The 13.5 Lives of Captain Bluebear

by Walter Moers

  Fata Morgana. Originally the name of the legendary King Arthur’s sorcerous stepsister and Sir Lancelot’s spurned mistress, a fairy who was particularly fond of demonstrating her power by means of mirages. The more precise world of science defines a Fata Morgana as an atmospheric mirage that occurs when layers of air of different temperatures – and, thus, different density and refractivity – are juxtaposed or superimposed in such a way that the rays of light passing through them are refracted, change direction, and follow a zigzag course. It is also rumoured in confidence that Fata Morganas are cities inhabited by those who have died of thirst in the desert. There is a certain logic in this theory, given that a desert lacks any buildings which the dead could inhabit and haunt. It is only natural, therefore, that they should make their home in wandering mirages.

  But this could not deter me from trapping the city. I had a Chosen One’s reputation to live up to, after all. The entire caravan, bleating camedaries included, was staring up at me expectantly from below the platform.

  Fata Morgana [cont.]. It is quite impossible to trap a Fata Morgana because it always retreats at exactly the same speed as the person or persons approaching it advance. To cite the so-called Nightingalian Unapproachability Equation governing mobile mirages: A [distance] = X [person approaching] ÷ S [speed] × T2 [time squared]. In other words, the distance between oneself and a Fata Morgana remains constant however quickly or slowly one approaches it.

  Professor Nightingale had a brutal way of confronting one with the facts, but it was also he who had taught me the virtues of lateral thinking – not that this was getting me anywhere at the moment. Besides, I would have to leave the platform in a hurry if I didn’t want to get sunstroke. It was hotter than it had been for ages.

  Just then a Mugg shook the platform.

  How to trap a city

  ‘Chosen One, Chosen One!’ he cried. ‘We must strike camp and move to higher ground. It’s so hot, we may be in for a Sugar Flux. If we stay down here, it won’t be long before we’re stuck!’

  That was it! The ideal solution! A Sugar Flux was just what we needed! If we couldn’t approach the city because it always retreated, we would have to prevent it from doing so. While climbing down from my vantage point I worked out the basic physics of the plan in my head, then sat down on the desert floor and drew my calculations on the sand with a stick.

  Nightingale’s Fata Morgana research had disclosed that mirages always hover precisely 9.2 inches above the ground. This altitude is constant, unlike their horizontal position, which is unstable. If the said 9.2 inches could be filled with adhesive or something similar, the Fata Morgana would be stuck to the desert floor and immobilized. That, at least, was what my plan envisaged. As I saw it, the sole requirement was accurate scientific computation.

  From the direction of the wind, the position of the sun, the temperature, the humidity, the Muggs’ information about sugar-sand texture, and my own knowledge of gravitation, geophysics, meteorology, and gastronomy (the category to which the caramelization of sugar really belongs), I could precisely foresee when and where a Sugar Flux would occur in this valley during the next few days. Morover, since Sugar Fluxes always occurred at the lowest point in a dip, it would be child’s play to locate it.

  What was more complicated was to manoeuvre Anagrom Ataf over that spot without falling prey to the Sugar Flux oneself.

  My plan required the city to be surrounded on all sides. The next afternoon, when the temperature was at its highest for several weeks and the air had been completely still for hours, I decided to act. If a Sugar Flux occurred, it would do so within the next hour. I had instructed the Muggs to take their musical instruments and dig in around the city in a big circle. There, doubtless chewing muggroom balls, they patiently awaited my orders.

  I myself sat on my platform armed with a primitive cross between a megaphone and a trumpet, which I had fashioned out of a dried cactus stalk.

  I had agreed five prearranged signals with the Muggs.

  TOOOOOT!

  The Muggs on the south side left their holes and marched towards Anagrom Ataf in open order. Predictably enough, the city retreated at the same speed as the Muggs advanced.

  TOOOOT-TOOOOT!

  The Muggs on the north side dug themselves out, formed up, and slowly advanced on the city. Insofar as a city may be credited with an emotion, Anagrom Ataf seemed disconcerted. It wavered between east and west as the two groups marched towards it at a steady pace, clearly uncertain which escape route to take. Then it decided to glissade westwards.

