by Walter Moers
‘You see?’ said Death, ‘I’m doing my best for you.’ He threw again. Another double six.
‘You mean you’re playing for me?’ Gustave ventured at last.
‘What else? You don’t imagine we’d board a sinking hulk during a Siamese Twins Tornado just for a game of dice, do you? It’s all or nothing now, my boy.’ Death threw the dice for the third time. Another double six came up. He clapped his bony hands with a sound like a bunch of pencils rattling on the lid of a coffin. Dementia uttered a screech that made the hairs on Gustave’s neck stand on end.
‘I was in luck!’ said the skeleton. ‘And now, my boy, would you kindly surrender your soul?’
Gustave shuddered. ‘Surrender my soul? What do you mean? How am I supposed to do that?’
‘How you do it is all the same to me.’ Death made a dismissive gesture. ‘You could jump overboard and drown. You could take one of those ropes and hang yourself. Alternatively, there’s a nice, sharp cutlass over there. Ever heard of an admirable Japanese custom known as seppuku?’
‘You want me to kill myself?’
‘But of course, what else? You expect me to do it? I’m Death, I’m not a killer.’ Dementia greeted her brother’s little joke with an exaggeratedly strident laugh.
‘What do you plan to do with my soul?’ asked Gustave. He wasn’t really interested in knowing; he simply wanted to gain a little time.
‘Oh, fly into outer space with it and throw it into the sun, the way I do with every other soul,’ Death said casually. His supercilious tone became tinged with a trace of compassion. ‘Why do you think that thing up there burns so brightly, you silly boy? No sun, no life; no life, no souls; no souls, no sun—that’s the everlasting cycle of the univ—ouch!’ He looked as indignant as an eyeless skeleton could: Dementia had kicked him hard on the shin.
He clapped a bony hand over his bared teeth. ‘Oh, my goodness, now I’ve given away one of the great mysteries of the universe! Well, never mind, you won’t be writing a book about it, will you?’
The sinister siblings laughed mechanically, as if this were one of their stock jokes.
‘You mean I can’t lodge an appeal or anything?’ All the resolution had left Gustave’s voice. His question was merely another attempt to delay matters. What was he to do? Jump overboard? That would be tantamount to putting an end to himself, which was just what Death wanted.
Death shook his head, and his cervical vertebrae grated against each other with a sound like grinding gears. ‘No, I’m sorry, there’s nothing to be done,’ he said regretfully.
‘Yes!’ screeched Dementia. ‘Yes, there is!’
‘Shut up!’ Death hissed at his sister.
‘If you spoil things for me,’ Dementia snarled back at him, ‘I’ll tell him!’
‘Lunatic!’
‘Bag of bones!’
Death turned away and glared sullenly at the sea.
Dementia directed her fiery gaze at Gustave. It seemed to him that her eyes were forever changing shape and colour, like two slowly but steadily revolving kaleidoscopes.
‘Of course you can do something, boy. Ask my brother about the Tasks!’ She laughed with a sound like splintering glass.
‘Dementia!’ Death cut in. Furiously, he pulled his cloak more tightly around him. Then his shoulders sagged and he bowed his bony skull in resignation.
‘Very well,’ he sighed. ‘There is a way, but no one has ever tried it. That’s because no one has ever asked me about it. Until now, that is.’ His voice started to shake with suppressed fury. ‘Until my enchanting but sadly rather dim-witted sister took it into her head to—’
‘Be careful what you say!’ Dementia snarled, pointing her forefinger at him. Her other hand held the dice in an iron grip, ready to hurl them at her brother’s head. Death ground his teeth horribly.
‘There are five tasks,’ he blurted out.
‘Five tasks?’ Gustave repeated timidly.
‘Now there are six!’
Gustave preserved a cowed silence.
‘Task Number One: You rescue a beautiful damsel from the clutches of a dragon.’
Gustave nodded as if he had been expecting something of the kind.
‘Task Number Two: You traverse a forest swarming with evil spirits.’
‘A forest swarming with evil spirits,’ muttered Gustave, trying to memorise every detail.
‘Yes,’ Death added, ‘drawing as much attention to yourself as possible.’
