The 13.5 Lives of Captain Bluebear

by Walter Moers

  I kept calm, therefore, and strove to ignore his harmless jibe. Obesity had been a sore point with me since the episode on Gourmet Island, so I was easily riled, but on this occasion professional imperturbability was called for.

  ‘I once knew a bear who was such a glutton that it gobbled up the calories other people lost while slimming.’ Nussram had sat back, looking relaxed. He clearly found this new dig amusing.

  ‘The bear was so overfed when it died,’ he pursued, ‘its stomach lived on for another month!’

  I betrayed no emotion of any kind. On the contrary, I treated Nussram to a courteous smile and signified my respect for him by performing a respectful little bow.

  Quickly grasping that he wouldn’t get anywhere with me like this, he changed tack.

  ‘You weren’t born, so I’ve heard. At least, that’s what it said in the newspapers.’

  The spectators fell silent. This was no courtly jest; it was hitting below the belt. It was also a subject calculated to rattle me.

  Nussram turned to the audience. ‘How is that possible? Did he sprout from the soil like a cabbage? If my opponent was never born, how can he be here? Perhaps he isn’t here at all – perhaps I’ve already won the contest. I may as well go.’

  A few embarrassed chuckles could be heard. For the first time, I began to doubt my idol’s sense of fair play.

  ‘It almost pains me to see him sitting there all on his own, the poor cabbage.’

  It seemed that the best way to lose one’s respect for an idol was to meet him in the flesh.

  ‘Cabbage is right! I do believe he’s turning green!’ Nussram couldn’t refrain from elaborating on his crude witticism.

  Volzotan Smyke surreptitiously shook his head to indicate that I mustn’t lose my temper. But it was too late for that. Although I preserved my nonchalant smile, I was beginning to seethe inwardly. Nussram would have done better to stop right there.

  ‘Even an orphan has more relations than this bluebear.’ He laughed, but no one joined in. ‘Perhaps I should adopt him.’

  I had been genuinely prepared to lose this duel with pleasure as a tribute to my idol and a mark of my respect for his achievements, but now I not only wanted to win the contest; I wanted to beat Nussram Fhakir the Unique more soundly than any congladiator had ever been beaten in the history of the sport.

  No, I not only wanted to defeat him; I wanted to destroy him, crush him, take him apart. For as long as he lived, I wanted him to break out in a sweat whenever my name or the congladiatorial profession was mentioned. He had wounded my Achilles’ heel and twisted the knife once too often. My idol no longer, he was merely another of my numerous opponents.

  I couldn’t have cared less that he was Nussram Fhakir the Unique.

  I was Bluebear the Invincible.

  The gong sounded and the duel began.

  Rounds 1-10

  Seated in the front row as usual were Smyke and his entourage: Knio, Weeny, Rumo the Wolpertinger, a bunch of Yetis, and several of Smyke’s congladiator protégés. Beside them, all unwitting, sat Chemluth Havanna. Smyke was smiling graciously in all directions but nervously shuffling around on his seat. He gave me another meaningful look to indicate what he expected of me.

  Being the official challenger, Nussram Fhakir had to open the contest. He began by serving up a story about a Gryphon whom he claimed to have taught to lay huge boiled eggs. Although it wasn’t very original, he told it with such vocal delicacy and such a wealth of elegant, expressive gestures that its lack of originality didn’t count against him. Moreover, his disrespectful remarks about Gryphons drew hearty laughter from the Atlantean audience – discounting the Gryphons themselves, of course, who were stoically guarding the stadium. The applause, which was correspondingly generous, earned him a cool eight points.

  I knew that he was infinitely superior to me in finesse, experience, and technique. There was no point in attempting to outdo him with a tall story on the grand scale. Many another young congladiator had tried this and come to grief on Nussram’s ability to ride a punch, so I decided to lower my sights. I opened with a story I’d dreamed up a long time ago and saved for an emergency, so to speak, in the event that nothing better occurred to me. It was a good, solid yarn that described how I’d been pursued by pirates while sailing the high seas with a cargo of hamsters. The point of the story, which depended more on humour than Nussram’s, was that I’d ended by harnessing sufficient energy from the hamsters’ little treadmills to propel the ship along and enable us to escape. I told it straight, without any frills, and it earned me a well-deserved six points. The first round had gone to Nussram. Smyke relaxed.

