Abarat: Absolute Midnight

“Let me and the boys lead the way,” Mischief said. “We’ll find somewhere to eat. Eight pairs of eyes are better than one.”

So saying, he and his brothers headed down the gangplank and onto the dock, leaving the others to follow at a more leisurely pace. As she walked Candy was struck by the peculiar hush that lay upon the harbor. Though it was far from deserted—there were people working on board the fishing boats that were moored along the quay, and the streets that led up into the town were busy—everyone was talking very quietly. There was no shouting or cursing from the fishermen, nor laughter and chatter among the women in the market. Even the large Abaratian seagulls, which were usually even more raucous than their brethren in the Hereafter, were not making their usual demands. In fact all but those few too ancient to fly were in the harbor. The rest had gone; the only sign of their numbers was the white droppings all along the seawall where they’d perched.

Candy surreptitiously snagged Malingo’s arm.

“There’s something wrong here, isn’t there?”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” he said quietly. “But what?”

In search of an answer Candy scanned the streets of the town, which was built on the flank of a steep hill, its whitewashed houses neatly arrayed on its zigzagging streets. Many of their windows were shuttered and their drapes drawn. Clearly, a lot of the residents in the town had no desire to even look outside, much less step.

“Oh, Lordy Lou,” Malingo murmured.

“What?”

She glanced at Malingo. He was staring at the sky. She did the same.

There was a wind blowing up there, carrying before it, in a northerly direction, a great flotilla of clouds. It wasn’t the clouds, however, that had caught Malingo’s eye. It was the birds that were flying through them. A mass migration was underway, not just of the seabirds that had vacated the harbor, but of hundreds of species—no thousands—many of which challenged the very definition of a bird. There was a flock of what looked to be winged boars, and several flights of feathered dragonflies. Their size was hard to gauge, but if the boars were the size of pigs, the dragonflies were the size of seagulls. The giants of this chaotic flock, however—creatures as big as airships, and kept aloft by the same bloated bodies, but trailed streams of flickering tentacles, like the tails of countless kites intertwined with quarter-mile strings of Christmas tree lights.

“So many,” Geneva said, amazed. Then, more darkly, “But where are they all going?”

“Have you seen anything like this before?” Candy asked.

“No, nothing,” Malingo said. “Even as a kid.”

“Me neither.”

There were shaken heads from everyone.

“There’s plenty of eating places along the harbor front,” Mischief and his brothers had already returned to report.

“It’s mostly fish,” said John Slop.

“It’s all fish,” said John Fillet.

“There’s crab,” said John Moot, “and squidling.”

“It’s still fish,” countered John Fillet.

“A crab isn’t a fish,” John Drowze said.

“Let’s just eat,” said Tom.

Candy looked at Malingo. The massive migration of birds had passed out of sight. With their disappearance there wasn’t much else to discuss.

“Agreed,” Candy said.

They wandered along the small cafes and restaurants along the harbor front, consulting the menus on view outside. But their harassed proprietors quickly appeared to offer them some bad news. Tonight’s dining would be delayed. It had yet to be filleted, battered and fried because it had yet to arrive. Everyone tried to make the delay sound quite inconsequential, a common occurrence. But they didn’t fool Candy.

“Where were they fishing?” she asked one of the cafe owners.

“To the west,” the owner replied, “in the straits between Gnomon and Gorgossium.”

West, Candy thought. The direction from which the birds were flying. What was going on? Something out of Gorgossium, more likely than not.

With all the premises along the harbor front proving useless, they decided to head up into the town in search of other sources of sustenance. The cobbled streets were steep, and the climb was hard work. But the reward was the sound of laughter, mainly where children were playing. Busy though the market street was, it was hard to miss the sight of the green-skinned man with piercing eyes towering over the crowd. It was an odd sight, considering the green man was shorter than he was green.

“Well, look who’s here,” Candy said with a smile. “Legitimate Eddie!”

“Where?” said Malingo.

“Straight ahead. And he’s standing on Betty Thunder’s shoulders.”

“Eddie and Betty?” said Two-Toed Tom. “Are you making this up?”

“They’re actors,” said Malingo. “They put on a play about us once. It was very funny.”

“I don’t see anyone,” said John Mischief, who was the shortest of his brothers.

Tom peered ahead and nodded.

“I see them. Oh, look at that. She looks so glamorous. All those sequins. All those muscles.”

They emerged from within the crowd and everyone could now see that they were accompanied by their playwright friend, a five-foot ape named Clyde, who was waving.

“Well, well, well,” said Legitimate Eddie. “If it isn’t Qwandy Tootinfruit and her friend Jingo.”

Everyone except Candy and Malingo looked extremely confused.

“Oh, I love reunions,” Candy said, and proceeded to make a round of introductions.

Once everyone had become acquainted, everyone decided that eating would be the next order of business, and proceeded up through the streets of Qualm Hah. At the top of one street, a market with all manner of things for sale: the produce of an Hour blessed by sun and showers; the endless balm of late spring morning; there were even some fruits here Candy knew and could name—Abaratian specialties like tuntarunts and doemanna rotts and kuthuries—but there were far more that she did not know.

“Forbidden fruits,” Legitimate Eddie said, plucking one very lushly shaped fruit from a pile. “She’s a big girl, this one,” he said with a mischievous grin. “Looks like you, Betty.”

The fruit did indeed resemble a very curvaceous woman. Betty was not offended.

“If it’s me then I’ll take it,” she said.

“They’re the best moriana we’ve had in a very long time,” the stallkeeper said.

“What’s the big deal?” Candy said.

“You tell her,” Betty said, biting the head off the moriana, then the upper body. The smell that spread from the coral-pink flesh of the fruit was so delicious it made Candy dizzy with pleasure.

“Oh wow,” she said.

“Aren’t they good? And no you can’t have a bite. Ask Eddie to buy you one,” said Betty.

“Why should I—?”

“You bought me one,” Betty said.

“I’m paying for that?”

“You’d better,” the wood-toothed stallkeeper said.

“I’ll pay for one,” Eddie said, putting up a single, stubby green finger.

“Uno moriana is seven paterzem.”

“Seven?” said Candy. “That’s ridiculous!”

“Where have you been?” the stallkeeper asked. “Paterzem ain’t worth what they used to be.”

As Eddie paid for Betty’s meal, Candy searched her pockets. She had two patterzem and some change.

“Where’s Malingo?” she said more to herself than anyone. “He’s got all our cash.”

She told everyone that she was going to look for Malingo and headed off along the line of stalls, assuming he’d wandered on ahead. She was surprised to find that he wasn’t just a few paces farther on, but had apparently gone on to explore the more elaborate stalls farther on, and more particularly, knowing Malingo, he’d headed for the marionette show that was playing for a crowd of adults and children at the very end of the street. She started to make her way through the throng toward the puppet theater, standing on tiptoe now and then or jumping up and