Abarat: The First Book of Hours a-1

by Clive Barker

  “Ithni asme ata,

  Ithni manamee,

  Drutha lotacata,”

  Come thou glyph to me.

  Ithni, ithni,

  Asme ata:

  Come thou glyph to me.”

  While he spoke these words, he walked in a circle about six or seven feet wide, grabbing hold of the air and appearing to throw what he’d caught into the circle.

  Then he began the words of the ritual afresh.

  “Ithni asme ata,

  Ithni manamee.

  Drutha lotacata,

  Come thou glyph to me.”

  Three times he made the circle, throwing the air and repeating the strange words of the conjuration.

  “…Ithni, ithni,

  Asme ata:

  Come thou glyph to me.”

  “I don’t want to hurry you,” Jimothi said, glancing back at Candy, his eloquent eyes flickering with anxiety, “but I can see the lights of three glyphs coming this way. It must be the Criss-Cross Man. I’m afraid you don’t have much time, my friend.”

  Malingo didn’t break the rhythm of his invocation. He went on, around and around, snatching at the air. But nothing seemed to be happening. From the corner of her eye, Candy caught sight of Jimothi making a tiny, despairing shake of his head. She ignored his pessimism and instead went to stand with Malingo.

  “Is there only room for one cook in this kitchen?” she said.

  He was still circling and snatching, circling and snatching.

  “The pot looks pretty empty to me,” Malingo said. “I need all the help I can get.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Candy said, stepping into the circle behind Malingo, copying his every move and syllable.

  “Ithni asme ata,

  Ithni manamee…”

  It was remarkably easy, once she’d done it one time through. In fact, it was eerily easy, like a dance step she’d forgotten but remembered again immediately the music began, though where she’d heard the music of this magic before she could not possibly imagine. This was not a dance they danced in Chickentown.

  “I think it’s working,” Malingo said hesitantly.

  He was right.

  Candy could feel a rush of kindled air coming out of the middle of the circle, and to her amazement she saw a myriad of tiny sparks igniting all around them: blue and white and red and gold.

  Malingo let out a triumphant whoop, and his happiness seemed to further fuel the fire of creation. Now the sparks began to trail light, forming a luminescent matrix in the dark air. The glyph being conjured was a complex form, dominated by three broad strokes, between which there was a filigree of finer lines. Some rose up to form a kind of cabin. The rest swept down behind the craft where they knotted themselves together forming something that might have been the glyph’s engine. Moment by moment it looked more solid. In fact it now seemed so substantial it was hard to imagine that the space it now occupied had been empty just a little time before.

  Candy looked over at Jimothi, who was staring with naked astonishment at what Malingo had achieved.

  “I take it all back, my friend,” he said. “You are a wizard. Perhaps the first of your tribe to speak a glyph into creation, yes?”

  Malingo had stopped circling. He now also stood back to admire the vehicle that was being called into existence.

  “We are both wizards,” he said, looking at Candy with a stare that contained surprise and delight in equal measure.

  Jimothi was once again consulting the skies through his telescope. “I think it’s time for you to go,” he said.

  “There’s still more to do,” Candy said, looking at the unfinished glyph.

  “It should finish itself,” Malingo told her. “At least that’s what Lumeric writes.”

  Lumeric the Mutep knew its business. As Candy watched, the glyph continued to become more and more coherent, the lines of light running back and forth, knitting the matter of the vehicle, refining its form. But it was taking its own sweet time, and that was the problem.

  “Is there no way to hurry it up?” Jimothi said.

  “Not that I know of,” Malingo replied.

  Candy glanced in the direction of the approaching enemy. She could now see the glyphs Jimothi had spoken of; all three considerably more elaborate than the vehicle that she and Malingo had conjured. But a craft was a craft; as long as it could carry them, it scarcely mattered what it looked like.

  As she watched, Houlihan’s trio came in to land on a ridge perhaps four hundred yards from them. There they sat, looking like predatory animals.

  “Why did they land over there?” Candy asked Jimothi.

  “Because Houlihan is a military man. He sees traps and ambushes everywhere. He probably thinks we’ve got an army of ten thousand tarrie-cats hiding behind the hill. How I wish we had them. I’d tear him and his mires to pieces.”

