by Walter Moers
A purple-complexioned Bookling emerged from the crowd with majestic tread. Drawing a deep breath, he flung out his arms and cried: Before he could utter even one more syllable I levelled an accusing finger at him and said, ‘You’re Dolerich Hirnfiedler!’
Well, Dolerich Hirnfiedler was notorious for beginning every other poem with an ‘O!’. It was only an audacious shot in the dark on my part - many poets had done the same - but to my amazement the Bookling gave a shamefaced nod and withdrew. Bingo! I’d guessed his identity on the strength of a single letter! A murmur ran through the Booklings’ ranks and several of them glunked their teeth approvingly.
‘Next!’ Al called.
An albino Bookling with a watery red eye stepped forward.
‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
my soul can reach. When I behold the sight
of thy bowed head and mournful, careworn face
my spirits sink, beyond all power to raise,
and every day becomes perpetual night.’
Good heavens, Bethelzia B. Binngrow! My authorial godfather had robbed me of many a night’s sleep by compelling me to memorise the lugubrious love poems of that half-demented Florinthian poetess. I still knew that one by heart.
But this time I decided to keep everyone on tenterhooks - to wait before shooting my bolt - so I pretended that this was a particularly tough nut to crack.
‘Phew!’ I said. ‘Gee, that’s difficult . . . it might be . . . no . . . or . . . no, he didn’t write any poems that rhymed . . . or it’s . . . just a moment . . . I can see a name. . . no, two names and an initial . . . they’re very faint . . . almost invisible . . .’
The Booklings groaned with suspense.
‘I do believe the mist is clearing . . . Yes! Now I’ve got it! You’re Bethelzia B. Binngrow! Barmy Bethelzia!’
The last words just slipped out. The Bookling whose identity I’d guessed emitted a resentful snort, turned on his heel and disappeared into the throng. Everyone broke into relieved applause. I wiped some non-existent sweat from my brow.
‘Next!’ cried Al.
A thickset Bookling with a pale-blue complexion elbowed his way through the crowd. One or two titters could be heard as he stationed himself in front of me.
‘A f-f-fish, a s-s-skeletal f-f-fish
l-l-lay on a r-r-rock.
How d-d-did it c-c-come
t-t-to b-b-be there?’
Oh my goodness, a stutterpoem! There had once been a Zamonian literary movement - Gagaism, as it styled itself - that not only sanctioned speech defects but positively cultivated them. They really weren’t a special field of mine.
‘The s-s-sea, the s-s-sea, it
w-w-washed it up,
and th-th-there it l-l-lay
qu-qu-quite c-c-comfortably.’
Wow! Orkle Thunk used to stutter and so did Dorian Borsh. The Waterhead Twins had stuttered whole duets together. There were even stutterpoems written by non-stutterers eager to climb on the Gagaist bandwagon.
‘Then al-l-long c-came a f-f-f
a f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f
f-f-fisherm-m-man f-f-fishing, f-f-f-fishing
f-f-for f-f-fresh f-f-fish.
He t-t-took it aw-w-way, aw-w-way,
aw-w-way, he t-t-took it aw-w-way.’
T. T. Kreischwurst, whose pseudonym was as asinine as his poetry, had written more stutterpoems than anyone else, but this one might just as easily be by Pankard Murch or Dongo Ghorkhunter. I would have to fall back on guesswork.
‘The r-r-rock n-n-now l-l-lies there
b-b-bereft of its s-s-skeletal f-f-fish
in the m-m-midst of the w-w-wide ocean,
l-l-looking t-t-terribly b-b-bare.’
The Bookling bowed. At least he’d finished the confounded poem. Gee . . . No, I really didn’t know who’d written that embarrassing drivel, so I simply settled on the most popular stutterpoet of all.
‘You’re T. T. Kreischwurst!’ I said firmly.
‘Y-y-y-y-yes!’ the Bookling replied. ‘That was entitled “A L-l-l-l-little P-p-p-poem for B-b-b-b-big S-s-s-stuttuttuttutterers”.’
