And where was Nobodaddy? ‘Still Noplace to be seen,’ thought Luka, who was surer with every passing minute that the missing phantom was up to no good, wherever he was. ‘I will have to face him before the end, I’m sure of that,’ he thought, ‘and it isn’t going to be easy, but if he thinks I’ll give up my dad to him without a fight, he’s going to be very much surprised.’ Then he was struck, as if by a powerful fist, by the worst thought in the world. ‘Had Nobodaddy gone because Rashid Khalifa had already … already … had finally … before Luka could save him … gone, too? Had the phantom who was absorbing his father vanished because its purpose had been achieved? Was all of this in vain?’ Luka began to tremble at the thought and his eyes grew wet and prickly and grief began to flood over him in great shuddering waves.
But then something happened. Luka became aware of a change within himself. He felt as if something more powerful than his own nature had taken control of him, some will stronger than his own that was refusing to accept the worst. No, Rashid’s life was not over. It could not be, therefore it was not. The will-stronger-than-Luka’s-own rejected that possibility. Nor would it allow Luka to give up, to flinch in the face of danger or cower in the face of terror. This new force that had gripped him was giving him the strength and courage he would need if he was going to do what needed to be done. It felt like something not-himself, something from outside, and yet he also knew that it was coming from within him, that it was his own strength, his own determination, his own refusal of defeat, his own strong will. For this, too, Rashid Khalifa’s storytelling, the Shah of Blah’s many tales of young heroes finding extra resources within themselves in the face of horrible adversity, had prepared him. ‘We don’t know the answers to the great questions of who we are and what we are capable of,’ Rashid liked to say, ‘until the questions are asked. Then and only then do we know if we can answer them, or not.’
And above and beyond Rashid’s stories lay the example of Luka’s brother Haroun, who had found such an answer in himself, afloat on the Sea of Stories, once upon a time. ‘I wish my brother was here to help me,’ Luka thought, ‘but he isn’t, not really, even though Dog the bear is speaking in his voice and trying to take care of me. So I’m going to do what he would have done. I’m not going to lose.’
‘The Aalim are set in their ways and dislike people who try to rock the boat,’ Rashid Khalifa had told the sleepy Luka one night. ‘Their view of Time is strict and inflexible: yesterday, then today, then tomorrow, tick, tock, tick. They are like robots marching along to the beat of the disappearing seconds. What Was, Jo-Hua, lives in the Past; What Is, Jo-Hai, simply is right now; and What Will Come, Jo-Aiga, belongs to a place we cannot go. Their Time is a prison, they are the jailers, and the seconds and minutes are its walls.
‘Dreams are the Aalim’s enemies, because in dreams the Laws of Time disappear. We know – don’t we know, Luka? – that the Aalim’s Laws do not tell the truth about Time. The time of our feelings is not the same as the time of the clocks. We know that when we are excited by what we are doing, Time speeds up, and when we are bored, it slows down. We know that at moments of great excitement or anticipation, at wonderful moments, Time can stand still.
‘Our dreams are the real truths – our fancies, the knowledge of our hearts. We know that Time is a River, not a clock, and that it can flow the wrong way, so that the world becomes more backward instead of less, and that it can jump sideways, so that everything changes in an instant. We know that the River of Time can loop and twist and carry us back to yesterday or forwards to the day after tomorrow.
‘There are places in the world where nothing ever happens, and Time stops moving altogether. There are those of us who go on being seventeen years old all our life, and never grow up. There are others who are miserable old wretches, maybe sixty or seventy years old, from the day they are born.
‘We know that when we fall in love, Time ceases to exist, and we also know that Time can repeat itself, so that you can be stuck in one day for the whole of your life.
‘We know that Time is not only Itself, but is an aspect of Movement and Space. Imagine two boys, let’s say you and young Ratshit, who both wear wristwatches that are perfectly synchronised, and that both keep perfect Time. Now imagine that that lazy rascal Ratshit sits in the same place, let’s say right here, for one hundred years, while you run, never resting, all the way to school and back here again, over and over, also for one hundred years. At the end of that century, both your watches would have kept perfect Time, but your watch would be six or seven seconds slower than his.
‘There are those of us who learn to live completely in the moment. For such people the Past vanishes and the Future loses meaning. There is only the Present, which means that two of the three Aalim are surplus to requirements. And then there are those of us who are trapped in yesterdays, in the memory of a lost love, or a childhood home, or a dreadful crime. And some people live only for a better tomorrow; for them the Past ceases to exist.
‘I’ve spent my life telling people that this is the truth about Time, and that the Aalim’s clocks tell lies. So naturally the Aalim are my mortal enemies, which is just fine, because as a matter of fact I am their deadly foe.’
The Changer Gyara-Jinn stopped galloping, slowed down to a walk, then stopped completely and began to change. The giant eight-legged horse started becoming smaller; its hairy skin vanished and was replaced by a smooth shiny surface; the smell of horse faded away and Luka’s nostrils were filled, instead, by the far less palatable odour of the pigpen. Finally the eight legs became four, so that Luka, Bear and Dog slipped out of their bindings and tumbled what was now only a short distance to the admittedly stony ground. Gyara-Jinn’s once-in-a-lifetime transformation into the King of Horses had come to an end, and she was a tin sow once again. But Luka wasn’t paying any attention to that dramatic Change, because he was staring open-mouthed at the heart-stopping sight he had come so far to see. He was standing at the foot of the vast massif of the Mountain of Knowledge, and just a few feet away, lapping at the Mountain’s feet, was the Lake of Wisdom itself, its water clear, pure and transparent in the pale, silvery light of the Dawn of Days, which never brightened into morning. Cool shadows stretched across the water, as always, caressing and smoothing it. It was a ghostly scene, at once haunted and haunting, and it was easy to imagine music in the air, a tinkling crystal melody: the legendary Music of the Spheres that had played when the World was born.