by Walter Moers
‘I don’t believe it!’ I called. ‘The Uggly can foresee everything. If she’s on our side, why should she let us to walk into a trap?’
Rongkong Koma deliberated for a while. ‘Hey, that’s a really good question! You think she foresaw you getting out of this mess after all? You think there’s still some hope for you?’
The Bookhunters roared with laughter.
He raised his hands for silence. ‘The other possibility is, it may be true what everyone says about Ugglies: that they’re a couple of books short of a library!’
Rongkong Koma positively basked in his followers’ yells of approbation. ‘Is there a way out?’ I asked the Shadow King in a whisper. ‘Are you in possession of some secret power you’ve been keeping from me?’
‘No,’ he replied, ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I’m strong but not invincible. One arrow and I’ll go up in flames.’
‘Then we’re done for?’
‘It seems so.’
‘Kill the Shadow King!’ Rongkong Koma commanded suddenly and the tumult died away. ‘Set him ablaze! Skewer him with a hundred flaming arrows and scatter his ashes in the labyrinth! But let the lizard live - cripple him and leave it at that. I claim Smyke’s reward for myself!’
‘You’re in luck,’ I told Homuncolossus. ‘You’ll only burn to death, whereas I’m to be crippled first and then killed.’
‘I don’t think you’ll be killed,’ he said.
‘What, then?’
‘Smyke has greater things in store for you. You’ll become the new Shadow King.’
That idea scared me even more than the prospect of death.
‘We’d better say goodbye,’ said Homuncolossus. ‘It’s been a pleasure and privilege knowing you.’
‘And it was an honour to be your pupil,’ I replied. ‘Even though it’s pointless now.’
The Bookhunters kindled some more arrows and took aim. Thin threads of black smoke rose into the air, which was filled with a sound like solemn humming.
‘Who’s making that noise?’ asked Homuncolossus. ‘Is it the Bookhunters? ’
‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s someone else.’
Strange, ghostly lights were appearing among the library’s vast store of books. They emerged from behind the crates and stacks of paper, the bookcases and stalagmites. There must have been hundreds of them, all slowly rising like little yellow moons. They were the eyes of cyclopean creatures, and the light in them pulsated in time to the humming that accompanied their appearance.
‘It’s the song of the Booklings,’ I said.
Out of Breath
I spotted Al, Wami and Dancelot Two. Dolerich Hirnfiedler and Evsko Dosti were also there, as were Rasco Elwid, Hornac de Bloaze, Perla la Gadeon, Inka Almira Rierre and many, many others. Considerably more Booklings had survived than I’d dared to hope.
The Bookhunters were thrown out of their stride. They lowered their weapons and stared at each other in bewilderment.
Rongkong Koma raised his hands in entreaty.
‘Take it easy, all of you!’ he cried. ‘It’s only those harmless dwarfs from the Leather Grotto. They aren’t even armed.’
‘I’ve heard they’re capable of witchcraft,’ shouted someone right at the back.
The Booklings stayed where they were, humming ever more loudly and insistently. I began to feel all warm and sleepy, and I could see that even the Shadow King’s head was drooping.
‘Mmmmmmh . . .’ went the Booklings.
One of the Bookhunters raised a crossbow loaded with a flaming bolt and aimed it at Al, who was standing nearby.
‘Mmmmmmh . . .’ went the Booklings.
The Bookhunter squeezed the trigger. The crossbow bolt whizzed past Al, missing him by a hand’s breadth, found its way through the slit in another Bookhunter’s helmet and hit him right between the eyes. He toppled backwards on to a stack of paper and lay still.
‘Mmmmmmh . . .’ went the Booklings.
A Bookhunter armed with a huge executioner’s sword raised it high above his head and decapitated the fellow warrior in front of him - the one wearing the mosaic death’s-head mask.
‘What’s going on here?’ Homuncolossus asked drowsily.
‘It’s the Booklings’ speciality,’ I said. ‘Just relax.’
‘I am relaxing,’ he replied.
‘Mmmmmmh . . .’ went the Booklings.
