Mister Monday

by Garth Nix

  Arthur nodded and yawned. He turned back to say good-bye, mainly to Suzy, and was surprised to see everyone kneeling on the grass.

  ‘Good-bye!’ Arthur called out. He hesitated, then bowed. They all bent their heads while remaining on one knee. Arthur’s heart sank. He didn’t want to say good-bye like this. Then he saw Suzy raise her head. She winked and smiled and rolled her eyes at the company she was in.

  ‘Good-bye, Monday’s Tierce,’ said Arthur quietly.

  ‘See you,’ said Suzy. ‘Watch out for them Morrow Days.’

  ‘Good-bye, everyone!’

  ‘Good-bye, sir!’ chorused Dawn, Noon, and Dusk, and all the assembled Denizens behind them.

  Arthur waved again, then turned and followed the Will back through the door into Monday’s Dayroom. All the steaming mud had disappeared. Now it looked like the interior of an old house, or maybe a museum.

  ‘This way, please,’ said Sneezer, taking them up a stairway and down a very long corridor. Arthur and the Will followed the butler into a library, a very comfortable-looking one, about as big as the one at Arthur’s school, but with old wooden shelves and several comfortable-looking armchairs.

  ‘I have taken the liberty of placing your clothes behind that shelf, milord,’ said Sneezer as he rapidly applied a cloth and a brush to Arthur, magically removing the mud.

  ‘Oh, yeah, thanks,’ said Arthur. He looked down at his strange clothing and a faint smile crossed his face. He didn’t want to go back in a nightshirt without underpants.

  It only took Arthur a minute to get dressed. Though his school clothes were pressed and cleaned, the labels and the waistband from his underpants were still missing. That would be a tough one to explain to his mum, he thought.

  He took special care to take the Nightsweeper from his coat and put it in his shirt pocket, wedging it tightly so it could not fall out. The little horse whinnied quietly, but seemed quite comfortable.

  When Arthur emerged, Sneezer was waiting.

  ‘I believe this is yours, milord,’ said Sneezer, and he plucked a volume from a small ivory-fronted shelf next to one of the chairs. He gave the book to Arthur, then went to pull on a bell rope in the corner. A bell boomed in the distance as he tugged the rope. A few seconds later, it was answered by a deep rumbling. The floor shivered under Arthur’s feet, and one entire wall of bookshelves rolled back to reveal a strange seven-sided room. In the centre of the room seven grandfather clocks were set facing one another, their pendulums making a collective swimmy sort of thrum that was like listening to your own heartbeat with your fingers in your ears.

  Distracted for a moment, Arthur didn’t look at the book. When he did, he realised it was the Compleat Atlas of the House.

  ‘But this isn’t mine,’ he protested to the Will. ‘You should have this. I can’t even open it without the Key.’

  ‘It is yours,’ boomed the Will. ‘You have borne the Key long enough that some pages will open to your hand. You will also need this.’

  She reached into her sleeve again and pulled out not a handkerchief, but a red lacquered container about the same size as a shoe box. Arthur took it and tucked it under his arm.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A telephone,’ said the Will. ‘You may have need to speak to me, should the Morrow Days prove less kind than we might hope. Or if I need your counsel.’

  ‘I don’t want it,’ said Arthur stubbornly. ‘You said I could have five or six years!’

  ‘The telephone will not be used save in the most dire emergency,’ replied the Will. ‘It is insurance against perfidious fate, nothing more.’

  ‘Oh, all right!’ said Arthur. He tucked the box under his arm and paced angrily next to the Will. ‘Now, can I finally go home?’

  ‘I do beg your pardon, milord,’ said Sneezer. He had gone inside the room and was moving the hands of the clocks around. ‘This is rather complicated, but it will only take a moment.’

  Arthur stopped pacing. Once again he checked his pocket to make sure the tiny black horse was still there.

  ‘Ready!’ pronounced Sneezer. ‘Quickly, quickly, get in before the clocks strike!’

  ‘Good-bye, Master,’ said the Will. ‘You have shown great fortitude and proved, as I fully expected, to be a most excellent choice.’