  My opponent opened the second round with a story about Norselander diplomacy. A dry-as-dust subject, one might have thought, but he turned it into a thrilling story of espionage in which he had penetrated the Norselander diplomats’ innermost circle by gluing their ears shut. He seasoned his story with one or two sideswipes at the politicians present and was rewarded with malicious laughter from the audience. In the end he even went so far as to claim responsibility for having started the Zamonian war of succession by inadvertently pushing the aforementioned Norselander out of the window.

  Thunderous applause, nine points. I was beginning to grasp that Nussram held a home team’s advantage. He was far better acquainted with local developments, the current history of Atlantis, and the needs of its inhabitants.

  For the present, to put it in congladiatorial language, I would have to keep my guard up and ride his punches.

  Nussram preferred to keep his stories in an Atlantean context, whereas I continued to set mine at sea. I countered with a robust yarn about voyaging with a cowardly crew who were simultaneously frightened by sea sprites and a thunderstorm. To reassure my men, I said, I caught the shafts of lightning in my paws and swallowed them, thereby impressing the sea sprites so much that they fled. My story wasn’t of a calibre likely to put an opponent like Nussram Fhakir in his place, but I told it well. Polite applause, five points.

  Nussram refused to let these early successes lure him out of his shell. He preserved his composure and displayed none of the lapses of concentration that sometimes afflicted inexperienced congladiators in such situations.

  His next effort dealt with greased lightning. He launched into a long and ultimately unresolved account of what the Invisibles might or might not be up to beneath Atlantis. This took the form of a personal report, a confidential piece of gossip that skilfully made the audience his accomplices.

  Nussram asserted that the Invisibles had originally come to Atlantis from another planet (as proof of this he cited the buildings in the city in which water flowed uphill), and that they had subsequently been driven into the sewers.

  He further stated that they harboured a frightful secret in their subterranean world, and that the greased lightning had some connection with it. Instead of divulging the nature of this frightful secret, however, he left it to his listeners’ imagination.

  Although utterly devoid of humour and pathos, Nussram’s story was so skilfully told that it sent shivers down one’s spine. He had also touched on a taboo subject which, although it affected everyone, nobody really cared to broach: What did the Invisibles really do down there? While I was telling silly seaman’s yarns, Nussram was dealing with topics of the day.

  A moment’s breathless silence followed. Then frenzied applause rang out. Ten points – the maximum. Nussram Fhakir had demonstrably lost none of his old expertise.

  Having little to set against this, I countered with a rather feeble story about falling into the hands of Yhôllian cannibals who proposed to eat me. I contrived to chill the water in the cauldron by requesting a final peppermint which cooled my breath to such an extent that I froze the water and was eventually able to sell it to the cannibals as peppermint sorbet. This puerile effort earned me a well-merited three points, the lowest score I had ever obtained.

  And so it went on for a while, much to Smyke’s delight and Chemluth�
��s consternation. Nussram served up one brilliant story after another, scoring top marks, while I produced offerings of average quality and earned no more than respectful applause.

  I wasn’t gambling on a quick victory, as the reader can see. Congladiatorial duels were not subject to any time limit. They continued until one of the contestants gave up, so I relied on my youthful reserves of energy and hoped that my older opponent would flag. Duels of Lies imposed a great strain on the vocal cords, and that was one of my strengths. I could gabble on and on without tiring, for days if necessary, thanks to my crash course with the Babbling Billows. But there was no reason to underestimate my opponent. His store of fresh ideas seemed inexhaustible, and his charm and acting ability were unimpaired after ten rounds.

  Round 11

  In the eleventh round Nussram essayed a surprise change of tactics: he deserted his secure narrative base, Atlantis, and ventured out into my own world of fantasy – doubtless to prove that he was just as much at home there as I.

