, the comfortable green leather chair into which Wolfswinkel now lowered himself, leaving Candy to stand. “Most of my family and friends are deceased,” he went on. “Victims of the war waged upon us by those wretched kitties.” He sighed. “It was paradise here on Ninnyhammer till the tarrie-cats built that shanty town they call a city. I mean, I’m an older man. Semiretired. This was going to be the perfect Hour for me to spend my twilight years. I planned to sit and sip my rum and ruminate on my life. Things done, things left undone. You know the way it is. I regret nothing, of course.”
“Oh,” said Candy. “Well I suppose that’s good.” She was a little lost for words on the subject of regret so she moved on to a subject she did know something about. “It must be lonely,” she said.
“Yes,” Kaspar said. “It gets lonely, to be sure. But what’s worse than the loneliness are the memories.”
“Of what?”
“Of how Ninnyhammer used to be, before the tarrie-cats came. They turned this perfect island into a nightmare. They really did. Every now and again I get a supply of fuel for the fires—”
“The fires on the poles?”
“Yes, they at least allow me to see the enemy. But I
live in fear of the time when I run out of fuel and—”
“—the fires will go out.”
“Exactly. When that happens… well… I fear that’ll be the end of me and Kaspar Wolfswinkel will be a memory too.”
“Surely there must be some way to catch the cats,” Candy said. “Back home in Chickentown—”
“I’m sorry? Chickentown? What exactly is a Chickentown?”
“It’s the town where I live. Or where I used to live.”
“What a perfectly ridiculous name for a place,” Wolfswinkel commented.
His tone brought out a little defensiveness in Candy. “It’s no weirder than Ninnyhammer,” she remarked.
Wolfswinkel’s eyes grew narrow and sly. “Well, of course this island isn’t my real home,” he said.
“No? So why do you stay here?”
“It’s a very long story. Maybe I’ll tell you later. Why don’t you sit down? You look tired.”
Candy glanced around the room for a place where she might take up his invitation. Wolfswinkel, seeing that all the chairs were occupied, muttered something under his breath and threw a simple gesture toward one of the smaller chairs. The pile of books perched upon it flew off the seat like a small flock of startled birds.
“Now sit,” he said.
“May I take off my shoes?”
“Be my guest. Allow me to get you something to eat. Make yourself at home.”
“My feet are killing me.”
“I knew somebody who had feet like that. They’d walk all over him. Archie Kashanian was his name. He used to wake up with footprints all over his chest, all over his face. It was the death of him, finally.”
Candy wasn’t sure whether Kaspar was making a joke or not. So rather than insult him by laughing she kept a straight face, though the idea of somebody being stomped to death by his own feet seemed utterly nonsensical.
Once again Candy changed the subject.
“Back in the Hereafter,” she said, “we have people who catch stray animals and find new homes for them. Or if they can’t do that, then they have them put down.”