  TOOOOOT-TOOOOOT-TOOOOOOT!

  The western contingent struggled clear of the sand, formed line abreast, and set off. The Fata Morgana promptly stopped short and turned east.

  TOOOOT-TOOOOT-TOOOOOT-TOOOOOOT!

  The Muggs in the eastern contingent burrowed their way out and swiftly took up their prearranged formation. Anagrom Ataf was trapped. The whole mirage quivered like a huge blancmange, incapable of going in any particular direction. The sun had just passed the zenith, the time of day when the ground temperature reached its peak. A Mugg reported the latest reading: 214°. 214°! We needed 215°!

  We were one degree short of a Sugar Flux, and the temperature would drop again in the next few minutes. I climbed down from the platform, picked up a big, flat stone, drew back my arm as far as I could, and hurled it under the hovering city like someone playing ducks and drakes. The stone caromed between the Fata Morgana and the desert floor, striking a spark or two. At that moment the first sugar bubble exploded. The friction caused by the skittering stone had boosted the temperature by the requisite one degree: the caramelization of the desert floor had begun at just the right moment.

  TOOOT-TOOOOT-TOOOOOT-TOOOOOOT-TOOOOOOOT!

  On the last signal, the Muggs hurriedly withdrew so as not to become caught up in the steadily expanding process of caramelization.

  This was probably the first time in the history of mirages that a semi-stable Fata Morgana had been fused to the desert floor, so no one could ever before have heard the noise that resulted. Not a very dignified noise (rather vulgar, in fact), it was reminiscent of a Bollogg’s fart. Imagine the effect of a wet coffee pot being deposited on a hotplate, only much louder. Bubbling, hissing, whistling, squeaking, rattling sounds ensued. Anagrom Ataf creaked and groaned as if it were being torn apart brick by brick. From time to time one of the big sugar bubbles exploded like a burst balloon.

  The city fought hard. It kept rising a few inches, only to be sucked back into the molten sugar. In the end, all the noises died away. Whistling faintly, Anagrom Ataf subsided and, with a dull thud that shook the whole valley, embedded itself in the caramel for good. The city was firmly welded to the desert floor.

  Anagrom Ataf was ready for occupation.

  We looked anything but a band of intrepid conquistadors when we entered Anagrom Ataf. Eyes darting nervously in all directions, we stole silently along the broad main thoroughfare and into the heart of the city.

  No one had ever before captured a mirage, still less entered one. Was it inhabited? If so, by whom? Were they human beings? Monsters? Spirits? Zombies? Were they peaceable or ill-disposed? The suburbs consisted of small, whitewashed, single-storeyed houses, all very spick and span. Washing was hanging out to dry at many windows, but there wasn’t a soul to be seen, not even the cats or mongrels so often found in desert cities.

  We came at last to the market place, which looked as if all the traders and their customers had been spirited away on a busy market day. There were big stalls laden with fresh fruit and vegetables, sausages and eggs, spices and bread. There were baskets filled with red apples and fat green water melons, cheeses, hams, dried beans, corn cobs, sacks of grain and flour, rice and noodles.

  I make a pig of myself

  After months of deprivation in the desert and an endless diet of muggrooms, I can surely be forgiven for having fallen on the fresh food like a shipwrecked sailor. I stuffed a banana into my mouth, then a hunk of sheep�
�s cheese, and tossed a handful of strawberries after them. Strangely enough, they didn’t satisfy my hunger in the least. I ate a few grapes, half a loaf of bread, two apples, and a small maize cake au gratin. Still hungry, I tore off a big piece of ham, devoured two more bananas, a squashy pear and a garlic sausage, then a bowl of figs, half a melon, and a whole pancake. I slurped down four raw eggs, dipped a piece of currant cake in honey, helped myself to some more ham, consumed a wholemeal bun, an entire salami, and two croissantlike pastries with vegetable filling, a bowl of millet gruel with sultanas, and a sticky doughnut that tasted of sugar and cinnamon. I was as hungry as ever. Then someone handed me a piece of muggroom. One bite, and I instantly felt replete.

