A Wild Ride Through the Night

by Walter Moers

  ‘That was the tops, that business with the giants!’ Pancho said reminiscently.

  ‘A little too gory for my taste, but they started it. Would you mind if I came too? I’ve got an appointment with Death.’

  ‘Of course, Cap’n,’ cried Dante. ‘Get in and we’ll take you to the moon, that goes without saying.’

  Gustave boarded the chariot and took his place beside Dante. He was about to give the order to set off, if only from force of habit, when something occurred to him. ‘But how can we get to the moon before daybreak? The Time Pig calculated that it would take several billion years.’

  ‘Oh, the Time Pig,’ Pancho said derisively. ‘That fat hog with his mouse’s wings! Our wings are in the Pegasus class, my friend, and the chariot wheels are made of compressed comet dust. As for the suspension—’

  ‘That’s enough, Pancho!’ cried Dante. He tugged at the reins and Pancho relapsed into silence.

  ‘I could tell you my story during the flight,’ Gustave suggested. ‘It’ll pass the time.’

  ‘No need, Cap’n. This contraption is rather different from a sailing ship. Hold on tight, won’t you?’

  Gustave gripped the seat cushions tight.

  ‘Gee-up!’ cried Dante, shaking the reins. There was a whirring sound as the horses flapped their wings. The chariot set off with a jerk, throwing Gustave back into his seat.

  ‘Whoa!’ cried Dante. ‘We’re there.’

  Gustave had barely had time to blink. He leant over the side of the chariot and looked down, almost unable to believe his eyes. Floating beneath him was the moon, a big white sphere sprinkled with craters. Further away he could see the earth with its blue seas, and much further away the blazing, dazzling sun. They really were back home in their own solar system.

  ‘Phew,’ he said in astonishment, ‘that was quick.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dante, ‘we’ve got all the most modern technological equipment here. We need it, the way demand keeps on growing.’

  They came in to land, and the chariot touched down gently in a crater.

  ‘The Sea of Tranquillity, Cap’n—end of the line. That’s Death’s house straight ahead.’ Dante jerked his head at a gloomy, two-storeyed building on the edge of the crater. There was a light on upstairs. The tall double doors, which were shut, had a bust over the lintel. ‘Strange,’ thought Gustave. ‘Why do those doors seem so familiar?’

  A big raven was circling above the sinister building, its hoarse cries reverberating around the walls of the crater.

  ‘There’s a light on,’ Dante remarked, ‘so they must be at home. They could also be fluttering around somewhere—they do that every night—but they can’t be far away.’

  Gustave eyed the raven with surprise. ‘So there are birds on the moon?’

  ‘Yes, Death brought a few earth creatures with him to make the place seem more homely. There are ravens, owls, rats, bats and spiders. And worms, lots of worms. Ants too, of course, but they were here already.’

  ‘What do you think of Death—as an employer, I mean?’ Gustave asked as he dismounted from the chariot. The surface was as soft and yielding as rubber.

  ‘I honestly can’t complain. I mean, he’s not the type of person you’d care to go on vacation with, but we don’t have much to do with each other in any case. His sister fills the soul-coffins with fresh souls inside the house, so they say. He stacks them in the backyard and I collect them, that’s all. He and his crazy sister squabble a lot indoors—I sometimes hear them at it.’

  Dante looked up, distracted by a fluttering sound too loud to be made by ravens.

  ‘Oh, here he comes,’ he said in a subdued voice. ‘Your appointment. We’d better get on with our work right away. The boss doesn’t like his employees dilly-dallying.’

  Gustave followed Dante’s gaze. Death and his sister, both attired in billowing robes, were coming in to land. Death, who was clasping Dementia tightly in his arms, had reassumed the skeletal appearance Gustave remembered from their first encounter.

  ‘So long, partner,’ Pancho called hurriedly. ‘It was an honour to ride with you.’ And he put out his right forehoof.

  ‘Mind how you go in that crazy contraption of yours,’ said Gustave.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Pancho replied. ‘I told you: If Death supplies you with something, he quality-controls it himself.’

  Dante cracked his whip, the horses flapped their wings, and the chariot took off.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Pancho called from above, ‘one more thing.’

  Gustave looked up at him.

