The Alchemaster's Apprentice (30 page)

Read The Alchemaster's Apprentice Online

Authors: Walter Moers

Echo retreated a step. No, that was going too far. The Theodore question was still far from resolved, and anyway, submitting to the caresses of his own executioner was absolutely out of the question!

Ghoolion grinned. ‘Come on,’ he said.

Echo took a step closer. Tactically speaking, it mightn’t be such a bad idea to establish a certain bond of trust between himself and Ghoolion. Last but not least, it was quite a time since anyone had stroked him, and being stroked was one of a Crat’s basic requirements, like eating and sleeping. Where was the harm in it? He would only have to bring himself to tolerate the smells that clung to the Alchemaster’s cloak, but he’d become inured to them a long time ago.

Echo plucked up his courage and, despite his obesity, performed a successful leap on to Ghoolion’s lap. Then he lay down and looked at the old man expectantly. Ghoolion hesitated. His hand hovered in the air for a moment, but he eventually lowered it and proceeded to tickle the nape of Echo’s neck. Softly at first, then more and more audibly, Echo began to purr. And so the two of them - Crat and Alchemaster, victim and executioner - lingered in that eerie room for a long time yet: two ‘mortal friends’ companionably relaxing in the nocturnal gloom.

The Rusty Goblins

F
rom now on, Echo made a very serious attempt to get rid of his excess weight. It wasn’t enough simply to watch his diet and spurn fatty foods in favour of healthy vegetables. Getting enough exercise was equally important.

The Alchemaster’s castle was the ideal place for this. No other building in Malaisea contained as many flights of stairs a Crat could run up and down. The old, uneven stonework was ideal for climbing and the big rooms were a perfect place in which to romp around with the Cooked Ghost. On the roof Echo practised balancing, toned up his muscles and tested the resilience of his joints. When he raced through the lofty chambers he pretended he was being pursued by one of the natural disasters in Ghoolion’s paintings, a tornado or a tidal wave. Sometimes he went downstairs to where the stuffed mummies were kept, brought them to life in his imagination and fled from them in self-induced panic. He imagined himself a notorious master thief, a Crat burglar who scaled the castle walls in order to climb through an open window and rob Ghoolion of his closely guarded alchemistic secrets. He chased mice and dust devils, climbed curtains and ivy-covered trellises, wardrobes and bookshelves, tapestries and threadbare wing chairs, and allowed himself only as much sleep as was absolutely necessary.

He also resumed his frequent visits to the clump of Cratmint, whose scent had such a therapeutic effect on his spirits and whose leaves, when chewed, provided his empty belly with the comforting warmth it needed. As often as he was able, sometimes several times a day, he made his way to the foot of Theodore’s chimney, but the old Tuwituwu never showed up.

Echo found opportunities for physical exercise even in the innermost recesses of the castle, behind its walls and up its chimneys. He explored an old ventilation system that ran through the entire building like a network of veins in which he could creep and clamber around for hours on end. It was inhabited by giant rats and fearsome insects, but not even they could deter Echo from carrying out his rigorous training programme. He also came upon the skeletons of a race of dwarfs with rust-red beards. They were strangely equipped with copper belts on which they wore outlandish tools the like of which he’d never seen before. Lying beside many of them were books filled with columns of figures and designs for mysterious mechanical contraptions.

Echo discovered that the ventilation shafts ran not only through the castle walls but deep into the ground - deeper even than the creepy cellars. There, in small subterranean caves, he found more skeletonised red-bearded dwarfs and signs of their presence, including strange little machines of wood or metal whose purpose remained obscure. When he set one in motion by nudging it with his paw, as he sometimes did, it would come briefly to life and go creaking and trundling along until it fell to bits from sheer decrepitude. One machine continued to pound away for a whole hour, churning out metal disks adorned with wonderful patterns. Another marched off and drilled holes in a wall of rock. Yet another went on counting out loud in a robotic voice until it emitted a sort of death rattle and expired.

The deeper Echo went, the eerier and more uninviting his surroundings became. Warm currents of air ascended from the bowels of the earth, fraught with odours that boded no good. He heard noises that aroused his deepest-rooted, most atavistic fears. The subterranean passages led to a world that promised to be even more dangerous than the one above, and he had no wish to venture down there.

Ghoolion continued to dish up fattening meals, but Echo simply threw them out of the window as soon as the Alchemaster had left the room. He took to hunting and catching his own food, so the mice in the ventilation system found him a positive pest. Having previously led a peaceful existence devoid of natural enemies and regularly sustained by the contents of Ghoolion’s well-stocked larders, those rodents had now become the quarry of a monster armed with claws.

One night, when crawling along a particularly narrow shaft in the ancient ventilation system, Echo discovered a hole through which he could see almost every corner of Ghoolion’s kitchen. The Alchemaster was preparing an elaborate meal. Echo could smell a spicy soup, grilled fish with mushroom sauce and roast pork with crackling. There was a soufflé in the oven and a vanilla blancmange simmering on the stove.

Ghoolion had served Echo’s supper only an hour or two earlier. For whom could he be preparing such a lavish meal? Certainly not for himself. Was he expecting guests? No, he never had any.

The Alchemaster clearly thought he was unobserved because he was talking to himself. Echo couldn’t catch what he was saying, the words were drowned by the bubbling saucepans, sizzling fat and clatter of his iron-soled boots. Then he turned so that Echo could see his face. Echo gave a violent start when he saw the old man’s demented expression: he was looking hopelessly confused.

