The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books (25 page)

‘By the Orm,’ I exclaimed, ‘that really is a surprise. A river in Bookholm! There wasn’t one in the old days.’

‘There isn’t one now, strictly speaking,’ said Inazia, ‘because that isn’t a river.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘Something else – something whose exact definition is still fiercely debated by the scientists of Bookholm. As long as the question remains unresolved, we call it a river.’

Cautiously, I peered down. What I saw did, in fact, bear little resemblance to a river. It reminded me more of an animal, a gigantic serpent, a monstrous insect, a gargantuan millipede or worm that was sluggishly writhing along the ravine. It was dark, almost black, and viscous as molasses. Boulders were floating along on its surface. I shrank back again. One push from the Uggly, one false step, one moment of inattention, and the Magmass would carry me along and sluice me into the depths. I had never wanted to venture as close to the catacombs of Bookholm again.

‘The Magmass looks different every day,’ said Inazia, whose fingertips were now holding a handkerchief over her nose. ‘Today it’s black as ink, probably because shortly before emerging from the ground it flowed through a seam of coal or an oil well. Tomorrow, having devoured and dissolved a few old libraries, it may consist of leaden grey papyrus pulp. The day after tomorrow it’ll be filled with hissing, smoking, incandescent lumps of lava. Ugly, angry and dangerous it may be, but it’s never boring.’

‘So it sometimes contains lava?’

‘Of course. It carries along anything that can be washed away
below
ground. Soil, coal – and, of course, books. More and more books from the catacombs. Sometimes half-liquid, half-cooled magma drifts along in it. Hence a part of its name.’

The Uggly indicated the vast chasm with a theatrical gesture. ‘The biggest factory in Bookholm used to stand here: the
Timbertime Paperworks
. “No paper burns for longer than Bookholm paper!” – you know the old slogan? That came into being after the fire. It must have been thought up by someone who saw the
Timbertime Paperworks
ablaze. Immense quantities of inflammable material were stored here. Huge vaults filled with paper. Stacked timber, whole trees, half a forest. Also combustible chemicals, glues, alcohol. Some blaze
that
was, I can tell you! It burned for months, in fact we thought it would never stop. By the time it finally
did
go out, it had eaten deep into the Labyrinth – and exposed one arm of the Magmass.’

The Magmass …
Now
I remembered! I’d read about it many years ago. The Magmass was the legendary subterranean river referred to by Colophonius Regenschein in his book
The Catacombs of Bookholm
, the mysterious labyrinthine stream of which the Bookhunters used to talk. Regenschein had mentioned it only in passing, though, which was why I’d almost forgotten the name.

‘Many people used to think that the Magmass was a myth, a Bookhunters’ tall story. No one would have believed that one arm of it flowed just beneath the surface of Bookholm.’ The Uggly gazed down at the foul stream in disgust. ‘And no one wanted such a thing in the city. It smells sometimes of sulphur, sometimes of oil, sometimes of camphor or animals’ cadavers, depending on what it happens to be transporting. The stench causes headaches, bouts of depression and panic attacks – sometimes all of them at once. An attempt was made to bury it beneath the rubble and detritus of the gutted city, and it looked at first as if that would work. One day, however, the Magmass was back. It had simply swept away the rubble on top of it and sluiced this down into the catacombs, layer by layer, until it was exposed once more. A second attempt was made with the
same
result. Then everyone gave up. The Magmass had the last laugh! It’s a suppurating sore that never heals.’

Inazia made her way along the edge of the ravine with me following cautiously behind.

‘This area went steadily downhill,’ she said. ‘The first to move out were those who could afford to, followed by those who
couldn’t
really afford to. It then became a rent-free district for the homeless, but even they couldn’t stand it. Better to sleep rough under the stars than in a house near the Magmass! Finally, underworld types moved in and the place became
genuinely
dangerous. But the polluted stream proved too much even for the most hardened criminals. Not even they stayed. Now it’s a no-man’s-land, almost like the Toxic Zone.’

‘The Toxic Zone?’

‘All in good time.’ The Uggly laughed. ‘You’ll become acquainted with it soon enough. It’s another of the city’s
not
-to-be-seen new attractions – worse even than this one.’