Gustave groaned.
‘The third task …’ Death thought hard. ‘The, er, third task …’ he muttered to himself, tapping his skull with his forefinger. Gustave waited on tenterhooks.
The skeletal figure straightened up with a jerk, smitten by a flash of inspiration. ‘Task Number Three: You have to guess the names of three giants.’
‘Three giants?’ Gustave protested. ‘Isn’t that asking a bit—’
‘All right, five giants!’ snarled the skeleton.
‘But I—’
‘Six giants!’ Death brought his fist crashing down on the ship’s rail.
Gustave bit his lip and resolved to keep mum in future.
‘Task Number Four … Number Four … er …’ Death seemed to be finding it harder and harder to think up new tasks.
‘Imagination never was his strong point!’ sneered Dementia. ‘He can burn souls all right, but as for having a single original thought—’
‘Task Number Four!’ Death interrupted her in a thunderous voice. ‘You must bring me a tooth belonging to the Most Monstrous of All Monsters!’
‘Consider it done,’ said Gustave, bowing his head. ‘Anything else you’d like?’ he thought defiantly.
‘Indeed there is!’ Death snapped, so sharply that Gustave gave a jump. Was the Grim Reaper a mind-reader as well?
‘The fifth task …’
‘Monsters, dragons, giants, evil spirits …’ thought Gustave. ‘There can’t be anything harder.’
Death lowered his awesomely deep voice still further. ‘Now listen carefully, my boy, because this is the hardest task of all. Task Number Five: You must meet yourself!’
‘That’s not only hard, it’s plain impossible!’ thought Gustave, but he didn’t dare protest.
Death stood up and gathered the folds of his cloak together.
‘After that,’ he commanded, clearly relieved to have thought up so many ingenious tasks, ‘you’ll take yourself off to my house on the moon. I shall be waiting there with my, er, enchanting sister to set you your sixth and final task—provided you manage to get there, of course.’
‘The moon?’ said Gustave, impressed. ‘Is that where you live?’
‘Yes,’ sighed Death. ‘It’s the only place left where you can get away from people. I used to live in an ice castle at the North Pole, but not even that’s off the beaten track these days, what with all the visitors—polar research scientists, explorers, ornithologists, meteorologists, and so on. I now live on the shores of the Sea of Tranquillity. Mine is the only house there—the only house anywhere on the moon, to be precise. You can’t miss it.’
Dementia sighed too, clearly depressed by the thought of her desolate place of residence. ‘Personally,’ she confided to Gustave in a whisper, ‘I’d sooner have a few people around. Those polar explorers were quite good company, but Old Misery-Guts here …’
Death silenced her with an imperious gesture.
‘See you on the moon, then,’ he commanded. ‘Before the night’s out!’ he added.
‘But they’re very difficult tasks,’ Gustave said plaintively, scratching his head.
Death nodded. ‘That’s life for you: completely pointless,’ he said in a noticeably milder tone. ‘It wears you down by degrees—grinds you to dust like pumice stone. For my own part, and at the risk of seeming self-interested, I’d prefer a nice, quick suicide.’
‘What do you know of life?’ Dementia hissed venomously. Death ignored her gibe and went on, ‘Well, Gustave, do you accept my challen
ge, or would you sooner hang yourself from the yardarm? That would be a convenient and extremely time-saving alternative from every point of view.’
He held out a length of rope and tried—insofar as he could do so without any facial muscles—to give Gustave an encouraging smile.
‘No, thanks!’ Gustave fended off the rope with both hands. ‘I’d rather try the tasks.’
‘Very well,’ Death said with a sigh. ‘You’ve chosen the hardest, longest and most hopeless course of action.’ He tossed the rope over the rail. ‘Have it your own way. In that case, you must now go at once to the Island of Damsels in Distress. These days, it’s the only place where you’ll find beautiful girls in the clutches of fire-breathing dragons.’
Gustave couldn’t remember any mention of fire-breathing dragons. ‘The Island of Damsels in Distress—fine, but my ship’s sinking and I don’t even know where the island is. How am I supposed to get there?’ he asked feebly.
‘Why,’ said Death, casually clicking his fingers, ‘like this!’