Ghoolion continued his mysterious activities nonetheless, and Echo had to creep on because the air shaft was alive with loathsome insects. As for the meal the Alchemaster was preparing, he never saw it again.

Echo was losing weight and getting into better shape. His wits were sharper too, because the less blood his body required for digestive purposes, the more was available for brainwork. He devoted a lot of thought to the possibility of escape instead of wondering what there would be for supper. And that was how it occurred to him to give the Uggly another try. He wouldn’t go barging in like the last time, nor would he go there empty-pawed.

The Last Uggly in Malaisea

W
alking along Uggly Lane in the dark seemed just as unnerving to Echo as it had before. This time, however, he had a definite objective in view. He also had something in the way of a plan, and this encouraged him to run the gauntlet of the ancient houses and climb on to the veranda of the last Uggly in Malaisea.

‘What is it this time?’ demanded a deep, unfriendly voice from inside the house.

Echo shrank back. How had she known he was there? He’d tiptoed up the veranda steps without uttering a word. Did she really have second sight, or was she simply watching him through the keyhole?

‘I’d like to make you an offer,’ he said as loudly and firmly as he could.

‘An offer? Like what?’

‘Well, my dear madam, when you showed me out the other night, I didn’t have time to mention that I’ve something very valuable to offer in return for your help.’

A long silence. Then, even more dismissively: ‘I don’t make deals to Ghoolion’s disadvantage.’

‘I didn’t say our deal would be to his disadvantage. I’d simply like you to treat me like a normal customer requesting a consultation - a brief conversation. I’ve got something to offer in exchange, as I said.’

The Uggly made some noises he couldn’t interpret.

‘Setting aside the fact that I don’t, on principle, make deals that could get me into trouble with the Malaisean by-laws, what are you offering?’

Echo cleared his throat. ‘Well, for example, an intimate knowledge of the Alchemaster’s castle, in particular his laboratory, ranging from his alchemical furnace to the Ghoolionic Preserver and the contents of every last test tube. I have a minutely detailed knowledge of the ghoolionisation process and the rectification of metals sensitive to pain. I know how to make a Leyden Manikin that will remain animate for years. How to render quicksilver potable. How to effect the transmutation of gases and preserve all kinds of volatile substances. How to administer seven hundred different kinds of antidotes and what diseases to use them against. How to distil thoughts that rotate clockwise. I’m familiar with the contents of all Succubius Ghoolion’s alchemical journals. I can also recite his chemophilosophical tables backwards. I know quite a bit about spectral analysis, aluminotherapy and ethereal conservation. And that’s only a small fraction of what I can offer you. I even know how to cook a ghost.’

Another long silence, broken only by the Uggly’s asthmatic breathing.

‘How do you set up an aeromorphic barograph?’ she asked at length.

Echo didn’t have to think for long.

‘Er, you calibrate it to a frequency of 100.777 eums, using a fasolatidocal tuning fork, and smoke its lenses over a low fire of fir cones until you can look straight at the sun without going blind.’

For what seemed to Echo an interminable length of time, absolutely nothing happened. At last the door opened as slowly and silently as it had the first time.

‘Come in,’ growled the Uggly. Echo squeezed through the crack and into the house.

The tropical atmosphere prevailing in the Uggly’s cavernous abode wrapped itself round his body like a moist fist. The air, which smelt of earth and rotting vegetation like the interior of a greenhouse, was so warm and treacly you could almost have cut it with a knife. A person buried amid the corpses in the Graveyard Marshes of Dullsgard would have felt little different. Echo promptly wished he was back in the draughty old castle. Only jungle beasts would have felt at home here - in fact, it wouldn’t have surprised him if a Voltigork had pounced on him out of the shadows at any moment.

‘You’ve lost weight since the last time,’ the Uggly remarked. ‘You’re still fat, though.’

Echo sighed. ‘I know. I’m working on it.’

The Uggly gazed at him as fixedly as if she hadn’t the least idea how hideous she was. Echo tried to hold her gaze, but he eventually bowed his head and stared at the floor.

‘All right,’ she said curtly, ‘spit it out. What are you really after?’

‘It’s quite simple, er …’

‘Izanuela’s the name. Izanuela Anazazi, but you may call me Iza.’

‘Delighted to make your acquaintance. My name is Echo.’

‘Well, get on with it.’

‘The thing is, I signed a contract with Ghoolion. It stipulates that he must fatten me up until the next full moon. In return, he can then slit my throat and boil me to extract my fat.’

The Uggly flopped down on a worm-eaten chair, which creaked and groaned under her weight. ‘Is that so?’ she said. Every trace of hostility had left her voice.

‘It was a case of needs must. I was almost dead from starvation.’

‘Why don’t you simply run away?’

‘I’ve tried to, but I can’t. I don’t know how he does it.’

The chair uttered a grateful creak as the Uggly got up again.

‘But
I
do,’ she said, raising her eyebrows so that her bloodshot eyes protruded still further.

‘Really?’ Echo pricked up his ears.

‘Have you ever gone to sleep in his arms?’

‘Yes, right at the start. He carried me up to his castle.’

‘There you are, then. It was a spell.’

‘A what?’

‘A spell. One of Ghoolion’s specialities. Not magic, just a post-hypnotic command. Most effective. He must have whispered it to you in your sleep.’

‘And there’s nothing to be done about it?’