  The yodelling horse

  Set in the Zamonian Alps, his next tall tale concerned a singing horse with which he had jointly won a yodelling competition. He imitated the horse’s voice with great comedic accuracy, and his equine vocal impression went down well with the audience. Result: nine points – a high score, as usual.

  I decided that the time had come to modify my own strategy. Instead of telling short, pointed stories in humorous vein and garnering a meagre score, I must now retain the public’s interest by presenting myself in a glamorous light. So I told the story of Molehill Volcano. ‘I … can … fly.’

  Such was my preamble. I projected the words, one by one, at the Megathon’s huge, circular auditorium, thereby assuring myself of the spectators’ attention. You could have heard a pin drop. Smyke awoke from a blissful daydream (he was probably counting his winnings) and Chemluth nervously kneaded the hat in his hands.

  The story of Molehill Volcano

  ‘One day, in the course of my extensive travels, I visited Nairland, the blank space on the map of Zamonia.’

  A murmur ran round the arena. No one had ever set foot in Nairland, I knew. Originally pronounced ‘Neverland’, then ‘Ne’erland’, the name had eventually come to be spelt as it sounded. It was a district wreathed in legends and rumours more fantastic than all the myths that clung to the Gloomberg Mountains, the Demerara Desert, and the Great Forest put together.

  At the mention of ‘Nairland’, my mind’s eye displayed an article from Nightingale’s encyclopedia. Instead of being disconcerted by this piece, I spontaneously decided to quote it verbatim:

  From the

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

  by Professor Abdullah Nightingale

  Nairland. Somewhat banal compound place name used to designate a region of Zamonia that has hitherto remained completely unexplored. This is not because of its exotic location; on the contrary, it is situated in a central, readily accessible position in the middle of Zamonia, and can easily be reached on foot or by rickshaw taxi. It is simply that no one dares to enter the area. The greatest and most audacious explorers have travelled to its borders, only to give up and turn back. Nairland emits a subconscious signal that advises all comers to give it a wide berth. It is surmised that Nairland consists of telepathic quicksand of a fine-grained, fluid consistency that warns of its dangers by thought transference. The only thing definitely known about the area is that a volcano rises at its centre. Because this can only be seen from hundreds of miles away, and because it looks at long range as innocuous as a molehill, it is known as ‘Molehill Volcano’.

  The audience rather grumblingly took note of these items of information, which were widely known in Zamonia. Everyone was acquainted with the rumours about Nairland.

  ‘One day, I was on my way through the salt marshes of the Dullsgard Plateau with a letter from the governor of Ornia for the mayor of Grailsund …’

  Another murmur of dissatisfaction from the sensation-hungry audience, who resented being burdened with so many boring details.

  ‘… and a gift for my sweetheart, who was also waiting for me.’

  This drew a little gasp from the female members of the audience. ‘Sweetheart’ and ‘gift’ were words that gave promise of a romantic dénouement.

  I presented a detailed description of a gold ring I’d ordered from the finest Twerpp goldsmith in Florinth. I dwelt at great length on the carat value of its layers of gold, the nature of the lucky signs and the wording of the lover’s vows I’d got him to engrave inside the ring. The females listened intently, whereas some of the males uttered groans of boredom and a couple of Bluddums blew raspberries.

  I then added – in passing, so to speak – that the ring had cost me every pyra I possessed, and that I wasn’t absolutely certain it would fit because, when ordering it, I had gauged the size by eye alone.

  Next, I described my sweetheart, modelling her appearance on the dream creature that had lured me into contact with the Spiderwitch’s hypnotic fluid. My heart almost broke when I described the girl bluebear to the audience, her image had etched itself so deeply on my memory. This agony of mind made my description all the more vivid. My female listeners sighed and unfolded their handkerchiefs in expectation of a tearful, joyful reunion.

  ‘I was rapidly traversing the salt marshes at a spot where the arundineous vegetation of the tundralike terrain gave way to mossy flora of a stunted nature …’

  More muttering from the audience. The Megathon had no time for geographical and botanical minutiae.

  ‘… when I heard the voice of the Nairland quicksand in my head.’ The muttering ceased.

