The 13.5 Lives of Captain Bluebear

by Walter Moers

  A Fatom? I’d come across phantoms in Nightingale’s lectures on Grailsundian demonology, but I knew nothing of Fatoms.

  From the

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

  by Professor Abdullah Nightingale

  Fatoms. Translucent life forms belonging to the Restless Spirits Without Cause of Death family. Found only in semi-stable Fata Morganas, they consist for the most part of reflected light, frozen sugar vapour, and diluted spiritual essence in gaseous form.

  As already mentioned in the article on semi-stable →Fata Morganas, the sugar-sand of the Demerara Desert melts at temperatures in excess of 320° Fahrenheit [→Sugar Flux], begins to boil, and gives off a fine sugar vapour. If the air temperature drops sharply at that moment [e.g. because of sudden katabatic winds], the sugar hardens in mid-air; and if, in addition, the image of an actual oasis city is projected on the crystallizing sugar molecules, that image can become firmly imprinted on them. The same thing can happen to the living creatures in such a city. This is how so-called Fatoms originate. Unlike traditional ghosts, they are not spirits of the dead, but forms of existence that may well be still alive.

  The thought that I wasn’t confronted by the spirit of a dead person promptly made my transparent guest seem more congenial.

  Fatoms [cont.] Fatoms must be numbered among the most pitiful spirit forms in Zamonia. They pursue no definite end such as the intimidation of living creatures, nor do they derive any pleasure from their existence in the same way as poltergeists or →Hobgoblins. They are merely condemned to repeat, for evermore, the activity in which they were engaged when the semi-stable →Fata Morgana came into being.

  Certain things were now clear to me. The Fatoms still inhabited Anagrom Ataf but had been in hiding ever since our tactless intrusion. My house spirit had been making mashed potatoes when Anagrom Ataf came into being and was obliged to go on doing so for evermore. Similar things must be happening in the other houses. It was true: we didn’t have the city to ourselves.

  The Fatom tried to explain the situation. ‘Nothing has been the same since you got here. We’re scared, and that’s not right. You’re the ones who should be scared – of us.’

  He sighed and spooned some mashed potato into his mouth. I could see it narrow in his throat and slither down his gullet in a thin stream, like water down a transparent straw. The remainder of the digestive process was mercifully hidden from view by the kitchen table. I really wasn’t keen to see how a Fatom’s stomach dealt with mashed potato.

  The Fatom told me all about life in Anagrom Ataf. He also explained that nothing in the city actually existed, but nothing actually disappeared. Every apple you ate would sooner or later turn up again. That was also why the food never satisfied people: they ate it, true, but it returned to the place they’d taken it from before they could digest it.

  The Fatoms had led a life of constant repetition before we threw them out of their stride. A postman kept delivering the same letter, a greengrocer kept replenishing his market stall, and someone, somewhere, was always pouring the same glass of milk. People greeted each other in the street for the millionth time, a flower pot kept falling off a windowsill over and over again, a woman swept her doorstep to all eternity, a man had been hammering the same nail into the wall for a century – such was life in Anagrom Ataf.

  What sounded awful to a non-Fatom was the Fatoms’ normal way of life. They were content with their ever-recurring repetitions and had become accustomed to them. What frightened them was change, and, in particular, the changes introduced by the Muggs and myself.

  The Fatom made the saddest impression any creature (if Fatoms may be classified as such, being only half-creatures) had ever made on me. We had deprived him and the rest of Anagrom Ataf’s legitimate inhabitants of the only thing they had left: their repetitious activities. It was quite impossible to go on opening the same door if Muggs were passing through it. How could a street be crossed at the same point, again and again, if the roadway was occupied by a bunch of Muggs arguing about municipal refuse disposal? How could a Fatom go on taking the same nap when camedaries were bleating all over the place?

  Life in Anagrom Ataf had become a nightmare. The Fatoms had gone to ground wherever they could. In constant fear of discovery, they hid by day (not well enough to prevent the occasional sighting) and waited for nightfall, when they could at least resume their beloved activities under cover of darkness.

