Abarat: The First Book of Hours

The boat shook from bow to stern. The ropes creaked. And the old patched sail filled with a fierce wind that now came from the landward side, a wind so strong that its gusts fattened the canvas to near-bursting point.

Candy looked back over her shoulder at the Fugit Brothers, who were now wading into the frenzied surf in pursuit of the escapees. But the waves broke against them with no little force, slowing them down. Tempus lunged forward, attempting to catch hold of the boat before it was beyond his reach, but he was too late. The wind bore the little vessel away at such a speed he missed his grip and fell facedown in the water.

Candy smiled up at the women. They did not linger more than another moment. Just-time enough to return Candy’s smile. Then they were gone, their delicate forms blown away by the very wind Diamanda had summoned.

“That was a close call,” Malingo said. He was watching the diminishing figures of the Fugit Brothers, neck high in the surf. They were hoping, presumably, that the wind would veer and carry their quarry back to them.

But theirs was a lost cause. The gusts quickly drove the little vessel away from the island, and very soon the mist that always hung around the Twenty-Fifth Hour covered the sight of the rocky shore.

Exhausted but happy, Candy turned her back on the island and faced the open sea. There would come a time when she would think very closely about all that had happened to her in the labyrinths of the Twenty-Fifth Hour. About what the women had said and shown her: the visions of tomorrow, the mysteries of yesterday. But she was too tired to think such weighty thoughts now.

“Do you have any clue where we’re heading?” she asked Malingo.

“I just found this old copy of Klepp’s Almenak in the bottom of the boat,” he said, proffering the sodden pamphlet for Candy to study if she wished. She shook her head. “I think there’s a sea chart in here somewhere,” Malingo went on. “The trouble is, half of the pages have rotted together.” He delicately worked to tease the pages apart, but it was a nearly impossible task.

“I guess we’re just going to have to trust to the Izabella,” Candy said.

“You make her sound like a friend of yours.”

Candy trailed her hand in the cold water and splashed some up onto her face. Her eyes were heavy with fatigue.

“Why not?” she said. “Maybe she is a friend of mine.”

“Just as long as she treats us nicely,” Malingo said. “No twenty-foot waves.”

“We’ll be fine,” Candy replied. “She knows we’ve been through some hard times.”

“She does?”

“Oh sure. She’ll carry us somewhere nice.” Candy lay her head on her arm and let her hand trail in the water. “Like I said: have faith, she’ll bring us where we need to go.”

34. Different Destinies

Once before, at the beginning of her adventures in the Abarat, Candy had been told to entrust herself to the care of Mama Izabella. On that occasion she’d needed some extra help to survive her journey. This time, however, safe aboard the nameless boat that had come to find her on the shore of the Twenty-Fifth, she let the sea carry her where it wished to; and all was well. There were some provisions on the boat, plain but nourishing. And while she and Malingo ate, the wind carried them away from the Time Out of Time, and off between the islands.

As they traveled—having no idea of where the tide was taking them, nor any fear that it would do them harm—there were people across the archipelago who would have significant parts to play in Candy’s destination who were about their own business.

At Midnight, for instance, Christopher Carrion was wandering the mist-shrouded island of Gorgossium, plotting, endlessly plotting.

He was like a ghost haunting his own house. People were afraid of encountering him, because lately the nightmares that moved in the fluids were more active than ever, lending him an even more terrible appearance. Nor was there any way to predict where he might next appear. Sometimes he was seen in the Gallows Forest, feeding scraps of rotted meat to the vultures that assembled in stinking flocks there. Sometimes he was seen down in the mines, sitting in one of the exhausted seams. Sometimes he was spotted in one of the smaller towers, where Mater Motley’s seamstresses worked on creating an army of stitchlings.

Those who did have the bad luck to encounter him in one place or another were always closely interrogated by those who did not. Everybody wanted to know what the likely mood of their lord might be. Did he look angry, perhaps? Not really, came the reply. Did he look distracted, as though his thoughts were elsewhere? No, not distracted either.

Finally, some brave soul asked the question that everybody wanted an answer to, but all were too afraid to voice. Did he look demented?

Ah now, came the reply, yes perhaps that was it; perhaps he did act a little crazily. The way he talked to himself as he wandered among the gallows, or sat in the tunnels, speaking softly as though he imagined that he was talking to someone very dear to him. A friend, perhaps? Yes; that was it. He spoke as though he was sharing secrets with a friend. And sometimes, as he talked, he would reach into the seething fluids that he breathed and he would fish out a nightmare, and proffer it, as if to his invisible guest. The gift of a nightmare.

Was all this evidence of insanity? In any man other than Christopher Carrion the answer would surely have been yes. But Carrion was a law unto himself. Who could judge the depths of his thoughts, or of his pain?

He kept no councils; partook of nobody’s advice. If he was planning a war, then it was not with the assistance of his generals. If he was planning murder, then he did not look to the advice of assassins.

The only clue to the subject of his present meditations was a name he was several times heard to mutter; a name that did not yet mean anything much to those who heard it, but very soon would.

The name he spoke was Candy. He said into himself not once but many times, as though repetition would somehow summon up the owner and bring her near to him.

But she did not come. For all his power, Christopher Carrion was alone at Midnight, having nothing for company but the vultures at his heels, and the nightmares at his lips, and the echoes of that name he spoke, over and over again.

“Candy.”

“Candy.”

“Candy.”

His behavior did not go unnoticed, or unreported. There were creatures in the shadows all around the island, watching what Carrion did, and bringing reports of it to the top of the Thirteenth Tower, where the Lord of Midnight’s grandmother, Mater Motley, sat in her high-backed rocking chair, sewing stitchlings.

It was her perpetual labor; she never stopped. She didn’t even sleep. She was too old to sleep, she’d once said. She had no dreams left to dream. So she sewed and rocked and listened to the stories of her grandson’s lonely vigils.

Sometimes, when the skins of the stitchlings had piled up around her, and she was filled with a strange dementia of her own, Mater Motley also talked to herself. Unlike her grandson, she did not call out for company. She spoke in an ancient language known as High Abaratic, which was incomprehensible to all those who listened to the old woman. But the listeners didn’t need to comprehend her words to understand what Mater Motley was debating with herself. One look at the army of stitchlings she was assembling provided the answer to that question.

War was her subject; war was her obsession. She was sewing the skins of soldiers together, and planning their deployment as she labored. Over the years the old woman and her seamstresses had