by Walter Moers
The Gagaists, and Lugo Blah above all, tended to write in languages of their own invention (a practice that makes it rather too easy for the writer, in my opinion). Thus it often happened that Blah’s demented devotee would jump out of a crack in the rock and bombard me with poetic gibberish.
‘tressli bessli nebogen leila
flusch kata
ballubasch
zack hitti zopp
zack hitti zopp
hitzli betzli betzli
prusch kata
ballubasch
fasch kitti bimm’
he would yell, prancing round me and gesticulating in an idiotic way. More than anything else, it was the ingenuity with which he chose the most unlikely hiding places that rendered his unheralded appearances so nerve-shattering.
I learnt many other interesting facts about the Booklings during my stay with them, I can assure you, dear readers. It would exceed the scope of the present book to enumerate them in detail, but I intend to do so in a future publication.11
I began to suffer from occasional fits of depression and a feeling of homelessness as the weeks went by. Whenever this happened I got the Booklings to hypnotise me into the Crystal Forest, where I often roamed for hours with Dancelot Two until the beauties of the underworld had made me forget all else. Then we would sit beside the bubbling magma in the Devil’s Kitchen, sweating as we chatted of this and that. It was Dancelot Two who broached the subject one day.
‘You miss Overworld, don’t you?’
I would never have said so myself. The Booklings treated me with such touching solicitude that I couldn’t possibly have mentioned my longing for sunlight and fresh air - it would have seemed ungrateful. I was relieved that Dancelot Two had raised the subject on his own initiative.
‘Of course I do. I almost managed to forget it for a long time, but recently I’ve found it harder and harder.’
‘We can’t take you up there, you know.’
‘I realise that, but Al once told me you’re in contact with other inhabitants of the catacombs.’
‘We are - with Demidwarfs and Troglotrolls, but they can’t be trusted. They supply us with certain commodities from the surface - at a price - but I couldn’t guarantee your safety if we placed you in their care. They might hand you straight over to the Bookhunters or do something nasty to you.’
‘What about maps? I’ve seen some in the Leather Grotto with routes through the catacombs marked on them.’
‘We could provide you with maps, of course, but the catacombs are always changing. One cave-in and all the maps in the world wouldn’t help you. As for maps that show where dangers are lurking, they just don’t exist. There’s no reasonably safe route to the surface, believe me.’
‘If I want to survive I’ll have to stay with you for ever, is that what you mean?’
Dancelot Two heaved a sigh, gazing mournfully into the lava.
‘I knew this moment would come sooner or later. For selfish reasons I’m tempted to say that you’re right, that there’s no hope. But . . .’
‘But what?’
‘I know of another possibility.’
‘You mean there is one?’ I asked, suddenly wide awake.
‘Yes. There are a few secrets we haven’t confided, even in you.’
‘What, for instance?’
‘I could introduce you to someone who knows his way around the catacombs even better than we do.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Would you like to meet Colophonius Regenschein?’ asked Dancelot Two. ‘Bookholm’s greatest hero?’
Bookholm’s Greatest Hero
Dancelot Two guided me to an area I had never set foot in before, one where there were only numerous small cave dwellings and no subterranean chambers in communal use. On and on he went, even when all the little caves we passed were unoccupied: vacant quarters for future Booklings. There was no one around but us.
‘Are you really taking me to see Colophonius Regenschein?’ I asked. ‘Or do you just mean the Bookling who knows his book by heart?’
‘We discovered him a few years ago,’ said Dancelot Two, hurrying on ahead. ‘Deep down in the catacombs. He was badly wounded - half dead, in fact - after a duel with Rongkong Koma. We brought him here and nursed him back to health. He regained his strength - well, more or less, but he’s never really recovered from that fight. He wrote his second book while here. We’ve learnt a great deal from him, just as he has from us. He advised us where to find rare books for the Leather Grotto and we told him all we knew about the catacombs. His health has been deteriorating lately and we spent a long time debating whether or not to take you to him. We didn’t want to put him at risk - it’s for his own protection that everyone thinks he’s dead; on the other hand, he’s the only person really capable of helping you. Anyway, he recently took a turn for the worse, so we decided, with his consent, to . . . Ah, here we are.’
