The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books (42 page)

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘You see no difference between an animal’s horn and the writing hand of … Aleisha Wimpersleake, let’s say?’ I asked.

He thought for a moment. ‘Honestly? No. In both cases it’s a piece of dead tissue. There’s nothing special about it. Anyone who bought it I would consider sick, but for quite different reasons. He could have purchased something more meaningful for the same money or done some good with it, but he preferred to acquire a mummified hand of no practical or social value.
That
I find reprehensible. So, would I buy it? Never! But I’d certainly sell it. A few inanimate bones change hands instead of lying in a grave. Who gives a damn?’

‘And if it were your own hand?’

The Biblionaut looked up.

‘Well, I wouldn’t care so long as it wasn’t cut off while I was still alive. But that’s a hypothetical question. Biblionauts don’t attain a sufficient degree of celebrity for their limbs to become sought-after commodities.’ I could have sworn he was grinning under his mask.

The bell for the third act rang and we turned our attention to the stage again. The play had altogether ceased to interest me. I couldn’t wait for the puppets to finish slaughtering one another and enable us to continue our conversation. When the time finally came, we politely joined in the applause and went on chatting in our seats while the other theatregoers streamed towards the exit.

‘Thank you for our talk,’ said the Biblionaut. ‘Please excuse the fact that it was rather one-sided. I held forth at such inordinate length, but you know, that always happens when I’m up here for a few days. I then feel a overpowering urge to talk. We Biblionauts observe a code that restricts communication to a minimum when our paths cross in the catacombs. Each of us being engaged on a mission of his own, no agreements, alliances or groups should come into being – that’s the underlying sense of it. Only in cases of extreme emergency or sickness do we make contact and assist one another, but at other times … To cite one last analogy with seafaring: when two Biblionauts encounter each other in the catacombs, they resemble two ships on a foggy night. We take care not to collide and drift past each other without really meeting. We only
sense
the other’s presence. We may hear
breathing
or a rustling sound in the darkness – and then we’re alone once more. That’s why I tend to bubble over with sociability when I spend time on the surface. Don’t hold it against a lonely Biblionaut if he’s subjected you to more verbiage than Yarnspinner does in his novels.’

I gave a start – imperceptibly, I hoped.

‘Don’t mention it,’ I rejoined quickly. ‘It was a privilege to learn so much about the ethos of Biblionautics. I have a different idea of it now, believe me.’

‘Then my speechifying has been to some purpose.’ The masked stranger chuckled. ‘Shall I tell you what Biblionauts
really
dream of?’

‘Please do!’

‘Well, we’d like all parts of the catacombs to become habitable some day.
All
parts, down to their very last twist and turn. And by “habitable” we mean transformed into a normal habitat accessible to all without exception. Even a child should be able to play safely down there, miles below us, unsupervised and free from fear or danger. That sounds a high-flown, fanciful aim, I know. It won’t be fulfilled in our lifetime, of course, but you have to set the bar high if you want to excel at the high jump. Just imagine what a unique city Bookholm could then become: a community like a majestic old tree with roots extending deep into the earth, not just a few subterranean levels accessible by means of shafts, as they are now. Oh no, that’s just the start. I’m talking about the whole Labyrinth.’

‘That really is a beautiful dream,’ I said cautiously.

‘It’s utopian as yet, but it’s feasible. All we have to do is bring light into the darkness. Have you ever held up a burning torch in a cellar infested with rats and vermin? The whole unsavoury bunch make off of their own accord. Life below ground isn’t an unnatural condition, just a largely unknown and unseen one. A vast amount of all organic life takes place below the surface. None of what we do up here would be possible without subterranean life. Just think of books. Books are made of paper, paper comes from wood, wood
comes
from trees, trees grow in soil, and soil is fertile only when ploughed up and manured by living creatures. Not only trees but most plants conceal the bulk of themselves below ground. A root can survive without blossoms, but never a blossom without roots. We use only a small fraction of the habitat granted us and only because we have an irrational fear of the dark. Bookholm could become the most exciting city in Zamonia, if only we colonised it vertically as well as horizontally.’

