The Thief of Always by Clive Barker

From the Publisher

Mr. Hood's Holiday House has stood for a thousand years, welcoming countless children into its embrace. It is a place of miracles, a blissful rounds of treats and seasons, where every childhood whim may be satisfied...

There is a price to be paid, of course, but young Harvey Swick, bored with his life and beguiled by Mr. Hood's wonders, does not stop to consider the consequences. It is only when the House shows it's darker face — when Harvey discovers the pitiful creatures that dwell in its shadows — that he comes to doubt Mr. Hood's philanthropy.

The House and its mysterious architect are not about to release their captive without a battle, however. Mr. Hood has ambitious for his new guest, for Harvey's soul burns brighter than any soul he has encountered in a thousand years...

L.A. Life

Barker's most ambitious work to date...Rapturously full of emotions.

Virginia Pilot/Ledger Star

Certain to satisfy anyone who just wants to take a fun little trip into one of Barker's worlds.

Rocky Mountain News

Appropriate for all ages.

Atlanta Journal

Spellbinding.

L.A. Life

Barker's most ambitious work to date...Rapturously full of emotions.

Washington Post Book World

Rich in plot twists, byzantine intrigues and hidden secrets, Imajica is a Chinese puzzle box constructed on a universal scale...Barker has an unparalleled talent forenvisioning other worlds.

New York Newsday

Taut pacing and sound structure...None of Clive Barker's admirers are likely to go away disappointed.

Virginia Pilot/Ledger Star

Certain to satisfy anyone who just wants to take a fun little trip into one of Barker's worlds.

Midweek

An impressive piece of storytelling.

Camden Courier-Post

Barker's prose is as solid as ever, and to this book he lends his artistic talents with impish pen-and-ink illustrations.

Washington Post Book World

Rich in plot twists, byzantine intrigues and hidden secrets, Imajica is a Chinese puzzle box constructed on a universal scale...Barker has an unparalleled talent forenvisioning other worlds.

Miami Herald

Menacing demons, wondrous miracles, sinister magic, and vivid characters make Thief a compulsive, lightning-paced tales that almost begs to be read aloud.

Denver Post

A wonderful story for adults and teenagers, profusely illustrated by the author.

Rocky Mountain News

Appropriate for all ages.

Denver Post

A wonderful story for adults and teenagers, profusely illustrated by the author.

New York Newsday

Taut pacing and sound structure…None of Clive Barker's admirers are likely to go away disappointed.

Miami Herald

Menacing demons, wondrous miracles, sinister magic, and vivid characters make Thief a compulsive, lightning-paced tales that almost begs to be read aloud.

Atlanta Journal

Spellbinding.

Today

The interplay between innocence and evil does have a refreshing familiarity.

Publishers Weekly

When a 10-year-old boy wishes to be delivered from a boring afternoon, a creature takes him to the Holiday House. "Barker masterfully embroiders this fantasy world with a mounting number of grim, even gruesome details," wrote PW, "in a tale that manages to be both cute and horrifying." Ages 10-up. (Feb.) Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.

Norah Piehl - Children's Literature

Ten-year-old Harvey Swick is bored. He's bored with his parents, he's bored with school, he's bored with "the great gray beast February" and its dismal, dreary days. When the fanciful character Rictus offers Harvey a retreat at the enticing Holiday House, Harvey scarcely gives it a second thought. Soon enough, he's whisked away to a magical place where all the seasons go through their paces each day, and all the best holidays, from Halloween to Christmas, are celebrated in high style. Soon, though, the house begins to show a darker side; what is that foul-looking pond in the corner of the property, and why does there seem to be no way out of the house's high walls? When Harvey begins to investigate, his discoveries are frightening indeed. The novel's climactic confrontation is a little too long and results in a ham-handed moral. For the most part, however, this is an engaging fable whose occasionally nightmarish episodes nonetheless provide glimpses into the dark, even horrific images for which the author's adult works of fiction are well known. 2002 (orig. 1992), HarperTrophy,

Kirkus Reviews

Is it penance? Cockiness? A final burst of youth? Whatever the reasons, in recent years, several middle-aging horror authors have written children's books (rarely marketed as such): Whitley Strieber's Wolf of Shadows (1985); Stephen King's The Eyes of the Dragon (1987); Dean Koontz's Oddkins (1988)—and now, from Barker, a "fable" about a wish-granting house that may be the weakest of the lot. Barker's adult novels (Imajica, 1991, etc.) deal with the play between our world and fabulous alternate realities. Here, too, the hero—ten-year-old Harvey Swick—encounters another world, by having his cry of boredom answered by a yellow-skinned man named Rictus who flies through Harvey's bedroom window and offers to take him to "Holiday House." The boy agrees and, led through a wall of fog, finds himself in a magical place where, during each 24 hours, all four seasons pass (hot, sunny afternoons; snowy winter nights, etc.) along with their holidays, including Christmas mornings that find Harvey's most cherished wishes answered beneath the tree. It's paradise, Harvey thinks at first, but soon wonders: Why is fellow- visitor Lulu so morose? What kind of fish are those, with eyes like "prisoners," lurking in the pond out back? And where is Mr. Hood, the House's wish-granting owner? In time, Harvey senses evil at work and flees, only to find that, back home, his parents have aged a year for every day at the House. And so he returns to the House, to find and battle Mr. Hood and win back his stolen years.... The House is a splendid conceit, but Harvey (Barker's first child hero) is as real as a Norman Rockwell kid, and the studiously simple narration—leached of Barker's usualX-rated, riotous imagery—lacks spirit. If this were a limited edition, it'd be a minor collector's item; with a 100,000 first printing, it's a major miscalculation. (Drawings—42—by Barker.)