I was now feeling really nauseous. My head ached like that of a migraine sufferer and my knees had turned to jelly. All I wanted was to get away from this stench, which awakened the most dreadful memories. Fortunately, the Uggly was now heading away from the crater and back across the field towards the city proper.

‘No one has lived here since,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘And because no one had to see or smell the Magmass unless they wanted to, legends became rife – glorified old wives’ tales. That the Magmass is a living creature. That it can
think
. That it influences the thoughts of those who venture too close to it. That it tries to lure incautious souls into its depths. You know, prophylactic myths for children, to keep them from going too near it. Not that anyone is crazy enough to do so, not even children.’

‘Apart from us,’ I said hoarsely. The foul air had dried my throat.

‘I only wanted to give you an uncensored view of the new city. Unless you’d prefer the tourist version? Shall I show you the side streets where the souvenir shops are?’

‘All right, all right,’ I said. ‘I appreciate your efforts. It’s just that I’m feeling a bit queasy.’

Inazia made a dismissive gesture. ‘It’ll soon pass. The effect of the Magmass wears off fast, fortunately.’

We tacitly agreed to adopt a brisk goosestep and quickly left behind the bleak, deserted streets around the Magmass, together with its cloying odour and the croaking of ravens. We soon heard voices, saw people strolling along and lights in windows. I breathed easier and felt better. Every additional step that separated me from that dark, subterranean river took me further away from the Labyrinth. And that, dear friends, came as a genuine relief to your harassed narrator, physically as well as mentally. It would be a long time before anyone else took me so close to the catacombs, that I promised myself.

We now entered a city district where the fire must have raged with special destructive intensity, because although I’d been there before, I saw nothing I recognised. This had once been the site of
Editorial Lane
, which constantly resounded to the despairing sighs of overworked copy-editors, and also, just beyond, of the
Graveyard of Forgotten Writers
. There wasn’t a trace left of either. Their place had been taken by a modern quarter with brand-new, very plain and unadorned buildings and a completely different street layout.

‘This district is inhabited almost entirely by theatre staff,’ said the Uggly. ‘And their families. It’s like a city within a city. It doesn’t have an official name, but the Bookholmers call it
Slengvort
.’

‘Slengvort?’

‘The Puppetists have a professional language, which is passed on only by word of mouth, a jargon composed of various languages and dialects – still completely unresearched. They call this language
Sleng
. It has words for things of no interest to a non-Puppetist but of great importance to themselves.’

‘For instance?’

Inazia didn’t have to think for long. ‘Well, for bursting a costume at the seams just before a performance: that’s called
splooching
. If a
puppet’s
strings get tangled up in the middle of a scene, that’s a
noodlemesh
. If a puppet makes a clumsy, inappropriate movement onstage, that’s an
unskroot
. If it’s made to bat its eyelids, that’s an
okku
. A member of the audience who gets up and goes to the toilet during a performance is a
pissot
. Too little applause after a show is
krakki
.’

I laughed hoarsely.

‘One very important word in this language is
slengvo. Slengvo
means the state of affairs when a puppet comes alive – when it takes the stage and entertains the audience. When it moves. If it’s not in use and merely hangs on the wall by its strings, it’s
niartslengvo
or
un
alive. Dead, in other words.’

‘I see.’

‘At some point,
Slengvort
was adopted as the name of this district. It could be freely translated as
Place Where Puppets Come Alive
. Or
Puppets’ Birthplace
.’

‘Aha, interesting,’ I said.

Somewhat more attentive now, I looked around. The effects of the Magmass had worn off completely. This vibrant district was considerably more to my taste than the ghostly streets beside that dreadful river.

‘Not only puppeteers live here. The residents also include stage designers and costumiers, scene painters and technicians, directors and musicians, writers and usherettes, lighting engineers and puppet-makers, prompters, cleaners and bouncers. They come from all classes of society: Dwarfs, Demidwarfs, Vulpheads, Trolls, Midgardians, Watervalians, Gnomelets – you name it. This is a pretty lunatic part of town. Imagine a few hundred highly gifted children whose bodies have developed but not their brains: that’s the population of
Slengvort
. It’s a big asylum full of harmless nutters. I wouldn’t like to live here. I need my beauty sleep!’