  “Mires? What are mires?”

  “The creatures he brought with him. They’re a particularly brutal breed of stitchling.”

  Candy was just about to ask Jimothi if she could take a look through his telescope to see these mires when a voice they all hoped had been silenced—at least for a while—echoed across the island.

  “There’s nothing to be nervous about, Houlihan! There’s only three of them. And a few cats.”

  It was Wolfswinkel, of course.

  Candy glanced around at the house. The wizard had appeared in the dome, which functioned as a giant magnifying glass, grotesquely distorting Wolfswinkel’s face and body. It was as though he was being reflected in a vast fun-house mirror. His head bulged, and his body looked dwarfed, so that he resembled an infuriated fetus dressed in a banana-skin suit.

  “Come and get them, Houlihan!” he screamed, pounding his tight red fists against the glass. “They’re weaponless! Kill the geshrat! He’s a mutinous slave! And beat that girl! Teach her a lesson.”

  “I really hate that little man,” said Candy.

  “There’s a lot worse than him, I’m afraid,” Jimothi replied.

  “Such as…?”

  “Try the Criss-Cross Man,” Jimothi said. “The list of his crimes is so long we could be here till the sun comes up over Ninnyhammer.”

  Candy licked her parched lips and went back to studying the glyph. It was still polishing itself, much to her frustration. Malingo was also staring hard at it, as though he was trying to will it to finish its autocreation.

  “What about you, Jimothi?” Candy said to the tarrie-man. “If we get away, what happens to you?”

  “I’ll be fine and dandy,” Jimothi said. “Houlihan won’t touch me. He knows where to draw the line.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure,” said Jimothi. “Don’t worry about me. Oh, A’zo. He’s coming.”

  Candy returned her gaze to the ridge. Houlihan and his gang of mires had vacated their glyphs and were approaching, confident—thanks to Wolfswinkel—that they had nothing to fear. Houlihan wore a long purple coat with a blood-red lining; his face was faintly jaundiced, and there seemed to be a checkerboard design tattooed upon his cheeks. The seven mires that followed on his heels were all bigger than he was, the largest nearly twice his size. Like all their vile species they were patchworks of flesh and fabric, all crudely sewn together. Their heads, however, were of inhuman design: like the skeletal remains of devils, with horns and snouts and vicious teeth. They all carried elaborately configured blades; three of them carried one in each hand.

  All in all, it was a terrifying spectacle.

  “How much longer?” she asked Malingo.

  “I don’t know,” the geshrat replied. Then, with a little puff of pride: “It’s my first.” He glanced up at the approaching posse. “I suppose we could get in it now, but I’m afraid it would decay, and we’d fall out of it.”

  At this juncture, there came a shout from Houlihan.

  “Candy Quackenbush?’’ he hollered. “You are under arrest, by order of Christopher Carrion.”

  Jimothi laid a lig
ht hand on Candy’s shoulder. “I’ll get the tarries to do what we can to delay him,” he said. “Safe voyages, lady. It is my sincerest hope that we meet again when matters are not so… rushed. Good-bye, Malingo. A pleasure, truly.”

  So saying, he started away, then returned to tell Candy: “If you should get caught—now or at any time—take courage. I don’t believe Carrion wants your life. He has some other purpose for you.

  He didn’t linger for a reply. There was no time. Houlihan was no more than thirty strides away.

  “Brothers and sisters,” Jimothi called. “Come to me. Come.”

  At his summons the tarrie-cats appeared from the gloom and followed on his heels. They were only a dozen or so at first, but then, miraculously appearing from the long grass, came two or three dozen more.

  Jimothi Tarrie positioned his feline soldiers directly in Houlihan’s path.

  The Criss-Cross Man raised his hand and brought his mires to a halt.

  “Jimothi Tarrie,” he said. “Surprise, surprise. I didn’t expect to meet the scum of High Sladder here. I thought they’d rounded up all you strays and put you out of your misery.”

  Jimothi ignored the insult.

  He just said: “You can’t have her, Houlihan. It’s as simple as that. She’s not going to Carrion. I won’t let you take her.”