  ‘That business with the stupid crocodile—it’s just between the two of us, right?’

  ‘Right!’ Gustave called back, waving goodbye.

  The chariot quickly gained height. Gustave heard Dante ask a question in the distance—‘What was that you said about a crocodile?’—and then it disappeared among the twinkling stars.

  At that moment the weird pair made a silent landing on the surface of the moon. Dementia stepped aside as soon as her brother released her. Sitting down on the soft ground, she started singing to herself and playing with moon pebbles. Death turned his pale face in Gustave’s direction. Up here in the cold light of space he looked even more unreal than he had on earth. His tone was cold and businesslike.

  ‘You’ve performed all your tasks to date, I hear. Do you have the tooth?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gustave replied diplomatically, without producing his trophy. ‘I do.’

  ‘Then hand it over!’ The skeleton’s voice betrayed a mixture of impatience and greed.

  ‘Not so fast,’ said Gustave. ‘What do you plan to do with it?’

  ‘None of your business!’

  Dementia giggled. ‘He wants to kill himself with it!’

  ‘Dementia!’ snarled Death.

  ‘The Time Pig’s tooth is the only weapon Death can commit suicide with,’ Dementia continued implacably. ‘You’ve no idea how badly he wants it!’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Gustave. ‘Death longs for death? Are you saying that, if he kills himself with the Time Pig’s tooth, no one else will have to die?’

  ‘That’s it.’ Dementia giggled again. ‘Before long, thanks to you, there won’t be any more funerals. You’re a regular hero, my lad.’

  Gustave produced the tooth from his breastplate and handed it to Death, who eagerly snatched it from him, then held it up and examined it at length in the moonlight.

  ‘Well, go on,’ cried Dementia. ‘Kill yourself!’

  Death lowered the tooth.

  ‘It’s the wrong one,’ he sighed. ‘It should have been an incisor. This is a molar.’

  Dementia rounded on Gustave. ‘The wrong tooth!’ she jeered. ‘You got the wrong tooth!’ And she threw a moon pebble at him.

  ‘Then you haven’t completed your tasks after all,’ the skeleton said grimly.

  ‘How was I to know?’ Gustave protested angrily. ‘I’ve brought you a tooth from the Most Monstrous of All Monsters. That was the task you set me. You never said anything about an incisor.’

  Dementia backed him up. ‘I’m afraid the boy’s right, brother dear. It’s your own fault for not being more specific.’

  ‘Very well,’ Death said sulkily, ‘but he still hasn’t completed all his tasks. There’s still one to go.’

  ‘I know,’ said Gustave, ‘that’s why I’m here. I’m waiting.’

  ‘Right,’ Death murmured, ‘your last task … er, your last task …’

  ‘Well?’ Dementia cut in.

  ‘Er … your last task, er … Tell me, my boy, what do you want to be when you grow up? If you survive, that is.’

  ‘I want to be an artist,’ Gustave replied firmly. ‘I want to draw and paint.’

  ‘I see,’ said Death. ‘So you want to be an artist, eh? Good, then this will be your final task: You’re to make a portrait of me. Depending on how it turns out, I shall decide whether or not you’ve performed the task satisfactorily.’

  Death clicked his fingers, an
d Gustave suddenly found himself holding a sheet of paper and a silver pencil.

  He examined the paper. It was of excellent quality—rough, heavy cartridge paper—and the pencil fitted his hand like a glove. He couldn’t have wished for a better task. If there was one thing he was good at, it was drawing. He sat down on a big white moonstone and got started.

  Gustave drew as if his life depended on it—which it did. He made his drawing an allegorical composition: the Grim Reaper seated on a globe with a scythe and an hourglass in his bony hands.

  He had never drawn better in all his days. Proportions, hatching, shadows, drapery, the anatomical depiction of the skull—all were handled with absolute perfection. Gustave had always longed to be able to draw like that: so quickly, so unerringly, so printably! Yes indeed, the drawing was fit to be printed as it stood; there was no need to make a woodcut or etching of it. It was the best piece of work he had ever produced.

  ‘Finished?’ Death asked impatiently. ‘Give it here!’

  Gustave handed him the sheet of paper. Death submitted it to long and careful scrutiny. Then he cleared his throat.

