THE SHORT VOYAGE TO the Carnival Island quickly took the Parroto Parroto out of the darkness that surrounded Gorgossium. A golden glow on the horizon marked their destination, and the closer they came to it the more boats appeared in the waters around the little fishing boat, all making their way west. Even the most unremarkable of vessels was decorated with flags and lights and streamers, and all were filled with happy people on their way to celebrate on the island ahead.
Candy sat in the bow of the Parroto Parroto, watching the other vessels and listening to the singing and the shouts that echoed across the water.
“I don’t see Babilonium yet,” she said to Malingo. “All I see is mist.”
“But do you see the lights in that mist?” Malingo said. “That’s Babilonium for sure!” He grinned like an excited kid. “I can’t wait! I read about the Carnival Island in Wolfswinkel’s books. Everything you ever wanted to see or do, it’s there! In the old days, people used to come over from the Hereafter just to spend time in Babilonium. They’d go back with their heads so stuffed with the things they saw, they had to make up new words to describe it.”
“Like what?”
“Oh. Let me see. Phantasmagoric. Cathartic. Pandemonical.”
“I never heard of pandemonical.”
“I made that one up.” Malingo smirked. “But there were hundreds of words, all inspired by Babilonium.”
As he spoke, the mist began to thin out and the island it had been concealing came into view: a glittering, chaotic conglomeration of tents and banners, roller coasters and sideshows.
“Oh. My. Lordy. Lou,” Malingo said softly. “Will you look at that?”
Even Charry and Galatea, who were working on building a makeshift cage of timbers and rope to contain the captured zethek, stopped work to admire the spectacle.
And the closer the Parroto Parroto came to the island, the more extraordinary the sight seemed to be. Despite the fact that the Hour was still early and the sky was still light (showing just a few stars), the lanterns and lamps and myriad little fires on the island burned so brightly that they still made the island shimmer with their light. And by that light the crowds could be seen, busy about the happy labor of pleasure. Candy could hear their contented buzz, even over a considerable expanse of water, and it made her heart quicken with anticipation. What were these people seeing that made them so giddy with bliss? They chatted, they whooped, they sang, they laughed; more than anything they laughed, as though they’d only just learned how.
“This is all real, isn’t it?” Candy said to Malingo. “I mean, it isn’t a mirage or something?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, lady,” Malingo said. “I mean, I’ve always assumed it was perfectly real, but I’ve been wrong before. Oh . . . speaking of that . . . of being wrong, if you’re still interested in learning whatever magic I got out of Wolfswinkel’s books, I’d be happy to teach you.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“What do you think? The Word of Power you uttered.”
“Oh, you mean Jass—”
Malingo put his finger to Candy’s lips. “No, lady. Don’t.”
Candy smiled. “Oh yes. That might spoil the moment.”
“You see, what did I tell you in Tazmagor? There are laws to magic.”
“And you can teach me those laws? At least some of them. Stop me from making a bad mistake.”
“I suppose I could try,” Malingo conceded. “Though it seems to me you may know more than you think you know.”
“But how? I’m just—”
“—an ordinary girl from the Hereafter. Yes, so you keep saying.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Lady, I don’t know any other ordinary girls from the Hereafter besides you, but I’d be willing to bet none of them could take on three zetheks and come out the winner!”
Candy thought of the girls in her class. Deborah Hackbarth, Ruth Ferris. Malingo was right. It was very hard to imagine any one of them standing in her shoes right now.
“All right,” she said. “Supposing I am different, somehow? What made me that way?”
“That, lady, is a very good question,” Malingo replied.