Dancelot Two had paused outside the mouth of a cave covered by a heavy chain curtain. ‘I must get back to the Leather Grotto,’ he whispered. ‘The Animatomes need feeding. Al is inside with Colophonius, he’ll introduce you.’ He hurried off and I parted the jingling curtain.
The chamber, which was at least ten times the size of the other cave dwellings, was lit by numerous candles. The bookshelves lining the walls were filled with sumptuously bound books whose gold and silver covers were studded with diamonds, rubies and sapphires.
The celebrated Bookhunter was lying on a big mound of furs beneath a blanket of some dark, heavy material that covered all of him except his head and paws. Al was seated on a stool beside him, looking worried. I was appalled by the sight of Regenschein’s face when I got near enough to make it out in the flickering candlelight, but I tried not to show anything.
The Vulphead was clearly on his last legs. I needed no telling that this was the last resting place of someone at death’s door, and that all three of us were aware of the fact.
‘I’m not what you were expecting, am I?’ Regenschein said in a hoarse voice. ‘You had visions of an intrepid daredevil bursting with vitality, didn’t you? Well, I worked hard to cultivate that image in my first book: Bookling’s greatest hero and so on. It exhausted my stock of superlatives.’
He gave a faint chuckle.
‘My name’, I began, ‘is—’
‘Optimus Yarnspinner - yes, I know. The Booklings have told me about you. You come from Lindworm Castle. Pfistomel Smyke knocked you out with a Toxicotome, just as he did me. We must get down to business without wasting time, because time is what I’ve got least of.’
‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘How could Smyke exile you to the catacombs when you’re the person who knows them best?’
Regenschein sat up a little. ‘He anaesthetised me with a Toxicotome just to get me into the catacombs. The Bookhunters were supposed to do the rest, but they didn’t do a thorough job. I escaped. Deeper and deeper into the catacombs I went, until only Rongkong Koma dared to follow me. Then I turned and confronted him - too soon, alas, being still under the effect of the poison. I was too weak to finish him off. We fought the longest duel in our long and checkered relationship. Neither of us really won, and I wouldn’t describe the condition in which Rongkong eventually hobbled off as healthy.’
He smiled. ‘If my little friends hadn’t found me I would have died without a doubt. They gave me the opportunity to write my second book down here. I entered the catacombs in search of the Shadow King and I’ve become a Shadow King myself. A living legend. A disembodied spirit.’
‘Why did Smyke treat you this way?’
‘Shouldn’t you ask yourself the same question?’ Regenschein demanded. ‘I’ve no idea. To be honest, I was hoping that you could supply me with the answer.’
‘I can’t, I’m afraid.’
‘It makes no sense,’ Regenschein said. ‘If he hadn’t told me about his megalomaniac plans, I would never have heard of them. Until then I knew nothing about Smyke that could have harmed him.’
‘It was exactly the same with me,’ I said. ‘May I show you something? I believe this to be the reason for my banishment to the catacombs.’ I took the manuscript from my cloak and handed it to him. He held it up and studied it, narrowing his eyes.
‘Ah yes,’ he murmured. ‘The paper is high-grade Grailsundian wove, 200 grammes. Unevenly trimmed, probably with an obsolete guillotine—’
‘I don’t think Smyke exiled me to the catacombs because the edges are ragged,’ I ventured to interrupt. ‘It’s the text that matters.’
Regenschein began to read in silence. His present condition made it impossible for him to react like me and the others - that I realised - but he was unmistakably enthralled. He laughed from time to time, breathing heavily for minutes on end, and once I saw a little tear trickle down his furry cheek. He had sat up as straight as he could, and the paw that held the manuscript was trembling violently.
Al gave me an anxious look and it occurred to me, too, that reading the manuscript might be too much for him. At length the Vulphead lowered the sheaf of paper and just sat there for a while, breathing stertorously.
