The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books (49 page)

‘Darkman Street,’ he persisted, ‘burned more fiercely than any other part of Bookholm. That was because of the chemicals and alchemical substances stored in the cellars of the ancient buildings, as well as the extensive libraries and stocks of old paper. The Darkman Sector was still burning a full year after the fires had subsided elsewhere. The conflagration ate deeper into the ground than anywhere else in the city. That was where the catastrophe had begun and that was where it ended. It’s the only district in Bookholm that has never been rebuilt or restored.’

The carriage was filled with a sirenlike wail from the roof. It pierced me to the marrow.

‘That was the signal that we’re over the border and into the sector,’ the Murkholmer explained. ‘It also keeps the animals away.’

‘The animals?’ I said. ‘What animals?’

The green-bearded Druid uttered a bark of amusement.

‘The animals of the Toxic Zone,’ the Murkholmer replied. ‘Please don’t ask me their correct scientific names – not even the zoologists at Bookholm University could tell you those. No research has yet been conducted into the flora and fauna of this district, and for sound reasons.’

‘There are wild animals here?’ I asked nervously. ‘In the middle of the city?’

‘We aren’t really in the city now,’ said the Murkholmer. ‘The Darkman Sector is a no-man’s-land. Legally speaking, it’s wilderness – a lawless area. A blank space on the map in the middle of Bookholm.
An
urban curiosity. Nothing lives here apart from mutating insects and other unappetising creatures.’

I eyed our guide suspiciously. ‘You’re pulling my leg,’ I said. ‘I’ve never heard tell of anything like that.’

‘Then you should read the new guidebook you claim to know so well,’ the Murkholmer said tartly. ‘The Toxic Zone isn’t promoted as a tourist attraction, but it isn’t a secret either. People usually give it a wide berth – they don’t talk about it. It isn’t a pleasant subject.’

There was a muffled crash as if something had struck the underside of the carriage, followed by some fierce squeaks and screeches such as I’d never heard before. Then came another blast on the steam whistle and peace returned.

‘Animals!’ said the green-bearded Druid. He relapsed into silence as if that explained everything to everyone’s satisfaction.

‘What sort of animals are they?’ I asked rather shrilly. ‘Can they get into the carriage?’ Involuntarily, I lifted my feet off the floor.

‘No,’ the Murkholmer said calmly. ‘Why do you think it’s armour-plated? Only Biblionauts in armour venture outside here. The alchemical filters in their helmets protect them from the toxic fumes. They work like our filter installation on the roof.’

‘You mean the air outside is toxic?’ I asked and held my breath for a moment. I was already regretting having got out of bed at all. What on earth had I let myself in for?

‘It isn’t half as bad as it used to be, but even today I wouldn’t advise anyone to spend too long in this sector, with or without a respirator. Do you suffer from allergies? From asthma? That could even prove fatal. It just depends how strong your immune system is. Sometimes it’s just a cough that refuses to clear up for years, but sometimes it’s a cerebral fever that prevents you from sleeping properly for evermore. Chronic oozing rashes, hepatic fistulas, temporary blindness, loss of eyelashes – everyone reacts differently to the Toxic Zone. I know someone who—’

‘All right, all right!’ I exclaimed, raising my paws. ‘I get the picture.’

The Murkholmer smiled. ‘Just stay inside the carriage with the door shut, then nothing can happen.’

I made every effort to remain calm, but the hostile atmosphere in the carriage wasn’t exactly an aid to composure. I had an urge to kick open the door and run off, screaming. There was another strident whistle from the roof and the bumps and bangs ceased again. All that could be heard was the carriage rumbling along and we sat for a while in brooding silence.

Just a minute! An outrageous thought had occurred to me. Surreptitiously, I looked around and studied the faces of the other passengers from beneath my cowl. Weren’t they grinning covertly and weren’t they far too calm, given the prevailing circumstances? Were they genuine passengers at all?

‘You may consider the Invisible Theatre open,’ the Murkholmer had said. ‘Everything that happens from now on is part of the performance.’