Applause and laughter. Phew! I’d made it again, albeit only by a whisker.
‘Next!’ Al called.
More candidates presented themselves in quick succession. Ydro Blorn, Rashid el Clarebeau, Melvin Hermalle and the rest - I guessed them all, one after another. Not for the first time since my arrival in the catacombs, I gave thanks to my authorial godfather for the extensive knowledge of Zamonian literature he’d drummed into me in my boyhood.
A Bookling the colour of a dark-brown calfskin cover stepped forward and declaimed,‘Away! Old Lindworm Castle, fare thee well!
In freedom will I roam across the plain.
Henceforward all I do shall only serve
to win me the renown I hope to gain.’
Aha, Lindwormian verse! Couldn’t he have made it a bit easier for me? Although I couldn’t identify the poem immediately, I naturally knew every word that had ever been written in the castle.
‘Renown! Let that sweet recompense be mine!
May all my dreams of eminence come true,
and may my lonely tombstone bear this line:
“A poet for the many and the few!” ’
Just a minute! I knew this poet - he had recited these stanzas to me himself on some occasion. Of course! They came from Ovidios Versewhetter’s farewell poem on leaving Lindworm Castle. He had recited it to the entire Lindworm community in the belief that he was destined to become a celebrated literary figure in Bookholm. I never dreamed that the next time I saw him he would be languishing in one of the pits in the Graveyard of Forgotten Writers.
‘Bookholm, of dreaming books thou city vast,
abode of wealthy poets, I with thee
a bond intend to forge that long will last.
To this may Destiny my witness be!’
There were another seventy-seven stanzas, all of which extolled the joys of a poet’s emancipated existence and the fruits of fame that were bound to be awaiting the youthful Lindworm in Bookholm, but I decided to give myself, the Bookling and his confrères a break, so I said, ‘You’re Ovidios Versewhetter.’
The Bookling grinned. ‘Yes, that was too easy. I knew you knew him; in fact, I’m sure you know more about Versewhetter than I do. Perhaps you can tell me why it’s been so long since he published anything. Is he engaged on a major work of some kind?’
The poor creature had devoted his life to Ovidios Versewhetter. Should I tell him to his face that all he could now expect from him was extemporised doggerel churned out for the benefit of tourists? I didn’t have the heart.
‘Yes indeed,’ I said. ‘He has, er, buried himself away and is working on something really big.’
‘I thought as much,’ said the Bookling. ‘He’ll be really big again himself before long.’ And he withdrew.
‘Next!’ Al said impatiently.
A gaunt Bookling with skin the colour of granite stepped forward.
‘Where shadows dim with shadows mate
in caverns deep and dark,
where old books dream of bygone days
when they were wood and bark,
where diamonds from coal are born
and no birds ever sing,
that region is the dread domain
ruled by the Shadow King.’
This time I was stumped. It was a poem unfamiliar to me - obviously about the Shadow King, but I knew of no writer who had concerned himself with that figure apart from Colophonius Regenschein, and Regenschein had written no poetry.
It would be pointless to guess. There were hundreds of young poets whose works I didn’t know. I admitted defeat.
‘Not a clue,’ I said. ‘I don’t know your name. What is it?’
‘My name is Colophonius Regenschein,’ the Bookling replied.
‘That’s impossible. He only wrote one boo
k, The Catacombs of Bookholm. I read it quite recently and there isn’t a single poem in it.’
‘Colophonius Regenschein has written another book,’ said the Bookling. ‘It’s called The Shadow King and it opens with that poem.’
The crowd was growing restive.
‘How can that be?’ I demanded. ‘Colophonius Regenschein has disappeared.’
The Bookling merely grinned.
‘Unfair!’ someone shouted.
‘Yes, Colo, give him a break!’ shouted someone else. ‘You can’t expect him to know that.’
‘Get lost!’
I felt bewildered. A hubbub arose, the crowd started milling around and the Bookling who called himself Colophonius Regenschein disappeared into its midst.
Al claimed the floor.
‘That’s it!’ he cried. ‘Orming’s over for today! Our guest has acquitted himself well, he deserves a little rest.’
