The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books (15 page)

The Fumoir was gradually emptying. Pipes were being knocked out, smoking utensils stowed away, people leaving. The various
scents
had condensed into a vaporous broth that was only very slowly flowing up the chimney and out into the open air.

‘Pay attention,’ cried Ovidios. ‘We’ll play a game to make it a bit more difficult for me. I won’t single people out, you will. That’s so you won’t think I only pick the easy ones.’

‘All right,’ I said and looked around. My curiosity was aroused by a trio of youngsters dressed in black, who were sitting two tables away. ‘Them. The ones in black gear. What sort of Biblios are they?’

Ovidios’s face suddenly assumed a melancholy expression I couldn’t at first interpret.

‘Them? That’s easy.’ He sighed. ‘They’re Biblionecromancers, all three of them.’

They were young Demidwarfs from Ironville. One could easily tell that from their rust-coloured hair and pale-grey complexions, but these three were more than usually pale. Their clothing, which was black from headgear to shoes, seemed to suggest that they’d just come from a funeral. They were listlessly passing a tiny pipe from hand to hand and puffing at it in turn.

‘They look unhealthy somehow,’ I said. ‘Are they ill?’

‘No, appearances are deceptive. “Never judge a book by its cover” – you know the old saying? Most Bibilionecromancers, or Necros, as they’re also called for simplicity’s sake, are remarkably fit, believe me.’ Ovidios heaved a sigh. ‘The pale complexion and the rings round the eyes are largely make-up. Most of them take great care of their health. Many are vegetarians.’

One of them, as I myself could see from a distance, was reading aloud to the others from a book of short stories by Perla la Gadeon.

‘Their style of dress mightn’t appeal to some,’ I remarked, ‘but their taste in literature is beyond reproach. They’re reading La Gadeon.’

‘Once again, my friend, I’d beware of jumping to conclusions. La Gadeon is certainly one of the Necros’ favourite authors, but not
so
much because of his literary qualities, more on account of his stories’ morbid and other-worldly orientation. And of his personality. In that respect, Perla la Gadeon can undoubtedly be regarded as the progenitor of the Biblionecromancers. They also read a lot of trash, though, take it from me. The Necros’ preferred reading must deal with the Undead, the half-dead and, of course, the dead, or they won’t so much as touch a book. A kidney clinic full of incurable invalids and situated beside a graveyard in an unhealthy mangrove swamp – that would make an ideal setting. The absence of athletic, well-tanned principal characters in bright, colourful clothes would also be an asset. And if the patients are attacked by a horde of bloodthirsty Moorwood Vampires or a brain-devouring fog from another dimension – preferably both at once – you can assume that the book will prove a bestseller with the Necros. But only, of course, if the jacket bears an illustration of a tattoo in the form of a secret Bookemistic symbol, still oozing blood.’

‘You certainly know your stuff,’ I said.

Ovidios sighed yet again, this time particularly heavily.

‘Hardly surprising. Both my children are Necros. They hold a Black Mass in our cellar every other Wednesday.’

‘You’re married?’ I said, startled. The loquacious reptile was full of surprises.

‘Why not? Female Lindworms also leave the castle and travel afar, my friend. My wife is Cecilia Dactyl, a third cousin. She came to Bookholm shortly after the fire. You must know her.’

‘Cecilia? Of course. She used to water my godfather’s vegetable garden when he was away on lecture tours.’ Heavens, what a small place Zamonia was! I now understood Ovidios’s intimate knowledge of Biblionecrophily. He had two of these walking cadavers living at home with him! That figured, somehow. I couldn’t help grinning at the thought of teenage necrophilic Lindworms.

He made a dismissive gesture. ‘It’s not so bad. What annoys me is
not
the artificial blood in the bathtub or the splashes of black wax on the carpet that never come out. No, it’s the eternal nagging about my eating habits. They want to convert me to vegetarianism and wean me off smoking, the little philistines! Why do you think I have to smoke my pipe in a Fumoir although I own a nice house in the best district in Bookholm?’

‘They hold Black Masses?’ I put in smugly.

‘Not really. Biblionecromancy isn’t a religion, more the opposite. They’ve got a morbid relationship with books, that’s all. No book can be old and fragile enough for them.’