Exactly! Could all this be no more than
theatre
, and of the simplest kind? Had the carriage budged even an inch from the spot since I got in? All it needed was a few stout fellows from the
Kraken’s Tentacle
to rock the vehicle a bit and hit it with sticks. All my fears had hitherto been aroused by noises from outside. Squeaks and screeches and jolting, nothing more.
What matters is what the Invisible Theatre does inside your head!
Wasn’t that what Inazia had told me the other day?

I had an audacious idea.

‘I’d be quite interested to see what it looks like outside,’ I said as casually as I could, putting my paw to the bolt that secured the shutter over the loophole beside me.

‘Don’t touch that!’ the Murkholmer said sharply. ‘It’s prohibited and dangerous.’

‘Oh, sure,’ I retorted. ‘And I know why.’

I promptly unbolted the shutter, pushed it aside, and peered out through the narrow slit.

‘No, don’t!’ I heard the Murkholmer call, but it was too late.

The paved road we were rumbling along was flanked by the sparse remains of what had once been a vibrant city district. Its blackened ruins resembled a forest consumed by fire, so little of it remained – little more than charred timbers and mounds of rubble. The sun, which was just rising, bathed everything in an orange glow, which created the illusion that the Great Conflagration of Bookholm was still burning. What additionally contributed to this impression was a smell of charcoal, which was still remarkably pungent after so many years. The skeletons of the old buildings were overgrown with vegetation I had never seen before. Violet moss was growing almost everywhere and blood-red climbing plants were winding themselves around fragments of half-timbering. Whole meadows of transparent-looking weeds were proliferating between the ruins. This was Darkman Street beyond a doubt, for I recognised the worn old paving stones I’d trodden an eternity ago. The sight made me go hot and cold by turns. No, the carriage was no longer standing outside the
Kraken’s Tentacle
, assuredly not! We were deep inside the Toxic Zone. Something black and glossy that looked like a cross between a gigantic stag beetle and a trilobite came crawling out of a crevice in the rubble. It was about the size of an adult cat. Having taken a short run, the monstrous creature hurled itself at the carriage with all its might. Bang! More beetles appeared in the charred ruins, croaking like belligerent ravens. The Biblionaut cracked his whip and there was another strident blast from the steam whistle. An acrid stench came wafting through the loophole and into the carriage. I instinctively shrank back.

‘Close the goddamned shutter, you idiot!’ cried the dwarf. ‘Do you want to kill us all?’ But I was too overwhelmed by the spectacle outside to raise a paw. The Murkholmer thrust me aside and secured the shutter.

‘Are you crazy?’ he shouted at me. ‘I expressly warned you! I’m responsible for my passengers, kindly remember that!’

Not altogether without reason, I was feeling like a fool. Guiltily, I subsided on to my seat.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said humbly. ‘I had no idea …’

‘No, you didn’t!’ croaked the dwarf. ‘I know who you are, Fatso!’

‘Perhaps you’ll believe me now,’ the Murkholmer said peevishly. ‘The whole district, the rocks, the subsoil, the ground water – everything’s saturated with toxic Bookemistic substances. Barrels of alchemical liquids burst and drained away in the Great Conflagration. Chemicals of the most obscure provenance mingled and were boiled and vaporised by the flames. It was an uncontrolled alchemical experiment on an unprecedented scale. Nobody knows what this ground beneath us has absorbed and accumulated, or what it may yet do to us. No wonder everyone prefers to keep quiet about it. There are creatures here today that never existed before the fire, either in Bookholm or anywhere else. They survive only here in the Toxic Zone, on this alchemically fertilised soil. Which is a blessing. As soon as they try to leave the sector, they die. Hairy frogs, yards-long worms with legs, rats with poisonous barbs in their tails – no scientist is eager to come here and research these new fauna and flora. Nobody wants to die attempting to categorise or catalogue them.’

I glanced at the shutter to reassure myself that the Murkholmer had fastened it securely.

