The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books (34 page)

For a while I sat there without moving and devoted scant attention to the scene that followed. Less than dramatic, it showed Yarnspinner bemoaning his fate in song. That the next two major episodes in my book had simply been cut may have been attributable to the intensity of the previous scene. If you don’t want to play to an empty house, you can’t afford to give the audience too much horror all at once. At all events, my encounters with Hunk Hoggno and the many-legged Spinxxxes
³
weren’t shown onstage, and I can’t say I missed them. Instead, Yarnspinner came upon a mysterious trail of slips of paper that glowed magically in the dark and led him ever deeper into the Labyrinth until – yes, dear friends, I can’t put it any other way – there was a sudden smell of Booklings!

Of that there could be no doubt. Booklings smell quite unmistakable. I could distinguish a Bookling from a hundred other creatures by its body odour alone. It smells a little like mushrooms after an autumnal shower. A little like freshly dubbined boots. Like rosemary, but only very faintly. Like ancient paper too, of course, but positively overpoweringly of bitter almonds. Yes, of bitter almonds, that appetising aroma often imparted to marzipan and sweet pastries. Bitter almonds are not, of course, native to the catacombs because they need sunlight in order to grow. But there exists in nearly all parts of the catacombs a phosphorescent fungus which, although an excellent provider of subdued lighting, is extremely hazardous to health. Its
smell
bears a remarkable resemblance to that of bitter almonds. If one eats it, however, it proves to be sadly indigestible. As soon as it reaches the stomach, the fungus proceeds to devour its host, whether rat, Bookhunter or Spinxxx, from the inside outwards. This makes it one of the most feared denizens of the catacombs. The aroma of bitter almonds that we inhabitants of Overworld find so appetising indicates to most creatures in the Labyrinth that the fungus is dangerous and causes them, in obedience to the instinct for self-preservation, to give it a wide berth. How the Booklings contrive to smell of this fungus is still unexplained. Is it a natural component of their body odour, or do they use a perfume obtained from it by chemical means? The only certainty is that this olfactory mimicry is an effective protection against being eaten. Whether or not it would really be dangerous to devour a Bookling is a subject still in need of scientific clarification.

So the Puppetocircus Maximus smelt of Booklings beyond doubt! Only a few moments later, whole hordes of those legendary, one-eyed residents of the catacombs thronged the stage. Or rather, the stages, for all the curtains had risen in order to provide an adequate representation of the new scene: the Leather Grotto and its immediate vicinity. Here was the subterranean home of the Booklings at last! I had been waiting on tenterhooks to see this set, and my hopes were not dashed. There were caves of the most diverse kinds, large and small, some displaying stalactites, others shimmering crystals. Some were festively illuminated by candles, others by the multicoloured light of phosphorescent plants. One cave was lit by the red glow from a pool of lava. And all this one saw at a glance, spread out across the various stages. There were books wherever one looked, piled high or in lopsided, worm-eaten bookcases, in stacks large and small, in barrels and chests, on handcarts and in baskets. The floor was strewn with manuscripts and the stalactites sprouting from the roofs of the caves were papered with book jackets. And milling around everywhere were Booklings of every shape, colour and size that this most remarkable of subterranean species is capable of adopting.

Well, before I become overly sentimental, dear friends, I will somewhat condense my synopsis of the play – inevitably so, because although my encounter with the Booklings took some time and was portrayed onstage with the greatest attention to detail, it contributed no more to the plot, from the purely dramaturgical aspect, than the corresponding chapter in my book. The ensuing scenes were islands of calm in a surging sea, oases of comfort in a storm-lashed desert, balm to the theatregoers’ troubled souls. They were a relaxing series of delightful, comical ballet and choral numbers, all accompanied by wonderful, foot-tapping music. The children in the audience, as well as those adults who had remained children at heart, laughed and
crowed
and applauded more exuberantly than ever before. They had forgotten the recent horrific incidents as quickly as I myself had. This was entertainment in the best sense: it helped one to forget one’s fear.

Some of the Booklings were played by marionettes on strings manipulated from above, but others were glove or stick puppets whose operators worked from behind pieces of scenery or bookcases. It was puppet theatre in its most original and transparent form, and very charming to watch. One saw the strings and sticks that moved the puppets, but – and this was the art! – one immediately forgot them. Never before had I seen such subtle puppetry, and never had glove puppets seemed so alive and amusing to me. The puppeteers
had
to be the theatre’s top-notch personnel – indeed, the finest of their profession. The puppets themselves, although of simple design, were miniature masterpieces of precision engineering. Their necks moved as naturally as if they possessed real spinal columns. Their eyes rolled in a wholly convincing manner, their eyelids opened and closed at natural intervals. It was only a few moments before I forgot they were puppets altogether. What contributed to this were their excellently imitated voices, for if there was one thing I did know, dear friends, it was how Booklings spoke! I am one of the few initiates to have actually heard their voices. They all have a slightly throaty, husky way of speaking, but they enunciate clearly. Frogs whose voices are breaking might sound like that if croaking weren’t their only form of articulation. At all events, those voices sounded so familiar, they immediately took me back to my time in the Leather Grotto. Whoever was responsible for this production possessed a knowledge of the catacombs and their inhabitants that was in no way inferior to my own.

‘They’re like the meerkats in the zoo,’ Inazia said softly.

‘Eh?’ I said.

‘The meerkats,’ she repeated. ‘In the zoo. You always feel you’d like to feed the things and take them home with you.’