  She gave Arthur what was clearly meant to be a small push towards the clocks, but actually sent him flying across the room and almost into them. Sneezer caught him, spun him around, and set him in the middle, caught between the clocks. Then the butler leaped out of the circle.

  The clocks began to strike. The room wavered around Arthur, as if a heat haze had sprung up. Arthur dimly saw the Will waving her handkerchief and Sneezer saluting. The clocks continued to strike, and a familiar white glow spread all around.

  Just like the Improbable Stair, thought Arthur.

  He stood for a while, wondering what was going to happen next and where . . . and when he was going to come out.

  I guess I should have told Sneezer exactly what I wanted. Not that it matters. As long as I can get the Nightsweeper going . . .

  The white light pulsed and began to close in around Arthur on three sides. But on the fourth side, it stretched out, making a kind of narrow corridor. Arthur hesitated, but as the light continued to press in, started along it.

  He seemed to walk for a long time and was starting to get worried. He even briefly contemplated opening the red lacquer box and calling the Will. What if something had gone wrong with the Seven Dials? What if Sneezer was a traitor like Pravuil, in the employ of the Morrow Days?

  Arthur fought back his fears once again and kept walking. Eventually the white light began to fade and he could make something out. A different sort of light. Yellow, not white. He could hear things too, distant sounds coming into the silence. A helicopter, far off, and distant sirens. And he was having a little trouble breathing. Not a lot, just a little, a minor catch to his breath.

  The white light disappeared completely. Sunshine hit, and the sound of the city under quarantine. Arthur screwed up his eyes and shielded his face with his hand. He was standing on a suburban street. Outside a house with a newly painted garage door.

  Arthur dropped his hand and looked. The House had disappeared, and once again he could see the normal buildings that had been there before. In the distance, a plume of black smoke rose to the sky, with helicopters buzzing around it. Sirens wailed in symphony all around.

  He saw a car approaching fast down the road and crouched down behind a small shrub, which offered very little camouflage. But the car was coming too quickly to find a better hiding place. Even if it was the police, Arthur hoped they would simply take him to East Area Hospital, and he would still be able to send the Nightsweeper out from there.

  Then he recognised the car. It was his brother Eric’s old blue clunker, heading fast for home.

  Arthur stood up and waved. For a second it looked like Eric hadn’t seen him, then the car screeched to a halt, blowing smoke from its rear tyres. Eric didn’t normally drive like that, but then this was no normal time.

  ‘Arthur! What are you doing here?’ shouted Eric, sticking his handsome blond head out the window. ‘Get in!’

  ‘Going home,’ said Arthur as he ran across and climbed in. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was at a one-on-one master class at the city gym,’ said Eric as he put his foot down again. ‘Then we heard there was a fire at the school. I headed over there right away but got turned back and told to get home within thirty minutes.

  They’re going to shoot all unauthorised vehicles and pedestrians after two o’clock! It’s total quarantine!’

  ‘Is Mum okay?’ asked Arthur. ‘The others? What time is it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Eric, shaking his head. He was in shock, Arthur saw. He hadn’t even asked how Arthur got out of school. ‘Time? Uh, one thirty-five. We’ll make it easily.’

  Arthur settled back in his seat and tightened the seat belt as Eric zoomed the car
around the second-to-last corner before home. He checked the Nightsweeper in his pocket. He couldn’t use it for at least ten hours.

  A lot could happen in that time. People could die, and the Nightsweeper would not bring them back. Arthur hadn’t thought of that in his desire to get home. He’d thought it was all over. But defeating Monday wasn’t the end. There was still more to do.

  Arthur’s breath caught and he instinctively reached for his inhaler. But it wasn’t there. Panic rose, then was forced back as Arthur realised he didn’t really need it. He wasn’t breathing as free and easy as he had in the House, but his lungs weren’t totally tightening up either. There was a catch to his breath and his lungs felt strangely lopsided, as if more air was getting in his left lung. But he was okay.

  Eric didn’t so much park the car as stop it near the front door. They both jumped out and rushed upstairs. Bob and Michaeli met them at the door, themselves rushing down to see who it was. After quick hugs, they all retreated into Bob’s studio. Wherever they’d lived, that was always the place of family conferences and important events.