‘Many people think the same. Antiquarian booksellers, for instance.’

‘Yes, but they’re interested in a book’s monetary value. The older, the more valuable. To Necros, antiquarian status is completely immaterial. On the contrary, they prefer books that were utter flops – ones that never got beyond a first edition. Dormant stock, unsuccessful debut novels brought out by small, specialist publishers and written by utterly unrecognised authors who not only never wrote another line thereafter but, if possible, committed suicide soon after publication for lack of sales. The sort of books that are found behind an empty bookcase in a bankrupt bookshop. Titles like
Journal of a Bubonic Plague
or
The Attractions of Piecework
. Or
Bulimic Odes
. Books that no one will ever read apart from the author. That’s the ideal stuff for a Necros’ ritual.’

‘So they do hold Black Masses!’ I whispered. These Necros were beginning to interest me.

‘Not really, as I said. I’d prefer to call them lugubrious wakes. The Necros love literary
corpses
. After acquiring the mildewed volumes they lay them out at home in a darkened room, the way people do for a few days when paying their last respects to the dear departed. The coffins, which they make themselves, are naturally far smaller. They light joss-sticks and play the Horrophone. They even deliver funeral orations.’

‘And then they attack the neighbours and drink their blood?’ I persisted.

‘No, no,’ Ovidios said with a dismissive laugh. ‘Biblionecromancers can’t hurt anyone, not even themselves, despite their eternal flirtation with murder and self-extinction. They’re interested solely in the ritual of
literary mourning
, which is possibly the most poetic form of suicidal yearning. And the most innocuous! I’d sooner that than see my children pine to ride an avalanche in Devil’s Gulch, I can tell you! But enough of my offspring. We’ve forgotten about our game.’

I took another look around. The Fumoir was becoming more and more deserted. I would have to hurry, or the last interesting specimens for our game would be gone.

There was one corner of the establishment where the tobacco smoke seemed to be swirling with special intensity, as if different laws of nature prevailed there. I put this down to my befuddled condition. Until now, I had only been able to make out a silhouette that vaguely reminded me of someone, but who? At last the fog cleared. Just a little at first, then more and more. I gave a start. Was that …?

Yes, a robe embroidered with invocative Bookemistic poetry … a hat such as only a scarecrow would wear, with little animal bones and insect fetishes dangling from the brim … a face like something out of a nightmare, and on it the self-infatuated grin of someone who can not only endure such a spectacle in the mirror but can’t get enough of it. It was an Uggly! Heavens alive! Could it be Inazia Anazazi, the Ugglian bookseller who, together with Ahmed ben Kibitzer, had been largely instrumental in rescuing me from the catacombs?

I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Yes, it was an Uggly. But no, it wasn’t Inazia.

She didn’t even resemble her closely. Three things were responsible for my brief spell of confusion:

First, that Ugglies favour an extraordinary but almost uniform style of dress. This makes it easy to mistake one for another.

Second, that I hadn’t set eyes on an Uggly for an eternity and on Inazia for at least two eternities. What must she look like today?

And third, that all Ugglies seem to possess a common aura. This renders them a collective organism that goes around in many individual incarnations, so to speak. If you see one Uggly, you always see them all.

So this was
an
Uggly, but not
the
most important Uggly in my life. Why did I feel so relieved? I ought really to be feeling disappointed that it wasn’t Inazia. My memories of her were predominantly good, for I owed it at least partly to her that I was back in Bookholm safe and sound. All the same, dear friends, there’s something about Ugglies. No matter how friendly your relations with them, a certain uneasiness always persists. Imagine being married to a scorpion! There’s an old Zamonian proverb that very aptly summarises the problem in a single sentence:
I need that like an Uggly in my bed
.

‘She’s an Ugglian Bibliomancer.’ Ovidios’s whispered remark roused me from my reverie. ‘Stop staring at her like that, or she’ll be all over you!’

‘Eh?’ I said absently, turning to him. My visit to the Fumoir had unexpectedly become a veritable journey into the past.

