The Snow-White Widow’s movements now became as ethereal and undulating as those of a jellyfish swimming in the depths of the sea. She sent her strands of hair snaking in all directions, froze them in mid-air for one fascinating moment and then, with provocative sluggishness, allowed them to sink once more. Echo found her dance so fascinating that he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
‘It’s said that the Snow-White Widow comes from the planet on which Death itself resides,’ Ghoolion whispered, ‘and that Death created her in order to discover what it was like to be afraid of something. That’s nonsense, of course. Death resides in all of us, nowhere else. One thing is certain, though: she’s the Queen of Fear.’
Echo almost disputed this. He was frightened, naturally, but he felt an increasing urge to go up to the cloche for a better look. He had never been so simultaneously entranced and repelled by any creature.
Advancing very cautiously, step by step, he stole towards the cloche like a cat stalking a bird.
The Snow-White Widow performed a little, almost coquettish, leap as if to attract his attention still further. For a moment she hovered above the floor of her cage, rotating on the spot as gracefully as a dying waterlily, then sank to the bottom.
‘The Snow-White Widow has been known to reveal her true face to some people,’ said Ghoolion, ‘but they were never the same afterwards. Many of them spent the rest of their lives sitting in a corner, babbling insanely to themselves, and they started screaming whenever they were approached by something with hair on it.’
‘She really is beautiful,’ Echo whispered. He was now standing so close to the cloche that his nose was almost touching the glass. His fear had almost left him. ‘Her movements are like - ’
All at once the Snow-White Widow’s hair gave a sudden jerk. Two strands parted like theatre curtains being peered through by an actor sneaking a look at the audience. They revealed an oval shape with a glaring eye in its midst. Echo knew it was an eye although it had neither iris nor pupil. He sensed that he was being
stared at
- that some malign creature was lurking behind all that hair and scrutinising him closely. Its ice-cold gaze was an unmistakable indication that, were it not for the intervening glass wall, he would be dead beyond a doubt.
Echo gave a terrified start, snarled ferociously, fluffed out his tail - and leapt straight into Ghoolion’s arms. The Alchemaster caught the little Crat as deftly as if he’d been expecting this and buried him in the voluminous sleeves of his cloak.
‘She looked at you,’ Echo heard him say. He never wanted to leave this protective darkness again. ‘I’ve never been granted that privilege. She must have taken a genuine fancy to you. It was true love at first sight.’
Ugglyology
E
cho couldn’t remember getting into his basket when he awoke the next morning. He must have fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion in the Alchemaster’s arms; and no wonder, after so many gruelling incidents. Although he had slept for many hours he felt completely shattered and was aching in every limb.
Ghoolion had made him a lavish breakfast - a bowl of cocoa, a plate of scrambled eggs with crispy bacon, three croissants and honey - and deposited it right beside his basket. Echo tucked in at once, finished off every last morsel, then went up to the roof to discuss the previous night’s events with Theodore T. Theodore.
The Alchemaster was pottering around in the laboratory, wholly absorbed in his work. He paid as little attention to Echo as did the squeaking, snoring Leathermice, who were digesting their latest feast of blood in the Leathermousoleum when he passed through. After all his unnerving experiences, Echo relished the fresh air and the view from the roof. He made for the clump of Cratmint and sniffed it until its therapeutic, euphoric properties took effect. Then he climbed to the foot of Theodore’s chimney.
‘I told you he has his ways and means,’ Theodore reminded Echo after learning of his abortive attempt to escape and his encounter with the Snow-White Widow.
‘But how did he do it?’ Echo demanded. ‘I mean, he’s not a magician or anything, but I felt bewitched. I hurried back to the castle as if he were reeling me in like a fish. It was like sleepwalking while awake.’
‘I don’t know how he did it either, but his technique boviously works. He has his ways and means, that’s all.’
‘What do I do now, though? I was almost clear of the town, so he knows I meant to run away. Perhaps he’ll kill me even sooner to prevent me from having another try. He looked straight through me in the laboratory just now.’
‘Yes, it’s true, your bond of trutual must has been severed, so to speak.’
‘I’m at my wits’ end, honestly. All I can do is wait until my time is up.’
Theodore stared at Echo for so long that the little Crat began to feel uncomfortable.
‘Listen, my young friend,’ he said finally. ‘I’ve been giving your broplem a lot of thought.’
‘Really? Have you come to any conclusion?’
‘Yes. I’m going to have to tell you bit about the Ugglies.’
Echo made a dismissive gesture with his paw. ‘I’ve no wish to know anything about the Ugglies. I’ve always steered clear of them.’
‘And why have you cleared steer of them?’
‘Well … Because they smell nasty.’
‘That’s one reason, to be sure. The smell of an Uggly takes some getting used to. Any other reason?’
‘They’re also supposed to bring people bad luck.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Echo. ‘I don’t believe it’s unlucky to walk under a ladder, either, but I never do. It’s just a habit.’
‘You could also call it a suterspition.’
‘Call it what you like.’
‘What do you imagine Ugglies do when they aren’t busy bringing people bad luck?’
‘They kidnap little children and turn them into soup.’
‘What?!’
‘I was only joking. They, er, foretell the future.’
‘Aha. What else?’
‘They produce ointments and potions against toothache and warts and so on.’
Theodore raised his right wing. ‘Let me get this straight: they tell people what the future holds in store and produce demicines nebeficial to their health.’
‘Correct.’
‘So why do people clear steer of them?’
‘No idea. Look, I’ve nothing against Ugglies, I just don’t like the way they smell.’
‘If they don’t do anything really bad - if they only do good or at least do no harm - why do you think they’re treated so badly in Lamaisea?’
‘How should I know?’ Echo protested.
