The City of Dreaming Books (41 page)

‘And you can do it to anyone?’

‘Anything or anyone capable of dreaming,’ said Al. ‘We once hypnotised a Lavaworm. No idea what Lavaworms dream about, but that proves they
do
.’

‘We aren’t talking about a cheap fairground trick,’ Wami put in. ‘Our hypnosis is mental manipulation of the highest order. We could transform you into any living creature we liked - or at least, you’d
think
you were that creature. The same goes for plants. Or crystals. If we chose to, we could transform you into the Star of the Catacombs.’

‘Really and truly?’

‘Like to try it?’ Al asked with a smile. ‘Eh?’

W
e were back in the Leather Grotto soon afterwards. Al had assembled all the Booklings and informed them that Orming was to be postponed in favour of a demonstration of collective hypnosis.

I couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy when I saw the expectant Booklings gather round, but it was too late to back out now. The announcement had bred a mood of excitement and eager anticipation, and they were all jabbering away at once. It seemed that they were trying to decide what creature to transform me into, because the air was thick with the names of animals.

‘What will I imagine I am?’ I asked Al nervously.

‘That I can’t tell you,’ he replied, ‘or it won’t work. You’d tense up and block the hypnotic message. Knowing
that
we’re going to hypnotise you will make it hard enough for us. Just wait and see.’

Wonderful, I thought, cursing myself for agreeing so rashly. I felt more apprehensive than ever. At that moment, Orming seemed infinitely preferable!

‘On my command!’ cried Al. The Booklings fell silent. They all gazed at me and started to hum.

I waited.

They went on humming.

I waited some more.

More humming.

Nothing happened. Trombophone music was far more effective! I felt nothing. Nothing at all. I wasn’t even tired. Perhaps there were too many of them. Either that, or they couldn’t hypnotise me because this time I was concentrating. That was it: I couldn’t be hypnotised because I didn’t
want
to be! I was resistant to hypnosis. I was a strong-willed, unhypnotisable Murch.
¹⁰

Yes, I was a proud Murch, a Murch in the rutting season. I at once proceeded to blow out my cheeks and murch loudly, thereby asserting my territorial rights and attracting the attention of any female Murches in the vicinity. I waddled around and displayed my majestically inflated cheeks to warn the Booklings off: this was Murch territory, they proclaimed! I ruffled up my feathers and murched with a will, totally imbued with murchdom.

I did my best to ignore the Booklings’ hysterical laughter - Booklings were of no interest to me. But where had the female Murches got to? I was murching with such heart-rending fervour, I couldn’t believe they were deliberately ignoring my irresistible mating calls.

The Booklings’ humming changed pitch, becoming considerably lower, and it occurred to me that I was really a maggot, not a Murch. Of course, I was a bookworm! Why was I, a bookworm, murching around like this? I at once got down on my stomach and crawled along in the dust at the Booklings’ feet. Some of them guffawed and giggled, but I didn’t care. I was engaged on a mission, so I couldn’t allow myself to be distracted by the irrational behaviour of other life forms. I was in quest of a book.

Crawl, crawl, that was my destiny: to crawl until I’d found a book. The silly Booklings could guffaw and slap their thighs all they liked, I simply ignored them. Crawl, keep crawling along through the dust until . . . there, a book at last! I had found a book, the bookworm’s natural foe and, at the same time, its chief source of nourishment! It must be destroyed at once: that was my mission! I fell hungrily upon the rather tattered old tome. It tasted a trifle mouldy, but I tore it to shreds with my pitiless larval jaws and chewed up every scrap until I’d digested the whole book.

I was feeling thoroughly replete and contented. My mission had been accomplished. What could I do next? It didn’t take me long to decide: I would lay a few eggs. Yes, that’s what I’d do.

T
hat, dear readers, was when my new life began. The Booklings had admitted me to their community and seemed to have resolved to make me forget about my previous existence. In order to dispel my dream of regaining the surface of Bookholm, they involved me in their many and various activities. Although I still felt like a pike in a shoal of trout because of our physical dissimilarities, that feeling of strangeness steadily wore off as the days and weeks went by. The absence of fear: that was what I relished most. In here I was protected, surrounded by a rampart of friends in a comfortable environment abounding in books and marvellous natural phenomena awaiting thorough investigation on my part. I hadn’t altogether suppressed my desire to return to the surface, of course, but I temporarily shelved my plans in that regard. I looked upon my sojourn with the Booklings as an expedition to an alien tribe, an extended research trip for a book I would some day write.