There it was again, that curious sensation! Why did this masked stranger seem so familiar to me? Was it his voice? His choice of words? His gestures? His enthusiasm? Who did he remind me of? Or was it just a sense of déjà vu? An overreaction on the part of my brain, fuelled by my multifarious experiences in recent days and evoked by the present situation? That wouldn’t be surprising. My last few days had been more eventful than a whole year spent in Lindworm Castle. After all, I was chatting with a Bookhunter!

‘Imagine a subterranean Bookholm,’ the Biblionaut said eagerly. ‘One in which the few buildings up here represent only the tip of the iceberg. Ten, twenty, or even a hundred times as much of the city lies below the surface as above it. And don’t think of it as a dark, sinister place, oh no! Not a dark Labyrinth fraught with shadows and dangers, but a series of festively illuminated caverns. Candlelit halls and passageways. Flights of steps, covered squares, whole boulevards ablaze with light! If we wish, we can make it brighter down there than up here on a rainy day, using specially bred luminous algae, phosphorescent fungi and jellyfish, and old and new technologies of which we still have no conception. Sunlight can be directed into the earth’s interior by means of mirrors, did you know that? I’ve seen crystals the size of trees down there which give off light like hundred-branched chandeliers, colonies of luminous, multicoloured sponges that illuminate whole cave systems. Streams of lava can be channelled and used as sources of light and heat – the Rusty Gnomes did that.’

Well I never, the Rusty Gnomes! The Biblionaut was reviving memories I’d long thought buried in oblivion. I was almost as infected by his sudden enthusiasm as he was himself. Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell him that I’d seen similar phenomena with my own eyes. I had been in the Crystal Forest and ridden the Bookway, which glowed in the dark. Why did those memories suddenly seem so much less frightening than before? Why were they unexpectedly making me feel nostalgic?

‘We expend vast amounts of energy in erecting tall buildings that tower into the air,’ said the Biblionaut, ‘and can collapse in the slightest earthquake or tornado. We build towns beside the sea or big rivers, where they can be destroyed by spring tides or floods – we even build towns on the slopes of dormant volcanoes or in deserts, where they’re parched by the pitiless sun. We nonsensically scale mountain peaks on which the air is too thin to breathe. Nobody questions that, but when we suggest building a city down into the earth, where it’s protected from the elements, from cold and heat, frost and rain, hail and lightning, wind and weather, people say we’re mad. The ground is the best shelter of all. Many animals know and take advantage of that, but we ignore it. It was different once upon a time. The early inhabitants of the Labyrinth must have known things we’ve forgotten. There used to be flourishing civilisations down there, highly developed cultures and urban life – and they still exist today. Think of the Booklings! They lead a sheltered and highly civilised existence in the catacombs. They’re said to be incredibly old, in fact, they’re even rumoured to be immortal! Read Yarnspinner’s book. The Leather Grotto makes an ideal habitat for civilised creatures.’

It was all I could do not to grin. The Booklings, yet! I would never have believed that a Bookhunter, of all people, could make me feel nostalgic for the catacombs, but it was true. I was on the verge of throwing back my cowl and revealing my identity.

‘The Rusty Gnomes – they’re a subject in themselves,’ the Biblionaut pursued eagerly. ‘Their hitherto unresearched technologies
and
literature could be an inexhaustible aid to opening up the catacombs, for they were in advance of us in many ways. By mathematically calculating the advantages of gradients and declivities, ups and downs, they were able to traverse the catacombs at a speed of which we up here can only dream. We could renovate the Bookway and turn it back into the ingenious transport system it used to be. I’ve seen some extremely complex technical structures down there: elevators, flywheels, gigantic chain hoists. Rusty and dilapidated, but only apparently devoid of purpose. If we ever deciphered those mechanical ruins – which is only a question of time – we could probably reconquer Netherworld far more rapidly than we now hope and dream. We’re like children who live on top of a brimming treasure chamber and don’t dare open it because they think an evil spirit dwells within. We must bring more light into the catacombs, then the evil spirits will flee them like rats and vermin.’