The Booklings murmured in assent.
‘We’ll go on Orming tomorrow. You’ll all get your turn. Dismiss!’
I went over to Al. ‘What was all that about just now?’ I asked. ‘Has Regenschein really written another book?’
‘Come on,’ he said hastily, ignoring the question. ‘I’ll show you our living quarters and the place where you’ll sleep. You must be tired out.’
A Cyclopean Lullaby
Al conducted me along one of the passages that led off the Leather Grotto. The Booklings scurrying round us seemed to be taking no more notice of me. I had successfully withstood the initiation ceremony even before it had been completed, apparently, but I still felt like a wasp in an ants’ nest. I was twice the height of the average Bookling and had to duck my head to avoid hitting it on the roof of the tunnel.
The passage was lined with book covers like the Leather Grotto. I tried to read some of the titles, but they were all in a script I couldn’t decipher.
‘Yes,’ said Al, who had been watching me, ‘it’s a shame about all the books that went inside those covers. In their own day they were probably just rubbish, but to us they would now be evidence of an unknown civilisation. Books are perishable.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ I said for want of any more intelligent rejoinder.
‘No, not us,’ said Al.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, I won’t claim that Booklings are immortal, but none of us has ever died a natural death. There have been a few fatal accidents, but disease and decay are unknown here.’
‘Really? Where do you come from? I mean, how . . .’
Al’s single eye blinked nervously. ‘I’m not at liberty to talk about that,’ he said. ‘Not at present, anyway.’
The passage was flanked by numerous little troglodytic dwellings, I noticed, and each of these miniature caves housed a Bookling. They, too, were lined with book covers, and each contained at least one bookcase as well as a couch thickly padded with furs. Everything was bathed in warm candlelight.
‘Jellyfish lamps are no good for reading by,’ Al said as if he had read my thoughts. ‘They create an unpleasant atmosphere - one that’s conducive at best to hunting or murdering things. We abhor jellyfish lamps. They multiply like vermin and one day they’ll take over the catacombs. We eject any that dare to crawl into the Leather Grotto. Candlelight is soothing. Did you know that boiled bookworms yield an excellent form of candle grease?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I didn’t.’ However, I certainly endorsed his belief in the soothing effect of candlelight. The permanent claustrophobia induced in me by the catacombs had disappeared since I entered the Booklings’ domain.
‘Every Bookling’s cave is individually furnished and appointed - mainly, of course, with books by the writer whose works he’s committing to memory.’
We paused and peered into one of the caves. A fat little Bookling was comfortably stretched out on his bed of furs, reading a book. Pinned to the walls were various manuscripts and illustrations. I immediately recognised the writer in question by his picture.
‘Hello, Ugor,’ said Al. ‘I don’t think you need take any further part in the Orming. Optimus has already got your number, I suspect.’
‘Your name is Ugor Vochti,’ I said. ‘You wrote The Midgard Saga.’
‘I wish I had,’ said Ugor. ‘I’m only learning it by heart. It’s a pity, though. I had a passage ready for you that was really hard to identify.’
We walked on. The alleyways here were almost deserted. It seemed that all the Booklings had holed up in their caves and were busy memorising.
‘Why do you do it?’ I blurted out.
‘What?’
‘Learn all this stuff by heart.’
Al stared at me uncomprehendingly. ‘That’s not the question. The question is, why doesn’t everyone else do it?’
That needed thinking about. I couldn’t come up with a snappy reply.
‘These are your quarters,’ Al told me, indicating a little cave. There were
no books in it, just a couch big enough for someone of my size.
‘You’re welcome to borrow any books you need from the Leather Grotto. Would you like a few bookworms for supper?’
‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I’m thirsty, that’s all.’
‘I’ll get you some mountain spring water,’ said Al and walked off.
It wasn’t until he had gone that I noticed the hum, a pleasant, persistent sound like the purring of countless contented cats. I made up my bed for the night. The night? How could I tell whether it was night or day? No matter, I was dog-tired.
