The 13.5 Lives of Captain Bluebear

by Walter Moers

  This encyclopedia article had scarcely faded from my mind’s eye when the tornado got under way again. Another of Nightingale’s priceless gems of information! Had he told me a few minutes earlier I could have escaped from the tornado! There would be another chance in a year’s time, but how would I know when the year was up? The very thought of Nightingale made me seethe with fury.

  From the

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

  by Professor Abdullah Nightingale

  Zamonian Year, The. The standard Zamonian year is precisely one day shorter than the years on other continents. Time in Zamonia flows somewhat faster because of the greater incidence of dimensional hiatuses, gaining almost exactly twenty-four hours in a full year. This means that a Zamonian year lasts 364 days, or 8736 hours, or 524,160 minutes, or – to be absolutely precise – 31,449,600 seconds.

  Aha, so a Zamonian year lasted exactly 31,449,600 seconds – that was intensely interesting! These eternally nonsensical or belated encyclopedia articles were beginning to get on my nerves. I would have given anything to banish them from my head. I now knew how many seconds there were in a year on the Zamonian mainland – seconds which, thanks not least to the encyclopedia, I would never see again.

  One moment …

  There were precisely 31,449,600 seconds in a Zamonian year. 31,449,600 seconds until the next tornado standstill.

  Approximately three minutes had elapsed since the last standstill, or 180 seconds. That made, er …

  From now on I need only count off the seconds backwards to determine the exact time of the next tornado standstill!

  31,449,419 … 31,449,418 … 31,449,417 …

  The trouble was, I would have to go on counting, not only for a whole year but backwards. That would require immense concentration. I would have to count and think simultaneously.

  31,449,395 … 31,449,394 … 31,449,393 …

  Was it feasible? After all, I would have to sleep occasionally. No one can sleep and count backwards at the same time, it was an impossibility. Wait, though – I could take it in turns with someone. Baldwyn could take over the counting shift while I slept. He was very dependable as a rule.

  31,449,355 … 31,449, 354 … 31,449,353 …

  Counting and thinking simultaneously worked, but what about counting and speaking? I tried a little experiment with Fredda’s favourite poem:

  ‘Impic Alps, (31,449,328) so far away, (31,449,327)

  ‘listen to (31,449,326) my sad refrain! (31,449,325)

  ‘Will there ever (31,449,324) come a day (31,449,323)

  ‘when I see you (31,449,322) all again? (31,449,321).’

  There, it went perfectly. I hobbled downstairs to the tearoom and quickly told Baldwyn the sensational news:

  ‘Hello, Bald(31,449,111)wyn, I’ve (31,449,110) found a (31,449,109) possib(31,449,108)ility of (31,449,107) escap(31,449,106)ing from (31,449,105) the torn(31,449,104)ado!’

  And so on. I told him about my plan to count backwards. He wasn’t too enthusiastic. The thought of counting backwards for half of all the seconds in a year didn’t appeal to him.

  ‘It’s our (31,449,056) one and (31,449,055) only chance! (31,449,054) Otherwise we’ll (31,449,053) never know (31,449,052) exactly when (31,449,051) the right (31,449,050) moment (31,449,049) comes!’

  It was like having numerical hiccups.

  Baldwyn reluctantly fell in with my plan.

  31,449,023 … 31,449,022 … 31,449,021 …

  Drumming up support

  Next, I tried to persuade the rest of Tornado City’s inhabitants to escape with us. I had no trouble at all with Olsen of Oslo, Slagoud Morvan Jr., Yson Bor and one or two other bold spirits, but the majority presented more of a problem. I found it too tedious to win them over individually (especially as I had to count backwards at the same time), so I convened a general meeting at the assembly hall. There I explained my plan in every detail with the aid of a large blackboard and some coloured chalks borrowed from the central storage depot.

  It met with little enthusiasm. The inhabitants of Tornado City had become unaccustomed to changes in their daily routine, adventurous schemes, and, above all, physical exertion. It wasn’t easy to do the necessary spadework. My presentation evoked agitated murmurs, and there were even a few cries of ‘Balderdash!’, ‘Youthful impetuosity!’, and the like.