I was briefly thrown by the thought that Inazia actually went to the zoo to feed the meerkats there, instead of to the park to poison the pigeons. But I soon turned my attention to the stage again. The funny little creatures were restlessly bustling around the set, toting books, arranging them on shelves and reciting poetry or prose. They climbed around on the book machine, a gigantic prop that filled the biggest stage. There, whole shelves of books were gliding to and fro and up and down, constantly loaded and unloaded by the Booklings. In smaller caves, they self-importantly operated printing presses or tended tattered old tomes like terminally ill patients in their book infirmary. They polished huge crystals and wielded pickaxes in a diamond mine. You didn’t know where to look, there was so much
going
on. And they sang and danced meanwhile! Yes, all the Bookling scenes were staged like one big, intoxicating dance routine, like a series of spirited waltzes composed – if my ears didn’t deceive me – by Elemi Deufelwalt. Boom-ta-ta, boom-ta-ta … It was an incessant circling and turning and pirouetting, a single, intoxicating, rotating tribute to literature and life itself. There was an Orming
⁴
waltz, a waltz of the crystals, a waltz of the diamonds. Boom-ta-ta, boom-tata … My leg twitched involuntarily in waltz time – I simply couldn’t help it. Curtains rose and fell ever faster, scenes swiftly changed in time to the music. Coloured lights flared up and died, phosphorescent jellyfish and fungi danced in the dark – it was a feast for the eyes and ears. We saw a pas de deux performed by two Booklings composed entirely of diamonds that dissected the candlelight and torchlight into a hundred slivers and projected them on to the walls of the theatre. I had never before seen such sentimental but captivating puppetry. And it culminated in the most glorious of all waltzes, that masterpiece dedicated by Jonas Nussrath to a beautiful blue river. The Uggly beside me was swaying in time to it and so were the theatregoers below us. As for me, dear friends, I dissolved into nostalgic ecstasy! It was almost as if I had re-encountered the Booklings in the flesh.

I was just wondering if they would dare to interrupt this exuberant number by showing Colophonius Regenschein’s tragic deathbed scene when I suddenly heard shouts and the clatter of weapons, and smelt a stench of pitch! The Booklings milled around in confusion.

The waltz ended abruptly, savage drumbeats rang out and the music took on a strident, positively hysterical note. Were those the martial rhythms of the overture to Flar Froc’s alarming opera with its medieval choruses? Yes! Flames shot up and licked the sides of the stage. The stench became infernal: a mixture of smoke, sulphur and –
yes
, wasn’t that blood I smelt too? And then they converged from all directions: Bookhunters, dozens of them! Life-size marionettes, they were lowered from above and came striding on to the stage from the wings, swinging their battleaxes. Many more – not puppets but actors in costumes – even came running down the aisles with blazing torches. Children were not the only occupants of the stalls to scream in terror.

For one panic-stricken moment I thought the Bookhunters had
really
returned and would take over the theatre! Their armour of bones, insect shells and rusty metal, their terrifying masks and weapons – all were just as I remembered them. One Bookhunter wearing a death’s-head mask actually burst into our box and aimed his crossbow at me, only to disappear, roaring with laughter, and leave me unscathed. I almost fainted, but Inazia laid a soothing hand on my arm.

‘It’s all part of the show,’ she said.

‘Really?’ I gasped. ‘And my heart attack? Is that also part of the show?’

Then darkness suddenly fell once more. Every light and flame was extinguished. The music ceased. The Booklings uttered a few more shrill screams, the Bookhunters’ cruel laughter gradually died away until total silence fell. Even the appalling smells emitted by the scent organ had dissipated.

1
Harpyrs
: unpleasant inhabitants of the catacombs of Bookholm. See
The City of Dreaming Books
, p. 295 ff. (Tr.)

2
See
The City of Dreaming Books
, p. 173 ff. (Tr.)

3
See
The City of Dreaming Books
, p. 186 ff. (Tr.).

4
Orming
: rarely performed ritual with which the Booklings receive an outsider into their community if they choose to do so. See
The City of Dreaming Books
, p. 222 ff. (Tr.)

The King of the Shadows

AT FIRST I
genuinely thought I’d had a heart attack. High overhead, I saw coloured lights in a pall of utter darkness. Was this the legendary light you’re said to see when you’re dying? I hadn’t imagined it would be so colourful. But then the curious light show descended. A dimly illuminated framework composed of thin rails and curved struts, it overarched the whole auditorium.

‘What’s that?’ I asked apprehensively. My nerves were strained to breaking point.

‘Don’t you recognise it?’ Inazia replied. She tittered. ‘You described it in detail yourself. It’s the Bookway.’

The what? Oh yes, now I remembered: it was the Rusty Gnomes’ Bookway. That structure up there was supposed to be a model of it, of course: an extremely downsized representation of the miles-long railway that had transported consignments of books through the catacombs in days gone by. I had travelled on it personally and perforce during my escape from the Bookhunters and the Leather Grotto. My memories of it were far from pleasant, for I never came closer to death than I did on that wild ride.

I could already hear and see the little wheeled toboggan that came squeaking along the rails with me, in the form of a tiny puppet, aboard it. Incredible! They’d been bold enough to show this breakneck chase! The toboggan steadily gained speed until it was racing along the track, its wheels screeching and spewing sparks, right above the heads of the audience. The sparks struck by the iron wheels flew off in a wide arc
and
rained down on the theatregoers’ heads. The fascination I felt for this extraordinary theatrical reproduction of a chapter in my book that really defied such treatment was great, but not as great as the delight it inspired in younger members of the audience. A regular commotion broke out in the auditorium. Children jumped to their feet, pointed upwards, craned their necks, clapped their hands. Music struck up again and with a vengeance! The well-known upbeat overture by Ossigichio Ronani, which always put me in mind of wildly galloping horses, it went quite well with my breakneck progress! I had completely forgotten that the Booklings scene in which I witnessed Colophonius Regenschein’s death had simply been omitted. No matter! On with the action!