A Wild Ride Through the Night

by Walter Moers

  ‘Could you cut the cackle a bit?’ Pancho grumbled. ‘We’ve got things to do before the day’s out.’

  The old woman ignored him. ‘The dream-world is an unpredictable place,’ she went on, ‘—the most lawless place in the entire universe. A jungle composed of time, space and providence, of hindsight and foresight, of fears and desires, all jumbled up together.’ She knotted her fingers into a dense latticework.

  ‘A country, a jungle, a department store,’ thought Gustave. ‘Whatever next?’

  ‘So it’s helpful if there’s someone around to give you an occasional tip, an item of information, a covert hint. That’s what we dream princesses are there for.’

  ‘I see,’ said Gustave.

  ‘No, you don’t!’ snapped the old woman. ‘Listen carefully! I can assume the guise of an articulate apple or a chicken made of cheese. Remember the cheese chicken that advised you to cough three times?’

  ‘No,’ said Gustave.

  ‘Never mind. Anyway, it was a prime example of professional dream consultancy. The dream was a nightmare, and you were on the point of drowning in a pool of rice pudding when I turned up as the chicken made of cheese and advised you to cough three times. You coughed in your sleep, and that woke you up.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘That’s the dark shadow that looms over our endeavours: the shadow of oblivion.’ The old woman heaved a sigh. ‘We dream consultants have learned to get by without any pats on the back.’

  ‘So do most people,’ Gustave retorted, rather proud of having come up with such a precocious remark.

  ‘Now, now, young man, you’ve no cause to make fun of our work. Dream consultancy is a hard, unrewarding job, and one that often seems pointless. Besides, nobody can be sure the same fate won’t befall them. You could become one yourself some day.’

  ‘Me, a dream princess?’

  Pancho whinnied with laughter.

  ‘Not a princess, of course: a dream prince.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Basically, anyone can work in dream consultancy as long as he fulfils certain conditions. First you’ve got to die. That’s the most important qualification for the job.’

  ‘Just a minute!’ Gustave exclaimed. ‘Does that mean you’re dead?’

  ‘Dead as a doornail, otherwise we wouldn’t be talking together now. I died … let’s see … two hundred and seventy-three years ago. We’re related, by the way. I’m your great-great-great-grandmother— on your father’s side.’

  Gustave opened his mouth to speak, but the old woman got in first.

  ‘I died at the age of ninety-nine, after a long and fulfilled life. That’s the second basic precondition for a career in dream consultancy: you must have a fulfilled life behind you. People with unsatisfying lives tend to be unstable characters, which renders them unfitted for our profession.’

  Gustave nodded.

  ‘Enjoy a life of fulfilment and then switch to dream consultancy. That’s the only way to escape Death and his soul-coffins.’

  ‘You know about the soul-coffins?’

  The old woman grinned.

  ‘No sun, no life; no life, no souls; no souls, no sun—that’s the everlasting cycle of the univ … ’ She clapped a hand over her mouth in mock horror. ‘Whoops! I almost gave away one of the great mysteries of the universe!’ She laughed.

  ‘How can you tell whether someone has led a fulfilled life?’ asked Gustave. He had never taken part in such an absurd conversation, but he was beginning to enjoy it.

  ‘Hard to say. You can’t tell until the end. It’s got nothing to do with longevity or success or satisfaction or the like. You look back on your life and see it lying ahead of you—or behind you, as the case may be.’

  She giggled.

  ‘I can’t tell you what indicates whether a life was fulfilled or not, only that it’s possible to see it. Even godforsaken Death can see it. Then he takes his soul-coffin, the stupid bag of bones, and pushes off.’

  Pancho cleared his throat. ‘Are you going to be much longer, the pair of you? I mean, we’ve still got a few tasks to perform, and—’

  ‘True,’ said Gustave. The conversation had become more interesting than he’d originally thought, and he would have liked to question the old lady further, because he still couldn’t decide whether she was really deranged or simply teasing him in a subtle way. But Pancho was right, they had more important things to do.

  ‘We must ride on.’

  ‘I know,’ said the old woman.