  ‘Why should we escape at all? Why escape from Paradise?’ was one of the counterarguments. ‘We’ve got all we need. Enough to eat and drink, good books to read, eternal life – or as good as!’

  Many of the inhabitants had developed the mentality of long-term prison inmates. They were afraid of freedom, of the world outside, of an unregulated mode of existence.

  ‘Who’s to guarantee we’ll regain our youth if we go through the tornado wall?’ cried someone else. ‘We could age still more! We might even die in the attempt!’

  A hard argument to refute.

  ‘In here I may have another twenty thousand years ahead of me, probably far more. Outside, fifty at most – if your rejuvenation idea works at all. And you call that a good plan?’

  I fudged a bit, blathering about free will and a readiness to take risks, fresh air and good eyesight – and tried to remember to count at the same time. All in all, it wasn’t a very convincing performance. ‘Do you want to end up like Phonzotar Huxo?’ called an old man. ‘Why, what’s wrong with me?’ demanded Phonzotar, who had been venturing out into society for some time and was actually present at the meeting. He didn’t understand the question.

  Many of my audience simply rose and walked out. They were the ones who would never be convinced, not even after a year. The rest, or some three-quarters of the tornado’s population, remained seated and were at least prepared to discuss the matter. They included those who hadn’t been in the tornado very long, so could hope that their friends and relations were still alive, and those who, even at a ripe old age, had preserved their exceptional spirit of adventure.

  15,678,978 … 15,678,977 … 15,678,976 …

  Six months went by. In the meantime, a split had developed between the thirty per cent who were still prepared to escape and the remaining seventy per cent, who had dissociated themselves from us, possibly for fear of becoming infected with our foolhardy stupidity.

  We escapers had held regular meetings at the tearoom and made strategic preparations for our exit from the tornado. First came the theoretical part. We ran daily checks on the number of seconds left, drew sketch maps of the tornado, and calculated the strength and height of its walls. We also explored its nether regions for the most favourable jumping-off point. We settled on a spot where the wall seemed comparatively thin and would be about six feet from the ground when the tornado came to a standstill.

  13,478,333 … 13,478,332 … 13,478,331 …

  Daily workouts

  We also prepared ourselves physically for our escape attempt throughout the year. All of us were in very poor shape, this being a product not only of old age but of our comfortable way of life inside the tornado, with its ample diet and limited opportunities for exercise. After all, why keep fit when you more or less live for ever? Escaping entailed physical exertion, however, because we would have to burrow through the wall at top speed, jump clear, fall a few feet, land successfully, and sprint off at once before the tornado really got going again. Our bones, muscles and sinews would become rejuvenated during the escape – so we hoped! – but our reflexes had to work as well. Accordingly, we introduced a daily workout ridiculed by the tornado-dwellers who had decided to stay.

  We began every day with a session on the stairs, one step down, one step up. Then ten minutes’ rest.

  9,345,436 … 9,345,435 … 9,345,434 …

  Next came fifty press-ups in succession. This, of course, entailed a certain amount of prior training.

  8,905,778 … 8,905,777 … 8,905,776 …

  Knee-bends for the calf and thigh muscles. A hu
ndred a day.

  7,670,886 … 7,670,885 … 7,670,884 …

  More step-ups on the stairs followed by half an hour’s yoga for purposes of relaxation. Then a round of staircase golf to pass the time.

  6,567,113 … 6,567,112 … 6,567,111 …

  Chin-ups.

  5,654,336 … 5,654,335 … 5,654,334 …

  Sit-ups.

  4,111,699 … 4,111,698 … 4,111,697 …

  Shadow-boxing.

  3,458,224 … 3,458,223 … 3,458,222 …

  Skipping.

  2,444,679 … 2,444,678 … 2,444,677 …

  Bending from the waist.