After much maneuvering through the flotillas of boats and ferries and people on water bicycles that thronged the harbor, Skebble brought the Parroto Parroto in to dock at Babilonium. Though the catch had been dumped in the straits several miles back, the stink of the zetheks had permeated their clothes, so their first task before they ventured onto the crowded walkways was to purchase some sweeter-smelling outfits. It wasn’t difficult. Over the years a number of enterprising clothes merchants had set up their stalls close to the dock, realizing that many of the visitors would want to shuck off their workday clothes as soon as they arrived on Babilonium and buy something a little more appropriate to the air of the Carnival. There were perhaps fifty or sixty establishments in this chaotic little bazaar, their owners all singing out the virtues of their wares at the tops of their voices. Shoemakers, boot makers, cane makers, breeches makers, petticoat makers, bodice makers, suit makers, hatmakers.
Needless to say, there were a lot of very garish and outlandish outfits for sale—singing boots, aquarium hats, moonbeam underwear—but only Charry (who did buy the singing boots) gave in to the merchants’ relentless sales-manship. The rest all chose comfortable clothes that they could wear without embarrassment when they eventually moved on from Babilonium.
The Carnival Island was all Candy and Malingo had hoped it would be, and more. It attracted people from right across the archipelago, so there were all kinds of shapes and faces, garments, languages and customs. The visitors from the Outer Islands, for instance—from Autland and Speckle Frew—were dressed simply and practically, their sense of Carnival limited to a new waistcoat or a little fiddle playing as they walked. Celebrants from the Night Islands, on the other hand—from Huffaker and Jibarish and Idjit—were dressed like escapees from a magician’s dream, their masks and costumes so fantastic that it was hard to know where the audience ended and the entertainment began. Then there were the travelers from Commexo City, who favored a certain cool modernity in their outfits. Many wore small collars that projected moving images up around their faces—masks of color and light. More often than not it was the Commexo Kid whose adventures were playing on the screens of these faces.
Finally, of course, there were those creatures—and there were many—who, like Malingo, needed neither paint nor light to make them part of this prodigious Carnival. Creatures born with snouts, tails, scales and horns, their forms and their voices and their behavior a fantastical show unto itself.
And what had all these Carnival-goers come to see?
Whatever, in truth, their eager hearts and spirits desired. Mycassian Bug Wrestling in one tent, subtle-body dancing in another; a seven-ring circus, complete with a troupe of albino dinosaurs, in a third. There was a beast called a fingoos, who put its snout right through your head to read your mind. Next door to that, a thousand-strong choir of mungualameeza birds were singing excerpts from Fofum’s Bumble Bees. Everywhere you looked there were entertainments. The Electric Baby, who had a head full of colored lights, was on display here, as was a poet called Thebidus, who recited epic poems with candles perched on his pate, and a thing called a frayd, which was billed as a beast that had to be seen to be believed: not one but many creatures, each devouring the other to make a “living testament to the horrors of appetite!”
Of course, if you didn’t wish to go into the tents, there was plenty to do in the open air. There was a dinosaur on display—“lately captured by Rojo Pixler in the wilds of the Outer Islands”—and a hoofed beast the size of a bull delicately walking a high wire, and of course the inevitable roller coasters, each claiming to be more heart-stopping than the competition.
The air was filled with the mingled smells of a thousand things: pies, caramel, sawdust, gasoline, sweat, dog’s breath, sweet smoke, sour smoke, fruit nearly rotten, fruit beyo
nd rotten, ale, feathers, fire. And if happiness had a smell, that too was in the air of Babilonium. In fact, it was the fragrance that hovered behind all the other fragrances. Nor did the island ever seem to exhaust its surprises. There was always something new around the next corner, in the next tent, in the next arena. Of course, any place that boasted such brightness and wonderment had its share of shadows too. At one point the group made a turn off the main thoroughfare and found themselves in a place where the music wasn’t quite as upbeat and the lights not quite so bright. There was a more sinister, serpentine magic at play here. There were colors in the air, which made half-visible shapes before dissolving again; and music coming from somewhere that sounded as though it was being sung by a choir of irate babies. People peeped out from behind curtains of booths to the right and left, or flew over them, their shapes changing as they somersaulted against the sky.