‘Preliminary attempts were naturally made to research the creatures,’ he went on. ‘And to exterminate them. People tried to plough up and level the whole area, but it wasn’t long before they developed hitherto unknown diseases and ailments – multicoloured rashes, hallucinations, incurable nervous diseases – and some of them even died. Immediately after the Great Conflagration the inhabitants of Bookholm were so hungry, they gathered mushrooms in the Toxic Zone. Not a good idea! I’ll spare you the details. Suffice it to say that mushroom-picking has been prohibited ever since, not only in the
Toxic
Zone but throughout Bookholm. Try ordering mushroom risotto in a restaurant here. It’s impossible.’

‘Where are we going?’ I asked, to change the subject.

‘We’re making for the Pfistomel Shaft,’ the Murkholmer replied as if it were the most natural thing in the world. ‘That’s our destination.’

‘The … Pfistomel Shaft?’ My voice almost broke. ‘You mean there’s a Bookholm Shaft named after that criminal?’

‘Of course not. Not officially, at least. That shaft doesn’t have name – it’s the only one that has remained unnamed, but that was a mistake on the part of the municipal authorities. I suppose they thought it deserved a special form of reverence because it’s the entrance to the Labyrinth where the fire first started. And since it’s situated precisely where Pfistomel Smyke’s house once stood—’

‘Just a minute!’ I broke in excitedly. ‘You mean we’re heading for the spot where Pfistomel’s house used to be and there’s a Bookholm Shaft there now? An entrance to the catacombs? Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘Yes. It’s common knowledge, actually, so why do I need to explain everything to you? People christened it that for want of an official name. You can also call it the No-Man’s-Land Shaft if you want.’

This was incredible! I had, of my own free will, got into a carriage that was taking me to the spot whence I’d ended up in the catacombs! It was the very last place I wanted to be.

‘Turn round!’ I demanded on impulse. ‘Turn this carriage round and drive back at once! I want to get out.’

‘Out of the question,’ the Murkholmer said coldly.

‘Are you mad, Fatso?’ cried the dwarf. ‘You aren’t the only person in here.’

The green-bearded Druid just looked at me pityingly.

‘Driver!’ I called loudly, rapping on the ceiling with my cane. ‘Stop! We must turn back!’

The carriage promptly pulled up.

‘There,’ I said, feeling relieved. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t possibly accompany you to your, er, No-Man’s-Land Shaft. It’s not on for … well, very personal reasons. Sorry to have to have to spoil your party, but I wasn’t fully informed about it. I’ll naturally meet any expense incurred. Please instruct your driver to turn round.’ I was determined to wring the impudent dwarf’s neck if he made another snide remark.

‘It’s no use,’ said the Murkholmer. ‘We’re already there.’

‘There?’ I asked stupidly. ‘Where?’

‘At the Pfistomel Shaft. Our destination.’

The door opened with a loud creak and a rattle of chains.

‘Don’t worry,’ the Murkholmer said soothingly, ‘one can breathe here without a respirator. Right beside the shaft the fire raged so fiercely that all the chemicals were vaporised without trace. The air still smells rather acrid, but the incidence of noxious fumes is zero, it’s been scientifically measured. Please get out, gentlemen!’

‘Out the way, Fatso!’ the dwarf demanded, pushing past me.

I was stunned. For a moment I continued to sit there as if paralysed, but then I got out too. What else could I do?

The sight that met my eyes as I left the carriage by way of the door-cum-drawbridge was so breathtaking that I desisted from any further protests for the time being. The carriage was standing on blackened soil from which ruins jutted here and there like the charred bones of huge birds. We were on the edge of a pit some 300 feet in diameter: the Pfistomel Shaft.

‘The biggest entrance to the Bookholm Labyrinth,’ the Murkholmer said proudly, as if he had excavated it himself. ‘And the least often used.’

‘Incredible!’ said the dwarf. ‘I’ve always wanted to see this.’

My knees were almost buckling, but I pulled myself together and turned in desperation to the Biblionaut, who was still sitting on the box.

‘Driver!’ I called as peremptorily as I could. ‘Please take me back
to
the city, I’m afraid I can’t attend this function! You can name your own fare.’

The Biblionaut didn’t utter a sound. He didn’t even turn his head in my direction. To be precise, he didn’t move at all.