  1,343,667 … 1,343,666 … 1,343,665 …

  One last session of step-ups on the stairs, then off to bed. And so it went on, day after day, for almost a whole year. We were the fittest centenarians that ever inhabited a perpetual motion tornado.

  The great day was drawing near. We spent the last month sharing out our belongings among the rest of the tornado’s inmates. I offered my handwritten account of their life stories to Phonzotar.

  ‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘I’d sooner come with you.’

  ‘Really? After all that happened to you the last time you tried to get through the wall?’

  ‘I’ve thought it over,’ he replied. ‘I’ve lost my wits. Maybe I’ll get them back. What have I got to lose?’

  86,400 … 86,399 … 86,398 …

  The last day came. None of us had slept for two nights. Another two tornado inmates had changed their minds like Phonzotar, and had to be toughened up with the aid of a crash course. The ones who were staying behind threw a touching farewell party complete with home-made cakes and hand-painted banners (‘Lots of Luck!’, ‘Happy Landings!’, ‘You Suckers!’, etc.). Many tearful farewells were exchanged by ‘old’ friends (the word really meant something in there). Solemn speeches were delivered and old times invoked – in fact I hoped it would all soon be over before a few more of us decided to stay in the tornado for sentimentality’s sake. Then we made our way down into the bowels of the tornado.

  65,524 … 65,523 … 65,522 …

  It was undoubtedly the longest day of my lives to date, even though I was spending it in a place where time didn’t exist. As each separate second went by, another drop of sweat trickled down my fur.

  12,345 … 12,344 … 12,343 …

  Final limbering-up exercises.

  1,432 … 1,431 … 1,430 …

  All of a sudden, terrible misgivings overcame me. There wasn’t a scrap of proof that my plan would really work. I was taking us all to perdition.

  233 … 232 … 231 …

  Only another four minutes. I could still call the whole thing off.

  120 … 119 … 118 …

  Two minutes. What if we all ended up like Phonzotar Huxo? A tornado full of demented old men? I decided to abort the operation. Or better not?

  60 … 59 … 58 …

  Into the last minute. I decided to escape after all.

  20 … 19 … 18 …

  Call it off.

  14 … 13 … 12 …

  Escape.

  10 … 9 …

  Call it off.

  7 … 6 …

  Escape.

  5 … 4 …

  Call it off.

  3, 2, 1 … zero!

  Okay, let’s do it!

  The moment of truth

  The tornado ground to a halt. We had precisely one minute in which to get out of our perambulating prison. Twenty men burrowed into the wall at a time, each group starting at ten-second intervals. Baldwyn and I were in the last batch. Everything went according to plan: after fifty seconds nearly all of us were outside.

  Another ten seconds. Baldwyn and I and the others plunged head first into the debris. No unpleasant sensations, no hallucinations. An agreeable, euphoric feeling overcame me as I burrowed through the wall. I could feel my muscles grow taut and the leaden sensation in my legs disappear. I crawled along, thrusting the sand and pebbles vigorously aside and taking care not to get any of the muck in my mouth. My paw broke through, then my head, and I caught my first glimpse of the sky. The desert floor was some nine feet below me. I simply let myself fall, landing rather clumsily on my backside, but got up at once and started to run for it. The rest had already taken to their heels. They sprinted off in all directions, making for the shelter of some rocks.

  With a creaking, grinding sound, the tornado got under way again. I couldn’t resist the temptation to look back. After all, how often do you get a chance to see a tornado at a standstill? It looked like a rent in the sky, like a mountain rammed summit first into the ground. The creaking sound became a rumble, and a man-sized boulder buried itself in the sand beside me. I turned and sprinted towards a small dune. How supple my limbs were, how strong! I performed a flying somersault over the dune and cowered down behind it.

  With a roar, the tornado resumed its progress. More boulders came hurtling over our heads, desert dust whirled around, bewildered scorpions and sand snakes flew through the air.

  The tornado stormed off, bellowing like a wild beast, and receded into the distance.

  We stood around for a long time, marvelling at our youthful faces, congratulating each other on our appearance, exchanging pats on the back. One of us had brought a little mirror along, and we all competed for a sight of it.