  The Fatom emitted a groan in reverse, which sounded as if he’d inadvertently swallowed a moth. I promised him that I would convene a citizens’ assembly – all that occurred to me on the spur of the moment. The Muggs must meet these half-spirits for a frank exchange of views, and I would act as interpreter.

  The citizens’ assembly at Anagrom Ataf was probably one of the most extraordinary political meetings in the history of Zamonia. All the Fatoms and Muggs had gathered in the market place and were eyeing each other suspiciously. I delivered a short speech in both languages, Zamonian and Fatamorganic, in which I appealed to their forbearance, public spirit, and good-neighbourliness. There was no applause.

  ‘What’s the use of good-neighbourliness if we don’t have anything to eat?’ called one Mugg.

  There had recently been rumours that stocks of muggrooms were running low. To pick them it was necessary to roam far afield. These cactoid mushrooms grew in a rather solitary fashion. Incapable of being bred, cultivated, or planted in large numbers, they had to be picked wherever they were found.

  ‘And what’s the use of good-neighbourliness,’ cried another voice, ‘if our houses simply vanish?’

  The problem of Anagrom Ataf’s semi-stability was indeed proving hard to tackle. I had issued a strict ban on using beds that were more than three feet from the ground, but this was more a cosmetic measure than a genuine solution.

  Then came the Fatoms’ turn to speak. One of them, the real mayor of Anagrom Ataf, delivered a long, plaintive speech which I translated for the Muggs’ benefit. He declared that we had no manners and no right to live in Anagrom Ataf. We were causing chaos – indeed, we hadn’t the least idea what ‘dwelling’ in a place really meant.

  The Muggs retorted that they had every right to be there. In support of this they displayed their golden rules and drew special attention to commandment number twelve.

  It was a diametrical difference of opinion. The citizens’ assembly ended in disaster. The mayor kept repeating his speech over and over, the Fatoms and Muggs gabbled at each other without understanding a word. The city could never have witnessed such a commotion in its history. Realizing that agreement would be hard to reach, I decided to try another tack.

  I called for silence.

  ‘I’ve got it!’ I announced. ‘We’ll move out.’

  The Fatoms applauded enthusiastically, the Muggs booed.

  ‘Where would we go?’ called a Mugg. ‘Anagrom Ataf was our destination. How could we roam the desert without a destination?’

  That was a relevant, justified, and – off the cuff, at least – unanswerable question. I requested an adjournment. I needed to think.

  I roamed the desert for days on end, cudgelling my brains. I could ask the Muggs to accompany me to Atlantis, but that was my goal, not theirs. Experience of Anagrom Ataf had shown that the Muggs were out of place in a city.

  Until I found a solution, life in Anagrom Ataf had to go on. The Fatoms resumed their repetitious activities, but they seemed to derive no real pleasure from them under the Muggs’ suspicious gaze. The Muggs stuck doggedly to the houses they’d occupied, but the Fatoms, who were now bolder in their movements, made life there somewhat less agreeable. It can detract from your home comforts if you’re constantly being subjected to black looks by transparent apparitions seated on the living-room sofa. Discontentment in the mirage city was steadily growing.

  On my desert walks I often encountered Muggs attempting to tire themselves out by marching round the city. They w
atched me avidly as if intent on witnessing the moment when I had my flash of inspiration. It’s almost impossible to think under such circumstances. The pressure on me intensified day by day.

  I receive a sign

  One afternoon I could endure the Muggs’ presence no longer. I diverged from my usual route and fled several miles into the desert. There, savouring the peace and quiet, I sat down on a boulder and surveyed my surroundings.

  Political responsibility wasn’t for me, that much was clear. You have to feel some degree of local patriotism if you want to make a credible mayor of a municipality. Personally, however, I found it quite impossible to develop any sense of affection for a semi-stable mirage. Not even the Muggs could do that. Although they stubbornly clung to the idea that they had reached their destination, in their heart of hearts they longed to be back in the desert.

