The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books (22 page)

Some of the airborne glow-worms went into a spin and crash-landed on Kibitzer’s lectern, where they expired beside the candles. I envied the fortunate insects for putting the situation behind them, whereas I, for better or worse, had to attend the ceremony in its entirety.

‘I bequeath to Optimus Yarnspinner all the letters I wrote him, but never posted, in the past two hundred years,’ said Kibitzer. I found this statement as startling as a full-blooded smack in the face.

What? Letters? To me? Had I heard aright? What letters?

With his fingertips, Kibitzer withdrew a dark cloth from a tall object standing right beside the lectern. What came to light was an immense stack of letters yellow with age and tied up in bundles. There must have been several hundred of them.

‘At first I wrote these letters in the hope that our idiotic dispute would one day be settled. By the time it became clear that this was unlikely to happen during my lifetime, writing to him had become a fond habit I couldn’t give up. Even if Optimus is uninterested in them, the letters are addressed to him and, thus, his legal property.’

Now it was I whose eyes filled with tears. He must have written to me every few days throughout the years, but he hadn’t had the courage to send the letters off because I, in my mulish obstinacy, had ceased to correspond with him.

‘I also bequeath to Optimus a masterly example of Vertical Labyrinthine Cartography personally drawn by the great Colophonius Regenschein. This I do in the express hope that he will never need to make practical use of this map.’ Kibitzer emitted a dry cough, and I took the opportunity to quickly wipe my tears on my sleeve.

‘I further stipulate that Inazia Anazazi has my full authority to make my funeral arrangements and administer my estate, expressing the hope that she will not suffer from the bureaucratic despotism to which Ugglies in Bookholm are still, regrettably, exposed. Finally,
I
wish that my body be cremated and that no one apart from Inazia attend my funeral. My ashes are to be interred in the Antiquarians’ Cemetery in Bookholm.

‘Signed, Ahmed ben Kibitzer.’

Kibitzer rolled up the document. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s that.’ Goldwine’s immortal melody died away in my head.

‘What is all this?’ I protested angrily. ‘You may be ill, but you aren’t dead! Why are you disposing of your goods and chattels like this? Are you crazy? You’re frightening me, Ahmed!’

Kibitzer merely smiled and tottered over to a mass of books stacked up to form a flat-topped table. Closer inspection revealed them to be, not printed books but leather-bound volumes of the kind used for making notes or bookkeeping.

‘These are the handwritten journals of Professor Abdul Nightingale,’ he said proudly. ‘I can’t think of a worthier deathbed.’

I dearly wished that Kibitzer would stop making these tasteless jokes about dying, which were really beginning to get me down, but the old Nocturnomath pursued his macabre conceit even further: he climbed on top of the book table and lay down.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Comfortable it isn’t, but that’s not the point. Do you know my absolutely favourite passage in your books, Optimus?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘You mean there’s a passage you actually like?’

He laughed softly. ‘You’re still resentful, aren’t you? But you’re right. Nothing gets deeper under a person’s skin than criticism from a friend. I should have expressed myself more diplomatically. It was pretty insensitive of me.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Let’s bury the subject – er, I mean, let’s forget it.’ I couldn’t think straight. I was still suffering from a monumental hangover and Kibitzer’s funereal metaphors were starting to colour my own use of language.

‘What are you doing on that table?’ I demanded apprehensively. ‘Are you tired?’

Kibitzer completely ignored my question. ‘My favourite passage
occurs
in The City of Dreaming Books,’ he said. ‘It’s the scene where Colophonius Regenschein dies.’

‘Really?’ I rejoined. ‘Why that one in particular? I’ve written better.’

‘It’s not that. Readers of books tend to look for passages with which they identify and I’ve always considered the way in which Regenschein died to be exemplary.’

It had never occurred to me that a way of dying could be exemplary, but I was at pains not to contradict him at this moment. ‘Regenschein died of his own free will,’ I said. ‘It was … impressive.’

