The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books (7 page)

Surely it was … a Bookhunter! Yes! No! Yes! Impossible! My legs turned to jelly. There weren’t any Bookhunters left in Bookholm, they were all dead! Bookhunting had been legally prohibited in the city since the Great Conflagration. And yet … That martial attire, those weapons, that frightful mask – only a Bookhunter went around like that. And the strangest thing was, he inspired no form of terror, or even respect, in anyone but me. Nobody was avoiding him and anyone who watched him go by did so with a smile or a positively benevolent expression. Indeed, even children seemed to seek his company. I saw one little girl go up to the mail-clad figure and ask him something, whereupon he paused and gently stroked her head while her parents laughed happily. Then he strode on and disappeared into the crowd. Was this a bad dream?

Jostled by someone, I lurched onwards. And then at last I grasped the truth. It was an actor! A street artist! A performer dressed up as Bookhunter! Possibly even employed by the municipal authorities to entertain visitors. Of course, that was the only possible explanation! I heaved a sigh of relief. My goodness! My knees were still trembling, my paws fluttering like dragonfly wings and my heart was still in my mouth. I extricated myself from the stream of pedestrians and paused in front of a shop window to calm down a little.

When I examined the goods on display to distract myself, I involuntarily shrank back as if I’d seen an aggressive scorpion or a huge, fat spider about to pounce. The truth was far more alarming, however, for in the middle of the display sat an
Animatome
, a live book! A creature of the catacombs! What was more, it was one of the most dangerous kind. It had just captured a rat and was pleasurably engaged in biting off its head!

I had instinctively retreated several paces from the window, so my
view
was now obstructed by pedestrians. Was it possible? Had my eyes deceived me? Had it happened at last? Had they caught some Animatomes in the catacombs and brought them to the surface? Were they actually being sold as domestic pets like the poisonous snakes or biting toads that were kept in vivaria by many an animal lover with curious tastes? What other explanation could there be for what I’d just seen? Or were my nerves playing a trick on me? I was still traumatised by my encounter with the Bookhunter. Cautiously, I approached the shop window once more and ventured a second look.

There was no further doubt: it was an Animatome, and it had caught a rat with its bookmarks and strangled it. Now it was proceeding to devour its prey; a pool of blood was clearly visible beneath the horrific scene.

Although the victim’s head had already been bitten off, the rat’s tail was still lashing around in a violent reflex. I noticed only now that the window dressing was a fairly accurate reproduction of conditions in certain areas of the catacombs, with a mossy granite floor on which ancient volumes and scattered parchments were mouldering away and bookworms crawling around. On closer inspection, however, didn’t the movements of the Animatome and the rat look somehow unnatural? There, the rat’s tail was swishing exactly as it had a moment ago. And the way the book swayed around on its spindly legs – wasn’t it always the same? Like … yes, like a mechanical toy? It was then that I read one of the signs stuck to the shop window:

I peered into the interior of the shop. On a shelf against the wall stood dozens of little cages, each containing an Animatome. They weren’t moving, though. They were waiting for a key to wind them up and bring them to temporary life like the example in the window.
They
were toys! Models! Joke articles for tourists who wanted to throw a scare into their friends back home.

I subsided. By the Orm, how embarrassing! First the fake Bookhunter and now this! I’d been taken in by tourist hokum twice in quick succession. That usually happened only to village idiots from the Graveyard Marshes, I felt sure! Life at Lindworm Castle had sissified and stupefied me considerably more than I’d thought.

I leant against a pillar. I needed to compose myself, that was all. I was tired after my trek, had been subjected to a massive culture shock, and my morbid imagination had made its usual contribution. Having faced up to my colossal fears, I couldn’t expect them to disperse like flatulence after a short walk. My return to Bookholm – how often had I been visited by that scenario in my dreams over the years! What nightmare scenes complete with a horrific cast of characters had my sleeping brain not conjured up! A city of blazing pitch and sulphur populated by a hundred incarnations of Pfistomel Smyke chasing me through its streets. Paper buildings printed with poems of my own that went up in smoke when touched by a ray of sunlight. Hordes of underworld insects crawling through the streets while the
Darkman
tore roofs off the houses and devoured their occupants. An inescapable labyrinth of streets with mobile walls like the passages in Shadowhall Castle and filled with bloodthirsty Bookhunters unmercifully pursuing me. I once dreamt that the city was an interminable, charred book graveyard in which I roamed in solitude as I had across the mouldering sea of paper in Unholm, the catacombs’ rubbish dump. In my dreams I waded through brittle, age-old paper, forever breaking through it and sinking in. Gigantic bookcases toppled over on me and buried me beneath them, bookworms devoured me alive. My restless brain devised new tortures and ways of dying every night. Why, actually? Why isn’t one master of one’s own brain? Why can’t one rest when asleep? Why is one so constantly tormented by absurd fears when reality tends to be peaceful and innocuous? Just imagine if real life were like our nightmares. Then teeth would suddenly sprout from our noses,
we
would come face to face with our dead grandmothers and the voice of our long-dead maths teacher would issue from our lips. Volcanic eruptions would be a daily occurrence and our homes would be deep in water inhabited by sharks made of bricks. That’s what sometimes happens in my dreams, anyway. But real life isn’t (thank goodness) as interesting and dangerous as that. Compared to our nightmares, it’s safe and uneventful. There were no sharks in our living room and no more Pfistomel Smyke in Bookholm. No
Darkman
either! All that real-life Bookholm had so far had to offer in the way of threats was a mechanical toy in a shop window, an actor dressed up as a Bookhunter, and an antipathetic dwarf. I needed to relax at last.

