The City of Dreaming Books

by Walter Moers

  Hoggno pointed to a compass with a splintered glass attached to his trophy belt.

  ‘You killed Goldenbeard the Hairsplitter?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, I said I chopped off his legs.’ Hoggno pointed to two of the jars on the shelf, in each of which a foot was floating.

  ‘I wasn’t lying,’ I said. ‘I was hijacked and brought here. May I have a drink of water?’ I had spotted a jug of water in a corner.

  ‘No, water’s scarce down here. Who hijacked you?’

  ‘Someone named Smyke.’

  ‘Pfistomel Smyke?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Of course, every Bookhunter knows Smyke. A good customer of ours. He’s universally popular.’

  I laughed bitterly. ‘Have you read Colophonius Regenschein’s book?’ I asked to change the subject.

  ‘Naturally,’ said Hoggno. ‘Every Bookhunter has read it - every literate Bookhunter, at least. I don’t like the fellow, but one can learn a lot from him.’ He indicated the diamond on the table. ‘The fact that there’s a diamond inside a Spinxxxx - that one has to find out for oneself.’

  ‘What do you Bookhunters have against Regenschein?’ I asked, to keep the ball rolling.

  Hoggno acted as if he hadn’t heard the question. ‘What are you, actually?’ he asked. ‘A lizard?’

  ‘A, er, Lindworm,’ I replied. I could sense him appraising me behind his mask.

  ‘Oh? And how do Lindworms taste?’

  I flinched. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I asked how they taste. Lindworms, I mean.’

  ‘How should I know? I’m not a cannibal.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘I eat anything,’ said Hoggno. ‘And I haven’t tasted any fresh food for ages, just bottled stuff and worms.’ He pointed disdainfully to the jars of liquid blood, guts and squirming maggots. ‘And phosphorescent jellyfish. I’ve eaten so many of the confounded things I’m starting to glow in the dark myself.’

  I weighed up my chances of escape. They were poor. ‘I haven’t eaten much lately either,’ I replied, hoping to arouse his sympathy.

  ‘You don’t look like it. You’re nice and plump.’

  ‘You can’t eat me!’ I protested. ‘They poisoned me - my entire bloodstream is awash with poison.’

  ‘So why aren’t you dead?’

  ‘Well, er . . . because the poison only paralysed me, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s good. It’s an age since I did any drugs.’ There wasn’t a trace of irony in his voice. He meant exactly what he’d said.

  I was fast running out of arguments.

  ‘I own a valuable manuscript,’ I said. ‘I’ll give it to you if you guide me to the surface.’

  ‘I’ll simply take the manuscript when I’ve eaten you,’ said Hoggno. ‘It’ll be easier that way.’

  Now I really had run out of arguments.

  ‘That’s enough conversation,’ he said. ‘Now I remember why I never missed it. People only try to confuse you with talk.’ He stood up and took an axe from the wall, then ran his mailed thumb along the blade with a high-pitched sound like a knife being sharpened.

  ‘I’ll make it short and sweet,’ he promised. ‘Well, I don’t know about sweet, but short - that I guarantee you. I’m not a sick bastard like Rongkong Koma. I kill to survive, not just for kicks. I shall process every last bit of you. I’ll eat your flesh and pickle your internal organs. Your hands I’ll preserve and sell to some dumb tourist. I’ll shrink your head and sell it to an Ugglian antique shop. Take off your clothes so they don’t get bloodstained!’

  I was sweating. How could I gain some time? Resistance would be futile. He was an experienced warrior, armed and in armour.

  ‘May I at least have a drink before you kill me?’ I entreated.

  Hoggno thought this over. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you’ll be dead in no time. It’d be a waste.’

  A sudden gust of wind came wafting through the skull. The candles flickered, the shadows on the walls danced. Hoggno turned towards the entrance and gave an exclamation of surprise.

  ‘That’s . . .’ he said, and broke off in mid sentence. He raised the axe.

  The candles went out, the darkness was total except for some little red specks: the tips of the smouldering wicks. I heard something rustle in the gloom like the pages of a big book fluttering in the wind. Then came a savage snarl. Hoggno uttered an oath. His axe whistled through the air. I ducked and went into a crouch. A clatter, a rending sound, another rustle of paper, then silence.