‘Bibliomancers foretell the future from books,’ Ovidios explained. ‘Elsewhere, the future is foretold from playing cards or the entrails of dead cats; in Bookholm from books. Bibliomancy is sometimes regarded as a science, but it’s hocus-pocus. It has as much to do with science as astrology does with astronomy. Total humbug, but sadly as widespread as warts on a warthog. Bibliomancers claim to be able to take any newly acquired book and foretell the buyer’s future from it.’

‘A brilliant business concept!’ I said. ‘The streets of Bookholm are teeming with such customers. Every other person has a newly acquired book under his arm.’

‘Exactly. And with practice any books can be made to yield a few fragmentary oracular pronouncements. There are Ugglian
soothsayers
, Hellrazorish stichomancers, oracular rhymesters from the Impic Alps, Watervalian syllaboprophets … There are Moomy women in Bookholm market who’ll tell your fortune from boiled spaghetti letters of three different flavours. Any old Turniphead can come along, call himself a qualified Bibliomancer and prophesy the money out of pea-brained tourists’ pockets. That’s how things are these days. Toleration also has its price. We can’t fence the city off.’

I cast another covert glance at the Uggly, who was now completely wreathed in smoke again. I wondered where Inazia was now. Still in Bookholm?

Ovidios sighed. ‘Ugglies are still reputed to make the most accurate predictions and be thoroughly respectable and reliable. But why should I be interested in things to come? It’s enough of a burden to cope with the present and past. I don’t have to know what awaits me in the future.’

I nodded. ‘I’ve had my own experience of Ugglian prophecies,’ I said. ‘They can be surprisingly accurate, but I’ve no need for a second helping.’

I glanced over at the Uggly for the last time, but there was nothing in the place where she’d been sitting a moment ago save swirling tobacco smoke. She had disappeared.

‘Well,’ said Ovidios, ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to call it a day soon. We’re running out of Biblios.’

‘Hang on,’ I protested. ‘Not now, just when it’s getting interesting.’

‘But we could go on for ever,’ Ovidios said with a laugh. ‘There are as many Biblios as there are Bookholmers. Biblionists, Bibliodromes, Biblionnaires, Biblioclasts, Bibliologists, Bibliodonts, Bibliogoths, Bibliospasts, Bibliots, Biblioklepts, Bibliometrists, Bibliogants, Bibliomants, Bibliophasts, Bibliophants, Bibliogomes, Bibliobiles, Bibliophages, Bibliogames, Biblio—’

‘All right,’ I exclaimed, ‘I’m shameless. I’ve taken up enough of your time. I doubt if two Lindworm expats have ever spent so long talking.’

‘You could well be right. You know, it’s important to discover what Biblionism means to one – what sort of Biblio one is oneself. You should use your stay in Bookholm to find that out.’

I adjusted my cloak in readiness to get up and take my leave. Only one question was still on the tip of my tongue.

‘Tell me something, Ovidios: What sort of Biblio are
you
?’

He gave me a long look of mingled bafflement and perplexity.

‘No idea,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I’ve never given it any thought.’

I made to get up, but before doing so I scanned the Fumoir for the last time. It was largely deserted now, but a few scattered figures were continuing to smoke in peace. My survey ended in the furthest corner of the room. Someone was still sitting there. I hadn’t spotted him before, doubtless because he’d been obscured by another smoker who had since left. He might also have escaped my notice because he looked more like an inanimate object than a living creature. This was probably also due to his clothing, which was better described as a suit of armour. He sat at his table, motionless as a discarded doll. I was overcome by an old and very familiar fear inspired mainly by the helmet he was wearing. It served him as a mask and resembled a gun turret in miniature. All in all, the sinister fellow looked like a walking fortress.

And now at last he moved. With slow, mechanical movements he picked up a manuscript lying on the table in front of him, rolled it up and stowed it beneath his cloak. Rising to his feet with an effort, he stiffly strode out.

‘That looked like a Bookhunter,’ I said in a tremulous voice. ‘It can’t have been, though. Bookhunting was prohibited here after the fire. I’ve seen similar figures in the city. What are they, a stupid stunt to put the wind up tourists?’ It was my turn to become agitated. Bookhunters are no joke to me.

‘That was a Biblionaut,’ said Ovidios. I could tell he felt rather uneasy about the subject. ‘And that one over there,’ he went on hurriedly, ‘is a—’