The City of Dreaming Books

by Walter Moers

  ‘ “The next time you wake up,” said Smyke, “you’ll be a different person.”

  ‘My friend relapsed into profound unconsciousness.

  ‘The next time he awoke he really was standing upright, because he could feel his body beneath him and was all too conscious of the pain that racked his limbs. Looking down at himself, he discovered that he was firmly secured to a vertical wooden board. His entire body was swathed in sheets of ancient paper covered with unfamiliar symbols. He tried to free himself but was utterly immobilised by iron clamps round his wrists and ankles, neck and thighs. He was still in the laboratory. Then Pfistomel Smyke and Claudio Harpstick swam into his field of vision.

  ‘ “Ah, he’s awake again,” Smyke exclaimed delightedly. “Look, Claudio!”

  ‘ “Did you fasten those clamps securely?” Harpstick asked in an anxious tone.

  ‘ “See how big he is,” said Smyke. “A regular colossus!”

  ‘They had come right up to my friend, and he wondered why he was looking down at them. He seemed to have grown overnight.

  ‘ “You must be wondering about all that paper,” Smyke went on. “You probably think it’s part of some silly Bookemistic ritual and will soon be removed, but it isn’t and it won’t. Far from it!” ’

  Something about the Shadow King’s tone rang an alarm bell in my head, dear readers. I had been spellbound by his vivid account of this exciting horror story, but now his narrative flow dried up. He seemed to be in the grip of some powerful emotion, and the frightening quality in his voice was gaining the upper hand.

  ‘ “No, far from it!” cried the Shadow King, still in the role of Smyke. “That integument of yours is far more than a sheet of Bookemistic wrapping paper. It’s your new skin! I made you a promise and I’ve kept it: I’ve transformed you into a new creature!” ’

  I jumped to my feet in a single movement, for the Shadow King had suddenly begun to rise from his throne. Leaning on the arms, he slowly heaved himself erect. His voice became as thunderous and awe-inspiring as the roar of a wounded lion.

  ‘And Pfistomel Smyke said to my friend, “You used to be a human being and now you’re a monster! You used to be small and now you’re a giant. I am your creator and you are my creation. ‘Homunculus’ is the alchemists’ name for the little manikins they try to create. You I shall call . . . Homuncolossus!” ’

  As he uttered that name, dear readers, the Shadow King emerged into the candlelight and I saw his true stature for the first time. A shrill cry escaped my lips and I retreated several steps like the Animatomes, which recoiled at the horrific sight.

  The creature confronting me was swathed from head to foot in paper. All that still recalled a human being was the shape of its body. It had arms, legs, a torso, a head - even a face. Everything was there, but made up of countless layers of ancient, yellowing paper - thousands of snippets covered with the same strange runes that had adorned the paper trail I’d followed through the catacombs. What I had mistaken in the gloom for the points of a crown were the jagged scraps of paper from which the creature had been fabricated. If a stone or bronze statue had suddenly sprung to life, it could not have terrified me more than this gigantic artificial being made of paper, which was slowly advancing on me.

  ‘No,’ said the Shadow King, and his tone became more menacing with every word he uttered and every step he took, ‘I have ceased to be human. No longer am I the writer you have been seeking all this time. I used to be him. Now I am something new and different - something far greater. I am a monster. A murderer. A hunter. I am the king of Shadowhall Castle. I am . . . Homuncolossus!’

  Exiled to Darkness

  I stood there without moving and got ready to die. There was no point in trying to escape from such a monster, it would only have prolonged my agony to no avail. Homuncolossus had lured me into his murky kingdom with revenge in mind: I was to die on behalf of all who had done him an injustice. He bore down on me with the calm self-assurance of a mighty predator that knows how futile it would be for its quarry to run away. His face had a certain bizarre beauty, even if it was the mask of a monster. His nose, lips and ears were composed of skilfully assembled layers of paper, and I could well imagine how patiently and lovingly Pfistomel Smyke had modelled them with his abundance of little hands. Even Homuncolossus’s teeth consisted of jagged pieces of parchment, possibly stiffened with resin, judging by the way their golden tips glinted in the candlelight. Most terrible of all, however, were his eyes: just two black cavities where the eyeballs should have been.