But they’d come to the right place, no doubt of that. Right up ahead was a large canvas sign that read FREAK SHOW, and under it a brightly colored row of banners on which a variety of outlandish creatures had been crudely painted. A creature with a fringe of arms and tentacles around its huge head; a boy with a body of a reptile; a beast that was a bizarre compendium of pieces thrown together carelessly.
Seeing all of this, Methis the zethek quickly realized what was being planned on his behalf. He began to fling himself around his cage, cursing obscenely. The crudely made cage looked as though it might break beneath his assault but proved stronger than the creature’s fury.
“Should we feel a little sorry for him?” Candy asked.
“After what he did?” said Galatea. “I don’t think so. He would have murdered you in cold blood if he’d had the chance.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“And destroying the fish like that,” said Malingo. “Pure malice.”
The zethek knew he was being talked about and fell silent, his gaze going from one person to the next, hatred in every glance.
“If looks could kill,” Candy murmured.
“We should leave you to make the sale,” Malingo said to Skebble when they were within a few yards of the freak show.
“You should have a little coin for yourselves,” Mizzel said. “We could never have caught the creature if not for you. Especially Candy. My Lord! Such courage!”
“We don’t need any money,” Candy said. “Malingo’s right. We should leave you to sell the creature.”
They paused a few yards shy of the entrance to the freak show to make their farewells. They hadn’t known one another very long, but they’d fought for their lives side by side, so there was an intensity in their parting that would not have been there if they’d simply gone out sailing together.
“Come to the isle of Efreet one Night,” Skebble said. “We never see the sun up there, of course, but you’re always welcome.”
“Of course, we got some fierce beasts live up there,” Mizzel said. “But they stay to the south side of the island mostly. Our village is on the north side. It’s called Pigea.”
“We’ll remember,” Candy said.
“No, you won’t,” said Galatea with half a smile. “We’ll just be some fisherfolk you met on your adventuring. You won’t even remember our names.”
“Oh, she remembers,” Malingo said, glancing at Candy. “More and more, she remembers.”
It was a curious thing to say, of course, so everyone just ignored the remark, smiled and parted. The last time Candy looked back, the quartet was dragging Methis’ cage through the curtains into the freak show.
“You think they’ll sell him?” Candy said.
“I’m sure they will,” Malingo replied. “It’s ugly, that thing. And people pay money to see ugly things, don’t they?”
“I guess they do. What did you mean when you talked about my remembering?”
Malingo looked at his feet and chewed on his tongue for a little time. Finally he said: “I don’t know exactly. But you’re remembering something, aren’t you?”
Candy nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I just don’t know what.”
Chapter 8
A Life in the Theatre
IT WAS THE FIRST time on their journey together that Candy and Malingo had realized that they had different tastes. Up until now they’d traveled in step with each other, more or less. But faced with the apparently limitless diversions and entertainments of Babilonium, they found they weren’t quite so well matched. When Malingo wanted to see the green werewolf star juggler, Candy was itching to go on the Prophet of Doom ride. When Candy had been Doomed six times, and wanted to sit quietly and gather her breath, Malingo was ready to go take a ride on the Spirit Train to Hell.
So they decided to separate, to follow their own fancies. Occasionally, despite the incredible density of the crowd, they would find each other, as friends will. They’d take a minute or two to exchange a few excited words about what they’d seen or done, and then they’d part again, to find some new recreation.
On the third time this happened, however, Malingo reappeared with the leathery flaps he had on his face standing proud with excitement. He was wearing a cockeyed grin.
“Lady! Lady!” he said. “You have to come and look at this!”
“What is it?”
“I can’t really describe it. You just have to come!”
His excitement was infectious. Candy put off going to watch the Huffaker Snail Tabernacle Choir and followed through the throng to a tent. It was not one of the huge circus-sized tents, but it was large enough to hold several hundred people. Inside there were about thirty rows of wooden benches, most of them filled by an audience that was roaringly entertained by the play that was being performed onstage.
“Sit! Sit!” Malingo urged her. “You have to see this!”