I was surrounded by a living library. By that I don’t mean the weird Bookemistic volumes inside the machine in the Leather Grotto, the ones with eyes and ears; I mean the Booklings themselves, who were round me at all times, continuously reciting passages from the books they had learnt by heart.

I was encompassed by literature wherever I went. One or more Booklings were forever bombarding me with poetry or prose, essays or novellas, aphorisms or sonnets. What may sound like a never-ending burden on the ears and nerves seemed to me like a wonderful dream, because the technical expertise with which the Booklings delivered their recitations was of the highest quality - even better, probably, than that displayed by Bookholm’s Master Readers at their timber-time readings, for the little Cyclopses were more than just professional reciters: they
lived
their literature. They had an immense range of gestures and expressions despite their physical limitations, and their voices sounded as well trained as those of experienced stage actors. I doubt if anyone who has not actually experienced it can grasp how closely you can study literature when confronted by it in such a vital and uninterrupted manner.

I now got to know several Booklings apart from Al, Wami and Dancelot, and I made a special point of consorting with those whose work I found of abiding interest.

Perla la Gadeon, for example, turned out to be a sociable if sometimes moody individual. He taught me all manner of things about poetic craftsmanship and even more about the composition of horrific short stories. Hornac de Bloaze had the epic stamina you need in order to write vast novels and the strong constitution without which no one can assimilate the vast quantities of coffee required to keep you awake for long periods at a stretch. He initiated me into the mental technique with which he kept the plots and characters of dozens of novels in his head without going mad.

Rasco Elwid was a witty raconteur who always kept me hugely entertained. He was simply incapable of saying anything commonplace or banal, and each of his utterances was a polished aphorism or brilliant
aperçu
. I hardly dared open my mouth in his company because anything I had to say seemed so stupid and boring.

I developed a special relationship with Dancelot, whose occasional recitations from the work of my authorial godfather not only moved me but made me feel I was back home. For his part, he sought my company in order to pump me about Lindworm Castle and details of my godfather’s life. To distinguish between the two of them, I secretly took to calling them Dancelot One (my godfather) and Dancelot Two (the Bookling). Having now come to terms with the regrettable certainty that he could not expect any more publications from Dancelot One, Dancelot Two wanted at least to learn as much about him as possible - even about the episode in which my godfather had believed himself to be a cupboard full of dirty spectacles. For Dancelot Two’s benefit I recited the little poem that had come into my hands. He absorbed it like a sponge and would declaim it at the drop of a hat:

One morning I told Dancelot Two about the manuscript I was still carrying on my person but had almost forgotten in the last few eventful weeks.

‘My authorial godfather was so impressed by this, he gave up writing,’ I said, handing him the manuscript. ‘I think you ought to read it.’

‘It might be better if I didn’t,’ said Dancelot Two. ‘If it’s really responsible for the fact that I’ve only got one book to memorise, I’m bound to take a poor view of it.’

‘At least take a look.’

With a sigh, Dancelot Two reluctantly started reading. I watched his every sign of emotion. Within seconds I had ceased to exist for him. His single eye scanned the text at a gallop, his breathing quickened, his lips mouthed the words. Then he began to read aloud. At some stage he started to laugh, softly at first, then ever more heartily until he was bellowing with hysterical mirth and pounding his knee with his fist.

When he had calmed down a little his eye filled with tears and he fell to sobbing gently. At length, having come to the end of the manuscript, he stared into space for minutes on end.

‘Well,’ I asked, breaking the silence, ‘what do you think of it?’

‘It’s awesome. Now I understand why your godfather gave up writing. It’s the finest thing I’ve ever read.’

‘Any idea who could have written it?’

‘No. If I’d ever read anything by someone capable of writing like that, I would remember it.’

‘Dancelot sent the author to Bookholm.’

‘Then he never got there. If he’d reached the city he would now be famous. He’d be the greatest author in Zamonia.’

‘My sentiments entirely. For all that, the letter in which my godfather urged him to come here found its way into your Chamber of Marvels.’

‘I realise that. I know the letter by heart. It’s a thorough mystery.’

‘One I’ll probably never solve,’ I said with a sigh. ‘May I have the manuscript back?’

Dancelot Two clasped it to his chest.

‘May I memorise it first?’ he entreated.

‘Of course.’

‘Then please give me a day’s grace. I couldn’t possibly read it again right away.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’d go pop, I’m afraid.’ Dancelot Two smiled. ‘I’ve never felt so full after reading anything.’