‘It’s because of Ghoolion - because he turns people against them.’
‘Oh, yes, maybe. He even writes books about them.’
‘Correct. And
why
does he turn people against them?’
Echo grunted. ‘What is this, an interrogation? I’m the one who asks the questions as a rule.’
‘Very well, I’ll tell you: it’s because Ghoolion is scared of the Ugglies.’
‘I can’t believe that. He isn’t scared of anything or anyone, not even the Snow-White Widow.’
‘Everyone’s scared of something. Herpaps the Ugglies know something about him. Or he knows something about them that frightens him. Wouldn’t it be interesting to find out what it is?’
‘All right, perhaps he
is
scared of the Ugglies. So what? How does that help me?’
‘If anyone in Lamaisea has worked out how to put one over on Ghoolion, it’s them. The Ugglies could be your only hope.’
Echo turned thoughtful. ‘But are there any left here? It’s ages since I saw one.’
‘Ghoolion has succeeded in driving most of them out of Lamaisea, it’s true. He did a thorough job, but I know there’s still one around. I’ve sighted her occasionally on my renossaicance flights, gathering herbs in the Toadwoods.’
‘But how am I to find her?’ Echo said plaintively. ‘I’ve never been in the Toadwoods.’
‘She doesn’t live there. She lives right in the middle of Lamaisea, in Uggly Lane.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Ugglies aren’t allowed to live anywhere else. It’s quite simple: since all the Ugglies except her have moved out, all you need to do is go to Uggly Lane after dark. You’ll find her in the only house with wighted lindows.’
Echo shivered. ‘You expect me to go there in the middle of the night? Haven’t you heard all the stories they tell about Uggly Lane?’
‘Yes. Sinister stories.’
‘That’s putting it mildly. They’re quite sinister enough to deter one from going there after dark. I’ve never set foot in the place, even in daylight.’
The Tuwituwu eyed Echo gravely. ‘But the last Uggly in Lamaisea is your only hope. She alone can save you, I’m afraid.’
‘All right,’ said Echo, eager to dispose of such an unpleasant subject. ‘Perhaps you’re right. It’s worth a try.’
‘Then don’t wait too long,’ Theodore advised him. ‘And now, tell me some more about the Snow-White Widow. Was it really an eye you saw in the midst of all that hair? How scafinating!’
The Golden Squirrel
E
cho’s spirit of initiative seemed to have deserted him completely ever since his futile attempt to escape. His passion for eating and sleeping, on the other hand, had increased considerably. Depressing thoughts of the future, which he continually strove to suppress, had now been joined by dismaying memories of the Snow-White Widow, and the finest aids to forgetfulness, he found, were lavish meals and plenty of sleep.
The Alchemaster did all he could to promote Echo’s lethargy. He left little snacks all over the castle - a plateful of lamb cutlets here, a bowl of rice pudding there. He also stepped up his use of ingredients such as butter and cream, sugar and cheese, flour and dripping, and dispensed with healthy foods like fruit, salads and vegetables. Pâté de foie gras or black puddings, minced pork or chocolate gâteau, streaky bacon or smoked mackerel - Echo didn’t care what was put before him, he wolfed the lot. His stomach became as rotund and bloated as a wineskin. He had long ago abandoned the sensible eating habits of a Crat keen to preserve his physical agility. Instead, he had developed the voracity of a bear preparing to hibernate.
The speed with which Echo had put on weight was one of the reasons why he visited the roof less and less often. It was an ever-increasing effort for him to scramble up the sloping tiles and flights of steps. On one occasion he lost his balance, slithered down a roof and only just avoided plunging to his death by clinging to a chimney. After that incident he gave up visiting the roof altogether and lost touch with Theodore for several days.
Making a trip to Uggly Lane seemed far too arduous, so Echo kept putting it off. He preferred to remain in the castle, where he ambled along the passages, generally in search of things to eat. His sole companion was the Cooked Ghost. That was fine with him because it asked no complicated or disagreeable questions and didn’t press him to visit Uggly Lane in the middle of the night. With the Cooked Ghost for company he ventured into almost every part of the castle, even its nether regions, where most of Ghoolion’s sinister mummies were to be found.
One night, when the pair of them were roaming around the ground floor, the Cooked Ghost suddenly and uncharacteristically took the lead. It fluttered nervously ahead of Echo as if trying to urge him on.
‘Hey,’ he called, ‘where are you off to, what’s the rush?’ He quickened his pace without waiting for an answer. They were in one of the creepiest parts of the castle - the old wards dating from the time when it had been a lunatic asylum - and Echo didn’t relish being down there on his own. They hurried through a series of big, lofty rooms with whitewashed walls and ceilings only dimly lit by the rays of moonlight that slanted down through windows here and there. Still dangling from the rusty bedsteads that littered the wards were the straps with which patients had been restrained. Many of the huge iron chandeliers originally suspended from the ceilings had crashed to the dusty floor and lay there like dead birds’ skeletons. The air was filled with a high-pitched hum whose source Echo could not identify.
He was involuntarily reminded of the mysterious mental illness that might still be lurking there. He pictured it as a gaunt, shadowy figure on spindly legs - one that might emerge from the gloom and pounce on him like a vicious beast - so he redoubled his efforts to keep up with the Cooked Ghost and leave the wards behind him as quickly as possible.
They soon came to the area where medieval psychiatrists had administered forms of treatment of which many were crazier than the symptoms they purported to cure. Their disintegrating contraptions and machines looked more like instruments of torture than medical equipment. Echo saw huge, mildewed alchemical batteries to which patients had been attached, iron cages that could be lowered into vats of cold water, rusty hand drills, blood-encrusted saws. He dreaded to think what use the lunatics had made of these facilities after they seized control of the asylum.