  About a hundred yards away was a smallish drifting dune. I caught myself envying its freedom – the freedom to go wherever the wind took it. Some shiny object in the sand was reflecting the sunlight. Things that reflected light were rare in the desert, so my curiosity was aroused. I went over and saw a bottle protruding from a small hummock in the sand. The writing on the message inside was completely faded and illegible, but it gave me an idea.

  What we needed was a sign.

  Three days later a Mugg came running into the city, hugely excited. He had found a message-in-a-bottle and brought it to me to read. The Muggs still cherished a certain respect for me.

  I feigned surprise.

  ‘A message-in-a-bottle?’ I exclaimed. ‘It must be a sign!’

  ‘A sign! A sign!’ cried the Muggs who had gathered around me.

  Some more Muggs hurried up, together with one or two Fatoms. I solemnly read the message aloud. It consisted of four rules:

  1 Ye shall not dwell in Anagrom Ataf.

  2 If ye dwell in Anagrom Ataf notwithstanding, ye shall depart the city swiftly and without demur.

  3 Ye shall go to a city that bears the name ESIDARAP S’LOOF.

  4 And, of course, ye shall honour the muggroom.

  It was such a brazen device, I felt a twinge of remorse for having employed so obvious a subterfuge. I waited for the boos and rotten muggrooms to start flying.

  ‘Ye shall not dwell in Anagrom Ataf!’ cried one of the Muggs.

  ‘If ye dwell in Anagrom Ataf notwithstanding, ye shall depart the city swiftly and without demur!’ yelled another.

  ‘Ye shall go to a city that bears the name ESIDARAP S’LOOF!’ several other Muggs chanted in unison.

  ‘And, of course, ye shall honour the muggroom!’ the whole caravan shouted as one man.

  It was remarkably easy to persuade the Muggs to move out of Anagrom Ataf once they had a new destination. Although none of them knew where esidaraP s’looF was, the location of Anagrom Ataf had been just as much of a mystery. They packed up their belongings at once and saddled their camedaries. Crying ‘esidaraP s’looF! esidaraP s’looF!’ again and again, they disappeared into the desert without even bidding me farewell. I found this rather disappointing after all the fuss they’d made about The Chosen One, but they probably took it for granted that I was coming along too. If I knew them, they mightn’t begin to look for me for several days. The Fatoms were delighted with this development. The fact that I had welded their city to the desert floor was regrettable but irreversible. Besides, it helped to make the place exceedingly prosperous: in the next few years Anagrom Ataf became one of Zamonia’s principal tourist attractions. The Fatoms made a fortune out of the fruit and vegetables that dissolved in the tourists’ stomachs and returned to them intact for resale. Wherever they pursued their everlasting activities they set out little bowls with the following notices (in Zamonian) attached to them: ‘Gratuities of any amount, large or small, will not be considered demeaning.’ This earned them even more than the illusory wares of which the tourists could never eat their fill. As for the Fatoms, they acquired a self-confidence they had previously lacked.

  The writing on the message addressed to the Muggs was also destined to keep vanishing and reappearing at intervals, because I had written it with a pencil from Anagrom Ataf. However, this only added to its mystique and led the Muggs to venerate their new set of rules still more.

  I take the initiative

  I had taken advantage of the occasion to part company with the Muggs. Instead of roaming the desert with them at an everlasting trot, I proposed to try, at my own risk, to reach Atlantis.

  I provided myself with an ample supply of water and set off in a northeasterly direction, that being where the metropolis must lie. I journeyed far more purposefully than the Muggs, taking my bearings by the sun and conserving energy and water by trying as far as possible to travel by night. Before a week was up, however, my water was was running low and the end of the desert was nowhere in sight – at least, the nature of the terrain and vegetation presented little immediate prospect of my reaching a more temperate climatic zone.

  I had been on the move all morning and was taking a short rest, scanning the horizon for a glimmer of hope, when I sighted something very seldom found in a desert.

  It was a species of bus stop.

  Since the sun had been beating down on my unprotected head with exceptional ferocity for a considerable time, I thought at first that it was a mirage, but curiosity prompted me to examine it more closely.