Issuing from the open windows of the unpretentious apartment houses came loud sounds of activity. I could hear the chatter of sewing machines, the screech of a circular saw, a soprano practising
her
scales. Someone was playing the cello, someone else the kettle drum. Two laughing Demidwarfs were wheeling a mobile clothes rack into an entrance. Visible through a basement window, an actor wearing a death’s-head mask delivering a monologue from a play by Aleisha Wimpersleake. Children were rampaging around in the backyards, puppets hanging like washing on lines suspended between buildings. Some scenery painted to resemble a surreal, dreamlike landscape was propped against a wall. In front of it, two dogs were tussling over a broken puppet. Someone, somewhere, was ruthlessly trying out a thunder sheet. The activities that went on here were quite different from those that prevailed in other parts of the city. The place smelt of wet paint, turpentine and wood preservative, not coffee and books.

‘These are the earliest buildings in modern Bookholm,’ said Inazia. ‘That’s why they’re so plain and unadorned. Some of them were built of smoking rubble while fires were still burning elsewhere. They’re occupied exclusively by people used to seizing the initiative, improvising, giving each other a helping hand. There’s always something going on here. The theatre operates round the clock – it has never closed. Never! Six day-and-night performances in twenty-four hours and every one sold out.’

I was becoming curious.

If this to me wholly unfamiliar cultural attraction was such a success, it must have something truly exceptional to offer. It even boasted a district of its own!

We strolled along a street lined with buildings nearly all of which incorporated small shop windows. Most of the objects standing or lying in these were timepieces. Pocket watches, wristwatches, wall clocks, clocks under glass domes, dismantled movements, cogwheels, metal springs, tiny screws – every window displayed the same jumble of little parts. I thought I could detect a faint, thousandfold ticking sound.

‘A street full of clockmakers?’ I said.

‘A street full of
former
clockmakers,’ Inazia amended, raising her forefinger. ‘An important distinction, my friend! The theatre is always engaging clockmakers to construct and service its puppets. Who better suited?’

‘They must be very fine mechanics,’ I said jokingly.

‘The finest!’ she agreed. ‘The very finest!’

Turning a corner, we came upon a choral ensemble of eight Gnomelets in leather habits. They were practising a strange, melancholy song in a language unknown to me. All of them were holding up small glove puppets dressed like potatoes.

I was wholly unprepared for my first sight of the theatre, which loomed above the row of buildings like a ghost, and a pretty massive ghost at that. All one could see through the mist was a grey silhouette resembling a circus tent, but it was the largest building I’d ever seen in Bookholm.

‘Good heavens,’ I exclaimed, ‘is that …?’ I was so astonished, I omitted to complete the question.

‘Yes,’ said the Uggly. ‘That’s the Puppetocircus Maximus.’

‘Well I never! It’s huge.’ I had instinctively come to a halt.

‘It’s so big, it needs several names.’ She giggled. ‘Puppetocircus Maximus is the official designation, but who wants to keep saying all that? It’s a silly name – far too long and cumbersome. The townsfolk of Bookholm call it simply “The Tent”, although it isn’t a tent at all. The residents of Slengvort call it “Puppetholm”, but people of romantic bent refer to it as the “Theatre of Dreaming Puppets”.’

I looked at Inazia enquiringly.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘there really is a distant relationship between the theatre’s puppets and the city’s antiquarian books. Both are wrapped in a kind of enchanted slumber when not in use, aren’t they? They don’t awaken from it until they’re touched by a living hand. In one case it’s the hand of the reader, in the other that of the puppeteer. They don’t come to life until they’re perceived by an audience.’

‘And become
slengvo
, you mean?’ I grinned. ‘Sounds more like a
clever
advertising campaign on the part of the theatre management. A cute fairy tale for tourists. Bookholm kitsch. Nice, though.’

‘I’ll forgive your lack of respect for the moment,’ the Uggly said magnanimously, ‘because you still don’t have the first idea about Puppetism. That’ll change very soon.’