GUSTAVE’S INITIAL IMPRESSION was that three far-reaching changes had occurred. In the first place, he was no longer in the company of a skeleton and a lunatic on a sinking ship, but soaring through the air. Secondly, he was wearing a helmet and a suit of silver armour and carrying a lance. And, thirdly, he was riding a creature that seemed to be part lion, part horse, and part eagle.
‘Before you ask,’ said the creature, ‘I’m a gryphon. My job is to take you to the Island of Damsels in Distress. In point of fact, we’re already there.’
Below them lay an expanse of delightful, summery countryside. Gustave could make out lush meadows filled with wild flowers, clumps of shady trees, and a crystal-clear stream. Young magpies and other small birds were excitedly snapping at airborne insects as they circled above its banks.
‘Are you a servant of Death?’ asked Gustave.
‘Aren’t we all?’ was the gryphon’s mournful rejoinder.
They flew on in silence for a while.
‘So where are the damsels?’ Gustave asked at length.
‘Don’t worry,’ the gryphon sighed, ‘you’ll get to see them soon enough. First, though, I thought you might appreciate a little joyride over the damsel-free part of the island—to recuperate, so to speak. After all, you’ve only just escaped from a Siamese Twins Tornado, a sinking ship, a bout of insanity, and death by hanging.’
‘Many thanks,’ said Gustave. ‘Very considerate of you.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ said the gryphon. ‘Mind you, I must confess I was thinking of myself as well. It’s part of my job to help you rescue a damsel from the clutches of a dragon.’
‘Glad to hear it. The thing is, I’ve never rescued a damsel from the clutches of a—’
‘Neither have I!’ the gryphon broke in, sounding worried. ‘Neither have I!’
At that, it flapped its wings so violently that the air went whistling past Gustave’s ears. The incongruous pair soared high into the sky.
‘Let’s go! The sooner we get it over, the better.’ The gryphon suddenly banked, heeling over at such an extreme angle that Gustave had to cling to its plumage with all his might to prevent the weight of his armour from pitching him off into space.
‘We must make for the coast. That’s where most of the damsels hang out. They go there because it’s where most of the dragons hang out.’
‘But … In that case, wouldn’t it be wiser of them to keep to the interior of the island?’
‘Women are an eternal mystery,’ the gryphon retorted.
Gustave could already make out the sea glittering in the distance. The sun hovered high overhead, the air was clear and balmy.
‘How come it’s midday, and so warm?’ Gustave asked. Just now, on board ship, it had been the middle of the night.
‘It’s always midday in these parts,’ the gryphon explained, ‘and always summertime. For the damsels’ sake.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Well, it’s midday and summertime so the weather’s always nice and warm. The damsels like to go around naked, you see.’
‘With nothing on, you mean?’ gasped Gustave.
The gryphon turned its head and gave him a conspiratorial wink.
‘More or less,’ it said. ‘Because it’s so hot.’
On reaching the coast, the gryphon banked gently to the right, spread its wings to their fullest extent, and allowed the light sea breeze to carry them along the rocky shore. All that Gustave could see below him were precipitous cliffs with green waves exploding into foam as they broke against them, a few small bays, some narrow sandy beaches, and rocks, rocks, and more rocks.
‘So where are the damsels?’ he asked impatiently.
‘There are your damsels,’ sighed the gryphon. ‘Up ahead on the right—and don’t fall out of the saddle!’
Gustave could detect nothing among the rocks but some pale dots—nesting seagulls, or so he thought at first, but the nearer they drew the more clearly he discerned that they were a whole bevy of young girls.
And, sure enough, they were all very scantily attired and had beautiful figures. Some wore sarongs or headdresses, but many were completely naked. Gustave gasped.
‘Keep holding on tight,’ the gryphon called. ‘Don’t lose your nerve.’
‘Help!’ cried the girls. ‘Please help us, won’t you?’ And they giggled and tittered and nudged each other in the ribs.
‘Don’t let them fool you,’ the gryphon advised. ‘Those are undragoned damsels. They’re of no interest to us.’
‘Really not?’ said Gustave. ‘Why are they all carrying spears?’