‘That’s just how I’ve always wanted to go myself!’ said Kibitzer. ‘Under my own steam! An uninhibited decision! The triumph of mind over matter! Nothing could be greater!’

Tears sprang to my eyes again. I had finally grasped what was going on here. The real reason for our presence.

‘You intend to die,’ I said quietly. ‘Here and now.’

‘Yes,’ Kibitzer replied with a blissful smile. ‘This is my final wish. I’m dying now. So will you, but a bit later on. We all die the whole time because we really start dying at birth, so let’s not be melodramatic about it.’

He stretched out, and the last of the will-o’-the-wisps spiralled down and landed beside him, where their light faded and went out.

‘I’ve discovered how Regenschein did it,’ said the Nocturnomath. ‘I finally found out after years of concentrated cogitation. It’s a breathing technique. Or rather, a technique that enables you to avoid breathing. Not to be recommended unless you want to die!’

I glanced helplessly at Inazia, but she was simply standing there in frozen silence, like a statue.

‘Listen,’ said Kibitzer. ‘We both know you didn’t come to Bookholm on my account, nor to overcome an existential crisis. Those were only secondary considerations, so let’s not pretend otherwise! You’ve got to look facts in the face. You came because of
a
few words. Because of five words, to be precise – because of one brief sentence in a letter.’

Kibitzer turned his big eyes on me. Their yellow light flickered like that of a guttering candle.

‘That sentence was: The Shadow King hasreturned.’

I started to say something, but he silenced me with a limp gesture.

‘I know you can’t bring yourself to admit this because you’re too afraid, but you want to return to the Labyrinth. That’s why you came.’

‘Not true!’ I dared to contradict him only in a whisper. ‘Nothing in the world would persuade me to go back there.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Kibitzer, ‘because I hope your fear will prevail over your curiosity. You survived the catacombs once. That was more luck than any one person deserves. Don’t give the Labyrinth a chance to swallow you up a second time, or it’ll make a thorough job of you. Listen to your fear. Fear springs from common sense and courage is the fruit of stupidity! Who said that?’

‘No idea,’ I replied uncertainly. Mental gymnastics were too much for me at that moment.

‘I did!’ Kibitzer gasped. ‘I said it! I fear I don’t have much more in the way of worldly wisdom to bequeath you, but I’d happily have that aphorism carved on my tombstone. Mark it well!’

That was just the kind of advice Kibitzer had always given me. Its gist was that you should trust your reason more than your emotions. Nocturnomaths were renowned for their mental acuity, not for their sentimentality.

‘You’ve no need to worry,’ I said, still whispering. ‘If anyone’s bad personal experience gives him good reason to fear the catacombs, it’s me. Even looking down the Bookholm Shafts makes me feel sick. I shall never again set foot in the Labyrinth – never!’

‘That’s the attitude,’ said Kibitzer. ‘Your fear fills me with hope. Your terrors are your friends, so foster them. Think of all the frightful experiences you underwent down there. Think of them as often as you can.’

‘I dream of them every night,’ I said. ‘I don’t have to call them to mind.’

‘Good,’ wheezed Kibitzer. ‘Very good, but all the same … Inazia, please bring him the map.’

The Uggly went over to the table on which Kibitzer had spread out a map shortly before. She came back and handed it to me.

‘Take a good look at it,’ said Kibitzer. ‘It’s a Vertical Labyrinthine Map. Personally compiled by Colophonius Regenschein in the course of years-long excursions into the catacombs. A masterpiece of speleocartography. It’s worth a fortune, but I haven’t bequeathed it to you for financial reasons. Its practical value is far greater – inestimable, in fact. Keep it with you all the time. Constantly, wherever you go. Will you promise me that?’

I nodded, even though I wasn’t too attracted by the thought of carrying a map of the Labyrinth around with me all the time. My eyes were still so full of tears, I couldn’t make out very much. All I vaguely saw was a maze of white and grey zigzag lines. The map meant nothing to me.