  ‘Emily’s all right,’ was the first thing Bob said. ‘But this is a bad one. A real outbreak. They don’t know what it is, where it came from, or even what it can do.’

  ‘Mum’ll work it out,’ said Michaeli. Eric nodded in agreement.

  Bob noticed that Arthur didn’t. He reached out and clapped his youngest son on the shoulder. ‘She’ll be okay,’ he said. ‘We’ll all be okay.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Arthur. He touched his pocket again. Why, oh why hadn’t he asked for something that would stop the plague right away? Anything could happen in the next ten hours. He could get the plague himself and fall asleep.

  Twenty-nine

  THE NEXT TEN hours were the longest of Arthur’s life. He sat within the studio for a while, listening to Bob play the same tune over and over again on the piano. He watched the news on television with Michaeli for a much shorter time, but couldn’t bear to hear of the many new cases or the attempts to break quarantine. And on the hour, every hour, some of the patients were dying. So far, it was all very old people, but that was no comfort to Arthur. He felt responsible for their deaths.

  Finally he retreated to his room and lay on his bed. The red lacquer box was on his desk, and the Atlas with it. Arthur didn’t even feel like looking at that. Instead he just held the Nightsweeper on the palm of his hand. It mostly stood still, but every now and then would take a few steps, or lower its head and nibble at his palm.

  Eventually, without meaning to, or wanting to, Arthur fell asleep. One moment he was awake, the next he was suddenly aware that he was asleep.

  Asleep! Every alarm in his brain went off as he struggled to wake up.

  What if I’ve missed midnight? What if I have to wait a whole day till tomorrow night? More people will die! Mum might die!

  Arthur woke thrashing and crying out. It was pitch black, save for the glow of his digital clock. He stared at it, sleep clogging his senses.

  11:56! There was still time!

  Then he had another panic. He was under a quilt. Bob must have found him asleep and thrown the quilt over him. The Nightsweeper was gone from his hand!

  Arthur hurled himself out of bed and turned on every light. Then he ripped the quilt from the bed. The Nightsweeper had to be there somewhere.

  What if Bob took it downstairs? Or if Michaeli had been the one who –

  Then Arthur saw it, standing easily on top of the lacquer box. The Nightsweeper was prancing now, eager to be at its work.

  Arthur let out the longest sigh he had ever made, reached over, and picked it up. It reared in his hand and gave an excited neigh.

  Arthur took it to the window. It became even more restive as he raised the sash.

  ‘Go on,’ said Arthur softly, opening his palm.

  The black horse leaped into the night. Arthur saw it grow as it flew up to the sky. Grow and grow and grow, till its hooves alone were larger than the house. It neighed, and its neigh was like thunder, rattling the windows, shaking the house. It circled high in the air, then dived back down, great gusts of cold wind jetting from its flared nostrils.

  The wind blew Arthur back onto the bed. It was cold, but a delicious cold, beautifully brisk. He felt it wake him up completely, sending a jolt through his entire body. It was the breath of pure, excited life, of raw energy, of the simple joy of running as hard as you can.

  Arthur rushed back to the window in time to see the Nightsweeper gallop high over the town beyond, its fresh, invigorating breath blowing the leaves from trees, shaking signs and sweeping up anything loose upon the streets. Car alarms came on everywhere it passed, and lights flicked on in waves beneath it.

  The Nightsweeper was waking everything . . . and everyone . . . up.

  Downstairs, Arthur heard the phone ringing. He ran out to see Michaeli and Eric already in the corridor. Together they tumbled down the stairs, down to the main living room. Bob was there, fully dressed and weary. He slowly put the phone down and smiled at his children.

  ‘That was Emily. They’ve identified the genetic structure,’ he said, relief evident in every word and gesture. ‘There will be a vaccine within days. But it seems the virus is less fatal than everyone first thought. Lots of patients are waking up.’

  Arthur smiled then, relief washing through him. Finally it was over.