By now a battle was in progress such as the catacombs had never witnessed before. A contest of Bookhunter versus Bookhunter, each against all, it was fought without mercy and heedless of self-preservation. The warriors fell on each other with a contempt for death which suggested that they didn’t know the meaning of the word. Arrows whistled through the air, swords clashed, limbs were lopped off, axes bisected helmets and the heads inside them. And, in the midst of it all, the motionless Booklings kept up their peaceful humming.
‘This is the most incredible sight I’ve ever seen,’ Homuncolossus mumbled.
‘It’s the cyclopean song that’s doing it,’ I said thickly. ‘Think yourself lucky you aren’t a Murch.’
‘Mmmmmmh . . .’ went the Booklings.
Hargo the Humungous stove in Iguriak Dooma’s skull with a nail-studded club. Roggnald of Lake Blood transfixed Boolba the Heart-Eater’s throat with his spear. Tibor Zakkori’s helmet went up in flames because his hair had caught fire. Urchgard the Uncouth was slain with ice axes by the Botulus Twins.
I had no idea whether those Bookhunters were really called that. I simply made up the names while dazedly watching them at their mutual butchery. In any case, their real names would soon be forgotten.
‘Mmmmmmh . . .’ went the Booklings.
The din of battle was already subsiding, to be replaced by the groans and moans of the dying. Very few Bookhunters remained on their feet. One by one the last of them sank to their knees or toppled over like felled trees.
Only Rongkong Koma was still standing on his balustraded platform. He hadn’t budged an inch throughout this time.
‘Mmmmmmh . . .’ went the Booklings and their humming increased in volume.
Rongkong Koma drew his gigantic sword-cum-battleaxe from its sheath.
‘Mmmmmmh . . .’ went the Booklings.
He hurled the weapon high into the air. It gleamed as it rotated in the candlelight.
‘Mmmmmmh . . .’ went the Booklings.
He bent over and bowed his head.
‘Mmmmmmh . . .’ went the Booklings.
The blade came down, severing Rongkong Koma’s head from his body as neatly as a guillotine. It fell over the balustrade and landed in a basketful of books, but his body took two or three steps backwards, blundered into a heavy wooden chair, flopped down on it and sat there motionless.
The battle was over.
‘Mmmmmmh . . .’ The Booklings’ humming slowly died away.
I awoke from my trance. Beside me, Homuncolossus shook his head in a daze. The Booklings crowded round us, but they seemed to be in a distressed, exhausted condition.
Al, Wami and Dancelot Two elbowed their way over to me.
‘Phew . . .’ said Al. His breathing was laboured and asthmatic. ‘So you, er . . . made it.’
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked. ‘So near the surface, I mean?’ I well remembered Al telling me that the oxygen-rich atmosphere in the upper reaches of the catacombs didn’t suit them.
‘We . . . followed the Bookhunters . . . after the attack on the Grotto,’ Al wheezed.
‘Each Bookhunter . . . was trailed by . . . one detachment of us,’ Wami chimed in, also breathing with difficulty. ‘We planned to wait until they . . . reassembled somewhere and then . . . dispose of them all at once.’
‘Our opportunity came here . . . in the library,’ Dancelot Two went on. ‘They’re good at hiding . . . but we’re better.’
‘We can hardly breathe,’ gasped Al. ‘We must get back below . . . as soon as possible.’
The Booklings round us were listening like a bun
ch of patients in a tuberculosis sanatorium. The light in their eyes had dimmed alarmingly.
‘The Leather Grotto has been cleared,’ I said. ‘You can go back there. He did it.’ I pointed to the Shadow King.
‘We know,’ said Al. ‘We heard the Bookhunters . . . talking about it. We wanted to express . . . our gratitude.’
‘You already did,’ said Homuncolossus. ‘And how!’ He gave the gnomes an appreciative bow.
‘What . . . do you intend to do now?’ asked Dancelot Two.
‘Make for the surface,’ Homuncolossus replied.
‘We still have a giant to slay,’ I added.
‘Be careful,’ said Al. ‘From all I’ve heard . . . the person you plan to tackle is . . . a veritable ogre.’
‘You’d better be going now,’ I said, ‘before you all die of asphyxia.’
‘But first we’d like to . . . introduce someone,’ said Dancelot Two. He beckoned to the back of the crowd.