‘The white lines are the correct routes – insofar as one can talk of correct routes down there. At least they’re less dangerous than others. There are no undangerous routes in the catacombs, as you know, but the tunnels, flights of steps and caves marked in white are the ones which, in Regenschein’s experience, harbour the fewest unpleasant surprises. The ones marked in pale grey are the dangerous ones. They should be avoided. The dark grey routes are lethal. They are not to be followed at any price, for what awaits one there is certain death of one kind or another. Or something even worse, for in the catacombs there are worse things than death. You see the cross on the map?’

Yes, I could see a big cross on the map. Although nothing could have mattered to me less at that moment, I nodded.

‘That wasn’t made by Regenschein, but by … someone else …’

‘Someone else? Who?’

Kibitzer was breathing heavily. ‘That’s immaterial now. What do you think that cross signifies?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, puzzled. ‘Some important spot in the catacombs?’

‘The cross means treasure!’ Kibitzer exclaimed. ‘Don’t you ever read pirate romances? Treasure is always marked with a cross.’

‘This is a treasure map, you mean?’

‘No. That’s to say, metaphorically speaking, yes …’ He raised his head with an effort. ‘Now listen carefully and I’ll tell you what to do when the time comes.’

‘When the time comes for
what
?’

‘You’ll know … if it happens.’

The Nocturnomath was speaking in riddles more and more. His voice had grown fainter, but his breathing was all the more hectic.

‘When the time comes, you must scratch the paint off the cross on the map – it’s painted on – and then press down on the spot. Have you got that?’

‘Yes,’ I said uncertainly. I really did have more important concerns than some damned cross on a map I would never use. My friend was dying and he was wasting his precious time on this cryptic nonsense.

‘Take the map,’ Kibitzer commanded. ‘Put it in your pocket. Take it everywhere with you!’

I folded up the map and put it in an inner pocket. At least that disposed of the subject. Kibitzer grasped my paw.

‘I’ll be there soon … I’ll be there soon,’ he gasped.

Inazia moved closer to us. Looking at her, I was shocked by the despair in her eyes.

‘It’s time …’ she whispered.

Kibitzer raised his head once more. ‘I’m immensely glad you came,
Optimus
. I’m happy to be able to die in the company of the three people who meant most to me in my life.’

Three
people? Inazia and I made two. Then I realised that he wasn’t delirious. The third person he’d alluded to was Professor Abdul Nightingale, whose works surrounded us on all sides in his shop. To Kibitzer, books had always possessed more personality than living creatures.

‘This is all happening too quickly for you, isn’t it? You’ve suddenly thought of so many questions you still wanted to ask me, haven’t you?’

He was right in a terrible way, but I didn’t want to put him under any pressure, not now.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ve no more questions for you. Don’t exert yourself.’

Kibitzer grinned with difficulty. ‘Never lie to a Nocturnomath,’ he said. ‘I can read people’s thoughts, had you forgotten that yet again? I will answer one question because it outweighs every other thought in your head.’

He drew three deep breaths.

‘You want to know if I believe that the Shadow King has returned.’

What else could I do but nod?

‘No,’ he whispered, ‘I don’t believe he has returned, for how can anyone return …’ – he drew another deep breath – ‘… who has never been away?’

Then he closed his eyes for ever.

Ugglian Mourning

I DON’T KNOW
how long it was before I managed to tear my gaze away from the dead Nocturnomath. You always think that the sight of a dead person whom you’ve loved must be unbearable, but if you’re confronted by the irrevocable fact that you’ll never set eyes on that body again, parting from it is harder than you can imagine. That was how I felt about Kibitzer’s corpse.

It was only when I awakened from my mournful trance that I noticed the Uggly had left the room. I could hear her moving around somewhere and found her standing in front of a bookcase at the back of the shop, busily rearranging its contents. She had her back to me.

‘Everything here needs completely reorganising,’ Inazia muttered absently. ‘This isn’t a bookshop, it’s utter chaos. How did he classify them? By colour? By weight? I can’t detect any system at all. It was high time the place got sorted out.’