‘Because of the dragons, of course. They hunt them.’
‘Damsels hunt dragons? I thought it was the other way round.’
‘Pah! They hunt them, spear them to death, and then eat them. What’s more, they don’t let anything go to waste. They skin a dragon, cut the meat into chunks, boil it, and pickle it in brine. Dragon blubber they refine into suntan cream—it’s always midday and summertime, remember. They make combs out of the scales and sausages out of the creatures’ tongues. They even utilise the eyeballs! Those they boil and—’
‘Spare me the details!’ Gustave exclaimed. ‘But how come this place is called the Island of Damsels in Distress? They don’t look very distressed to me.’
‘The girls thought up the name themselves, of course. What if they’d called it the Island of Dragon-Devouring Damsels, or the Island of Dragon-Slaying Amazons?’ The gryphon emitted a hoarse laugh. ‘Then no daring young men would ever come here to rescue them from the dragons’ clutches, get it?’
‘But you just told me they hunt dragons.’
‘Yes, but now and then a dragon manages to turn the tables. A girl gets separated from the hunting party, loses her spear or something—and at that very moment the dragon comes along! The stupid creatures make a tremendous song and dance when they manage to capture a girl. They chain her to a rock for days on end, brag about it to their friends, and broadcast the news to all and sundry—whereas, if they were smart, they’d simply gobble her up or convert her into juice, the way she’d have done with them.’
The gryphon sighed. ‘And then, right on cue, along comes some snotty-nosed youth in shining armour—sorry, that wasn’t a dig at you!—who bumps them off. This place should be called the Island of Dragons in Distress, if you want my opinion. It’s even said that dragons are sometimes tamed by damsels for the sake of their milk, which is much in demand as a skin-rejuvenation product.’
‘Sounds as if it’s no great problem, killing one of these monsters.’
‘It isn’t. We simply fly there and you have a bit of a go at each other, you and the dragon. It tries to bite your head off, whereupon you run it through the throat with your lance. It’s child’s play. But that’s not the point of your task.’
‘Really? So what is?’
‘Can’t tell you—not allowed to. You’ll find that out for yourself soon enough.’
/> ‘Yoo-hoo!’ called the lovely girls among the rocks. ‘Help! Come on, rescue us!’ And they giggled and tittered some more, spluttering into their hands with uncontrollable mirth.
Gustave couldn’t tear his eyes away from this unusual spectacle. ‘What if they really do need help?’ he asked.
The gryphon’s sole response was to flap its wings vigorously, and the girls were soon no more than a sprinkling of pale dots that might have been mistaken for a colony of seabirds. Gustave almost dislocated his neck, trying to catch a last glimpse of them.
In a kind of daze, he sat astride the huge creature as it flew along the coastline with powerful wing-beats. He had never seen so many naked girls at once. To be more precise, he had never seen even one naked girl before, or not in reality, only in the form of a statue or an oil painting in a museum. And these girls had actually moved!
He was jolted out of his daydreams by the gryphon’s voice. ‘We’re now coming to the island’s capital city,’ it announced in dramatic tones. ‘This is the site of the dragon-processing industry.’
Projecting from the rocky coastline were some slender towers built of dazzling white marble, their outer walls entirely adorned with intricate arabesques, half-reliefs, and tiles bearing geometrical designs. Spacious colonnades traversed deserted halls larger than cathedrals, granite round-towers jutted high into the sky. Dense clouds of white vapour issuing from subterranean shafts made these buildings look as if they were constructed on clouds.
‘Is that a fairy palace?’ Gustave enquired, awestruck.
‘No, it’s a dragon-processing plant,’ the gryphon replied in a businesslike tone. ‘It’s where captured dragons are wrung out in dragon-juice presses. The juice is then superheated, sterilised, and canned. Tastes awful, but it’s reputed to make you immortal if you drink a glass a day. Sells like hot cakes.’
Gustave had always been fascinated by industrial manufacturing processes. ‘Why aren’t there any workers to be seen?’ he asked.
‘Everything’s fully automated and technologically state-of-the-art. You’re looking at the future, my boy. We’re on the threshold of a technological revolution. It won’t be long before locomotives are flying us to the moon.’