  ‘This is the lousiest drawing ever! Nothing’s the way it should be! The proportions are all wrong, the hatching’s amateurish, the drapery’s an utter flop. The chiaroscuro effects are, er, totally lacking in subtlety. You can’t even handle perspective properly, and you’ve botched the outlines. As for the anatomical depiction of the skull, I’ve never looked like that in my life!’

  Gustave was shattered. It was the most scathing verdict that had ever been passed on a drawing of his.

  ‘And what about the golden mean?’ Death pursued. ‘All good drawings have to be composed in accordance with the golden mean. I can see no sign of it.’

  Gustave knitted his brow. Golden mean? What was he talking about? Did he mean the golden section? Hey, just a minute—did Death have the first idea about drawing?

  ‘And the paint!’ Death sneered. ‘Far too thickly applied.’

  Dementia uttered a shrill laugh.

  The paint? thought Gustave. What paint? It’s a black-and-white drawing!

  Death tossed the sheet of paper aside. ‘No good at all,’ he said, turning his empty eye sockets in Gustave’s direction.

  Of course! Gustave thought suddenly. At that moment everything became clear to him. His eyes! Death doesn’t have any: he’s blind!

  Dementia tittered.

  So be it, Gustave said to himself. He’s fooled me after all. It wouldn’t have mattered how good the drawing was, he’d have rejected it on principle.

  ‘Does that mean I’ve failed the final test?’ he asked coldly.

  ‘No,’ Death replied. ‘It wasn’t a question of passing or failing. What matters is whether you’re prepared to die.’

  The skeletal figure prepared to deliver a longish lecture.

  ‘I strongly dislike taking a human life while it’s still immature. It’s much more fun when people are fully developed and at the peak of their abilities. I prefer summoning them to me when they’ve achieved something—hence all the heart attacks they suffer from fifty onwards.’

  Death cackled spitefully.

  ‘Just when they’re standing there crowned with success, out of breath after toiling away for years on end—just when they’re looking forward to enjoying the fruits of their labours at last— wham, bang! Carrying them off at that stage is the greatest fun of all!’ Death punched a couple of holes in space with his bony fists. ‘A soul has to be fat. Fat souls burn better, brighter, longer. Your soul is a scrawny little thing. Transporting it to the sun wouldn’t be worth the effort.’

  Death made a dismissive gesture. ‘Go away and strive, work, struggle, fail, succeed, fail, and start again from scratch. That way, your soul will swell up like pâté de foie gras. And don’t extol life before it’s over, because dying is the purpose of existence. But you aren’t ready to die, not yet. You’ve got to put in a lot more practice first.’

  Death turned away. ‘You can go,’ he told Gustave curtly, and strode off towards the house, trailing his cloak behind him. Dementia, giggling like a little girl, got up and skipped along in his wake.

  ‘Go? Where to?’ Gustave called after them. ‘We’re on the moon. How can I leave here?’

  The sinister siblings paused and turned.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Death growled, ‘you mortals still can’t fly yet. I keep forgetting that.’

  He rummaged in the folds of his robe.

  ‘Here, take these,’ he said, producing a pair of leathery wings and holding them out. They looked as if he had removed them from an outsize bat. Gustave went over, took them, and thanked him.

  ‘I designed them myself. I even wear them occasionally, just for show. Strap them on, take up your position on the edge of the crater, and push off. The rest will come by itself.’

  Death turned away again. Dementia emitted a silly giggle and hurried after him. Outside the front door, Death paused once more and rummaged in his robe for a considerable time. Gustave heard muffled cursing. ‘Ah, here it is!’ the skeleton exclaimed at last, triumphantly holding a key aloft.

  The big raven landed on the roof just as Death went inside. Dementia slipped in after him, but before the door closed behind her she suddenly paused and looked back at Gustave through the crack, smiling.

  Gustave now knew where he had already seen the door—indeed, the whole scene: on the seabed, when he was on the point of drowning.

  ‘We’ll meet again!’ Dementia called softly, and blew him a kiss. Then she shut the door.

  GUSTAVE SCALED THE highest pinnacle overlooking the Sea of Tranquillity. He put on the leather wings, performed a few knees-bends, and pushed off. Instantly, he shot upwards like a rocket and headed straight for the earth. ‘This is even easier than killing giants,’ he thought.