  We combed the whole city systematically, street by street, building by building, room by room. We found signs of human occupation everywhere – half empty plates on the tables, hot stoves, soups simmering to themselves – but never a real sign of life. In other respects everything was perfect: the streets clean, the houses newly decorated and pleasantly cool, the beds made, and a great abundance of things such as anyone would find immensely luxurious after sleeping on the hard desert floor for a long time.

  When hours went by and still no inhabitants or householders showed up, I formally proclaimed Anagrom Ataf a Mugg possession. We at once proceeded to share out the houses among ourselves. By sunset Anagrom Ataf was completely occupied and humming with new life. That night we held a little celebration at which the Muggs, too, sampled the food that was lying around. Curiously enough, though, we all felt equally unsatisfied and had to fall back on roast muggrooms and fermented muggroom juice.

  The next morning I strolled through the city and inspected a few empty houses. One of them smelt of freshly baked cakes, and the table was laid. When I went into the bedroom I heard a whispering sound behind me. I spun round quickly, but there was no one there, so I left the house feeling a trifle creepy. Eventually I came to the market place, where we’d held our inaugural party the night before. The Muggs were all still in bed (most of them for the first time ever). Hanging over the city was a thin pall of morning mist which would soon, without doubt, be burnt off by the fierce desert sun. I felt sure we’d finished off nearly all the food, but no: the baskets had all been replenished and the hams were as fresh and untouched as if the Sugar Gnomes had been there during the night.

  Although the Muggs were slow to take to urban life, they did their level best. Most of them sleepwalked at nights and roamed the streets by day because they missed their perambulations. Indeed, many of them made a thoroughly dejected impression. Until now they had never devoted much thought to how to spend their time; they had simply roamed because roaming was their way of life. Now that they had reached their destination, they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

  Learning how to settle down

  As The Chosen One and trapper of Anagrom Ataf I felt it my duty to help the Muggs settle down. I organized a course in which the art of ‘dwelling’ was taught. People don’t find ‘dwelling’ too easy, especially when all they’ve done hitherto is roam restlessly from place to place. I began by showing the Muggs how to sit on chairs, having set up a few in the market place for them to practise on. They went about it very clumsily, either missing them altogether, or knocking them over and falling over themselves, or climbing on them and not daring to get down. They ended by being even more frightened of chairs than before. It was the same with lying in bed. The Muggs couldn’t get on with beds, which they found far too soft. Many filled their mattresses with pebbles or lay beside or under them.

  Even basic activities like entering a house by the front door did not come naturally to the Muggs. They climbed in through the windows, not knowing how to operate a door handle, or locked themselves in or out or lost the keys. For this reason, many preferred to sleep in the streets. Domesticity was entirely alien to them, and it remained so.

  Being The Chosen One, I was in the thick of every problem and had to answer innumerable questions. How do you make a bed? How do you stoke a stove? What do you do with a cupboard? How do you use a broom, a table, a knife and fork? What are stairs for? The Muggs were completely thrown by simple things that domesticated people took for granted. How did you ‘dwell’, and why? Questions without number.

  Unstable conditions

  The greatest problem, however, was the city’s instability. Anagrom Ataf was only a semi-stable Fata Morgana, which meant that certain parts of it continually vanished and reappeared after a certain interval. Items of furniture dissolved into thin air, whole houses suddenly weren’t there any more. The next day these things would be back in place, and a wall would be standing in yesterday’s blank space. Sometimes whole districts vanished one day and reappeared the next. Life in Anagrom Ataf was completely unpredictable. A chair could vanish from under your backside just as you were sitting down. This was harmless enough, but several Muggs had nasty falls when the first floors of the houses they were sleeping in evaporated. One Mugg ran full tilt into a wall that had suddenly materialized in his path. Accidents of this kind occurred almost daily. Before long, everyone was sleeping downstairs and moving very slowly.

  I found a steaming dish of mashed potatoes on the kitchen table the first time I entered my house. That was why I’d chosen the place, on the principle that there couldn’t be much wrong with a house whose kitchen table bore a steaming dish of mashed potatoes.