There was no stopping the Biblionaut now. I had no need to interpolate any more questions; he grew more and more rhapsodic. I seemed to hear him crackle like a charged alchemical battery, but it was probably just his cloak rustling. ‘The ancient civilisations that made their home down there,’ he lectured on, raising a forefinger, ‘were well aware that it afforded the ideal conditions in which to establish large-scale libraries. No injurious sunlight! Low humidity!
That’s
why Bookholm is still the epicentre of Zamonian literature and the entire book trade. We are still profiting from that forgotten faith in Netherworld and its age-old treasures. And we haven’t even scratched the surface of the resources offered us by that dark world down there! There are metals to be mined of which no alchemist knows. Golden coal that burns for ever. Oil that runs up walls and whispers. Black diamonds the size of houses. The Rusty Gnomes are said to have mined vast quantities of Zamonium down there. And we still know nothing about the fauna. Nothing at all! We can’t even guess what can be evolved by a biology that doesn’t have to squander its energy on shielding itself from sunlight. I wouldn’t even talk about
some
of the creatures I’ve seen down there for fear of being declared insane.’

The masked stranger laid a hand on my arm.

‘Believe me, we Biblionauts are far more aware than anyone else of the dangers lurking in the catacombs. That’s our profession. But we also try to gain a rational understanding of those threats and explain them, not exaggerate and magnify them. Enlightenment, that’s one of our tasks. We don’t concoct old wives’ tales about Book Dragons and “Fearsome” Booklings, as the old-time Bookhunters did. You don’t solve problems by embellishing them with horror stories. Most people don’t venture into the catacombs because their fears are greater than the actual dangers that exist down there. That’s the Bookhunters’ destructive legacy and we’re still having to combat it!’

One of the stagehands engaged in clearing up bumped into some scenery, which fell over with a crash. The Biblionaut seemed suddenly to awaken from a trance. He released my arm and straightened up.

‘Heavens!’ he said. ‘I’ve been talking nineteen to the dozen. Where are my manners?’

The auditorium was deserted save for us and the stagehands getting ready for the next performance. We got to our feet at last.

‘Please forgive a lonely Biblionaut, but perhaps I can offer you a little compensation. You’re clearly interested, not only in puppet theatre, but in conditions in the catacombs, so perhaps I’ll take the liberty of giving you a tip. I know of no institution in Bookholm that could teach you more about both subjects – in the most exceptional manner. Here …’ He handed me a small card, which I accepted with thanks. Then he gave me a little bow, wished me a pleasant stay, and went out.

Staring after him, I couldn’t help feeling yet again that I’d already met him at some stage in my life. I tried to shake off the sensation by examining the card he’d given me. It was blank, so I thought I must be looking at the wrong side. I turned it over, but the other side was
equally
blank. He’d given me a piece of white card, nothing more. Was it a joke? A mistake? A Biblionaut’s sense of humour? Puzzled, I put it in my pocket and left the theatre too. The daylight outside was dazzling.

1
Dr Fidemus Grund
: celebrated Zamonian psychoanalyst and founder of night-mareology. His most important work:
Nocturnal Unease
, Caput & Co., Grailsund. (Tr.)

Puppetism of Absolute Perfection

WHEN I WASN’T
out and about with Inazia or going to the theatre on my own, I often went to the
Kraken’s Tentacle
. This was one of Bookholmian Puppetism’s most important institutions – the first and still the best emporium for puppet-makers and puppeteers, producers and property masters, because it stocked simply everything that was regularly required by those and related professions. It was at once a warehouse, a workshop, a coffee house, a rendezvous, a first-aid post for injured puppets, an assembly point for striking puppeteers, an authors’ debating society, a university, a museum and a library. Like many of the city’s theatres, it was open around the clock. The staff consisted of a dozen Midgard dwarfs. Though usually overworked and ill-tempered, they were not only very informative when it came to questions about Puppetism, but positively omniscient, each in his different field.