Abarat: The First Book of Hours

As for power, it seemed to be nakedly stolen from those higher up in the city (and therefore, presumably, more wealthy). Cables ran down the walls, entering houses and exiting again, to provide service for the next house.

It was not a foolproof system by any means. At any one moment, looking up at the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of heaped-up houses, somebody’s lights were flickering, or there was an argument going on about the cables. No doubt the presence of monkeys and birds, pecking at the cables, or simply swinging from them, did not improve matters.

It was a wonder, Candy thought, that this outlandish collection of people, animals and habitations worked at all. She could not imagine the people of Chickentown putting up with such chaotic diversity. What would they think of the ladder-legged creature or the smoke creature, or the baby beast throwing nuts in the air?

I need to remember as many details as I can, so when I get back home I can tell everybody what it was like, down to the last brick, the last butterfly. I wonder, she thought to herself, if they make cameras here? If they have televisions, she reasoned, then surely they have cameras.

Of course she’d first have to find out if the few soaked and screwed-up dollars she had in the bottom of her pocket were worth anything here. If they were, and she could find somewhere to purchase a camera, then she could make a proper record of what she was seeing. Then she’d have proof, absolute proof that this place, with all its wonders, existed.

“Are you cold?”

The woman who had addressed her looked as though she might have some Sea-Skipper in her heritage. Vestigial gills ran from the lower half of her cheek into her neck, and there was a faintly mottled quality to her skin. Her eyes had a subtle cast of silver about them.

“Actually I am a little,” Candy said.

“Come with me. I’m Izarith.”

“I’m Candy Quackenbush. I’m new here.”

“Yes, I could tell,” Izarith said. “It’s cold today; the water gets up through the stones. One day this place is just going to rot and collapse on itself.”

“That would be a pity,” Candy said.

“You don’t live here,” Izarith said, with a trace of bitterness. She led Candy to one of the houses made from fishing boats. As she followed the woman to the threshold, Candy felt just a little pang of doubt. Why was she being invited into Izarith’s house so quickly, without any real reason, beyond that of a stranger’s generosity?

Izarith seemed to sense her unease. “Don’t come in if you don’t want to,” she said. “I just thought you looked in need of a fire to warm you through.”

Before Candy could reply there was a series of crashes from outside the Head, accompanied by a din of yells and screams.

“The dock!” Candy said, looking back toward the door.

Obviously the jetty had finally given out beneath the weight of the crowd. There was a great rush of people out to see the calamity, which was of course only going to make matters worse out there. Izarith showed no desire to go and see what had happened. She just said: “Are you coming?”

“Yes,” said Candy, offering the woman a smile of thanks and following her inside.

Just as Izarith had promised there was a fire in the little hearth, which the woman fueled with a handful of what looked like dried seaweed. The kindling was consumed quickly and brightly. A soothing wave of warmth hit Candy. “Oh, that’s nice,” she said, warming her hands.

On the floor in front of the fire was a child of perhaps two, her features one generation further removed from the sea-dwelling origins of her grandparents, or perhaps her great-great-grandparents.

“This is Maiza. Maiza, this is Candy. Say hello.”

“Hell. O,” said Maiza.

With her duty to courtesy done, Maiza returned to playing with her toys, which were little more than painted blocks of wood. One of them was a boat, painted red; a crude copy, perhaps, of the vessel whose boards had built these walls.

Izarith went to check on the other child in the room; a baby, asleep in a cot.

“That’s Nazre,” she said. “He’s been sick since we came here. He was born at sea, and I believe he wants to go back there.”

She bent low, talking softly to the baby.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it, dearling? You want to be out away from here.”

“You want that too?” Candy said.

“With all my heart. I hate this place.”

“Can’t you leave?”

Izarith shook her head. “My husband, Ruthus, had a boat, and we used to fish around the Outer Islands, where the shoals are still good. But the boat was getting old. So we came here to trade it in for a new one. We had some money from the season’s fishing and we thought we’d be able to get a good boat. But there were no new boats to be had. Nobody’s building anymore. And now we’re almost out of money. So my husband’s working putting in toilets for the folks in the towers, and I’m stuck down here with the children.”

As she told her tale, she pulled back a makeshift curtain which divided the little room in two and, sorting through a box of garments, she selected a simple dress, which she gave to Candy.

“Here,” she said. “Put this on. If you wear those wet clothes much longer you’ll get phlegmatic.”

Gratefully, Candy put it on, feeling secretly ashamed of her initial suspicion. Izarith obviously had a good heart. She had very little to share, but what she had, she was offering.

“It suits you,” Izarith said, as Candy tied a simple rope belt around her waist. The fabric of the dress was brown, but it had a subtle iridescence to it; a hint of blue and silver in its weave.

“What’s the currency here?” Candy asked.

Plainly Izarith was surprised by the question; understandably so. But she answered anyway. “It’s a zem,” she said. “Or a paterzem, which is a hundred zem note.”

“Oh.”

“Why do you ask this question?”

Candy dug in the pocket of her jeans. “It’s just that I have some dollars,” she said.

“You have dollars?” Izarith replied, her mouth wide in astonishment.

“Yes. A few.”

Candy pulled the sodden notes out and carefully spread them on the hearth, where they steamed in front of the fire.

Izarith’s eyes didn’t leave the bills from the moment they appeared. It was almost as though she was witnessing a miracle.

“Where did you get those…?” she said, her voice breathless with astonishment. Finally she tore her gaze from the hearth and looked up at Candy.

“Wait,” she said. “Is it possible?”

“Is what possible?”

“Do you… come from the Hereafter?”

Candy nodded. “Actually I come from a place called America.”

“America.” Izarith spoke the word like a prayer. “You have dollars, and you come from America.” She shook her head in disbelief.

Candy went down on her haunches before the fire and peeled the now almost dried dollars off the hearth. “Here,” she said, offering them to Izarith. “You have them.”

Izarith shook her head, her expression one of almost religious awe.

“No, no I couldn’t. Not dollars. Angels use dollars, not Skizmut like me.”

“Take it from me,” Candy said, “I’m not an angel. Very far from it. And what’s a Skizmut?”

“My people are Skizmut. Or they were, generations ago. The bloodline’s been diluted, over the years. You