‘Thank you,’ he said at last. ‘It’s the finest piece of writing I’ve ever been privileged to read.’
‘Have you any idea who the author could be?’
‘No, but I can understand why Smyke banished you to the underworld. It’s too good for the world above.’
Regenschein handed back the manuscript and I pocketed it again.
‘May I ask you a question?’ I said.
He nodded.
‘Forgive me, but I simply can’t restrain my curiosity. Your quest for the Shadow King - was it successful in any way? Did you see him?’
A faraway look came into Regenschein’s eyes.
‘See him? No, but I’ve often heard him. Once I even touched him.’
‘You touched him but didn’t see him?’
‘Yes, in the dark, when he saved me from being crushed to death by a bookcase Rongkong Koma had overturned on top of me. I managed to catch hold of him for a moment, and . . . Aleisha, kindly pass me that little casket beside the bed.’
Al handed him a small black box. Regenschein opened the lid and held it out. ‘I tore those off his clothing.’
I looked into the box. Lying inside were some little scraps of paper covered with indecipherable symbols.
‘One moment,’ I said. I felt in my pockets and pulled out a few of the pieces of paper that had shown me the way to Bookling territory. I held them alongside the ones in the casket. They were identical.
‘These scraps of paper guided me to the Booklings,’ I said. ‘They formed a trail through the labyrinth.’
‘In that case,’ Regenschein said excitedly, ‘you, too, have encountered the Shadow King!’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It must have been he who saved me from Hunk Hoggno.’
Regenschein looked amazed. ‘You fell into Hoggno’s hands and lived to tell the tale?’
‘Somebody cut off his head in the dark.’
‘Typical of the Shadow King. It seems we both owe him our lives.’
‘That’s all very nice for you two,’ Al put in. ‘Personally, I’m alarmed that he knows the location of our secret headquarters.’
‘I don’t think you need worry about that,’ said Regenschein.
‘Have you any idea what his big secret is?’ I asked.
‘His frightful appearance, perhaps,’ Regenschein replied quietly. ‘On the other hand, he may wish to conceal the fact that he doesn’t look as frightful as we suspect.’
‘Like us,’ said Al. ‘Our fearsome reputation is a tremendous asset.’
Regenschein sat up even straighter. ‘But we aren’t here to chat about the Shadow King. You want to know how to get out of here, don’t you, Yarnspinner?’
‘Well,’ I said cautiously, ‘it would be very helpful.’
‘Good, then I may be able to assist you. But let me say something first, and please listen closely.’
I leant forwards and pricked my ears.
‘You’ll only be safe - really safe, I mean - if you stay down here with the Booklings. No route through the catacombs is without its dangers and even if you make it to the surface you could be killed the instant you see daylight. Is that clear?’
‘Because of Smyke, you mean?’
‘You wouldn’t get two streets from the exit. Judging by what Smyke told me before he banished me to the underworld, the situation looks like this: you and I are in the most closely guarded prison in Zamonia and Smyke has slammed the lid on us. And woe betide you if you lift it. The whole of Bookholm is swarming with spies, all of whom work for him.’
‘Perhaps I’ll be lucky.’
‘Yes, perhaps. Perhaps you’ll be lucky and Smyke’s accomplices will all be smitten with blindness just as you crawl out of a sewer.’
‘I could disguise myself and slip away under cover of darkness.’
‘Look at it this way. You’re a lucky devil: you’re alive! You could have been killed by Bookhunters or devoured by Spinxxxxes. There are a thousand different ways of meeting a horrible end in the catacombs. Instead, you’ve landed up in a snug, safe place whose inhabitants revere literature. You’re an author and authors can write anywhere. You’ll get used to the food and the poor atmospheric conditions. You’ll forget about sunlight and fresh air. Well, not altogether, but you’ll think about them less and less often as time goes by.’
‘Is there or isn’t there a way out?’ I demanded impatiently. After all, Regenschein himself had said that his time was short.