  I emptied the dish every night – though it never took the edge off my appetite – and always found it refilled when I woke up the next morning. Several other Muggs had similar experiences. Empty fruit bowls replenished themselves, dirty clothes were washed and ironed, pieces of furniture had been shifted, doors closed and windows opened – and always surreptitiously or during the night, when everyone was asleep.

  A sinister rumour

  Before long, a rumour circulated that we weren’t alone in Anagrom Ataf. Some of the Muggs thought the Sugar Gnomes were responsible for these strange happenings, other more timid souls attributed them to the spirits of the city’s former inhabitants. There were several identical reports of ghostly apparitions, transparent figures that scurried away when challenged. Nocturnal rumblings and bangings could be heard in nearly every house, and many Muggs told of spine-chilling groans and wails that rang out as soon as the sun had set.

  Something surprising was happening to the Muggs – something of which I would never have thought them capable: they started quarrelling. At the civic assemblies we held from time to time, there were always one or two who came to blows over some trivial point like refuse collection or the establishment of a communal kitchen. This was very odd, given their traditionally peaceable behaviour.

  They began to form little cliques and got in the hair of other little cliques, they took offence at the drop of a hat, they became embroiled in disputes and expected me to settle them. I was the unelected mayor of a city full of discontented, quarrelsome Muggs.

  Then there was the lack of sleep. The Muggs, who were used to exerting themselves to the point of collapse, had been so tired after a day’s march that they literally ‘fell’ asleep. Now they spent the whole day loafing around with nothing to do but gather a few muggrooms and look for water. Many Muggs found it impossible to sleep for want of exhaustion, while others were kept awake by the nocturnal noises. Some even claimed that their beds started shaking as soon as they shut their eyes. When they sat up with a start, they saw transparent figures disappear, howling, into the darkness.

  So universal irritability was aggravated by constant overtiredness. I myself did not suffer from this – give me a nice soft bed, and I always enjoy a healthful night’s sleep – but I resolved to get to the bottom of the problem, so one night I lay in wait. I was determined to solve the mystery of the inexhaustible supply of mashed potatoes in my house.

  Accordingly, I sat down at the kitchen table, ate the potatoes (no effect), and waited. The dish had to replenish itself somehow or other, and I intended to witness the process even if
I never shut my eyes all night.

  Half an hour later I was asleep.

  I dreamed of Troglotrolls making poisoned mashed potatoes in the cellars of Anagrom Ataf, though Anagrom Ataf had no cellars. They were stirring their saucepans with big iron forks, making a terrible clatter. That was the sound that woke me.

  The Fatom

  Standing at the small, coal-fired kitchen stove was the transparent figure of a man who was noisily stirring a saucepan with an iron fork.

  I rubbed my eyes to reassure myself that I wasn’t still dreaming. The transparent man continued to stir his mashed potatoes. He really was as transparent as a glass of wine. Having scooped the mashed potatoes out of the saucepan with a spoon, he filled the dish and joined me at the table.

  ‘Bon appétit,’ I said, to be polite.

  ‘!esiwekiL,’ he replied.

  I was conversant with all the Zamonian languages, tribal dialects included, but this meant nothing to me.

  From the

  ‘Encyclopedia of Marvels, Life Forms and Other Phenomena of Zamonia and its Environs’

  by Professor Abdullah Nightingale

  Fatamorganic. The only mirror-image language in Zamonia, Fatamorganic is High Zamonian spoken without an accent but backwards, and is unique to the interior of mirages. It is relatively easy to translate. If in written form, it should be held in front of a mirror; if spoken, it must simply be listened to with one’s brain in reverse.

  ‘motaF a ma I,’ said the transparent man. ‘diarfa eb ot deen on s’erehT. naem I, elpoep gniracs dna gnitnuah – snoitnetni yltsohg on evah ew tub, wonk I, emoseurg ytterp kool eW.’

  His voice was thin and reedy.

  Not to make matters more difficult than necessary, I shall here translate into Fatamorganic as I go. Once I knew the secret, it was really quite simple. The man had said:

  ‘I am a Fatom. There’s no need to be afraid. We look pretty gruesome, I know, but we have no ghostly intentions – haunting and scaring people, I mean.’