  Then we went our separate ways. Yson Bor went in search of death – he’d heard tell of a lake of acid on Paw Island that could even dissolve hardened steel. Slagoud’s destination was Harvest Home Plain, because I had told him about my encounter with the Bollogg.

  He proposed to wait there until a specimen with a head passed by. Phonzotar Huxo seemed quite lucid. He was not only rejuvenated but right in the head again. What puzzled me most, however, was the baby in his arms.

  ‘This is Olsen of Oslo,’ he said, rocking the infant as he spoke. ‘We forgot he was the only one to preserve his youth after entering the tornado. Passing through the wall has made him even younger.’

  Having spent a while debating who should look after the baby, we eventually entrusted it to Phonzotar, who was mad about the idea. So Olsen’s life began again from scratch.

  Baldwyn was very keen to visit Baysville, the home of a girl he’d always wanted to kiss.

  As for me, I was the only one who wanted to go to Atlantis because human beings weren’t welcome there. Baldwyn drew me a little map showing the quickest way to get there. Atlantis was normally accessible only by sea or air because the city stood on a peninsula cut off by the impassable Humongous Mountains, but Baldwyn knew of a short cut. It was probably the most unusual short cut in Zamonia – or rather, if there had been a hit parade for unusual short cuts, Baldwyn’s would definitely have topped the charts.

  After a three-day trek on foot across the Demerara Desert I reached its outlying dunes. I turned for a last look at the sea of brown sugar and thought back on the life I’d spent there. Having silently wished the Muggs, the Fatoms, the tornado-dwellers and the ex-tornado-dwellers all the luck in the world, I climbed the final slope.

  On reaching the crest I was confronted by what was probably the most astounding view in Zamonia. Two or three miles away loomed a mountain range composed of blue-black pyrite crystal. It was totally unsuitable for climbing. The mountainsides were so smooth that one would have needed suction cups to scale them, and the edges were sharp enough to bisect an elephant. But the most astonishing feature was something else: running through the centre of the range was an immense cleft, and in that cleft reposed a head.

  A head some twenty miles in diameter.

  BALDWYN BAOBAB HAD explained it all.

  ‘It’s a Bollogg’s head,’ he told me. ‘Bolloggs are –’

  ‘I know what a Bollogg is.’

  ‘Then perhaps you also know they sometimes discard their heads. Legend has it that this one removed his head thousands of years ago. Then he went off hunting.’

  ‘Hunting? For what?’

  ‘For his hea
d, of course. Bolloggs aren’t particularly bright, you know.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  ‘Anyway, this one’s head is still lying there, blocking the route to Atlantis.’

  ‘I could climb over it.’

  ‘Thousands of Bollogg fleas live in the parting. Do you know what Bollogg fleas are?’

  From the

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

  by Professor Abdullah Nightingale

  Bollogg Fleas. Of all the large bloodsucking insects in Zamonia, Bollogg Fleas must undoubtedly be the biggest. They can attain a height of eighteen feet and weigh three-quarters of a ton. Bollogg Fleas have a wingless, lopsided body and powerful legs that are admirably suited for jumping. Sprouting from the head are two long antennae for examining prey by touch, and beneath them are a pair of sawlike mandibles and the proboscis with which Bollogg Fleas immobilize their victims and suck them dry. Their favourite habitat is the dense hair on discarded Bollogg heads. They feed mainly on smaller mountain creatures and unsuspecting mountaineers.

  ‘I know what Bollogg fleas are.’

  ‘Good,’ said Baldwyn, ‘but there’s another route.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Very few people have ever dared to try it, and nobody knows if even one of them got through.’

  ‘What route is that?’

  ‘It’s the route through the head. You go in one ear and out the other – but only, of course, if you manage to reach the first ear without the fleas devouring you. However, it’s said that very few of them live in the tips of the hair. The majority lurk in the parting, feeding on golden eagles and pyrite vultures. At least, that used to be the story. It’s all so long ago.’