  I went on crouching in the darkness for a while, quaking with fear, my heart beating wildly. At length I groped my way to the table, found the matches and lit a candle with trembling fingers. I hardly dared look round.

  Hunk Hoggno was lying on the floor - in two pieces. His head had been cut off and placed beside his body complete with helmet. His left hand was holding a few shreds of bloodstained paper. I wasn’t cold-blooded enough to remove the helmet and see what species he belonged to. I flopped down on the chair, gasping with horror.

  It took me quite a while to regain some of my composure and awaken from a kind of trance. I picked up the jug of water and drained it, took a knife from the wall and stowed it in one of the pockets of my cloak, and removed the jellyfish torch from its clay vessel. Then I left that ghastly place.

  The Bloodstained Trail

  I emerged from the huge skull and stood there in two minds. The candlelight in the interior, which flickered restlessly, shone through the gaps in the teeth and made it look alarmingly lifelike. Which way should I go? The way we had come? Back through the cramped stone labyrinth, where Spinxxxxes and other Unholm monsters awaited me? No thanks, not again.

  In the other direction, then? Into the darkness, the unknown? Into a world that might be teeming with dangers more terrible still? They were tempting alternatives indeed. It was like being asked to choose between the gallows and the executioner’s block. I raised the torch above my head and peered into the darkness. Hey, what was that? Lying at my feet was a scrap of paper.

  I picked it up. It resembled one of the bloodstained shreds of paper Hoggno had been holding in his lifeless hand. Closer examination revealed that it was covered with faded writing in a script unfamiliar to me, Bookemist’s Runic or something similar. And there, a little further away from the giant skull, lay another. I went over and picked that up too - and sighted yet another a few feet further on! What was this, a trail? A trail left behind by Hoggno’s killer? If so, had he left it deliberately or inadvertently? Should I follow it?

  Well, that was a third possibility at least. I could now choose between hanging, beheading and quartering. But perhaps a vestige of hope still remained. It was possible that the killer had laid this trail unintentionally. If so, he would eventually, without realising it, guide me back to civilisation. Even if he had laid it on purpose, it didn’t necessarily mean that he had done so with evil intent. If he’d wanted to kill me he could easily have done so inside Hoggno’s strange pied-à-terre.

  So I left the skull and its frightful contents behind in the darkness and followed the trail of bloodstained paper. At first it led me through a stalagmite forest exclusively inhabited by small, timid creatures that fled, squeaking and rustling, from the light of my torch. Water dripped on my head incessantly, wearing me down like a subtle form of torture, until I finally reached a dry, narrow tunnel of granite that zigzagged upwards. Remembering the misshapen ape that had lain in wait for me and Hoggno in a similar passage, I wondered what I would do if I encountered such a creature on my own. I wouldn’t even find the knife in my cloak and draw it in time.

  At last I came to a broad expanse of loose rubble that might have been the remains of a rockfall from the roof - all I could make out overhead was a pitch-black void in which bats were noisily disporting themselves. The wind whistled round me, a chill, invisible current of air that had long been flowing in my direction. It had clearly found its way down from the surface th
rough ducts of some kind. I envied the wind its knowledge of these, which might have provided me with a way out.

  Then the temperature steadily rose and I came to some galleries that ran through solid coal. I picked up one scrap of paper after another, puzzled over the runes and stuffed them into my numerous pockets.

  After a while I grew tired of collecting them. I couldn’t read the writing anyway, so I simply left them lying where they’d fallen. I’d spent so long staring at the ground for fear of missing one that I’d failed to note the composition of the tunnel walls. Imagine my surprise and delight, therefore, when I suddenly saw that they were lined with rough-hewn stones. These were no natural tunnels; they were passages created by some unknown hand! I was back in civilisation, albeit of a very primitive kind. And I was still finding those scraps of paper. They became steadily rarer and the intervals between them greater until I came at last to the first book I’d seen for a long time!