  He needed no wings while flying through space; his push-off from the moon was enough to catapult him earthwards like a cannon ball. Then, when he entered the earth’s atmosphere, the winds enveloped him in their warm, gentle embrace.

  For a while he enjoyed free-falling. He had experienced the most varied forms of transportation during the night, but flying by himself struck him as the pleasantest by far. ‘How wonderful,’ he thought, ‘to soar on the wind like a bird!’

  He passed the time, while watching the earth draw nearer, by turning a few aerial somersaults and looping the loop.

  Yes, he was right on course. There was Europe with the Italian boot protruding into the Mediterranean and, above and to the left of it, France, his native land. The continent ceased to be a vague shape and became a land mass approaching at breakneck speed.

  There was Paris, a grey splodge surrounded by the yellow and green of field and forest! Fantastic! Gustave had always wanted to go to Paris. The grey splodge swiftly expanded into a spider’s web of streets, and he could already distinguish individual buildings. ‘There’s the Seine—I’m going to land plumb in the middle of the city!’ he cried exultantly. ‘I’d better use my wings now.’

  He tried to flap them, but they wouldn’t move. ‘They’re still a bit stiff from the low temperatures in space,’ he told himself.

  But his further attempts to flap them proved just as futile. They remained absolutely rigid, though the membranes between the bones fluttered in the slipstream. Gustave could now make out individual tiles on the roofs. He tried yet again to flap his wings, but they were immovable—quite useless. He was falling like a stone. ‘If Death supplies you with something, he quality-controls it himself!’ Pancho’s remark flashed through his mind, and he knew he was doomed to die.

  He laughed bitterly. ‘So Death cheated me after all,’ he told himself. ‘He saddled me with a pair of useless wings, and I actually thanked him for them …’

  Gustave saw a big, cobbled square below him—quite a typical Parisian feature.

  ‘I’ve become a servant of Death after all!’ That was his last thought before he hit the cobblestones.

  GUSTAVE AWOKE. H
E sat up with a smothered cry, eyes wide with terror, forehead beaded with sweat, moist strands of hair glued to his scalp. Where was he? Was he dead? Around him was a grey void in which a light twinkled somewhere. A star? No, this couldn’t be space; he was in a room. There were dark walls on either side of him and a ceiling overhead. Was that a gryphon hovering below the ceiling? Yes, and fluttering beside it was a pig with wings like a bat! A dragon emerged from the darkness, opened its lizard-like jaws and spewed out a stream of orange and blue flames. Was that a damsel riding on its back? A naked damsel?

  There, two waterspouts took shape in the corner of the room and whirled across the floor, moving in concert. A Siamese Twins Tornado, with the Aventure running before it! What was going on here? Shadowy, ghostly creatures were swarming everywhere: a bird hopping along on one leg, croaking hoarsely; a hunchbacked dwarf mounted on a grasshopper and waving its cap; two serpent-like monsters rolling around, locked in mortal combat; a gigantic, long-legged spider strutting along. The whole room was teeming with adventures!

  Exactly, that was it: he was dead—smashed like an egg on the cobblestones of Paris! And this was his spatio-temporal, future-contingency honeycomb cell, filled with memories of his all too brief life. He had just turned twelve. This was as far as he had got.

  Then his eyes grew accustomed to the half-light, and he really woke up. Bleary-eyed and breathing heavily, he surveyed his surroundings. The bedroom—his bedroom—was still in darkness, but slender sunbeams were already stealing through the crack between the curtains. The room seemed to be the wrong way round. Then Gustave realised that he was lying with his head where his feet should have been. The bed was badly rumpled, the under-sheet half wrenched off the mattress and one pillow lying on the floor. It looked as if he’d had a violent pillow fight during the night.

  He scrambled up and perched on the edge of the bed. While feeling for his slippers, his bare feet encountered the books he’d been reading the night before, which lay scattered around on the floor: Cervantes’ Don Quixote, Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso, and Dante’s Inferno, together with his textbooks on biology, mathematics, geology, physics, astronomy and philosophy—which reminded him that he hadn’t done his homework.