‘Very well, since you seem genuinely determined. But I’ll say it one more time: this route isn’t safe either - nothing in the catacombs of Bookholm is really safe - but no Bookhunter knows of it. It’s too cramped to accommodate any large and dangerous creatures. There are no intersections, so you can’t get lost, and it leads straight to the surface.’
‘Where does it come out?’
‘It doesn’t go all the way to the surface, but near enough. The city is already audible from there.’
‘That sounds like a genuine possibility.’
‘It’s a long climb, but you’ll get out in the end if you stay the course.’
‘Why haven’t you used this route?’
‘Do I look as if I’m capable of a long climb?’
I made no response.
‘The real problem will arise if you try to leave the city. Bookhunters will be after you. There’s bound to be a price on your head, just as there is on mine. You’ll yearn to be back in the catacombs - you’ll wish you’d remained here with the Booklings.’ Regenschein heaved a sigh. ‘Well, that’s what I wanted to tell you. There’s still time to reconsider your decision. Personally, I wouldn’t stake a dog-eared paperback on your chances of survival once you’ve left Bookling territory.’
I gazed into his bloodshot eyes.
‘Would you risk it if you could make the climb?’ I asked.
The Bookhunter sat up straighter still and grabbed my arm, eyes shining. ‘You can bet your Lindworm’s life on it!’ he gasped. ‘I certainly would, with my last ounce of strength! It would be worth it just to feel sunlight on my fur again, to fill my lungs with a single breath of fresh air.’
‘Then please tell me how to find this route.’
‘Aleisha,’ said Regenschein, ‘you’d have to guide him to the mouth of the shaft. It’s outside your territory. Would you do that?’
‘Of course,’ Al replied, ‘as long as it’s not too far up. I don’t like the idea, but if that’s what you both want . . .’
‘Then listen closely,’ said Regenschein. ‘It’s a natural shaft of volcanic origin. Not too far off, just a day’s walk.’
I leant towards him with my authorial godfather’s admonition ringing in my head:
‘The last words of a dying man on the point of imparting a sensational revelation - make a note of that literary device, it’s a guaranteed cliffhanger! No reader can resist it!’
He was about to go on when the chain curtain over the mouth of the cave jangled and a Bookling dashed in. We all turned to look. It was Lugo Blah, the demented Gagaist who kept pursuing me with his eccentric poems.
‘The Leather Grotto’s on fire!’ he gasped. ‘It’s the Bookhunters - they’re killing anyone that gets in their way!’
‘Push off, Lugo,’ Al said brusquely. ‘This isn’t the time for one of your jokes.’
Instead of complying, Lugo tottered over to the bed and raised his arms. I was afraid he was about to unleash one of his crazy poems on me when he collapsed at our feet. There was an iron crossbow bolt protruding from his back. Al hurriedly bent over him, then looked up at us with tears in his single eye.
‘He’s dead,’ he said.
Regenschein stiffened. ‘Run for it!’ he cried. ‘Don’t wait, save yourselves! It’s me they’ve come for. They’ll go away as soon as they’ve got me.’
‘We’re not leaving you,’ said Al.
‘But I’m as good as dead anyway!’ Regenschein said hoarsely. ‘Get going!’
‘Out of the question,’ Al told him. ‘You’ll outlive us all.’
‘You’re a cussed devil, Aleisha,’ Regenschein growled. He smoothed the covers down and seemed to deliberate for a moment. Then he said, in a surprisingly firm voice, ‘Very well, you leave me no choice. I shall have to die.’ And he sank back against the pillows with a sigh.
‘What are you doing?’ Al demanded anxiously.
‘I just told you,’ said Regenschein. ‘I’m dying.’
‘No you don’t!’ cried Al. ‘You can’t simply die of your own free will, no one can!’
‘I can,’ the Bookhunter said defiantly. ‘I’m Colophonius Regenschein, Bookholm’s greatest hero. I’ve done plenty of things no one thought I could do.’
He shut his eyes, uttered a final sigh and stopped breathing.
‘Colophonius!’ cried Al. ‘Don’t be silly!’