by Clive Barker
“Whoaya now!” said Lummuk, obviously skeptical. “How’s that certain? What that sign sayings?”
“Sign? It sayings ‘Fort Com’!”
In less stressful circumstances, Candy might have found some humor in the stitchling’s error. He had an advertisement for the Comfort Tree Hotel in his hand.
“Was there battles?” Lummuk wanted to know.
“Was there battles? Was there battles? Nine Peep-Holes was killed just from by frights! And it was all the Uman Beens that was doin’ the crazies. I din’t do nuffin! I was just . . . smellin’ ’em.”
“And you smell ’em here now. That’s how comes you knows, huh?”
“Yeps.”
They both inhaled.
“Oh yes,” Lummuk said. “I smells it.”
“Give me my knife back,” Shaveos demanded. “I’ll cutsem!”
His knife was, in fact, a machete. He felt the heft of it, and even in the shadows Candy could see the sick smile of pleasure that came onto his face as he did so. This was a weapon he’d used. She knew it. The evidence was there in his lipless smile.
“Ready?” he said to Lummuk.
“I was stitched ready,” Lummuk said smugly.
“We gotta be ready for thems to come at us all at once. They’s vicious, these—”
His remark was interrupted by what was unmistakably the grunting of a pig. A very large pig, its grunting encouraging more noise from pigs in its vicinity.
“Oh! Piggie wiggies!” said Shaveos. “Look a’ ’em!” He pushed Lummuk aside. “I sees me some piggie wiggies, I does, I does.”
“What ams you doing?” Lummuk wanted to know.
“I wants to hug a piggie wiggie. And then maybe takes a bite. Just one bites.”
“Fooly fool! Thems not your piggie wiggies to hug and bites. Thems the Empress’s piggie wiggies!”
“She don’ts gives care how many piggie wiggies she’s has. What you think, she come up down every morning to countsem?” Shaveos replied, pulling open the cage door. He reached in. “Come on, you. You looks delish!” He talked to the pig as though he might have spoken to a baby, in a singsong voice. “Come come, piggie wiggie. Pretty piggie wiggie.” The charm didn’t last very long. When the pig failed to respond to his request, he quickly lost his temper. “Come, you vilely porkund!” he yelled, throwing the cage door open. “I needs my belly filled all up! Wally on, porkund! Wally on!”
He reached in to grab the hog with both hands. The creature squealed as it was hauled out by the stitchling and lifted up into the light. It was a big beast, its body striped orange and blue, except for its head, which was that of an albino, its flesh stark white, its eyes bloodred with long white lashes. Though it retained some porcine snout, its features were flatter than those of an ordinary pig, making the animal look almost human.
“Oh, yous is a gorgeous. Yous is! I could . . . I could—”
Apparently besieged by his own appetite, Shaveos opened his mouth, which was lined with rows of daggerlike teeth—and bit down on the animal’s neck. The pig’s squeal became even shriller. Candy kept her eyes fixed on the struggle between the diner and his dinner. It was seconds away from catastrophe, she sensed. The pig was too strong, and the stitchling too concerned about his empty belly to notice. Keeping her eyes locked on the two devourers, she caught hold of Zephario, tugging on his arm to let him know the moment of departure was near.
But before Candy could say a word, the pigs broke free, all of them squealing now.
“Backs! Backs! Dumdum poogoos!” said the fooly fool.
“Aw. Now lookee what youms done!” hollered Lummuk.
“We should move. Now,” Candy said.
“Good plan,” said Zephario.
Pigs were jumping and scrambling under them and scrambling to free themselves of two stitchlings’ grips. The chaos was good news. It distracted the stitchlings long enough for Candy and Zephario to reach the door. Their luck, however, quickly ran out. At the last minute, Shaveos flung his claw about wildly and accidentally entangled itself in Candy’s hair. The stitchling turned to see what it had snagged. Its face went slack.
“Uman Been!” the stitchling said.