  I now saw, too, that he did not consist entirely of paper. His shoulder joints, elbows, knees, hips and neck were coated with a brownish, elastic substance resembling leather. Of course! It was leather that held the pages of a book together, so it was only natural that the same should apply to this creature. Being a stickler for quality, Smyke was bound to have used the finest bookbinder’s leather.

  When he was only an arm’s length from me, Homuncolossus bent down. He was now so close that his breath, which was laden with a strangely agreeable smell of old books, fanned my cheeks.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘how about it? Do you want to hear the rest of my story?’

  I nodded, although I thought he was merely indulging in a last, sinister jest before slitting my throat with his paper talons.

  But all he said was ‘Very well. You’re doubtless wondering about this paper body of mine. Why am I a prisoner down here, although a big, strong creature like me need fear no one? Why don’t I simply go up and rip Smyke’s heart out of his fat body? If he thought so highly of my literary ability, why did he banish me to the catacombs?’

  I responded to each of his questions with a nod. The power of speech seemed to have deserted me permanently. If I had tried to speak at that moment, all that would have emerged was a croak.

  The Shadow King resumed his seat. The Animatomes, seeing that their lord and master had regained his composure, sidled a little closer to the throne.

  ‘Pfistomel Smyke explained everything to me while I was still immobilised in his laboratory,’ Homuncolossus went on. ‘First, the business of the paper. He came right up to me and ran his many hands over the yellowing scraps of paper that covered me.’

  ‘ “Do you know what sort of paper this is?” he asked. “It’s a secret, very ancient Bookemistic paper. The Bookemists who lived and worked beneath Bookholm many centuries ago were always terrified that their arcane knowledge, their precious notes and records, might be stolen and misused by scientists from the world above. So they devised a secret script so cunning and sophisticated that no one has deciphered it to this day - even I have failed to crack it. But that wasn’t enough for the over-anxious Bookemists, oh no! They invented a kind of paper so sensitive to light that it would instantly burst into flames if exposed to a single sunbeam - indeed, even to a single moonbeam. A paper that could exist only in the darkness of the catacombs.” Smyke removed his hands from my body and grinned at me.

  ‘ “This secret paper bearing the secret cipher is your new skin,” he said. “We have steeped it in various animistic and Bookemistic oils and essences and glued it to your flesh with a unique adhesive that resists any form of solvent. If you tried to tear off your new skin, you would rip yourself to shreds.” Smyke held up numerous fingers in an admonitory way.

  ‘ “It was far from easy to get hold of this rarest of all papers,” he went on, “but thanks to my manifold connections I finally managed to do so. You’ve no idea how valuable that makes you. We used vast quantities of the said paper, tore up hundreds of Bookemistic notebooks and carefully glued them to your body parts, layer upon layer, before reconstructing you. That’s why you’re so big: a third of you now consists of paper. Discounting its combustible nature, this material is extremely tough and durable. The Bookemists manufactured it to preserve their notes for thousands of years. But, as I said, a single sunbeam or moonbeam would suffice to envelop you in flames from head to foot. As an exile in the dark depths of the cat
acombs you will be able to live for a very, very long time. On the surface of Bookholm you would burn to death within seconds.”

  ‘ “So be a good boy and stay put!” Claudio Harpstick put in from behind Smyke’s back.

  ‘“I also took the liberty”, Smyke went on, “of implanting a few new organs in your body. I’m sure you’ve heard of the experiments the Bookemists conducted on Animatomes. They made immense strides in the field of artificial organ manufacture - a process sadly prohibited by the laws of Zamonia. I have given you a new heart powered by an alchemical battery. Your liver was constructed out of five ox livers and should last you for centuries. Your brain now contains an anger-management gland that once belonged to a mountain gorilla. As for your muscles, we persuaded an exceptionally well-built Bookhunter to donate a few of his - after giving him one of my Toxicotomes to read. Then there’s the organ which few people realise is an organ: the blood.”