The gnomes stepped aside and thrust a tiny Bookling towards me. Pale green in colour, he was shuffling timidly from foot to foot.
‘Who’s this?’ I asked.
‘It’s . . . Optimus Yarnspinner,’ Al wheezed. ‘Our youngest.’
That was too much. My eyes filled with tears.
‘But I haven’t written anything yet,’ I sobbed.
‘We’re . . . counting on you,’ said Al. ‘We await your first book with . . . the keenest anticipation.’ He took the little creature by the hand.
I turned away and walked off in silence with the Shadow King. I couldn’t have endured a grand farewell scene.
‘Always remember,’ Dancelot Two called after me:‘From the stars we come, to the stars we go.
Life is but a journey into the unknown.’
The Shadow King Laughs
Dancelot Two’s quotation from Dancelot One was the last straw from my point of view. I sobbed unrestrainedly, and Homuncolossus had to support me for a while after we’d left the library and set off for Smyke’s house.
The overconfident Bookhunters had neglected to secure the door with the incantatory lock, which was open. As we passed through the Smykes’ ancestral portrait gallery, Hagob Salbandian’s likeness glared insanely after us as if urging us on and cursing us at the same time.
We could already hear Smyke’s voice when we reached the damp little cellar, even though he was speaking in a confidential undertone. That was how close we were!
‘Rongkong Koma is next in line,’ he was saying. ‘As soon as he’s cleared the deck down there I’ll convert him into ink. Then I’ll use it to write a sequel to The Bloody Book. It’ll make a sensational addition to the Golden List.’
Someone gave an idiotic laugh. ‘Good idea! And I’ll get fifteen per cent!’ It was the Hoggling, Claudio Harpstick.
The trapdoor to the typographical laboratory was open, so we only had to sneak up the ramp. It had creaked under my weight the last time. This time it didn’t make a sound.
Here, too, everything was just as it had been: the spacious hexagonal room with the conical ceiling; the big window obscured by red velvet curtains adorned with the Zamonian alphabet (impossible to tell whether it was day or night outside); the shelves laden with alembics and flasks; the papers, quills and inks of every colour; the rubber stamps and sticks of sealing wax; the ubiquitous flickering candles; the lengths of knot-writing suspended from the ceiling; the druidical runes on the marble floor; the absurd Bookemistic contraptions; the novel-writing machine.
Pfistomel Smyke and Claudio Harpstick were standing beside an antiquated printing press, turning out handbills in the old-fashioned way - invitations to a trombophone concert, I’d have staked my life on it. They were so preoccupied, we’d reached the middle of the laboratory before Smyke swung round.
Harpstick uttered a shrill squeal like a stuck pig, but Smyke didn’t lose his composure for an instant. He flung out all fourteen of his little arms and cried, ‘My son! You’ve come home at last!’
It was only in these relatively cramped surroundings that Homuncolossus’s size became truly apparent - in fact, I almost felt scared of him all over again. I noticed that he had positioned himself so that he could easily intercept the pair if either of them attempted to open the curtains.
‘Yes, here I am at last,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s incredible how much resistance one has to overcome in order to get to you - father.’
Smyke clasped his numerous hands together with a look of dismay. ‘I trust you didn’t run into any Bookhunters on the way?’ he said. ‘Those criminal individuals stop at nothing these days - they’ve even invaded my library! I don’t dare go down there any more. I hope nothing untoward happened to you?’
‘Oh, that problem has been dealt with,’ I said. ‘They’re all dead.’
Smyke looked genuinely impressed.
‘All of them?’ he asked. ‘Really? Did you . . . ?’
‘No,’ said Homuncolossus. ‘They disposed of themselves - very thoroughly, too.’
‘Phew,’ said Smyke, ‘that’s a weight off my mind! They were a regular pest. Now we can breathe freely again. Did you hear that, Claudio? The Bookhunters are dead.’
‘Thank goodness,’ Harpstick said hoarsely. I noticed that he was slowly edging towards a candelabrum with six lighted candles in it.
‘Listen to me, father!’ Homuncolossus said in a thunderous voice that made the glass retorts rattle. ‘I’m not here to play games with you. I’ve brought you something. A souvenir from the catacombs.’