He turned Candy toward him, and she was treated to her first close-up view of a stitchling’s face. It was a mixture of genius and crudity: the stitches were large and uneven, but there was an uncanny realism in the way it moved. This was no simple brute. The Todo mud that gleamed in his eyeholes, forming his shiny-wet eyes, had intelligence in it.
“I knows yous,” Shaveos said. “Chickumtomb girl! Candy Quackenbush!”
It said her name with remarkable clarity. But the words had barely escaped his lips when Candy felt a wave of force, like a narrow wind, rush past her. The air ignited all around her, just for a second, then the ring of light and power passed her by, closing like an iris as it did so. It struck both stitchlings in their chests. They loosed a shock of rage and pain. Shaveos’s claw went limp, freeing Candy’s hair from its grip.
She instantly turned to look for Zephario.
“Are you all right?” she asked him.
He was reaching into the interior of his jacket, mumbling to himself as he did so.
“Can I help?” she said, reaching toward him.
Though her fingers didn’t touch him, she sensed how close they were, and retreated from him with guilty haste.
“That power surge,” she said. “It was you.”
Behind her, Shaveos bellowed:
“Candy Quackenbush. She ams here!”
“Oh, great,” Candy groaned.
“Cargo Hold Nine! Cargo Hold Nine!” shouted Lummuk.
“I’ll killser!” said Shaveos.
And so saying, he stood, picking up his machete as he did so, and ran for Candy, swinging his machete in the air.
She saw the machete coming, and tried to throw herself out of its path through the door into the next hold. But the thresholds of the doors between the holds were abnormally high, and she stumbled. She might well have cracked her shinbones had she not reached out and caught hold of the door frame. Shaveos swung at her again, and this time she might have perished had he not lost hold of his dinner. At that moment, a pig a charged into him, knocking him over, and taking Candy with him in the process.
Candy was shoved aside by the stitchling’s bulk. She lost her grip of the door frame and fell back among the pigs. There were several seconds when all Candy could see was a blur of wet snouts and curly pink tails, then she sat up, in time to see Lummuk stagger away from Shaveos, whose machete was buried deep in Lummuk’s head: so deep that the blade was entirely hidden for several inches of its length before its painted end could even be seen.
Shaveos reached out and caught hold of the machete’s handle as his companion toppled backward. This had two consequences. One, it stopped Lummuk from falling backward; indeed it pulled him back into an upright position, where he teetered for several seconds, while Shaveos twisted the machete this way and that, attempting to free it.
Candy was watching Shaveos’s face when he finally worked the blade loose. She saw his expression shift from frustration to pleasure—there! The blade was coming free!—only to decay seconds later into puzzlement, more than puzzlement. Fear. And Candy knew why.
It was only common sense.
She saw Shaveos try to push his machete back into the hole he’d just unstopped, like a man with a fat cork trying to fit it back into the narrow opening of a bottle from which a djinni was escaping. It was a lost cause. Still he pushed, and as he did so the mud from Lummuk’s head leaped at him. So fast. So horribly fast! Tentacles, black as the stitchling’s eyes had been, but shot through with smears of vivid color that had surely never been in gray-brown muck mined on Gorgossium. Shaveos knew he was in trouble. He let go of the machete and instead used his free hand to stem the flow of mud.
“Lummuk! Shaveos ams sorry! Accident! Oopsies! Lummuk! She ams to blame! The—” He drew breath and yelled: “CANDY QUACKENBUSH!”<
br />
The mud that had once been Lummuk didn’t care about his explanations. It continued to crawl up Shaveos’s arm, leaping over his fingers, and then—just as Shaveos drew breath to yell Candy’s name one more time, Lummuk oozed into his open mouth.
Candy shook herself out of her trance of curiosity and turned to Zephario.
“We should get—” she started to say.
But the blind man had already gone.
Chapter 64
No Plan B
“WHY HAVEN’T WE FALLEN out of the sky?” Gazza said.
“Maybe because we haven’t stopped moving?” Malingo suggested, though there was precious little conviction in his reply. “How far have we come?”