  It was not only real but firmly embedded in the desert floor. It was also, if I had correctly deciphered the symbol on it, a ‘tornado stop’. Around it lay a huge heap of the most heterogeneous objects: food, vases, vessels filled with water, gold and jewellery, bales of cloth and sacks of spices.

  From the

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

  by Professor Abdullah Nightingale

  Tornado Stops. A curious feature of the Demerara Desert, these are erected on the route of a tornado which is thought to be everlasting, always travels in the same direction, and is popularly known as the Eternal Tornado [→Eternal Tornado, The]. Many travellers use this whirlwind as a means of transportation and hitch a ride in it for part of the way.

  Today, if someone recommended me to hitch a ride in a tornado to save time or take a short cut, I would direct him to the nearest mental institution. At that time, however, I was at an age when such daring feats represented a challenge. A tornado can travel at immense speeds, so anyone whirling along inside it could cover vast distances in a very short time.

  From the

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

  by Professor Abdullah Nightingale

  Eternal Tornado, The. The Eternal Tornado is the last surviving representative of a generation of whirlwinds that keep to a fixed route. At its southernmost point this route traverses the interior of the Demerara Desert; at its northernmost point it skirts the Humongous Mountains, beyond which lies →Atlantis.

  So this tornado would not only whisk me out of the desert but set me down in the vicinity of Atlantis. What more could I want?

  Eternal Tornado, The [cont.]. The objects whirled along and deposited at tornado stops render it probable that the Eternal Tornado is filled with treasures of all kinds. It is presumed to contain tons of gold, silver, platinum, diamonds, jewellery, pearls, and other articles of value, as well as masses of Zamonian currency from various periods.

  The encyclopedia referred to a means of transporation that would get me to Atlantis in double-quick time and was also as jam-packed with valuables as a bank vault. Perhaps I would be able to filch a few of these and arrive in Atlantis a wealthy man. The only problem was, how did you board a whirlwind and how did you get off one? Well, I could at least examine the possibility of doing so. If it seemed too dangerous, I could always give it a miss.

  Accordingly, I resolved to wait for the tornado.

  Waiting for the tornado

  Meantime, I took a look at the objects lying
around the tornado stop. Vases filled with pearls. A keg of gold dust. A solid silver suit of armour. Goblets, some of gold, others of mother-of-pearl. Twelve place settings encrusted with diamonds. Who would discard such valuables in the middle of a desert? They must have belonged to oasis dwellers in the area. Why had they abandoned these treasures to a meteorological phenomenon?

  I waited an hour.

  No tornado.

  Be patient, I told myself, you can’t expect a whirlwind to come along hourly. I sat down and waited another three hours.

  Still no tornado.

  Evening came, then night, and still not a grain of sand appeared in the sky. I waited the next day and the day after that. Growing bored, I festooned myself with jewellery and strutted around the tornado stop. The local insects and snakes may well have been watching me, whispering together, and fearing for my sanity. I took off the jewellery and sat down on the sand.

  There wasn’t even a gentle little dust devil in sight.

  On the fifth day it all got too much for me. I’d obviously fallen for a practical joke. A tornado stop? Bah! My water reserves were down to half and I hadn’t gone a step further. After five days under the sweltering sun, my brain had probably shrunk to the size of a raisin. I decided to move on before I lost the rest of my wits. I shouldered my bundle and set off.

  A faint headwind ruffled my fur, a little flurry of dust appeared on the horizon.

  It was the tornado.

  A whirlwind looks quite innocuous from far away, like a lady’s stocking dancing across the countryside in a frenzy. As it slowly draws nearer, however, it imparts a growing sense of helplessness, indeed, of absolute impotence. It very soon dawns on you that you’re confronted by a natural phenomenon which, along with volcanic eruptions, tidal waves and earthquakes, registers ten on the Richter scale. This was no dust devil or feeble little whirlwind that sends a few cactuses sailing through the air; this was a genuine monster of a tornado, a Grade One storm in the heavyweight division – the kind that can wipe out whole cities in seconds or scoop up a body of water the size of the Zamonian Gulf.