‘Would it work?’
‘Yes, unless Ghoolion inserted a mental block. If he did, any further hypnosis would render you psychotic. You might spend the rest of your life imagining yourself to be a glass of milk or the town hall at Florinth.’
‘We’d better leave it, then,’ Echo said quickly.
‘I’d advise against it too. Too risky. Ghoolion is an expert hypnotist and he’s far too careful to dispense with a blocking mechanism.’
Echo was impressed by Izanuela’s self-assurance. She didn’t conceal her unlovely features beneath a cowl or in darkened rooms. Hers was a proud, undisguised ugliness that exploited its impact to her own advantage - an ugliness that demanded respect.
‘Up is down and ugly is beautiful,’ thought Echo. Aloud, he asked, ‘You mean it’s genuinely impossible for me to run away of my own volition?’
‘Yes. Spells of that kind don’t expire until their author dies,’ Izanuela said in a low voice. ‘You’d have to kill Ghoolion to be released from it.’
Although it now seemed quite natural to Echo that Ghoolion meant to kill him, the thought of killing the Alchemaster himself struck him as monstrous.
‘I could never do such a thing,’ he said.
‘It would be the simplest solution, though. There must be enough poisonous stuff lying around in that laboratory to kill a whole horde of Alchemasters. A pinch of something in his coffee, and …’ She blew an imaginary feather off her palm.
‘I’m not like that,’ Echo said. ‘It’s out of the question.’
The Uggly sighed. ‘That’s why you Crats are becoming extinct. You’re too nice for this world.’
‘Why are
you
still here?’ asked Echo. ‘I mean, when all the other Ugglies have moved out? Are you also under a spell?’
‘No.’ Izanuela stared at him until her squint became almost unbearable.
‘So why not simply leave this town yourself, given that Ghoolion makes your life such a misery?’
‘Why not? I’ll tell you. When the other Ugglies had gone I learnt what it means to have a monopoly. In the old days we Ugglies used to be deadly competitors, but all at once I was the most sought-after naturopath and fortune teller in Malaisea. Customers beat a path to my door. You’ve no idea what a demand there is for alternative medicine in a town full of sick people.’
The Uggly gazed intently at Echo, waggling each of her ears in turn.
‘Anyway, Ghoolion leaves me alone most of the time. He knows how important to him my presence is. What town needs a persecutor of the Ugglies if there aren’t any Ugglies left to persecute?’
‘I see,’ said Echo. He stared, spellbound, at her waggling ears.
‘And don’t imagine that the Ugglies who moved out are faring any better as a result. Most of them are vagabonds. They traipse around Zamonia from one fairground to the next, complete with their donkey carts and cooking pots, sleeping rough and going in constant fear of Corn Demons and Woodwolves. I’ve got a roof over my head and plenty of regular customers. What more could anyone want?’
Izanuela stopped waggling her ears. ‘But what about you?’ she said. ‘What made you think I could help you?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Echo. ‘Actually, I got the idea from a friend of mine. He thought you Ugglies either know or possess something Ghoolion is scared of.’
The Uggly gave him the sort of look she might have reserved for imbeciles or children who have said something idiotic.
‘What gave your friend
that
idea?’ she asked pityingly. ‘Why should Ghoolion be scared of us, of all people?’
‘Not a clue,’ said Echo. ‘It wasn’t my idea, as I say. Perhaps he thought you could brew a potion of some kind.’
‘Oh,’ Izanuela scoffed, ‘if that’s all! Brew a potion? No problem. One that would shrink him to the size of a mouse, maybe? Or make him disappear into thin air?’
Echo’s jaw dropped. ‘Could you do that?’
‘Of course not!’ she snapped. ‘Good heavens, what an exaggerated idea of our powers you have! I mean, look around you. The most effective potion we can administer is camomile tea!’
Echo looked deflated. ‘Then it was no use my coming here again, I suppose,’ he said with a sigh.
The Uggly’s shoulders gave a loud creak as she shrugged them.