  They spoke, Candy thought, like the most ancient of enemies, their words steeped in the curdled blood of old feuds.

  “She’s a trespasser, Tarrie,” Houlihan replied, “and a thief. And the Lord of Midnight demands that she be delivered directly to him.”

  “You don’t understand, Houlihan. The girl is not going with you.”

  “No, it’s you who doesn’t understand, animal. This is the law. She’s under arrest.”

  “Under what warrant?”

  “Midnight’s warrant.”

  “Ninnyhammer isn’t part of Carrion’s empire, Criss-Cross Man. You know that. His laws mean nothing here. So you go back to him and tell him… whatever you like. Tell him she slipped away.”

  “I can’t do that,” Houlihan said. “He wants her. And he won’t be denied. So stand aside, or I’ll have to take her by force.”

  “Tarries!” Jimothi yelled suddenly. “Take down the mires!”

  The animals needed no further instruction. They surged through the grass like a striped tide and leaped upon Houlihan’s faceless crew, climbing their bodies by digging their claws into their coats and attacking their hooded heads. The mires let out no sound in response, but they used their swords with terrible efficiency. Several of the bravest tarrie-cats dropped into the grass, slaughtered within seconds. It was a horrible sight. The fact that her presence had brought this battle about tore at Candy’s heart.

  “I have to stop this,” she told Malingo. “I won’t let this go on. I’ll just let Houlihan take me.”

  “No need,” Malingo said. “Look.”

  He pointed to the glyph. The process of its construction was finally completed. The vehicle was steaming lightly in the cool evening air, warm from the fever of its creation.

  “Come on,” Malingo urged. “Climb in!”

  As Candy climbed into the vehicle, she yelled to Jimothi Tarrie. “Call the tarries off, Jimothi!”

  He instantly threw back his head and let out a high-pitched yowl. The cats, having done their brave work, and having in several cases paid the ultimate price, now retreated from the battlefield.

  Houlihan led the mires unopposed toward the glyph, his teeth bared, his eyes blazing.

  He pointed straight at Candy as he approached.

  “Don’t move, girl!” he roared.

  “Quickly, lady!” Malingo urged. “Say the words!”

  “What words?”

  “Oh, yes. Nio Kethica. It means: Answer My Will.”

  “And then what?”

  “It will answer. Hopefully.”

  “I have you, girl!” the Criss-Cross Man was yelling. “I have you!”

  Houlihan was ten strides away, but one of the mires, whose headpiece resembled some monstrous bird, had moved ahead of him, clearly intending to stop Candy and Malingo. Luckily, he had lost his weapon in the short battle with the tarrie-cats, but his arms were enormous, like claws, in fact, with curled, silvery talons.

  There was no response from the glyph.

  “Nio Kethica,” Candy said. “Nio Kethica! NIO KETHICA!”

  The mire was almost upon them. Reaching out—

  Suddenly, the glyph shuddered. A noise escaped its engine, like the sound of an asthmatic taking a painful breath.

  Candy saw the mire’s talons inches from her ankle. She lifted her leg to avoid its grip, and as she did so the glyph miraculously obeyed her instruction. It shuddered and began to rise slowly into the air. The mire threw itself forward and caught hold of the craft as it ascended. In a matter of seconds the vehicle was twenty, thirty, forty feet off the ground. But the mire wasn’t about to let go. It hung on tenaciously, throwing its body back and forth in a deliberate attempt to unbalance the craft.

  “He’s trying to overturn us,” Candy said, grabbing hold of the glyph’s armrests.

  Malingo seized her arm. “I won’t let you fall,” he said.

  It was a sweet promise, but in truth it was little reassurance. The mire was throwing its body around, making the vehicle-rock back and forth more violently by the moment. It was only a matter of seconds before its assault succeeded and the craft flipped over.

  “We have to shake him loose,” Candy said to Malingo.

  “What do you suggest?” Malingo replied.

  “First we have to get that wretched helmet off him. He’s on my side, so you hold on to me.”