  ‘One last question,’ Gustave called over his shoulder when they were trotting along the dried-up river bed once more. ‘If you really have lost your way in my dreams, how will you manage to get out again?’

  The old lady laughed, and he saw for the first time that all her teeth were of glittering gold.

  ‘I’ll do like the information desk in the department store: I’ll wait until closing time.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I’ll wait till you wake up,’ she said.

  She smoothed her robe down, adjusted her crown, and re assumed her blank expression. The owl emitted a few scornful cries, but by that time Gustave and Pancho were beyond the next bend and well out of sight.

  ‘IF YOU ASK me,’ said Pancho, as they rode on along the dried-up river bed with a dense canopy of branches overhead, ‘the old dear had a screw loose. Did you understand all that stuff about the rabbit and the ducks?’

  ‘Nobody did ask you,’ Gustave retorted, but he continued to ponder the question. No, to be honest, the bit about the rabbit and the ducks had defeated him too.

  ‘We ought to concentrate on your tasks now,’ said Pancho. ‘I’m as anxious to get out of this godforsaken forest as you are.’

  ‘We have to make ourselves conspicuous,’ Gustave remembered.

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘We have to draw attention to ourselves in the Forest of Evil Spirits—that’s part of the task.’

  ‘In that case,’ said the horse, ‘I suggest we sing. Sensitive souls find music considerably more of a pain than is generally supposed. Can you sing?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Gustave, who was, in fact, quite musical. ‘I can sing pretty well.’

  ‘That’s bad,’ Pancho snickered. ‘It’d be better if you couldn’t. Musical singing isn’t as noticeable as unmusical singing. You’re in luck, though: I can’t sing for toffee, so I’ll take over that part of the task.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Do you know The Song of the Horse that Ate Too Much Ghost-Grass?’

  ‘Ghost-grass?’

  ‘Yes, a nasty weed. I ate some myself on one occasion, but that’s another story. Just listen. Normally it’s neighed, being a horse song, but I’ll do my best to translate it into your inadequate language.’

  Having snorted a couple of times, the horse proceeded to belt out its ballad in an unmelodious baritone:

  Alas, I’ve eaten of the herb

  whose roots lie in the underworld,

  and now, with senses all aflame,

  the magic spell I must declaim:

  ‘Ye evil sprites that fly and crawl,

  obey my summons, one and all.

  Dreams and reality unite!

  Night turn to day, and day to night!’

  Light and shade, together blending,

  shroud my eyes in mists unending,

  and behold, from out the gloom,

  soulless, restless spirits loom.

  Loud their mocking cries resound

  as they boldly prance around.

  See, the mists grow thicker yet,

  and by nightmares I’m beset.

  While I stand there all alone,

  incorporeal shadows moan,

  long-legged spiders do their work,

  weaving webs in which to lurk,

  gargoyle faces mop and mow

  with rolling eyes and skulls that glow,

  and mouths emitting frightful screams

  that will forever haunt my dreams.


  Enough of this! Back to your lair:

  the underworld. It isn’t fair

  of you to plague me thus, so go!

  ’Twas but a joke of mine, you know.

  Shoo! Go away! Well, are you deaf?

  Be off with you, I’ve had enough.

  I ate some ghost-grass, nothing more,

  so now that’s it: you know the score.

  Ghost-grass is just a friendly weed

  that blows your mind—it’s what you need

  to banish all your cares and woe.

  Hey, what’s all this? Please let me go!

  Stop tugging at my hoofs like that!

  Help, help! I’m sinking!

  ‘That last line didn’t rhyme or scan,’ Gustave said irritably. Pancho’s frightful doggerel had been getting on his nerves. What was more, the horse had simply come to a halt without a by-your-leave.

  ‘That wasn’t part of the song! I really am sinking!’

  Pancho’s voice was panic-stricken, and Gustave could detect some curious crackling, sucking sounds coming from beneath him. He looked down at the horse’s legs. All four of them were buried up to their fetlocks in spongy moss.

  ‘The ground must be rather soft here,’ said Gustave. ‘We’d better—’

  ‘But something’s tugging at me!’ cried Pancho. ‘I’m being dragged down!’