  Lying on the ground in the middle of an otherwise empty passage, it was in such an advanced stage of decay that I knew it would fall to dust if I tried to pick it up, so I left it untouched. On top of the book lay one of the bloodstained scraps of paper, and something told me that this was the last. From now on I would have to find my own way unaided. I sat down with my back against the wall, happy and unhappy, weary but alert. I’d made it, but to where? I had escaped from Unholm and the uncivilised part of the catacombs, but where was I now?

  I closed my eyes. Just a short rest, I told myself, but don’t go to sleep! That was impossible in any case, because images promptly performed a dance before my inner eye: the frightful insects in the sea of books, the megaworm, the Spinxxxx, Hoggno’s headless corpse . . . My eyes snapped open again, and I was horrified to find that my jellyfish torch had gone out. I was in total darkness. Panic-stricken, I felt for the torch but couldn’t find it. Had someone taken it? My mysterious guide, perhaps? How had he managed to do that in such a short space of time without my noticing? I went on groping until I encountered the book. It fell to dust at my touch, and I could feel fat white maggots crawling over my paw. Then I heard heavy breathing.

  ‘Hhhhhhhhhhh . . .’

  I wasn’t alone. Something was there in the dark.

  ‘Hhhhhhhhhhh . . .’

  It was coming closer.

  ‘Hhhhhhhhhhh . . .’

  And closer. I shrank back against the wall.

  ‘Hhhhhhhhhhh . . .’

  The unknown creature was very near my face - I could feel its breath, smell its smell - and it was as if someone had opened the door of a gigantic second-hand bookshop, as if a cloud of pure book dust had arisen and was wafting the musty scent of millions of decaying tomes straight into my face. It was the breath of the Shadow King!

  Someone spoke and I woke up. Yes, I woke up and opened my eyes, and there was the torch once more. Neither extinguished nor stolen, it was faithfully illuminating the ancient book and the bloodstained scrap of paper on top of it. I had simply nodded off for a moment. I had nodded off and dreamt of the Shadow King.

  Three Distinguished Writers

  Yes, dear readers, I’d heard voices. Quite definitely. Or had they merely been the remnants of my dream? Stray echoes, catacomb noises? I took the torch, struggled to my feet, and . . . There! I heard it again, coming from the next tunnel! I followed the sound, which was no more than an unintelligible whisper, but it had gone by the time I entered the tunnel.

  There were books, though! A whole passage full of books lying strewn across the floor - worm-eaten books, perhaps, but books nonetheless. Delightedly, I waded through this mass of paper, which seemed more precious to me than a treasure chamber filled with diamonds - and there it was again, that whisper from an adjoining passage. And wasn’t that a light I saw too? Shielding my torch, I turned the corner. The phosphorescent jellyfish clinging to the roof shed their usual weird glow, but this time I felt as if I were seeing the light of the sun once more. There were bookcases here as well, ancient ruins of worm-eaten wood enshrouded in dust and cobwebs but containing numerous books. I was gradually returning to civilisation! Civilisation, pah! My requirements had indeed become modest if a few worm-eaten bookcases filled with mouldering tomes struck me as evidence of civilisation. I went over to one and was about to remove a book when . . .

  ‘Well?’ said a voice, so loudly and distinctly that I flinched.

  ‘Well? To my eye it’s trash!’ someone replied. ‘Rubbish of the worst sort.’

  The voices were coming from the next passage. Two Bookhunters at the same time? I drew the knife from my cloak.

  ‘Ha-ha, listen to this!’ said a third voice.

  I shrank back against the bookcase. Three Bookhunters? I was done for!

  ‘I arise from dreams of thee,’ the last voice continued,‘in the first sweet sleep of night.

  When the winds are breathing low,

  and the stars are shining bright—’

  ‘Night . . . bright,’ one of the other voices broke in. ‘What a tired old rhyme!’

  I was so overcome with curiosity, I almost forgot my fear. I could still have slipped away unnoticed, but I simply had to know who these people were. I pocketed my torch, raised my knife and tiptoed over to the mouth of the mysterious passage.

  Once there I drew a deep breath and stole a cautious glance round the corner. This passage, too, was lined with bookcases, and in the middle, knee-deep in paper, stood three strange, gnomelike creatures. All I could tell at first sight was that they were certainly not Bookhunters.