‘I can’t help that, can I? Listen, youngster: Ugglies versus Ghoolion is like a bucket of water against a forest fire, or harmless herbalism against the most dangerous form of alchemy, or fennel tea against the bubonic plague.’
‘Yes,’ said Echo, ‘I understand. Many thanks for hearing me out all the same.’
He turned to go. Izanuela clicked her fingers and the door swung open.
‘So why should my conscience be pricking me?’ she cried, rolling her eyes. ‘Just because I’ve no wish to put a noose round my own neck? Or because I don’t feel suicidal and I’m not as hell-bent as you are on crossing swords with Ghoolion?’
‘It’s all right,’ Echo said as he went down the veranda steps. ‘It wasn’t my idea, as I say. Goodnight.’
‘Hang on,’ Izanuela called.
Echo paused on the bottom step and turned. He felt a faint glimmer of hope.
‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘there’s another reason why I’m still in Malaisea.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’m the worst Uggly in Zamonia.’
‘What?’
‘I mean it. I can’t foretell the future, I can’t brew love potions - I can’t even read cards. I don’t possess any Ugglian aptitudes at all.’
‘Is that true?’
Izanuela gave another shrug. ‘Absolutely. They found that out when I was at school.’
‘You mean there’s a school for Ugglies?’
‘Of course. I came bottom of the class in every subject. You unerringly hit on the most ineffectual Uggly in the whole of Zamonia. That’s why I’m here. I wouldn’t stand a chance on the open market. When the others were still here I lived on charity.’
‘But what about all your customers? Why do they keep coming to you if you’re so hopeless?’
‘The herbal remedies I sell them consist of one per cent medicine and ninety-nine per cent hope. The more you believe in them, the more good they do you. I simply roll my eyes a bit as well.’
Echo sighed and turned to go.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Come back any time, my young friend. I mean, if you feel like a chat or anything.’ Izanuela clearly felt relieved to have thought of something consoling to say.
‘Many thanks,’ said Echo, as he walked off down the lane. ‘Maybe I will.’
‘There’s one thing I’d like you to explain,’ she called after him. ‘If he’s going to kill you anyway in two weeks’ time, why are you still on a diet?’
‘Nobody understands the Leathermice,’ Echo called back.
‘The Leathermice?’ she asked. ‘What on earth do the Leathermice have to do with it?’
But Echo had already disappeared into the darkness.
The Second Nut
N
ow that he was entirely dependent on himself, Echo had to use his own grey matter to devise a new strategy. After running the equivalent of a marathon up and down the castle stairs, he had retired to his basket for a rest and was communing with himself.
‘Where is Ghoolion’s weak spot?’ he wondered. ‘Where is he most vulnerable? He smiles, he laughs, he makes jokes - he even weeps occasionally, so he must have feelings like any other creature.’
He turned over on his back and stared at the ceiling.
‘Why does he have such a passion for cooking? Anyone who’s so devoted to an art that gives other people pleasure must surely be capable of unselfishness. Could I appeal to his better nature? If so, how?’
The ceiling above him suddenly turned gold and something even brighter materialised at its central point. At first Echo thought it was the Cooked Ghost, but then he recognised it as the Golden Squirrel from the Tree of Nutledge.
‘Hello again!’ it squeaked. ‘Are you prepared to let me help you undertake some important cognitive processes?’
Echo stared at the apparition open-mouthed. He could feel a warmth that suffused his whole body with a sense of serene well-being.
‘Those are the sympathetic frequencies that emanate from the Cogitating Eggs,’ said the squirrel. ‘They transmit those powerful vibrations from the Valley of the Cogitating Eggs so that I can pass them on to you. I’m their telepathic postman, so to speak.’
‘Vibrations?’ said Echo.
‘Yes. You could also call them faith. Faith is essential when one has visions like the ones you’re having, otherwise you’d lose your mind.’
‘It isn’t my mind I’m worried about,’ Echo replied, ‘it’s my survival.’
‘That’s why I’m here. You’re working out a new strategy, aren’t you?’