He raised his right hand, keeping the thumb and forefinger pinched together. Surprise reigned for a moment. Even I felt puzzled. Then I remembered: the eyelash.
‘I, er, can’t see anything,’ Smyke said, smiling. His eyelids quivered.
‘It’s the smallest last will and testament in the world,’ said Homuncolossus. ‘You’d need a microscope to read it.’
‘This is a joke, isn’t it?’ said Smyke. ‘If you’ll only tell me when, I’ll laugh in the right place.’
Harpstick took another little step towards the candles.
‘No, it’s no joke,’ said Homuncolossus. ‘Unless you consider it funny that Hagob Salbandian Smyke left a will.’
Smyke gave an almost imperceptible start. ‘Hagob left a will, did he? Well, well.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You may have more skeletons in your cupboard than you suspect.’
Homuncolossus held his hand under Smyke’s nose. ‘You’re aware of your great-uncle’s artistic talents. This will bequeaths me his entire estate. Your estate, in fact. He engraved it on a hair.’
‘I can vouch for that,’ I chimed in. ‘I’ll testify that Homuncolossus was the first to read this will. That makes him the legitimate heir to all your family possessions.’
Smyke winced - perceptibly this time.
‘There’s more,’ Homuncolossus went on. ‘This hair - just imagine, Smyke, it’s only an eyelash! - also bears a statement to the effect that you killed your great-uncle.’
‘That’s absurd,’ said Smyke. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow.
‘You need only fetch one of your microscopes,’ I put in.
Smyke had started to perspire profusely. ‘For simplicity’s sake, perhaps you’d tell me what you really want, the two of you.’ His spuriously urbane manner was slipping.
‘Very well,’ said Homuncolossus. ‘The civilised world offers a host of opportunities, fortunately, so I’ll list the possible alternatives.’
Harpstick was now only a yard away from the candelabrum.
‘The simplest thing, of course, would be for you to disappear,’ Homuncolossus went on. ‘Together with that fat pig of a crony of yours. You would simply leave the city like an evil spirit, never to return. That would be the simplest way out. Neat, painless and straightforward.’
‘That’s one alternative,’ Smyke said with a smile.
‘But only one!’ Homuncolossus held up the invisible will. ‘Alternative number two: we make this public. You
would probably be banished from the city and sent to the lead mines with your accomplice. Your estate would pass to me in that event too. That alternative would be the one most in keeping with Zamonian law.’
‘Probably,’ said Smyke. His face had turned to stone by now.
‘The third alternative would be simply to make the will disappear.’
Smyke laughed woodenly. ‘Oh, that would suit me best of all!’
‘I’m aware of that - father. And so, being a loyal son, I’m now going to do you a favour.’
The Shadow King spread his fingertips and blew on them. I gave a start, although I still wasn’t sure he’d really been holding the eyelash. No, of course not - he was only toying with our reluctant host.
‘Very amusing,’ said Smyke, ‘but let’s stop fooling around, shall we? I couldn’t see, but I’m certain there wasn’t any eyelash there - if such a thing as a will engraved on an eyelash ever existed. You’re simply tormenting me for everything I’ve done to you, right? And shall I tell you what I think? Very well, I will: I deserve it.’
‘Ah,’ said Homuncolossus, ‘everything in life is rather more complicated than one would wish. In the first place, Hagob’s will exists whether you believe it or not. And it doesn’t matter whether or not I’ve blown it away. Thanks to the new eyes with which you, father, in your inestimable goodness, have equipped me, it would be child’s play for me to rediscover that hair among the millions of grains of dust on your floor.’
‘Would you kindly get to the point?’ Smyke snapped, clearly losing patience. He was bathed in sweat now.
‘The fact is’, said Homuncolossus, ‘I really did have that will at one time, but I threw it away days ago, somewhere down in the catacombs. Not even I could find it again. Even if I wanted to.’
‘That’s not true!’ I exclaimed.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is.’
‘You really did that?’ asked Smyke. He was smiling again. ‘Why?’
‘Because I share the opinion of your great-uncle, Hagob Salbandian,’ Homuncolossus replied. ‘Because I believe that your family library should belong to no one at all. Because I believe that it should be wiped off the face of Zamonia - together with you. Because I’m going to kill you - father.’