  She leaned over the edge of the vehicle and grabbed hold of the vicious beak of the mire’s headpiece. The creature could do nothing to fend her off. All it could do was cling to the glyph as it tipped and rolled like some lethal fun-fair ride.

  “Pull!” Malingo yelled.

  “I’m doing my best!” Candy yelled back. “I need to go farther over the side.”

  “I’ve got hold of you,” Malingo reassured her, grabbing her even more tightly.

  Candy leaned as far out of the reeling, rocking glyph as her balance would allow. She was now farther out of the vehicle than she was in it. Meanwhile the glyph continued its unchecked ascent, the wind steadily moving it away from the spot where it had been conjured into being. Wolfswinkel’s house was coming into view below.

  The wizard had apparently witnessed the vehicle’s whole gid-dying climb, because his bizarrely magnified head was pressed against the glass dome, his expression demented.

  Candy ignored Wolfswinkel’s wild stare and concentrated on trying to wrench the spiked hood off. Besides its savage beak, the headpiece had countless tiny barbs on its surfaces, which pricked and stung her palms. But she refused to let go. She was fighting for their lives here. The mire seemed to comprehend this too and was apparently prepared to kill itself in order to bring the glyph down. It thrashed around with incredible violence. But its appetite for destruction was to Candy’s purpose. When the mire twisted to the right, she wrenched the headpiece to the left, and “when it pulled left, she wrenched right.

  Finally, as the glyph moved directly over Wolfswinkel’s house, there was a series of strange noises from the mire’s skull. First there came a cracking sound, as though a heavy seal were being broken, then a loud, sharp hissing.

  When Candy pulled the spiked head toward her, there was a third sound: a wet, glutinous noise, like a foot being pulled out of a sucking pit. And finally the mire’s headgear came away in her hand. It was heavy, and she let go of it instantly. It dropped from her hands and tumbled away toward the roof of Wolfswinkel’s house, turning over and over until it struck the glass dome below.

  Now Candy was looking at the mire face-to-face. The shape of the creature’s head was the same shape as its headpiece: the snout and horns were identical. It had no features, no coloration. It was precisely the same
gray as its headpiece, except that it glistened horribly, like a fresh wound.

  “Mud,” Candy murmured to herself. “It’s made of mud.”

  “What?” Malingo yelled over the din of the wind.

  “It’s made of mud!” Candy yelled back.

  Even as she spoke, the mire’s head began to lose the shape of its mold. Clots and globs of mud began to detach themselves and fall back through the air toward the dome.

  The mire stopped struggling, as its body—which was entirely made of mud, Candy guessed, all encased in hood, suit, boots and gloves began to lose its coherence. Its head collapsed completely, releasing the vile reek of putrefaction. Gobs of mud spattered the dome of Wolfswinker’s house, as though a vast passing bird had defecated on the glass.

  Headless now, its body full of little shudders and twitches, the mire had little strength left to resist Candy. She began to pry its talons off the edge of the glyph, one by one, and finally the mire’s grip on the vehicle slipped. Candy let out a whoop of triumph as the creature fell away, trailing mud from the open wound of its neck.

  In the shiny glass dome below, Kaspar Wolfswinkel saw the mire’s body tumbling toward him and began to retreat from the glass, a look of fear crossing his rage-flushed face. He had barely begun his retreat when the great bulk of the mire smashed into the glass. One moment Wolfswinkel was a huge, leering presence, his face massively magnified. Then the leaking body hit, and as the glass shattered, Candy and Malingo saw the tyrant as he truly was: a ridiculous little man in a yellow suit.

  Even his voice, which had echoed across the slopes earlier like the voice of a tyrant, was reduced to a petulant shriek as glass rained down on him.

  Candy watched as the mire’s body hit the tiled floor and broke open, like a watermelon dropped from a tall building. Its swampy contents were splattered in all directions. There was no anatomy to speak of. No blood, no bones, no heart or lungs or liver. As she had guessed, the mire was made of mud from head to foot. And although the fleeing Wolfswinkel had attempted to avoid being hit by the contents of the mire’s suit, he hadn’t retreated fast enough. His yellow jacket was covered in mud and his long blue shoes were similarly bespattered, their heels slip-sliding under him.