‘I’ve been wondering how to arouse Ghoolion’s pity.’
‘That won’t be easy. He’s got a heart of ice.’
‘But I’ve seen him shed tears.’
‘Perhaps he had something in his eye. Or toothache.’
‘No, there was another reason.’
‘Good,’ said the squirrel, ‘that’s a start, but you’d best begin with yourself. Can you remember any incident in your life that moved you deeply? Anything that aroused your pity?’
‘No,’ Echo replied.
‘Then try! Think! Search your memory!’
Echo did his best. Pity? Compassion? No, he’d seldom had recourse to those emotions in his brief existence.
‘The only person I’ve ever felt sorry for is me.’
‘That doesn’t count!’ the squirrel exclaimed. ‘Think harder! Maybe something will occur to you.’
Echo racked his brains.
‘Have you ever wept, but at someone else’s misfortune, not your own?’ the squirrel prompted him.
Echo recalled the occasion when he’d pushed a blind mole into a stream. Except that he hadn’t wept, he’d laughed.
‘That was malicious glee!’ the squirrel told him disapprovingly. ‘That wasn’t pity, it was the opposite.’
‘I know,’ said Echo. ‘I can’t think why it popped into my mind.’
‘It’s a part of your cognitive process,’ the squirrel explained. ‘Your brain is sorting out suitable emotions. Go on looking. Go back as far as you can.’
A vague memory surfaced in Echo’s mind. An incident he’d almost forgotten, it was so long ago.
‘I do believe I’ve thought of something,’ he said. Tears sprang to his eyes at the mere recollection. ‘It’s a story I heard when I was little.’
‘Bravo!’ the squirrel cried triumphantly. ‘Congratulations, my friend. That was your second flash of inspiration. We’ll be seeing each other only once more.’
The golden glow faded and the squirrel turned translucent.
‘Hey!’ Echo called. ‘Don’t you want to hear the story?’
‘No!’ the squirrel called back. Its voice was very faint now. ‘Don’t tell it to me, tell it to Ghoolion.’
Ingotville
‘L
isten, Master,’ said Echo, having devoured the delicious fillet of sole Ghoolion had given him for supper in the kitchen that night. ‘This time
I’d
like to entertain
you
for once. By telling you a story.’
Ghoolion proceeded to fill his pipe. ‘I didn’t know storytelling was your forte,’ he said with a grin.
‘That makes two of us,’ Echo replied, ‘but I can at least try.’
‘You’re full of surprises. What sort of story is it?’
‘A love story.’
‘Oh,’ said Ghoolion. He looked as if he’d swallowed a cockroach.
‘Don’t worry,’ Echo said quickly, ‘it’s a thoroughly tragic love story. The saddest story I’ve ever heard.’
Ghoolion’s face brightened. ‘Go on, then,’ he said, lighting his pipe. ‘I like tragic stories.’
Echo made himself comfortable on the kitchen table. He sat down on his haunches and supported himself on his forepaws.
‘I must begin by emphasising that this story is true in every detail. It’s about a very beautiful young woman.’
Ghoolion nodded, puffing away. Dense clouds of smoke ascended into the air.
‘Picture to yourself the most beautiful girl imaginable! She was so beautiful that there would be no point, in view of my meagre talent for storytelling, in even trying to put her beauty into words. That would far exceed my capabilities, so I’ll refrain from mentioning whether she was a blonde or a brunette or a redhead, or whether her hair was long or short or curly or smooth as silk. I shall also refrain from the usual comparisons where her complexion was concerned, for instance milk, velvet, satin, peaches and cream, honey or ivory. Instead, I shall leave it entirely up to your imagination to fill in this blank with your own ideal of feminine beauty.’
It could be inferred from Ghoolion’s expression and the faraway look in his eyes that he had already complied with Echo’s suggestion. His thin lips were set in one of those rare smiles that made him look almost likeable. To Echo, the fact that Ghoolion had any kind of ideal of feminine beauty was an encouraging sign.