The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books (32 page)

‘What passage in my book is this supposed to represent?’ I whispered. ‘The Animatomes didn’t appear until later, in Shadowhall Castle. And they couldn’t speak, either!’

‘It’s a symbolic synopsis of the chapters in which you roam through the catacombs,’ Inazia explained with her mouth full of biscuit. ‘You try to get your bearings from the old books in the Labyrinth. That bookcase represents the whole of Zamonian literature, which is
showing
you the way like the omniscient chorus in the tragedies of old. Delightful, isn’t it? An oracle in book form. It seems a trifle pretentious at first, but one gets used to it.’

One of the fat old tomes cleared its throat audibly and spoke in a rumbling bass voice:

‘Down from the sunlit Overworld

a visitor to us was sent.

By fate into the Labyrinth hurled,

he does his tragic lot lament.

He has no compass him to guide,

no tentacles and no antennae.

It’s certain that, whate’er betide,

the dangers facing him are many!’

A smaller book on the shelf above continued in a much higher-pitched voice:

‘He must the catacombs defy

sans drink or even a bone to pick,

That’s quite enough, one can’t deny,

to make a famous author …’

Before the final word could be uttered, two ancient volumes hurriedly sang a duet:

‘Alas, alas, how sad to be

abandoned in the depths of night.

Poor Yarnspinner will ne’er be free

unless he can escape his plight.

The Reaper Grim his scythe prepares,

the jaws of Death are open wide,

wild beasts are lurking in their lairs.

The books his only hope provide,

but soon he’ll curse their bad advice,

for him to stray they will entice.’

Wherepon a whole shelf full of books sang the following words in unison:

‘Go left, no better to the right!

Or better still, go straight ahead

and jump into a yawning pit,

for then you will be good and dead!

Die fast, and count yourself in luck

because you don’t a slow death merit.

No Harpyr
¹
then your blood will suck

and maggots will your corpse inherit.’

The speaking books continued to declaim in this loquacious manner. I thought I could occasionally recognise the style and vocabulary of one or another heavyweight from the higher echelons of Zamonian literature: Ojahnn Golgo van Fontheweg, for example, with his know-it-all sentences and winged words, but also verses by Dölerich Hirnfiedler, the megalomaniac effusions of Eiderich Fischnertz, the preachifying tone of Akud Ödreimer and the sometimes involuntarily comical sing-song intonation of Ali Aria Ekmirrner. They all painted my forthcoming sojourn in the catacombs in the darkest colours and were unstinting in their textbook maxims and pieces of advice. So as to retain the audience’s attention, a glowing will-o’-thewisp flitted from book to book, illuminating the volume that was currently declaiming and changing colour each time. How the director managed this was a mystery to me. The jabbering classics then resorted to recommendations – nay, injunctions – regarding my literary work. In so doing, they became more and more vehement and eventually bombarded me with conflicting commands:

‘Turn out novels long and thick!

Books with lots of personnel!

Prose alone has timeless chic!

Only novels cast a spell!’

‘No! Write poetry sublime!

Put your verses into rhyme

and they’ll stand the test of time!’

‘Write novellas, medium length,

then you’ll go from strength to strength!

Nothing’s better than novellas

if you want to write bestsellers!’

‘Nonsense! Write plays that last for days

and the public you’ll amaze!’

‘You crave literary status?

Write an essay with afflatus!’

‘No! Write axioms profound!

They’re the best things to expound.

Churn them out and never tire

if to greatness you aspire!’

‘Rot! Write satires bold and witty,

criticisms devoid of pity!’

‘Why don’t you your feelings vent

in manifestos vehement,

fraught with malice, vitriol,

and prejudice political?

Stick them up on buildings tall,

plaster them to every wall,

but don’t sign them with your name

and you will escape the blame!’