Gazza looked back over his shoulder. “Oh, Lordy, Lordy, Lordy,” he said.
“What’s wrong?”
“We’re a lot farther from Scoriae than I thought we were.”
Malingo got to his feet and turned around to look back through the glyph’s semitranslucent walls. It was a beguiling, rapturous spectacle, with layer upon layer of figures, their colors shimmering toward the stern of the glyph. There were people in all directions, some assembled in groups, many solitary. But he resisted the temptation to study them too closely. He needed to focus his attention on the northern coastline of Scoriae.
Gazza had been right. They were indeed a lot farther from Scoriae than he thought they’d be. If he squinted, he could just see the area of flat ground where the internment compound had been located, and beyond it, Mount Galigali, which was no longer the inert rock it had been for as long as any of these people could remember. A gaping hole had been torn open in its flank, and liquid magma blazed from the wound, hawking up phlegm-fire to spit at the sky.
“Galigali’s gonna go bang,” Malingo said.
“Hasn’t it already?”
“I think it’s got more destruction in it than the few fireworks we’ve seen so far.”
“Really? Funny, I feel like Galigali right now. I’m going to go bang. But a good bang. No . . . a great bang,” Gazza said.
“Oh? What’s brought this on?”
“Not what, Malingo, who.”
“Oh, her. What was it that got ya? Her eyes, right? Blue, brown. Blue, brown.”
“But each time, a different blue.”
“A different brown.”
“Lordy Lou,” Gaz said.
Malingo’s smile withdrew, only lingering in his eyes.
“I didn’t realize. I’m sorry,” Gaz said.
“What’s to be sorry for?” Malingo asked.
“You don’t look very happy now. I didn’t realize—”
“We geshrats seem to always want more than fate has given us.”
“That’s not just a geshrat problem.”
“No?”
“No. When you like something . . . even love something . . .”
“Or even love, yes.”
“Yes. Love. That’s the word.” His voice got louder with every syllable. “Why not use it?”
“Perhaps more quietly?” Malingo said.
“Why? She makes me happy. Crazy-happy. And I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but she’s . . . I don’t know . . . hypnotizing me with those eyes. Blue, brown. Blue, brown.”
“You do sound crazy. Be careful,” Malingo warned him. “Everybody can hear what you’re saying.”
“Fine by me,” Gazza said. “I’ve got nothing to hide.” He raised his voice to be sure he could be heard by everyone in the glyph. “I love the girl who brought us together, Candy Quackenbush. None of us would still be alive if it weren’t for her,” he reminded them all, his voice coming back to him in mysterious echoes off the vaulted ceilings and the nine-sided chambers. “But we’re not safe yet. The Stormwalker that’s waiting for us back there is even bigger than our glyph, and it contains an army of stitchlings: one stitchling for every one of us. A knife for every heart. That’s what Mater Motley has planned for us. But we’re free and we’re going to stay free. The problem is there’s seven thousand knives they haven’t used yet.”
There were murmurs of assent from all directions, high and low, port and starboard.
“Does anybody disagree?” Gazza yelled.
He let the silence play out for a few seconds, to give any dissenting voice a chance to be heard. But there were no objections raised. Candy was the heroine of the Hour.
“All right,” he said, smiling. “So then it’s agreed. We have to go back. We’re—”
“Wait.”
The voice of a woman came from somewhere on the starboard side.
“Before we turn around, there’s something everybody should know. The vessel the Empress has come after us in is a death-ship. It’s called a Stormwalker. I saw copies of the plans for its construction. It could blow us out of the skies in a heartbeat.”
There were murmurs of suspicion:
How did she see plans for a thing like that?
Whose side was she really on?
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t on the side of what’s right,” the woman said. “I want Mater Motley brought to trial for murder. My brother, Kaltu Mothrass, was tortured to death by her and her seamstresses.”
“Why?”