  Then he heard another telephone ring. No one else reacted and for a second Arthur thought he was imagining it. But the sound got even louder, though Bob, Michaeli, and Eric still paid it no attention. It was an old-fashioned chattering bell, not an electronic beep. Arthur had only heard something like it in the House . . .

  It had to be the phone in the red lacquer box.

  Arthur looked at the clock on the wall. It ticked, and the minute hand moved a fraction.

  It was one minute past twelve.

  On Tuesday morning.

  About the Author

  GARTH NIX was born on a Saturday in Melbourne, Australia, and got married on a Saturday, to his publisher wife, Anna. So Saturday is a good day. Garth used to write every Sunday afternoon because he has had a number of day jobs over the years that nearly always started on a Monday, usually far too early. These jobs have included being a bookseller, an editor, a PR consultant, and a literary agent. Tuesday has always been a lucky day for Garth, when he receives good news, like the telegram (a long time ago, in the days of telegrams) that told him he had sold his first short story, or just recently when he heard his novel Abhorsen had hit The New York Times best-seller list.

  Wednesday can be a letdown after Tuesday, but it was important when Garth served as a part-time soldier in the Australian Army Reserve, because that was a training night. Thursday is now particularly memorable because Garth and Anna’s son, Thomas, was born on a Thursday afternoon. Friday is a very popular day for most people, but since Garth has become a full-time writer it has no longer marked the end of the work week. On any day, Garth may generally be found near Coogee Beach in Sydney, where he and his family live.

  And now, a sneak preview

  of Arthur's next adventure

  GARTH NIX

  Prologue

  THE BLOOD RED, spike-covered locomotive vented steam in angry blasts as it wound up from the very depths of the Pit. Black smoke billowed through the steam, coal smoke that was laced with deadly particles of Nothing from the deep mines far below.

  For over ten thousand years, the Pit had been dug deeper and deeper into the foundations of the House. Grim Tuesday’s miners sought workable deposits of Nothing, from which all things could be made. But if they found too much in one place or broke through to the endless abyss of Nothing, it would destroy them and much else besides, before the hole could be plugged and that particular shaft closed off.

  There was also the constant danger of attack by Nithlings, the strange creatures that were born from Nothing. Sometimes Nithlings came as multitudes of lesser creatures, sometimes as a single, fearsome mon
ster that would wreak enormous havoc until it was defeated, turned back, or escaped into the Secondary Realms.

  Despite the danger, the Pit grew ever deeper, and the shafts and tunnels that preceded it spread wider. The train was a relatively recent addition, a mere three hundred years old as time ran in the House. The train took only four days to travel from the bottom of the Pit up to the Far Reaches. There wasn’t much left of the Reaches, since the digging had eaten away much of Grim Tuesday’s original domain within the House.

  Very few ordinary Denizens ever rode the train. Most had to walk, a journey of at least four months, following the service road next to the railway. The train was only for the Grim himself and his favoured servants. Its locomotive and carriages were razor-spiked all over to prevent hitchhikers, and the conductors used steam-guns on anyone who tried to get on. Even an almost-immortal Denizen of the House would think twice about risking a blast of superheated steam. Recovery would take a long time and be extraordinarily painful.

  Flying would be far faster than the train, but Grim Tuesday never wore wings himself and had forbidden them to everyone else. Wings attracted Nothing from all over the Pit. Sometimes they caused flying Nithlings to form. Other times, the flapping set off storms of Nothing that the Grim himself had to quell.

  The train whistled seven times as it came to a screeching stop alongside the platform. Up Station had been built by Grim Tuesday himself, copied from a very grand station on some world in the Secondary Realms. It had once been a beautiful building of vaulting arches and pale stonework. But the coal smoke from the train and the Grim’s many forges and factories had stained the stones black. The pollution from Nothing had also eaten into every wall and arch, riddling the stone with tiny holes, like a worm-eaten wooden ship. The station only stayed up because Grim Tuesday constantly repaired it with the power of his Key.

  Grim Tuesday held the Second Key to the Kingdom, the Key that he should have handed to a Rightful Heir ten thousand years ago, but instead chose to keep, in defiance of the Will left by the Architect who had created the House and the Secondary Realms.