Abarat: The First Book of Hours a-1 Read online

  Abarat: The First Book of Hours

  ( Abarat - 1 )

  Clive Barker

  It Begins in the Most boring place in the world: Chickentown, U.S.A. There lives Candy Quackenbush, her heart bursting for some clue as to what her future might hold.

  When the answer comes, it’s not one she expects. Out of nowhere comes a wave, and Candy, led by a man called John Mischief (whose brothers live on the horns on his head), leaps into the surging waters and is carried away.

  Where? To the Abarat: a vast archipelago where every island is a different hour of the day, from The Great Head that sits in the mysterious twilight waters of Eight in the Evening, to the sunlit wonders of Three in the Afternoon, where dragons roam, to the dark terrors of Gorgossium, the island of Midnight, ruled over by the Prince of Midnight himself, Christopher Carrion.

  As Candy journeys from one amazing place to another, making fast friends and encountering treacherous foes—mechanical bugs and giant moths, miraculous cats and men made of mud, a murderous wizard and his terrified slave—she begins to realize something. She has been here before.

  Candy has a place in this extraordinary world: she is here to help save the Abarat from the dark forces that are stirring at its heart. Forces older than Time itself, and more evil than anything Candy has ever encountered.

  She’s a strange heroine, she knows. But this is a strange world.

  And in the Abarat, all things are possible.

  Clive Barker

  Abarat:

  The First Book of Hours

  To Emilian David Armstrong

  I dreamed a limitless book,

  A book unbound,

  Its leaves scattered in fantastic abundance.

  On every line there was a new horizon drawn,

  New heavens supposed;

  New states, new souls.

  One of those souls,

  Dozing through some imagined afternoon,

  Dreamed these words.

  And needing a hand to set them down,

  Made mine.

  C. B.

  Prologue.

  The Mission

  Three is the number of those who do holy work;

  Two is the number of those who do lover’s work;

  One is the number of those who do perfect evil

  Or perfect good.

  From the notes of a monk of the Order of St. Oco; his name unknown

  The storm came up out of the southwest like a fiend, stalking its prey on legs of lightning.

  The wind it brought with it was as foul as the devil’s own breath and it stirred up the peaceful waters of the sea. By the time the little red boat that the three women had chosen for their perilous voyage had emerged from the shelter of the islands, and was out in the open waters, the waves were as steep as cliffs, twenty-five, thirty feet tall.

  “Somebody sent this storm,” said Joephi, who was doing her best to steer the boat, which was called The Lyre. The sail shook like a leaf in a tempest, swinging back and forth wildly, nearly impossible to hold down. “I swear, Diamanda, this is no natural storm!”

  Diamanda, the oldest of the three women, sat in the center of the tiny vessel with her dark blue robes gathered around her and their precious cargo pressed to her bosom.

  “Let’s not get hysterical,” she told Joephi and Mespa. She wiped a long piece of white hair out of her eyes. “Nobody saw us leave the Palace of Bowers. We escaped unseen, I’m certain of it.”

  “So why this storm?” said Mespa, who was a black woman, renowned for her resilience, but who now looked close to being washed away by the rain beating down on the women’s heads.

  “Why are you so surprised that the heavens complain?” Diamanda said. “Didn’t we know the world would be turned upside down by what just happened?”

  Joephi fought with the sail, cursing it.

  “Indeed, isn’t this the way it should be?” Diamanda went on. “Isn’t it right that the sky is torn to tatters and the sea put in a frenzy? Would we prefer it if the world did not care?”

  “No, no of course not,” said Mespa, holding on to the edge of the pitching boat, her face as white as her close-cropped hair was black. “I just wish we weren’t out in the middle of it all.”

  “Well, we are!” said the old woman. “And there’s not a thing any of us can do about it. So I suggest you finish emptying your stomach, Mespa—”

  “It is empty,” the sick woman said. “I have nothing left to bring.”

  “—and you Joephi, handle the sail—”

  “Oh, Goddesses…”Joephi murmured. “Look.”

  “What is it?” said Diamanda.

  Joephi pointed up into the sky.

  Several stars had been shaken down from the firmament—great white cobs of fire piercing the clouds and falling seaward. One of them was heading directly toward The Lyre.

  “Down!” Joephi yelled, catching hold of the back of Diamanda’s robes and pushing the old woman off her seat.

  Diamanda hated to be touched; manhandling, she called it. She started to berate Joephi roundly for what she’d done, but she was drowned out by the roaring sound of the falling star as it rushed toward the vessel. It burst the billowing sail of The Lyre, burning a hole right through the canvas, and then plunged into the sea, where it was extinguished with a great hissing sound.

  “I swear that was meant for us,” Mespa said when they had all raised their heads from the boards. She helped Diamanda to her feet.

  “All right,” the old lady replied, yelling over the din of the seething waters, “that was closer than I would have liked.”

  “So you think we are targets?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care,” Diamanda said. “We just have to trust to the holiness of our mission.”

  Mespa licked her pale lips before she chanced her next words.