Al returned with a jug of water.
‘What’s that noise?’ I asked. ‘That humming sound?’
He grinned. ‘That’s Booklings learning things by heart. Just before we go to sleep we shut our eyes and run through our favourite passages. We start humming for some reason - and eventually drop off to sleep. You’ll get used to it.’
Al said goodnight. I drank some water, blew out the candles and lay down.
My eyelids and limbs were heavy. The humming didn’t disturb me; on the contrary, I found it reassuring. It was the Booklings’ music - the pleasant, dreamy sound of literature being memorised - that lulled me gently to sleep.
The Chamber of Marvels
It was something of an effort to get my breakfast down when Al brought it to me in the morning - bookworms roasted over an open fire - but I was so overpoweringly hungry by that time, I could have devoured a raw Spinxxxx. Besides, the crisp larvae didn’t taste too bad at all.
‘Today I’m going to show you some more of our territory,’ Al announced as we emerged from my little cave. ‘It’s not confined to the Leather Grotto, my friend.’
The passages were already filled with Booklings going about their business once more. Books were being transported and candles replaced, voices raised in declamation, conversation or song. There seemed to be a collective aversion to silence - a pleasant change, I found, after the deathly hush prevailing elsewhere in the catacombs. I saw three vituperating Booklings bearing off a phosphorescent jellyfish that had invaded their domain. None of my hosts took any particular notice of me. I seemed to have become one of their number overnight.
‘We’ll go on with the Orming later,’ Al told me. ‘First I’ll show you our Chamber of Marvels - our archives, in other words. We don’t collect books alone, we also hoard anything with literary associations that finds its way down here. Literature is more than just paper, you know - it affects every aspect of existence.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘It pervades life far more thoroughly than people tend to realise. In the case of us Booklings, that’s doubly true.’
‘In what respect?’
‘In every respect. It’s like this: sooner or later, every Bookling takes on the character of the author whose work he’s memorising. That’s inevitable - it’s our destiny. By nature we’re blank pages crying out to be written on. Not having any personalities of our own, we gradually assume the characteristics of our authors until we become
complex individuals. Our Bookling community includes firebrands and cowards, show-offs and manic depressives, sluggards and hotheads, comedians and cry-babies. I, for example, am an exceptionally complex individual - not surprisingly, since Aleisha Wimpersleake’s writings range from the thoroughly romantic to the utterly tragic.’ Al broke off. ‘Hey, look who’s coming. That’s Slootty.’
The single eye of the Bookling in question blazed with the cold flame of despair and his lower lip trembled as if he were about to burst into tears at any moment. He strode past us and disappeared into the darkness without a word, even though Al had bidden him a friendly good morning.
‘Elo Slootty?’ I said. ‘The one who wrote that gargantuan novel everyone claims to have read and no one has ever finished?’
‘It’s a magnificent piece of work,’ said Al, ‘but it does require staying power. The Bookling who chose to be Elo Slootty definitely overestimated his mental stamina. We have to prevent him from committing suicide at regular intervals.’ He broke off again. ‘See who’s waddling towards us? That’s Charvongo.’
‘That fat little creature? Navi Charvongo?’
‘Yes indeed. See how sluggishly he moves.’
I couldn’t help laughing. Charvongo had written a brilliant novel about the Movolob, a primitive creature notorious for its inertia. The fat Bookling ahead of us was lumbering along like an advertisement for indolence.
We passed through a sizeable cave in which thousands of candles were burning. In the centre stood a huge iron cauldron simmering over a coal fire. A number of Booklings had climbed up ladders to the rim of the cauldron and were emptying bucketfuls of maggots into it, others were skimming off the whitish fat with big ladles, and still others were busy moulding the insectile wax into candles in big wooden presses.
‘This is our candle factory,’ said Al. ‘Anyone who wants to read needs light, especially if he lives below ground like us - we abhor jellyfish lamps, as you know.’ He sighed. ‘How dearly I’d love to read a book by sunlight, seated on a grassy bank in springtime - “the only pretty ring time,” as Wimpersleake puts it.’