  They all looked alike to a certain extent, although they differed in stature. One was fat and thickset, one slim but with chubby cheeks, and one thoroughly puny. All they had in common was their diminutive size - even the tallest of them only came up to my waist - and the fact that each had only one eye. The slim one was reading aloud from a book:‘I am the eye with which the Universe

  beholds itself and knows itself divine;

  all harmony of instrument or verse,

  all prophecy, all medicine is mine . . .’

  The gnome broke off and tossed the book into the dust. ‘To my eye,’ he said, ‘that’s trash too. Al’s right.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s as silly as all that,’ said the smallest gnome. ‘I am the eye with which the Universe beholds itself’ - I find that a telling line.’

  ‘Really?’ said the fat one. ‘What does it tell you?’

  ‘Well,’ said the puny one, ‘I can certainly identify with “eye” in the singular.’

  The little creatures didn’t look as if they presented any danger to me. They were Troglognomes or something similar - just harmless cave dwarfs. What was more, they seemed to be interested in literature. Nothing very bad could happen to me, surely?

  I left my hiding place and raised a paw in greeting - quite forgetting that it was holding a knife. What with the raised dagger and my billowing cloak, I must have looked like an assassin as I suddenly emerged from the shadows.

  The gnomes gave a terrible start and took to their heels, first blundering into each other and then running in three different directions. They hid themselves behind bookcases and mounds of books and paper.

  ‘A Bookhunter!’ cried one.

  ‘He’s got a knife!’ cried another.

  ‘He means to kill us!’ whispered the third.

  I stopped short and threw the knife on the floor. ‘I’m not a Bookhunter,’ I called loudly. ‘I’ve no wish to kill anyone. I need your help.’

  ‘Oh, sure, hence the knife.’

  ‘I’ve dropped it,’ I said. ‘I’ve lost my way, that’s all.’

  ‘He looks dangerous,’ one of the gnomes exclaimed. ‘He’s a lizard. He’s probably got some other weapons hidden under his cloak. These Bookhunters get up to some very dirty tricks.’

  ‘I’m a Lindworm,’ I said. ‘I’m from Lindworm Castle.’

  This was the second time I’d had to make that clear to someone. These denizens of the catacombs seemed to be pretty ignorant of th
e outside world.

  Slowly, an eye peered round a stack of books and regarded me with curiosity.

  ‘You’re from Lindworm Castle?’

  ‘Yes, it’s my home.’

  A second eye squinted through a crack between two fat tomes on a shelf.

  ‘Ask him something about Lindwormian literature,’ said the owner of the second eye.

  ‘Give me the name of a medieval novel by Doylan Cone,’ said the one behind the stack of books.

  ‘Sir Ginel,’ I said, sighing.

  The gnomes glunked their teeth.8

  ‘And what’s the funniest passage in it?’

  ‘Pfff . . . Hard to say,’ I replied. ‘Either the bit where Sir Ginel’s monocle falls into his breastplate or the lipogrammatical chapter where Doylan Cone dispenses entirely with the letter E.’ I gave thanks to providence for my meeting with Kibitzer - and to my own effrontery for the ease with which that lie tripped off my tongue.

  The third gnome, whose eye rose from behind a stack of paper like a fast-growing flower, proceeded to recite:‘Come, landlord, fill again my glass,

  and fill again my dish.

  Those things apart . . .’

  I quickly completed the stanza:‘. . . a buxom lass

  is all that I could wish.’

  ‘He must be a Lindworm,’ said one of the gnomes.

  ‘You’re right,’ cried another. ‘Nobody else would read that boring old book. Apart from us, of course.’

  ‘Sir Ginel isn’t bad at all. Once you’ve ploughed your way through that chapter on the care and maintenance of the medieval lance, it really takes off,’ the third gnome objected.

  ‘My name is Optimus Yarnspinner,’ I said.

  ‘It doesn’t ring a bell.’

  ‘Nor with me.’

  ‘Never heard of you.’

  ‘That’s not surprising,’ I said sheepishly. ‘I haven’t published anything yet.’

  ‘What are you doing down here in the catacombs if you aren’t hunting for books?’