  “Are we sure it’s holy?” she said. “Perhaps what we’re doing is sacrilegious. Perhaps she should be left to—”

  “Rest in peace?” said Joephi.

  “Yes,” Mespa replied.

  “She was barely more than a girl, Mespa,” Joephi said. “She had a life of perfect love ahead of her, and it was stolen.”

  “Joephi’s right,” said Diamanda. “Do you think a soul like hers would sleep quietly, with so much life left to live? So many dreams that she never saw come true?”

  Mespa nodded. “You’re right, of course,” she conceded. “We must do this work, whatever the cost.”

  The thunderhead that had followed them from the islands was now directly overhead. It threw down a vile, icy rain, thick as phlegm, which struck the boards of The Lyre like drumming. The lightning came down around the trembling vessel on every side, its lurid light throwing the curling waves into silhouette as they rose to break over the boat.

  “The sail’s no use to us now,” said Joephi, looking up at the tattered canvas.

  “Then we must find other means,” said Diamanda. “Mespa. Take hold of our cargo for a few moments. And be careful.”

  With great reverence Mespa took the small box, its sides and lid decorated with the closely etched lines of talismans. Relieved of her burden, Diamanda walked down to the stern of The Lyre, the pitching of the boat threatening several times to throw her over the side before she reached the safety of the little seat. There she knelt and leaned forward, plunging her arthritic hands into the icy waters.

  “You’d best be careful,” Mespa warned her. “There’s a fifty-foot mantizac that’s been following us for the last half hour. I saw it when I was throwing up.”

  “No self-respecting fish is going to want my old bones,” Diamanda said.

  She’d no sooner spoken than the mottled hea
d of a mantizac—not quite the size Mespa had described, but still huge—broke the surface. Its vast maw gaped not more than a foot from Diamnda’s outstretched arms.

  “Goddess!” the old lady yelled, withdrawing her hands and sitting up sharply.

  The frustrated fish pushed against the back of the boat, as if to nudge one of the human morsels on board into its own element.

  “So…” said Diamanda. “I think this calls for some moon-magic.”

  “Wait,” said Joephi. “You said if we used magic, we would risk drawing attention to ourselves.”

  “So I did,” Diamanda replied. “But in our present state we risk drowning or being eaten by that thing.” The mantizac was now moving up the side of The Lyre, turning up its enormous head and fixing the women with its silver-and-scarlet eye.

  Mespa clutched the little box even closer to her bosom. “It won’t take me,” she said, a profound terror in her voice.

  “No,” said Diamanda reassuringly. “It won’t.”

  She raised her aged hands. Dark threads of energy moved through her veins and leaped from her fingertips, forming delicate shapes on the air, and then fled heavenward.

  “Lady Moon,” she called. “You know we would not call on you unless we needed your intervention. So we do. Lady, we three are of no consequence. We ask this boon not for ourselves but for the soul of one who was taken from among us before she was ready to leave. Please, Lady, bear us all safely through this storm, so that her life may find continuance…”

  “Name our destination!” Joephi yelled over the roar of the water.

  “She knows our minds,” Diamanda said.

  “Even so,” Joephi replied. “Name it!”

  Diamanda glanced back at her companion, faintly irritated. “If you insist,” she said. Then, reaching toward the sky again, she said: “Take us to the Hereafter.”

  “Good,” said Joephi.

  “Lady, hear us—” Diamanda started to say.

  But she was interrupted by Mespa.

  “She heard, Diamanda.”

  “What?”

  “She heard.”

  The three women looked up. The roiling storm clouds were parting, as though pressed aside by titanic hands. Through the widening slit there came a shaft of moonlight: the purest white, yet somehow warm. It illuminated the trough between the waves where the women’s boat was buried. It covered the vessel from end to end with light.

  “Thank you, Lady…” Diamanda murmured.

  The moonlight was moving over the boat, searching out every part of the tiny vessel, even to the shadowy keel that lay beneath the water. It blessed every nail and board from prow to stern, every grommet, every oar, every pivot, every fleck of paint, every inch of rope.

  It touched the women too, inspiring fresh life in their weary bones and warming their icy skin.

  All of this took perhaps ten seconds.

  Then the clouds began to close again, cutting the moonlight off. Just as abruptly as it had begun, the blessing was over.

  The sea seemed doubly dark when the light had passed away, the wind keener. But the timbers of the boat had acquired a subtle luminescence from the appearance of the moon, and they were stronger for the benediction they had received. The boat no longer creaked when it was broad-sided. Instead it seemed to rise effortlessly up the steep sides of the waves.

  “That’s better,” said Diamanda.

  She reached out to reclaim their precious cargo.

  “I can take care of it,” Mespa protested.

  “I’m sure you can,” said Diamanda. “But the responsibility lies with me. I know the world we’re going to, remember? You don’t.”

  “You remember the way it was,” Joephi reminded her. “But it will have changed.”

  “Very possibly,” Diamanda agreed. “But I still have a better idea of what lies ahead of us than you two do. Now give me the box, Mespa.”

  Mespa handed the treasure over, and the women’s vessel carved its way through the lightless sea, picking up speed as it went, the bow lifting a little way above the waters.