  ‘Smyke went over to a cupboard and took out a large, empty glass bottle.

  ‘ “We took the liberty of pepping up your blood a little. For this we used a precious fluid - the most precious fluid of all, in fact: a whole bottle of Comet Wine, the rarest wine in Zamonia. We spared no expense, as you see.”

  ‘Smyke tossed the empty bottle heedlessly over his shoulder, smashing it.

  ‘ “It’s said that the admixture of blood in Comet Wine is imperishable and imparts eternal strength, so there’s a kind of fountain of youth flowing inside you. What I find far more interesting about Comet Wine, however, is the fact that it’s accursed, so you’ll always carry a curse inside you. That renders you a tragic figure, so to speak. Romantic, no?”

  ‘Smyke looked at me with feigned regret.

  ‘ “We’ve also changed one or two other things inside you, some organic, others mechanical - I won’t bore you with the details, you’ll notice this from your increased energy and new faculties once you’ve recuperated properly. Lead a healthy life in the catacombs and you’ll be able to survive there for centuries.”

  ‘Smyke went over to a laboratory table and proceeded to fill a large hypodermic syringe with yellow fluid.

  ‘ “There’s something else that must be puzzling you,” he said. “Why on earth have we gone to so much trouble? Why don’t we simply kill you? There’s a very simple and valid reason for that too. It’s like this: on the surface of Bookholm I’ve got everything under control, but what goes on in the catacombs is an entirely different matter. It’s quite impossible for me to intervene and regulate things down there. The Bookhunters have been running amok lately. There are too many of them and they’ve grown too greedy, too stupid. Some of them, especially that demented butcher Rongkong Koma, have become too powerful and arrogant for my taste. In short, I’d like you to restore a little order down there. That’s why I’ve made you so strong, so big and dangerous. I’d like you to effect something of a clearance among the Bookhunters - to prune their numbers a trifle, let’s say. Would you do that for me?”

  ‘Smyke grinned.

  ‘ “I know what you’re thinking,” he went on. “Why the devil should I do Pfistomel Smyke’s dirty work? Well, I’ve taken care of that too. I’ve put a big fat price on your head and I’ve promised Rongkong Koma the biggest bounty of all. If you don’t go after the Bookhunters, they’ll come after you. They’ve no idea how strong you are. You’ll have sent half of them into retirement before the word gets around. There’s nothing you can do about it. The moment you appear down there they’ll be hot on your heels, and I’ll make sure your arrival is signalled by a few fanfares, take it from me.”

  ‘Smyke looked at the fluid in the syringe.

  ‘“So now you’re a walking book - the rarest, most valuable, most dangerous and sought-after book in the catacombs. You’re the stuff of which legends are made. Which brings us to your last and probably most pressing question: Why am I using you for this purpose? You haven’t done me any harm. You showed me a sheaf of manuscript, that’s all, so what is it that makes you so dangerous to me?”

  ‘Smyke heightened the suspense by leaving the question in the air for a moment.’

  Homuncolossus, too, fell silent and left Smyke’s question in the air for one agonisingly long moment. It was all I could do to refrain from making some interjection. Even the Animatomes rustled and squeaked impatiently. At last Homuncolossus went on.

  ‘ “I’ll tell you the real reason for all these measures,” said Smyke. “You write too well.”

  ‘He gave a hoarse laugh and approached me with the syringe.

  ‘ “Unlike our obtuse friend Claudio Harpstick here,” he said, “I’m quite capable of telling the difference between a piece of good writing and a hole in the ground. I’ve read everything you’ve written, including the story about your writer’s block, and I have to admit that nothing as good has ever come my way. Not ever! It made me laugh, it made me cry, it drove me to despair one moment and banished all my cares the next - in short, it had everything really good writing ought to have. That plus a bit more. All right, much more - very much more! There’s more meat in a single sentence of yours than many a whole book contains. Your writing is pervaded by the Orm with an intensity I’ve encountered in no other form of literature. I attached your poems to my Bookemistic ormometer and it burnt out all the alchemical batteries! You’re hot, my friend. Far too hot!” ‘Smyke expelled the last remaining bubbles from his syringe.