“We don’t have time—” Malingo started to say but the question had been asked and the woman was already answering it: “I’m Juna Mothrass. My brother and his wife, Geneva Peachtree—”
“Wife?” Malingo said quietly to himself.
He had spent many hours in Geneva’s presence since they had all banded together around Candy, but not once had he heard Geneva make any mention of a husband, which would have sounded odd under any circumstances, but was particularly strange when the husband you were talking about was one of the most famous revolutionaries of Abarat. Malingo needed to be certain that this woman was who she claimed to be.
“So, Juna—” he said.
“Yes?”
“—do you know Geneva well?”
“Very well.”
“Well enough to tell me which book she knows by heart from beginning to end?”
The fact that Malingo had presented Juna with such a demanding question had a murmur of anticipation to make the colored compartments of the vessel churn, color flowing with color, creating hues that only existed in the ethereal or metafictional dimensions.
“Of course,” Juna Mothrass replied without hesitation. “The Testaments of Pottishak. She knows every word.”
“Is that the right answer?” Gazza said.
“Yup,” Malingo told him. “She knows Geneva. We should listen to her.”
“I don’t know much,” Juna said. “All I can say with any certainty is that if we try to come at the vessel from either side, we’ll be blown out of the sky.”
“So what do you suggest?” Gazza said. “Are we supposed to leave Candy on that island? Look at it! Look!”
He had picked, quite by chance, a particularly opportune moment to direct everyone’s attention toward Scoriae, because two and half seconds later the top of Mount Galigali, which had been a shape so recognizable it had been used on Ž500 paterzem notes without need of identification for many years, blew off. A column of liquid stone poured heavenward, blackening a sky that was only just beginning to clear the dirt from the sockets of the stars when the flame turned into an oily-black smoke that blinded them again. Meanwhile, titanic shovelfuls of infernal cinders rolled smoking down the slope, pitched so far by the force of the eruption that some of them flowed down onto the beach, where they rolled into the water, throwing up clouds of steam.
“I think there’s only one way to go,” Juna said.
“And where’s that?” Gazza said.
“We go straight at the Stormwalker.”
“You mean fly straight at that thing?”
“That’s suicide, surely,” said somebody else.
“On the contrary. I think it’s our only chance because it’s the last thing she’ll expect. She thinks we’re frightened of her.”
�
��We are,” said John Slop.
“No,” said Gazza. “We’re not. And if we admit to fear, then we’re already lost.”
“So what’s going to stop us colliding with her?”
“Nothing. We will collide with it! And push it back, directly into the mouth of the volcano.”
“Is the glyph strong enough to survive the impact?”
“I don’t know,” Juna said. “We’re only as strong as our will to survive.”
“All right,” said Gazza warily. “Let’s call that Plan A. Who has a Plan B?”
There was a very long silence, which Malingo eventually broke.
“Apparently there is no Plan B,” he said.
“Well, that keeps it simple,” said Gazza. “We fly straight at the Stormwalker and take our chances.”
“What will they do? What will they do?” The Empress paced back and forth in front of the window, watching the glyph. “They can’t stay out there forever.”
“Maybe they’re not out there,” her grandson said.
“What nonsense are you talking? I can see them with my own eyes.”
“Who knows what’s really out there? We could be one great big mirror. We could be looking at a distorted version of ourselves.”
“I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous. I have access to every form of magic in the Abarat. And I have moved on to search other worlds for new sources of power.”
“Are you still keeping all that a secret, Grandmother? Because it really isn’t much of one is it? Not any longer. I followed you as far as the Starrish Door—the one that leads to the Zael Maz’yre—years ago.”
“No,” the Empress replied coldly. “You couldn’t have.”
“Oh, don’t fret yourself. I got no further than the door. How could I? All those choices. doors with doors. And within every door, a destination. Of course I had no idea which one you’d taken, and of course I was deathly afraid of choosing the wrong one. Who knows where I would have been delivered? I was afraid I’d never find my way back. So I left, and went back to my work, and never—”
“Hush!” she said sharply.
“What?”
“We have visitors.”