  The rain continued to beat down on the women’s heads, gathering in the bottom of the boat until it was four inches deep. But the voyagers took no notice of its assault. They simply sat together in grateful silence, as the magic of the moon hurried them toward their destination.

  “There!” said Joephi. She pointed off toward the distant shore. “I see the Hereafter.”

  “I see it too!” said Mespa. “Oh, thank the Goddess! I see it! I see it!”

  “Hush yourselves,” Diamanda said. “We don’t want to draw attention.”

  “It looks empty,” Joephi said, scanning the landscape ahead. “You said there was a town.”

  “There is a town. But it’s a little distance from the harbor.”

  “I see no harbor.”

  “Well, there’s not much of it left,” Diamanda said. “It was burned down, long before my time.”

  The keel of The Lyre was grating on the shore of the Hereafter. Joephi was first out, hauling on the rope and securing it to a piece of aged timber that was driven into the ground. Mespa helped Diamanda out, and the three of them stood side by side assessing the unpromising landscape spread before them. The storm had followed them across the divide between the two worlds, its fury undimmed.

  “Now, let’s remember,” said Diamanda, “we’re here to do one thing and one thing only. We get our business done and then we leave. Remember: we should not be here.”

  “We know that,” said Mespa.

  “But let’s not be hasty and make a mistake,” Joephi said, glancing at the box Diamanda carried. “For her sake we have to do this right. We carry the hopes of the Abarat with us.”

  Even Diamanda was quieted by this remark. She seemed to meditate on it for a long moment, her head downturned, the rain washing her white hair into curtains that framed the box she held. Then she said: “Are you both ready?”

  The other women murmured that yes, they were; and with Diamanda leading the way, they left the shore and headed through the rain-lashed grass, to find the place where providence had arranged they would do their holy work.

  Part One.

  Morningtide

  Life is short,

  And pleasures few,

  And holed the ship,

  And drowned the crew,

  But o! But o!

  How very blue

  The sea is

  The last poem written by Righteous Bandy, the nomad Poet of Abarat

  1. Room Nineteen

  The project Miss Schwartz had set for Candy’s class was simple enough. Everyone had a week to bring into school ten interesting facts about the town in which they all lived. Something about the history of Chickentown would be fine, she said, or, if students preferred, facts about the way the town was today, which meant, of course, the same old stuff about chicken farming in modern Minnesota.

  Candy had done her best. She’d visited the school library and scoured its shelves for something, anything, about the town that to her sounded vaguely interesting. There was nothing. Nada, zero, zip. There was a library on Naughton Street that was ten times the size of the school library; so she went there. Again, she scanned the shelves. There were a few books about Minnesota that mentioned the town, but the same boring facts were repeated in volume after volume. Chickentown had a population of 36,793 and it was the biggest producer of chicken meat in the state. One of the books, having mentioned the chickens, described the town as “otherwise undistinguished.”

  Perfect, Candy thought. I live in a town that is otherwise undistinguished. Well, that was Fact Number One. She needed only nine more.

  “We live in the most boring town in the country,” she complained to her mother, Melissa, when she returned home. “I can’t find anything worth writing about for Miss Schwartz.”

  Melissa Quackenbush was in the kitchen, making meatloaf. The kitchen door was closed, so as not to disturb Candy’s father, Bill. He was in a beer-induced slumber
in front of the television, and Candy’s mother wanted to keep it that way. The longer he stayed unconscious, the easier it was for everyone in the house—including Candy’s brothers, Don and Ricky—to get on with their lives. Nobody ever mentioned this aloud. It was a silent understanding between the members of the household. Life was more pleasant for everyone when Bill Quackenbush was asleep.

  “Why do you say it’s boring?” Melissa asked, as she seasoned the meatloaf.

  “Just take a look out there,” Candy said.

  Melissa didn’t bother, but that was only because she knew the scene outside the window all too well. Beyond the grimy glass was the family’s chaotic backyard: the shin-high grass browned by the heat wave that had come unexpectedly in the middle of May, the inflatable pool they’d bought the previous summer and had never deflated and stowed away, now a dirty circle of red-and-white plastic at the far end of the yard. Beyond the collapsed pool was the broken fence. And beyond the fence? Another yard in not much better shape, and another, and another, until eventually the yards ended, and the streets too, and the empty grasslands began.

  “I know what you want for your project,” she said.

  “Oh?” said Candy, going to the fridge and taking out a soda. “What do I want?”

  “You want something weird,” Melissa said, putting the meat into the baking tin and thumbing it down. “You’ve got a little morbid streak in you, just like your grandma Frances. She used to go to the funerals of complete strangers—”

  “She did not,” Candy said with a laugh.

  “She did. I swear. She loved anything like that. You get it from her. You certainly don’t get it from me or your dad.”

  “Oh well, that really makes me feel welcome.”

  “You know what I mean,” Candy’s mother protested.

  “So you don’t think Chickentown is boring?” Candy said.

  “There are worse places, believe me,” Melissa said. “At least it’s got a bit of history…”