Abarat: The First Book of Hours

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.”

“Homes?” Wolfswinkel said, his tone incredulous. “Who would give a home to any one of those monsters! The Infernal Regions is the only home the tarries deserve. Anyway, they can’t be caught. They’re too quick. They have to be tricked. Poison! That’s the way. You see that plate of fish on the table by the door? It contains enough scathrassic acid to kill a whole pack of them. If only I could just get them to eat it. But they’re suspicious of me.” He paused, then he snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Maybe you’d have more luck! Yes. I believe you would.”

“Me?” said Candy.

“Yes, you! If they saw you putting out the food—you, whom they don’t really know—they’d be fooled into taking it.” He looked smugly satisfied with his little plan. “You just need to be very casual—” He started to get up from his armchair.

“Wait!” Candy said. “I don’t want to disappoint you, Mr. Wolfswinkel, especially as you’ve been so kind and all, but I’m not going to poison cats for you.”

“If they were just cats I’d understand your moral dilemma, Miss Quackenbush. But they’re not. They’re hellspawn. Trust me on this. Hellspawn. After all the harm they’ve done—not just to me, but to poor, innocent people right across Ninnyhammer—scathrassic acid is kinder than they deserve, believe me. If there were any justice in heaven, they’d be struck down by lightning, every last one of them!”

Before Candy could reply to this outburst from her host, there was a sound from an adjacent room.

“What was that?” she said.

“Oh, it was just the wind,” Wolfswinkel replied hurriedly. “Take no notice.”