  Quicksand …

  The word alone augured suspense. It denoted an unseen danger lying in wait for innocent victims – a danger, moreover, that led to an agonizing death or a dramatic rescue. Quicksand was simply unbeatable when it came to bringing an audience under your spell, and if the quicksand could talk into the bargain, so much the better.

  ‘“Stop!” I heard the quicksand say in my head. “Not another step, or you’ll sink into me!”

  ‘I came to a halt. In my eagerness to get to Grailsund, I had completely failed to notice the change in the terrain. I had left the salt marshes far behind me and was on the very edge of Nairland. I could see Molehill Volcano smoking away in the distance.’

  I knew that my listeners, many of whom had seen Molehill Volcano from far away, would now be seeing it in their mind’s eye.

  ‘I thought awhile. Making a detour around Nairland would entail an additional trek on foot of a good two months, if not longer. What was all the fuss about Nairland, anyway? Nobody had ever set foot in the place, so how did people know it was genuinely dangerous? ‘“I told them,” whispered the quicksand. “I’m a well-meaning quicksand. That’s very rare – a contradiction in terms, in fact. Just go away. Go, before it’s too late.”’

  To talk in the quicksand’s voice was risky from a storyteller’s point of view. Many of those present were familiar with that voice, having heard it in their heads during their own excursions to the borders of Nairland. Atlanteans regarded it as a favourite vacation treat to travel there and be sent back home by the quicksand. The voice had to have a rough, sandy quality, but it also had to be elegant, alluring, and dangerous, so I made it sound like a cobra slithering over emery paper, a hoarse rattle of the vocal cords mingled with a menacing hiss.

  ‘Perhaps it’s just a trick, I told myself. Perhaps Nairland is full of undiscovered treasures or unexploited mineral wealth. Perhaps that voice was merely a subtle acoustic effect of some kind – perhaps it was just a collection of remote-controlled sound waves. The most incredible things do exist! A graduate of the Nocturnal Academy isn’t so easily hoodwinked.

  ‘“There’s no treasure here, my dear, only me, the Cogitating Quicksand. Tread on me, and you’ll sink as you’d sink into the Graveyard Marshes. I’ll clog your throat, your nose, your ears, and
then … Oh, how I hate this aspect of a quicksand’s existence, the smothered screams and the grisly cadavers rotting away in my depths. That’s why I urge you, out of the goodness of my heart, to go away. Push off! Stretch your legs a bit. There’s a very scenic route that leads past Devil’s Gulch. The mountain demons there are harmless, they only pelt you with edelweiss. Then turn south-east and ford the River Dank near Baysville – you can wade across, it’s so shallow. After that –”

  ‘“You’re trying to fool me. You’re hiding something.”

  ‘“No I’m not.”

  ‘“Yes you are.”

  ‘“No I’m not.”

  ‘“Yes you are.”

  ‘“All right, if you insist. Come on in. I’m not a quicksand at all, I’m nice, firm desert sand and the crater of Molehill Volcano is full of gold and diamonds. You can forget about that ring for your sweetheart. You could steal her a fortune here, you’ve no idea!”

  ‘“How did you know about the ring?”

  ‘“I’m a mind-reader, after all. Your lips haven’t moved while we’ve been talking, or hadn’t you noticed?”

  ‘I reflected for a moment, weighing the situation up. In one pan of the scales I placed my common sense, my natural caution, and the quicksand’s advice; in the other my curiosity, my native stupidity, my suspicion that I was being thoroughly duped, and a few hundredweight of gold and diamonds for my beloved. Guess which side the scales came down on?’

  The female spectators drew a deep breath, the males gripped the arms of their seats. The Waterkins, who were neither male nor female, put their hands over their ears. Chemluth bit his cap.

  ‘I took three paces and sank into the quicksand.’

  I allowed the sentence to resonate awhile. Everyone was expecting a dramatic, drowning man’s aria and a last-minute rescue, possibly effected by a Reptilian Rescuer. But nothing of the kind. I simply sank.

  Glug-glug.

  I inserted a long pause for effect. I shot a sidelong glance at Volzotan Smyke. He was trying hard to preserve a nonchalant air, but I could see his gills quivering with suspense.