Product Details

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Chapter One

Harvey Half-Devoured

The great gray beast February had eaten Harvey Swick alive. Here he was, buried in the belly of that smothering month, wondering if he would ever find his way out through the cold coils that lay between here and Easter.

He didn't think much of his chances. More than likely he'd become so bored as the hours crawled by that one day he'd simply forget to breathe. Then maybe people would get to wondering why such a fine young lad had perished in his prime. It would become a celebrated mystery, which wouldn't be solved until some great detective decided to re-create a day in Harvey's life.

Then, and only then, would the grim truth be discovered. The detective would first follow Harvey's route to school every morning, trekking through the dismal streets. Then he'd sit at Harvey's desk, and listen to the pitiful drone of the history teacher and the science teacher, and wonder how the heroic boy had managed to keep his eyes open. And finally, as the wasted day dwindled to dusk, he'd trace the homeward trek, and as he set foot on the step from which he had departed that morning, and people asked him—as they would—why such a sweet soul as Harvey had died, he would shake his head and say: "It's very simple."

"Oh?" the curious crowd would say. "Do tell."

And, brushing away a tear, the detective would reply: "Harvey Swick was eaten by the great gray beast February."

It was a monstrous month, that was for sure; a dire and dreary month. The pleasures of Christmas, both sharp and sweet, were already dimming in Harvey's memory, and the promise of summer was soremote as to be mythical. There'd be a spring break, of course, but how far off was that? Five weeks? Six? Mathematics wasn't his strong point, so he didn't irritate himself further by attempting—and failing—to calculate the days. He simply knew that long before the sun came to save him he would have withered away in the belly of the beast.

"You shouldn't waste your time sitting up here," his mom said when she came in and found him watching the raindrops chase each other down the glass of his bedroom window.

"I've got nothing better to do," Harvey said, without looking around.

"Well then, you can make yourself useful," his mom said.

Harvey shuddered. Useful? That was another word for hard labor. He sprang up, marshaling his excuses—he hadn't done this; he hadn't done that—but it was too late.

"You can start by tidying up this room," his mom said.

"But —"

"Don't sit wishing the days away, honey. Life's too short."

"But —"

"That's a good boy."

And with that she left him to it. Muttering to himself, he stared around the room. It wasn't even untidy. There were one or two games scattered around; a couple of drawers open; a few clothes hanging out: It looked just fine.

"I am ten," he said to himself (having no brothers and sisters, he talked to himself a good deal). "I mean, it's not like I'm a kid. I don't have to tidy up just because she says so. It's boring."

He wasn't just muttering now, he was talking out loud.

"I want to...I want to..."He went to the mirror, and quizzed it. "What do I want?" The strawhaired, snub-nosed, brown-eyed boy he saw before him shook his head. "I don't know what I want," he said. "I just know I'll die if I don't have some fun. I will! I'll die!"

As he spoke, the window rattled. A gust of wind blew hard against it—then a second; then a third—and even though Harvey didn't remember the window being so much as an inch ajar, it was suddenly thrown open. Cold rain spattered his face. Half closing his eyes, he crossed to the window and fumbled to slam it, making sure that the latch was in place this time.

The wind had started his lamp moving, and when he turned back the whole room seemed to be swinging around. One moment the fight was blazing in his eyes, the next it was flooding the opposite wall. But in between the blaze and the flood it lit the middle of his room, and standing there—shaking the rain off his hat—was a stranger.

He looked harmless enough. He was no more than six inches taller than Harvey, his frame scrawny, his skin distinctly yellowish in color. He was wearing a fancy suit, a pair of spectacles and a lavish smile.

"Who are you?" Harvey demanded, wondering how he could get past this interloper to the door.

"Don't be nervous," the man replied, teasing off one of his suede gloves, taking Harvey's hand and shaking it. "My name's Rictus. You are Harvey Swick, aren't you?"

"Yes..."

"I thought for a moment I'd got the wrong house."

Harvey couldn't take his eyes off Rictus's grin. It was wide enough to shame a shark, with two perfect rows of gleaming teeth.

Rictus took off his spectacles, pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his waterlogged jacket, then started to mop off the raindrops. Either he or the handkerchief gave off an odor that was far from fragrant. The smell, in truth, was flatulent.

"You've got questions, I can see that," Rictus said to Harvey.

"Yeah."

"Ask away. I've got nothing to hide."

"Well, how did you get in, for one thing?"

"Through the window, of course."

"It's a long way up from the street."

"Not if you're flying."

"Flying?"

"Of course. How else was I going to get around on a foul night like this?