  There was a sudden jerk that nearly pitched Gustave out of the saddle, and Pancho sank up to his hocks in the forest floor. Gustave jumped off, keeping hold of the reins. He was surprised to find that his feet didn’t sink into the moss at all. The carpet of vegetation beneath him was perfectly firm and dry, but Pancho, as if he’d strayed on to an expanse of quicksand, was sinking deeper and deeper.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Gustave exclaimed.

  ‘How should I know?’ Pancho’s voice broke. ‘Get me out of here! Please!’ There was another jerk, and he sank in up to his belly.

  ‘Do something! Come on, quick!’ Big bubbles of foam had formed around Pancho’s muzzle, and his eyes were rolling in panic. Gustave wrenched at the reins and the horse tried to kick itself free, but there was another brutal tug from below. All that now protruded from the moss were Pancho’s head and neck.

  ‘Do something, can’t you? Dig me out!’ he whinnied in despair. Gustave knelt down and tried to scrape the moss away from his neck, but it was hard and deep-rooted. All he managed to dislodge were a few dry tufts.

  ‘Swallowed up by the ground,’ called Pancho. ‘What a ridiculous way to go! It serves me right! Can you forgive me, at least?’

  ‘Forgive you? What for?’ demanded Gustave, desperately tugging at the reins again.

  ‘My only job was to turn you over to the evil spirits. You won’t be able to perform your task without being devoured by them.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘It’s all a plot hatched by Death! No one has ever succeeded in escaping from the Forest of Evil Spirits. I never dreamt it would get me too. Please forgive me!’ Pancho’s big eyes filled with tears.

  With a final jerk, his head disappeared and the reins were torn from Gustave’s hands. The ground closed over Pancho with a lip-smacking sound: he had vanished without a trace.

  Gustave got to his feet and stood there swaying, incapable of thinking clearly. He was utterly dazed by what had happened.

  ‘Pancho?’ he said stupidly.

  The trees rustled as if their branches were stirring in the wind. The whispers and giggles Gustave had heard before began again, sounding louder and more alarming than ever.

  The forest seemed to come alive. Branches lashed around, leaves went scudding through the air, treetops shook, bark crunched against bark. In the twinkling of an eye, Gustave found himself hemmed in by a formidable horde of forest demons of the most multifarious kinds. He was surrounded on all sides by lizard-tailed dwarfs, horned owls, beaked insects, and other bizarre apparitions. Creatures of darkness in every conceivable form came crowding towards him out of the forest’s shadowy depths.

  He froze and drew his sword, but hesitated to raise it and adopt a warlike pose.

  Hanging head down from a branch above him was a batlike creature with an almost human face. ‘Hey, you!’ it said angrily. ‘How did you have the nerve to sing such an impudent song in our forest?’

  Gustave felt convinced that, under the circumstances, sticking to the truth would be the best policy.

  ‘It wasn’t me singing, it was my horse.’

  ‘What horse?’ the winged creature demanded spitefully.

  ‘You know the one I mean,’ said Gustave, trying to make a courteous but far from timid impression. ‘I do admit, however, that I was deliberately trying to attract your attention. I made a wager with Death,’ he went on, with only a slight tremor in his voice. ‘One of my tasks is to behave in a conspicuous way.’

  ‘Well, young man,’ hissed the batlike creature, ‘you’ve succeeded. You now have our undivided attention.’

  ‘A wager with Death!’ sneered a hideous dwarf mounted on an even more hideous pig. ‘What’s this, emotional blackmail? We all have to die some time.’

  ‘Quite so!’ exclaimed a one-legged bird with insect’s antennae. ‘We ought to hang him upside down from a copper beech and nibble his liver.’

  ‘You mean you also have to die?’ Gustave was bold enough to interject.

  ‘Of course we do,’ called a gnome with a child’s face. He spread his arms and laughed. ‘Everyone has to.’

  ‘But you’re spirits—creatures that dwell in limbo. I’ve never heard it said that goblins have to die.’

  This threw the weird gathering into confusion. They all grunted and whispered together excitedly.