  ‘ “To put it simply: if you published even one title here in Bookholm, the Zamonian book market would be up the spout, and the Zamonian book market is me, Pfistomel Smyke. Your kind of writing is so perfect, so pure, so utterly satisfying, that nobody who sampled it would want to read anything else. It provides a shameful demonstration of the banality of our usual reading matter. Why browse on that rubbish when your books can be read again and again? Have you any idea how much time and trouble it has taken me to reduce Zamonian literature to the carefully controlled mediocrity it now displays? Worse still, you might set an example. You might inspire other writers to produce finer books and aspire to the Orm - to write less but better.”

  ‘Smyke gave me a look of entreaty. “The problem is this: in order to make money - lots of money - we don’t need flawless literary masterpieces. What we need is mediocre rubbish, trash suitable for mass consumption. More and more, bigger and bigger blockbusters of less and less significance. What counts is the paper we sell, not the words that are printed on it.”

  ‘Smyke found a spot in my thigh, inserted the needle between two shreds of paper and thrust it into my flesh.

  ‘ “To sum up,” he said, “you were an endangered species at birth. You’re the first and last of your kind, the greatest writer in Zamonia and, thus, my direst foe. I wish you a new life in the catacombs and better luck there than in your former existence, which is now at an end.”

  ‘So saying, he injected the fluid into my bloodstream and rendered me unconscious.

  ‘When I awoke I was deep in the catacombs. Beside me lay a bundle containing all the manuscripts and other possessions I’d brought with me to Bookholm. I had been exiled here, complete with my life to date. And in the labyrinth of passages around me, which were lined with ancient volumes, I could already hear Bookhunters in full cry.’

  The Bookhunter Hunter

  Homuncolossus gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Believe me,’ he said, ‘it wasn’t long before I started to enjoy hunting Bookhunters. I killed the first one purely in self-defence. Still completely bemused by Smyke’s toxic injection, I had no idea where and who I was when he turned up in his crazy armour, equipped with an arsenal of weapons. He probably thought I was easy meat for his spears and his two-edged sword when he saw me staggering around in a daze.’

  Homuncolossus raised his right hand and regarded it thoughtfully. Outlined against the candlelight, his talons looked as sharp as a set of carving knives.

  ‘Paper shouldn’t be underestimated,’ he said. ‘Have you ever cut yourself on a sheet of ordinary writing paper?’
<
br />   Yes, I had, more than once, when hurriedly sorting out manuscripts or opening letters. The cuts had always hurt a lot and bled profusely.

  ‘Then perhaps you can imagine the damage inflicted by sheets of sharp-edged, carefully laminated and neatly glued parchment, especially when they’re wielded by a colossus with the muscles and reflexes of a gorilla. Believe me, I was even more astonished than the Bookhunter when he sank to the ground at my feet, streaming with blood. And that concluded the Bookhunters’ hunting of me. From then on, I hunted them.’

  Homuncolossus lowered his hand.

  ‘I felt at home in the catacombs from the very first. I mean, I was naturally bewildered and angry, at a loss and in despair, but my new environment never for a moment struck me as alien or menacing. I liked the scent of the Dreaming Books, the chilly gloom, the silence and solitude. I had been reborn into a world for which Smyke had literally made me to measure. I had no need to create an imaginary world in order to come to terms with the real one. The catacombs of Bookholm appealed to me on sight; they were like a vast palace in which every room belonged to me. I wasn’t even angry with Smyke, not at first. Once the drug wore off I experienced an immense accretion of physical strength. Energy surged through me like a tidal wave of unadulterated Orm. I had been relieved of all my fears and cares. I was as wild and free and unconstrained as a predator in a primeval forest.

  ‘My new body held some new surprise for me every day: greater strength and speed, unlimited stamina and amazing reflexes, the toughness of my new skin and the ease with which I could see in the dark. I could hear the inaudible squeak of a bat and locate an insect by smell in utter darkness.