Abarat: The First Book of Hours - Barker Clive (читать книги полностью без сокращений бесплатно .TXT) 📗

In fact, the closer she got to the house the more agitated the cats’ behavior became. Rather than being content to follow on her heels they ran ahead, weaving back and forth in front of her, as though they intended to trip her up. As they wove, they all let out the same caterwauling sound. It sounded like a chorus of damned souls, and it made Candy’s stomach churn to hear it.

At last she could bear it no longer. She nimbly leaped over the backs of the animals in her path and made a desperate dash for the house. The cat-beasts came after her, their cacophony mounting in volume and disharmony the closer she got to the threshold.

She could feel their hot breath on the backs of her legs as she ran, and she feared that at any moment the fastest of them would leap and dig its claws into her legs, immobilizing her. She managed to stay ahead of them, but the chase took its toll. By the time she reached the house, she was gasping for breath, her lungs and throat burning.

She banged on the door, and shouted as best her fiery throat would allow, “Is there anybody at home?”

There was no reply.

She banged again, yelling with fresh gusto. By now, the cats had caught up with her, but for some reason instead of attacking her they simply walked to and fro, two or three yards from the threshold, yowling.

“Will somebody please help me?” Candy said, hammering on the door yet again.

This time she heard the sound of somebody moving behind the door.

“Hurry,” she implored.

After a few seconds the door was opened by an acidic-looking man in a bright yellow suit. He was short, but his height was increased by the fact that he wore not one unshapely hat on his head but several, all perched on top of one another. He also carried a hat in either hand, which he promptly added to the unruly pile. He then picked up a long staff that was propped just inside the front door and with a curt: “Stand aside, girl!” he charged past Candy and went after the cats with his staff.

“Get out of my sight, you repugnant specks of rabidity!” he hollered. “You, girl:get inside!”

The animals scattered until they were out of the range of his staff. But once that was accomplished they began their to-ing and fro-ing afresh, accompanied by that same anxious yowling.

“Thank you,” Candy said to her rescuer. “I was certain they were planning to attack me.”

“Oh, they were,” the man replied unsmiling. “I’ve no doubt of that. They were sent by the Devil himself to torment me, those damn tarrie-cats.”

“Tarrie-cats, you call them?”

“Yes. Tarrie-cats. They have their own city on the other side of the island. It’s called High Sladder. Why the hell they just can’t stay there is beyond me. Did any of them get their claws in you?”

“No, they didn’t touch me. I was just frightened because they were chasing me. And then there was that noise they were making…”

“Vile, isn’t it?” the man said grimly, waving Candy aside so that he could bolt the door, top, middle and bottom. “Believe me when I tell you there’s reason to be afraid of those creatures. Every single one of them has taken an innocent life.”

“No?”

“It’s God’s honest truth! Children have been smothered by fur balls. Babies have been bled dry by tarrie-cat fleas the size of my thumb. You’re lucky you had the energy to outrun them. If you’d slipped and fallen, they would have been on you in a heartbeat. I saw you from my big window”—he pointed up the stairs to what was presumably the dome of the house—”and I sent down a little incantation for you, to speed your heels. I hope it helped.”

“Well, it must have worked, because here I am.”

“Here you are indeed. And I’m happy to see you.” He set the stick down and turned to clasp Candy’s hand. “I’m Kaspar Wolfswinkel: philosopher, thaumaturgist and connoisseur of fine rums. And you are—?”

“Candy Quackenbush.”

“Quackenbush. Quack. En. Bush. That’s not an Abaratian name.”

“No… no, it’s not. I’m a visitor, I suppose you’d say.”

Kaspar’s deeply lined and gnomic face was a perfect portrait of fascination.

“Indeed?” he remarked casually. “A visitor? From…” His finger noodled about in the air. “The other place, perhaps.”

“The Hereafter? Yes.”

“Well, well,” Wolfswinkel said. “That’s quite a journey you’ve taken. All the way from there to…”

“Here?” Candy prompted.

“Yes. Quite so. There to here. That’s aways.” He smiled, though the expression sat uncomfortably on a face made for scowls and gloom. “You know, you really don’t know how wonderful it is to have you in the house with me.”

“Are you all alone?”

“Well, more or less,” Kaspar said, leading Candy into his living room. It made Samuel Klepp’s pressroom look tidy by contrast. Books, pamphlets and papers lay on every surface but one, the comfortable green leather chair into which Wolfswinkel now lowered himself, leaving Candy to stand. “Most of my family and friends are deceased,” he went on. “Victims of the war waged upon us by those wretched kitties.” He sighed. “It was paradise here on Ninnyhammer till the tarrie-cats built that shanty town they call a city. I mean, I’m an older man. Semiretired. This was going to be the perfect Hour for me to spend my twilight years. I planned to sit and sip my rum and ruminate on my life. Things done, things left undone. You know the way it is. I regret nothing, of course.”

“Oh,” said Candy. “Well I suppose that’s good.” She was a little lost for words on the subject of regret so she moved on to a subject she did know something about. “It must be lonely,” she said.

“Yes,” Kaspar said. “It gets lonely, to be sure. But what’s worse than the loneliness are the memories.”

“Of what?”

“Of how Ninnyhammer used to be, before the tarrie-cats came. They turned this perfect island into a nightmare. They really did. Every now and again I get a supply of fuel for the fires—”

“The fires on the poles?”

“Yes, they at least allow me to see the enemy. But I live in fear of the time when I run out of fuel and—”

“—the fires will go out.”

“Exactly. When that happens… well… I fear that’ll be the end of me and Kaspar Wolfswinkel will be a memory too.”

“Surely there must be some way to catch the cats,” Candy said. “Back home in Chickentown—”

“I’m sorry? Chickentown? What exactly is a Chickentown?”

“It’s the town where I live. Or where I used to live.”

“What a perfectly ridiculous name for a place,” Wolfswinkel commented.

His tone brought out a little defensiveness in Candy. “It’s no weirder than Ninnyhammer,” she remarked.

Wolfswinkel’s eyes grew narrow and sly. “Well, of course this island isn’t my real home,” he said.

“No? So why do you stay here?”

“It’s a very long story. Maybe I’ll tell you later. Why don’t you sit down? You look tired.”

Candy glanced around the room for a place where she might take up his invitation. Wolfswinkel, seeing that all the chairs were occupied, muttered something under his breath and threw a simple gesture toward one of the smaller chairs. The pile of books perched upon it flew off the seat like a small flock of startled birds.

“Now sit,” he said.

“May I take off my shoes?”

“Be my guest. Allow me to get you something to eat. Make yourself at home.”

“My feet are killing me.”

“I knew somebody who had feet like that. They’d walk all over him. Archie Kashanian was his name. He used to wake up with footprints all over his chest, all over his face. It was the death of him, finally.”

Candy wasn’t sure whether Kaspar was making a joke or not. So rather than insult him by laughing she kept a straight face, though the idea of somebody being stomped to death by his own feet seemed utterly nonsensical.