I left the Antique Arcades and headed deeper into the city. In order to do so, I had only to get my bearings from the location of the setting sun and head north.

Mental Picture No. 4 The Ugor Vochti Shaft

The only noteworthy feature of the side streets running off the Antique Arcades was the number of shops selling marionettes and other wooden puppets. They all had literary associations and represented authors or the characters in novels. This appeared to be a new line of business in Bookholm. I came eventually to a wide, busy street, which I remembered from my first stay and which looked almost unchanged. It used to be the centre for mass bookshops that sold books cheaper by the dozen and by weight – and it still was, to judge by the hoardings. Horse-drawn carts fully laden with books trundled along the street, and hawkers and extempore poets abounded. Although this district had repelled me in the old days, it now encouraged me to hope I would yet find something of the Bookholm of old, for at least it hadn’t been burnt to the ground. I
continued
to proceed in a northerly direction and was nearing a crossroads when I noticed that the pavement had given way to a boardwalk that creaked and groaned beneath my feet. This was an unusual sight in modern Bookholm. Combustible building materials like timber were only sparingly employed and looked positively old-fashioned when used for pavements. On reaching the crossroads I still saw pedestrians but no vehicles of any kind. In the middle of the intersection was a deep, balustraded pit with the boardwalk running round it. A huge pit in the middle of a crossroads? A surprising sight, my friends! I joined the spectators who were crowding up against the balustrade. Sure enough, there was a crater at least fifty or sixty feet across, lined with timber and so deep that the bottom was out of sight. There were even several flights of steps – many of timber, others of iron – leading down into it. People were climbing up and down them as if this were a thoroughly everyday activity, but to me it resembled one of the absurd scenes in my nightmares.

‘What on earth is
that
?’ I blurted out.

‘It’s the Ugor Vochti Shaft, you stupid clot,’ said a passer-by. ‘Use your eyes.’

I looked up and saw a sign inscribed in handsome calligraphic script. It read:

The Ugor Vochti Shaft

This was really something new, my friends! I was naturally familiar with Ugor Vochti’s name. He was a classical exponent of Zamonian literature and had written several genuinely good novels. But why ‘shaft’? I had never heard of any ‘shaft’ in Bookholm. I felt so stupid and provincial, I didn’t dare ask any more questions.

I looked down once more. A timber-lined shaft leading down into the ground? What, pray, could its purpose be? Where did it lead to?
Nearly
all the descending or ascending figures had lanterns, candles or torches with them. Right at the bottom I could make out tiny specks of light dancing around. What were those people doing down there? Was there something worth seeing? Leaning further over the balustrade, I was suddenly smitten by a gust of air coming straight from the bottom of the shaft. I recoiled as if struck by a fist, staggered backwards into a group of passers-by and apologised, then stood there, swaying, and pulled myself together. It was the smell of the catacombs that had so unexpectedly assailed me with all its might: microscopically fine book dust, the exhalations of algae and fungi, stagnant water and decay. That was how it smelt in the darkness beneath Bookholm! I felt dizzy, but my nausea luckily subsided as quickly as the smell evaporated.

A few pedestrians tittered at my behaviour and I earned the sort of pitying glances usually reserved for drunks. Heavens, I was once more behaving like a country bumpkin on his first visit to the big city! I debated with myself, but only for a moment. Some inner voice sternly forbade me to take another look down the hole. I could discover what it was in due course. Get out of here, I told myself. I took the next turning and strode swiftly along the boardwalk until I felt solid paving stones under my feet once more.

This is where our visit to the museum of
Yarnspinnerish Mental Painting
ends, dear friends, and another – probably more objective – form of Bookholmian reportage begins. I hope, however, that our brief tour has helped to make the state of acute bewilderment provoked in me by such a barrage of new impressions a little more comprehensible. One thing, at least, was clear: I couldn’t go on like this. I was running around like a headless chicken. What I badly needed was some reliable information, possibly a well-written tourist guide or something of the kind. Without more ado I went over to the nearest bookshop and peered through the window. Did they sell tourist guides? Street maps? Bookholm regionalia? A list of hotels
wouldn’t
come amiss either, because it was time I worked out where to stay for the next few days.

There was a loud rustling sound behind me and something plucked at my cloak. ‘Hello?’ said a piping voice. ‘Hellolioli? Care for a Live Historical Newspaper?’