Candy sat down on the end of a crowded bench. There was no room for Malingo anywhere nearby, so he remained standing.
The setting of the play was a single large room stuffed to over-capacity with books, antique ornaments and fanciful furniture, the arms and legs of which were carved with the scowling heads and tremendous talons of Abaratian monsters. All of this was pure theatrical illusion, of course; most of the room was painted on canvas, and the details of the furniture were painted too. As a result, none of it was very solid. The whole set shook whenever a cast member slammed a door or opened a window. And there was plenty of that. The play was a wild farce, which the actors performed with abandon, yelling and throwing themselves around like clowns in a circus ring.
The audience was laughing so hard that many of the jokes had to be repeated for the benefit of those who didn’t hear them the first time. Glancing along the row in which she was sitting, Candy saw people with tears of laughter pouring down their faces.
“What’s so funny?” Candy said to Malingo.
“You’ll see,” he replied.
She went on watching. There was a shrill exchange going on between a young woman in a bright orange wig and a bizarre individual called Jingo (that much she heard), who was running around the room like a crazy man, hiding under the table one moment and hanging from the swaying scenery the next. To judge by the audience’s response this was about the funniest thing they’d ever seen. But Candy was still lost as to what it was all about. Until—
—a man in a bright yellow suit came onstage, demanding rum.
Candy’s jaw fell open. She looked up at Malingo with an expression of disbelief on her face. He smiled from ear to ear and nodded, as if to say: Yes, that’s right. It’s what you think it is.
“Why are you keeping me here, Jaspar Codswoddle?” the young woman demanded.
“Because it suits me, Qwandy Tootinfruit!”
Candy suddenly laughed so loudly that everybody else around her stopped laughing for a moment. A few puzzled faces were turned in her direction.
“Qwandy Tootinfruit . . .” she whispered. “It’s a very funny name. . . .”
Meanwhile, onstage: “You’re my prisoner,” Codswoddle was saying
to Qwandy. “And you’re going to stay here as long as it suits me.”
At this, the girl ran to the door; but the Codswoddle character threw an elaborate gesture in her direction, and there was a flash and a puff of yellow smoke, and a large grotesque face appeared carved on the door, snarling like a rabid beast.
Jingo hid under the table, blabbering. The audience went wild with appreciation at the stage trickery. Malingo took a moment to lean over and whisper to Candy.
“We’re famous,” he said. “It’s our story, only sillified.”
“Sillified?” she said. It was a new word, but it nicely described the version of the truth that was being played out on the stage. This was a sillification of the truth. What had been a frightening experience for both Candy and Malingo was enacted here as an excuse for pratfalls, word games, face pullings and pie fights.
The audience, of course, didn’t care. What did it matter to them whether this was true or not? A story was a story. All they wanted was to be entertained.
Candy beckoned to Malingo, who squatted down on his haunches beside her.
“Who do you suppose told the playwright about what happened to us?” she whispered to him. “It wasn’t you. It wasn’t me.”
“Oh, there’s plenty of spirits on Ninnyhammer who could have been listening.”
By now the play was heading for its big conclusion, and events onstage were getting more and more spectacular. Tootinfruit had stolen a volume of Codswoddle’s magic, and a battle of wild conjurations ensued, with the stage set becoming a fourth actor in the play. Furniture came to life and stalked around the stage; Codswoddle’s yellow-suited ancestors stepped out of a painting on the wall and tap-danced. And finally Qwandy used a spell to open up a hole in the floor, and the malevolent Codswoddle and all his train of monstrous tricks were snatched away into what Candy assumed was the Abaratian version of hell. Finally, to everybody’s delight, the walls of the house folded up and were dragged away down the same infernal hole, leaving Qwandy and Jingo standing against a backcloth of sparkling stars, free at last. It was all strangely satisfying, even for Candy, who knew that this version was very far from the truth. When the crowd rose to give the bowing actors a standing ovation, she found herself rising to join in the applause.