  ‘When was the last time,’ Gustave demanded, somewhat more firmly, ‘that one of you departed this life?’

  ‘Er …’ said the one-legged bird.

  ‘Mm …’ added an owl in the background.

  ‘Well …’ conceded a beaked gnome seated astride an emu. ‘I can’t recall the last time someone died, I must admit.’

  ‘Personally,’ came a croak from a dark hole in a tree trunk, ‘I can’t remember anyone dying at all.’

  ‘I’ve never attended a funeral,’ murmured a frog standing on its hind legs.

  ‘What’s a funeral?’ asked someone right at the back.

  ‘I’ve got a great-grandmother who’s four hundred and fifty years old,’ mused a monstrous grasshopper, thoughtfully rubbing its stork’s beak, ‘and she herself has a grandmother who’s still surprisingly chipper.’

  A spiderlike creature the size of a loaf of bread had crawled up to Gustave from behind and was scratching his armour insistently with its forelegs.

  ‘Are you suggesting,’ it whispered in a reedy, otherworldly voice, ‘that we’re immortal?’

  Gustave was beginning to realise that a self-assured manner was his best hope of dealing with this sinister crew. ‘Well,’ he said loudly and firmly, ‘none of you has ever died yet, as you yourselves have noticed, even though some of you are over four hundred years old.’

  ‘Seven hundred!’ called an owl.

  ‘Nine hundred!’ something indefinable croaked proudly.

  ‘Two thousand five hundred, in round figures,’ bragged a lizard with umpteen feet and a goblin’s head.

  ‘All right,’ Gustave continued, ‘over two thousand five hundred years old. That strikes me as pretty good evidence of immortality. At the very least, it gives grounds for, er, optimistic speculation.’

  The eerie band lapsed into pensive silence for a while. The hush was finally broken by the one-legged bird.

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ it said. ‘I mean, I could stop worrying about these periodic pains in my left wing. If we aren’t destined to die, it’s unlikely that I’ll suffer a fatal heart attack or—’

  ‘It would brighten our whole existence,’ the hideous hog broke in. ‘We could dismiss all thoughts of death. That would mean a hundred per cent improvement in our quality of life.’
/>   ‘It would spell the end of all the confounded pessimism in this forest,’ predicted the dwarf on its back.

  ‘This is splendid!’ exclaimed the owl. ‘We’re immortal!’

  ‘Hurrah!’

  ‘Immortal!’

  The forest rang with jubilant cries, whistles and laughter. The creatures embraced, slapped each other’s backs and humps, shed tears of joy. Gustave stood idly by until the commotion subsided.

  ‘Good!’ cried the one-legged bird, hopping over to Gustave and resting one wing on his shoulder. ‘This nice young man entered our forest in order to help us lead lives free from fear. Hip-hip-hip!’

  ‘Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!’ cheered the spirits.

  Gustave began to relax.

  ‘And now,’ the bird went on gaily, ‘let’s hang him upside down from the copper beech and devour his liver!’

  Gustave recoiled a step and raised the sword above his head. ‘So I’m in for a fight after all,’ he thought.

  The one-legged bird uttered a malevolent titter. The pig grunted avidly as though guzzling a truffle. The other creatures, too, emitted strangely rhythmical sounds which Gustave could only interpret as their own peculiar form of laughter.

  ‘Forgive me!’ croaked the bird, gasping for breath. ‘Forgive my inability to refrain from cracking that rather distasteful joke. Of course we won’t devour your liver!’

  Gustave lowered his sword.

  ‘We’d never do that. Human livers are full of poisons. Naturally, we won’t devour anything but your brain!’

  The clearing rang with more hysterical laughter. Gustave took up his defensive stance once more.

  ‘Hey, come on now!’ the bird exclaimed between guffaws. ‘Put that silly sword away and relax! Make a few allowances for our demonic sense of humour! We’re not going to eat you. You’re invited to a party. Be our guest!’

  And, as though at a given signal, all the horrific creatures proceeded to dance round Gustave. Singing weird songs, they drew their reluctant guest ever deeper into the darkness of the forest.